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File:Zalgo by vonderdevil-d5i1qh2.jpg
Note: I did not make this Creepypasta, the original is here, Enjoy:

http://markiplier.tumblr.com/post/56737349862/rileyomalley-ive-played-many-horror-games


I’ve played many horror games.

Each and every one of those games held plenty of ambiance, horror, jump scares…the works. Everything that came from one or another person’s nightmares, even my own.

Darkness fueled those nightmares.

Obscurity and strangeness dripping amongst the walls that encased me, exploring or following a particular goal set in front of me.

It fascinated me at the extent people lead their players through these vast bizarre worlds, holding a story or simply plunging you right into the action. I both loved it and hated it.

As of late, I haven’t been getting sleep. It’s sporadic and rather fitful the past few days…I’m starting to wonder if the games are getting to me.

It’s possible. At some point you end up surrounding yourself with certain aspects and situations - you’re bound to have it affect you at some point. That wasn’t the only thing affecting my life.

My busy schedule calls to my work, and from my work I wish to not only enjoy new adventures (creepy or otherwise), but also to appease and share that joy with my fans. I couldn’t let them down considering how far I’ve come.

Day by day…night by night…I feel…strange…

One moment I know exactly what I’m doing, the next I feel … lost.

Glimpses of my vision going from daily routine to sitting at my desk as per usual. I feel as though I’ve been sitting here more and more often. I become restless, I attempt to take breaks. A sensation comes over me as if someone is pulling me back. As if to say ‘you’re not done.’

It’s strange and…I laugh it off from time to time thinking of it spawning from my exhaustion, my constant efforts to keep up with everything.

The sensation is growing.

It’s getting far too prevalent now.

I feel an uneasiness within my gut, and a foreign breath upon the back of my neck.

.̄.̒͒.͒̈́ͭ̄ͫ̋m̐̍ͯ̐ͭ̎̽o̓ͮ̒͌r̐͊ͪ́e.ͪͫ̀̋ͤ̌.ͩ.̈́.̉͌ͣ͐̊ͮ͊ ̌ ̓̂͒.͆ͬͣ..̿̾͊t̾ͯ̽́h̐ͭ̆̏eͣͪ̾ͥ̉ͩy̋̿ͣ͌ mͧͭͭŭͣ̋̿̋̔s̓̅͑̅́͛tͧt̓͆̍̈́̄tͨ̽ͤt.ͤͪͯ.̏̎ͧ͒̊̾.ͭ̊͊ͣ.̋́s̏̔ͤͥ̏̾ŝe̐͐ͮ̊̒̓ẽEͤ͂̃̌̋̇ͮeͬeͦͫ̇͐̅̃E̋e̊ͣͨ̎ȇ̂͒.̒ͯ̉ͮ.͂͐̈́̈ͥͨ

̼̰͔̘̑͒̓̎̊͗̆̓́͜͝.̨̜̖͍̜̲ͮ͐ͯ̿͛.͉͆͐͂͑̀̀ͪy̡̱̘͈͐̌̂ͪͫ̂̋̎ò̫̗̞̜u̡̖̱̹̟ͮ̓͛ͣ̒ͨ͊́͘ ̝̪̼ͮ̓͒͢͟a̻ͦ̈ͯͨ̽̕ͅr͔̣͓̱͚͓͙ͨ̉̈́̽̋͝ẹ̶̶̡͐̆͌͒̓̓ͅ.̠̻̭̪̰̮̯̦̊͜͡.̦͎̝̺͙̞̬̩ͦ͂̈̽̔.͍̱̩̫̉͌̓̒͌̑n̡̼̯̮̠͓̓́̈̍͆͊͢ő̖̤͕t̩̼̤͔̩̞̎͆͑̒̋͟.̨̜̳͖͉̬̗̯͂͋ͮͭ͐͛̀.̮̫̦͇̤ͩ͊ͣ̌̄͊ͪͭͨ.̸̨̰̜̲̻̞̰̘̪̪ͥͧ̽ͩͧf̖̯̹̪̝̝͙̆̌ͭ͑͗͐ͭͦ̚͘i̞̭̺͙͈̼ͧ̆̕ï̸̸̘͞n̘͌̀i̸̙͙̜͚͓̞͊́͠i͇̙̮͇̰͕ͧ̍͂̿ͨͩ̈́sͭ͊͡͏̯̪̹̻͎h̥̝̩̺̖̝̣͎ͮͨ͋ͯ̐͟͢͠é̻͍̟̲̇̿͐̌͞d͇͈̰̞̍̉ͪ̀ͥ̽̾̓.̨̟̙͖͍͈̟̾ͫͯ̂͆́̐͟ͅ.̧̛̦͍̝̼͈͖͚̠̏ͣͦͧ̒͋̊͐

My heart palpitates.

