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(Fark)   Prepare to be scared: It's Fark's annual scary story thread. Bonus: Subby will buy a month of Total Fark for the top two voted stories if the Mods keep this story towards the top of the page   ( fark.com) divider line
    More: Scary  
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4400 clicks; posted to Main » on 31 Oct 2015 at 5:06 PM (1 year ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook   more»



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2015-10-29 10:52:34 AM  
Subby here. The annual Scary Story thread is my favorite Fark tradition but the last three or four years have been kinda duds. After having seen quite a few threads in my time, I can tell you that the best Scary Story threads were (a) on weekdays, not weekends and (b) were made "sticky" or whatever so that the headlines didn't get bumped too far down the page.

To that end, because of how much I love Fark, I'm asking the Mods approve this on Friday and make it stick, and in return I'll buy a month of Total Fark for the top-voted Smart and top-voted Funny stories. C'mon you farkers, let's make this thread epic!
 
2015-10-29 11:01:39 AM  
My entry will not be a story per se, more of a spreadsheet of what it's going to cost to send my kid to college in 2032.
 
2015-10-29 11:06:12 AM  
I find it scary that you're willing to shell out $10 for this.
 
2015-10-29 11:08:47 AM  

GooberMcFly: I find it scary that you're willing to shell out $10 for this.


Eh, it's my favorite online Halloween tradition. And I'm shelling out $15 - I only buy Total Fark for myself once a year, for October. :)

I will say if this experiment doesn't work, I'm giving up on even buying TF for myself next year. We've had some really awesome scary story threads, but the last few years' have been terrible.
 
2015-10-29 11:20:50 AM  
Last years was the first one of these I noticed, despite being around here for a decade I just never stumbled across it before.  In b4 fishy
 
2015-10-29 11:21:33 AM  
Oh, to clarify: I will buy a month of Total Fark for the top-voted Smartest and top-voted Funniest posts as of when I check the thread on Saturday, probably sometime mid-afternoon.
 
2015-10-29 11:22:18 AM  
Scariest short story I could come up with:

President Trump and Vice President Cruz sworn into office.
 
2015-10-29 11:32:42 AM  

markie_farkie: Scariest short story I could come up with:

President Trump and Vice President Cruz sworn into office.


Thread over.
 
2015-10-29 12:03:47 PM  
So...this is on the FarkUs page...which is great...but how do we get this to the main page?
 
2015-10-29 12:12:32 PM  

Lord Dimwit: Subby here. The annual Scary Story thread is my favorite Fark tradition but the last three or four years have been kinda duds. After having seen quite a few threads in my time, I can tell you that the best Scary Story threads were (a) on weekdays, not weekends and (b) were made "sticky" or whatever so that the headlines didn't get bumped too far down the page.

To that end, because of how much I love Fark, I'm asking the Mods approve this on Friday and make it stick, and in return I'll buy a month of Total Fark for the top-voted Smart and top-voted Funny stories. C'mon you farkers, let's make this thread epic!


I'll add a month to both of those as well.  Votes tallied when Lord Dimwit?
 
2015-10-29 12:18:39 PM  
YAY!
 
2015-10-29 12:36:19 PM  
Isn't today Thursday, or did I travel through time?  Scary.
 
2015-10-29 12:38:07 PM  

Turing_Machine: Lord Dimwit: Subby here. The annual Scary Story thread is my favorite Fark tradition but the last three or four years have been kinda duds. After having seen quite a few threads in my time, I can tell you that the best Scary Story threads were (a) on weekdays, not weekends and (b) were made "sticky" or whatever so that the headlines didn't get bumped too far down the page.

To that end, because of how much I love Fark, I'm asking the Mods approve this on Friday and make it stick, and in return I'll buy a month of Total Fark for the top-voted Smart and top-voted Funny stories. C'mon you farkers, let's make this thread epic!

I'll add a month to both of those as well.  Votes tallied when Lord Dimwit?


Let's say Saturday at 3:00 PM Central Time (United States)?

There's still the problem that this was put on the FarkUs page and not Main, which is problematic...
 
2015-10-29 12:42:50 PM  
I was staring into the mirror this morning and the reflection blinked.

/not mine, author unknown.
 
2015-10-29 12:48:01 PM  
Scary is relative to how old you are I think. When I was 5 or 6, I use to have night terrors where I would wake up running around and screaming because I thought my grandparents were going to kill me (I was raised by them). Freaked a baby sitter out so badly that she ended up calling them at a restaurant asking what she should do as I wouldn't quit screaming and my eyes were darting around in my head (probably more terrifying for her now that I look back on it). Never understood why I was having those until I was a bit older and learned the reason I was raised by my grandparents was the fact my mother beat me until I was black and blue all over at 18 months old and they took me away from her (she had a daughter a few years after that and the state took her away from my mother).

Best thing I ever did was read a book on lucid dreaming when I was 12 or 13. From that point on, I've never had a "scary" dream. Even things that should be scary, people chasing people with chainsaws (I blame a viewing of American Psycho on that one), I can watch in my dream with detached indifference as I somehow know it is a dream.

Now, as an adult, the only things that scare me are things like dropping my daughter off somewhere new for the first time or if she gets sick, etc.

Not so much a scary story I know - more of a scary start to life that turned out much better as time went on.

/Boo
 
2015-10-29 12:52:08 PM  
I worked the Coroner's Office one Halloween.


It was dead.
 
2015-10-29 12:52:12 PM  
A fat woman came into the store and said she was a size 5. I stuck her hoof into the shoe. My thumb got stuck, she paniced, reared up, and galloped around the store, dragging me behind. Thank god a stick of butter fell from her purse and I was able to grease my thumb and escape.
 
2015-10-29 12:57:30 PM  
Hey can someone who's familiar with TotalFark tell me how I can figure out which page this will be posted to when it goes green? I can't tell if it's FarkUs or Main...
 
2015-10-29 12:57:42 PM  

Sin_City_Superhero: A fat woman came into the store and said she was a size 5. I stuck her hoof into the shoe. My thumb got stuck, she paniced, reared up, and galloped around the store, dragging me behind. Thank god a stick of butter fell from her purse and I was able to grease my thumb and escape.


I heard all of that in Al Bundy's voice after the first sentence.
 
