As my youngest child explained to me years ago, “creepypasta” is more or less the internet’s version of ghost stories and urban legends. (Think Slender Man.) Because they’re shared online instead at campfires or sleepovers, they spread worldwide in a near-instant. The name itself is partly a portmanteau of “copy/paste.”
Now, explaining Creepypasta, the horror anthology corralling work from eight directors, is scads easier: It stinks.
In the unimaginative wraparound story, we watch a guy stumble through a mysterious house, where he’s introduced to 10 stories written by a creepypasta author gone missing. Of the 10, a mere three at least held my attention — a ratio so poor, it deserves a bell ringer standing outside Walmart around the holidays.
Were I feeling generous, I’d up that to four in 10, just for the shadow people story’s oddball scenario of ladies noshing over a charcuterie board as they swap Jerry Maguire-style science facts, like “Your rectum can stretch up to 9 inches in diameter.” I’ll take their word for it.
The best bits feature a rulebreaker who gets Hellraiser-hooked for watching a forbidden broadcast on TV, a boy’s nocturnal encounter with a tooth fairy, and a child’s “imaginary” friend named Jumby. None breaks new ground, but each achieves effectiveness simply by setting up only what’s required.
Whether about mirror people, cults, closet monsters or the Grey Man, other segments get bogged down in being too vague or trying to do too much. Both approaches go against the idea of being so sharable. —Rod Lott