.̱̼̺̩̬̪̹͋ͯ̌ͧͯ͑͑͂ͅ.̠͈̬̝̦̝ͩ̌̏̎̍ͅ.̰̩̭̫̙̖̊ͬ̇͌ͅt̫̯͓̦̟̦̜̩̞̾̾̔͆h̲̯͖̺̞̦͚͉͎̎̾͋̽̍ͮe̲̹̘͎͇̍ͯy͕͉͎̏ͦ̉̆ͨ̑ͦ̚ ̳̜͉͑̊̚ṁ̺̖͓̹ͭu̪̱̭̹̥̒̇ͪ̚ͅs̘͎̤̼͈͍̈̈́ͬ͂͋͂̓t̮͚̘͖͆ͯ͗̇̓.̹͈̩̓̏̂̔.̻͕̍ͮ.͉̥͚͉̻͓̺͐͛̚š͔̦͚̯̆ͭͤ̆ͣe̳̮̪͖̻̰͖̙̭̒ͩͮͨ̈̉̌̃e̙̰̪͇̓̈͋͊̏ͪͫe̹̩̠̪͓̪̘͒́.͕̯͈̳̱̹͓̹̑ͯͯ̔̐̈.͓̮̝̘̜͚̺̊w̱̱̳ͥ̀̃̇ḫ̰̱̬̇ͅh̰̺̠̳͇̣̟͋̒̾a̤̗̗̱͚͇̠̼ͪ̌ͭa̯̜ͤͬ̚t̫͇̯ͨ͋͐̆͋͗͑̚.̱̈̚.̭̩̻͇͈̤̖̓y̙̺̹̗̟͎̱̓ͣo̖͙̯̜̳̬̜̟̎͊̒u̥͍̟̟ͬͬͩͤ̒͒u̝̟͚̙̠͕̭͍ͥ̌̒’̳̱̦̜̞͖͈̖͑͌ͫ͌́̉ͥv̩̣͍̔ͬ͋̅ḙ̲̯͊͌̌̓̏̇.̣̼̃̆̊ͭ.̜ͩ̀̎̉̉͊̎ͪ͆.̼̦̟̉̽ͧb̲̙ͯͤ̀e̘̝͓̙̹̖̤͛̈́͛̉e̼̥͓̰ͮͬͦ̆cͦͬͯͬ̎̆͊ͅo̱͕̯͑͋ͨͥͨo̪̙̞͙̺͎̞ͪ͋̑̍̒͛̆ͅo̼͓̹͕̐̇̎m̯͎̦͍͔̥̲ͭ̇́̉́ē̹͈̮̭̹̲͙̖̣͊ͫ̓ͤ͋̓.͖̺͍͚͕͕̈ͤ.̻͈͈͚̐ͭ̓̅ͥ͐.̮̹̟̜̯̩ͫ͋

I feel a cold sweat..