2015-10-29 01:07:10 PM  

Lord Dimwit: Hey can someone who's familiar with TotalFark tell me how I can figure out which page this will be posted to when it goes green? I can't tell if it's FarkUs or Main...


44 clicks; will post to Main » on 30 Oct 2015 at 8:00 AM (18 hours from now)

It's going to the main page.
 
2015-10-29 01:17:10 PM  

Cybernetic: Lord Dimwit: Hey can someone who's familiar with TotalFark tell me how I can figure out which page this will be posted to when it goes green? I can't tell if it's FarkUs or Main...

44 clicks; will post to Main » on 30 Oct 2015 at 8:00 AM (18 hours from now)

It's going to the main page.


Yay! Okay. The bet is on, then. :) Thanks.
 
2015-10-29 01:20:22 PM  
Great idea, subby. When I was gifted the month of TF a couple weeks back I was most excited that I'd have it for the scary story thread and wouldn't have to wait for it to post at whatever-o'clock in the afternoon again. Bring on Fishy and the red keyhole and "nobody will ever believe you" and the new future classics...

/Too much coffee this morning
 
2015-10-29 01:25:35 PM  
Okay, so let's get the ball rolling.

My story takes place around 2001 or 2002. I had moved overseas for a job and moved into a small but nice studio apartment in the downtown of Luxembourg City. The building was probably a hundred years old, but completely renovated inside. It was a block away from the building that was used as the Nazi headquarters during the occupation of the country.

The apartment was on the ground floor and had two big windows right onto the sidewalk. My first week there, I woke up to someone BANGING on my window, hard. I figured it was morning and I was late for work and my friend was trying to wake me up or something, or hell, the building was on fire. I get up and go to the window. Nothing, no one, and it's the middle of the night. The street is deserted. The banging had continued right up until I had pulled the drapes aside.

The window banging happened at random intervals over the course of my stay in that apartment, but never less than once a week. It happened in all kinds of weather and temperatures (I was there for over a year and saw all four seasons). I got used to it after a while.

The TV in this apartment would also turn itself on at random intervals. I'd be sitting at my desk working and the TV would just suddenly turn itself on or off, with the remote halfway across the room and untouched.

I don't believe in ghosts, but it was still pretty damn freaky. I don't know what caused either effect, though I suppose power surges or something could explain the TV and old pipes or something in the wall near the window, but...who knows.

(Also if you're ever in Luxembourg, check out the casements in the original fortress. They're really neat.)
 
2015-10-29 01:27:23 PM  
THE POSTS WERE COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE
 
2015-10-29 01:30:25 PM  
This one was relayed to me by a friend, cut'n'pasted:

my aunt moved into this crappy little apartment in some rent-controlled district in east LA and had only been there a week or so when she came home from work one day and found that the furniture has been reorganized in the living room. 

she was bugged out, since she didn't exactly live in a nice neighborhood and she considered it likely that someone had broken in and rifled through everything, moving the furniture in the process.

nevertheless, she cleaned up the living room and went on about her life. a few days later she came home from work and the furniture had all been moved again - same position as before. 

at this point, she called the landlord and asked to have the locks changed because she thought that perhaps one of the neighbors had a spare key, or that the previous tenant had a grudge against the apartment complex and was taking it out on her. 

they came and changed the locks a couple of days later and she was feeling much better about things.

several nervous days went by, she kept coming home and expecting to see everything re-arranged again, but was relieved to find that the living room remained undisturbed. 

after a month or so had elapsed, she came home one afternoon and sure enough, the furniture in the living room was back in that unsettling configuration. this time she was beside herself and she ran next door to tell the neighbor lady that she had by now befriended. 

frantically, she described her ordeal to the nice lady and begged her to come over to the apartment and look around for intruders. as they looked around the apartment, her neighbor became very concerned...she asked my aunt if the furniture was always moved into that exact configuration when this happened. my aunt was sure that it was always so. her neighbor went on to tell my aunt that the previous tenant, an elderly gentleman, used to keep his living room in precisely that layout. 

my aunt was confused, because she knew that she had had the locks changed and there was never any other evidence of forced entry. she asked the neighbor if she knew where the old guy had gone, so that she could determine whether or not it was him that had been breaking in and moving the goddamned furniture around and generally freaking her out. 

her neighbor smiled weakly and said, "yes. he died."

my aunt moved out of that apartment at the end of the month.

about a year later she moved into a 4-bedroom apartment in the barrio district of east LA where she lived with 16 other people. 

3 of them were members of the band "Los Lobos." true story...G.O.D.
 
2015-10-29 01:34:55 PM  
Okay, last one from me until tomorrow:

I, my wife, and our then-infant son went to see my father one weekend. We stayed in a reasonably nice hotel in Houston. When we get to the room, I put my backpack on the floor by the bedside table.
I want to point out that there we no containers of water or any other fluid on the bed, the bedside table, or in the backpack.

When I woke up the next morning, the bedside table and the backpack are soaked. Like, drenched. There was no water on the bed, the walls, the ceiling, or the floor outside the immediate area of the bedside table and the backpack.

I dunno how it happened, but I'm assuming a ghost peed on my backpack to mark its territory.
 
2015-10-29 01:37:23 PM  
weekend story threads are duds

CSB Sunday Morning?
 
2015-10-29 01:40:05 PM  

Lord Dimwit: 3 of them were members of the band "Los Lobos." true story...G.O.D.


