DeYtH Banger
Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #9)
Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #9) Fresh Flesh Short and Tasteful
Series ALREADY OUT: 1. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #1) by DeYtH Banger 2. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #2) by DeYtH Banger 3. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #3) by DeYtH Banger 4. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #5) by DeYtH Banger 5. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #6) by DeYtH Banger 6. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #7) by DeYtH Banger 7. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #8) by DeYtH Banger Make sure to check out this books!
Other Works If you are interested in reading other works by DeYtH Banger
FEEL FREE TO CHECK OUT ........................................................................................................................ 1. All As None (Deeper Level Drop #1) by DeYtH Banger 2. Protocols (Deeper Level Drop #2) by DeYtH Banger 3. Deep Legend (Deeper Level Drop #3) by DeYtH Banger 4. Protocols 2 (Deeper Level Drop #4) by DeYtH Banger ........................................................................................................................ IF you Are interested in "Who Am I?" and you want to know me better. ........................................................................................................................ GO AND READ MY BIOGRAPHY ........................................................................................................................ 1. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #1) by DeYtH Banger 2. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #2) by DeYtH Banger 3. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #3) by DeYtH Banger 4. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #4) by DeYtH Banger 5. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #5) by DeYtH Banger 6. The Life Of One Kid Part-1 (The Kid.D #6) by DeYtH Banger 7. The Life Of One Kid Part-2 (The Kid.D #6) by DeYtH Banger
8. The Life of One Kid Part-1 (The Kid.D #7) by DeYtH Banger 9. The Life of One Kid Part-2 (The Kid.D #7) by DeYtH Banger .........................................................................................................................
What Next To Read .... WOrks by Various Authors (Summer Book List) 1. Dollars and Sex: How Economics Influences Sex and Love by Marina Adshade P.S.: I rate it: 5 stars out of 5 2. The Profession of Violence by John Pearson P.S.: I rate it: 4 stars out of 5 3. The Audacity of Hope: Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream by Barack Obama P.S.: I rate it: 5 stars out of 5 4. Restart: The Last Chance for the Indian Economy by Mihir S. Sharma P.S.: I rate it: 4 stars out of 5 5. Should We Eat Meat?: Evolution and Consequences of Modern Carnivory by Vaclav Smil
P.S.: I rate it: 5 stars out of 5 6. The Bestseller Code: Anatomy of a Blockbuster Novel by Jodie Archer (Goodreads Author), Matthew L. Jockers (Goodreads Author) P.S.: I rate it: 4 stars out of 5
DeYtH Banger Stories/Poems and more by DeYtH Banger
NOTTA 27/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger I am not sure, how I got in front of this white screen... and staring in it like a corrupted zombie. Not really into the mood for writting, .... I would write when I feel in a good mood, But today is one of my worst moods, and how am I going to write something magnificient? Powerful and Incredible? It's the mystery inside this book of history. I don't want to go anywhere, I see possiblities, and all of them don't end well! I am not a person who is using the most complex vocabulary... ..... OHHHH, GOD BLESs, you and all of you,
E. L. James is like me... I am talking about the author of Fifty Shades of Grey. She is using also a language which isn't as sophisticated as it's supposed to be. .... TOJA ... Ohh, 54 Years old Lady speaks like a 16-17 years old teenagers? How much Mature is that? As we say... fuck MATURITY and we go in google and type "Maturity Pornography" YOu call it .... Generisioty ... I call it JERKCOSITY = JERKING OF
... THEN We start searching for the best videos and in the end as always we end up closed in our minds, with crazy and insane pictures, having desires which aren't even ours, executing orders which have been given by others, SEX IS AIN"T MORE A DESIRE it's an ORDER... ONE FUCKING COMMAND. Soldiers and lowdiers, friends and strangers ... so dangerous both ways and both paths, music has never been enough to describe the all mixed feelings of so much horrific actions. Solderis and lowdiers, friends and strangers... so dangerous, .... I am talking about the species... not the non-verbal species, but the verbal ones.....,which communicate, walk, think. This should be an irony sitting in front of this monitor and while listening to some kinda EVIL Music, I have became 100% more productive. I can't stand up, No Desire, No feeling like to,
I don't want to go outside, Nor, wants Nor, wishes have ever been executed.
ScarJA 27/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger I should call it "SCARE" but I decided to call it "SCARJA", mainly because... I have free will. But that's illusion, isn't it? ... Nothing is free and wills and freedom?
... WELLS AND DWELLS ... Everything around what I listen get's screw up at least once, if you get lucky twice, tripple.... ... Quadra Kill ... But let's be more brainish creatures, to don't be some lazy fuckers, but brainers and my question is now. IS THERE THING LIKE A FREE WILL? ... She is staring at me, I see her.... I do the same, it's so strange, but love isn't it strange? ... I am not in the mood to move, I have never desired to be so much sinister as now, I have never desired to become a taugh kiddo, I have never desired to spoil my mind,
... As I use now to do, sometimes I don't have space in my mind for extra information and what do I do? I go and add more and more and more material why? ... That's the question which now this reference is trying to ask you. JUST YOU, NOBODY ELSE.
Not Interested 26/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger Yeah, yeah, yeah the title says too much ... It explains what's going to happen ... Not how, when and where, but more likely the mood which I am now going put "ON", remove ropes which keep me from not saying what I want and desire the most. Throat it's a such a sorrow and at one point it's the real, arrow in your life, the realm and the vision a killer is on the loose, NOR, RULES HAVE EVER BEEN APPLIED NOR, TOOLS HAVE EVER BEEN FOUND
.... Let's stop and honor that hour, it's a nightmare in front of your eyes to see how, you are going to die, nobody, is going to help you and you , are on the ground and laying, and praying for one more chance, but this are your last words, be clever, don't be a stupid asshole, choose wisely your words. My Throat fucking hurts, from spinal cords ... No need for Retardation and retrospection, Speculation and Corruption. AND THEY and whom and thou ... All of "You" are not interested, just not interested retrogradation and abbreviation wth simple presentation. Non the less Non the mRE I know, I know, I know and I know... the story is named "Not Interested", you are should play the ignorant guy, all other roles are already taken
and even faken. You should, no matter what, when, where and how, but you should play this role. The title so easy to be understand that it most likely sound like an order from a soldier. Look them, then you, then them, then you. ... Soon you are going to become a victim of your thoughts, Food and foot are going to be your Acronyms for Passivity.
.... Holidays have never been my passion, hot peppers is all what I want and desire. Nor, moody and fuggy EMOTIONS Nor, glances and glimces of simple accommodation Nor, Some fucked up gaze at my face with a smile and making me confused as hell, you ain't defused that's for sure. .... Nor, fucked up friends which reply after hours and minutes and seconds, Nor, Fucked up people which even don't understand what they are really doing. .... Bad luck and Bad News
ARE Fundamentalism and Stock Funding
Words 26/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger Noone, has ever before written such a work, these one here, which you are going to have, chance to read and follow. Lines of hope and justice, Duty and infidelity. Writting in a complex is way more easier, what you must do is to read complex, works written by complex authors, as always there is a guy who wants a suggestion and one more guy who is going to give the suggestion. But fore the lines come into action, for little reaction, emotion and motion. You,.... oraaa... let's put it like "Dear, You", you should start with poetry, don't choose Shakespeare, don't try to play with the ball of the genius creatures. Oh, come on are you stupid or you are nuts?
Because I was explaining what could happen, how could it happen and then, you say "No, No... I mean real human beings"... off come on, I was talking, about them In the form of aphorisms, epithets, hyperbole and personification. We are starting and look us, fucking look us .... APPLYING AS ALWAYS PRESSURE, that's how we think we are going to feel more comfortable. Long sentences in a place... where it suppossed sentences to be splitted once, twice.... and even more. ... It's way more important to hear the last words, of a human being, I don't tell ya to become a serial killer, but to have the honor to here his/her last words. Thee, will ask you questions like "What did he/she said?" ... "Tell Us!" ... But remember, remember, you can save the truth and wash their brains with hope and lies, you can play falsity hidden.
That's the whole fun of the "Last Words", you always could be Mysterious and Subtle.
N1 27/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger I know what to say, I know what to ask, I know what to answer, I know how is going to go, I know where is going to happen, I know that I have one more chance. Notta really on the contract, PEOPLE NOWAADAYS SLEEP DON"T GO OUTSIDE TO SPEAK AND PLAY SO EARLY ... The big problem is that The formation of the issue by so much dissociation is so damn hard. Lazy and bored, Crazy and Baizy, Sneezy and Snoozy. .... Probably watching somebody... or staring somebody has never been
a symptom of wanting to talk with this person, it could be just a normal re-action, after beeing so much bored .... YOU JUST START TO stare at random people... just to fulfill your desires... whatever they are. ..... I won't play with the dirt, as my mother has told me to don't play there... .... DO NOT PLAY WITH THE FIRE, YOU JUST DON'T KNOW WITH WHO YOU ARE DEALING...
Look DOWN 1 28/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger Mhm, If we think Little bit, (Sound like an a order, but it's not). … You know when a writer doesn't know, what he is talking about, most cases, he creates traps with images and sets. Which in the end gets into them... (AS YOU SAID LOCKED IN YOUR BRAIN....) That's how I feel now, I just feel like I will create one big trap for myself. If I start writting novels, stories which … I ain't ready for. I have choosen this now which you are reading just to free myself from hell and heaven… death and Alive. As already know… old people talk about death - Theories and Speculations. Teenagers and grown ups old enough… but ain't 80… neither 60… I am talking from 18 up to 40 years old. They just talk about how everything is going to happen… From jobs up to cars….but as always time comes... first and spoils all and
everything.
Look DOWN 2 28/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger Look DOWN again, not because I want you to, not just because my pointing. But because to see it by yourself, how everything has turn out. … Looking Down, is a choice which means not acknowledging somebody's presence… doesn't matter is it a stranger (-danger), friend or relative , we don't give to specific person the needed respect… - That's what's ....all is about. He/She gives us a chance. What do we do? … We ignore there empty expressions! What did they wanted? Wasn't too Much! Just few impressions, few tricks and get rollen. But We, dear we ignore them… Like they are a sign… they are an insect…
so useless, non-need, now is the perfect moment for the best question, who are we to make such a incremental judge? Are you tired?
Look DOWN 3 28/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger What I talking about is very, very typical, It's like the music which most of us listen... over and over and over .... The same tone, melody… first lower pitch.. then higher and that's classic music. …. I should apologize, probably one day I won't remember my name, my thoughts and even who I am. But that's dead, Right? Dead = Level 0 Ground … Oh, wait my mistake from retardation and rethoric melody I just lost myself. What I want to say is that what now you are reading is my "Nowadays" Misery. But still I can't be a specific time will be forgotten, stories and symphonies will be lost along the way. One for the greater good!
… I made illusions… I created them, but let at least one more time to view them. … What-If, they she or her are looking at you… probably because you are strange. Few of the people just had the guts to say that you are strange person, not really in your face. But they said to other people... it went viral after few days…. Probably you are already famous in school as I was once. Mocking behavior - I AM NOT SURE FOR THIS WORD… IS IT THE CORRECT ONE FOR TO DEFINE SUCH A TRAGEDY? … Do you even listen? … HAHA, once!???? … That's my story, as for now I am alive, but as you reading it after 20 years... probably I could be dead, god knows!?
Look DOWN 4 28/06/2017 by DeYtH Banger Drugs aren't the right way, Even kissing for 59 Hours, Isn't again the right thing. … Okay love is love…. But it's with it's own Limitations. You should know the "Begging" and the "End". Of it… …. Limits… and Limits Typical school… silence… lower pitch and higher pitch voice, you all lose the whole picture of fun. But that's the place which put it in our bodies Limits like for example.
Knowledge = Repeations You won't pass if you don't REPEAT! … The worst of all we never even got up to the part when theory becomes an action. School didn't say that "We all are unique", but it said that we all are one big one in other words we all are the same… THE SAME, THE SAME, THE SAME, THE SAME Oximoron, Aphorisms and Platon!
Dreams 07/07/2017 by DeYtH Banger My name is Daniel Fardigam and I am FBI Agent …. ….. So you did made your own research and you didn't find me?… Normal, I lied about my name just for safety meassures. … But your curiousity is very Normal, probably some of you won't reach the text up to here. Mainly because I lies! … But Now I am going to be honest! … If I see a cop and he wants something from me… I will want from him, Legitimate! … Probably your actions are the same as Mine! ….. Let's start with the whole nightmare! …
I have written a report for this case, but mysterious it gone in thin air. Sounds like a dumb joke, but I really lost it. (Note: Probably you now think that I am playing games with you, but I am not.) …. Vicious and Suspicious… Super-Natural stuff started happening in USA. Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL. If you wake up… in the morning and you don't have any external or internal wounds, consider yourself as a lucky person. Don'T spell his,
Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL It's Normal, to question his existence and to have plenty of questions, which all are about him. If I start writing your questions down… each one of them! I'm reality it's going to take me few days and still it's not going to boost this story. It's just going to make it - BORING! Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL He is nothing more, nothing less than what Nighmares are made
of! Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL When you turn off the lamp/s in your room, that's the moment when he is aggressively attacking. Put it as a comfort zone for this Super-Natural Killer. Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL
His methods are not irrevocable. Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL (Note: I hate repeation, so let's name this guy "ChainSaw Dream Killer") The ChainSaw Dream Killer, his killings are with penetration and precisely made. Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It,
Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL
When you put your lights On, you don't see anybody… you just see an empty room… which means only you are in this room. But still there are some of your stuff. Which truly makes your room not empty at all! Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL
He likes to adjust the crime scene/s. The way he likes to.
Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… … WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL If you have any kind of Nightmares, it's from him a sign that he is comming for you. Most cases if he comes for you people say (P.S. : The Survivors = The People.) that if he wants you… in most cases he could "seduce you" with erotic dreams and while you are seduced... After time passes.. probably an hour… two hours…. HE STRIKES! Don'T spell his, Name Don't say It, Don't Listen… WHAT HE IS GOING TO OFFER, He IS THE DEVIL
Other Stories by Various Authors ....
My Wife Has Changed Me by UNIT #522 "I'm getting another drink honey,do you want anything?" I say as I look at my beautiful wife ."No thanks baby " she says as she gives me that gorgeous smile I love so much . I met her about 3 years ago and let me tell ya, she really has changed me. I get up from the bed with my empty glass in hand (we were having a marathon of the 3rd season of American Horror Story, I personally think the 2nd season was way better.) "Be right back" I say with a smile just before I leave our bedroom. As I'm standing in the kitchen filling my glass , my hand starts to twitch "what timing" I say. My wife really has changed me , I no longer go on those "late nights" , I no longer look at the missing persons section of the local paper and smile, I'm no longer that monster I used to be . But still there are certain "features" that surface from time to time. It's a good thing I left the bedroom when I did . That way, she couldn't see the long sharp black nails protrude from my fingertips as my hand twitched , she couldn't see my eyes glow red in that split second , she couldn't see the horror that is my true form. It only takes a couple of seconds for me to go back to normal , ....I guess I dodged a bullet there.
SuperNatural #1 by AndoraAnaheim When I was a little girl, like 6-8 or thereabouts, I went with my mom to visit an aunt of her's. I was bored, as little girls visiting old ladies are, and I had wandered up to the second story of the house to play by myself. There was this big balcony up there with these sliding glass doors, and these really floaty, flimsy curtains over them. I decided that great fun was to be had by twirling around under this curtains, then walking away to let them be dragged off my face. Little kids, as you do. Now the problem is that these curtains were RIGHT above the stairs. There was no railing or anything, it was just a straight drop eight feet down to the first floor, onto the hard as fuck stairs. Little me didn't think about this during my game. So after a couple goes at it, I start my twirling again, curtains over my eyes so I can't see anything, and start walking. And then I felt a hand grab at the back of my shirt, pulling me back hard enough to stop walking, and felt another hand, very distinctly a hand, grab at the curtain over my face and pull it back, to show that I was standing right at the edge of the drop-off. Thing being, when I turned around, thinking it was my mom or aunt, there was absolutely no one there, not in the room, not near me, nothing. So I screamed like a banshee and ran downstairs wailing. That was when my mom's aunt decided to tell me and mom that like 80 years ago in the house, a woman had died on the second floor a few days before her wedding, from whatever young women
died of in the early 1900's, and she'd never hurt anyone, but sometimes they'd see her standing by the window looking out, or just randomly roaming around on the second floor. I mean it was actually nice of her to stop me from breaking my face open on the stairs, but it was still pretty overwhelming for me as a little kid who had no clue.
Story #2 by niborc Huh, neat, my ghost story is relevant. I did floor work with my aunt/uncle in college, and we were cleaning an old church. The caretaker took on us on a small tour, and showed us down in the boiler room, and honestly that shit was creepy. We walked down this old cement staircase into the basement, no handrail, the only light is this halogen way over by the boilers, so you can barely see the steps as you go down. Then you realize just how huge the boilers are, easily 3 times my height, and built before there was welding so they're riveted together. I mean, if you were to take me to this room blind folded, and ask me where I was, I'd have told you the serial killers den. Anyways, we get to cleaning, and honestly it felt just like any old job initially. However, after we'd been at it a couple hours, strange noises started being made. I thought at first it was just the building settling as the heating system cools down for the the day, but then I realized, the vents were still pumping out warm air. I moved from he main room they wanted refinished, and started working the hallway. I realized a lot of the bangs I had been hearing, were actually coming from the kitchen, the kitchen was locked shut. Sounded like something on wheels was moved in there at one point, also heard something metallic hit the ground in there. We kept working, but also kept hearing noises. The caretaker checked in on us before he went to bed around midnight, and I had to ask, "is the place haunted?" and he just casually says "welll people tell me this place is haunted all the time, but I don't put much stock in it, if it is haunted, when I shut my door behind me at night they let me be. I hear an occasional noise,
but again I don't put much stock in it, just building noises most of the time I figure." For me, that settled it, weird noises coming from the locked kitchen, weird noises coming from the floor above, only ONE person in the building besides my aunt/uncle/myself, and his room was, lengthwise, on the other side of the church. Moreover, he was probably around 70, so you can be pretty damn sure he isn't behind any of the noises. So we kept cleaning, kept hearing weird noises. I started working upstairs to get the entryway stripped, and that was when things really started getting strange. A general room layout was; the entrance doors were on say the south side of the room, the doors to the chapel were on the left, on the north side was a long hallway that crossed the church lengthwise with stairs going down to the basement on the east side of the hall, and finally on the east side of the entrance room, there were stairs going up, and doors to the bathrooms. I kept hearing one of the doors to the chapel close with a light bang. Now, these are heavy doors, taller and thicker than regular doors, heavy wood, and they had one of those door stopper/slowers that prevents the door from banging. That's what made hearing the door bang so weird, because if you simply opened the door and let it close on its own, it made almost no audible noise. I kept hearing the noise for about 10-15 minutes, until finally it got to me, and I went to the nearest door and opened it (There were 6-8 in total I think). I poked my head in, and noticed movement on the 2nd floor. I saw smoke or something just kind of drift out of the room, right under the exit sign, at the ceiling height of the exit hallway. The
smoke/mist/vapor/whatever moved almost like it was sucked out the room by a draft. Needless to say, I was fairly creeped out by this point. Banging and noises from the locked kitchen, ghosts in the chapel, boiler room that felt like the serial killing room, old ass caretaker that would probably have turned out to be the villain in scooby doo... So I went and told my aunt and uncle, who relayed their weird experiences to me, though they didn't see anything, just lots of noises, and my aunt said she heard kids laughing at one point (maybe it was kids ghosts playing pranks on us?). My uncle was just waiting for the finish to dry downstairs, so my aunt and I went upstairs to vacuum the long hallway/offices, and after that we'd be done. We got the heavy ass equipment up the stairs, and my aunt and I crack some jokes about how the long hall was like something out of the shining. That was when we both heard an insanely loud bang, bomb/explosive loud, at the other end of the hallway. We kind of just stared at each other, a bit horrified, then ended up just doing a very quick dry vacuuming, and heading back downstairs. By this point, it was about 5am, almost 6. My aunt and I took off, and my uncle stayed until the floor finish had dried, a couple hours later. This has always struck me as kind of an ironic experience. My aunt and uncle who are mormon, were quick to connect the experience to the fact that it was a church. For me however, I'd think a holy place like that wouldn't be able to be haunted. To them, it cemented the idea that religion and ghosts are both real, and connected. To me, it cemented the idea that religion is fake, and gave me hope that some day ghosts could be explained with science. I think it'd be pretty cool if ghosts were somehow connected to dark energy, and dark energy turned out to actually be the overlap of parallel universes energy. Sort of like a universe venn diagram, imagine universes overlap, and the dark energy we can't interact with, is the energy of another universe. Well some of that energy would be in the form of the electromagnetic waves our brains produce. Ghosts might just be the emotionally charged actions of others in a parallel universe, and we see a sort of shadow, or echo, of those actions and emotions. Or maybe it's just the emotionally charged actions that imprint themselves on space time and loop
repeatedly, which is what we see... Dunno, sure is fun to get high as shit and think about though! Cheers to anybody that made it through my wall of text, now grab a dab, or a beer, or a cookie, or whatever makes you happy, and relax. -edit- speling annd grahmahr iz hahrd
Story #3 by BipolarGod I turned 21 before my friends did, so naturally being an alcoholic I went to bars alone. I was waiting in line one night and an attractive woman who had clearly had too much to drink came up to me and started rubbing on my chest. (I'm was a single man so if an attractive woman wants to rub me I was fine with that) She said how attractive I was and then started saying how much she missed me. (we were strangers.) She started sobbing uncontrollably. By that time her friends had caught up with her and saw her crying just before she turned and ran away from me. One of her friends chased after her and the other walked up to me and said, "Sorry about that. Her boyfriend just died 2 weeks ago in a motorcycle accident." She was looking at me kinda funny but that whole situation was kinda funny. I said no problem and that I was sorry for her loss. She said, "Its weird, can I tell you something?" yes, I replied. "You look exactly like her boyfriend. Like, EXACTLY like her boyfriend. We saw you as soon as she did. We froze and didnt know what to do when she ran up to you. OMG YOU LOOK EXAXCTLY LIKE HIM!" We briefly exchanged plesantries and I went inside for a stiff drink. 3 months later I was hit in a horrific motorcycle crash and nearly died.
I used to argue against it... by Bhargavi I stayed in a hostel while I was working. I used to work in UK shifts, that’s 2pm to 12 am in India. That day I worked an hour extra and came back to hostel by 2am. I changed and wasn’t feeling sleepy and I had a pillar beside my bed. I was leaning on it and had my earphones and listening to songs when the girl who was sleeping in the bed which is opposite to my bed started to move restlessly. I just thought she was having a bad dream. But she kept moving for another 5 mins. . I paid little attention and after 5 mins, she got up from her bed slowly, walked to her cabinet, took the Bible in her hands and hugged it. It was then I got concerned and asked her what happened. She told me something was on top of her, she clearly felt something as if some person who is very strong was on top of her was pressing her into the bed and choking her. She was fighting to get up and was moving her hands up and down to signal me to help and was calling my name. I didn’t hear anything at all. I never put earphones in full volume, yet I heard nothing. She said that entity tried to kill her. She couldn’t breathe or see anything. But then collected her remaining will, got up and took bible in her hands. As and when she touched the Bible, whatever that was holding her, immediately left. She felt an instant grip free and body felt light. . I listened to it, (that time I never ever believed ghosts) and told her that “there’s a scientific explanation to this, her bed was in a corner, she felt breathless and a grip on her body Just coz of lack of adequate amount of oxygen”. She replied, “I also hear baby cries in midnights sometimes” I told her “I come back to hostel in midnights, there’s a garbage bin near by, cats always fight with each other for food and some times their cry sounds similar to a baby, I see that everyday and you don’t have to worry bout it”. She had this intense
stare into my eyes and replied “you won’t realize until your day comes. Wait for it” .. I just laughed and slept. . This all happened in November. In December, I changed my room from first floor to second because I didn’t get along with other girls, they gave me the room in second floor exactly above the same room I stayed before, and my bed’s position was in the same place where the girl’s bed was, at the corner. . Exactly after a month, on the Same date, same day Friday, same time 2am, I came back to my room, went to bathroom and slept as I was tired. I don’t know how much time later, but I myself felt a very strong existence on my body, giving me the same experience that the girl described. I couldn’t breathe, I seriously thought this was going to kill me. I called out for two girls who were sleeping in our room, I even pushed a steel glass that was on a stool near my bed. They never woke up. I collected all my strength, opened my eyes, and there was a huge God’s picture on the wall beside my bed. I silently prayed help me and screamed “leave me now” and that instant, I felt free… Whatever that was pushing me down and choking me left me within seconds and I felt like floating. Other girls were still sleeping despite I screamed and made noises. . I drank water and intended to find out whatever that tried to kill me. I went out, checked toilets, lobby, kitchen and balcony and it was 2.45am and couldn’t find anything. It was all dark, except an eerie yellow light near the toilets. I couldn’t find anything rational. . I still don’t know if ghosts do exist, but I don’t argue with believers saying no which I was doing before. All I can say is there’s something out there that you don’t want to mess up with I wanted to tell this to many girls and our hostel warden. But many girls were chickens and I didn’t want to scare them because few of them already feel no so good staying in our hostel. I didn’t want to increase the fear because warden is a good woman and she could loose business. Nothing happened after that until I stayed, however they say one experience is enough to actually change the way we think or
presume things. . My day had come just like that girl said. Obviously not every time and everywhere you could run out of adequate oxygen, that too exactly a month after, on same date, same day and same time as if someone had previously decided my destiny.
Something happened 63 years ago that's haunted me my entire life. I’ve never told anyone about it—until now. by Sergeant_Darwin It’s official: I’m an old man. For the last couple years, I’ve comforted myself by saying I’m in my “early 70s,” but math is simple and unforgiving. Today is my 75th birthday, and God, the years do fly. I’m not here for your well wishes; this is hardly a milestone I’m excited about. I’m glad to still be here, of course, but I find I have less and less to live for with every passing year. My bones ache, my kids live far away, and the other side of my bed has been empty for just over eight months now. In fact, once I cast my vote against that goddamned Trump this November, I may have nothing to live for at all. So spare me your “happy birthdays” and your congratulations, if you please. I’m here because I have a story for you, and it’s one I’ve never told before. I used to think I kept it inside because it was silly, or maybe because nobody would believe it. I’ve found, though, that the older you grow, the more exhausting it becomes to lie to yourself. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve never told anybody this story because it scares me, almost to death. But death seems friendlier than it used to, so listen close. The year was 1950; the setting a small town in Maine. I was a boy of nine, rather small for my age, with only one friend in the world to speak of—and his family, seemingly on a whim, decided to move 2,000 miles away. It was shaping up to be the worst summer of my life. My pop wasn’t around and my mom was a chore-whore—boy, was I proud of myself when I came up with that one—so I wasn’t apt
to hang around the house. With some hesitation, I decided the public library was the place to be that summer. The library’s collection of books, particularly children’s books, was meager to say the least. But within the walls of that miserly structure, I would find no undone chores, no nagging mother (God rest her soul), and perhaps most importantly, no other children with whom I would be expected to associate. I was the only kid with a low enough social status to spend his precious days of freedom sulking amid the bookshelves, and that was just fine with me. The first half of my summer was even more dreadful than I had imagined it would be. I would sleep in until 10, do my chores, and then ride my bike to the library (and by bike, I mean rusty log of shit attached to a pair of wheels). Once there, I would split my time between unintentionally annoying the elderly patrons and deliberately doing so. One pleasant lady actually interrupted my incessant tongue-clicking to hiss a “shut the fuck up!” at me—the first time I ever heard a grownup use The F Word. Big fuckin’ deal, I know, but in those days it was unheard of. The dreary days turned to woeful weeks. I had actually begun praying for school to start again—until I discovered the basement. I could have sworn I’d roamed every inch of that library, but one day, in the far corner behind the foreign language collection I stumbled across a small wooden door I had never seen before. That was where it all began. The door was windowless and made from oak that looked far older than the wall in which it rested. It had a knob of black metal that quite literally looked ancient—I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it was crafted in the 17th century. Engraved on the knob was what appeared to be a single footprint. I had the sense that whatever lay beyond this door was forbidden to me, and therefore probably the most interesting thing I would encounter all summer. I quickly glanced around to make sure nobody was watching me, then turned the heavy knob, slipped behind the door, and shut it.