.̟̺̻̦̯͕̖̹̆ͦͮ̾͐̃̅ͮ̓ͤ̒͆́̚̚ͅ.̘̬̯̖̖̲͚̲̬̘̖͈̜̈́̉͒ͤ̋̓ͤ̔̉ͥͨ̑ͧ̈́ͅy͓͈̙̘̣̰͕̦͇͔̪͔̳̟̦͓̯̤͍ͫ͌̎ͤ͛̑̃ͮ̇̽͒ͩ͐̚o͕̙̘͎̫͇̟̮̞̲̟̥̖͕͐ͧ̈́ͩ͊̑́͗̏ͩu̥͍̦̼̼̠̭ͬͣ̈́̇̐͑̋̽̆̾̋̌̈́̏’̥̞̞̠̯͍̱͚͎͖̼͖͇͇̙̰̥̬ͤͤ͗̃̀̔ͥͅr̜̜̝̹͖̼͕̘̣̖͔̖̘͆ͪ̇͊̔̐͆ͮ͂̾e̖͓͈͈͓̞̘̤̬͉͍̫͆̋̃̇̈̆̑̿̌͋.̺͙̤̘̰̖̥ͨ͗͒̂̎̓ͩ͊͑̉̏ͦ̂̿̈͑ͅ.͔̬͉̬͕̥̭̩̝̖͚͚̣̣̓̽̎ͩ̑̃̋ͤͩ́̈́ͣͮ̓ͨͬͬ͗.̪͉̞̯̱̗̪̼̝̜̖̇͆ͮͥ̃̐ͅ.̘̙̱̼̦͚̬͙͍͓͇̦̩̜̰̥̎͐̄ͮ̎ͅͅo̟̜͙̻ͫ̅ͨ̈ụ͇͇̜̰̜͈̣̼̞̥̮̲͒̓ͫ̌͗̆ͯͭ̊̒̂̐͑̂̾̄̓̎͂ͅͅr͙͇͇͍͙̳̜̝͉̬̫̝̟̦̲͙̜͆͊̎̂ͫ̽ͅṟ̞͔͍̱͔̘ͬ̒̉ͭͭs͖̘͎̲͇̲̦͔͙͚̺̭͒͋ͧͣ̈̐̃̏s̖͓̯̗͔̬͓̈̑͑ͦ̽̏ͬ̉̌ͫ̆́̔̐ͅ.̟̼͍̺͓͓͈̬̹̣̮̤͑ͬ͆̀̍̔ͨ̋̐ͫ̿̽̊͛͌̇̚.͖̤͚̲̭͙͖̼̞͔̤̯̝̦́̃͂̓ͬͅ.̺̥̤̞͙̹͕̣̜̺̟̩͔̽̐̿̒̇̃ͭ̉̀ͨ̚.̲̙̞̼̠͓̹̳̜̙̓ͦ̐̈́̽̐ͅM̠̘͕̪͇̻͎̙̼̱̥̻̥̰̻̞͑̄ͭ̋̿ͮ̓ͭͅa̝̞̟̻̼͖̬̫̫̲͈̗̳̓͒͂ͮ͑͒ͣ̎ͩ͊̈r͈̩̩̘͈̘͙͈͔̘̼̜͋̃ͮ͊ͧ̾̈́ͮ̌̽̾̃̾̅́͊ͭk͔̖͈͍̮̥͈̲͉̂̓ͪͪͤ̍ͮͧͩͬ̽̑́̔k̦̦͈̜̥͇͎̖̰̟͎ͬ̓ͫ̽͆̋̋͐̈́ͤ̆͌ĩ̻̦̘͔̹̜̥̟̍̐̅̇̽̈́ͫ͋̾͊̊̀̂̅i̩͕̬̰̽ͭ̅ͦ͒̀͂̐̚i̜͓̭̜ͮ̾ͮͬ̎̌̄́̉̒̂̃̆ͅp̤̠̬̻̤̞̝̜͓̩̳͚̺͌̔ͣ̍́ͭ̈p̲̹͉̺͗̔͆̃͋̾͋̑͛́̎̚̚̚̚l̩̖̞̲̙̓͆ͬ͑̾̾̎ͤͣ̂̃͂̑̈̍ͮ̎ͥ̚ḻ̜̖̪̺̫͉̀ͦͥ̇ͫ̿̓̎ͭ̇̄̎l̥̦͇̙̬̜̺͓̺̻͇̣̹͍ͤ̐́̎͛ͧ̈́̔͂i̗̦̮̤̤͎̬͓̹̪͓̞̖̦̳̟̱ͧ̈́̓̅ͨ̌̏͐ͥͭ͋ͣͪ͒̃̌̊ͅͅḙ̰̟ͯ̓ͥ̂ͯ̾̈͊͗ͪ̃e̹͔͓̬̖̩̭̟̳̼̐̽̓̈ͬ̀̓̿̂ͪr͚̹̦͚͇̙̳͎̹̟̙̻̖͚̪̓ͥͦͦ̃͒͌ͪͅr͖̬͚̙͉͎̱̜͚̘ͧ̋ͪͣ̔ͧͣ͗̿̇̓ͯ̾͆͊r͔̼̞̙͔̜̞̩͚͇͍̲̻̗̗ͬ̔͑̌̌̌͂̾ͥ̓ͪͦ̚.