The Woman on the Sidewalk
Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie? Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions!
Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie?
Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions! Share your eerie, unexplained, or downright chilling encounters in the comments below…
The Woman on the Sidewalk
A few times a year, the dead rise from the cemetery in the next town over. No one talks about it, but if you drive past at the right time, if you really pay attention, you’ll see them—waiting.
I was driving past late one evening when I saw her. A woman stood perfectly still on the sidewalk just outside the rusted cemetery gates. Her dress was old-fashioned, tattered, her hair limp and wet as though she’d just crawled out of a river. But it was her face that made my stomach turn.
She was watching the cars. Not just watching—searching. Her sunken, shadowed eyes flicked from windshield to windshield, desperate, restless.
I don’t know how I knew, but I did. She was looking for her daughter.
For a fleeting moment, I thought about stopping. I imagined rolling down my window, asking for a name, a phone number—calling her daughter so she could come. So she could take her mother home.
But then… a thought hit me.
What if she didn’t want to go home?
What if she wanted something else?
I pressed my foot against the gas pedal, forcing myself to keep driving. But as I passed, my headlights flickered—and in that split second, I saw her face again, reflected in my rearview mirror.
She was staring straight at me.
And then, she smiled.
Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie? Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions! Share your eerie, unexplained, or downright chilling encounters in the comments below, and your story could be featured on the blog—and in an upcoming book collection published by Mark Watson Books.
How It Works:
Submit Your Story – Send us your true, spine-chilling experience either by replying to this email or in the comments. It can be a firsthand account or a story passed down to you—just make sure it's real!
Get Featured on the Blog – If selected, your story will be published on Home-made Creepypasta, where thousands of horror fans can read and share it.
Be Considered for the Book – The best, most terrifying stories will be chosen for an exclusive Home-made Creepypasta book collection, published by Mark Watson Books. Your name (or a pseudonym, if you prefer) will be included as a contributor.
This is your chance to have your true horror story immortalized in print. Submit now… if you dare. 👁️👁️
Home-made Creepypasta – Story Submission Terms and Conditions
By submitting your story to Home-made Creepypasta, you acknowledge that you have read, understood, and agreed to the following terms:
1. Ownership & Rights
You confirm that the story you are submitting is your original work or a firsthand account that you have permission to share.
By submitting, you grant Home-made Creepypasta and Mark Watson Books a non-exclusive, worldwide, royalty-free, perpetual license to use, reproduce, modify, publish, distribute, and create derivative works from your story in any format (including digital and print).
2. Editing & Modifications
We reserve the right to edit your story for clarity, grammar, structure, and length while maintaining its core narrative.
Titles and formatting may be adjusted to fit our blog or publication style.
3. Publishing & Compensation
Submission does not guarantee publication. Stories may be featured on the blog, social media, and/or in a book collection published by Mark Watson Books.
You will not be credited in published works (under your real name, pseudonym, or anonymously).
No monetary compensation is provided for submissions unless explicitly stated in a separate written agreement.
4. Rights Retention
You retain ownership of your story and can publish it elsewhere, but you grant us ongoing rights to use it even if you later post it on another platform.
5. Content Guidelines
Stories should be true and based on personal experiences or accounts passed down to you. While minor embellishments for storytelling are acceptable, submissions found to be completely fictional will be disqualified.
No submissions containing hate speech, explicit violence, or illegal content will be accepted.
6. Withdrawal of Submission
If you wish to retract your story after submission, you may request removal before publication. However, once published in the book collection, removal is not guaranteed.
7. Agreement & Consent
By submitting your story, you confirm that you:
✔ Are at least 18 years old or have parental consent.
✔ Understand that Home-made Creepypasta and Mark Watson Books have the right to publish your story in various formats.
✔ Accept that no payment is guaranteed for submissions.
If you do not agree with these terms, please do not submit your story.
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All the best, Mark 🤩
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I was eleven in 1967. Our twelve hundred square foot house was home to a family of eight.
We were surrounded by forest, just outside of a yard that could be mowed in twelve minutes.
One would assume that an eleven-year-old boy in this wooded tranquil setting would be less likely than most to experience such self-induced trauma as I did that Sunday morning.
How could the second oldest of six and eldest son do what I was about to do?
Dad took sides that Saturday.
Mom said no to my BB gun request.
Dad over-ruled. His son would learn responsible gun ownership and besides, it was his paper route money.
The wait for Saturday night to morph into Sunday morning was excruciating.
I choose six o’clock. It was early but not enough to set off a parent alarm.
The gun waited for me in the front closet. What harm to just hold it, it was empty after all.
Mom would not approve but dad would understand.
I was the great hunter walking around in our living room. Soon I was looking for wild game.
I pushed the heavy curtains to one side and examined the thriving jungle just outside the window.
On the ground a gray squirrel rummaged in the thick forest floor, moving about in their quick jerky motion.
In a moment we locked eyes. As if it knew me bad gun worse, he bolted and was half way up the tree in three seconds.
I raised my brand-new Daisy rifle and with its empty chamber I shot that squirrel square in the fore head.
Suddenly, as quickly as that BB hit the window the blood ran from my face. My knees buckled; my arms became two lead pipes. Time stopped.
I stared at the small hole where the gray squirrel’s forehead once was.
As windows go, these were large, Boston Aquarium large.
I thought of mom’s wrath, dad’s disappointment and regret.
Goodbye Daisy BB gun hello bedroom for an indefinite amount of time.
Recounting, putting that memory on paper; Funny how my stomach still tightens up at the age of
68