Clockwork Creepypasta Cosplay Novels & Stories

I had unknowingly closed my eyes. But when I opened them, the two alphas were face to face. He was foaming at the mouth as he banged against the glass, ramming it with his whole body as it shook. Dr. Dawson smirked. He taped the glass with a mocking expression. As the specimen had nothing he could think of doing for more intimidation. He started to pace back and forth, staring Dr. Dawson down, growling at him and baring his teeth.

I nod toward the clock. “A car’s coming,” I say softly. “They said they’d send one for me.” Mark grunts in response, already moving toward the door, grabbing a beer from the fridge as if this is just another night. I move quickly, slipping to the other side of the bed and reaching for one of the larger bags. I unzip it and begin placing a few things inside. I fold a hoodie and jeans, some flats, even a pair of socks, just in case I need them after. He’s distracted, half-looking at the TV and half-scrolling his phone, so I reach back, carefully pulling the Hellraiser set from its bag. My fingers grip the smooth black lace, and I slide it deep into the pile of clothes, hiding it beneath the ho

Chloe’s scream tore through the penthouse like glass shattering. Her throat ached with it, her chest tight, her heart hammering so violently she thought she might faint. She scrambled back against the headboard, breath coming in frantic gasps. “No… no, no, no…” And then the figure grinned. “Happy Halloween!” Chloe’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck?!” Zoe threw her hands up dramatically, wobbling a little as the fake ghost makeup cracked along her cheeks. “Did I get you? Oh my God, you should’ve seen your face…”

But as I hoped, the penny-ante grifter is propping up the bar, glass in hand, one arm operating like a pump as he knocks back cheap beer with a group of a dozen or so. The other arm is slung around the waist of a gruesome female, her eyes made up zombie-fashion. The remaining make-up job is way too pale for her face, except for the lipstick, which is black, matching the gelled spikes of hair radiating out from her head like some kind of poisoned halo. For some reason she thinks that elbow-length, black lace gloves make a good match with Doc Marten boots. And in a final salute to style, she chews gum, never actually closing her mouth to do so.

She looked at the clock on the wall and it was 3:27 am. "What's it about?" "A man. A cloak-dressed man being chased by a bunch of angry people with long pointed teeth- fangs. The cloak Man also had fangs. It was really scary and blood was....... were-were everywhere," Her lips trembled at the last words along with her little body. The butler hugs her to calm her down. Since she was trembling, she failed to see the look that passed the butler's face. "It's over now, it's okay. No one is coming to hurt you or anybody, everyone is safe," She pressed deeper into his embrace.

"Six hundred trillion Abyssal Merit credits. Transferred upon delivery." The Hollowsmith's cracked clockwork face arranged itself into a smile. "Delivery is immediate. But I should mention a detail I may have omitted during our last conversation." "I assumed you had omitted several." "Only one that matters." The Hollowsmith reached beneath the counter and produced a seventh suit. It was smaller than the others, designed for a child's frame, and its color scheme was different: warm pink threaded with golden filaments that pulsed in time with a rhythm Jack recognized. The baby Utterance's song.

"You are merely a clockwork doll that has learned to scream. You are a melody played on a broken string." He gestured, and the shadows in the room groaned. The stone floor beneath Cattleya began to sweat blood, the red fluid pooling around her boots, smelling of iron and ancient, stagnant graves. From the pools, elongated, skeletal hands”pale and frantic”reached up to latch onto her ankles. They were the husks of her past cycles, the discarded failures of the nursery, their eyes hollowed-out sockets weeping dark, viscous ichor. Cattleya felt the cold dread of them, the suffocating weight of a thousand identical deaths dragging at her resolve. She looked down, her gaze icy. The silver filamen

My skin prickled with a weird kind of intrigue. "Jesus," I said, rubbing my stomach as another cramp hit. "You scared me. Nice makeup, though. The whole undead thing? Very dedicated. Most guys just wear a plastic mask." "It is not makeup," he said. His voice was a low vibration that sent tingles all over my body. He stood impossibly still. "Right," I scoffed, shifting my weight. "Custom contacts and veneers too? You’re a dedicated cosplayer, I’ll give you that. Must have cost a lot to get your skin looking that pale."

The wolves panicked, falling back into defensive positions, their claws extending as their shifting instincts took over. "They're through!" Silas yelled, drawing his weapon. The steel door didn't slide open; it was imploded outward. A shockwave of hot air and silver dust threw us to the ground. Through the smoke, the clockwork child walked. It looked exactly like me at ten years old, with the same amber eyes and dark hair, but its skin was a seamless, polished porcelain that reflected the firelight. It held the obsidian shard in its left hand, the dark stone humming with a faint, violet light.

But… there was no clock to tell the time; how would they be able to know when to entirely stop having sex? They didn’t want to fail. Suddenly, the door opened, and they saw a man walk in dressed in a black outfit. He wasn’t masked, but his hands were gloved. His eyes, though, were an unnatural magenta, glowing colour. Without a word to them, he placed a clock on the bedside table and then stared at them for a while. Facing his scrutinising gaze, they were understandably uncomfortable. Julee even subconsciously drew closer to Recson. “The clock is 2 hours and 30 minutes behind normal time. Have fun,” the man said, but to their horror, he wasn’t even moving his mouth; instead, his eyes had tur