There was nothing; only darkness. I took a couple of steps and then stopped, unnerved by the totality of the shadow which surrounded me. I waved my hands in front of me in an attempt to find a wall or a shelf or anything to hold on to. What I actually found was far more subtle—a small string, dangling from above—but far more useful. I grabbed it firmly and pulled it down. Back in the day, lots of lightbulbs were operated with strings, and this was one of them. My surroundings were instantly illuminated. I was standing on a small, dusty platform that looked as though it hadn’t seen life in quite some time. To my left was a crickety-ass spiral staircase, made of wood and appearing ready to collapse at any second. The bulb was the only source of light in the room, and it was feeble, so when I peered over the railing to see what lay below, the bottom of the staircase dissolved into the darkness. I was beginning to feel scared. This place—wherever I was—seemed to have no business in a town library. It was as though I were in a completely different building. But no nine-year-old likes to let a mystery go unsolved. Looking back, I wish I could tell my prepubescent self to turn around, go back, do anything else besides descending that staircase. “You’ll be spared a lot of sleepless nights,” I’d say. But, of course, I didn’t know that then—and I may not have listened even if I had. So instead of turning back, I took a deep breath, gripped the railing, and glared resolutely forward as I began my descent. The wood on the railing was dry and covered with splinters. I immediately let go, holding my hands out for balance as I carefully traversed the staircase. It was (or at least seemed) very long, and with only the dim glow from the string-bulb far above me, my heart pounded mercilessly in the darkness. Even kids can sense when something isn’t right, I think—they just don’t always give a shit. By the time my feet reached the cement floor at the bottom, the light from the bulb above was very nearly a memory. But there was a new light source, and God, I’ll never forget it. Directly in front of me
was a door, massive, and a deep shade of red. The light was coming from behind the door, and it shone out in thin lines from all four sides—a sinister, dimly glowing rectangle. For the second time, I took a deep breath and went through a door I shouldn’t have. In contrast to the dank room I entered from, the room behind the door was blinding. When my eyes adjusted, what I saw nearly took my breath away. It was a library. The most perfect library imaginable. I gaped in wonder as I stepped, almost reverently, further into the room. It was beautiful. It was smaller than the library above, much smaller, but it seemed to be almost tailor-made for me. The shelves were packed with brightly colored titles, both armchairs in the middle of the room were exquisitely comfortable, and the smell—my God, the smell—was simply unbelievable. Sort of a mixture of citrus and pine. I simply can’t do it justice with words, so I’ll suffice it to say that I’ve never smelled anything better. Not in my 75 years. What was this room? Why had I never heard of it before? Why was nobody else here? Those were the questions I should have been asking. But I was intoxicated. As I gazed around at all the books and basked in the smell of paradise, I could only form one thought: I will never be bored again. In truth, boredom only hid from me for three years. It was on my 12th birthday, 63 years ago to this day, that everything changed. Before that day, I visited my basement sanctuary as often as I could—usually several times a week. I never saw another soul down there, yet strangely remained free of suspicion. I never removed a book from that room, but instead would pick up a particular volume wherever I had stopped reading during my previous visit. I sat, always in the same deep purple armchair, and always leaving its twin barren and directly across from myself. That armchair was mine, the other was—well, I suppose I couldn’t have articulated it then much better than I can now. But it wasn’t mine, that’s for damn sure. On my twelfth birthday, I arrived later than usual. My mom had
invited a couple classmates and some cousins over to our house to celebrate, a gesture which I found more tedious than touching— really, I just wanted to spend my birthday sitting and reading and smelling paradise. Eventually, our guests went home, and I made it to the library about fifteen minutes before closing time. That didn’t matter; the workers never checked down there before they locked up. I was free to stay as late as I wished. This particular night, I was devouring the final chapters of an epic adventure; knights, swords, dragons, and the like. I didn’t smell it until I read the final words and closed the book. The once exquisite aroma of that room had turned sour. I sat for a moment, unsettled. Objectively, I could recognize that the smell was actually the same as it had been before—that mixture of citrus and pine. I just perceived it differently, and I didn’t like it anymore. It was the nasal version of an optical illusion; you know, the one that looks like a young woman glancing backward, but all of a sudden you see that it’s really an old woman facing toward you? You can’t unsee that, and I couldn’t unsmell this. The spell was broken. The odor also seemed, for the first time, to be coming from somewhere specific. With a fair amount of trepidation, I stalked around the room, sniffing the air like a crazed canine until I came to a shelf near the back. The shelf was perfectly normal, with the exception of one title—a large, leatherbound cover of solid faded maroon, with one striking black footprint at the top of the spine. This was the source of the smell. I opened the front cover, and saw one sentence scrawled neatly in blood-red ink atop the first page: Rest your sorrows down, friend, and leave them where they lie. I stared at this sentence, mesmerized, as I began to retreat to my chair. I turned a page. Blank. The smell became stronger. Another page, blank, and the smell grew stronger still. I stopped for a moment, suppressed a gag, and continued walking. Then, as I neared the armchairs, I turned one final page—and there, in the same sinister print, was the last thing I expected to see: my own name. I dropped the book. I began to sprint toward the door, but as I shifted
my gaze forward, my heart leapt to my throat and I stopped in my tracks. The empty chair wasn’t empty anymore. An aged man in a suit sat before me, one leg crossed over the other, contemplating me with piercing gray eyes and a light smirk. This was all too much. I fell to my knees and expelled the contents of my stomach onto the carpet. I wiped my mouth, staring at my vomit, when I heard the man let out a chuckle. I stared at him disbelievingly. “Who are you?” I asked, panic in my voice. The man leapt to his feet, grabbed me gently by the shoulders, and helped me to my chair. He sat, once again, in his own. “I fear we got off to a bad start,” he said, glancing at the pile of sick on the carpet. “The smell . . . it does take some getting used to.” “Who are you?” I repeated. “Tonight, you will know hardship like you’ve never before known,” he said. “I come as a friend, offering you refuge from it, and from all other storms which lie ahead.” I wanted nothing more than to leave at that moment, but I remained seated. I asked him what he was talking about. “Your mother is dead, my boy. By her own hand, in her kitchen. The scene is gruesome, I must admit,” he said in sorrowful tones, but was there a playful glint in his eye? “Surely you wish to avoid this path. I can show you a safer one.” My blood ran cold at the horrors this man spoke of, but I did not believe him. “What do you want with me?” I demanded, trying to sound braver than I felt. He laughed, an old, raspy yelp that seemed to shake him to his bones. “Nothing but your friendship, dear boy,” he said. Then, sensing I found his answer inadequate, he expounded. “I want you to come on a journey with me. My work is noble and you will make a fine apprentice. And maybe, when I’m done”—he sighed tiredly, running his bony fingers through his thin white hair—“maybe then, my work can be yours.” I stood up, shuffling toward the door but never breaking his gaze. “You’re crazy,” I told him. “My mom isn’t dead. She’s not.” “See for yourself, if you must,” he said, gesturing toward the door.
I threw him a contemptuous glare and bolted for the exit. As my hand closed around the knob, he said my name softly. In spite of myself, I turned around. “Your road won’t be easy, friend. If it ever becomes too much for you, and I mean ever,” he said, pausing to sweep his hand over the room, “you know where to find me.” I slammed the door behind me and took the decrepit stairs two at a time. I exited the library, clambered onto my bike, and high-tailed it home. The front door was wide open. I dismounted, leaving my bike in a heap on the ground, and approached the house cautiously. The old man was lying—he must have been. Still, tears began to sting my eyes. Heart pounding, I stepped inside and called for my mother. I heard no answer, so I turned into the kitchen. To this day, I don’t know why she did it. I’ve lived in that small town in Maine my entire life, although I’ve kept mostly clear of the public library. Once, in my late 20s, I summoned the courage to step inside. Life was good at that time, and my fear had begun to morph into idle curiosity. Where the door to my basement sanctuary once stood was only a blank wall. I asked the librarian what had become of that basement, though in my heart I knew the answer. There was no basement, she said. There had never been a basement. In fact, if she had her facts correctly, city zoning ordinances prohibited a basement in the area. I’ve been haunted by that sickly-sweet smell, that poisonous blend of citrus and pine, ever since that long ago birthday. When I saw my mother in the kitchen that day, collapsed in a pool of her own blood, I smelled it. When a man claiming to be my father knocked on my college apartment door, begged me for money and beat me to within an inch of my life when I refused, I smelled it. When my wife miscarried our second child, I smelled it, and again when she miscarried our fourth. When our oldest son got behind the wheel of the family Buick completely shitfaced and got his girlfriend killed, I smelled it.
I began to smell it periodically as my wife became sick. She died late last year, and now, I’m alone for the first time in more than half a century. Now, I smell it every day, and it feels like an invitation. A few months ago, I went back to the library and the small oak door with the ancient handle was there—right where it used to be. My evening walk has brought me past that library every day since, but I haven’t gone inside. Maybe tonight I will. I’m frightened to die, yes, but lately I’m even more frightened to keep living. The old man was right—my road hasn’t been easy, and I doubt it will get any easier. Rest your sorrows down, friend, and leave them where they lie. He promised relief. A refuge, he said. Was he right about that too? There’s only one way to find out. After all, I still know where to find him.
Report #1 by AwaitingDeath Got a report of a missing husband. He told his wife and family of 6 children that he was going to get his tires changed, but never returned, and this was 12 hours ago. They had purchased another house in a neighboring community, and the relationship with the wife was under pressure, so the wife assumed he was staying at the other house, and claimed he would never kill himself. The strange thing about this report though was that he emptied his personal bank account into his wife's this morning as well. The wife explained this off saying that they recently had a fight about finances, and he agreed that he was bad at money and maybe they should just have a joint account that she controls. On a hunch, I asked his 14 year old boy if there were any areas in the mountains nearby that his father enjoyed going, and the son identified a road about 10 miles away. It was nearing midnight, but I decided to drive to the top of this old and abandoned forest service road. As I drove through the snow and started to climb the road, I felt a gut feeling that I would 100% find this guy up there either thinking about or already acted out a suicide. The snow-laid gravel road had some sign of travel, but no real indication of how fresh the vehicle tracks could be. As I reached the top of the road after an hour of travel I was honestly surprised that I did not find his black truck. I spent the drive back down thinking about "gut-feelings" and how they are unreliable, but that I somehow felt different about this one. As I traveled up the road, I did notice over a dozen smaller roads branching off, but they were not mapped, and I had already spent too much time on a single occurrence in a busy city with too few police officers. Nonetheless, I decided to check a single of these secondary roads, and about 3/4's of the way down I picked a road at
random to check, and sure enough my headlights lit up the back end of a black truck about 100 yards past the first corner. Even if I hadn't memorized the licence plate beforehand, I wouldn't have had to run it - it was clearly his. I radioed that I had found the truck, parked my vehicle, and traveled the 20 feet to his truck with my heart beating like I was doing it at a sprint rather than a normal walk. What I found inside was a mess of brains and blood caused by a self-inflicted shotgun wound under the chin. I'll save you from the description. There was just something about that gut-feeling while traveling this abandoned and quiet mountain road, followed by a sense of being tricked by the gut-feeling, then finding out it was true by discovering such a gruesome scene, having to wait 3 hours next to his truck waiting for body removal, and then to end it all by having to go to the family who was expecting good news to deliver to them the worst news possible, that makes me feel creeped out to this day.
Report #2 by k00ni3 A few years ago we had an apparent suicide (pedestrian vs train). Hispanic male in his early 20s left a note and decided to take a nap on the tracks. It was a mess. I mean a real horror show of a mess. And anyone who has ever worked a rail grade collision knows that your investigation really takes a backseat to getting the train moving again. So we are working like crazy to get everything in order so we can release the train. Well, and this is the creepy part, the family claimed we missed some things out there. Personal property of the deceased. I guess, according to mom and grandma, this kid had a big gaudy gold cross neck chain he loved more than life itself. We searched for it and never found it. We even came back out with a K-9 (before I made the PSD unit) and tried to pick it up on an area search. No dice. At this point it's just gone. Disappeared into thin air. Well this guy's little brother is a 17 year old kid with a chip on his shoulder. He goes out there at night a few hours after we clear to look for himself. Before he went out he told his friends and family the cops were worthless and we weren't trying to help. I shit you not, you could not make this up, he gets hit by a different train in almost the same damn spot on the tracks. You could still see the blood stains on the shale. So sure as shit we go out (I was on the red eye 12 shift from 1900-0700) and I'm not even kidding: we find this poor kid over a hundred feet off of the tracks and he's GOT THE GOLD CHAIN CLUTCHED IN HIS HAND. That's some Final Destination shit. (Edit: grammar) (Edit again: I can't hardly discern actual questions from other comments. I was just a uniform on the scene, not the lead investigator or anyone important. I was that guy putting up yellow
tape and waiting to go home. Most of what I learned was after the fact back in the squad room when my partners gave me the "you're never gonna believe this shit" story.)
Report #3 by NotATroll4 I am interning with a Sheriff's police department so most of my time is spent on patrol. We got called out to do a wellness check which the Deputy thought was going to be a piece of cake like she was out of town or something. We get there and are met by the neighbors who told us that the mail is pilling up in the mail box and that there are several untouched packages on the porch. Ok so we go up the house and the front door is unsecured, so we crack open the door a couple of inches and the Deputy calls inside, but the door wont move any more. The house was one of those split houses where the stairs meet at the front door and the upstairs and downstairs are offset so we concluded that there might be stuff behind the door. Its about this time that the deputy tells me that she is a known hoarder and that could be why the door was stuck. He also mentions that if we see flies on the inside of the windows she is most likely inside and deceased. As we walk around the side of the house we notice a lot of flies on the windows. The back door was locked and as we looked in we noticed bags on bags of garbage diapers and misc shit all over the place. We head back to the front and attempt to make entry. He pushes the door open, this time with more force, and from underneath I see a grease like liquid spreading out from under the door. The deputy stops, closes the door and calmly tells me that the lady was indeed dead, and wedged behind the door. From the dates of the packages We concluded that she had been gone about two months. Once we did make entry into the house I was allowed inside. After two months she didnt even look like a human corpse. Her skin and body had sagged and melted to the floor and her face...her face was all black and had been eaten to the bone by maggots. I'll
never forget the smell when the coroners moved her and she popped. It was like a physical presence. Whatever those people get paid to deal with that shit, its not enough. The thing that really got to me though, was wondering if she had fallen down the stairs and died there, or if she fell and was unable to move and waited for help that would never come.
Report #4 by OverlyGermanMan I was a Parks Officer for a downtown metropolitan out in the Pacific Northwest. I saw my fair share of weird stuff on my 17000100 shift. Naked Bike ride after party at midnight with about a thousand or so naked people chilling out, the occasional couple having sex, homeless person masturbating or shooting up heroin and the occasional dead body were all a normal part of the job. Anyways, this one night we were sent to investigate a tent set up relatively near the waterfront, which was generally a homeless person that was trying to stay dry for the night. So we get there around 2330 and tell the lady inside that she has to go a few hundred yards away to an area that isn't patrolled. She fusses and bitches about having to move then mentioned a man living in a "cave" at the bottom of a shallow ravine nearby that's been killing small animals and eating them. We ask her for more information and she points to a general area about 50 yards away through some thick brush, the general area most people wouldn't wander past. My partner and I start to walk through the thick brush with just our flashlights and eventually stumble upon the ravine, and sure enough there is a small opening on the side enough for a person to fit in. I scale down about 20 feet and peek inside the opening and see what seems like a massive pile of magazines, torn pages, articles of clothing, a sugar cookie tin, a gorilla costume hand, some crude looking tools including a makeshift bow, a few knives and other generally weird shit. Being curious, and that the "cave" was empty, I opened the sugar cookie tin and found a large amount of what seemed like raw animal meat. At this point I was thoroughly freaked the fuck out and decided to un-ass the area and inform the police of what I had found (we didn't carry weapons). We never found out what came of the guy who was staying there or what was going on
there. But definitely freaky at around midnight in pitch black conditions.
Pizza #1 by ihatetwizzlers About 12 years ago in a suburb of Baton Rouge there was a suspected serial killer on the loose. The running joke in our store was that it was one of us because the murders were happening in and around our delivery area. There was a seedy motel by a remote industrial complex right off the highway. Everyone hated having to deliver there because it was mostly truck drivers, pimps, ho's, and druggies and none of them tipped. I got stuck going there around 11pm on a Friday night. As I approached the room I could see the door was open slightly. I knocked and said "Hello?" and there was no answer. Through the crack I could see a person sitting so I nudged the door open a little. It was a frumpy middle-aged naked woman tied to the chair, blindfolded and gagged. She nodded as if to acknowledge my presence and turned her head in the direction of the nightstand. There was a note and some money on it. I scanned the room and didn't see any sign of anyone else, i.e. the person that tied her up. I read the note and it was something to the effect of "This is our 20th anniversary and this was my fantasy. Please look all you want, but don't touch and keep the change! p.s. my husband is hiding and watching so don't try anything" There was a $20 tip. I thought for sure this was the last delivery I'd ever be making. I snatched the money and left the pizzas on the bed and backed out slowly. I have never been more creeped out in my life. Fortunately there was no murder at that hotel that night. tl;dr creepy naked lady tied up in hotel room paid me $20 to look at her bush and there may or may not have been a hubby lurking somewhere
Pizza #2 by VideoGameJeff I was delivering to a hospital one night and I went in the doors that were on the delivery description. I wound up at a check-in desk where no one was around. Behind me were several recovery rooms, all with lights out. I looked around for anyone who might have placed the order but ended up just hanging at the desk for a few more minutes. From the room directly to my right I could hear a sad, weak voice say "I just want to go hoooommmee...". I turned and saw a man with several tubes in and out of him, his lamp was faintly lit, and he was locking eyes with me. At that moment the person who ordered showed up at the desk, and we did the little pizza exchange. As I turned around to leave I looked into the room where the guy with the tubes was and there was NO ONE there. No light on, no tubes, and no sign that any on had even used the bed. I made sure it was the correct room by pretending to forget where the exit door was and examined a few of the rooms, all of which empty. Still freaks me out.
Pizza #3 by ZebruhZerg Oh boy do I have a story to tell. I was the day driver at the pizza place I was working at. On my usual grind I hit the second house of my double and knock on the door. Oh and it was an online order forgot to add that. So I get to the door real shitty house in a nice neighborhood but they had some really nice cars. So I knock wait about a minute guy comes up and just starts yelling "who the fuck ordered pizza?!" So I get a little nervous and think I went to the wrong house. I hear in the background "I did" real subtle voice so the guy says to come in, which I don't wanna do seeing as I had about a grand in cash on me. Dudes fucking persistent though so I walk in and he leads me to the kitchen, as I turn into the living room/ kitchen area I see a girl who looked 21 but had been hit by a truck on the couch with a needle in her arm. Instantly I just wanted to run. Never seen someone do heroine before and I really didn't want to stay to see what happens, the guy tells me to put the pizzas on the counter and starts yelling "bitch how the fuck are we gonna pay for these?!" Me shouting my pants almost said that they were free she says to use the wad in the drawer, guy pulls out a drawer probably a billion dollars and like 3 pistols in this thing, I'm sweating now he pulls all the guns out leaves them on the counter and gives me 50 bucks on a 19 dollar Oder and says keep the change as I turn to run the fuck out his buddies come in the back door saying they got the hook up on some crack and just start smoking it right then and there. Me innocent 18 year old from the nicest place in Texas was so scared they were gonna fucking shoot me. I get back to my car and go about 100 back to the store and blocked them from ever ordering from us again. I have so many stories about shit like that it's crazy.
I walked into a floor that should not have been. by PETEJOZ I deliver pizzas. I was making a delivery to a regular customer in a building that I have been at a few dozen times. Everything was going smoothly; he buzzed me up, I gave him his order, and I left. He lives on the fourth floor, so I always take the stairs because it is quicker. The building has two stairwells that lead from the lobby to every other floor above it, and a separate stairwell that leads to the basements and parking garage below the lobby. So, looking at the elevators you see a hallway to your left and a hallway to your right. In both hallways there are two doors that lead to stairwells and a bunch of other doors that lead elsewhere. There is one door leads to the "up" stairwell and the other to the "down" stairwell. There are also a few miscellaneous things like fire extinguishers, hanging exit signs, and plants. The hallway has a deep green floor, puke green walls, and a cream-coloured ceiling. Now, I gave him the pizza, took the money, and made my way to the stairwell. I had this weird feeling. You know the one? The one that everybody talks about when something is about to happen? The kind where you feel a squeezing in your stomach and a heat on the back of your neck. I made my way down the stairwell and the feeling increased. I quickly ended up at the very bottom. All that separated me from the hallway leading to the lobby was the door. I felt as if I should not open it, but I was busy so I pushed the feeling aside and stepped into the hallway. The first thing I felt was confusion. The hallway was completely
different from the one I was expecting. It was entirely white. Spotless, as if someone had just cleaned it. I remember it looked very smooth. Gone were the objects and doors, except for two doors on either end of the hallway. I started walking to one of the doors, but stopped. Something inside me told me I was in a very wrong place. For some reason my brain translated that into "hey, dummy, you are in the basement." So I went back through the door and started heading up the stairs when I realized that the basement had a seperate entrance from the lobby. I went back down and looked back and forth. The hallway was still completely different and I saw no way to get to the lobby. At this point I got really scared. Really scared. I am not a person who gets scared over something like that as I tend to be levelheaded and calm, but I was terrified. I sprinted up the stairs onto the second floor and took the elevator down, exiting into the lobby. I have had many more deliveries to that building and that customer, but I never experienced such an odd thing again. What could have happened? Has anyone heard of similar experiences? Edit: To clarify the stairs. Imagine walking down a hallway. You come across two doors side by side. You open one door and see stairs leading up. You open the other door and see stairs leading down. Another pair of such doors is located on the opposite side of the building. So, the first door will take you to every floor above you and the second door will take you to the basement and the garage.
[ME] Nightly encounters in the middle of nowhere in germany by 852Foofer When I was 20 I used to work as a pizza delivery guy in a small city in northern germany. On my way home I had to drive a few miles on a remote state street (?) that lead through forest and farmland. One night - it must have been around 1am - there was a HUGE thunderstorm and I had to drive slowly and careful. When I came to a road junction I noticed a figure standing in the middle of the road. It looked like a tall and slender man in a long black leather cloak with a hood. At first I thought it was someone who had an accident and was looking for help but when my headlights hit the figure I noticed that the cloak - especially the hood - appeared to be empty. Also my headlights did not illuminate the cloak like they should have. It was just the lightning reflecting on the smooth, wet surface that allowed me to see the shape. Of course I floored the gas pedal and went as fast as I dared. A couple of miles later I ran into the same or at least a very similar figure - again standing right in the middle of the road and not moving at all. This time I didn't even slow down and rushed right past it. Scared me to death. A couple of weeks later - this time no thunderstorm, just a beautiful warm summer night - I encountered another creature right where I saw the black figure before. It looked like giant deer but without fur and pale grey/white skin. It was extremely skinny almost skeletal like and had an abnormally long and thin tail. It ran alongside the road and kept pace with me quite easily as I drove past it. Only when I slammed the gas pedal and went suicidally fast it started to fall behind and eventually disappeared in a crop field. The very next day I quit my job and never used that road at night
again. Also - please excuse my icky english. I am no native speaker.
My moral compass is demented. by cryofr0zen These past few weeks have been some of the most stressful ones of my life. Maybe that’s why I’m finally starting to see him. I christened him Mortimer after it was apparent that he wasn’t going to go anywhere anytime soon. I began seeing him at least three times a day. At first, Mortimer wasn’t anything. He was a shapeless slither of shadow, no dimensions or form. I’d find him sitting in chairs, standing in doorways or holding objects in his matter. Whenever I saw him, my senses would go limp. My muscles would stiffen, and then I’d lose sense in them altogether. For the first time in months, I felt bliss. My eyelids would shut, and, for a few precious seconds, I would feel as if nothing mattered anymore. I wasn’t Edward, I wasn’t human, I wasn’t even alive. Just a tiny ball of pure nirvana, for just a few moments. Then it was over, and I would find myself doing whatever Mortimer had been doing. Sitting in the same chair, standing in the same doorway or holding the same thing that had been in his shadowy grasp a few moments ago. The first time I did this, I was startled. Then it became my sole escape. Every time I let myself drift into Mortimer’s perpetual ecstasy, it lasted a few moments longer. I found that, if I put my mind to it, I could resist the temporary neurological shutdown my brain underwent, but I rarely, if ever, did. I had a job as well. I spent most of the day typing up reports and spreadsheets, making sure the company didn’t go out of budget on the various expenditures it engaged in. A motion at the corner of my eye caught my attention. Ricky, one of my co-workers, was walking towards the men’s room. As he entered the bathroom, I noticed Mortimer at the door as well. I felt my grasp on reality fade away, and I welcomed it with open arms. When I re-entered the material world, I was sitting at my computer as if I hadn’t gone anywhere. The report was finished. It was closing time.
As I left the office, Mortimer was sitting in the driver seat of the car, at the opposite end of the parking lot. I let myself go again, and found myself immediately in the driver’s seat, the buzz of bliss still tangible at the back of my head. I had noticed something, before I evaporated into my ethereal state. Mortimer was no longer a shapeless shadow. He had taken form. A diminutive figure with thin appendages and a rotund belly, his skin hairless, except for a few thorny growths, and slick with fluid. That detail nagged me the whole drive home, dissipating the euphoric tingle the jolted down my spine. The next morning was Saturday. I woke up eagerly, not for the holiday but for the chance to experience utter bliss once more. I looked out of the window. Mortimer glanced up with his wet, scarred face, not at my eyes, but into my chest, straight through to my heart. He was seated in the car. What felt to me like moments later, I was in his place. I drove along aimlessly, until I encountered, by chance, my parent’s large luxury home. Father had died a couple years back, but he died a rich businessman, and Mother, with the money, hired a world-leading architect to design her a house right in the richest part of the city. Yet not one cent of that money had seen by my empty bank account. Mother, unlike what she did with her son, didn’t spare any expense on security. A network of CCTV cameras and four guards, each of whom took twelve hour shifts in pairs to cover the entire day. They knew me and let me visit any time I wanted, but I never found any reason to. Mother had always tried to get me out of her life, and, like always, she had succeeded. It was fine by me. But this time, Mortimer was standing at the gate. That was the first time I ever felt confused before drifting off. I was even more bewildered when I woke up back in my car, the only thing that had changed being the time of day and the position of the guards. The whole drive back to the house, I was on edge. What had I done at Mother’s place? Sunday morning came around, and that day I learned everything. When I looked up from my tear-sodden palms, Mortimer was squatting in front of me.
“Why?” A simple question. You’re wondering why I came into your life all of a sudden? Made you do all these horrible, horrible things? He laughed, a dry, throaty laugh. I am you, child. I am what tells you right from wrong, this hideous creature in front of you that your heart has forged. With that, he lifted a slender finger and tapped my chest. It felt as if a dam had burst inside my mind. All the viscera of a repressed personality flowed into the labyrinthine maze of my mind. Judgements, thoughts and emotion that justified my actions, made them rational, rid me of my sorrow. And with that, Mortimer disappeared from my life. Before I ever knew Mortimer, my fiancée used to hate me. She hated the fact that we lived in almost poverty, that there was no funding to back her insane and extravagant fashion sense. She only stuck with me like a pile of crap that won’t flush because no other man would sink that low, and also because she held onto the sliver of hope that one day, my mother would bite the dust, and then, me. Now, she said she loved me. She wanted to get married. Plates no longer crashed against the side of my head. Scratch marks never wound their way down the length of my arm. But it wasn’t genuine. She loved me because of what happened today. My boss called to tell me that I’d earned the promotion I’d been dreaming about for months. It didn’t make a difference though, because the offices were set to close down due to the fact that Ricky Geralds, my competitor for the promotion, had been found dead in the men’s room. But that wouldn’t matter, because my mother’s solicitor had called me as well. Mother had died suddenly due to unknown circumstances, and I was to inherit what was left of Father’s fortune, which was still substantial enough for me to live a comfortable life. We were sleeping. Or at least, my fiancée was. She caressed my torso with her hands. Curled up close to me. That was fine. It just made it easier, was the thought that crossed my mind as I slowly pulled the steak knife out of the pillowcase.
There's Nothing Left I’ve always been a creature of habit, and few observations ever elude my mind. That’s why I can recall any event down to the smallest insignificant detail, but recently my memories haven’t matched up with reality. On any given weekday, I’ll return from work. My keys will be in my left inner coat pocket. I’ll open the door, retrieve the mail from the assortment of mailboxes on the left side of the entrance. My apartment number is seven, just like the mailbox. Following this, I’ll travel up the stairs to the first floor, eleven steps; I always start with my left and end with my left. At least I thought so, because a few days ago I tripped. Not because I’m clumsy, but because on that day, I ended the staircase with my right foot. Of course, I doubted myself, but it was enough to recheck the amount of steps in the staircase, and sure enough, one was missing. At this point I could’ve talked to my neighbours, but they weren’t the detail oriented kind, so I let it slide. It was a minor change, one I quickly adapted to. At least until I lost my wristwatch. The prior night I put it on my nightstand, and the following morning it was simply gone. It wasn’t impossible that I misplaced it, but I had a firm memory of placing it on the nightstand. Everything escalated today. I woke up, took a shower, shaved, brushed my teeth, cut my nails on all nine fingers… Nine fingers, one of them had disappeared, with no trace, just healthy skin covering the barren knuckle. Not knowing who to call, I turned to my mother. My voice trembled as I explained what had happened. She went quiet for a few seconds,
before responding with worry in her words. She told me I was born with only nine fingers. I hung up. It was dark. I sat down trying to remember, had I simply forgotten? Was there something wrong with my mind? Only after minutes did I realise I was sitting in the dark, but it was daytime. My apartment didn’t have any windows anymore. Panic set in, this wasn’t in my head, they don’t even make windowless apartments. I tried to escape, but there was no door to flee through. I was trapped in a nicely decorated brick box that was my apartment. I called the police, they claimed my address didn’t exist. After they hung up, I would’ve called someone else, if my telephone wasn’t already gone. My computer is all that exists, and I am trying to write this story with the stumps that were once my hands. Only one middle finger left; a perfect “fuck you,” to myself. I’ll have to post while my computer still exists, but think about this: Have you lost anything recently, such as your favourite mug, maybe a blue pen? Something that just disappeared without a trace. That’s how it started for me too. Credit: Scott Saxon
Dispatch If you are an avid driver, then there's nothing worse than when that little arrow on your dashboard hits "E." It isn't until you realize this that your vehicle begins to cough and sputter. Despite stepping on the pedal as hard as you can, the car chokes its last belch and dies on the side of the road.
You slam your forehead on the top of the steering wheel, hard, almost out of punishing yourself for not stopping at a gas station sooner. You reach into your pocket and pull out your cell phone, only to be greeted by a message informing you about how bad the connection is here. After declaring yourself an idiot, you open the door and step out into the darkness. It's fascinating how different the roads appear at night. You ponder briefly on how you never noticed it before until you've seen it outside. With frustration, you walk to the back of your car and open the trunk. When you slam it, a shrill siren makes you jump. You then spin around and, with deep embarrassment, see a parked police car behind you, its lights on and engine running.