As horrifying twist endings go, that's right up there with the arm coming out of the grave
 
2015-10-29 01:56:23 PM  
Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore


    Danny Nero shot my brother in the belly. I was 9 or 10, so my brother, Mark, was about 11, and Danny was maybe 13. Danny was crazy, but not in the way people like; and though his weapon was a Daisy air rifle, I'm sure if he'd had a real rifle he would have used it. Even before he shot Mark, I knew what he was: I had a dream that he blinded and killed a midget just for fun. When I woke up, I wasn't sure if it was a dream or a memory. I don't know where Danny is now, but if I had to wager, I'd put my money on prison. If I had to hedge my bet, I'd put a few bucks on dead.
    Danny's dad came home from work that day and smashed the pellet gun against a tree. I never met his dad, but other kids said Danny was his father's son, so I'm guessing his dad smashed the gun not because what Danny did was wrong, but because it was dumb, and they both could have got into trouble. I feared for Danny's little brother, David, who was about my age, and his little sister, Danielle, who was maybe six. Normal kids. Some of the scariest people start out as normal kids.
    A few weeks after the air rifle incident, the Neros moved away. It was such a relief, I couldn't adapt to it at first. Their house had been a hazard to avoid when I visited that block. Now I wouldn't have to walk on the other side of the street. I kept telling myself: "It's just a house. It's just a house. Danny doesn't live there anymore." Let's say it was out of habit that I kept walking on the other side, anyway.


img.fark.net



###


    Our best friends, the Welches, lived between us and Danny's house. The Kaliczeks, Rick and Matt, were farther up the hill. They had older ties to the Welches, and they were a little older than Mark and me, so they were friends of ours, but mostly just friends of friends.
    Rick was going places; you could tell. A little before this story happened, Rick went house to house selling raffle tickets for a tie-dye-colored bundt cake he hadn't baked yet. My mom was sick in bed but she bought a ticket, and a few days later he came over to give her the cake. I'm pretty sure he let her win just to cheer her up. That was Rick.
    This was also Rick: He found, in the street, a key that could unlock most GM vehicles. I don't know why it existed. Maybe a car thief made it; maybe GM made it. What's important is that Rick loved to use it, but only because he could. He didn't steal anything--he just liked being able to. He'd unlock a door and lock it again, and walk away smiling because he possessed the key.


###


    It was a Saturday soon after Danny's family had moved away. I went to the Welches' to see if anyone wanted to hang out. No one was home, but Rick was on their porch, also looking for company.
    "Hey, Rick."
    "Hey, Adam."
    We determined we were on our own and Rick asked if I wanted to see something cool. "OK," I said. Why not? I hadn't hung out with Rick alone before, but he was the best thing going on this vacant afternoon, so I followed him up the street. Halfway to his house, he veered toward Danny's house.
    "Want to see what's inside?"
    "Sure," I said, not at all sure. Danny was gone, but it was still his house. Logic and curiosity won out, and I followed Rick to Danny's back yard. He opened the storm door and fiddled with something and opened the back door. He didn't need a skeleton key for that.
    "Come on," he said. My heart pounded in my throat. Ah, adrenaline: the fuel of my childhood.
    The back door opened into the kitchen, a duplicate of the Welches'. In the corner to the left was a quarter-circle padded bench behind the breakfast table; the fridge to the right, then the sink, and the stove against the far wall. Past the breakfast table, on the left, was the door to the dining room. Strange, seeing it vacant: It looked like the Welches' kitchen, but something was missing, or I was missing something. It was just... off.  I could faintly smell cigarette smoke, and what about strawberries? Before I could figure out what, I was following Rick through the dining room and into the living room. Empty. Into the family room. Barren. The main bedroom. Nothing. The bathroom. Clean. Then back to the dining room and up the stairs to the kids' room. Up the same half-spiral stairwell the Welches had.


###


    We stood in a familiar but foreign bedroom. Aside from a few stickers on the walls and some old, yellowed curtains, the room was anonymous. Rick opened the drawers built into the wall beside the door. Empty. So were the closets. We went to the bathroom.
    The bath mat was still there, a nudie photo from a Playboy was taped to the mirror; opposite it a smutty cartoon of a museum cleaning lady doing detail work on Michelangelo's statue of David. I examined it closely and for the life of me I couldn't see what the joke was. I still don't, but apparently Danny liked it enough to save it; not enough to take it with him.
    We tossed the rest of the bedroom and found nothing.


###

    All that remained to explore was the attic. It had been to our left as we came in, so it was to the right on the way out. Two steps led to a short, wide door. Rick opened it and flipped the light switch.
    Toys covered the floor: board games, puzzles, toy guns and rifles, toy cars and trucks, Hot Wheels tracks, stuffed animals, a doll house, a Slinky, Mr. Potato Head, boxes stacked against the walls, and children's clothes everywhere. I could see brightly colored plastic blocks and balls and model airplanes . Paydirt! I started to rummage through this bonanza, but in less than a minute Rick said
    "Let's go."
    "What? We just got here."
    "Ah, it's all crap."
    "Let's take a look. This is what we came for."
    "I don't have time. Come on." He sounded more nervous than I felt when we first entered the kitchen.
    "But..."
    "I'm going. You can stay if you want." Nope. Not alone in Danny's house, abandoned or otherwise. I followed Rick downstairs, through the kitchen where strawberries smelled like cigarettes, and out the back door. We went up the block to Rick's house and upstairs to the room he shared with Matt. It, too, was a copy of the Welch kids' room.
    "I have things to do," he said.
    "Can I hang out for awhile?"
    "If you want to watch me do homework," he said. I didn't, but I did hope to pester him into going back to Danny's house.
    "OK. Whatever," I said. Rick sat down at his desk and opened his math book and started copying problems to his notebook. I watched him for a few minutes, still thinking about all those toys. Rick was right; they were mainly for younger kids, but I didn't care. They were there for the taking; surely some treasure must be buried in the trash. I just needed someone to keep me company in Danny's house, where something was wrong.


###


    "Let's go back," I said.
    "No. I told you, I have to do homework." I had never seen a kid so eager to do homework, especially on a weekend.
    "Just for a few minutes. We barely got to see what's in there."
    "Go, then. I left the door unlocked. Just walk in."
    "I'm scared."
    "Of what?"
    "Ghosts." I knew it was childish, and I wanted to look cool to an older kid, but that place seriously creeped me out.
    "There's no such thing as ghosts."
    "I know. I'm still afraid of them."
    "Just keep telling yourself, 'there's no such thing as ghosts; there's no such thing as ghosts.'"
    "It doesn't work that way, Rick. Come on, it won't take long, and then I'll leave you alone."
    "Tell you what: Go without me. Give me a few minutes to do some of these problems, and I'll meet you there."
    "OK." No sense arguing, especially with Rick. I went downstairs and out into the sunshine. I knew there were no ghosts; I also knew the place was lousy with them. If I went back alone I could get over my fear of ghosts and also score some points with Rick. I edged down the hill to Danny's house and lurked behind a tree, looking at the house, trying to work up the courage and also kill some time till Rick was done with his math. The sunshine made the ghosts seem less and less probable, so I walked around back.


