The Internet is a hotbed of scary stuff – and I’m not just talking about the news (ba-zing!). If you’ve never done a deep dive into the corners of the many, many creepypasta sites and wikis, you’re really missing out. For horror fans especially, it’s can’t miss stuff (check out the SCP site if you ever want to kill a couple of hours). But just in case you don’t want to do your own digging, here’s a few of the scariest short stories the Internet has offer:

1. The Statue

A few years ago, a mother and father decided they needed a break, so they wanted to head out for a night on the town. They called their most trusted babysitter. When the babysitter arrived, the two children were already fast asleep in bed. So the babysitter just got to sit around and make sure everything was okay with the children.

Later that night, the babysitter got bored and went to watch TV, but she couldn’t watch it downstairs because they did not have cable downstairs (the parents didn’t want children watching too much garbage). So, she called them and asked them if she could watch cable in the parents’ room. Of course, the parents said it was OK, but the babysitter had one final request … she asked if she could cover up the angel statue outside the bedroom window with a blanket or cloth, because it made her nervous. The phone line was silent for a moment, and the father who was talking to the babysitter at the time said, “Take the children and get out of the house … we’ll call the police. We don’t own an angel statue.”

The police found both of the children and the babysitter slumped in pools of their own blood within three minutes of the call. No statue was found.

2. This New Old House

We bought an old house, my boyfriend and I. He’s in charge of the “new” construction–converting the kitchen into the master bedroom for instance, while I’m on wallpaper removal duty. The previous owner papered EVERY wall and CEILING! Removing it is brutal, but oddly satisfying. The best feeling is getting a long peel, similar to your skin when you’re peeling from a sunburn. I don’t know about you but I kinda make a game of peeling, on the hunt for the longest piece before it rips.

Under a corner section of paper in every room is a person’s name and a date. Curiosity got the best of me one night when I Googled one of the names and discovered the person was actually a missing person, the missing date matching the date under the wallpaper! The next day, I made a list of all the names and dates. Sure enough each name was for a missing person with dates to match. We notified the police who naturally sent out the crime scene team.

I overhead one tech say “Yup, it’s human.” Human? What’s human?

“Ma’am, where is the material you removed from the walls already? This isn’t wallpaper you were removing.”

3. A Mother’s Call

A young girl is playing in her bedroom when she hears her mother call to her from the kitchen, so she runs down the stairs to meet her mother. As she’s running through the hallway, the door to the cupboard under the stairs opens, and a hand reaches out and pulls her in.

It’s her mother.

She whispers to her child, “Don’t go into the kitchen. I heard it too.”

4. Finger Counting

My daughter woke me around 11:50 last night. My wife and I had picked her up from her friend Sally’s birthday party, brought her home, and put her to bed. My wife went into the bedroom to read while I fell asleep watching the Braves game.

“Daddy,” she whispered, tugging my shirt sleeve. “Guess how old I’m going to be next month.”

“I don’t know, beauty,” I said as I slipped on my glasses. “How old?”

She smiled and held up four fingers.

It is 7:30 now. My wife and I have been up with her for almost 8 hours. She still refuses to tell us where she got them.

5. When Charlie Goes Away

I hate it when my brother Charlie has to go away.

My parents constantly try to explain to me how sick he is. That I am lucky for having a brain where all the chemicals flow properly to their destinations like undammed rivers. When I complain about how bored I am without a little brother to play with, they try to make me feel bad by pointing out that his boredom likely far surpasses mine, considering his confine to a dark room in an institution.

I always beg for them to give him one last chance. Of course, they did at first. Charlie has been back home several times, each shorter in duration than the last. Every time without fail, it all starts again. The neighbourhood cats with gouged out eyes showing up in his toy chest, my dad’s razors found dropped on the baby slide in the park across the street, mom’s vitamins replaced by bits of dishwasher tablets. My parents are hesitant now, using “last chances” sparingly. They say his disorder makes him charming, makes it easy for him to fake normalcy, and to trick the doctors who care for him into thinking he is ready for rehabilitation. That I will just have to put up with my boredom if it means staying safe from him.

I hate it when Charlie has to go away. It makes me have to pretend to be good until he is back or they’ll know it was me.