31 Jul Bloody Mary and the Sleepover from Hell (A Vinny Pastorelli Story)

Posted at 19:30h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on July 31, 2025

“Bloody Mary and the Sleepover from Hell (A Vinny Pastorelli Story)”

Written by Craig Groshek
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 4 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 3 votes.

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Ayy, lemme ask ya somethin’. You ever look back on your teenage years and think, “Wow, how the hell did I survive bein’ that stupid?”

‘Cause that was me—fifteen years old, sittin’ cross-legged on a musty basement carpet, watchin’ my idiot friend Marcel freakin’ Lugosi try to summon Bloody Mary in the cracked, fog-stained mirror of his mom’s half-busted bathroom like he’s performin’ some dark ritual instead of just bein’ a colossal jackass.

Let me set the stage for ya.

It’s 1993. We’re doin’ what teenage morons do best—havin’ a so-called sleepover at Marcel’s place, which basically means six hormone-loaded boys hopped up on bad pizza, Surge soda, and zero adult supervision. We’re yellin’ about sports, fightin’ over controllers, argu—in’ about who’d survive longest in a zombie apocalypse. (Spoiler alert: it ain’t Marcel.)

So outta the blue, Marcel goes, “Yo, you guys ever do Bloody Mary?”

Now lemme tell ya somethin’ about Marcel. This kid? Believed everything. Bogeyman? Swore he saw him peekin’ over the fence behind his trampoline. Bigfoot? Told me he saw the guy takin’ a dump behind a Wendy’s. The Jersey Devil? Claimed his Uncle Vinny—different Vinny—met him at a rest stop on the Turnpike and borrowed him five bucks.

And now? This chucklehead decides he’s gonna summon Bloody freakin’ Mary like it’s Tuesday night witchcraft hour.

I look him square in the face and say, “Marcel, you absolute clown. That ain’t real.”

But does he listen? Of course not. Marcel ain’t got the sense God gave a damp dishrag.

So, without another word, he marches his bony ass into the upstairs bathroom, flicks off the lights, and stares into that busted mirror, practically droolin’ in anticipation, like he’s expectin’ Pamela freakin’ Anderson to show up in that skimpy Baywatch outfit of hers. And he starts chantin’, serious as a heart attack: “Bloody Mary… Bloody Mary… Bloody Mary…”

Meanwhile, the rest of us geniuses are loiterin’ outside the bathroom door like we’re waitin’ for concert tickets. Nobody actually believes this crap, but still—Joey, who once dared me to eat Pop Rocks and chug a Coke at the same time—that Joey, he suddenly grows a conscience and whispers, “Uhh, maybe we shouldn’t be messin’ with this, guys?”

Oh sure, Joey. Now you’re nervous?

Anyway, we’re waitin’. And nothing happens. Big surprise.

Marcel steps out, all smug, goes, “Hah! See? Nothin’ to it!”

I tell him, “Congratulations, you summoned exactly JACK SHIT.”

We all shuffle back to the basement, feelin’ like hotshots. Horror movie goes on, pizza gets inhaled, and we figure that’s the end of it.

But Marcel? Nah. This guy don’t got an off switch.

So, about an hour later, when we’re all driftin’ off in our sleeping bags, Marcel—the genius—sneaks back upstairs for Round Freakin’ Two.

I only know this ‘cause later he tells us he stood in that dark bathroom, all alone, grinnin’ like a lunatic, whisperin’ into the glass: “Bloody Mary… Bloody Mary… Bloody Mary…”

And this time? The mirror ripples, like someone dropped a pebble in a puddle. Real subtle-like.

He’s just about to curse when—BAM!—the bathroom door slams shut so hard it rattles the damn drywall. The lights? Flickerin’ like a nightclub in the Bronx. And then—get this—a hand starts pushin’ outta the mirror.

Yup. A freakin’ hand!

Now, we’re still downstairs when we hear Marcel scream like he just sat on a porcupine. Whole house shakes with it.

Joey jumps up and says, “Uhhh… did anyone else hear that?”

No kidding, Joey.

We bolt up the stairs like we’re chasin’ the ice cream truck. Me, Joey, Frankie, Mikey—whole damn crew. We’re poundin’ on the door like the house is on fire.

I’m yellin’, “MARCEL! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!”

And from inside, Marcel’s screamin’ back, “BRO, SHE’S IN THE MIRROR! SHE’S IN THE FREAKIN’ MIRROR!”

Now lemme tell ya—I’m not ashamed to admit it—I was terrified. Palms sweatin’. Knees jelly. Heart doin’ jumping jacks.

So I shout the dumbest possible thing: “MARCEL, WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T TURN AROUND!”

And guess what he does? The human meatball turns around.

And his reflection? Yeah, it wasn’t him. It’s Bloody freakin’ Mary—eyes like oil slicks, smile like a busted jack-o’-lantern, and she’s just starin’, like she’s pickin’ out which part of his soul she’s gonna eat first.

Marcel yells, “OH HELL NAH—” and bursts through the door like a wreckin’ ball in a panic attack. Whole frame cracks. He’s screamin’, trippin’ over his own feet. We’re all screamin’, runnin’ back down the stairs like the Three Stooges hopped up on bath salts.

And the mirror? It’s still goin’. Still ripplin’. Like Bloody Mary’s tryin’ to punch her way into reality.

So what do we do? Somethin’ real logical. We grab the biggest, thickest freakin’ blanket we can find and throw it over the mirror like we’re coverin’ up a dead body.

I yell, “THERE! PROBLEM SOLVED!”

And miracle of miracles—it freakin’ works. Lights stop flickerin’, temperature goes back to “not arctic,” and Marcel finally stops sobbin’ like his Tamagotchi just died.

We didn’t sleep much that night. Or any night after that, really.

And I’ll tell ya what—we never said her name again.

So what’s the moral of the story?

One: Don’t do dumb shit.

Two: If your idiot friend tries to summon a bathroom ghost, maybe let nature do its thing. With friends like that, who needs enemies, am I right?

And three?

If all else fails… throw a damn blanket over it.