###

    A kid about my age was standing on the patio, looking at the door. He scared me for a second, but I thought I recognized him from the neighborhood. His blond hair was buzz-cut, and he wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans: a nondescript kid who must have had strict parents who wouldn't let him wear his hair long like most of my friends did in the early 70s.
    "Hey," he said.
    "Hey," I said back. "What are you doing here?"
    "I was about to go inside," he said. "You want to see something cool? There's a lot of toys upstairs." Well, Hell. Competition.
    "Yeah, I know," I said. "I was about to go take a look."
    "Go on, then."
    I hesitated.
    "What's the matter?" he asked.
    "Honestly? This place scares me."
    "There's nothing to be scared of." I wasn't so sure of that, but I'd had enough of being the coward, so I just said
    "I'm Adam."
    "I'm Danny."
    "That's the name of the big kid who used to live here," I said.
    "I know. He was mean. I'm glad he's gone."
    "Me, too."
    "You gonna go inside?" he asked.
    "If you go with me," I said. The idea of sharing the loot didn't seem like such a bad arrangement anymore. Ghosts will only appear when you're alone; at least that was my theory. Besides, half the fun was in exploring.
    "OK. Go ahead," he said. I opened the door and walked into the kitchen. Danny followed me.


###


    "I hope my mom likes you," he said. What? I'd just met this kid, and he was already inviting me to his house? I didn't say anything. Again, in the kitchen, something seemed amiss. The image of a strawberry smoking a cigarette flashed through my mind. We walked through the kitchen to the dining room and up the half-spiral staircase to the kids' room.
    "Go ahead," Danny said. "Open it." I climbed the two wooden steps and pulled the door open, reached to the right and flipped the light switch. The toys and boxes and clothes spread out before us. Why would the Neros leave this stuff behind? They could at least have given it to Goodwill.
    I walked into the playroom, Danny still behind me. I waded a few steps into the tide of toys and began to survey. Rick was right; most of this stuff was worthless. Little kids' blocks and trinkets. Dolls and stuffed animals.  Lincoln Logs and Legos. Tinker Toys. And clothes. So many clothes. Maybe the good stuff was in the boxes. I kicked some toys aside and reached the first box. Empty. I knocked it off the box under it and opened that one. Also empty. And the next box, and the next. They were as empty as the rooms of this house. Some boxes had boxes in them. There were probably enough to hold all of these toys and clothes, but for some reason they were unused. Then I saw: each was marked "Toys: Goodwill" or "Clothes: Goodwill." Meaning the Neros never bothered to pack them up? Behind me Danny said
    "We could play in here forever." From what I had seen so far, that didn't seem likely. I returned my attention to the toys. I found some plastic soldiers, like the ones I had at home, and started to gather them up. It was a start. I showed them to Danny, and he said
    "My dad died in the war." I looked him in the eye for the first time since we entered the playroom.
    "That's too bad, man. I know some kids at school whose dads are over there." It wasn't much of a consolation. We all had friends with dads in Vietnam. I was lucky mine got out on 4-F. Danny forced a half-smile and bent down to sift through the jetsam.
    "So, you live with your mom?" I asked.
    "Mmm... Yeah, and my sister. We got some money after Dad died. Mom bought a house and we moved here from Tulsa and we've been here ever since." I didn't say anything. I didn't want to know too much about this kid I had just met, and I definitely didn't want to let him unload on me about his dead dad.
    "It hit her really hard. She didn't know what to do with me and my sister. She sort of... I don't know, I guess she just had to get away from everything and take us with her," he said.
    "Hmm," I said. I picked up a small box and put the soldiers into it. Danny pointed to a rubber Godzilla and said
    "Let's see that." I was jealous: I wanted it. I handed it to him. He made little gestures with it, like it was stomping Tokyo.
    "Cool!" I said. "I wish I had found that!" Danny handed it to me.
    "It's yours."
    "Really? That's the coolest thing yet. Thanks." I put it into the box. I found a pair of glow-in-the-dark plastic vampire fangs, and handed them to Danny. He put them into his mouth and raised his arms like Count Dracula and leaned forward, baring the fangs. We laughed. He handed the teeth back to me. They were dry.
    "All yours," he said. Into the box. We rummaged to the back of the playroom. I found a parking lot of Matchbox cars and put them into the box. So far, Danny hadn't saved anything. I came to a plastic rocking horse suspended by springs from a metal frame. I was too big for it, so of course I sat on it. The springs croaked their protest.
    "Don't," said Danny. "My sister wants that. You'll break it." Fair enough. I dismounted.
    "You know," I said, "I saw some Legos back there. I know someone who would want them." I turned to look back where we came in, and the room seemed different. Less colorful.
    "Here's another door," said Danny. He pointed to a small hatch about two feet high and 18 inches wide, near our feet. It was white with a green knob. Strange, the details you remember. It was white with a green knob at the end of the attic, and Danny said
    "You should see what's in there."
    "Why?" I asked. "What's in there?"
    "I don't know, you should see."
    "My friends have the same door in their playroom," I said. "It's just some pipes and boards and stuff."
    "I bet we could both fit in there," he said.
    "I could barely fit," I said.
    "Show me," he said.
    "My friends found a stuffed eagle in theirs. It almost filled it."
    "A real eagle?" he said.
    "Yep. Mounted on a branch on a board. It was pretty cool."
    "Definitely. I wonder if there's something stuffed in this one?"
    "Why don't you go in there?" I challenged. He dropped it.
    "I'm gonna go find those Legos," I said, and turned to wade through the toys and clothes.
    "OK," he said. "I think I saw a stuffed rabbit over there. Save it for my sister."
    "I'll keep an eye out for it," I said, and negotiated a path back to where we came in.