A feeling of elation washes over you as the friendly lights of the police car twirl on top of its hood. You take only a few steps forward before you realize how the figure inside the car isn't moving. You can't make out his features due to the blinding sensation of his lights, but you know that he's looking straight at you. You try your best to explain the situation to him, but the officer never exits the vehicle. He just continues to watch you as you become increasingly uncomfortable. The only logical thing to do is to step back into your car. You know that you can't go anywhere with it, but you can't decide whether he's here to help you or scare you. As politely as you can, you stroll back into the driver's seat and slam the door behind you, swiftly locking the doors as you enter. You see him in the reflection of your rearview mirror and sit motionlessly, waiting for his response. The figure still sits there, however. As you try your best not to focus on the lights surrounding him, their movements almost make you believe he shuffled in his seat. It'd been like this for a whole thirty seconds. Instinctively, you want to run away. Looking out into the pitch black night, you note how well you could disappear into the dark, but then quickly realize how easy it would be to get lost. You look up at your rearview mirror and are greeted to a silhouette of a figure standing in front of his car, lights shining all around in a glow that sucks all distinguishing features from his body. Panicking, you try to start the car, but nothing can bring it back to life. As you do so, your eyes are fixed on the figure in your mirror. Then, almost in a dream-like sense, the figure begins to push his body through the back of your car. He passes through the trunk without even moving the vehicle around, but you can't tell for certain as you rock the car in your feverish attempt to exit the vehicle. With his head barely visible poking through the cushions of the back seat, you fumble to unlock the doors. They jam, to your horror. You kick at the door, even throwing your weight against it, but you realize it's
too late. With incredible force, you are pulled into the backseat. Kicking and screaming is your only means of escaping its grasp. The last thing you see is a face in the rearview mirror. It's yours; your mouth is twisted into an expression of deep terror and your eyes, swelling and red, look back at you. You can't tell if you can see the face of the figure. Everything goes black before you get the chance to look. Written by MooseJuice
I've been trying to kill myself for 3 years by TheBigSp00k Gritting my teeth, I felt every vein in my body bursting with blood. The sound of my heartbeat was pounding in my ears as if amplified by headphones. Angrily, and for the 200th time, I put the gun to my head; resting the barrel in a waterfall of sweat that seemed to run endlessly down my temple. Drawing the hammer back, I exhaled dramatically with my lips parted as if I was blowing out a candle. "BANG!!" The smoking gun dropped to the floor and my eyes stayed fixated on the purple and blue blend of cheap carpet flooring of the shady motel room. Glued to the same square inch of fabric I've been staring at for longer than I could remember. Closing my eyes, I could feel the warm liquid running down my cheek bone and dripping off of the corner of my upper lip.... It was only sweat. I've been trying to kill myself for about 3 years now. Sound depressing? Try being unsuccessful 1,810...no 1,811 times. Any way you could imagine: knives, guns, jumping from buildings, you name it. Either nothing happens...like literally, NOTHING happens, or I just wake up alive and well. Fully intact. Whether I sever an arm, blow my brains out, cut my wrists, I just can't seem to die. It all started when I was 15. My mother never spoke of my father. I've brought it up a few times but she always managed to divert the subject. I don't even know if she even remembers how I was
conceived. As a child I was diagnosed with a disorder: congenital insensitivity to pain. This means that I cannot physically feel any pain. No matter what the circumstances are, I could have broken an arm and I wouldn't even notice unless I saw it in front of me. After this conclusion, I came to test my physical capabilities. My pain threshold was non existent, limitless. I'd get into all kinds of trouble with this knowledge. One day as a teen I made the wise choice of trying to scale this under construction high rise building, just to see if I could. About 5 stories up, my foot slipped which caused my to lose my grip on the infrastructure. Plummeting to my doom, I land hard, face down, on a pile of scrapped rebar. The I inch wide steel bar broke through my sternum and clean through my torso. As if it never happened I rose from the ground and removed the piece of steel from my chest. Without even a second to glance, I looked down at my entry wound to notice it was absolute gone. Not even a scar. Any normal human would've died upon impact or at least lay there, bleeding out. The impact it made on the rest of my life was monstrous. From then on I tested whether or not I was even capable of dying... It was impossible. I wish I never new this, I wish that right then and there my life would be over and I wouldn't have to experience this curse. I've yet to understand why I'm incapable of death. I've been stuck in this endless loop of mortality. Maybe I have some sort of purpose, maybe there are others like me. I started to do a lot of research online. There were a hand full of people who had a similar disorder to mine. None of them, however, stated that they could not die. My mother is very religious. I always wondered why she was so up tight, though. Once I spouted out to her that she needed to get laid and she only stated:
"I'm saving myself for marriage." I always found this funny cuz how in the world was I here, then? For a while I just thought maybe she was a born again Christian and refused to participate in those sinful acts ever again. As a child I would pass by my mothers room and hear her speaking in tongues. To me it all sounded like mindless gibberish but when I listen close enough, I can swear I hear her throwing around my name. I've always had this reoccurring dream. It would start with my mother in a white dress, holding hands with a man. I always thought this man may be my father. The odd thing about it is that he would have the body of a human, but from the neck up it would be the head of a reptile. This half snake man appeared in a lot of my dreams. Whenever he'd show his face I'd just get this funny feeling that I knew him. This morning I started using google to find any relevant dreams to mine or even explanations of who this man serpent is. I came across this religious article. It read about how the devil walks among us on earth. He is ready to bare his firstborn son, the antichrist. "When thy sins of the mortal world have came to overpower the remaining light. Lucifer, will embrace. The earth will break open and hellfire will rise from the ground" The hair on my neck was standing straight up. I proceeded to read with more persistence. "Our world as we know it will be ruled by demons. The manifestation of a demon in mortal form born into this realm is the only passage from their world to ours." My blood went cold. I proceeded to read his words carefully. The one part that stood out to me the most was: "Thy mother, a virgin, dedicated to Christ. She will carry the seed of the antichrist. Thy father, Lucifer, a serpent."
The Would-Be Killer by TitaniumLady The intent was there. I had known for a while that she had been cheating on me. A few weeks ago, my best friend had seen her out with another man. I didn’t believe him, not at first, but it’s hard to disregard infidelity when you’re shown photographs of your fiancée kissing a stranger. I was patient in my revenge. She needed to be removed, scrubbed out from the world like the cheating stain that she was. Yesterday evening presented the perfect opportunity. She came home from “work” complaining of fatigue, so I suggested that she run herself a nice hot bath. I waited ten minutes, more than enough time for her to pour a glass of wine, strip, and lower herself into the tub. I’ll never forget the way she looked when I knelt beside the bathtub. She was lounging back in the water, her pale hair sighing softly on top of the water and clinging shyly to her neck. She was holding a wine glass in one hand, blue-nailed fingers delicately encircling the slender glass stem. I’ll never forget the soft part of her lips as I clenched my own fist to her scalp and forced her head beneath the sweet-smelling water. In that moment, the world glittered. The wine glass flew from her hand, shattering into a glorious bloom of crystal shards against the floor. The wine coursed through the gaps between the tiles in webbed rivulets of thinning red. Beneath the pressure of my hands, I felt her begin to thrash wildly. Drops of water arced through the air, trailing warm kisses over the bare skin of my arms. Never before had the universe created such a frame of perfection.
However, the sublimity of it all began to fade with each passing second. You see, I had done a lot of reading on death by drowning. Experts say that it takes about two or three minutes for a drowning victim to lose consciousness, and about five for them to actually die. But five minutes in, she was still struggling just as avidly as she had when I had first pushed her under. The next five minutes were absolutely agonizing. As the high continued to diminish, she never stopped heaving against my weight. The glass had settled on the floor and the wine had fanned out as far as it could go, but the water kept flying as my hands struggled to wrestle her down. And then finally, I gave up. For a second after she sat up, we simply stared at each other. The glimmer in her eyes was unfathomable, while the fear in my own was probably overflowing. Then I ran. I’m at my best friend’s house right now. He doesn’t know that I tried to murder my girlfriend. He doesn’t know that she wouldn’t die. And he doesn’t know that I’m a dead man when she comes for me. After all, how can I hope to fight off somebody who can’t be killed?
They say it's my memory by Zchxz I remember my grandchildren. I do. Little Timmy came first and just started kindergarten this year. He had a large gap in his front teeth and loved stripes so much - his favorite animals were zebras and tigers. Emma, my daughter's daughter, preferred rolling around but had learned to walk. She still had a ton of her baby fat and her laugh, oh... Such a bundle of joy. But they're missing, and my children tell me they never existed. I've stopped yelling at them and the doctors since they're too strong for me and give me something that leaves me blacking out for at least a few hours. I refuse to quietly accept what's going on, and while they all keep trying to get me to understand my dementia I swear something else is going on. Last month I got a new doctor, who told me he's always been my doctor. He's young, well-trimmed and a little too perky for my liking. No one's ever really that happy, not all the time. He gave me square blue pills insisting I've been on them for years, but I know my pills are white and oblong. There's not a lot I can do about it in my condition, and all the other patients I've spoken to actually do have Alzheimer's or something worse. A week ago my son stopped visiting. My daughter told me she's an only child, that she's always been an only child. I asked her for photo albums to remember, using that generic boring old-person voice I can't stand. And every photo I've looked at, even the ones that used to be of only my son's family, are missing all the people I still
remember. I've asked why our family photo albums has pictures of landscapes, beaches, and houses with no people in it. But it's like talking to a wall spray painted with ignorance in the shape of a smile. No definitive answers, no explanations, and no matter the questions or evidence they keep telling me I'm the one with memory issues. Yesterday the doctor told me I never even had children at all. Utter bullshit, because my daughter left her purse in the room and I still have the albums. He says a nurse probably left her things here, and that a local volunteer brought the photos from my home. If he's covering something up I can't tell, and at this point there's no one left to help me investigate. They keep telling me to try and understand. To accept that my mind is failing. But it's not, because I remember everything clear as day. My round white pills. Little Tommy's smile. My daughters. And yet, even my reflection is missing today.
A Note Written on the Back of a Grocery Store Receipt by whoeverfightsmonster 23 dead. And that's only in the parking lot. This storm came out of nowhere, with lightning like nothing I've ever seen. It keeps striking, again and again. People are burning, convulsing, their shoes blown off. Things I never thought were flammable are on fire. The lightning isn't stopping. A woman ran out of the store just now. I drove toward her, thinking I could help. Stupid of me. If I'd opened the door, we'd both be dead. But, oh God, I never imagined the horrible things a human body does when it's fighting to survive. 24 dead now. I don't know what's happening. I went out for milk, came back to the car, and the radio was making loud screeching sounds. Then the lightning started. My phone's dead. The radio's just pops and crackles. I'm safe in my car, I think. I need to go home to check on my family. If I don't make it, please, whoever finds this note— My name is Mike Edwards. Tell my family I love them, and that I died trying to get back to them. I made it. I'm parked in my driveway.
I can see my kids in the front window of our house. They're only 20 feet away, but I can't help them. Going outside is impossible. Opening a window is suicide. The garage door doesn't work because there's no electricity. All we can do is wait. Storms don't last forever. It's not stopping. Everything's burning. There's smoke at the back of our house. The milk is warm. Not much room left to write (sorry about the receipt—it was all I could find). I'll make it short. I have a plan. I'll drive straight through the front window, get far enough inside so the lightning can't reach. I'll load my family into the car, and we'll drive. Somewhere without lightning. We'll live through this. I feel it more strongly than I've ever felt anything in my life. And when we're all together again, and my wife and children are safe, I'll write their names at the bottom of this note, as proof that we survived.
9,342 Dolls by NeonTempo Detective Hawson, veteran officer of the esteemed Metropolitan Police force, smiled at the small plastic baby on his desk. His working day was long done, his bag packed. Yet, as those around him left the poorly heated office for their marginally better heated homes, Hawson stayed behind, examining the unassuming plastic doll. The thing was in poor condition; worn by time with dark smudges across its face. Nothing anyone would consider special. However to Detective Hawson, incomparable sentimentalist that he was, the grubby doll shone with novel significance. You are not supposed to keep mementos from cases, regardless of how bizarre and interesting they were, but this was the one impropriety that Hawson allowed himself. Meredith in Evidence, who liked Hawson enough to indulge his vices, had picked the doll at random from some boxes holding almost ten thousand. Boxes labeled with the name "Lindsay Roscoe". Lindsay was a salon assistant, committed to a mental institution after biting off a strangers fingers. She'd fled the scene and a young Detective Hawson had been dispatched to the girl's registered address. That was where he found them. 9,324 plastic dolls spanning every crevice of a filthy bed-sit. Not long after they were collected, it became clear that each doll contained human hair. The girl swept up in the salon, and apparently used the cuttings to fashion makeshift voodoo dolls. Hawson smiled to himself, remembering how disturbed it had made him. Then a playful, sideways thought entered his mind. There was a simple way to test whether they worked.
Slowly, with the dumbest of grins upon his face, Hawson walked the doll over to his mobile, and mock dialed his office phone. He stopped smiling when his desk phone rang. Hawson stared at the receiver for what seemed like an age. It was a coincidence, he knew that, but there was something chilling about the timing, and how the phone wouldn't stop ringing. Hawson's hand shot out and snatched the receiver to his ear. "Hello?" "... ... Please..." A woman's crying voice answered. "H... How are you doing this?" Hawson threw the phone onto the desk and stood up. After a breathless, still moment, he burst from his office and ran down the corridor. Scarcely a minute later he erupted, panting into the small dark room at the back of Evidence. Pleading with Meredith to let him see the rest of the dolls. You see Detective Hawson was a sensible collector. He'd never take something unless the case was closed, and Meredith would never pass him a memento unless the evidence was no longer needed. "I'm sorry. You're too late." Said Meredith as she stood aside and walked back into Evidence. Hawson stood immobile. His eyes wide. His pupils pinlike in the light of the incinerator.
Disrepair by BoyWonder The scene: An idyllic houshold, with no peculiarities. The cast: A traditional nuclear family, living caricatures from a Norman Rockwell piece. The parents make small talk as they all eat a breakfast of bacon and eggs. The children hurriedly scarf down the meal, eager for school. The mother picks up the dishes and together they walk out the door to begin the day. Their footsteps make no noise as they walk on the black dirt where grass grew once upon a time. The father takes a whiff of the toxic, poisonous air and declares it is a fine day as he waves goodbye to his family and begins the trek to work. The brown and grey pollution that covers the sky shields the land from the scorching sun. The father whistles a tune as he carefully manuvers around the corpses and trash that litter the road. He decides to take the long way since there is yet another traffic jam made up of destroyed cars and fallen buildings. “Morning, Jim.” He says to no one in particular as he steps into the decrepit office, with holes in the celing and decomposing bodies at the desks. “Another day another dollar, eh?” He says for the 5,789th time to his cubicle neighbor. He types on the broken keyboard for a few hours, despite the monitor having a cracked, blank screen. Eventually he gathers up a few discarded papers, organizes them neatly, and picks up the suitcase he never opened, ready to go home. “See ya tomor-” He stops midsentence. Something…isn’t right.
“I…uh…morning, Jim…heh…wait. Uh…” Suddenly his head feels like someone has hammered a nail into it. He drops his empy suitcase and looks around. The father of two walks around the office, causing the rats to scurry away from their meal. “I don’t feel very good…something the wife cooked maybe? Hah…” A part of him knows there is no one here to talk to. Yet such thoughts feel …wrong. “Of course there’s people here! Richard, you sly dog, you were just over for poker night last week! Right?” No response of course. Yet he has heard his friend speak millions of times before. Why, he wonders, is Richard…and everyone so quiet today? “I need to go home and lie down maybe. Sorry, guys, don’t let my episodes distract you, haha…haha…haha.” He wanders out the doors and begins walking home, forgetting his rustic car. Glass crunches under his shoes in the very old parking lot. Head still hurting, he walks to the charred skeleton of a tree and sits aganist it. “What’s wrong with me…feels like everything is falling apart..” He runs his hand through his hair and feels something odd. It feels like an ant has bitten his finger. Expecting to see see a red bump, he instead sees a small blue wire protruding from his index finger.
Go right the fuck ahead then by Zchxz I didn't quite catch them red-handed, but honestly why the fuck else would my wife be in the shower while my best friend peruses the more expensive section of my wine cellar? It's a good thing though. I think if I hadn't gotten cut-off at the light over on 3rd I might have seen some things that would have led to some seriously heinous revenge. Likely death, for at least one of us. Instead, I like to think I took the whole thing pretty well. Obviously they denied everything, but I'm not a fucking retard. I can smell an affair a mile away after the years of frat-boy fucking my college girlfriend enjoyed behind my back. Dodged a bullet with that one. I'm glad to a certain extent that we don't have kids to tear apart with the drama - I've heard plenty of horror stories about custody battles. But of course I'm bitter about it, who wouldn't be? It's one thing to throw away an otherwise perfectly wonderful marriage, another thing altogether to have the two people you trust most stab you in the back with an emotionally-poisoned dagger. But again, I think I took it pretty well. Sure, I threw out a few death threats and strongly considered suicide a few times, but once I got us all to sit down and talk it all out I felt better about it. Who am I to stand in the way of true love? I filed the divorce papers as quickly as I could, paying for the expedition from our joint account. After that, I became ordained and performed the ceremony myself as both minister and witness. They both said I didn't have to do it, but I figured it might provide me with some semblance of closure.
There was quite a lot of crying involved. It was a very emotional wedding. I check in on them from time to time, make sure they're faithful to each other. Till death do them part and all. They still cry every time they see me - I think they still don't think I'm over the whole thing. And maybe I'm not, but making sure they remain together helps a bit. They've tried pulling apart several times now, but I stitched 'em up pretty good. I suppose they'll eventually get separated though, what with months of his cock rotting in the acid of her cunt. Once in a while I go down to extract the blood and urine, make sure she doesn't burst or anything like that. No clue what I'm gonna do now that she's pregnant, though.
My first house by An Anonymous This is a pretty long story of the scariest thing that ever happened to me in my life, I hope you guys never have an experience as bad as mine. I recently moved into a new house and now live alone. The house is near a small town, maybe 2 miles away. The house itself in the middle of a nicely wooded area in a smaller town, which is perfect for me, I love the serenity of the woods, being untainted by urban life. The idea of having a barn thrilled me, with all of the possibilities of what I could turn it into. My parents recently gave me this house as a graduation gift. The house was given to them by my grandparents, which is strange because we didn't live in this house growing up. In fact, my parents never mentioned it to me until I graduated college, admitting that they much preferred the city life over living in the middle of nowhere. My mother lived in the house briefly until she was around 7, when my grandparents decided to pack up and move one day. They never sold the house, they said there were too many memories and at the very least my parents could use it as a vacation home. They never did. The house was in a slight state of disrepair, however I couldn't care less. I was a homeowner! Mowing the lawn and clearing the branches was the easy part, the real work began within the house. Dusting old furniture, clearing cobwebs and throwing away old canned food. It took me about 2 weeks of cleaning until I decided it was sanitary enough to move into. I decided to take a few weeks to just relax, I was tired of partying and I didn't want to start searching for a job just yet. I spent my first
day at the house hiking near the creek, fishing on a small pond and meeting folks in town. That night however I was restless, there was no tv and I didn't have any books other than text books. I needed something to do after it got dark out, so I started exploring the house. In the attic to my surprise was filled with random furniture, toys and trinkets from my mothers childhood. I found baseballs cards, jump ropes, a little football helmet, action figures, a doll house, board games, ect. This was fascinating to me. I then found an antique dresser, which I found my mothers diary. Jackpot! I can read this at night until I fall asleep. Not this night however, I was tired and decided to go to sleep in my new bedroom in my beautiful new house. Sleep came fast, however I was woken by creaking from the stairs and attic. This was to be expected living in an old house, I was sure I'd get used to it. The next day I decided to check out the barn, I'd decided to turn it into a hobby lounge where I could do woodworking or whatever my wavering enthusiasms desired. The barn was in fact in pristine condition, aside from a pile of cigarette butts in the corner and a musky smell which hung in the air. The smell was the only thing that bothered me, I am a nonsmoker I hate cigarettes, the stench they give off makes me want to vomit. There was a very unstable looking ladder leading up to the loft, which I decided not to use, the last thing I needed was to break my neck in the middle of nowhere. There didn't appear to be anything up there aside from some hay creeping over the edge. After picking up the butts, I realized that I had more free time than I planned, since I assumed I would spend the day cleaning the barn. I decided to explore the attic more, as I could not find my car keys to drive to town. Oddly enough I swore that I left them on the kitchen table next to my wallet, as this is what I have always done with any set of car keys I own. Asides from an old mirror and a pile of old cloths, I couldn't find anything of much interest. As I left I noticed that there were less dolls than I had remembered, and I could swear one of them was not there before. Whatever, I decided to just read my mothers diary.
Lying in my bed I read through the diary, laughing at the entries of the diary. Several of them mentioned her older brother "James" throwing tantrums for no apparent reason, punching himself in the face or trying to fling his baseball bat into a tree. My mother must have had a very overactive imagination as a child, she had no siblings and grew up a single child. I marked the page I was on and went downstairs to get a snack, growing more annoyed by the constant creaking in the attic. I decided to go to town the next morning and find someone who could fix it. Remembering I had lost my keys, I decided to retrace my steps so I could leave for town early in the morning. The sun was beginning to set, a dull orange peaking over the horizon, so I decided to check the barn before it became to dark to see. I brought a flashlight just in case it did become too dark. I couldn't find my keys, however I did find a few cigarette butts in the corner which I had apparently missed from earlier. I set down the flashlight and scooped them up and threw them away. After an unsuccessful search, I glanced up towards the loft and noticed there was a doll propped up against the wall. I could have sworn the doll was in the attic yesterday, so against my better judgment I climbed the rickety ladder to the loft. There was nothing up here aside from from an old hammer, the doll and a pile of hay. I picked up the doll and climbed down and walked towards my house. When I entered the front door I noticed my keys on the ground, only the car ignition key was mangled and bent. Annoyed that I somehow must have stepped on the key to bend it, I decided to go to bed and walk to town in the morning. Before going to sleep I cracked open my mothers old diary to read. She was surprisingly articulate for a 7 year old, and I became so entranced by the story that the old house's creaking no longer bothered me. The diary's entries became disturbing however. "James" began cutting himself in front of the family and starting fires, the story was
becoming very morbid for a 7 year old's imagination. The most disturbing entry, James had tried to kill my grandfather with a knife and ran off into the woods after stabbing him, my mother bearing witness to the entire scene. After returning from the hospital, James had not returned. Dead animals started appearing outside the front door and messages were being written on the house with blood. She wrote how her grandparents have been whispering among themselves for a week now and no longer allowing her out of the house alone. She also frequently wrote how much she missed James. The diary ended here, with no mention of when or why they moved, it just stopped. My heart was racing, my pupils dilated and my heavy breathing silent. I didn't want to stay here anymore, true or not the diary chilled me to the bone. I was aware of everything due to my adrenaline rush, the wind blowing outside and every little creak the house made. Wait, the house was no longer creaking, it was dead silent. I pushed my bed against the door barricading myself in the room. I moved my dresser in front of the window, knocking over my lamp and only light source. The blanket of darkness covered the room, the only source of light coming from the tiny keyhole in the door. Determined to stay awake until sunrise, I sat with my back against the wall next to the bed. The floor began creaking down the hallway, stopping right outside my door and then stopping. The light seeping in through the keyhole went dark, I tried to listen over the deafening sound of air entering and exiting my lungs, what was worse was my the constant thumping of blood entering and leaving my heart. A few minutes after soul crushing fear, light returned through the keyhole followed by more creaking. I refused to look through the keyhole to confirm my worst fear. After what seemed like days, morning finally came. When light creeped around my dresser blocking the window, I moved it and waited until sunlight saturated the whole forest. Cautiously I moved my bed and bolted down the stairs outside. I didn't need a car, I was
going to run to town. I ran into the barn to quickly grab my heavy mag flashlight as a blunt weapon if I needed it. I plucked it from the pile of cigarettes it was hiding under and ran down the dirt path into town. I called my parents to come and pick me up from a greasy spoon diner, making sure to sit in a booth which was against a wall and not a window. Aftermath: I did call the police who insisted they found nothing out of the ordinary and both my mother and grandparents deny any existence of a family member named James. I returned to the house, with several friends and my parents mind you, to retrieve my belongings, I was not living in this damned house. There were blank pages from the diary stacked nicely on the nightstand, however we couldn't find the diary no matter how much we searched. My mother vehemently denied ever having one and scolded me for smoking in the barn and littering the ground with cigarette butts and having such an "active imagination". -Thunderegg
By the Light of the Firefly by An Anonymous When I was a boy, I lived with my mother in an old house in Georgia. It was small, and most parts of it were fairly worn, but the asking price was cheap and we needed a home. It wasn't all bad though, the place had a pretty large backyard and acres of woodland behind it. On one particularly hot summer day, I was sitting inside playing with my dog, Marley, as my mother was leaving for work and discussing the usual guidelines to the babysitter. "I'll be back around eleven," I remember her saying, "make sure he's in bed by ten." The babysitter nodded and smiled as my mother called goodbye to me and shut the door. Now it was just me, Marley, and the babysitter from down the street. "I'm going to run a couple of errands," said the babysitter, to which I nodded without looking up. I suppose here is where I mention this babysitter was an asshole. After my mother would leave for work she would politely excuse herself from the house, returning just in time to collect her pay. I never complained however, I wasn't ever afraid of being alone and what kid doesn't like having no rules for a while? I spent most of the day playing Gameboy or chasing Marley around the house. When the sun fell, it came time for my favorite summer activity: catching fireflies. I couldn't tell you why, but I was just so fascinated by fireflies and liked to keep them as pets. I grabbed an old mason jar from under the sink and left through the squeaky screen door to the back porch, Marley following at my heels. I was greeted by the overwhelming sound of insects buzzing all around the backyard. I walked down the wooden steps of the deck and began my search for fireflies. I looked for the faint glowing lights for what felt like hours, shuffling through the grass in the
warm night air. Suddenly, I saw it; the biggest firefly I had ever seen, blinking around the old rusted chain-link fence in the very back. With jar in hand I whipped after it, Marley barking after me. I had soon made it to the fence when the firefly began to retreat into the woods. I wasn't about to go back empty handed so I climbed over the fence with a bit of a struggle and into the woods. Marley whined on the other side as I walked past old, mossy trunks, leaves crunching under my feet as I went, following the glowing yellow light. The woods felt like I had stepped into another world, the trees were enormously tall and the leaves atop shrouded any moonlight from entering. Just as I was beginning to feel I had gone too far, I looked back to find the shining porch lights of my house but I could not see any trace of them; I had been engulfed by the woods. I couldn't hear the buzzing of insects anymore, it was silent now. I looked forward again to find the firefly drawing closer. I needed to catch it now, if only to use it as a light to find my way back. I swooped at it with my jar and caught air. Startled, the firefly began to float upwards, blinking its yellow light as it went. It kept going higher and higher out of my reach and I followed it with my eyes. It drifted up the high timbers and suddenly I saw, I saw everything. Bodies, hundreds of twisted bodies; men and women, boys and girls, strung up like puppets in the branches, illuminated only by the light of the firefly. I couldn't move, paralyzed by fear. I could hear everything; the creaking of the ropes, the moaning of the old trees, and the footsteps close by. I ducked behind a tree, trying to quiet my harsh gasping. I had gone too far, I thought, and now I was going to live up there as another puppet. I didn't know what to do, whether to run or wait,
but the footsteps were growing closer. It knows I'm here, I thought, there was no way it couldn't have heard me coming. Mustering all my courage, I shoved off from the tree and bolted towards the direction I came, whipping up leaves as I went. I could hear it giving chase behind me, its feet pounding the earth rhythmically as it went. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, I couldn't stop the tears from streaming as the wind slapped against my face. I hadn't even said goodbye to my mother when she left. As I had hoped, the lights of the back porch were shining through the dark ahead of me. I could hear Marley barking and I knew I would soon meet the old rusty fence. I remember thinking that climbing the fence would slow me down but it was the only way. The trembling earth was growing closer and the tip of my shoe caught a root and I slipped, landing on my stomach. I fumbled over onto my back and began kicking away from the faint outline getting closer. I gripped my mason jar and threw it as hard as I could into the black wood. I heard a thud and got to my feet. I met the fence and vaulted into my backyard. I screamed for my dog and we both dashed up the deck and inside, locking the door as we rushed through. I sprinted upstairs to my room and took Marley with me, locking the door and pushing a chair against it. I collapsed onto my bed with the lights on, my mind racing. I checked the clock; 10:33. Relief washed over me, I was safe now, and soon mom would be home. Perhaps it was the adrenaline leaving my body because I suddenly grew very tired. I didn't want to sleep but I couldn't fight it. I passed out on my bed with the lights on and Marley by my side. I awoke suddenly in the night to a pitch black room. The covers were over me so I had guessed mom had gotten back and checked in on me. I was sweating under the warm comforter and turned on my other side. That was when I saw it.
A face, inches away from my own, with bone white skin stretched tightly over its skull. Its tall, thin figure was hunched and bent over my bed. Its lidless eyes watched me, studying me. I wanted to recoil at the sight of it but I couldn't move. Suddenly everything changed. I woke up gasping, the lights were on in my room and the chair was still pushed against the door. Marley lifted his head and looked at me. My eyes drifted to the clock; 10:46. I heard the doorbell ring and I ran downstairs to the front door, wrenching it open and falling into my mother's arms, crying... And so now here I sit, ten years later to the day, in a lobby crowded with people because I can't stand to be alone. I remember my mother traveling into the woods the next day against my wishes, only returning to say she didn't see anything. My brain had played tricks on me in the dead of night, she said. I didn't believe it at the time and I don't now. There isn't a night that goes by that I don't think about it; that one night I'll wake up to see that horrible face again and this time it won't be a dream. What scares me most is the thought that on that warm summer night, ten years ago, I was the one that got away, the pet it didn't get to keep.
