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Welcome strangers, I am grateful that you have reach this place.
In this first note ill post some well known 'creepy pastas'
In the future i will show you some urban legends and rumor stories
from my region.
Now enjoy.

I. The Portraits.

The hunter, after a day of hunting, was in the middle of a huge forest. It was getting dark, and he was completely tired. He decided to go in one direction, until he would be sure about his location. After a few hours, he found a hut on a small clearing. Since then, it was already very dark, he decided to spend the night inside and went into the hut. The door was open. Inside, there was no one. The hunter lay on the bed wich he found in, deciding that he would explain everything to the owner of the house in the morning.
  He looked around the interior of the cottage. Suddenly he saw several portraits on the walls, painted with great attention to detail. All portraits, without exception, seems was staring on him. Their faces were twisted in hatred and anger grimacing.The hunter felt strange. Trying to ignore the portraits at all costs, he turned his face away from the wall and fell exhausted into a deep sleep.
Hunter awoke in the morning. He turned and blinked at the unexpected light of the sun. He saw that the hut has no portraits, just windows.

 II. It's probably not good idea.


 With every exhale, a small part of your soul coming out of your body. Fortunately, almost always we inhale it in back before anyone will do it for us. Almost always.
 Have u used to covering a mirror with your own breath ?
For your own good, dont do it again.

III. Coffin. 
 Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. Harold, the Oakdale gravedigger, upon hearing a bell, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time it wasn’t either. A voice from below begged, pleaded to be unburied.

“You Sarah O’Bannon?”

“Yes!” the voice assured.

“You were born on September 17, 1827?”

“Yes!”

“The gravestone here says you died on February 19?”

“No I’m alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!”

“Sorry about this, ma’am,” Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. “But this is August. Whatever you is down there, you ain’t alive no more, and you ain’t comin’ up.”