###

    I found a rubber spider and put it into the box. A few steps away I saw a pile of Legos and slogged toward them. When I got there, most of what I had thought were Legos turned out to be colored wooden blocks. I picked up the remaining Legos. As I put them into the box, I noticed the plastic soldiers looked different, like they were made of metal. Tin soldiers, not plastic.
    "Hey, look at that," said Danny. He was pointing to a toy rifle leaning against a doll house near me. "That's the kind the Japs shot my dad with. Lemme see it." This was getting annoying. Why did I have to bring everything to him? But I did, and went back to where I had been.
    So many little kids' toys, but not only: About 20 feet of Hot Wheels tracks, and I reached for them, and there in a nest of train tracks, what kids had before Hot Wheels tracks, was a stuffed rabbit, ancient and threadbare, a deep brown stain on one side.
    "Here's the rabbit," I said, holding it by the ears so I didn't have to touch that stain. Then I thought: Japs? In Vietnam?
    "Great! Toss it here." I did. He almost caught it, but it went through his hands. He stooped to pick it up and I tried to find the Hot Wheels tracks that had been there a moment ago, among the train tracks that had not. I gave up and looked for the Mr. Potato Head I had seen near the door. I see his hand, ear, and eye poking up through some board games and Barbie accessories. When I pick it up, it's a real potato, black and shriveled and hard, and the features don't line up right. I can't decide if I like it or not. My ears pop. I smell cigarette smoke.
    "Were you smoking up here?" I ask.
    "Oh, that's my mom. She smokes."
    "Your mom is here?"
    "She's always here. That was her in the kitchen."
    The room spins. As he speaks, I remember a woman sitting at the breakfast table with a cigarette in her hand and an ashtray in front of her. A gaunt, haggard woman with lines in her face, none from laughter. She wears a sun dress, once white, now yellowed, printed with strawberries. I have two memories: one of the kitchen empty but somehow wrong, and another of Danny's mom sitting there watching us without moving her head, smoking.
    "Hey, Danae," said Danny. "Adam found your rabbit." He was looking toward the back corner where a pile of clothes gathered and stood and became a little girl of about six, blond like Danny. She giggled and stepped toward Danny to take the blood-stained rabbit. She cuddled it to her cheek and cast me a sad smile. She mounted the rocking horse and began to hum a song I didn't recognize. The rocking horse was no longer plastic and spring-mounted, but made of wood, on true rockers. I dropped the box and ran for the door and Danny came toward me, he came toward me and the way his feet moved through the toys on the floor of that attic, the way his toes moved through the toys as he came toward me and I reached for the door and Danny was there and I reached the door first and I didn't push his hand away, I put my hand through his.
    I put my hand through his, and that instant I feel decades of loneliness and sadness, and in my head I hear Danny crying in outrage for his sister; he's telling his mother to stop, stop, STOP, MOM! I hear the door bang as I slam it behind me; I hear it bounce back open from the impact, but that's not right; there's a pause between the first bang and the second, and then more banging. I understand: Danny had me open the back door and the door to the attic because he couldn't. He could touch only what I gave him. I remember the door with the green knob, and I'm glad I didn't open it for him.
    In two leaps I'm down the half-spiral staircase, charging through the living room for the front door. No way am I going back to the kitchen where Danny's mom has sat smoking for the past 25 years. The door to the attic stops banging. Footsteps are clattering down the stairs, and from the kitchen I hear her call:
    "Danny, you did it again!"
    The living room is furnished, and I'm about to trip over a coffee table in the middle of it. It's old, from another era, like the sofa and the chairs and the television-size radio against the wall. I'm going to trip over it, but I don't. I kick the table over and across the room; the table stays where it is. I feel nothing. Furniture can be ghosts, too, apparently.
    I'm already familiar with this place by way of the Welches', so it takes me exactly 2.17 seconds to undo the bolt and the chain latch on the front door. I shove the storm door open and lunge across the porch and over the far rail. I almost land on someone beside the porch. I can't breathe, let alone scream, so I just flail. Someone grabs my wrist, and turns me around.


###

    It was Rick, laughing.
    "What did you see, a ghost?" I could only open my mouth and gasp. Rick looked up toward the front door and his smile faded. He kept the grip on my wrist, turned a little too fast, and pulled me after him, down the hill, past the Welches', toward my house. Before we got to the corner, he stopped us and sat us down.
    "Jesus Christ, did you..." He couldn't finish.
    "I TOLD YOU!" I shouted, and punched him in the chest. He didn't object.
    "Jesus Christ," he said again. We crossed the street and went to my house. My folks were in the back yard; Rick and I went to the kitchen and got some Kool-Aid.
    "What did you see?" I asked.
    "Nothing," he said.
    "Bullshiat. You saw it, too."
    "No, I mean I saw nothing. Inside the house, inside the door, the house went black. Pitch black. Then it faded to nothing. No black, no white, just nothing. And then it faded back to normal."
    "Did you see the kid in there?" I asked.
    "Do you know what nothing looks like?" he asked. I didn't care.
    "Did you see him?" I asked again.
    "I saw a woman, I think."
    "What else do you think?" I asked.
    "Look, I'm sorry, OK? I'm sorry."
    "Sorry for what? What did you do?"
    "I didn't know. I didn't know, OK?"
    "What?"
    "The toys... when I was there before... They were in boxes. Someone came and dumped them after I was there."
    "Yeah, well, someone did. It was Danny."
    "Danny Nero?"
    "No, Danny been-dead-for-twenty-five-years. Danny whose mom killed him and his sister. And herself. You knew, didn't you?"
    Silence.
    More silence.
    "Adam." said Rick, staring at the wallpaper.
    "What?"
    "I think I remember something," he said. He was almost mumbling.
    "What?"
    "I think I might have dumped the toys out."
    "You think you might have?" I said. "How can you not know?"
    "I don't want to talk about it anymore."
    "I bet." That was the one time I felt superior to Rick. He knew it, and he let me feel however I wanted. We sipped our Kool-Aid in silence, not looking at each other. A couple of minutes later my mom walked in from the back yard.
    "Oh, hi, Rick. How are you?" Rick took a long drink of Kool-Aid and said
    "Great. How are you?"
    "Much better, thank you. And thank you for the cake. It was beautiful."
    "You're welcome."
    "A very nice cake."
 
2015-10-29 02:07:57 PM  

Lord Dimwit: Okay, last one from me until tomorrow:

I, my wife, and our then-infant son went to see my father one weekend. We stayed in a reasonably nice hotel in Houston. When we get to the room, I put my backpack on the floor by the bedside table.
I want to point out that there we no containers of water or any other fluid on the bed, the bedside table, or in the backpack.

When I woke up the next morning, the bedside table and the backpack are soaked. Like, drenched. There was no water on the bed, the walls, the ceiling, or the floor outside the immediate area of the bedside table and the backpack.