I still don't know what to think. by Earthling-2822 First, let me tell you about my grandfather. I literally just met him a few days ago- He's my dad's wife's dad, and as she's the new stepmom, this is the first time we're visiting her family. My new grandfather isn't too old, (I think)- somewhere around fifty or so, maybe. He's sort of grumpy, but he's alright. He's got a pretty kickass beard. He's got something wrong with him. Not entirely sure what, but due to poor circulation, he can barely walk. His feet are blue, and he has to wear slippers all the time, and he can barely walk 10-15 steps. He's got sores and lesions all over his legs and feet, plus one huge open sore on the back of his hand. He lives downstairs in the basement because... well, I don't know, really. I think he might be embarrassed, having to sit around all day and not move while we all pass him by. The doctors refuse to help him until he stops smoking, and he doesn't think he can stop after smoking for his entire life. The following occurred, around 3:30-4:00 am this morning. I was sitting here on Reddit as I'm usually doing around that time, when out of the dead silence I begin to hear a faint buzzing noise. At first I ignore it- probably just my imagination. But, it gets louder, so I went to investigate. I opened my door and crept toward the source of the noise; down the hall, through the living room. Peering around the corner, I see that the basement door is open, the light is on, and my grandfather is standing at the top of the stairs. He had his head thrown back, mouth open wide, and the buzzing noise was coming from inside his throat. It was intense- it sounded like a really really large bee. I asked what was wrong, (thoroughly creeped out at this point), but he didn't seem to hear me. I got a bit closer, trying to get his attention, when the buzzing abruptly
stopped. He lowered his head and looked directly into my eyes. Then, he grinned the largest grin I've ever seen in my entire life. It seemed to extend past the boundaries of his face by a good three inches. He twitched once, and took an enormous breath. When he spoke, it wasn't in his normal voice, but the buzzing sound, just formed into words. Still staring me dead in the eyes, he growled "We were never meant for this place... and neither were you". Then, he threw himself backward down the stairs. I lunged forward to try and grab him by the shirt, but I missed- and even if I had caught him, he probably would have just taken me with him. He is large... I am not. The fall broke his neck, and he died.
The Basement by M59Gar I was home alone for the week, as my family had gone on vacation while I had to stay and work. It was around 2 AM, and I'd stayed up to watch a scary movie in the dark in my basement. I was intent on really scaring myself and seeing how far into terror I could really go - while still knowing I was safe in my own home. It was then that I heard pounding footsteps on the first floor. This was a common annoying occurrence when my family was home every time they passed through the front hallway, past the basement door, I heard their footsteps. This time, fear immediately shot through me at the sound. My reflex was to turn the television off immediately... the basement door was up a flight of steps and around a corner, so whoever it was would not have seen any light. I heard the basement door handle click and turn as I sat in absolute darkness. I moved slowly so as to be absolutely silent, and crawled behind our large television. As I passed it inch by inch, I noted with panic that its black screen still dimly glowed. I heard footsteps coming down the carpeted but creaky stairs. I froze in my hiding place, listening. For many long minutes, I heard nothing. Had the intruder seen the television's afterglow, or had it faded in time? Was he standing in the pitch dark listening for me? I seemed to lie there in total silence for an interminably long time. My panic began to fade, and I began to think more clearly. Had I really heard an intruder? Could someone possibly be standing there in silence for so long without making any noise? The basement was so exceedingly quiet that the silence itself began to hurt my ears. Could the unknown person really avoid any noise from shuffling or breathing or anything else? If there was an intruder, he was still in the basement, because the creaky stairs were incredibly loud, the door handle clicked, and he wouldn't know to mask his footsteps on the first floor so that they couldn't be heard down
here... I began counting in my head trying to pass the time, as drool fell from my mouth onto the carpet - I didn't dare risk the sound of swallowing. I reached sixty seconds once, twice... thirty times... sixty times... by now my fear had faded and I was more confused than anything. I estimated I'd been crouched in the absolute black for almost two hours, and had still heard nothing. If there was an intruder, none of this made sense... finally, I decided I'd have to make a move. If I did nothing, eventually the sun would come up, and shine in through the small basement windows... and, worse, I began to smell something horrible and cloying. Slowly, ever so slowly, I began inching my way towards the stairs by way of the walls. If someone was standing there in the dark, I should be able to go around them and then make a break up the stairs... meanwhile, the horrible odor grew stronger. Had something died down here in the night? No living person would smell like that... terrible images of some sort of corpse-monster listening for me in the dark erupted in my thoughts, and I moved as fast as I could without making a sound. Just as I finally approached the stairs, there was an enormous clatter, as of something falling or collapsing on the floor. It was at that moment I leapt forward and crashed up the stairs, running out through the open basement door and my wide-open front door. Now certain that someone was in the house, I called the police from my cellphone and watched my house from afar. The police came, checked inside the house, and then grimly came back out to question me. They'd found a body in the house - my elderly neighbor, who seemed to have died of a heart attack. Their belief was that I must have left the front door unlocked, and he must have wandered in my house while dying, looking for help. At first, I felt horrible, thinking that I had sat there in the dark while the old man literally died a few feet away. Then it occurred to me - what the hell was that loud noise of
things falling, that last prompted me to bolt up the stairs and out of the house? I asked the police and they confirmed - the back door of my house had been left open as well, near a single bare footprint in the mud. Somehow, for some reason I'll never know, there was someone else in that basement with us... silent, waiting, and listening in the dark over the fresh corpse of an old man.
Don't ever turn it off... never. by trisight I haven't spoken about this before now and I fear that I have lost much of my sanity as a result. The years of endless inquisition have not been kind to me as well as the constant yearning of my heart for the same answers that they were seeking. Back in 2000 my family and I moved up to Indianapolis, Indiana. I am a software programmer and had moved up there for work. It was at the end of the dot com bubble and I thought I was pretty lucky to find a good paying gig for someone that was self taught and had only 3 years of actual on the job programming experience. My wife and I had only been married for three years and had just received our second child less than a year before the move. I decided it would be best for me to move up and find us a place to live by myself first and then send for them. I moved into a one bedroom apartment in Riley Towers. I thought it was funny that I had moved from Alabama and was now living on Alabama Street in the middle of downtown Indianapolis. My apartment was a very cozy apartment on the 13th floor in one of the smaller sections of the apartment complex. There were two large towers and connected to one of them was a much wider complex that wasn't as tall. I lived in there. For the most part, things were very beautiful. But beauty isn't the thing that I remember the most. There were no washer/dryer connections in the apartment, but there was a very large laundry mat in the basement of the towers. The basement also was used as extra storage for the residents. When you exited the elevators you would get an instant chill up your spine that something wasn't right here. I tried to get my laundry done as quickly as possible but having never lived in a big city before, I was nervous to leave my clothes in the machines and leave to go back upstairs; so I would sit and wait.
The room where the laundry machines was fairly large and at the end of the long room was an opening to the storage. There was no door, just a large hole big enough for a set of double doors. It was very dark and very menacing looking. I knew when my wife and children arrived in a few months that we would most likely just move into one of the larger apartments and we would need one of these storage rooms so I decided to walk into the room one day to check them out. It was a large room that had a warehouse feeling to it. The ground was a solid cement base and the storage areas were large cages made out of fence like materials, only heavier and not as easy to break into. With the clanking of the machines in the other room, the dim lighting, and all the possessions it reminded me of a scene out of "Hellraiser", but without the blood. Walking through the area, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I felt something brush against me from behind. I turned around to see a water pipe running up through the middle of the floor. It wasn't uncommon and really wasn't out of place, but it wasn't close enough for me to have brushed against it. There was nothing else near, however. I walked closer to the pipe and noticed that it was dripping water from a small spigot sticking out. It wasn't a slow drip, but rather the type of fast dripping that occurs when a child can't turn the water off. I reached for the spigot to turn the water off only to have the chill come up my spine again and heard someone with a real deep voice say, "Don't turn that off." Frightened, I turned around to see what appeared to be an older man clothed in rags. He appeared to be homeless and this struck me as odd considering you had to go through security check points to get into the building. "Don't ever turn it off.... never," he said in a stern way. His face was wrinkled up, but I don't remember much about him. The shock of being turned around to the sound of someone that wasn't there had me in a state of fear and almost laughing as I replied, "You almost gave me a heart attack". I had bent over grabbing my heart in a
mocking sort of way. When I looked up the man wasn't there but I heard him walking towards the elevator. I ran to catch him to see what he meant but he was on the elevator and gone before I could catch him. Three months later, I moved my wife and kids up and we lived in a two bedroom apartment. I told her the story of the old man and how living on the 13th floor had creeped me out (we were now on the fourth floor). She laughed at how silly it all sounded coming from me, someone that isn't superstitious or even believed in any type of ghosts but yet I was still nervous about small, dark places. One evening she went to wash our clothes. I had given the children a bath and put them to bed while she was busy doing the laundry. After watching some television I began to get nervous that my wife hadn't returned. I waited around a bit longer and when I could no longer hold out I decided to scoop the children up and put them into their stroller so we could go down to the basement and check on their mother. I will never forget something that I originally passed off as a mistake of mine. When I went to my bedroom to get the stroller, I heard the water on in the kids' bathroom. It wasn't a full stream and it wasn't dripping, it was a very light stream like the kind you would use to fill up a water pistol. Before getting the stroller I turned off the water figuring I hadn't turned the knobs all the way after bathing the kids. I went down into the basement to see no one in the laundry. The machines were silent but sure enough a few of them contained our clothes. I gazed at the large, empty doorway leading to the storage area. I parked the stroller where I could see the kids and peaked inside of the room. There was no one around, no sounds, dead silence. It was then I noticed the pipe that had scared me previously. I noticed the water was off and near the puddle was a shoe print. Upon closer inspection, it was a small, petite shoe size.
Before I could get any closer, one of my children began to scream a shrill like someone had just hit one of them. I turned to see no one near by and rushed over to see what was the matter. Still no one, but my daughter was reaching into the air and screaming louder than I had ever heard before. I rushed the stroller back to the elevator and hurried over to the concierge desk and tried to explain what had happened. No video from the security cameras showed anyone entering or leaving the building during the time I had been waiting with the exception of a few people coming home late from work. The police were called. I had no family and had not made any friends yet and so I had no one to watch the children and go out to look for her. The police and the concierge promised they were going to scour the apartment complex and find her. There were no other ways out of the apartment complex that weren't visible on the security cameras and they felt confident she was still in the building. Somehow I managed to return to my apartment with my children. My hands shook as I opened my door not knowing how I would sleep that night without my wife being found. I closed the door and turned to take my children to their beds when I heard it again. The sound of the bath water running ever so gently and the low wailing moans of a young lady being tortured. My wife was never found. My children had to go and live with her sister. For 11 years I have not been able to sleep in a bedroom near a bathroom, because every night around 11pm the water turns on and the low moaning sounds commence. You can try to ignore the sounds, but you can't ignore the figure of your once beautiful wife standing at the foot of your bed soaked in water and blood with her face hanging from her skull. Don't ever turn the water off.... never.
Read Not narrated welll... stories go in hell!
The cornfield by dum-di-dum Some people say revenge is a dish best served cold, some people say revenge is only to be taken on those that truely deserve it, I say avoid it, avoid it at all costs. Short back story { I lived in the middle of nowhere and had a half hour walk to school every day passed loads of fields and down some long windy lanes. I was bullied badly by a girl called Sarah in school and one day when we were 12 we both got given detention for fighting after she humiliated me in front of the whole class. } By the time we'd left detention and started our walk home the sun had already started setting and the dark was closing in. We walked in silence except for the odd mumble of disapproval from Sarah, bitching at me for getting her detention. Already pissed off from the years of bullying, ready to crack from the fight earlier that day it didn't take much of her moaning to send me over the edge. As I noticed that we were walking past an old cornfield a plan formulated so quickly in my mind that I blurted out before I could stop myself, "did you see that?" "shut up freak, don't talk to me." "No seriously Sarah, look." She turned slowly to look at what I was pointing at, the cornfield was still, and she scoffed, "there's nothing there, shut up and keep walking or I'm going without you," Just as she turned away a small gust of wind moved the corn so it looked as if someone was moving through the field. "look, there's someone there." I knew she was starting to get pissed off with me,
"So what, it's probably just the farmer" "At this time of night, I don't think so. I think we should go and have a look." Sarah was getting exacerbated. She wanted to leave and I was losing her I could tell. I decided now was time to reel her in. "Fine you leave, but I'm going in to check and see what's going on. I understand if you're too scared..." I started to walk off, I felt her thinking it over, realising it was better to come with me than be left alone in the dark. She followed. I strolled boldly up to the field, my plan was simple. Get her into the field, hide from her and then jump out on her, just freak her out. Nice and easy. I'd done the hard part of getting her in there in the first place. She'd jump, get bitchy at me but it would make me feel a hell of a lot better. We walked into the field, the corn came to well above our heads and within a few seconds we were completely immersed, cut off from the rest of the world. I felt Sarah tense up almost immediately, I knew this would work well. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea," she was squirming now. "It'll be fine, unless it's ghosts or drug dealers or something." I smiled to myself in the dark knowing I was just feeding her fears. I waited until we were a few more feet in, then I slowed my pace letting her take the lead, before long I'd distanced myself enough to break away from her. I stopped walking trying to stay as silent as possible, it didn't take her long to realise I wasn't there any more. "Amy!?" she shouted, "Where the fuck are you?! Stop playing tricks. If you don't come back right now I'm going to leave you in here." I heard the fear in her voice, she was starting to crack, just a few more minutes and she'd be really bricking it. I had to stifle a laugh to stop from giving the game away. I realised I could step this game up and so bent down and picked
up a clod of dirt as quietly as I could. I launched it above the corn and if came down a few feet away rustling the branches as it did. The plan worked perfectly, I heard Sarah give a startled gasp. "Amy, fuck this shit I'm leaving now" I heard her make her way through the corn and thought I'd better make my move now before it's too late. I waited until she was close and readied myself. Any second now... "Ahhh!!!" I jumped out on her screaming as loud as I could but something wasn't right. No one was there. "What the fuck?" had I just been trolled by Sarah? I had to give her credit if she had, I mean I just didn't think she was that clever. As I stood there wondering what the hell had just happened I heard a blood curdling scream. There was no denying it, it was Sarah and she wasn't trolling. I shouted for her, ran in the direction of the scream but, nothing. It was too dark to see anything any more but I couldn't hear anything either. I fumbled my way through the field, hearing my own blood pumping in my ears. "Sarah" I whispered, something was telling me that shouting wasn't a good idea any more. I heard movement up ahead and stopped, I was about to run forward, sure that I'd found her when I heard a thud, then the laugh. Whatever I forget in life, that laugh will never be one of them. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, every muscle tensed. I knew that I needed to get away. I ran as fast and as quietly as I could away from that laugh. I didn't know where I was any more but it didn't matter any more as long as I wasn't there. It felt like forever but finally I broke through the corn and fell onto the concrete of the road. I'd come out exactly where we'd gone in, only now, there was just me. I ran for home, not stopping even though I couldn't breathe. I went straight to bed, ignoring the questions of my parents hoping
that waking up in the morning I'd go into class and there she'd be surrounded by all her friends laughing at me like always. 10pm the knock on the door, the questions started. 11pm the police arrived, more questions. 11:30pm the search started, a search that wouldn't end until 2 months later in August when the body of a young girl was found bound and mutilated in a corn field. Living with the guilt is something you never get used to.
The thing in the fields. by Snake973 When I was young, I lived on a farm in rural Oregon with my parents. I was the only child. We weren't a big commercial farm. Just a family-type thing. We had five cows, three horses, a small herd of goats, two dogs, and one chicken coop. We also had some Indian Runner ducks we kept mostly as pets. We didn't really make any money off the place, just enough to sustain the animals and a little extra for ourselves. Money enough to take a decent vacation every couple of years. Dad had his other job in town, an insurance agent. He was the only one around really, the town wasn't more than about 1,500 people. Mom gave horse-riding lessons as well. We weren't rich, but we were comfortable. It was really an easy life (or at least it could have been a lot worse), I went to school, Dad went to work, Mom took care of the animals, then we all had dinner together every night, and I would go to bed while Mom and Dad had a beer or two and watched the news. Sometimes at night I would hear things outside. Mostly just normal stuff. The cows or horses would get spooked by a coyote or something, or I would hear the dogs chasing a rabbit, barking their heads off. Every once in a great while we would find a chicken dead. Dad would always tell me about it but never let me see the body, although I asked frequently. He would keep Mom and I inside until he had gone out, did whatever he did with the body, throw sawdust over any blood, and then life would go on as normal. I assumed it was foxes, as I had seen a couple of them out in the pasture over the years, slinking around back and forth through the grass. The summer when I was ten years old, I remember helping Mom change the bedding in the horse stalls, when we heard a huge racket going on outside. If you've never heard the sounds of a horse in pain, you don't want to, trust me. It sounds almost like a person
screaming. Well that's what we heard, and one of our horses, the palamino, came running into the barn with a wound on it's left thigh. Four long marks, like claw marks, ran across it's body for about a foot. It had blood running down it's leg, and was limping. I was so scared by the sight of that much blood that Mom locked the horse in a stall and made me go inside with one of the dogs. She told me to lock the door and stay inside until she came in to get me. I did. Eventually Mom came inside and told me that the horse had hurt itself on the barbed wire that ran the perimeter of the pasture, we owned more land beyond that, but it was mostly forested. I guess I believed her at the time, but at dinner that night I noticed Dad was being particularly quiet and Mom was talking a lot more than she normally did. She was being really animated, and I noticed that Dad had gotten his rifle out and set it by the back door. Usually he only did that when the coyotes had been acting up. That night I went to bed as normal, but I had trouble falling asleep. I turned on my desk lamp and decided to read comic books until I got tired. I have a very vivid memory of reading Uncanny XMen and hearing the back door open. Looking out, I could see my Dad by the porch light, lighting a cigarette and holding his rifle under his arm. He started walking over to the driveway and then turned to follow the fence line. I couldn't sleep until I knew Dad was back safe. I kept coming downstairs with the excuse of getting water to see if Dad was back in the house yet, and each time all I saw was Mom sitting on the couch in the living room, staring at a blank TV screen and looking worried, sighing occasionally. Eventually, about 4 in the morning, I think, Dad did come back, and I was so tired and relieved that I fell asleep as soon as I knew he was home. He never told me what he did that night, but I never thought to ask. Two months later I was back in school. It rains a LOT in Oregon in the fall, and this day was no different. All I could hear from my bedroom was rain hitting the ground and the aluminum roof of the chicken coop. There was light thunder in the distance, but it was
slowly getting closer. I thought I had heard a coyote yapping out around the garage, or it could have been one of the dogs. I looked out, straining my eyes to see whatever there may have been. In a brief and distant lightning flash I saw something. It looked almost like a person, but hunched over, and with a long torso. It was tall, taller than Dad, who was a good six foot four, at least. I just barely caught a glimpse of it on the near side of the garage, then the light faded and I didn't see it again that night. There was another dead chicken the next morning. The third in just as many weeks. I told Dad what I had seen the previous night. The color went out of his cheeks momentarily, until he told that the storm must have been playing tricks on me. I accepted that. Four months after that we lost a cow. It was in the middle of the night, and we all woke up at the same time. There was a lot of noise in the pasture, but only briefly. The cry of a dying animal, and a primitive, guttural yell that I had never heard before. Dad rushed up to my room, I could hear him running up the stairs to my room. He had his rifle in hand, and opened my door. He saw I was awake and told me to stay inside no matter what and try to go back to sleep. I don't think I have to say that sleep wasn't really an option any longer, but I did stay in my room, with a blanket held tight around my shoulders and staring out the window. Probably about ten minutes later I heard gunshots in the field. I don't know what he was shooting at, whether it was whatever had attacked the cow, or the cow itself, trying to put the animal out of it's misery. Dad rarely, if ever, talked about that night. I later found out that he had gotten to the cow only to find it ripped open on the ground, bleeding out from it's torso. The shots I heard were him shooting the cow in the head. It kept going like that. For years. A chicken or a duck here and there. Something bigger only very rarely. It sounds absurd but I almost came to think of it as commonplace. I only ever caught glimpses of the thing until what comes next. It terrified me. It happened in the middle of the day, over the course of a long
weekend when my parents had gone to Seattle to see my uncle, who was ill. It was on a Saturday afternoon, I was 17 years old. I was out in the barn putting out food for the horses and the dogs. The horses were running around out in the pasture and the dogs were asleep in the corner of one of the horse stalls. I heard something rustling in the tall grass outside in the pasture. The dogs looked around a little bit but didn't seem to mind. I assumed it was just one of the horses waiting for me to leave so they could eat. I kept going about what I was doing, and in several minutes I thought I heard breathing. I turned to look and it was standing in the door. Tall as hell even hunched over. The sun was streaming in behind it, lighting up all the dust in the air around it like some kind of sickly halo. It was looking at me. Considering me. Maybe it was trying to decide whether or not I was food. I remember swearing, turning, and running as fast as I could for the house, not even thinking. Panic causing my legs to move. It was behind me, not even breathing hard. I heard it's feet hitting the ground in a constant rhythm. I got to the house, opened the door, slammed it behind me and locked it as fast as I could. I tore through the house, locking every door, and drawing the blinds on every window. I could hear it snarling outside the back door. The dogs were barking at it, but they wouldn't try to attack the thing. It was too big and they knew it. It roared at the dogs and they ran off, probably to hide in the pasture. I went to my parent's bedroom and got Dad's rifle. I loaded it, set up a chair in the living room facing the back door, and waited. It started prowling around the house, I could hear it's feet crunching on the gravel of the driveway and the wooden planks of the back deck. It kept walking, back and forth. I thought about trying to look through a window to see it, but I was too scared. Eventually, after hours of hoping it would go away, the sun went down. I turned on all of the outside lights and went up to my room. I opened my window, with the rifle in my hands, hoping to be able to pick the
thing off from above. I saw it lurking just beyond the glow from the porchlight. It had long, sinewy arms, and walked on bent knee. It was by the chicken coop. Then it disappeared from view. I heard the chickens squaking and screeching. The thing reappeared with a dead, bloody chicken in it's hands. It bit off one of the wings with jaws that were dripping with slime and drool and let the dead bird drop to the ground at it's feet. Then it looked at me. It's eyes made contact with my eyes. It turned away again, back to the chickens. It came back with another bird, mutilated it in front of me, and dropped it. It went back again. And again. I should have taken a shot at it, but I was astounded and confused trying to figure out what it was doing. Then it hit me, it was a show of power. It was showing me that it was stronger than me. That it could do whatever it wanted to do because I couldn't stop it. At the same time I felt powerless and sickened. Powerless because what it was saying was true. If it was just that thing and me, I wouldn't stand a chance. Sickened because I realized what kind of intelligence it would need to be able to convey that message. The thought shook me out of my stupor and I remembered the rifle at my side. It was heading back to the chickens, and I decided that when it came back I would take my shot. It strode back to the porch. Almost arrogant, walking on bended knee with those arms so long that the chicken was nearly dragging on the ground. I raised the rifle up to my eye, and tried to steady myself. My heart was beating so hard I could see the rifle shaking ever so slightly in rhythm with each heart beat I could hear pounding in my own ears. It raised the body to it's mouth and just as it was about to put the chicken's head inside, I squeezed the trigger. The crack of the gun echoed in the now shattered quiet of the nighttime standoff and I heard it howl. A painful, loud, startled howl. I had hit it on the outside of the shoulder. It ran off into the night. I never saw it again. It was still out there, though. It still killed chickens, and
other things. More often than before. I'm writing all of this now because my parents died three weeks ago. They were killed in a collision with a drunk driver. He survived. They left me the farm, and I intend to live here with my own family. I'm 32 now, and I work for an Oregon Fish and Game office in Salem. I'm married to a wonderful woman named Stephanie. We have one son, Zachary, who is four years old. We are expecting a daughter in four months. I've come to the farmhouse alone today, I told Steph that I just wanted some time alone in my parent's house. To deal with some emotions. She was very understanding. I've come back to claim what is rightfully mine. I have Dad's rifle next to me on the table and it is almost dusk. I've also brought several portable halogen lights to set up around the house, and my own shotgun. I'm borrowing a handgun from Joe, a guy at Fish and Game who I work with. When I am done typing this account of my memories, I will print it out, and leave it on the dining room table, along with my wedding ring and my key to the safe deposit box where my will is kept. Everything is loaded and ready. Hopefully I will return here to collect these things and nobody will ever know I wrote this. Steph, in the event that you are the unfortunate soul to find this, which I'm terrified to think seems a likely outcome; the thought of you having to go on alone hurts me more than anything in this world ever can, know that I love you more than anything and I hope you understand that I am doing this to keep you safe. Zachary, I love you and can only hope you grow up to be a good, kindhearted, and strong man like your grandfather was. To my unborn daughter, if I don't live long enough to meet you, it will be the single greatest regret of my life. Tell the police, tell fish and game, call Joe, he's one of the few people who knows about this. Make this situation known. Eventually someone will kill it, even if it isn't me. Goodbye for now.
Ode To Slender-Man By Mike Upon the cloudy night he did come, The Slender-Man hunts for his prey. Alone, a walker roams the forest he does, and within seconds, gone they are away. The detectives they hunt for clues of the events of what did partake that night. Though nothing could be found at the scene of the crime, there had been nothing left in clear sight. So lo’, a thinker believes he knows what did happen that fateful night. He explains “It was the Slender-Man! and to kill it, on him you must shine a light!” So a brave soul he was, he went for a walk, in the same forest before the set of the sun. And what he saw there in the grueling shadows made him turn around and run. For deep in the dark, the Slender-Man feeds on the poor people that his takes. Blood and gore drops to the ground as the muscles and bones they break. The man runs from end to end, though unfortunately, it seems he is lost. He will be the next meal of Slender-Man as he crumbles down in exhaust. He awakes the next morning to the sound of birds as it seems he has survived till now. But Slender-Man, he never sleeps and nobody knows quite how. Away walks the man, in search of an exit, though none he finds that day. For Slender-Man had other plans for him,
so dost’, he took him away. Do not fret the Slender-Man as he hunts for certain prey. Though if you believe his existence is fake, chances are you will not again see the light of day.
Podcasts Few Of them are good... and the biggest population of podcasts... sucks!
Friends Forever by Anonymous Why do you continue to seek me out? You cannot find me if I do not will it. I am the night… and yet, you know I am here. I see you, shivering as I cross the room. You twitch when I slip under your bed. You can feel me. Do you feel my breath on the nape of your neck? Do you notice my nails on your flesh? Do you meet my eyes in the dark of night? Yes, you know I am here. I have always been here. Things were different when you were young, your little eyes could see me then. You would scream, and point at me, trying to hide behind the bars of your crib. You would continue to scream as your mother lifted you. It was only when she flipped the switch, and brought light into your pathetic world that I would leave. But it was no matter, for she would leave, she always left. And I would come back. You learnt quickly, bawling wasn’t going to drive me out. You decided to ignore me, to pretend I wasn’t there. Even as my greasy hair hung down over your face, and my breath rattled in your ear, still you ignored me. You became very good at it. I tried, of course, to make myself noticed. Small things at first; a misplaced shoe, toys rolling across the floor, an open window. But this was too easy for you to ignore, too simple for you to explain. Do you remember Fluff? That putrid creature you adored so much? The one that mommy said ran away? I assure you it was in no fit state to run when I was finished with it. Do you remember little Stacey? That precious child who shared her candy with you? You always paid attention to her, you never ignored her. I hated her, pity about the accident. How unfortunate for an innocent child to fall victim to a rabid dog. How I laughed when I heard your mother say that. A rabid dog! She had no face left, you know? I got carried away, the taste of blood, the shrill screams in my ear, it overwhelmed me. But still you ignored me.
You became more withdrawn after that, spending hours on your computer, shut up in your room. It was great at first, we were closer than ever. You stayed up late, and I watched over your shoulder as you trawled the internet, researching how best to end your wretched life. You tried once too, but the rope snapped, do you remember? Well I just couldn’t let you off that easy. I couldn’t let you skip out on me. I will decide when you go; your life is mine to take only when I decide. So little has changed since then. Sure, you got a job, you moved out, but I followed. You still sit in front of that screen every night, whittling away your time, numbing your senses, so you can drift off without suffering through those moments in between consciousness and sleep. Those moments where you catch a glimpse of me shuffling across the room, where you see the glint of my eyes and sense the chill in the room. How I savour those moments. You have forgotten me, yet you know I am here. You turn on the lights, in your bravest of moments, searching for me. But when you dissipate the dark, I too go with it, for I am the dark. I am the dark of your soul. I will never leave, at least not alone. Oh some night you will see me, in all my horrific majesty, but I will be the last thing you see.
Who Was Phone by Anonymous oK so basicaly its like this. youare at a friends house for like the night or watever and then you guys are making out on the couch (yeah!) and then like.. her dad calls on the phone and says “no i she likes it more if you use the other hand… yeah” and your alllike “oh dude your dad is trying to give me advice on how to diddle you” and then she’s like… “i don’t have a dad..” or whatever… but what!? WHO WAS PHONE? also: So ur with ur honey and yur making out wen the phone rigns. U anser it n the vioce is “wut r u doing wit my daughter?” U tell ur girl n she say “my dad is ded”. THEN WHO WAS PHONE?
Stalked Dear Reader, I’d like to start off by saying that I don’t have a clue why I’m writing this letter. Maybe I want this thing to be known to the world, or something. The events described in this letter happened about a month and a half ago, in Springdale, Kentucky, although I started writing this about two weeks ago. I just haven’t really had the guts to finish until what happened at the gas station. The story starts in late September, when my family went to go visit our relatives, who invited us up to celebrate one of them getting like 2,000 bucks in some scratch-off lottery thing. They live in this really hillbilly part of Springdale that people from Charleston, Shepherdstown and Duncanville (basically the least redneck parts of KY) like to call “Hicksville”. We lived in Duncanville. It is way down in a valley, and exactly like how everyone pictures it when they hear about it – nothing but crappy shacks and rustyass rebuilt trailers. The relatives we were visiting are absolutely weird. They all acted as if there was some sort of secret that they always had to keep hidden. Which they did, and that would be discovered later. So anyway, we’re up here in this godforsaken trailer, and it sucks. There’s like eight relatives, plus me, my dad, my mom, and my sister. About two hours in, my mom takes my cell phone so that I can “focus on the family time together” (which is crap, all we did the whole time was eat TV dinners and be forced to watch Nascar and shit). After like 6 hours of that, about ten minutes before we’re supposed to leave, it starts raining. We know how treacherous the roads can get down in the valley, so we decide to wait for the rain to die down.