͈͍̤͚͖̲̩̭̲̖̲̫̗̭͍̺͒͑ͤͅ.̭̠͍̩̋̓̄͛̆ͫ͗ͬͭͥͥͫ̊.͉͚̥̦̦͍̠̪͎̤̬̱̠̼̟̲ͯ̉̈́̂̔̓͋̐͊ͭ͛̌ ̠̻̥̎̾̆̈́̈́̈́ͤ͒́̽̋ͤ͋̓ͅ ͓͕͎̤̙̟͈͍͕̥͚͓̦̦̮̃ͬ̌̾̔ͭ̒ͤ̑̔̆͊͊.͉͎̭̹̳̯͗͊̐ͬ̐̏ͩ͆ͯ͐͊ͧ̎.̹͍̱͈̳̞̬̖̖͔͍̺͉͎̙͓̻ͣ͗ͧ̏̓ͥ̏͐̇̏̋͌͗̚n̘̰̮͎̖͈̠͓͎̻͚̬̦̙͈͇͓͊̊̋͂ͅȌ͕̟̜̦̟̫̲̭͎̣̱̪̪̰̩̹͋̅̉̿͂o̻͔͍̱͎̫̳ͬ̓̄̆ͦ̌̀̓ͯ̌̐͂ộ̱̥͔̮̰̇ͧ̾̀ͪ̇̉̑̆̌ͫ̉͌ͅō̖͚̲̠̮̘̺̳̞ͯ̐ͭ͒.̖͎̪̘͆͊ͦ̋̓͊͂ͬͦ̋͛͑ͮͨ͐.͙͉̹͈̣̽ͬ̒͆̎͛ͯͫ̔̂̔̈́̈ͩ̽̊̎̎.͕̥̪̪̮̱͕̹͔͇͔̅͒͌̀͐͛ͨ̃ͤ͑̿͌̃ͅE͖̫̥͈̻̺̬̦̤͎̺̙̮ͮ͐͐ͤ̋̇̌̍e̦͔͎͉̘͔͇̟̦̞̖̫̲͕̮̮̤̪͂̈́ͩ̊ͤͥs̖̺͙̥̗̗͉̙̺͎͓͖̘͙̫̳̺̗ͣ͑ͤ̃̿̌̀ͫ̆̉ͪͤ̂́̃ͅs͙͖̗̲̬̤̞͖͙͓͚͎͚͕̆͌̏̏̊͒͗͒ͩͭ̌̋̿̉̚c̭͇̖̰̼̣̹͈͍̬̯͇̠͚̲̲̫̺̲̾ͩͧͨ̔͑̎ͧ̚a̠̮̰̬̮̜̜̳͂͐͌̏̆̇̀ͨ̑̏̒̉͌̇̉̑̔͗̏A̝̱̰͖̰͓͍̞̬̖̙̺̱͊̇̓̄͋̓͆͒̄̇̓ͭ͂̉ͫ̒̾͛̅A̼̬̘͉̹̹̞ͤͫ͐͒ͪͅP̜͙̪̮̜͉̮̪̲͇̖̍ͮͦ̓̑͐̒́p͖̼̻̞̲̱͕̟̹̫͓̥̤̬̻̩͔̯̓͊ͮ̓̌̄ͯ̏͑ͅE̥̘̻͔͔̺͈̜̲̲̭̝͙̮̞͋̀ͮͧ͆̆ͪͨ̾͐͋̚e͕̙͎͉͕̟͈͕̤͖͖͇ͦ̇̔͆ͧ̈͌̊e̟̙̻͕̘̪̮͋ͥ̀̅ͧ͛.͉̙̹͚̣̣͎̰̅͐̓̅ͣ́̋͆̍̄̍̃ͣ̔̚.̹̞̬̖̠̰̱̗͎̯̙̬̬̫̦̾̈ͪͮ͒̿ͫ͒̐.̳̗̟̙͕͙̩͓̲͋̏̌̅̇̋̐́ͨ̒̈́̈́ͫ̍͗͋ͨͅ

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