I dunno how it happened, but I'm assuming a ghost peed on my backpack to mark its territory.


You're lucky!  If you had stayed one more night, and woke up and the entire room was drenched except the bedside table and backpack, you would have totally had to go out and slay the Midianites.
 
2015-10-29 02:28:49 PM  
I have a problem with night terrors and sleep paralysis.  Keep in mind that for most of my life, I never knew about night terrors or sleep paralysis, and only recently learned about them within the last few years.  I thought I was cursed or haunted, even possessed, for a good chunk of my younger years.

First time I really remember one, I was asleep in the house I grew up in (that house has its own creepy stories I might relate), in the bottom bunk bed.  I jolt awake, but cannot move, and this puppet looking thing, like the mean lady puppet from Mr. Rogers, but... wrong, just very very very very very wrong, pops up by the side of the bed and is just taunting me, scaring me.  And I can't move.  Can't scream.  Can't do anything.

I have them again on and off for years, mostly when I've stayed up too late or I am stressed out.

I remember another such time very vividly, even 15 years later.  I have another night terror, that inability to move, the feeling that there is something that is about to kill you right then and there. I'm much older, a freshman in college home for Thanksgiving, but not the house I grew up in.  My parents had divorced my senior year of high school, and my mother had sold the house while I was away during fall term. I'd fallen asleep late. I again "wake up", but cannot move.  I start panicking, but this time, instead of waking up the rest of the way as usual and being unable to sleep for a good long time, something else happens.  I manage to calm down, but stay in my dream.

I start walking through the new house, down the hall, and open a door, and I'm in another place.  It is very ornate, very Gothic looking, but the stone quickly gives way to dripping flesh and bone as I progress through the building.  Demonic imps are skittering about, and a very large horned demon is all of a sudden headed my way.  I run, but only find myself in a maze surrounded by the noise of Hell.

Finally I really, really panic, and I hear laughter, just vicious laughter, and in response I start reciting the Lord's Prayer.  ALL THE NOISE STOPS, and all I can hear is my voice echoing through the halls, saying the Lord's Prayer over and over, almost like a round. "Our Father, who art in Heaven" repeating and mixing with the rest of the prayer, echoing deafeningly.  That's when I finally wake up, and I don't have many for about a year.  If I felt myself slipping into one, I'd say the Lord's Prayer and manage to avoid it.

The next one I have that was bad was really, really bad, probably the worst one I'd ever had.  I feel the typical presence there with me, but it is different this time. Horribly, horribly different.  Death is there to take me.  I feel like I am literally dying, not just scared, but about to die.  I cannot move, I cannot breath, I imagine my heart is about to burst in absolute fear and kill me. It finally passed, and I go a few months without one.

Unfortunately, whatever is wired weird in my brain is not forgiving in the least.  The next major one I have, I was dating the women that is now my wife. We'd been together for a few weeks.  We had fallen asleep, and as I turn over, I open my eyes, and her back is too me, but in the middle of her back is just a hole, black, with smoky tendrils crawling out of it.  All of a sudden the tendrils go taut, like the are straining to pull, and a face leaps out of the hole in her back, screaming at me, and I screamed in return and pushed her away.

She asked me WTF had happened, I explained the problem I have with sleep sometimes. To this day, she usually manages to wake me from it.

Usually.
 
2015-10-29 02:41:37 PM  
I worked at a sleazy motel after moving to Oregon.  Meth addicts, homeless people looking for a cheap room, you name it, we got it.

There was one room we were not supposed to rent out or open or anything.  Especially no one should look inside the room, under any circumstances. So I followed the instructions of the my new boss and ignored that room, calling the cops on more than one occasion to deal with the shiat sleazy motels have to deal with.

This went on for a few weeks, but eventually my curiosity got the better of me one night as I made my security rounds.  As I walked through the rain, I reached the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked.

I bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling my eye. What I saw was a hotel bedroom, like any of the others, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door.

I was confused for a while, wondered why the hell the owner had locked up this lady in this room. I almost knocked on the door, but decided not to.

I crept away from the door and walked back to the front desk. The next day on my rounds, I returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all I saw was redness. I couldn't make anything out besides a distinct red color.

I'd guessed the boss man had seen me on the camera while reviewing the night footage and had caught me spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red during the day shift. At this point I decided to confront my boss about it in the morning. He sighed and said, "Did you look through the keyhole?" I fessed up and he said, "Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red."
 
2015-10-29 02:46:17 PM  
Okay here is my scary story...

One day I clicked greenlit and this thread stayed on top.
 
2015-10-29 02:47:12 PM  
I'm being chased by this axe murderer with a Cher mask on. He corners me, I fall to the ground and the head of the axe falls off. The Gorilla appears behind him and hands him a bottle of Gorilla glue. I say "Ya gotta wet it first"...then..."Whoa dude! Not too much. A little goes a long way.". Puts the head back on and tests the adhesion. Good to go. The Gorilla exits. I get axed to death.
 
2015-10-29 03:28:33 PM  
...then she looked down at me, started laughing, and said "Those aren't chives!"
 
2015-10-29 03:31:08 PM  
I moved into an attic apartment after a simple divorce. You entered the apartment through a trap door in the kitchen. Kinda cool, my friends would say. The original entrance was a regular door that opened on a closed-in porch and stairs down to the second and first floors. The regular door, though, was sealed shut with about a hundred sheet-rock screws screwed in on an angle. The stairs up to the porch were closed off as well and the porch was covered with plywood painted to match the rest of the house.

The first night I stayed there I thought about my ex-wife. I thought about the odd entrance to the apartment. Was it dangerous? I thought about the sealed up porch. I thought about being alone and how even a difficult wife was at least someone nearby. That night I dreamed there was a woman in the room with a radio in her hands. She wore a thread-bare house dress with a tiny yellow floral design. The radio was an old type, two speakers. Grey. It was off. She kept pointing to the radio. She was a bit frantic, correcting me by shaking her head no, then pointing to the radio. She had a scrunched face, like a clown. A loud noise woke me up and I frantically backed up in the bed, hitting my head on the wall, for the woman was still there. Though at the loud noise she had put the radio behind her and backed up into the corner. She put her finger to her mouth to ssh me. She then lifted a little and disappeared. I slept with the light on after that.