Two hours later, it’s fucking dark as hell, ten o’clock, and there’s a flood warning for the area. I have my phone back by this time (no service, of course); I’m playing Tetris and Texas Hold’ Em and stuff. When suddenly I hear my dad start losing his mind in the next room. I walk over, and it turns out that they let slip that they’d buried their kid, Thomas, outside, and apparently were afraid the rain would wash up his body or some other crap. The kid was like six, he was attacked by a dog, and they never told the cops. Just fucking buried him like he was a family pet. My dad’s flipping out and rightfully so, because, you know, we live in the 21st century and all. So our relatives all say they’ll sort it all out in the morning. My parents tell me and my sister to stay in the same room as them during the night, and we do. None of us really suspected that they’d killed Thomas or anything, since they’re really peaceful. They didn’t even own any guns except for this one old rusty double-barrel shotgun they had on a mantle. Nevertheless, we were creeped the hell out, and intended to tell the cops in the morning once we got to town. So, it was like 3 in the morning. I couldn’t sleep. Power had gone out for the fifth time or so, and I’m not able to charge my dead phone. Worst part is, I could see Thomas’s little grave right outside the window. Little cross on it and everything, and I assumed the kid couldn’t have been buried deep at all since they were so worried about him just washing up out of the grave. So I was just fixated on it. I kept being drawn to look out the window. And then I saw the fucking worst thing in my life. Something was creeping through the trees toward the house. I stared at it for a while, but couldn’t get a good look at it since it was raining and the brush was so thick. For a few minutes I assumed it was two really pale horses, kind of ambling through the woods sideby-side. But then it walked into the moonlight, and I saw that it was all one thing, like some kind of human torso, but wider. It finally stepped into full view, and I saw it had something like six legs, kind of somewhere between a beetle’s legs and a horse’s legs. Two arms, right where someone would normally have them, but they were
about a half a foot longer than any normal man’s arms. It had a bald head, but the face looked like some sort of fucking bizarre blank kind of mask, this clenched-up, furrowed forehead and a nose that looked sort of like a raven’s beak. It didn’t have eyes, either…just the sockets where eyes would go. It looked like it had a human mouth, just a very large one. What still strikes me to this day is that it seemed to have a stinger on its back. Right between where a normal person would have shoulder blades. The thing moved sort of gracefully, and made these soft thump-thumping noises when it moved. It must’ve been like seven, or eight feet tall, but sounded like it weighed maybe only 100 pounds at most. It starts walking towards Thomas’s grave, and then I finally snap out of whatever trance I was in, and scream. My mom is the first to wake up, and I tell her to look out the window. She rushes over, and doesn’t really seem to understand what she’s looking at. After a minute, though, the thing bends down and starts pawing at the grave with its clawed hands. My dad and Jasper, my uncle, rush in, and Jasper fucking loses his shit. Screams like a little girl, runs back out of the room, yelling for his father screaming “It’s outside, it came and it’s outside!” I look back and see the thing is digging furiously at the ground, kicking up huge mounds of dirt. I hear the sound of feet running around the house. I think they were looking for the shotgun. The thing reaches into the hole and grabs up what I assume was Thomas’s body by the leg in one hand. The thing kind of gallops back into the woods, snapping all these branches and shit, and then that’s when we all hear it: A kid crying. The sound of a child sobbing and crying, from the direction that the thing took off in. So we left as soon as the rain let up, at like 5 am. I don’t even think we told anyone at the house, just drove straight back to Duncanville, only stopping for gas. No one said a word to each other. My family refuses to speak about what happened; I tried to bring it up once, just to make sure it was real. My dad told me to shut the fuck up, so I did. I started writing this
about three weeks after it happened, but just saved it in a school folder and left it alone. Never mentioned it to any of my friends or anything, just tried to erase it from my mind. It mostly worked, up until I went to work. See, I work at this gas station in Duncanville from 8 pm to 3 am. I work the register, keep the place clean, and take out the trash. When I was bringing the trash bags over to the back of the building for the dude in the morning to take care of, I heard what I had assumed to be some junkie kicking around in the dumpster. I yelled at whoever it was a couple of times to get the hell out before I called the cops. But as I walked towards the source of the noise. I suddenly heard those same footsteps. That soft thump-thump. Hooves or feet, or whatever the hell they were. I turned right around and went back into the store and hid behind the counter. I look over at the outside security monitor and see some kind of movement from just off screen, something huge casting a shadow and moving. I caught a glimpse of…I don’t know, an elbow or something. A pale limb, darting in and out of view. It had to have been the same thing. I waited for it to leave, and after a while, it did. I woke up behind the counter at 1 am this morning. I was in complete fear of the creature that was pursuing me. But it was gone now, and now I had nothing to fear. At least for the moment. That was when I heard the cry. The cry of a child. Then there was scratching at the back door. I ran back and made sure that the door was locked, which it was. Thankfully, the back door had no window on it, so I didn’t have to see what was there. I went back to the register and looked at the security cameras. A young boy, around the age of 6, was scratching on the door. His head leaned at a strange angle, and some of his flesh had fallen off. But what was even more disturbing about it was that he seemed to be growing extra limbs. And a strange pointed one was starting to jut from his back, right between the shoulder blades… I continued to cower behind the register until I fell asleep again.
I woke up this morning to my boss flipping out because I was asleep on his floor. He was probably thinking I was a drug addict or something. I took the whole week off to stay at home, waiting for the creature to come back. Every so often, it does. I sit and I wait for that creature to finally have me. I have photocopied this letter and mailed it to all the people that I hold dear. You may find me dead one day, if you don’t find a way to help me first. The power has been out at my house for a while, and the phones don’t work. I’m going to go outside for the first time in a long time to mail these. Hopefully, it isn’t waiting. I hear it now, and I may have just heard a window break. Maybe I won’t get this out for a while until it’s gone. Or maybe not at all, depending on whether or not the shadow looming over me is my imagination. Thump, thump. Credit To: Kyle
Fallout 3 Citadel: Crucified Knights (Video Game Creepypasta) by DRK Most people know the glitch to access the Citadel early in the game, but I found something rather intriguing this time. I had always experiences odd happenings while activating this glitch, but nothing like this. As usual, I went to the top of the rubble pile. I fell through and made my trek through the empty space to the Citadel entrance to get into the building. I noticed from a distance three large poles sticking up from the ground, but couldn't see them well enough until I got closer. I got closer to find 3 crosses. If you've ever played Fallout: New Vegas, you'll know what I'm talking about. They were similar to the crosses used by Caesar's legion, but clearly the work of raiders instead of a more organized group like the legion. The crosses were covered in gore and blood, organs hanging all over them. There were three people crucified: Elder Lyons, Star Paladin Cross, and Sarah Lyons. They were still alive but barely. I first talked to Sarah, I wrote down what she said. "What the hell have you done? You brought them right to us! It was a slaughter! The knights, the scribes, the initiates... all dead. You son of a bitch." Then she coughed up some blood and died. Then I went to Star Paladin Cross. "I can't believe you... working with raiders? Why? We were going to fix the wasteland... don't you remember what your father did for you? He was trying to help you... help us. And you do this? Say
goodbye to any hopes of civilization in this hell." She did the same animation as Sarah and died. Finally I went to Lyons... this was the worst. "James loved you. He abandoned all his work for you. He took you to the vault because you would be safer. I guess he didn't realize that in the end, the wasteland was the one made safer with you in the vault. There's nothing stopping the raiders from destroying the entire capital wasteland now... I hope you're happy." Instead of the death animation of the other two, his head exploded. It cut back to first person where three raiders attacked. Their health wouldn't go down, and the just fired away at my body, blowing away my limbs. A cutscene followed. It showed raiders breaking into Megaton first, with shots of the Sheriff, Moira, Walter, Billy, Jericho, and Moriarty being slaughtered followed by an aerial view of the town blowing up. Then it showed Tenpenny Tower. Raiders charged the doors, ran in and a violent scene ensued of all the residents being hacked to pieces with Chinese swords. Big Town was flooded with raiders. The buildings were on fire and the women were being raped. Underworld was cleared out with flamethrowers. Rivet City was crawling with raiders swimming up to the hull and climbing over the edges, cutting everyone apart and shooting their dead bodies. It faded to black. The narrator's voice came across saying the old phrase, "War... War never changes..." It took me back to the main menu. When I went to load my game, it started back over at the birth scene. The vault dweller was being born, but the conversation was slightly different. Instead of James asking whether it was a boy
or a girl, this conversation occurred. James: Kill it. Doctor: What? What the hell is wrong with you, James? James: I said kill it! It's gonna be the death of us all! Doctor: Get James out of here! James then grabs a scalpel and stabbed the baby to death, the screen slowly going dark. I turned the game off and on again, but all my saves were gone. It played normally after that... I have no idea what it was that triggered this, but it was terrifying to say the least.
Cats by RAGE-RAGE-RAGE At the beginning of this year I moved out of home for the first time. The apartment was small but clean, and well furnished with everything a student could want. The morning commute was long, but the low rent and apparent safeness of the neighborhood more than made up for the extra time it took to get to uni. My apartment was situated in a large, four story town house that had been sectioned into eight individual flats.Why they took me on as a tenant I never understood, as all of the other inhabitants were considerably older. I didn’t dwell on that though. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? My neighbor was a woman called Ethel. She was a widow who had lost her husband in some sort of industrial accident almost twenty years prior. She was lonely, and compensated with cats. Not one or two mind, she must have had at least thirty. I didn’t care . I am- well to be honest I was a cat person. They were always well fed and groomed, and friendly. Now that I think about it, almost oddly so. Cats, in general, are meant to be stand offish creatures. One moment you have their love and affection, the next they’ve torn up the side of your face for no apparent reason. These cats however, were never like that. Someone once told me to never trust a smiling cat. (Is that an alice in wonderland reference? I’m not sure) Anyway. Ethel was lovely. I wasn’t home much, but whenever I was she’d call and invite me to tea. Now I know what you’re thinking. Older woman who can’t move around so well, large amount of pets, her apartment= obvious pigsty. On the contrary. It was clean. Clean as a shiny new pin. Almost too clean. I always assumed she must have had a cleaner in a few times a week, with that many cats, vacuuming must have been hell.
She would babble on about Henry or something she’d done when she was “young and spry” and I’d entertain various cats, more interested in them than I was in her. Then I stopped hearing from her. I assumed she’d lost interest in me, but then the stench began. I thought one of the cats must have died somewhere out of sight, and called the landlord. However upon further inspection, the smell seemed to be coming from Ethel's apartment. I immediately thought the worst. I think we both knew she was dead. The landlord used his spare to open the door, and what I saw in that room will haunt me forever. There were cats everywhere. On the floor, on the sofa, on the table, on top of the television, on plant pots, on her bookshelf and the windowsill. That in itself wasn’t odd. She was a cat lady, of course they would be everywhere. It was how they were stood that got to me. And by stood, I mean stood. All of them, on their hind legs, blankly staring towards Ethel's room, their front paws limply hanging at their sides. The landlord and I didn’t want to go inside, but we had to. We had to find Ethel, confirm our suspicions if you will. Walking through her lounge and down the long, narrow hall was the most awful yet fascinating minute of my life. We found her as we knew we would. Not willing to spend anymore time with corpse we exited the apartment and called the police. I remember when I locked the door, they finally moved. They turned, slowly, to look at me. Unblinking, dazed, they stood and stared. I closed the door as firmly as I could without making a sound. Somehow I knew they wouldn’t like that. When the police arrived all of the cats were gone. They must have
slipped out of a window or something. I gave my statement but for some reason left out the part about the cats. The whole thing felt so surreal, even though I was certain it happened, I knew they wouldn’t believe me. The officer in charge of the case was perplexed as to how her body came to be in her bedroom, and questioned myself and my landlord as to whether we had moved her. I think when he saw the genuine shock on both our faces he realized we didn’t know. All evidence indicated she fell in the kitchen and broke her hip, accidentally impaling herself with a small kitchen knife when she did so. She died on that linoleum floor, so how she wound up in the bedroom remains a mystery. To some at least. After this incident I decided to move back in with my mom,and honestly I don’t think I ever would have written this if it hadn’t happened. Yesterday was when my cat started standing.
Reality is Creepier than Fiction by WontThinkStraight Reality can be creepier than fiction. What’s truly terrifying aren’t the things that go bump in the night, but the macabre twists of fate in life. Especially when they get more horrifying the deeper you pry into them. Such as the story of old Aunt Mary. Mary wasn’t my aunt, but a friend of mine’s. He’s told me this story since I’ve shared my own childhood tale of Gurgles Bugman. As it’s a very personal family matter, the names have been changed to protect their privacy. Old Aunt Mary was the eldest of four children. She was unmarried for the first 40-odd years of her life, so she was always spoiling her nieces and nephews with indulgent gifts. She was everyone’s favorite aunt. However, deep down, she was very lonely. Always being the spinster whilst everyone around her got married with children took a mental toll on her. When both her parents eventually died, they left a sprawling house for her inheritance. But the void in her life became as cavernous as the empty rooms of her mansion. Shortly after her 46th birthday, she surprised everyone by announcing her sudden wedding to Stanley, a man she’d known for only two months. It was clear though, they were deeply in love with each other. He was only slightly younger – 39 years old – but as charming, fit and
generous a soul as Mary was. Whilst no one knew much about Stanley, they all loved and welcomed him to the family. They were also secretly relieved that Mary had found happiness after all those years of solitude. A month after the wedding, they took a honeymoon of a lifetime, spending a year to travel across the world. Every few weeks a postcard would arrive from various exotic locations exclaiming how much fun they were having. Everything seemed perfect until the couple returned from their trip. Living together at the mansion, Mary started to change. She stopped sleeping in the same bed as Stanley, then insisted that they have separate rooms. Before long, she was claiming to hear strange noises throughout the house: her name being called out during the night, furious scratching sounds echoing in the hallways, or mournful wails that seemed to come from the walls themselves. The more Stanley tried to comfort her, the more terrified she became. She would yell and scream at him to stay away, and to not touch her. She would spend days barricading herself up in a room crying and babbling, slowly going insane from the filth that would accumulate and the mental isolation. Eventually, the family got her to a psychiatrist, who diagnosed her with a type of paranoid schizophrenia known as Capgras Syndrome. It's a rare condition where the victim believes that someone close has been replaced with an identical imposter. She claimed that Stanley was not her husband – but something that looked, acted and pretended to be Stanley. Her family was faced with the difficult choice of either committing Mary to a mental institution to get the care she needed, or have her sedated and looked after at home. They chose to keep her sedated. Throughout all this time, Stanley was clearly distraught, but still loved Mary with all his heart. He never wavered in caring for her at the bedside, feeding her and talking to her as a loving husband. Over the following year the family spent a lot of time getting to know
Stanley better as they took turns caring for Mary, and felt incredibly fortunate that he was around. So it was a total shock when they arrived at the house one day to be greeted by a squad of police cars. The front door was plastered with police tape, and they weren’t allowed to enter. After proving that they were related to the occupants, the officer in charge relayed what happened. That morning, Aunt Mary’s body was found at the base of an ocean cliff about a half hour’s drive away. A passing jogger had seen her car drive right up to the edge of the cliff, and a woman pulling a body from the back of the car. After calling the police, he then witnessed Mary stabbing a male body several times with a large kitchen knife. She then rolled the body off the cliff into the waters below, and started to laugh uncontrollably for minutes on end. When the police arrived, she had simply turned and smiled, then jumped off the cliff to her death. They managed to recover her body, but no trace of Stanley’s was found. In all likelihood it was already washed out to sea. The licence plate of the car led them back to the house, where the investigation was now focused. They found some spat-out medication near Mary’s bed, and a broken lamp on the floor with blood splatter on the walls. Aunt Mary had pretended to take her pills, then knocked Stanley out with the bedside lamp while his head was turned. She then had dragged the unconscious and bleeding body to the kitchen where she stabbed Stanley with a knife, before dragging him to the car and driving to the cliff. However, it was what they found next that puts a chill through my bones. In searching the house that day, the police uncovered a secret cellar under a large rug. Upon opening it, they were greeted with the anguished face of a desiccated corpse on the steps, clawing at the cellar door.
The room was covered in the stench of dried human waste, and deep gouges in the woodwork where someone had desperately tried to scratch their way out of this prison. When the DNA analysis and dental records came back, the corpse was a 99% match with Stanley. He’d been dead for months, most likely of starvation. His long fingernails were broken and scratched from clawing in his futile attempts to get out. Stanley was the thing that went bump in the night; it was his pleas and desperate attempts to escape that echoed through the halls of the mansion at night. But solving that mystery only created a deeper one. Who then, was that person caring for Mary, spending time with her family - and whom ultimately was murdered and thrown off a cliff - if Stanley was already dead? Was it a twin brother? A Doppelgänger? Whatever it was, Aunt Mary took that secret with her to the grave. What haunts me most though is the thought that maybe she was perfectly sane throughout it all, and it was the world itself that was truly crazy. Reality is indeed creepier than fiction.
Jack's Back by littlepangolin I first got in contact with Jack, my former landlord, a little over a year ago when I answered his newspaper ad. I was in a rush to move out as I had just broken up with my significant other, whom I shared an apartment with, and Jack was renting out the furnished basement of his house. The location was good and the price was a steal, and I moved in with a few boxes of personal items four days later. The house was old and the floors were creaky – Jack was the eternal bachelor, interested in nothing but cars, certainly not interior decorating or hardly even basic upkeep for that matter – and when he got up to go to work at 5 A.M. he would often wake me up, since I am a very light sleeper. However, as the months passed by I got accustomed to waking up early. I cannot tell you the exact moment I realized that something wasn't right. Over a number of days, a thought slowly crept into my conscious mind and settled; I hadn't heard very much noise from upstairs lately. There was the occasional creak or bang, like in all older houses, but the heavy footsteps that I woke up to and sometimes heard during the evening had seemed to disappear completely. Perhaps Jack was sick, I thought. Perhaps he hadn't worked in a few days, perhaps he worked different hours. The man was a real loner and kept to himself, so it honestly didn't seem strange to me. I only really talked to him when I went upstairs to give him his rent money on the first of every month. He was never unfriendly or rude, but short with me, didn't have much to say. I looked out the window and saw that the light was on in the garage. The blinds were closed, but someone was moving around in there. Jack must be working on his car. I felt relieved. His car was his baby – a powerhouse customized from scratch in the body of a 1930's Ford. He'd shown it to me once. It was still just barely drivable but had already won prizes. He spent all his free time working on it.
The last couple of days the truck that he drove to work had been sitting in the driveway when I left in the morning, but the following day it was gone. That same evening, the new noises started. It was around 5 P.M. I was on my computer, when from upstairs I heard what could only be described as shuffling. Like something covered in cloth was being dragged across the floor in short bursts. Then the sound of something heavy, like a big dresser, being moved. More shuffling. I heard the phone ring multiple times, but nobody picked up. A few minutes later, I could hear Jack slam the front door shut and walk towards the garage. As he passed by my window, I looked outside. Now, I have to say that Jack was not a man who cared a great deal about the way he looked – his hair was grey and disheveled, his clothes often had holes and oil stains and I had never seen him even remotely close to clean shaven – but this, this was different. There was something unnerving about his gait, but I couldn't put my finger on what exactly was wrong. Arms hanging at his sides, he was looking up into the sky. I couldn't see his face, but for a moment it looked like his mouth was wide, wide open... was that his tongue bulging out, swollen and black? No, of course not, it couldn't be... I closed the curtains and locked my door. Never before had Jack frightened me. That night, I woke up from screaming upstairs. Not frightened screams, or calls for help, but angry. A man's voice, loud, shouting in rage. I couldn't make out any words. Was it Jack? I stumbled out of bed and fumbled around in the dark for my clothes. Not really knowing what to expect, I looked around for something to defend myself with, and grabbed a knife from the kitchen. With shaking hands I called the police on my cell, ran upstairs and beat my fist against the door. There was no answer. The house was dark and silent. Jack's truck was there in the driveway, cold, sleeping. After a little while a police patrol drove by, and I talked to the officers briefly in the driveway, but they left after looking around outside and not finding anything out of the ordinary. Useless cops. So useless. I turned around, and the house loomed in front of me like only houses in the dark can. I thought I saw movement behind a curtain.
After an hour or so I crawled back into bed. I did not sleep. I just laid there, quiet as a mouse in the dark with my covers up to my eyeballs, listening for any noise or movement upstairs. There was only silence. Thankfully, I was not scheduled to work the next day. It was late summer and a lovely day, but I was afraid to go outside. I did not hear Jack all day – however, the phone rang multiple times. Nobody picked up. I spent the day with millions of thoughts running through my head, jumping at every little sound the house produced, kitchen knife never out of reach. Had there been a knock on my door that day I would probably have suffered a fatal heart attack. Nightfall brought a sense of despair. I did not see anyone walking by my window that evening, but through my curtains I saw the lights come on in the garage. I started to wonder whether I was losing my mind. Sleep came late, and when it did, it was filled with terrible dreams. It was one of those long nightmares that you never really seem to be able to get out of. In my dream, Jack was standing by my bed, looking down at me. I remember his face – foreign, cold, filling me with a deep feeling of dread. And then, something had roused me from my sleep. I looked up and that lingering feeling of dread escalated into paralysing fear, violently wedging an icy spear into my spine – because for a few terrifying seconds Jack was right there, mouth open so impossibly wide, like a ghostly image burned into my retinas from looking into bright light. I screamed, and the vision faded away. Just then, as if something upstairs had heard me scream, a response came in the form of a heavy thump. Something rolled across the floor. I think I cried. Looking back, I think that was the turning point for me. Everything about this was so, so wrong and I couldn't continue letting this happen, whatever it was. I needed to not be scared anymore. This needed to end. When dawn finally came after what seemed like an eternity, I looked outside and felt my heart skip a beat when I saw something moving around in the lit garage. This was it. It had to happen now. I needed to know the truth. I grabbed my trusty kitchen knife and climbed out my bedroom window, which was not visible from the garage.
Crouching, I sneaked around to the front door and held my breath as I turned the smudged brass knob. It wouldn't budge – the door was locked. Is it possible to be both relieved and disappointed at once? My sweaty hand tightened around the handle of the knife as I went around the side of the house. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins, eyes in the back of my head like a startled deer. Please-don't-let-him-see-me-please-don't-let-him-see-me. The kitchen window was open. It was open... I still remember every terrible detail so clearly. After picking together the last bits of courage I could muster, I stood up and looked inside. The fluorescent light over the sink was on. I could see that the refrigerator door was slightly ajar. Then... The smell. That awful, disgusting stench, wafting out through that window slit. And there, on the floor, next to the broken dishes... God help me. I did not go back inside. I didn't stay. I drove away, and I called the police from my car. I did not want to gamble on that thing, whatever it was, staying put in the garage until the police arrived. I drove until I was too tired to drive any further, then I pulled in on a side road and slept. I never went back to the house. A few days later, I found the article in the local newspaper. It stated that a 58-year old man had been found dead in his home on 112th and Dunsmuir. Cause of death was unknown. An autopsy was going to be performed. Foul play had been ruled out, however. The coroner estimated that the man had been dead for about three weeks before he was found by his tenant. It also spoke of some unusual findings around the property, especially in the unattached garage, but I did not read any further. The worst part is, sometimes when I wake up I can still see Jack standing beside my bed, draped like a blanket over something far more dark and sinister.
A terribly creepy story by Igloo444 The following is a story my grandpa used to tell me before he passed away, I thought r/nosleep might be able to appreciate it. This story is really long, so if you don’t want to read the full story, I’d suggest skipping the first two paragraphs (disclaimer: I’m not a WWII buff and I’m just telling this story the way I remember hearing it, some dates/locations may be slightly off): My grandpa was a British infantryman in the Second World War. He was only about 19 years old when he enlisted to serve his country, and while he thought that joining the military would give him opportunities to see exotic locations around the world, he was never deployed to Tunisia, or Italy or the Pacific, instead he ended up practically in his own backyard—Switzerland. This is just some historical information, but it’s important to understand before reading the rest of this story: Switzerland did its best to maintain “neutral status” throughout the war. But regardless of its attempts to maintain neutrality, Switzerland was still highly sought after by both the allied and the axis powers. Once the Nazis began committing acts of aggression against Switzerland, England provided reinforcements to the Swiss military. Yet, in an effort to prevent open war within its borders, the Swiss government instructed its military (and subsequently, the British reinforcements) to perform a series of tactical retreats into the Alps. That’s how my grandpa found himself stationed in a remote village in the Swiss Alps. At this time, it was early in the winter of 1943, and my grandpa’s company was stationed in a secluded village of about 500 people. Part of the advantage that they had with this location was that it was really hard to get to and therefore had little chance of being spontaneously invaded by Nazi Germany, but this was also a disadvantage because it made communication with the rest of the
Swiss military very difficult. The issue with communication was further compounded when sometime in early December, a series of blizzards swept through the region and completely destroyed the few lines of communication that they had in the first place. So, essentially trapped in this isolated Swiss village without being able to make contact with the rest of the army, my grandpa’s Captain decided it would be best to uphold the standing orders and continue defending the village. Weeks passed. Any roads to the outside world were buried in 7-9 feet of dense snowfall, and any telegraph/phone lines that they had were equally useless. It grew deeper into winter, the leaves were stripped from the trees and the bare trunks protruded from the mountainside like broken ribs. The town was nestled between two large mountains, sunlight only directly reached the town for a few hours each day, making the soldiers feel as if they were living in a state of perpetual dusk. One night my grandpa was at the town bar with a few of his friends from the company, and a group of locals approached them, one of them in particular was visibly upset. All of the Swiss people in the town grew up speaking German, and none of them were used to having Brits around, so one of them began shouting in broken English: “Where… take you… the children?” Luckily, one of the guys my grandpa was drinking with spoke fluent German, and was able to act as an impromptu translator. After several minutes of confusion and yelling, the “translator” turned to my grandpa and the rest of the soldiers and said: “They say some of the village children have gone missing. They want us to do something about it.” Now obviously, the British military doesn’t exactly act as a bunch of “mercenaries for hire,” so my grandpa and his friends told the villagers to come back to the “Headquarters” (really just a makeshift barracks that they had thrown together in the town’s church) to talk to the Captain.
Due to the language barrier, the villagers’ discussion with the captain took about two hours. And basically what the Captain and his self-designated translator were able to piece together was that: A few weeks after the company entered the village, the locals had noticed a variety of bizarre incidents. At first it was just benign stuff like “vanishing” pieces of wood and tarp from peoples’ sheds, but over the following two months, people realized that valuable items were being stolen from their homes—one man claimed that his family heirloom, a hand-made ceremonial halberd (sort of like a traditional Swiss war axe) had disappeared from above his fireplace mantle. The culmination of all of these incidents was when a village child went missing. Of course many assumed that the child’s disappearance, although tragic and disconcerting, could be attributed to something as simple as the boy falling into a snowdrift while playing outside or possibly being attacked and killed by a wolf or other predatory animal. But there wasn’t only one child that disappeared. There were several. The villager who entered the bar who looked especially upset? That was the father of two young boys who had gone missing two days before. He had searched everywhere for them, even rounded up a posse of his fellow townspeople to join the effort, but they couldn’t find a single clue as to what had happened to the children. The Captain told the villagers that he would continue to look into the matter, and that he would begin sending some of his men to patrol the streets each night looking for whoever (or whatever) was the culprit behind all the strange thefts and abductions. Later that night, Private Reginald disappeared from the barracks. Disappearing children was one thing, but a grown man? It seemed unlikely that an animal (even a wolf) could have taken down a healthy full-grown man on its own. Naturally, rumors began to surface that there was some sort of monster living in the mountains that came down at night to feast on the occupants of the village.
Despite the nightly patrols ordered by the Captain, the disappearances kept occurring. Reginald was the only adult victim of whatever was preying on the village, the rest of the victims were all young kids between the ages of five and ten. All in all, including the original three kids who had gone missing, seven children vanished from the town. Many people in my grandpa's company were growing suspicious. One explanation that got passed around was that impoverished villagers were actually selling their own children to human traffickers for extra cash. But even that didn’t make sense because the roads into and out of the town were still blocked by snow. Three more weeks passed without incident, at this point it was early spring and the snow was starting to thaw. That night, coincidentally when my grandpa was on patrol with several other soldiers, they discovered what was behind the children’s and Reginald’s disappearances… It was sometime past midnight when my grandpa and his comrades noticed a figure peering through the bedroom window of one of the villagers’ houses. My grandpa was at the opposite end of the street, so at first the figure looking through the window didn’t see the patrol. My grandpa and the other soldiers yelled at the prowler, and it immediately tore itself away from the window and began running away. Everyone in the patrol was certain that this was what was behind the disappearances and break-ins. They ran as fast as they could in pursuit, through the melting snow and ice in the dead of night screaming at whatever it was to stop. They kept running and running, and soon they found themselves on the outskirts of the village, where the snow was still fairly deep. The figure “jumped into the ground,” it looked like it had vanished into thin air at first, but as the patrol grew closer, they realized that the prowler had actually just jumped into a “cave” that had been hollowed out in the side of a snowdrift. Just as the soldiers began yelling into the cave for the figure to
come out and show itself, several gun shots exploded out of the entrance to the snow cave. Without thinking, my grandpa and the rest of the patrol shouldered their weapons and all began firing into the hole. Silence. They waited for what seemed like hours, but was really just a couple of minutes. One incredibly brave member of the patrol volunteered to climb into the cave and investigate, he drew his pistol, kneeled down and crawled into the cave. Several seconds later, he emerged with a completely horrified expression on his face. My grandpa took out his flashlight and shined it into the cave, when he saw the gruesome explanation behind the strange occurrences in the town. The “figure” that they had been chasing was Reginald, the private who had “gone missing” weeks before. They had shot Reginald right through the heart. The cave was not only occupied by Reginald, but also the bodies of seven partially eaten children. Either due to the stress of being snowed in all winter, living in near constant darkness or some sort of terrible mental issue, Reginald had gone completely insane and had begun breaking into the villagers’ houses, and snatching their children from their homes in the middle of the night. He had used the halberd that had been reported missing to dismember the bodies after he slit the children’s throats and hid them in the cave he carved into the snowdrift. TL;DR: My grandpa was stationed in the Swiss Alps during WWII, got snowed in in a remote village. Kids began disappearing from the village. Turns out one of the soldiers that had “gone missing“ from his company actually was abducting the children and cannibalizing them in a hidden snow cave that he had constructed on the outskirts of the town.