The next day I was reading in the main room, the room with the sealed door. I figured I needed to do something calm and normal after last night. Maybe that would scare away any apparitions. I looked up at the door at one point. Who would seal a door by driving a bunch of sheet-rock screws at an angle? At one of the corners of the room I noticed a gap where the walls met, for about a foot, maybe a quarter of an inch wide, about three feet from the floor. The gap opened on to the sealed porch. How could you spend so much time sealing a door and not at least spackle that crack? I could see there was a twig on the other side of the wall, just barely visible when I pointed my reading lamp at it. I put the book down and took a closer look, dragging the lamp as a makeshift flashlight.

It looked like a finger bone. No that's a twig I assured myself. Though it was slender just as they should be. Is that a finger bone? I could not see if it was attached to a hand, but it looked less and less like a twig every time I looked at it. That's the tip of the finger, too. So there is at least one finger bone on the other side of that sealed door, I said to myself.

The next day I met the garbage truck with a small bag of moving-day garbage.

"You live here now?" asked the man hanging from the back of the truck, tossing my bag in with the others.

"Yeah. Just moved in."

The truck started to drive off. "See any ghosts?" he asked under the exhaust cloud. I didn't answer. I just watched him drive away.
 
2015-10-29 03:39:51 PM  
A couple of years ago my daughter started dating.  Terrifying...

Until she told me all her friends are terrified of me.  That cheered me right up!
 
2015-10-29 03:46:24 PM  
About ten or fifteen years or so ago I moved across the country for a job.

When I left, it was pretty much a case of leaping for the brass ring--the dot com crash had wiped out all of the tech jobs in the area I was in, and after a year and a half of practical unemployment and crushing poverty I gave up on ever finding a decent job where I lived.  Leaping for the brass ring, or maybe leaping out of the window of a burning building, but either way it was a blind jump into the unknown.  I accepted a job offer at a place in the middle of nowhere, packed what I could and gave everything else away.

Picture the scene: you're a young kid, giving up everything you know and everyone around you just for the chance at making a living.  You've got maybe a couple of hundred bucks to your name, everything you own is stacked in the back of your car, and you drive off into the sunset.  There's not much keeping you above the ground; a breakdown that takes more money than you have to get fixed, any kind of medical issue, any kind of rough wave could upset your unsteady boat and then you're lost, in the middle of nowhere with no one to help you.  The stress is almost unimaginable if you haven't gone through something like that.

I made it to where the job was, found a place to live--a nasty, cheap apartment next to a liquor store and a bar that seemed to have police cars pulling in with flashing lights almost all night long.  The people upstairs screamed at each other in broken English all through the day.  Meth heads panhandled the lot whenever the cops weren't around.   The only way I could get any sleep in all of that was with a combination of sleeping pills and hard liquor, the cheapest I could get.  Pro tip #1: 'The Colonel's pride' bourbon was like six bucks for a fifth.  Pro tip #2: this is a bad idea.

At some point early in the morning on one of those first days on the job, the phone rang, waking me up.  You know how when you're bleary with broken sleep, booze and pills, everything seems unreal?  This was back before smart phones were big, and the cell phones you could get were expensive.  I had a crappy land line, with a ten dollar phone plugged into the wall.  There was no clock on it, and I didn't know what time it was, only that it was still dark and that no one calls at that level of darkness unless someone's dying or dead.

I answered the phone still half-drunk.  Some part of me knew my parents had died.  How could you know something like that?  The person on the phone was my parent's next door neighbor, who must have been pushing ninety.  I had cut her grass once a week when I was a kid.  Adding to the unreality of the moment was that she'd been diagnosed with Alzheimer's nearly a decade before; the last time I had seen her,  so little of her mind had been left that she probably wouldn't have been able to hold a telephone handset unassisted.

"Johnny?" she said.

Remember how I said I had mowed her lawn as a kid?  I must have been the only person she ever saw for that last decade of her life that she knew.  Every Saturday, I'd come by with the lawnmower, watching her slow decline into mindlessness as she waved to me more and more feebly.  She didn't have any family, as far as anyone could tell, only an endless stream of nurses feeding her and taking care of her.  I was probably the only person whose name she still remembered at the end.  Looking back now, that must have been why she . . . called me, of all people.

"Mrs -------? What's wrong?" I knew the next words that were going to come out of her mouth.  Car crash, house fire, some kind of tragedy---

"I'm so cold," she said.  "I think there are-"

" . . . what?"  I was fighting through the pills and booze and panic and could barely hold on to the phone.

"Worms," she said.  "I think there are worms crawling on me."

I couldn't answer.  I literally didn't know what to say.  Then she hung up and the phone went to that beep beep, beep beep sound you only get when you've had the phone off of the hook for too long without ever dialing.  Maybe I had hallucinated the whole thing; everything was a fog and a dark haze.  I hung the phone up.  I remember hearing an ambulance siren off in the distance.

I didn't call my parents right away.  I didn't want to panic them with a phone call in the middle of the night, over what was probably just a bad dream or a hallucination or a night terror of some kind.  Instead, I spent three hours drifting in and out of a daze, staring out the window at the lights of the bar, watching the police cars drift in and out of the darkness like ghosts.  When the sun finally came up, I knew that my parents must have finally been awake, and called them.

My mom answered the phone.  I tried as hard as I could to sound as normal as possible, but she immediately knew something was wrong.

"Is Mrs. ------- okay?" I finally asked.

"Honey, she died last Wednesday," she said.  "We didn't want to tell you until you were settled in, but she faded out almost the day you left.  The funeral was just yesterday."

In a way, it was a relief.  Ghosts don't make phone calls; Casper shouldn't have to rely on Ma Bell.  It must have been a bad dream with coincidental timing, or more likely, some deep part of my subconscious had detected Mrs. ------- slowly failing and wasting away, and kept it hidden, only to bring it out later like a skull being washed clean from a grave after a flood.  We can choose what we want to believe, that's all I'm saying, and I had enough problems as it was.

When my phone bill came in almost a month later, I had almost forgotten the whole thing.  The money almost seemed a waste; I hadn't used the phone at all, other than to call my parents, and to be terrorized by it in the night.  Also, other terrible things had swamped it out of my memory.  I'd seen a guy get gunned down in the parking lot of the bar across the street.  I almost lost my job, the one thing that was making all of this worthwhile, over someone else's stupid mistake; at the last moment the truth came out and I was spared.  The horrors of the real had completely washed out the terrors of the night.