Chatroulette by kdu3142 From time to time I find myself killing some time on Chatroulette. It is not something I do because I extremely enjoy to, but because It's the only way I can find to socialize with people without leaving the comfort of my home. I have a roommate, a really cool guy, But unfortunately his mom is very sick, so he's visiting his family for the next couple months. One day, after getting back home, I sat down on my bed and opened up my laptop so I could browse the web a little. Didn't take long until I was, once again, on Chatroulette trying to filter all those pervs so I could have a decent conversation with someone. That's when this girl appeared on my screen. She looked like she was crying, but she had her hand on her mouth, trying to keep herself from making any noise. I was about to skip her, I imagined I was about to be pranked and end up on some youtube video, but she started typing. -Please, please help I asked her what was happening. She quickly replied that she needed me to call 911 for her, she had entered her house to find that someone had broken in. She slowly backed away and hid inside her closet. She tried calling 911 herself but her phone was dead, so she grabbed her laptop, which was in her backpack and the first page that opened was from Chatroulette and I was the person that she connected to. I didn't know what to do, I could be the victim of a prank, but what if this girl really needed my help? I decided to call 911, but before anything I asked her for her name and address. She said her Name was Linda, while she was typing her address I was already unlocking my phone so I could call 911, and then, she pressed enter. My eyes started watering. the address she had sent me was MY address.
I felt a chill running down my spine, I felt weak and accidentally dropped my phone. Words cannot describe what I felt when the sound of my phone smashing against the floor, came from the speakers of my laptop. I just stood there, looking at her. She was begging for me to call them. About 2 or 3 minutes later I decided I had to do something about this.I moved towards my closet, carrying my laptop on my hand. When I opened it, nothing was there, but the girl was still on the webcam, crying. I went to my roommate's room. I could hear my footsteps coming from the laptop. I decided this was it, I ran straight to it and opened it in one quick move.A scream came from inside the closet. I kept my eyes on the girl at all times, but when I opened the door a glare blocked the view and she disconnected. There was nothing inside the closet. I ran out of there in the same instant.I ran as far as I could. I felt like there was something chasing me. I kept hearing that same scream on my head over and over, I was getting fatigued but I couldn't stop.... I wouldn't stop
Like it or Not Sometimes you should do stuff which you don't like... FOR GG ....
What the Animals See Ever notice how in scary stories, animals can sense spirits that you (humans) can't? Ever notice how the spirits are supposed to move incredibly fast? Scientists say dogs (and some other animals) can't watch TV because their eyes are more efficient than ours, and all they see on the TV is one picture or just static. Basically, videos are made up of pictures running at a high rate of speed, right? It would be like if I sped a video up 100x, all you would see is static, right? Same with dogs. Now, what if spirits aren't transparent? They're completely visible, but they move too fast for us to see, that might be why animals see them and we can't. That would explain the shadows you sometimes see out of the corner of your eyes... Or what your pet's staring at right now. I guess we'll never know, will we?
We're Sorry Kiddo by Exxile4000 I was twelve years old when my parents went on the trip to Texas and left me with my aunt. They were expected to be gone for three weeks and I had to deal with the boring house my aunt lived in. She had no video games, no dvds, and no TV! What did they expect me to do for three weeks while they were out living it up in Texas. I remember how long those weeks dragged out. Every day seemed to last years as I waited for the three weeks to pass. Then on the third week my aunt told me that my parents wouldn't be coming back for another three weeks. She seemed upset when she said this and I figured it was because she was stuck watching me for an extra three weeks. The next three weeks weren't as bad. I had met a friend down the street from my aunt's house and he had a PS2 that we would play all day. I was starting to enjoy myself. At the end of the next three weeks I was more than ready to see my parents. A month and a half without them was terrible and I missed my home. My aunt walked outside as I headed out with my bags packed. I remember how upset I was when she told me that my parents had decided to go to New Mexico for three weeks now as well. I thought they had abandoned me and I started to get depressed. The next three weeks were just as uneventful as the first three weeks. I had forgotten how my house looked and I had nearly forgotten the faces of my parents. I was ready to go home. The night before my parents were supposed to be back I was woken up to a tap on my shoulder. I looked up and saw my mom and dad standing over the bed smiling at me. I was so happy to see them and I hopped out of my bed to hug them both. "We can't stay for long buddy. We have somewhere else we need to go." I remember my dad saying to me. We walked out to their car and they drove me around for a while.
We didn't talk much but I was so happy to be with them even for a little while. When we finally arrived back at my aunt's house I was reluctant to let them leave. I ran into my room and came back with the camera my dad had bought me before they left and i asked them to take a picture with me so i wouldn't forget their faces. I sat the camera on the hood of the car and set the timer on it before hugging my parents and waiting for the flash. After that my dad wrote something on the back of the picture and handed it to me before he and my mom got in the car and drove off. In the morning I woke up my aunt and told her that my mom and dad visited last night. She looked at me with so much sadness in her face that it worried me. "You must have been dreaming." She said to me fighting back tears. "Why?" I asked her. She hesitated a moment before she answered me. Tears were now rolling down her cheeks. "Your parents died in a car crash on the way to Texas." I laughed as she said this. There's no way it was a dream. Then I remembered the picture I had taken with my parents and I ran into my room to get it. I grabbed it without looking at it and ran into my aunt's room to show it to her. "Look, this is proof they were here." I handed her the picture. When she looked at the picture she screamed and dropped it. Her face turned as white as snow and she covered her mouth. I was confused so I picked up the picture and looked at it. The picture showed me standing out front of my aunt's house hugging the mutilated figures of my parents. I couldn't believe what I was looking at. I dropped the picture on the floor as my hands went numb. The picture landed upside down and I read the words written on the back. "We're sorry kiddo."
The Mask Shop by cutequeenpika In every town is a mask shop. It is not on any map, nor is it listed in any address book. To find it, you must write your birth name and current address on a plain sheet of paper, put it in an envelope and leave it in your mailbox. It will be gone by the next morning, but do not worry – the envelope always finds its way back. Exactly a week from the moment you mailed your name and address, you must open your mailbox. Inside will be the same envelope, perhaps a little worse for wear, but your paper will be gone. Instead, there will be another address inside, on a soft, powdery paper. This is where you will find the mask shop. You can go whenever you’d like, but you can only go once. The shop itself is a nondescript building with darkened windows. Pedestrians walk by it without really noticing; in fact, you have probably passed it many times before. There is no ‘open’ sign: it is always open. When you enter, the first thing you will see will be the rows upon rows of lifelike masks. No two will be the same. Marvel over them, try them on if you would like. Take your time, but do not take any with you. When you are ready to leave, walk back towards the door. An old man will be there to open it for you, holding a folded sheet of paper. If you do not have a mask, he will smile and hand you the paper, then open the door. If you do have a mask, he will keep the paper and perhaps smile a little wider than expected as he holds the door for you. No time will have passed while you were in the shop, and the door will be locked if you try to get back in. Should you take a mask – which I do not recommend – an anonymous call will be placed to the police that night, giving your
birth name and current address. They will find you on the floor of your house, your face sliced cleanly off. And a new mask will be waiting on the shelves of the mask shop. New: I did some investigating after seeing all of the responses.
My Grandfather Knew Why We Run from the Dark by scheller I always admired my grandfather’s courage. He had fought in the war on what we nowadays think of as the wrong side, but he had never been a believer in the cause. Sometimes a rifle is pressed in your hand and your choice is either to fire and worry about being shot from the front, or not to fire and be sure that you’ll be shot from behind. He was young when he was drafted, barely 16. Before he left he gave his first kiss and a promise to a girl. She waited five years until the end of the war, surviving on just five or six letters that she kept as treasure. The war ended but even the defeat was celebrated. Not openly, but in the hearts and eyes of the people. People never wage war, it is politicians that wage war. No soldier that ever stood in the line of a rifle believes that war is heroic, only those divorced from reality, those that sit in tidy offices, those dream of war. Soldiers came home with thin bodies and bandaged limbs. They hugged their wives and women before they fell onto beds and relived the front in dreams that made them toss and turn and wake up from their own screams. His girl watched with tears in her eyes while her sister and mother each welcomed their men home. She heard the men scream at night and each scream lodged a stone in her throat. She prayed that the man she had kissed did not have to scream and then she prayed that the man she had kissed was alive enough to scream. Then she prayed for forgiveness for her selfishness. The other men, when they came, were often so thin that their women, when they welcomed them, were scared of hugging them too tightly for their spines or ribs might break. Especially those that came from the East were thin, the skin of their faces sunken into their cheeks. Two years after the war a scarecrow knocked on her door. An old
man, forty at least, the arms thin like bare bones, a hard and dirty beard that had long stopped growing for want of nutrition and his skin a gray with blue and black patches. His lips stretched into a black-toothed smile. She stepped back into the house. The door was closing fast. “Wait,” he said. “It’s me.” Even after hot meal and shower and shave she still recognized nothing except his eyes and the shape of his nose. It took two weeks before she thought that he was true and another two before she was sure. Sometimes, on those days where she took him along to the market, the sellers called him her father. The man in the leather chair had to ask her twice and then demand another witness to make sure that he was the man he claimed to be and not his father or uncle or another older relative. The war had stolen his youth. When my grandfather spoke about the war he never spoke about his experiences. He spoke in the abstract, the way you speak about a movie or a book, not even the way you speak about history. “They were overrun. Hundreds of kilometers, there was no resistance at all. Then General Winter, as the Russians call it, attacked.” “The troops still got further. There were villages, poor people. It wasn’t a choice; the supplies weren’t coming. Everything was taken. All those that didn’t run were shot.” Sometimes he talked about the early phases of the war, when everybody was hopeful, when things were going far too well and easy. He always said, not with pride but in a matter-of-fact way, that the war would have been won if it had been against one or two or five countries, rather than against half the civilized world. But my grandfather refused to speak about the things that happened at the end and after the war. When he was asked he didn’t reply. He only shook his head and looked away. My grandmother said that she heard strange things when he was
asleep. She heard him begging for food and water, for a blanket. She heard him beg that someone stop. She heard him beg that someone let him go. She heard him beg for forgiveness. As long as I can remember I asked my grandfather about the war. Despite his warnings, for me those were stories of adventure and courage. I only heard when he spoke about trenches and gunfire, not when he spoke about catching rats for food and drying puddle water and trousers so soiled that it was better to rub them clean with mud and dry them in the rare moments of sun than to leave them as they were. I didn’t understand that my questions hurt him, that I forced him to relieve a time that he would have given an arm to forget. And yet, all those times when I made him tell stories in his odd unemotional and descriptive way, he refused to speak about the end. Once I baited him enough to say that he did not remember how he got home; sometimes riding on trains and sometimes by foot, but always just following the direction of the setting sun until he stumbled upon street signs that he finally could read. He came from far in the East. Places he either did not remember or did not want to remember. And every time I asked his stories ended with the village that they pillaged, where they condemned men and women and children to death because they themselves did not know how else to survive. As said, I always admired my grandfather for his courage. He paid that war with his youth and on his return decided that, for this heavy price, he at least wanted to be a good man. I could recount countless times when I saw him, an old man by then, chase down young rascals that had egged a house or stolen a handbag. He jumped in when neighbors needed help. He passed a burning house and thought he heard a child caught still inside. He told me to stay where I was and without a thought slammed his shoulder into the door until it broke from its hinges and he himself disappeared in black smoke. In the end there was no child that needed to be saved. My mother called him a fool for breaking his shoulder like that. For me he was a hero. My grandfather taught me that we all dream of being courageous but that very few of us take our chance to be a hero
when it is offered to us. In our lives we pass countless times where we could save, but we drive past and look for excuses. “I have to hurry home.” “It didn’t look that bad.” “Others were helping already.” Being scared and comfortable is easier than being courageous. And to make ourselves feel good we imagine the heroic acts we would have done if we had had the time or if it had been that bad or if others hadn’t been there. There was only one thing my grandfather was scared of. Dark rooms. Their house had a basement but they rarely, if ever, used it. There were strong lights installed and the light switch was outside the basement door, but there was nothing inside except for old furniture never to be used again and a few old tires that should someday have made a swing. My grandmother did not mind entering the basement, but he forbade her to use it. “There are things,” he said. “That live in such darkness.” At night he made sure that everyone else was upstairs and in their rooms. He turned the flashlight on and the living room lights off and, faster than he should have moved in his age, hastened up the stairs. The guest room was right next to their bedroom. So many times and years I heard him run up those stairs, slam the door and breathe heavy air into his lungs. My grandmother never complained. She never told him that he had to stop or that he was risking his life. She understood. She knew. He had told her. My father’s parents had died in a car accident when I was young. For me they are a hazy memory, more photos than people. That might be why my mother’s parents were so important for me. They were my personal grandparents, the ones I had and the ones I loved. They had always been very healthy. When I was young my grandfather still ran and played soccer with me. But in the last few years their age was beginning to take its toll. I noticed that they lost their ability to focus, then their ability to remember recent events, then their ability to remember me. My grandmother and grandfather still followed their routine. They cared for themselves and didn’t need our help except for tax
matters and other administrative duties that some government official had decided needed to be complicated. My parents visited often to make sure that the house was in order and food in the fridge. They kept me updated on my grandparents’ health and happiness. For Christmas I finally managed to visit. It’s not a nice thing to admit but my parents and I - with my mother as her parents’ only child and me as my parents’ only child - made sure to be there and not have any other plans because we thought it might be the last Christmas that we would have together as a family. I was happy to see them and hug them again. I felt guilty, in a way, that I hadn’t provided any great-grandchildren yet and had not even a girlfriend or wife to present. I was surprised how confused they were; that they did not remember who I was. My grandparents did not seem to remember my parents’ names either, but they still recognized their faces. I was a stranger, face and name alike and during the meals and songs and conversations I felt as if I was an intruder in bygone lives that they were reliving with glassy eyes. It was the 26th of December. My parents and grandmother went to see the Christmas market. I stayed home with my grandfather and his aching knee to drink tee and play scrabble. I was in the kitchen when he called out. “Son!” With the teapot I walked back into the living room. He sat in his armchair, upright, his eyes suddenly clear and right on me. “Son!” he said again, loud and forceful. “Yes?” “Make sure the lights are on.” “Sure, grandpa.” I walked towards the light switch. His eyes followed me. “They come when the lights are off,” he said. “You know that, right?” “I’m not sure who comes, but I’ll keep the lights on for you.” “They!” His voice was not frail anymore; it thundered through the room. “They come! Those things! I told you about them!”
I turned the light on. “I don’t think you told me,” I said. “I’m not sure what you mean.” “Don’t fool me, boy!” “I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you mean.” “Oh, I told you. I know I told you. I taught you to keep the lights on.” “You told me to keep the lights on, but you never told me why.” There was anger in his face. “Why? Why? I saw them and I saw what they do to us and you doubt me?” “You saw things in the dark?” “Three years I saw them. Three years they held me and the others.” “I never heard about that.” “Oh,” he said. “Then you should.” That evening, in less than twenty minutes, my grandfather told me about his last years at the front. One year before the war ended they were ordered to retreat. They fled in small groups through the countryside they had pillaged and burned just weeks before, past houses with the frozen dead still inside. There was a church, he said, a large old church made of stone. It was the only building still intact in the village, the only place to seek shelter from the wind and cold. They made a fire with old church benches and sank to their sleep right next to it. Seven men in total, two injured and moaning and the other five just scared and weak. My grandfather said he woke up from screams all around him. The room was pitch black. The stone floor was moving under his body. He struggled to get on his feet - and only then realized that his feet were being held. The floor was still; his feet were being pulled.
Then he too screamed. He said they were pulled down stairs. His weapon and knife were gone. Then he heard more people, moaning and screaming. A suffocating stench punched into his lungs. He was thrown onto a heap of warm bodies. Something bit his leg and he kicked and a man screamed in pain. The room was pitch black. Another man was thrown on him. A door fell shut and was locked. He said they moved away from the heap of bodies, but the cold soon drove them to get closer. Every few minutes somebody screamed. He could hear flesh ripping and teeth grinding. He said there must have been hundreds of people. He said they tried to hammer against the metal door and scream for help and the voice of an old man laughed at them from behind. He said in broken German that the door was thick and nobody there that could hear them. But once every while the door opened. Something dark moved inside and when it came inside the room grew cold and the humans moved closer to one another. My grandfather said he felt the energy being drained from his body and a panic and dread rise in his soul. Soon the dread started even before the door opened. They all adapted. There was no problem with water. It ran occasionally down the walls and if it was not licked off it accumulated on the floor to join with the layers of excrement and sweat. He said that he tried to hold out, but that after days of hunger you choose desperate measures. He said that he never killed one there, that he only took pieces from those that had died or at least those that he thought had died. Every few days more were thrown into the room. Every few days there was a struggle, some of the old against some of the new. They tried to stay together, the brothers in arms that had fought together, but soon that too broke apart.
He said that some day the number of new people started decreasing. There were only a rare few and the numbers in the room dwindled. He sat for most of the time on a higher stone, one that the others seemed to not have found. He only climbed down when he knew that a struggle had ended, that one was dead, that something could be eaten. But no matter the struggles, every time when the dread came and the door opened, they all huddled together. They all felt the same exhaustion and cold and panic in their souls. And then, one day, long after no more new people arrived, when only three or four or five were left, there were footsteps outside. He was scared because he didn’t feel dread. The door opened and a man with a torch stood there. A gun fell from his hand and his mouth opened and he ran and scrambled up the stairs and he threw up while running. The door was open. There was a glimmer of light from upstairs. That was how my grandfather left. He said he didn’t turn to look who or what he left behind. Something behind him scrambled up the stairs too, but he was the first to get out and he was the first to reach the forest and eat grass and bugs and other things that he found close to the ground. He found a piece of cloth first, then a rotten uniform on a corpse and later, when he had scrambled far enough and when his strength returned, he found a village and stole a dry uniform from a laundry line and a bag of potatoes from the same place. “I don’t know what they are,” he said. “But they live from the warmth and spirit we leave behind.” I nodded. “They live off us,” he said. “Do you understand? They need you to exist. They want to catch you. They want to drain you. They want that you forget about the light.”
“The light?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “The light. They held us in the darkness. Three years they drained me and lived off me and made me do things I don’t even want to think again.” He cleared his throat. “And,” he said. “I know what that dread feels like. It is not like any other. It is at the core of your being, you feel it in your spine and back and gut. Three years I felt it and after that it never went away.” “It never went away?” “Of course it didn’t,” he said. “Because they always stay. They always wait. They will always be there, consuming what spirit you leave behind, and hoping that one day you become careless, that you forget about the light. And then they strike.” I glimpsed outside, where the world was slowly turning gray. “They are here, right now?” My grandfather nodded. “They wait,” he said. “They come and consume what we leave. But they hope for more. They hope that one of us grows careless and ignores the dread. They wait until one of us stays when the room is dark.” We sat quietly, his eyes meeting mine. “Okay,” I finally said. “Good,” he said. He nodded silently, then looked outside. A moment later his eyes seemed glassy again. “Are you okay?” I asked. He turned to me and frowned. “Who are you?” he asked.
It was the last conversation that I truly had with him. Since January his condition got worse, he talked about dead men. He spoke about hunger and fear. He asked for the girl that he had kissed when he was 16 and neither he nor she noticed that the girl sat right next to him, patting his hand. I loved my grandfather. I miss him. I wish I had been there rather than a six hour drive away and that I could have taken care of him rather than leave him alone. I wish that it had been me or my parents and not the girl that waited seven years for his return that had to find him. But most of all, and I know that sounds cruel and wrong and selfish, I wish that he would have died in his bed or in the hospital, during the day. I wish so much that she didn’t have to find him in the morning, on the living room floor, with the flashlight off and his mouth wide open.
Spider Earth by Slimebeast The spiders had been acting odd. As far as I was concerned, everything about the damned pests was strange. This was different, though. On the first morning, day one, they started emerging from their hiding spots and abandoned their webs. Black Widows, Orb Weavers, they all exposed themselves to any number of would-be predators. You could barely walk through your yard without entangling yourself in the near-invisible threads they'd cast out into the breeze. It was as if a thousand tiny, inverted fishermen had dropped their hooks into the sky. The web (of course) lit up with chatter. It was happening anywhere you'd expect to find arachnids. Within minutes, all the "Ask" sites and insect expert message boards filled up with annoyed queries. "What are they doing?" "Is this happening to anyone else?" "Is this happening everywhere?!" The true shock was still to come, as the creatures simultaneously reeled themselves UP those threads. It was an Indian Rope Trick to stupefy entomologists the world over. The consensus at that point? Well, at least they're gone.
Then the sky began to cloud over. Some caught on quicker than others. A few folks in my neighborhood, not necessarily ignorant folks, looked upward and determined a storm had set in. Myself, I immediately recognized the wrongness of it all. The sunlight was being blotted out, ever so slightly, by one tremendous dome of webbing. A plane came down over the hills near my house, its engines clogged with soft gauze and mashed spiders. Five days in, birds started disappearing. Their songs all but ceased, and the only sign of their existence was the stray tiny, hollow bone that would drop from high above. Dark spots could be observed with the naked eye. Using powerful binoculars or a telescope showed the viewer a myriad of small, cocooned bodies floating motionless in a lofty, darkening haze. Sparrows, Crows, Hawks, and even Bats became entangled in the grim construction. Flights were cancelled soon after the original rash of crashes. Pilots thought they could simply break through the paltry web-work of such insignificant beings. Nearly ten thousand dead passengers and crew said otherwise. The last plane to be cleared for take-off was the rare exception. There was a roar, a violent shrieking of engine blades, and then it just stopped. It hung there, diagonally, until the entire thing was cocooned above our heads. The bones that fell to the ground after that did not belong to birds.
It was after a week that "Arachnocalypse", as a term, had been officially coined. Newspapers and television networks spat the phrase out at every opportunity, and it took its rightful place alongside "Snowmageddon", and the rest. For what it's worth, I think we could've made do, as a species, without use of the sky. Even though the haze grew thicker and our world grew darker every day, there were rain storms and natural collapses to give us small breaks in construction. The rain, by the way, would come through cloudy and slick. I didn't want to know why. The real problem, the one we couldn't work around as easily, was the spiders that remained on land. The jumping spiders, the hunting spiders, the tarantulas, all of those who seemed to have evolved past web-weaving. They could produce some silk, but beyond that they were at a loss. You could almost feel sorry for them, standing tall on leaves and branches, preparing for an ascent that was never coming. I heard stories about scorpions doing the same thing, but I never saw any proof for myself. It was almost as if they knew. It seemed to drive them mad. When they weren't stoically waiting for their strands to take root above, they attacked and bit without any sense of reason. I lost my pet, a loyal and loving Bulldog. She came in one night covered in clinging spiders, bites all over her body. Within moments, before I could even think of who to call (Vet? Poison hotline?) she collapsed and stopped breathing. Daddy Longlegs... I don't even know if they were in on the plan, whatever it was. They seemed to cluster in homes, crawling over people as they slept, creating vast hordes of staring, though
seemingly eyeless little horrors positioned on faces and chests. When the things weren't engaged in frightening us to death, they would simply gather on ceilings and randomly "squat" upward as if it were some elaborate spectacle the human brain couldn't comprehend. On the thirty-second day, when the Governments finally began working on possible solutions, everything changed yet again. The Widowers crawled out from places unseen. A Widower, about the size and shape of a man, seemed to have no interest in joining the growing, breeding masses in the skies. The black, armor-plated arachnid creatures only displayed one common goal. Ensnaring us. Daytime, as dark as it had become, was the only time it was relatively safe to go out. At night, Widowers could be all around you... in the trees, in crevices... and you'd never suspect. The last thing you'd see was the red hourglass on their abdomens. That, and not-quite-human hands scrambling for your hair, your loose clothing, anything within reach. Abandoned buildings were just as bad as the outdoors. I was with a group... I want to say this was about two months along... and we all took shelter in an old doll factory when it grew dark and we couldn't walk any longer. The dismembered baby dolls, with their dark streaks of venom and plastic flesh wounds should've turned us away. Still, the webs they levitated in seemed old and abandoned. We figured the Widowers had their run of the place and long since moved on.
I didn't wake up to screaming. It's weird to say that. I wish I had woken up to screaming. Instead, I lazily opened my eyes around what I assume to be Midnight. I reached out for a bottle of water, only to draw back a hand covered in burning, dark yellow venom. I don't know if you've ever seen a bug trapped in a spider's cocoon. All they can do is silently rock. Back and forth, back and forth, bending at the middle. Sometimes there'll be a single free limb or antenna that waves around, trying to feel out any sign of help. It's the same with people. I'll have to live out the rest of my days remembering that sight. I'll have to live with the fact I ran away and left them there. People who had pulled me out of a burning truck. People who fed and clothed me when I had nothing. There was nothing I could do. Logically, I know that. The red hourglasses were already descending around me, and no matter what form it takes, an hourglass means time is running out. My time. Everyone's time. Welcome to Spider Earth.
Blank Let's take a Break!
Stephanie by moirakathryn Stephanie never liked the third grade. She carefully did all her work, aced every test, and received glowing reports from her teacher. But she never smiled. Her parents - despite Stephanie's hard work never cared much about what their daughter did. Instead, they were enamored with the little girl across the street. Although the little girl was barely scraping through 3rd grade by the skin of her polished teeth, the poise and beauty she walked with attracted the love and attention of Stephanie's parents. On the first afternoon of the summer, the little girl across the street called over to Stephanie, asking her to come play. Stephanie shuffled over to the girl's back yard and saw oddly shaped bubbles being blown and floating far away. Stephanie inquired, and the little girl told her that these bubbles were special. "They come out in the shape of whatever you wish for, and if it pops before floating away, your wish will come true." Stephanie was skeptical, but took the bottle of "special" bubbles from the girl. She thought hard for a moment, then blew the best bubble she could. The bubble took the exact shape of the little girl across the street, who smiled in great delight at the thought that her neighbor's greatest wish was her. The bubble began to float away, but Stephanie took a step forward and poked it with the wand. It popped. Stephanie looked over at the little girl across the street, who had collapsed on the grass, not breathing. Stephanie smiled for the first time that year.
It hurts a bit... by Conbz I don’t really remember what happened before it all went dark. I think I was in the car? All I can remember was the loud noise, some screech of metal on metal and then nothing. I woke up in this beeping place. I’m not sure where I am because I can’t seem to open my eyes. Silly, isn’t it? I can definitely feel the blanket on top of me and the beep-beep-beep beside me but I can’t open my eyes or talk or move. People come to poke at me every now and then and I always try to talk to them. “Can someone tell me what’s happened to my eyes? I can’t open them.” I try to say but my vocal cords don’t seem to want to cooperate so I guess I’ll just wait. These people seem to know what they’re doing, they poke in the same places every time, sometimes with their fingers, sometimes with a sharp-thing-with-no-name. They don’t say much, these people. Just come, poke, sigh and go. Someone opened my eye today and held a flashlight over it. It hurt and I couldn’t tell them to stop but just the movement of my eye felt amazing. Did you know that if you don’t open your eyes for a long time they can stick to your eyelids? I didn’t. Do now. It didn’t hurt though, it just felt good when it unstuck. Someone’s been holding my hand and reading me stories. They’re seven chapters into Harry Potter and The Chamber Of Secrets now. I’d tell them that I’ve already read them but I can’t. They hold my hand sometimes and just sit with me so it’s just me, them and the beepbeep-beep. I think it’s my mum. She was crying today. I wanted to make her happy and not sad
but something’s definitely wrong with my arms because I couldn’t hug her better. I’ll have to tell her when I can that I wanted to help. Some people came into the room while mom was crying, said that “she should leave”, that “she shouldn’t be here for this” but I didn’t recognise the voice and I didn’t want mom to go. I was scared. She cried louder, said “No, he’s still there.” And I wanted to shout “Of course I am, where would I have gone?” and everyone left. Mom came back a bit later, sniffing. She sat down and started crying a bit louder, and louder, until she was almost screaming. And then she hit me, right in the face. I couldn’t tell what I’d done wrong but she hit me again and again and again and I couldn’t say sorry or cry or stop her, only sit there until the men came and took her away. Two of the men stayed though and they were mumbling and I couldn’t make out what they were saying until I caught the word “coma.” I wanted to scream, shake, jump up and slap him in the mouth. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t say “stop.” Couldn’t say “please, I’m here, I can hear you please don’t do this.” Nothing. I could only sit there while they poked me with a sharp-thing-with-no-name that must be a needle. The beep-beep-beep turned into a beep-beep and I felt myself get tired. I wanted to ask what they were doing. What they thought it would help to slow the beeping down but I couldn’t. I was screaming at the top of my lungs but I wasn’t moving. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to fade away, I need to hug mom, tell her everything’s okay, tell her I’m here and I’m fine. But I don’t think I’ll get the chance now. Beep. Beep. .