I remember sitting at the cheap, peeling Formica table in the corner of the apartment that was my combination desk and kitchen table, staring at the bill.  Forty-eight dollars for a telephone that I had only used twice to call my parents and that no one had ever even called-

But the bill said otherwise.  One incoming call was listed.  Without even thinking, I threw the bill away without looking at the number.  I did not want to know.

I think there are worms crawling on me, she had said.

I cancelled the phone the next day and bought a cell phone I couldn't afford.  I'm sure it was nothing, maybe a wrong number, maybe a telemarketer, who knows.  All I know is, we can choose what we want to believe, and I choose to believe that the call in the night was nothing more than just a nightmare.
 
2015-10-29 03:50:54 PM  
I was standing in line at the D.M.V...
 
2015-10-29 04:22:19 PM  
Okay guys.  I think it's going to take one hell of a story to beat toraque.
 
2015-10-29 04:24:52 PM  
Well I'll throw my one in here, it's not THAT scary looking back but it is absolutely true.

I must have been around 8 years old.  I'm 35 now and still vividly remember the dream.  A queen, somewhat similar to the evil one in Snow White, threw a white disc at me.  Like a frisbee but thicker.  It hit me in the head.  Big flash of light, sharp pain and some sort of a sound, almost like radio static on full volume but only for a brief moment.  I run to my parent's room crying.

That's not that scary, just a bad dream right?  Then why the hell am I BLEEDING?  After grabbing a baseball bat and scouring my room for intruders dad discovered what had happened.  A framed picture had fallen from the wall and into my bed, its corner hitting me right above one of my eyes leaving a small gash.  I suppose the dream could have been a coincidence, but I remember reading somewhere that dreams can take only a fraction of  a second.  Perhaps the pain from the fallen frame actually caused the dream, sent my dreaming mind scrambling for a reason for feeling it.  Who knows.
 
2015-10-29 04:25:22 PM  

BizarreMan: Okay guys.  I think it's going to take one hell of a story to beat toraque.


Hubie's will if he shows up.
 
2015-10-29 04:42:04 PM  

toraque: About ten or fifteen years or so ago I moved across the country for a job.

When I left, it was pretty much a case of leaping for the brass ring--the dot com crash had wiped out all of the tech jobs in the area I was in, and after a year and a half of practical unemployment and crushing poverty I gave up on ever finding a decent job where I lived.  Leaping for the brass ring, or maybe leaping out of the window of a burning building, but either way it was a blind jump into the unknown.  I accepted a job offer at a place in the middle of nowhere, packed what I could and gave everything else away.

Picture the scene: you're a young kid, giving up everything you know and everyone around you just for the chance at making a living.  You've got maybe a couple of hundred bucks to your name, everything you own is stacked in the back of your car, and you drive off into the sunset.  There's not much keeping you above the ground; a breakdown that takes more money than you have to get fixed, any kind of medical issue, any kind of rough wave could upset your unsteady boat and then you're lost, in the middle of nowhere with no one to help you.  The stress is almost unimaginable if you haven't gone through something like that.

I made it to where the job was, found a place to live--a nasty, cheap apartment next to a liquor store and a bar that seemed to have police cars pulling in with flashing lights almost all night long.  The people upstairs screamed at each other in broken English all through the day.  Meth heads panhandled the lot whenever the cops weren't around.   The only way I could get any sleep in all of that was with a combination of sleeping pills and hard liquor, the cheapest I could get.  Pro tip #1: 'The Colonel's pride' bourbon was like six bucks for a fifth.  Pro tip #2: this is a bad idea.

At some point early in the morning on one of those first days on the job, the phone rang, waking me up.  You know how when you're bleary with broken sleep, booze and pills, ev ...


But why would have you been charged for an incoming call? Long distance didn't work that way...
 
2015-10-29 04:57:50 PM  
While Ruth slept, a spider crawled across her face, stayed there for a minute, then went away.

"What is this red spot on my cheek?" she asked her mother the next morning.

"Looks like a spider bite." her mother said. "It'll go away, just don't scratch it."

Soon the spot grew into a red boil. "Look at it now," Ruth said, "It's getting bigger."

"That sometimes happens," her mother said. "It's coming to a head."

In a few days the boil was even larger. "Look at it now." Ruth said. "It hurts and it's ugly."

"We'll have a doctor look at it, maybe it's infected." her mother said. "Give it another day and we'll have you take a hot bath tonight."

That night Ruth took a bath. As she soaked herself, the boil burst. Ruth's mother rushed Ruth to the local emergency department, where they had to wait four hours in triage before Ruth was diagnosed with a MRSA abscess. After a plastics consult and several doses of IV vancomycin, Ruth's mother discovered the hospital she'd gone to was out-of-network, and thanks to her reliance on WebMD and random internet blogs for medical advice, she owed $13,000 in medical bills.

Thanks, Obama.
 
2015-10-29 05:35:27 PM  
I'm posting in this story thread from beyond the grave, so I'm getting a kick.......
 
2015-10-29 05:36:27 PM  
One time on a road trip to California I stopped at a rest stop. It was near dusk and the place was deserted except for my car and a van that I parked one space away from. I went to the bathroom and when I came back I saw a $20 on the pavement between my car and the van. It was then that I noticed the van door was open. As I stopped to take in these facts I heard a hoarse voice from inside the van say "Pick it up".

Needless to say I left the twenty where is was and got the fark out of there.

/creepy story bro
 
2015-10-29 06:12:27 PM  

markie_farkie: Scariest short story I could come up with:

President Trump and Vice President Cruz sworn into office.


I just gifted TotalFark to Donald...now he'll be monitoring all these comments about him and sending the Secret Service to deal with us.

BOO! BOO! BLEAGH!
 
2015-10-29 06:20:29 PM  
img.fark.net
 
2015-10-29 07:18:59 PM  

markie_farkie: I'm posting in this story thread from beyond the grave, so I'm getting a kick.......


I'm posting this from a redlit thread...
 
2015-10-29 07:34:07 PM  

markie_farkie: Scariest short story I could come up with:

President Trump and Vice President Cruz sworn into office.


tl;dr
 
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