No Wolves in the Stillwood The gray wolves of Virginia were made extinct over a hundred years ago. According to the regular surveys by the National Forestry service, no sign of any such animal has been found since 1900. The occasional reports of large predators, just after dusk or late at night, usually by the occasional hiker or party of campers in the Stillwood (residents of Lower Alethia, nearest the woods like myself, know better than to try), receive the same tired reply from Animal Control. "There are no wolves in the Stillwood.” When a pet gets lost in the dark of the Stillwood and never returns… or worse is found, mauled, the blame falls on the usual suspects: foxes, wild dogs or teenagers with too much time and too little compassion. A few years back, when the Bradleys, a little family brand new to the Falls, had their boy David go missing from their own backyard, never finding more than scraps of his jacket and a little blood at the edge of the forest, the official response was adamant: this was a kidnapping, not an animal attack. Old-timers like me just shook our heads and muttered to ourselves: “There are no wolves in the Stillwood.” So, if you want to sleep at night this close to the forest, keep your doors locked tight and your shutters closed fast, if just to buy some peace of mind, to stop you from catching a glimpse of the Stillwood late at night. And should you somehow find yourself walking near, or God forbid through, the woods some evening, head home as quick as you can. Try to ignore the sounds of the night wind, howling as it does… it will only make your imagination run wild, after all. And should you see what cannot be polychrome eyes, shining through the mists from the underbrush or somehow in the branches above, should you be blessed enough to make it safely home, take what comfort you can in this thought. There are no wolves in the Stillwood.
What If? We all remember monsters. We remember the beast that lurked under our bed, the one that resided in our closet, the one that leered at us from the dark shadows in our room. Everyone has had their own personal monster that always kept them on edge. Mommy or Daddy would always turn on the light and prove that no such monster was there. The nightlight that was plugged in kept all the shadows and scary things away. The lullaby would send the monster away, writhing in agony from such sweet, loving words. But now that we’re older, we’ve forgotten our monsters. The shadows of the night, the closet and the space beneath the bed are things we’ve grown out of fearing, something we care very little about and even consider mundane. The most frightening thing about all of the listed places is knowing that you’ll have to clean up whatever mess is there. But did you ever think that maybe that monster is still there? Just because you don’t see or don’t believe in something doesn’t make it any less real. We’re all convinced that the monsters only existed within our own minds, but did you ever think that may be untrue? What if we ARE the monsters? What if those lurking shadows and glowing eyes we swear to see are what we become in the afterlife? Maybe Heaven isn’t real. Maybe we aren’t reincarnated. Maybe we don’t just end up being food for the parasites that live underground. What if we become the monsters of our childhood and strike fear into the hearts of those we watch over?
There's something wrong by vede It might be the beer from all the partying, but I could swear there's something wrong outside. I know everyone left, but there's still a car outside. Not my car, that one's out there too. Someone else's car. That means that between my house door and their car door, they got lost somehow. There's definitely something wrong outside. I can hear it. It's scraping against the house on the outside. Scratching long, dull lines into the wood with what must be its long, dull claws. Like it's taunting me to come outside. Come outside and play. I put my ear to the wall to hear it, and it stops scraping. God, I think I can hear it breathing. Tap. Tap. Tap tap. Just inches away from my head across nothing more than flimsy, decades-old wooden beams. Not scraping anymore. Tapping. It can't do anything to get me out there. I wasn't planning on going to class tomorrow anyway. I'm sure it will go away in the morning. Yes, there won't be anything wrong outside when the sun comes up, I'm sure. If I just stay calm in here, then -It's at the window. I can see the condensation from its breath on the glass. There's nothing behind the glass. Oh God, I can't see it. I just know it can see me, though. It can see my neck. It can see my flesh. It sees something it wants. It's scratching the window. Making two long streaks down the glass. Slowly. So slow it seems like it'll be hours before it hits the sill. The sill of my unlocked window. I can practically feel its enthusiasm on my bounding, leaping journey across the living room toward it. Toward its undoubtedly hungry mouth. I almost trip on a beer bottle on the way, but I'm determined to get to that window before it manages to open it up. Oh, if it opened that window. I don't want whatever happened to... oh, I can't even think of that person's name right now. But I'm certain there's a freshly torn corpse out there somewhere. There just has to be. I hurriedly flip the window lock. It huffs a breath against the window at the same moment. A huff of
disappointment. It sounded like a horse, or a bull, or something else even worse, and left droplets of mucus on the glass. No more breath on the window. It's finding another way in. I can hear it trample the brush along the side of the house. It's going around to the back. What's at the back of the house? It has the upper hand. It must know this house. I've only been here a week. Just got here for college. A house my parents managed to get for me, way out at the edge of town. What's at the back of the house? What's not on the front or the sides of the house? The outdoor cellar entrance. That's at the back of the house. Jesus, where's the indoor cellar entrance? In a closet somewhere, I think. In my bedroom closet. Yeah, that's where it is. I just hope I can get there before it does. I don't lock that door. I don't lock the outside door either. I aim the flashlight at my closet floor and see a hole, into the blackness. But there's something wrong down there. I peer down in to the hole, scanning with my flashlight, when a sound pierces the cold silence that I'd grown so accustomed to. "Hey man, what the hell?" A pair of people in the middle of what must be a drunken onenight stand are in the cellar. At the other end of the room, the three of us hear a creak. Moonlight pours into the space as the outside door squeaks its way open. A horned shadow forms on the dusty ground of the cellar and an enthusiastic grunt fills the space as I pull my head back up into my closet and slam shut the trapdoor. The young fornicators inside are shouting. They're confused. They don't know what's wrong. But now they're shouting in pain. That sound is terrible. The sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing. The sound of people dying. I can't handle this. I pile as much as I can on top of the door before rushing back into the living room. I sit on the couch, huddled in fear, watching the windows. I want to turn on the light, but I don't even bother trying. I know that there's something wrong the power now. This thing has cut the power line. It has to have cut the power line. A dull thud reports from one of the windows. My gaze snaps to it
and I see a hand, reaching up from below, smearing blood on the glass. I rush to it and peek outside the window, but this hand doesn't have a body. All it has is a few inches of an arm, and a few more inches of bone at the end of that. Suddenly the hand retracts into the darkness. Pulled away by the monster. Thud. A new hand. This time a female hand, and this time only with one finger. An index finger, pointing up, toward the roof. Thud, thud, thud. It's on the roof. This house has a fireplace. It's going to come down the chimney. I push all the strength the beers I drank tonight can give me into the couch. It tears jagged lines into the floor along its path to cover the fireplace, but before anything gets into the room, I block the hole. I hear another huff, followed by a sound I can't recognize at first. Like... like the sound of pouring water behind the couch, in the fireplace. Then I see the dark outline spreading out on the floor in front of the seat. It oozes around the empty bottles and cups scattered on the floor. It mingles with the various liquors spilled over the course of the night. I can barely see in the dark, but I know what it is. I shine my flashlight to confirm my suspicion just as the chunks start to flow out. First just a piece of meat. Then an eye. Some fingers. Slowly spreading out on the living room floor. The heavier pieces dislodge cups from their positions and start a cascade of deathly stinking sludge through the room. I can't take this. I'm done. The bathroom door pushes open easily, and I grab whatever bottles I can find behind the mirror. Two or three I manage to open easily, and I pour their contents into my hand just as I hear it. The sound of the window. There's something wrong. Back in the living room, feet just at the edge of the the disgusting layer covering the ground, I see the window open. The locks snap apparently without effort. A huff. Footsteps across the wooden porch outside. The door knob rattles, cracks, and the door swings inward. A huff. It's just been playing with me. More footsteps across the other side of the porch. The other window. The locks snap. The window pounds the wood at the top of its run. A huff. The filth on the floor is
knocked out of the way by its feet. A huff. It's just been playing with me.
I found a video tape on the beach a few weeks ago. by hauntedtape A few details before I start my story. I live in northern California in a small townhouse with my girlfriend. I've decided to change the names of both people and places, just to be cautious. I don't want anyone going out to the beach I was at trying to dig up clues and instead find the trouble that I found. I'm sorry this is so long, I've tried to keep it as brief as possible. You have to understand that I've barely slept at all in days and it's difficult for me to keep my thoughts in order. Saturday - March 26th: John and I found the camcorder half buried in the sand on Stinson beach. When I picked it up out of the sand, water leaked out from inside the camcorder. Sand was packed into every crevice and the battery pack was missing. We dried it off with a beach towel and popped the cassette drive open, there was a digital cassette cartridge inside the drive, it had a yellow plastic head and a Panasonic logo, but no label or sticker attached. It seemed like the camcorder itself was pretty much trashed but we figured it still might be possible to recover the data on the tape itself. I had an older Sony digital camcorder at home that used the same type of tape. I took the tape and camcorder inside with me when John dropped me off at home later that day. I set it down on my computer desk and forgot about it for almost a week. Thursday - March 31st: John came over again next Thursday and saw it on my desk. I told him I had forgotten about it and hadn't even tried to play back the tape yet. We popped it into my Sony camcorder and hooked it up to my PC's Fire-wire port. Opened up Roxio's Video Capture application and told it to scan the tape for footage. Only one scene appeared on the screen. I will describe it to you as best as I can recall: A few feet in front of the camera is a woman. Her back is to the camera and she is walking down a narrow dirt path, possibly even a
deer trail. Tall dry grass and small bushes line either side of the path. Based on the lighting, it is mostly likely sometime in the early morning or evening. The sky is cloudless and tinged with a soft orange color. Other than the shuffle of foot steps the only thing that can be heard is seagulls crying and the soft sound of ocean waves breaking against the shore in the distance. She's wearing what used to be a one-piece swimsuit. The top half has been ripped or cut apart and now hangs down off her hips, she is naked from the waist up. Dozens of ugly red welts and cuts cross her back. It looks like she has been whipped or badly beaten with a stick. A length of thin rope, more like twine, has been used to bind her hands behind her back. The twine is wound so tightly against her wrists that you can see her hands have begun to turn a shade of blue from lack of circulation. The twine is cutting into her skin and small rivulets of blood have run down her hands and fingers, dripping onto the dirt trail behind her. During the course of the scene she only takes a few dozen steps, the clip is only 30 seconds long. Right before the clip ends a man's voice can be heard. "Are you filming? You better not be filming yet, I told you to wait until we get inside." And then the clip ends. Both John and I were unsettled by that one short scene on the tape. It seemed authentic. Someone's home video gone horribly wrong. I tried to copy the clip to my computer but every time we played the file back it was just a mess of scrambled green lines with no audio. John took the tape with him when he went home later that evening. He wanted to try and use his Mac-book and parent's camcorder to see if he was able to recover the clip onto his computer. He said maybe it was just a problem with my Fire-wire cable. It was the last time I ever saw him. Friday - April 1st: At this point I can't think of any unusual happenings. A normal Friday work day, no different from dozens of other Fridays before it. I called John to ask about the tape but he said he hadn't had time to look at the tape again, but he was going to stop by his parent's house after work and borrow their camcorder for the weekend.
Sunday - April 3rd: John calls me. It was in the evening, sometime after 7:00 I think. He sounds excited and tells me he was able to get the clip to save onto his Mac-book, the video plays back but the sound is missing. I tell him to upload the video online but he wants more time to try and get the audio working too. Wednesday - April 6th: Unable to get a hold of John for two days. Calls are going straight to voice-mail. Finally he calls me on Wednesday just as I'm getting ready to leave work and head home. I don't think I noticed it at the time but looking back on events, his voice sounded odd, there was almost no inflection to his speech. It was flat and emotionless. I thought he was calling about the tape but when I asked he told me that it wasn't important anymore. He said he had found something and we needed to go back to the beach. It takes almost two hours to drive out to Stinson from my house and I told him there was no way I was able to get out there on a week-night after work. And even if I could it would be nearing dark by the time we got out there. For some reason this seemed to make him angry. I promised I'd go on Saturday with him but this wasn't good enough. He said he needed to go that night. That there was something very important. He kept saying he had something to show me. I asked what but he said I had to see it for myself. Finally he called me a stubborn asshole and hung up. Thursday - April 7th: John won't answer my calls. His voice-mail says his in-box is full and won't accept any new messages. Friday - April 8th: When I get up to take a shower in the morning there is a small amount of wet sand spread out on the bottom of the tub. I think that maybe Sarah has only now gotten to rinsing her bathing suit out from the time we were at the beach two weeks ago, although I don't see her suit hanging up to dry anywhere in the bathroom. It's mildly puzzling but I forget about it as soon as I leave for work. Only now do I realize that it was the start of the strange occurrences that were about to drive me into the frantic state I am in today. Later at work my phone chimes indicating that I have a voice mail. I hadn't noticed the phone ringing but this isn't entirely unusual
as I don't have the best reception inside the office. It's certainly not the first time this has happened. I dial into my voice-mail and it's a message from John. He sounds calm again, no hint of his previous anger. "I'm going back to Stinson again tomorrow morning. Meet me there. There is something I want to show you." I finish my work day and go home. I decide to tell Sarah about the tape and how it's making John act strange, but when I get home she still hasn't gotten back from work. I make myself dinner and watch some TV and there is still no sign of her. I call her work and they tell me she left when her shift ended at 4:00PM. I call her Mom in LA to ask if she's heard any word from Sarah but she hasn't and seems as worried as I am. I fall asleep on the couch watching TV. Saturday - April 9th: Sarah was still gone when I woke up Saturday morning. There's no way I can go meet with John with Sarah missing. I go online and try and find any reports of traffic accidents on Friday evening but there is nothing. Finally I decide to call the Sheriff's department. They tell me I can file a missing person report, there is no waiting period to do so. I give them all the details and they promise to call me back as soon as they hear something. Sarah's Mom calls me again in the evening, she is very upset that no one can find any trace of her daughter. Sunday - April 10th: I awake from the most vivid nightmare in the early hours of Sunday morning. In the dream I am sleeping in my bed, spooned up against Sarah. I wake up and I am freezing cold, the bed is totally soaked with nearly frozen water and it wreaks of salt and sea-weed. Everything is wet, the mattress, pillows and blankets, everything. My arms are wrapped around Sarah and her body is just as cold as the water, possibly even colder. I prop myself up and turn on the lamp next to the bed. Sarah is asleep on her side with her back to me and I see that her arms have been bound behind her with twine, the knot is so tight that it's turned her hands blue and there is a blood seeping from the cuts in her wrists. I am paralyzed by absolute terror, the kind you can only experience in a dream. Slowly Sarah roles from her side onto her back and I can see her face. It's her
but she looks deformed, her face is too broad and her nose looks flattened and smashed Almost like she's pressed up against a piece of glass. Her eyes are bright and shiny, her mouth is locked into a terribly wide grin. There are far too many teeth inside her mouth. She tells me there is something she needs to show me. I wake up in an empty bed, bathed in sweat and tangled in the bed covers. I swear I can still smell the ocean. Eventually I leave the house to get food. On my return I notice wet, sandy foot prints leading from the grassy lawn right up to my front door. There is a wet piece of twine wrapped tightly around the door handle. When I untie it I notice my hands have been stained a dull red. Monday - April 11th: I couldn't sleep. I called into work and told them I was sick. I lay on the couch all day watching TV and I have no appetite. At some point I must have dozed off on the couch with the TV on. I wake up and the TV is blaring noise. A local news report is on and the news report is yelling, almost screaming his news report. It's a story about hundreds of dead bodies washing up on the beach last night, all of them with their hands bound behind their backs. He looks directly into the camera, almost like he's looking right at me and says "You need to get down to the beach, there's something I need to show you." The TV turns off, my apartment is freezing and I can smell salt water. Tuesday - April 12th: Another night of fitful sleeping but at least no more dreams. I am exhausted from stress and lack of sleep, it's difficult to keep my thoughts in order. I called work and told them I was still sick, for some reason I don't want them to know about my missing girlfriend. In the evening a deputy from the Sheriff's department called me. He told me that they found Sarah's car abandoned in a parking lot near Stinson beach. I tried asking him more questions but he seemed very elusive and wouldn't give me any straight answers. I hope they don't think I'm a suspect in her disappearance. He told me that I needed to meet them at Stinson first thing tomorrow morning so they could ask me some questions. Shouldn't they want to question me at the Sheriff's office? Before he
hung up he told me that it was imperative that I be at Stinson tomorrow, he said there was something he needed to show me. I called Sarah's parents house and her dad answered the phone. I told them about the deputy finding her car. He said it wasn't important anymore and that everything was going to be okay. "Just make sure you meet with the deputy tomorrow morning, okay? There is something you need to see." Tuesday - April 13th: Another nightmare, God I hope it was a nightmare. I'm so tired from not sleeping it's hard to tell what's real and what isn't. In the dream I was laying in bed again, the clock said 3:28 AM. I woke up to a soft tapping noise coming from the bedroom window. I tried to ignore and go back to sleep. I hear the tap two more times and then Sarah's voice. "Walter, I know you're in there. Please let me in, there is something I want to show you. Walter?" My bedroom window is on the second floor. I ran downstairs, my gaze locked onto the floor, afraid of what I might see outside the window even though the venition blinds were drawn closed. I fled into the small guest bedroom/computer office on the first floor and locked the door behind me. I didn't sleep the rest of the night. The house is filled with the smell of sea water again, stronger than before. Wednesday - April 14th: I am terrified and nearly mad with the need for sleep. I don't know what to do or who to ask for help. I know I can't stay locked in this room all day. I've decided to write this all down and post it online, some place where people can read it but possibly won't take it seriously. I'm afraid I won't make it back home ever again but I have to go down to Stinson to talk with the Sheriff He's already called twice asking me where I am and if he shouldn't just send someone to pick me up and drive me down there. Hopefully everything will work out okay and I'll be back home this later evening.
Count the People by lifestrikes In 1979, my dad was 16 years old. He grew up in Southern Arkansas near Spavinaw Creek deep in the country. He knew that land better than he knew anything, but my grandmother was still hesitant when he asked to go camping at the creek for the weekend with his friends from the other farms around the area. After much deliberation, my grandmother finally agreed. That weekend he and his friends packed up and headed to the creek. The group was made up of nine teenage boys, ages thirteen to seventeen. When they got there they spent the day fishing and playing games. It started to get dark so they started a fire. The sun went down, and it got so dark that my dad could no longer really see the faces of those around him. He looked around the fire and began trying to identify his friends. He could hardly see. He figured out who most of them were, but he was confused by the number of people around the fire. He counted to himself, "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10..." He counted again and again trying to determine whether he had accidentally counted someone twice. After counting over and over, he began to panic. "Who is this extra person sitting with us around the fire?" he thought. He didn't know how to tell his friends. He was afraid that whoever or whatever was with them around the fire would be set off by his telling the group and hurt them. "Count the people," he finally said to his friends. They all muttered "What?" "What are you talking about?" confused by him disrupting the conversation to say this random sentence. "Count the people!" he insisted loudly. They sat there in silence for a few seconds; they realized what he was saying. They all jumped up and sprinted away from the fire.
After about fifteen minutes, they all made their way back to the fire. They all came back safe. None of them ever found out who or what was around that fire with them. But to this day, when my family goes camping with my dad's childhood friends, I can see them all looking around the fire and counting the people.
The Void Rumor has it that every Halloween, during the hours of 2 AM and 5 AM, there is a void that opens up in reality. It's said that you can take advantage of the Void... for a price. You must stand in front of a mirror in a pitch black room with your gaze fixated on the mirror. If you remain in the room when the moment arrives, you will feel a chill seize your body. Place your right hand on the mirror and whisper, "I accept." If done correctly, in the mirror, there will be a faint image of an infant with no flesh and pitch black eyes. He will stare directly into your soul, and you will be filled with unspeakable terror. You will also hear the buzzing of flies and nervous whispering. The infant will ask you five questions about events that have occurred in your life. His voice will sound like the rubbing of sandpaper and will be devoid of all human emotion. For each question that you answer incorrectly, one of your five senses will be consumed and lost to you forever. For each question that is answered correctly, you will be able to recite the name of someone you know. That person will be found dead the next morning with their flesh removed and their eyes missing.
A Flash of Blue by Slimebeast They're always blue, and I can't figure out why. There has to be a reason. It can't just be random. I thought maybe it was because they blend in with the sky, but that would denote some sort of evolutionary process... or even worse, intelligent design. I can't process that. I don't think anyone could. They sweep in from nowhere, they just whip by like large, immobile birds frozen with wingspan extended. You never know when one is coming because they're silent... they cut through the air effortlessly... there doesn't even have to be a breeze so there's absolutely no warning. There's just a flash of blue. A flash of blue, and a child is gone. It's just innocent behavior. They run toward the things. All they have to do is see one out of the corner of their eye and suddenly little shoes are beating the ground, small hands outstretched like... like when they're demanding a hug. The things exploit this somehow. They whip past, and before you even see them, the children are off sprinting... wheeling madly toward... those things. They don't wait for the children. They never stop moving, like vibrant, shimmering sharks that prowl the skies. They don't HAVE to stop, because one child always reaches them... grabs on... gets whisked
away. It doesn't matter how much you warn your son or daughter. You can scold, you can run practices, you can shriek until you're as blue as those things. Nothing matters. The minute a kid sees it, they want it. "Look," they'll cry out, "it's getting away!" Then they're gone. We lost our little one, Daniel, very early on. We hadn't even heard there was anything wrong. It was just a normal day in the park and... and when we saw what Danny saw... we let him go to it. We encouraged him to grab onto it. How could we have known? THERE WAS NO WAY TO KNOW!! They found his body broken and mangled... dangling from a tree branch miles away. I knew my wife wouldn't be able to identify the body without breaking down, but... I didn't do any better in the end. It's just... it's just RANDOM. They get taken, they get bashed around like ragdolls, and they get left behind in the most disturbing and inexplicable places. They're always blue. I can't figure out how they can always be blue... never red, never green or yellow... Just blue kites. There was no way to know...
This Story Has A Happy Ending by Slimebeast This story has a happy ending. I promise. Please, no matter what happens, don't stop reading. This story is about someone I'll call "Honey", who had a very bad night. There was nothing very special about Honey. They were just like anyone else, for the most part. Really, this could have happened to anyone. It all began right before bed. Honey had stayed up a bit late, as you may have already guessed. There was no moon in the sky, and everything was dark save for the light in Honey's room and the glow of a computer monitor. No, Honey wasn't special and Honey wasn't doing anything special, either. Looking up scary stories on the web was hardly a unique activity. It wasn't until Honey reached the end of a particularly strange tale that they noticed something was, for lack of a better term, "off". There was a strange smell in the room, something that had previously gone unnoticed. Something that almost seemed to belong, and only seemed out of place in that moment. "Honey..." whispered some far-off voice from beyond the doorway, "Honey..." Or was it simply imagined? It could have been a creak, or just something picked out of the white noise of an appliance.
Already a bit on edge from the night's reading, Honey was loathe to check on the source of this sound. Instead, Honey hunkered down and silently insisted it was just a trick of the mind. Everything seemed fine for a while, and Honey started to relax. "Honey!" called a man's voice. Clear. Loud. Unmistakable. What followed was the sharp cry of an animal. Honey's beloved pet. Jumping from the chair in both shock and concern, Honey peered through the dark doorway for any sign of what could be going on. Had someone broken in, or was the supposed voice simply a sick sound the animal had made before sounding that desperate, pained cry? Something sailed through the air, through the doorway, and landed at Honey's feet with a wet, gruesome splat. There, a mangled, crushed ball of bloody meat lay motionless. Honey cried out in terror, and instantly felt sick from the sight, smell, and sound of the bloody entrails that were oozing out onto the floor. The idea of this much-adored animal now turned to twisted gore made the illness all the more overwhelming. There was no doubt in Honey's mind now, as they raced to the telephone. Quickly, Honey dialed the authorities and placed the phone to their ear. The voice on the other end of the line was terrifyingly familiar. "What's wrong, Honey?" The phone dropped to the floor as Honey moved to hide from whatever unnatural force had set upon them.
There was no time, however, as a bulky gray figure rushed into the room, its small head set with only the crudest, most basic concept of what could be eyes and a mouth. Two black dots, one black line. "NOT SO FAST, HONEY!!" With only the briefest flash of white-hot claws, Honey was looking down at their own arms twitching madly as they fell to the floor. Jaw open, eyes wide, pale and unable to speak, Honey looked into what passed for the thing's face. Its thin black line of a mouth opened... and opened... and opened until it exposed a black void lined with small, thin flailing black tentacles in place of teeth. The gaping maw went over Honey's head and, despite all protest and struggle, it passed the shoulders, then the chest, then... Well, I told you this story had a happy ending, and I wasn't lying. You see, none of that really happened! Not yet, anyway. Goodnight, Honey.
A Pile of Photographs A young girl walking home from school found a small pile of Polaroid photos lying in the gutter. There were twenty in all, neatly wrapped in a rubber band. She picked them up, and as she walked, she started to browse. The first photo was that of a ghostly white man on a black background, standing just far enough away from the camera that she couldn’t make out his features. The girl slid the photo to the back of the stack and looked at the next one. The photo was of the same man now standing a bit closer. The girl flipped through the next several photos quickly. With each one the man in the picture came a bit closer and his features were a bit clearer. Turning the last corner to her house, the girl noticed that the man in the photos seems to be looking at her even when she moved the stack from side to side. It frightened her, but she kept flipping them over, one by one. By the nineteenth picture, the man was so close his face completely filled the frame. His expression was the most horrifying the girl had ever seen. Walking up the driveway, she turned to the last photo. This time, instead of an image, there were two words: "Close enough." Hearing a scream outside their house, the girl’s brother rushed to the door and opened it. All he saw was a pile of photographs lying on the doorstep. The top one looked like an extremely pale version of his sister, but she was standing too far back for him to be sure.
The Photographs
One of the photos the woman made
A few months ago a friend of mine, who is a nature photographer, decided to spend a day and night alone in the woods outside of our town. She wanted to get photos of the woods She wanted to get photos of the woods and wildlife as naturally as she could for her portfolio. She wasn't afraid of being alone, as she had camped by herself many times before. She set up a tent in the middle of a small clearing and spent the day taking pictures. She filled up four rolls of film on that trip, but when she went and got them developed she saw four pictures that unsettled her. These four pictures were taken from inside the tent. Of her, asleep in the middle of the night.
My day :) by willbo360 I can't see them :( I always watch TV with my friends through the window, but the curtains are closed tonight How can I be friends with my friends if I can't see them? I need to see them. My friends :) I like to watch TV with them this time of day. I can't hear the sound but I like to watch anyways. I like to be with my friends :) I need to be with my friends. I know they like me. The have such a nice house, door around back, my favorite window around the side :) They have a nice mailbox. Very nice and red. I sleep under the porch in my cozy nest. They leave a bowl on the steps for me, and I share with the nice dog. I go to the door around back so I can watch the TV with them. The curtains are closed so I have to go around back, to the door. The door doesn't open but I try another way, another way in. I break the glass with my hand and open the door. I will surprise my friends. I have never been inside before. They will be so happy to see me inside. The don't notice when I walk up behind them, and I am too shy to tell them I am here. They look at the TV. Their eyes are glued to the screen. I watch with them :) We are having so much fun :))) haha I watch for so long then gather up courage to say hello to my friends :))) They are so excited that I am inside with them, watching TV with
them. They scream with excitement :) We play tag. I have played this with many of the neighborhood kids, so I am good at it. The boy and the girl run but I catch them :) So silly, my friends :) Then we are all tired. It is nap time :) The boy and the girl lay on the ground and sleep. I go back to my nest It has been a fun day with my friends :)
Grandpa's second voice by tennysonspeaks When I was younger, my grandpa and I would watch those medical mystery TV shows. You know, the ones with six-legged cows or skinless babies that still manage to live. Weird allergies, genetic mutations, and even the somewhat comical "Well the doctor made a really big oops and left medical equipment inside of you and you've been living with it for 5+ years" stories. They were educational and gross at the same time, something that I fed off of as a young teen. Grandpa would always joke around that he should be on those shows. I knew he wasn't serious - he hated drawing attention to his issue. I would occupy myself with what they would title an episode of his, and always came back to the blunt, retro movie title of "The Man with Two Voices". Ever since any of my family can remember, grandpa's had "two voices". The only way for me to describe it is to compare it to having phlegm in your throat when you're sick, and how it sometimes creates a split in your voice. There's your normal speaking voice that you can hear fine, but underneath it is like a deeper growly echo. Then it'd be gone when you cleared your throat. My grandpa is like that all the time, but his "second voice" is just as loud as his normal voice. I remember him telling me stories when he was much younger, and his mother pulling her hair out over the whole ordeal. Took him to doctors that stuck scopes and lights down his throat - nothing. Primitive x-rays on his neck - nothing. I used to ask grandpa why he didn't go back to the doctor after that, especially now with all the new things they have in hospitals that he didn't have growing up. It was always the same answer, "They can't tell me nothin' new." We named his second voice "Ed". My grandpa's name was Albert, usually Al, so it sounded like a TV show. Ed Al. Al Ed. When my grandpa died, it was tragic. Despite his vocal anomaly, he had tons of friends and people that loved him. Or, my skeptical
mother would say, people that liked his "circus act". Her skepticism - that grandpa was using some sort of parlor trick - was quickly debunked at his autopsy. Grandpa should have gone back to the doctor, we learned. An ultrasound would have indicated that his beer gut wasn't actually beer, and his "second voice" was literally a second voice. The small, curled-up body of his unknown twin was unearthed from his belly, connected to his esophagus below his collarbone. His childhood doctors did not detect it. It was made clear, then, that the hollow tube connecting the mouth of grandpa's twin to his esophagus was the source of grandpa's second voice. A voice that kept talking past grandpa's death, according to the autopsist. Ed was still alive some days after that.
Crazy Hispanic woman at the swap meet by Spooky-Monsters This happened to me when I was four years old and was still living with my family in San Diego, CA. It was a summer morning and, as was customary for my family on the weekends, it was decided to go to the closest swap meet to do some shopping right after having breakfast at our favourite pancake place. Before I share my account of what happened I need to make two things clear; the first one, is that I’m a female and even though I’m Caucasian, having very curly black hair has often made people think that I’m Hispanic or biracial. Secondly, there were two things that always and I mean ALWAYS, made my father distracted whenever we went out: Women and tools. Now, on the day in question my father was looking for some specific tool he needed to work on some armoire he’d been asked to make for a client, while my heavily pregnant mother had decided it was time to buy the last items she needed for the baby before she could go into emergency labour. To save time, my mother and my eight year old brother stayed behind to check baby stuff in one of the stands closest to the food court, right in the middle of the place; because my brother was older, he’d been assigned the role of “man of the house” while my father took care of his shopping; this left me under the care of my father. My father took me to check the tools stand that was located at the opposite end of that row. As expected and despite my mother warning him several times that morning, NOT to let go of my hand as he’d done the previous week ( I’d gotten lost inside a department store because he got distracted ), he let go of my hand as soon as a young lady asked if she could help him with anything; he pointed to a toolbox that had caught his eye and he went around the table as she offered to open it so he could check out the tools inside. When I felt bored just standing there, I turned around to see if my
mother was still checking the baby stuff, thinking that I could perhaps go with her instead of staying there and looking at boring stuff, but I didn’t see her or my brother. I stayed on the same spot, waiting, because I’d been told the week before to stay where I was so it would be easier to find me if my father forgot about me. As time dragged on without my father checking up on me, I realized that he wasn’t going to come back; I looked around but he was nowhere in sight. The young lady was there but she was now talking to another man. I waited a while longer thinking that perhaps he’d gone to the van beside the stand to check out any other tools kept in there. I was feeling increasingly scared by then, so I took a few steps into the stand and called out for my father. He wasn’t there anymore. Figuring that he’d forgotten all about me again, I walked back to the stand where my mother and brother had been but they were no longer there. I began walking around, looking for them but I couldn’t see them in any of the stands that I passed; to make things worse, that day the swap meet was packed, so it was hard to see them with all the adults towering around me. To this day I don’t know how I managed to stay calm and find my way to the side entrance, where my father had parked the car. Before I continue I need to say that even though I’m a girl, my parents often dressed me in some of the clothes that no longer fit my older brother; this wasn’t due to some crazy belief or anything of that sort, it was only that we were kinda poor and it was cheaper to have their daughter wear their eldest son’s clothes sometimes while they saved up to get me girl clothes. That day I was wearing some denim overalls, a white t-shirt with yellow lines on the sleeves and chest and a pair of brown oxfords instead of my usual mary janes. My hair, due to it being so curly and untameable was kept somewhat short, so I was often mistaken for a boy. I was waiting by the entrance, watching the people that were leaving, when a Hispanic woman in her thirties or forties made a beeline towards me; she began to act overly dramatic, calling me to her in an annoyingly sweet voice. She tried to pull me into her arms and kiss me a couple of times but I turned away and clung to the
metal pole that was behind me. It’s important to note that I’ve never been a people person, so touchy feely people always made me feel the most uneasy; another thing worth mentioning is that whenever I felt scared or threatened I immediately went into fighting mode. At that moment, feeling scared out of my mind by the woman’s antics, I began to push her away and scream “Go away!” and “Don’t touch me!” to stop her from grabbing me or picking me up as she was attempting to do. People stopped and stared but did nothing to stop her or help me; she turned to them and told them in broken English that “I was throwing a fit” or something along those lines, which was apparently enough for them. At this point I was sure that no one would take the time to help me, which made me think that I had to get out of this on my own. I began to act more aggressively, screaming louder to try and get any attention. The woman then yanked me away from the pole and tried to pull me towards the parking lot; this is when I began to bite and kick, calling for my mother and father, as loudly as I could. This is when an elderly couple rushed to me, asking: “Darling, are you alright?” “What is the matter?” I told them she wasn’t my mother and that she wanted to take me somewhere I didn’t want to go. The old man picked me up as the old lady left to call security. The woman kept trying to pull me by my clothes and legs, but he held me tightly; two younger men finally walked over and restrained her. I remember the old man wearing a cap with an eagle and flags on it, so I asked him what the eagle meant, he began to tell me all about it, ignoring the crazy woman who was still screaming like a banshee. Mr. Ralph was telling me all about the medals he’d won during the war, when I heard my mother calling me, almost out of breath, somewhere behind us; I saw her rushing to us, dragging my brother along. Mr. Ralph put me down and explained everything to her. It took my father a long while to show up, popping out of nowhere, turning as white as a ghost when he saw the police officers talking to my mother and the elderly couple. My mother was furious and gave him quite an earful for being an irresponsible shit again.
My parents thanked them and the officers for their help and we left the swap meet. The crazy Hispanic woman was put into a patrol car and taken into custody. I’m forever grateful to Mrs. Dottie and Mr. Ralph. Crazy Hispanic woman, even though it’s been years since this happened, let’s NEVER met again.
Devil Incarnate Grandmother and Psycho Rednecks by Dromaeosaurid Hi. This is my first time posting here. I'm not a very good writer and not very good at explaining things but I really wanted to share. Sorry if this is so long but so much shit has happened to me hahah. (some context, Kieran lived up in the sticks so I'm referring to him as a redneck in the title) A while ago, me and my Mom, Elize, had just gotten out of a harsh situation. At the time I was a 9 year old Girl (although currently I am making progress towards feeling comfortable in my own skin and transitioning) and my mom was looking to start dating again. After a while, she had met someone, I did not mind him, and eventually we moved in with the guy. Kieran, my moms new boyfriend, quickly started to be a creep... (I have to provide y'all with a backstory first so things make sense so bear with me!!) he started doing stupid shit. When we we're setting up our christmas tree he was purposely knocking down and destroying some of my moms antique bulbs. Later that night... sitting on the couch he told me that him and my mom "aren't compatible". in front of her, and my mom around here starts thinking 'oh shit'. Either way life goes on. Things with Kieran get worse. His behavior slowly starts to get extreme. He fought with my mom a lot, for no reason. I was now 10 around this time. One night I found him in the garage sifting around in my moms car, he told me he was looking for "headache medicine" when I caught him. But my gut told me he wasn't. Not long after that incident I found him in her office rummaging through her purse. I asked him what he was doing, he gave me the same excuse. But I still knew he was lying. More time passed. I was about 11 now. I would sometimes be under my bed, Kieran spent a lot of time in the basement. One day I
could hear him through the vent on my floor under my bed, talking on the phone to my Grandmother Beth. I accidentally moved and made a noise against the vent, which he heard from the basement. He went silent. And stayed silent for a long time. Eventually I left my room and went outside out of fear of him confronting me. Things only got worse. Kieran had a friend name Tim. I got pedo vibes from the guy, and got vibes that he was generally shady as fuck. I never really trusted him. One night I was standing on the porch, and I heard someone step on the driveway. We had a LOT of animals in the area and a Coyote pack that howled every night but I knew the difference between a human step and an animal. I went inside. I haven't stopped believing it was Tim. Later I had one of my BFFs over, we were walking around in the woods. Acting like we were hunting for dragons. It was fun. Until we had come to this one part of the yard. It was a small clearing surrounded by the dense forest that the property was on. Suddenly two figures speed past me and my BFF, we were both terrified. And we both knew they were people. Kieran was nowhere to be found in the house. I don't know why the fuck him and his creeper friend were running around in the woods. This was a normal occurance anyways. He would stalk me and my mother from the forest. He would literally stand in the pool we had set up in the yard and stare into the house at us. My mother always felt him watching and so did I. He would be a creeper up close.. often coming into the bathroom when I was naked and taking a bath, giving no warning before entering. He'd make an excuse for why he was in there, look at me, and then leave. Kieran did not stop being a fucking psycho. He accused my mom of being a waster, and so she spitefully took a half full gallon of milk and started pouring it down the drain. Kieran lost his shit and violently grabbed her by the wrists and started hitting her. I was trembling watching it and screaming that I was going to call 911, I had the phone in hand. Mom told me to go to my room, she later
came to me and urged me not to call. She had her reasons and I understood, the cops wouldn't do shit for us. My mother was scared for my life as well as her own. Every day we were terrified. One day we timed how long it took Kieran to start complaining about shit after he got home, it took him 17 seconds by the way. Eventually we left, and my Granny Beth ARGUED with the legal help about if we really needed to move or not. The man told her that Kieran was eventually going to kill us and that nobody would ever find our bodies. Fast forward, we move back to where my grandmother Beth lives, the general area. We think that we are free from trauma and abuse. We were mistaken. Eventually I found out that Granny Beth had kept us in that shit situation with Kieran. She spoon fed him lies to make him violent towards us. She made him do things. She supported him. She was angry when we got out and she was going to express it. Beth is a terrifying manipulator and I sadly found out the hard way. My aunt and uncle. My uncle would already come and randomly scream at us when we were living with Kieran, would spit at my mother and accuse her of things that aren't true. My aunt is a fucking parrot for my Granny Beth, she will repeat any conversation she has with my mom back to Beth. Beth will of course reward my uncle for being her white knight by paying for stainless steel appliances, a new car, two new tractors. Ect. We moved in, I was now 12. I had a bad feeling in my gut. I went downstairs and opened the basement door to see my Aunt messing with the heating stuff. She started being really sheepish when I asked what she was doing and brushed it off. Eventually she left the basement. I didn't think to snoop around with what she was doing, as I didn't know much about heating and stuff. So I ignored it. My uncle ended up calling me a little bitch so my mom kicked him out of the house along with Beth (she was there because my Uncle was putting a new door in our house and she of course has to supervise) and that was that. A few days later my mom starts acting strange.
She things she's going crazy. I assure her nothing is wrong, and time goes by. One night we were preparing dinner and mom says she smelled something weird, and somehow immediately picked out that it was a gas leak. We evacuated the house and called someone to help us. The man was very polite. He entered the basement and his CO2 detector was going nuts. We came to find out that someone had blown out the pilot light. The memory of my aunt acting sheepish in the basement came to mind, and I felt sick. I still feel sick knowing that my own grandmother almost killed us and made it look like an accident. Getting my own family to do her sick bidding for treats and rewards. My uncle sometimes finds my mothers social media accounts and sends her harassing texts, he'd drive by our house. Grandma beth would drive by our house as well. We eventually had to change our locks because she'd given the family keys to our fucking house and we had found evidence that she had people coming in while we were gone!! She called my mother, as well as me, whores. Even though I was only 14. And she's lied to us about the entire family. She has done so many other disgusting things, and sometimes I still think I'm a crazy person and the real bad guy. I'm a 19 year old guy now, I've moved away. But I will never forget what a fucking weirdo my grandmother was. I'm so glad to be out of the prison that she made life into. It was a terrifying experience for me so I think think this subreddit might find it creepy too. So, to my Fiendish Granny and Kieran. I hope to god we never meet again.
The longest train ride of my life by alligatoralle I am a Canadian student (female, early 20s) studying in the UK, and am currently traveling home to see my family. I typically fly out of Manchester as it is simpler to get to from northern UK where I am living, but I found a cheap flight that leaves early tomorrow (or today, I guess) morning that I couldn't pass up. The problem is, it takes quite a few hours to get to the airport from where I live, so I ended up having to take the train from downtown London to Gatwick airport from 2-3am. I waited mostly alone for an hour for my train to arrive, but about 20 minutes beforehand, a guy comes in and sits on a bench about 20 feet from me. I immediately got a bad vibe, but figured there's security cameras and he was far enough away so I just forgot about it. The train arrived at 2am and the journey takes just over an hour. As it pulled up, I had this urge to walk away from this man and sit in a different compartment with more people, but when I turned to walk away, he gestured to help with my bags, and I ended up getting into the compartment that pulled in front of us. There was only this man and one other in the compartment with me - neither one with luggage, which struck me as odd on a train headed to the airport. One of the men was sitting a few rows in front of me and one a few rows behind. I felt very uneasy, but felt slightly trapped so I decided to keep an eye on the man in front of me by watching his reflection in the window. He kept muttering things to himself, looking at me and smirking, and had multiple short phone conversations in a hushed voice. The man behind me was doing similar things. After a few stops, another man got on, which calmed my nerves, but seemed to annoy the man in front of me. He then moved seats to a row closer to me and now within his eye line where he pretended to read a book while staring at me intermittently over it. He was close enough now that in his next phone conversation I could make out the phrase "yeah, not now".
There was one stop left before the airport, and the third man got up to get ready to exit. I can't explain the feeling of fear I felt thinking I'd be alone in this compartment with these two men as I fumbled with my keys to get them between my fingers in the horrible case that I'd have to fight them off. The man in front of me got up again and moved behind me a row away from where the other man was sitting and I heard a faint "yeah lets go for it". At this point, I saw my opportunity and I guess my body decided on flight rather than fight as I picked up all my bags and hauled ass past the man about to get off and into the next compartment. Thankfully, there were a few people there and I was able to relax. When we arrived at the airport I tried to stay with the group getting off as I knew the other two men would be exiting as well, but in my confusion finding the way to the terminal, the man from in front caught up to me. I veered off over by some station employees and dawdled there while I waited for him to leave. He kept looking over at me as he paced around a bit before leaving. I watched him go up the escalator, staring at me as he ascended. I waited a minute and figured he'd given up, so I stepped onto the escalator. As soon as I reached the top I saw the man standing there staring at me, so I quickly shouted to another employee, asking them if they would show me the way to the terminal. Thankfully, it was close by and I was soon in the safety of the airport. Obviously there is no way to know if I was just being paranoid, but I sincerely believe that there is something built into our genetics that lets us know when we are in danger. I am not typically a paranoid person and wasn't originally nervous about traveling in London alone, nor was I scared or uneasy around any of the other men I encountered tonight. But something about these guys told me to get the fuck out of there fast, and I'd rather have overreacted than ended up in a dangerous situation.
The down town mad man by IndependantTeaParty A few years back when i was in my mid teens i was the rebellious type (or so i thought i was) i worn a lot of black clothing and tight jeans long hair the whole i hate my parents outfit. But above everything i loved music , i have been a musician for 8 years now and i attribute this cringe worthy time in my life to sparking that love. Well with this love came the love of seeing live shows , i would go to concerts whenever i could with whoever would go with me. It was an october night when i went into the city of Philadelphia , with my friend who we will call Sarah. We arrived around 5 pm when the street was still active and many people walked up and down the streets moving from one way to another. This being a safe time for two 15 year old kids to be alone in a possibly dangerous city. We arrived at the show , went and had a great time nothing really important to note just pure fun. After the final note had been played it was around 11 pm , we left the venue and entered the now darker , colder city streets. To give some perspective we had seen a show at the Barbary , which if anyone knows this place would know it is not in the best part of town. Instead of being smart and heading with the crowd towards the train station home. Me a Skinny 15 year old boy and Sarah a even smaller 15 year old girl decided it would be a good idea to go out and try to find some food in the city. After walking around for what seemed like forever we ended up at a small run down pizza shop. We both ordered our food and sat down to eat, talking about Sarah's recent break up and how she would never love again (teen stuff). After we finally moved to a brighter topic and things lightened up a bit Sarah was in the middle of telling some corny joke when she stopped.
Her eyes seemed in a way to go from me to some where behind me and her smile changed to a expression of worry. Noticing this i asked her what was wrong, this seemed to break her from the trans she was stuck in. "This guy a few tables down" her voice trailed off for a moment and just as i was about to press her to continue she spoke again this time with a more upset tone. "He is masturbating under the table , and staring at me". For a short moment i thought she was making some stupid joke , but seeing once again the fear in her eyes showed me she was serious. "let's go , now" I said wanting to get Sarah as far from this guy as possible. we quickly threw out our trash and left , we walked fast down the now dark and empty city streets. After a block or so and no sign that the man had tried to follow us , we relaxed a little falling back into our normal conversation and the situation was quickly forgotten. We had been talking about Some high school drama , when Sarah saw him. He had to be two blocks up , and if the streets had not been so empty she probably would never have taken notice. " Thats him" she said the fear welling up in her throat again . It took me a second to realize the situation we now faced. There stood the man much taller and larger then i had thought him to be back in the poorly illuminated pizza shop , hitting his head against the wall not hard enough to hurt but enough to the point where it was noticeable. We stopped dead and just stared at him both of us trying to make sense of what we were seeing. This is when i could hear him , He was Muttering Something unintelligible With the occasional louder yell of some curses. "look i know this is freaky but it's going to be ok, we can just go around the other side of the block and pass him" I said Trying to restore some normality to the otherwise disturbing situation. Sarah was still Noticeably scared but was some what calmed by
my sudden yet obvious realization. With this we continued our walk towards the train station which would take us to safety. At this point i was fighting the facts in my head and trying to stay calm. You see the response time For police in this part of Philadelphia at this time at night was 30 minutes at best , which meant if we actually were in any danger we were on our own. We reached the end of the first block and it was at this point we could begin to hear the man again. Now much more clear We could make out more of what he was saying. He was talking to himself in an angry tone seemingly pissed about messing something up. "i should have done it " he kept repeating , At this point we were beyond freaked out and just wanted to get home and remain unseen. We Grew closer now only a few feet from him but on the opposite end of the block when the man grew violent, hitting his head harder and yelling louder "I SHOULD HAVE DONE IT" over and over again. Sarah who now had tears welling in her eyes , let out the faintest scared yelp , and the man stopped cold and grew instantly silent. We heard him turn the laugh ever so slightly and start running away, thinking quick i realized he wasn't running from us but instead to the top of the block so he could cut us off. I grabbed Sarah by the wrist hard and pulled her behind me as fast as i could to the other side of the block and up the street. This is when we heard him yell " I won't hurt you if you let me fuck her", i shoved my other hand over Sarah's mouth so the man couldn't hear her sobbing. Thank god the man turned the corner onto the other side of the block this gave us just enough time to rush by when the man realized we passed him he became more angry and started searching frantically for us , being city streets there was not many good places to hide , i was not trying to stray from our path because getting lost around here with this guy was not an option. So many things went through my head as we ran, who was this guy, how did he follow us , and better yet how did he manage to get ahead of us. We ran until we reached the train station , it was empty , once we
caught our breath i checked the train schedule , by now the time was 12:05 and the next train out wasn't for 30 minutes. This gave us no comfort for this guy found us before and now if he found us we would have no were to hide. Sarah and i stayed silent hiding out of view as best as we could , i held her in my arms trying to calm her down. We sat alone on the flat foor , The silence turned every slight noise into the monster of a man we now hid from. Just as the train finally came into sight there he was walking down the stairs to our platform. We stayed hidden as we saw him get on the train once we knew he was on , we ran on a few train cars down and sat sightly , we had 4 stops. Each one gave us time to freak our selves out even more wondering if he saw us and if we would be followed off the train. at this time as soon as i could get connection i called my dad telling him he needed to get to the station as soon as he could and explained our situation. My Father being a good man understood and intern may have saved us. The trained pulled into the station and we booked it off and down the stairs to the bottom floor this is when we heard the man again now chasing us down the stairs growing closer every moment. We just made is out the doors without being had by the man . when he saw my dads car he ran the other way. We never filed any reports because there was nothing the police could actually do for us . So To the crazy rapist that attacked me and my friend lets not meet again ok?
My Cat Saved My Life by prayer_night I love staying up late. Watching television until 3am is my bread and butter. Suffice to say, this is a usual thing for me when I'm home alone. With my dad going away for work every two weeks and coming home for one, it was very easy for me to get away with it while I was still in school. And for context, I lived with just my dad as my mom passed away from cancer when I was only 12. But I wasn't completely alone though. I had a tuxedo cat with the most fitting moniker, Tuxedo. I've had him since I turned 16 and he's kept me company during the many long Canadian winter nights when I was by myself. His two favorite places to sit were the small red couch on the right side of the television and the small table thar was placed in front of the large living room window. I also occupied the big red couch right in front of the television. One more important thing to note is that my dad always insisted I close the curtains on the large living room window when it became night time. To him, he thought it was dangerous to let people see into the house and could tempt them to break in. But in my mind, I always figured no one would be dumb enough to break into a house with lights on instead of a house with no lights on at all. So I usually just left them open the entire two weeks he was away because... laziness. So on this particular night, I was watching a documentary (I think it was about some couple being held hostage somewhere in Australia.) These certain documentaries would be on very late, which wasn't a problem for 18 year old me in the slightest. Tuxedo obviously felt differently as he had chosen to gaze outside the living room window instead. As it had just entered commercial break, Tuxedo started giving soft cries as his eyes were staring in the direction of the front door, which was on the left side of the window. He usually does this if he sees someone outside at the door, which was more commonly done
during the day than the night for obvious reasons. It was actually very out of the ordinary for Tuxedo to do this so late. At first, I assumed it might have been an outdoor cat or wild rabbit by the door. But I could tell Tuxedo's wail for especially worrisome so I decided to check it out for myself. Here's the layout of my front door entrance. Tuxedo and I were on the top floor, but the entrance was at a lower level that was between the top floor and the basement. There was a small staircase that went down from the top floor towards the front door, and a second small staircase that went further down away from the door to the basement. Hopefully that was a good explanation of it. So I'm standing at the top of the staircase, about to go down and open the door to see for myself when I see a large shadowy figure in the frosted glass of my front door. I nearly collapsed to the ground when I saw this. It was definitely not my dad, and 11pm at night, it was certainly not something I expected to see. I could tell whoever this was had something in the door and was trying to pry it open. At that moment, something came over me that I can't explain. It might have been the fact that I knew I had no one in the house to help me or the fact that I felt an urgency to protect Tuxedo from this intruder, but I grabbed my cell phone off the arm of the couch and threw on the lights over the front door. The shadowy figure was now fully visible and clearly startled as our eyes met through the frosted glass, his face displayed in a jagged reflection. "Leave now! I am calling the police! Leave!" I didn't even get to finish before he was dashing off my yard and into a car across the street. Before I could even tell the make and model, let alone a license plate, he was gone. All that remained was a crude crowbar on the front step. Now, it's up for debate what that man was at my house for. I certainly didn't recognize him in the few seconds I looked at him. While this definitely shattered my imagined immunity from danger if the lights were still on, part of me wonders if he might have still attacked if I wasn't awake that night. One thing is for sure though, Tuxedo saved my life that night. I don't even want to imagine what might have happened if Tuxedo wasn't looking out the window that night.
I left myself open to being stalked by a rapist... by datgirlnamedblank I posted part of this story awhile back, but it was deleted because it focused primarily on something that happened to someone else. Now that it has developed further into a stalking and general creeping story of my own, I figured I might as well return for round two. I had recently had a relationship end, so I was in rebound mode when a friend introduced me to a guy I found attractive. We ended up hanging out more on our own, hitting it off pretty well, and began seeing each other exclusively, although casually. I wanted to like him, he seemed nice and everything, but my gut instinct told me that there was something off about him. It was several months before I figured out what it was. I went to stay the night with him one evening, and we decided to get drunk. It got pretty hazy after a point, but I vaguely remembered getting really nervous at a point, making up an excuse to go home, walking myself back, and going to bed feeling rather troubled. I racked my brain for hours trying to remember what had gone wrong as he texted me like everything was normal, and then I finally remembered. We had been discussing some touchy subjects regarding our pasts when he decided to tell me a story about an ex of his. He described in explicit detail how he had violently raped her and "gotten away with it" due to her failure to press charges without a hint of remorse in his face or his voice. I started ignoring his texts and calls after that. There was about a week where I was getting 20 missed calls and texts a day, although none of it was threatening or creepy, the frequency was way too much. I started placating him with the occasional text claiming I was busy, sick, tired, or otherwise too occupied to talk or hang out, and he actually stopped trying to contact me for several months. During that timeframe, I became seriously romantically involved with someone else and started a customer service-related job in a
centralized fairly high crime area of the city. I was dreading the day he would come in to buy something at my place of work, and after about a month of working there, he did. Later that evening, he texted me wanting to get together, so I told him I have a boyfriend, and I heard nothing out of him for quite some time. I thought he was finally out of my life, but there was one day he came back to the place I work to tell me he factory reset his phone and lost my number, so he wanted me to find him on Facebook. I never did. He began coming to my workplace significantly more often, and I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he never seemed to come in when there were other people in the store, and if a lot of people stated coming in after him, he would leave and come back later. There was one day that he stood there for over half an hour, repeatedly telling me how he misses me and whatnot. I had gotten to the point where I didn't react much to anything he said, and it didn't seem to phase him. There was one day that he had come in right as a large rush was starting, so as usual, he left. After all of those customers cleared out, my boyfriend called me, so I decided to talk to him until the next customer came in. I was pacing around while we talked, and I kept noticing movement outside the window from the corner of my eye, but when I would take notice and look dead on, nothing would be out of place. I positioned myself so that I could see the window in a mirror, and I watched him walk by 6 times, look in the window to see if I was occupied, and quickly leave before he figured I'd see him. Sure enough, when I got off the phone, he came back in, pretending to have forgotten to buy something he needed the first time around. I ended up getting engaged to the man I was with (still am), and there are a lot of people in his past and my past who aren't very happy about that. People have been doing all kinds of shit to try to drive a wedge between us, but we already know all of each other's dirty laundry, and we're both smart enough to tell fact from fiction when it comes to rumors, so we're good. Well, this creep decided to try to take it to the next level and circulate explicit photos of me from when we were seeing each other to a number of people that my fiance knows. Of course it didn't hurt my current relationship, but we're both pretty pissed at the one who did it. Even after that, he
still pulls the stalking and talking shit at my workplace, and there's not really anything I can do about it. I'm really glad I have such a great future husband, because I'd hate to have to start dating all over again and risk getting myself mixed up with another head case like this one... UPDATE: I'm really late getting around to this, as I've been very busy with my new job where I don't have to deal with this creep ever again. I've seen him around a few times since changing jobs, but he hasn't seemed to see me or tried speaking to me. I'm glad to say that this situation has finally settled down.
The perils of online roleplaying. by wonkytardis Hey Reddit! You know how it goes: Long-time reader, first time poster. This happened when I was a young and impressionable 14, back in 2011/12, and was frequenting online chat sites for role-playing purposes. It was a bit of a bad habit, but as an introvert who didn't have many friends, it was how I did social interaction. I'll say for myself that even now I still have some of the friends I made back then. But let's not talk about them, let's talk about my friend Alex. Alex was a guy that I met in a Doctor Who chatroom; he sent me a private message for something I had said in the room that I don't remember, and we struck up a conversation. I remember he had really good grammar and he typed paragraph-long messages. He told me that he was two years older than I was and lived on the West Coast, somewhere in California. At the time, I was living with my parents in North Carolina, so it was quite a considerable time difference. Yet he always seemed to have the time to talk to me. As long-distance friendships often do, we sort of disintegrated. I could tell that he was making valid efforts to talk to me, but I just lost interest and found myself moving on after a few weeks of talking to him. One night he sent me what amounted to an essay's worth of messages describing his love for me, how he just knew that we were meant for each other, yadda yadda yadda. It was completely out of the blue, so I politely rejected him and ended our correspondence. He would continue to send me paragraphs of text every night, talking about our love and how perfect I was, blah blah blah. I eventually blocked him. Fast-forward a couple of months to early 2013. I wasn't roleplaying anymore, and it was the second month of my first serious relationship. One night my phone buzzed with a text message from an unknown number. The owner of said number was apparently looking for a friend of his. I informed him that he had messaged the
wrong number, laughed it off, and then we texted off-and-on for the rest of the evening. Dude seemed pretty nice, and he said he was pleased to have made friends with a supposed wrong number. I concurred. (Still kicking myself for that). As we talked over the next few days I found myself telling him about Alex: what had happened, how uncomfortable it made me, how relieved I was to have found someone else and be in a happy relationship. My new friend was unresponsive for a couple of hours; I just figured I had annoyed him with my sob story and wrote it off. I was woken up from sleep by my phone practically exploding with new notifications from my friend. It was Alex. He had changed his number just so he could text me and pretend to be a stranger who had the wrong number. He said that he still loved me, that I was a dumb slut for moving on from him, and that I had to break up with my boyfriend and "rekindle our flame" or I would be sorry. Yikes. I blocked him and didn't tell my boyfriend anything. More months passed and I eventually forgot about Alex. I would still get occasional messages from unknown numbers saying innocuous things like "hey" and "what's up"; I blocked it every time. I wasn't taking any risks from someone I didn't know. It wasn't until I was 16 that shit finally hit the fan. At this point I had changed phones and numbers. I was facetiming my boyfriend (same one from before), when I got yet another text from an unknown number. But this one was different. It just said, "I'm here." I had no doubt that it was Alex. I said my goodnights to my boyfriend and ended the call before doing the stupidest thing I could have done: I answered the text. "Who is this?" I played dumb, and he saw right through it. He responded with, "It's me, baby. It’s Alex. I always talked about the two of us being together, and now we finally can be. I love you so much." I wanted to throw up. "What are you talking about?" I asked. "I'm in Raleigh. I moved out and drove to find you. Tell me where you are and I can come pick you up. We can get a place and finally be together." (Raleigh is the capital city of North Carolina, I live several hours away from it. Luckily enough, he didn’t know this.)
I was two steps away from panicking. Looking back on it, he could have been lying, but at the time I was just so terrified that I couldn't think straight. I told him to fuck off, that he was crazy, blah blah blah. He got pissed. "What are you talking about, honey? Why are you doing this? I came all this way just so I could be with you and you're going to push me away? Don't be such a selfish bitch and just tell me where you are." I didn't reply. Instead I blocked the number, turned off my phone's location services, and didn't sleep. Unbelievably, I never heard from him again. I don't know what could have happened to him, and I have no idea how he got my number after I changed it. He came across my Facebook feed early this year, and his page said that he had moved to Atlanta and had a girlfriend now. I hope she's okay.
What Next To Watch? 1. 1000 Ways To Die (From Season 1 up to season 3 episode 10) 2. Monk (From Season 1 Up to Season 5 episode 8) and 3. The Coroner: I Speak for the Dead (From Season 1 up to episode 2)
Publication Date: July 19th 2017 https://www.bookrix.com/-amd935e35df1e85