Do you have adblock enabled?
 
If you can read this, either the style sheet didn't load or you have an older browser that doesn't support style sheets. Try clearing your browser cache and refreshing the page.

(Fark)   Don't move. Don't even breathe. It's right behind you... it's the Fark Halloween Stories thread. THE STORIES ARE COMING FROM INSIDE THE COMMUNITY   ( fark.com) divider line
    More: Scary  
•       •       •

2802 clicks; posted to Main » on 01 Nov 2016 at 2:29 AM (50 weeks ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook   more»



338 Comments     (+0 »)
 
View Voting Results: Smartest and Funniest
 
2016-10-29 06:43:10 PM  
But who was phone?
 
2016-10-29 06:45:18 PM  
Actually, I think it's then who was phone.
 
2016-10-29 06:54:05 PM  
Once upon a time a TFette sent me BIE. I'm still suffering.
 
2016-10-29 07:10:38 PM  
This isn't scary. It's kind of a ghost story, though. It's a poem about an empty lot where a house used to stand. The memories of the people who had lived there remain in the few artifacts that litter the lot. Not the ghosts of people, but their combined memories, as if they had soaked into the house and become a spirit unto itself.

The Lot

Once lain in running bond, these scattered
bricks now lie in crumbling disarray,
their mortar gone.
This is my home.
And though its roof is on 
                the ground, and though its walls
are cobblestones
though it is gone,
enough remains.
This is my home.
I make it as I can.
I leave it as it lies.

Because I have chosen to live in facture,
and not off the land,
but what has been made of the land,
and because this land has been unmade,
I inhabit that most important facture:
that of the mind
and not of the hands.
I reclaim these mortal bricks, unmortared
and lain in random bond
and I let them lie in state
as they once were lain.

And I let them stand.

For it is the hands that make a thing
and the mind that makes use of it.
When the hands are gone but the mind remains,
decay cannot unmake its usefulness.

Regard this brick
                 (now all four walls where
                   the Christmas dinners and the arguments
                            and complacent days that passed
                                                like pastel wallpaper still-lifes
                                     and the birthday parties and the sound-
                      asleep nights comfortable
             with outgrown fears of groans
   of the settling house
                                     were and are contained), regard
its cracks and chinks and fissures.
Regard the face those features make, 
and the features of that face:
The stolid mouth, the solid gaze,
the stoic brow of knowledge
of an unglazed immortality.

The mortgagor knew it too. He saw the face
as he descended the front porch steps 
to fetch the mail, six days a week,
except for holidays,
       or when he was out of town,
                  or the blizzard of  '68 which
                  stayed those couriers
           from the swift completion
of their appointed rounds.
He wondered whose face it might have been
if the brick had been the world.
He pondered the world that greeted the face
       of that man in that where and that when
who descended his front porch steps
to fetch his mail.
The face was his.
The face was his
mind.

That world was his and was not his. He was free to ignore that world;
the face was not.
It was confined 
to the brick, condemned
to gaze out at the world beyond the brick,
from that of the mind,
and not comprehend.
The face is mine.
This is my home.

Regard this shingle, its knots,
the grain of wood, the stain of rust
where rain met roofing nails.
It lay
on the southwest corner of
the southwest corner of the roof:
third from the south, fourth from the west.

Now the shingle is the roof,
a shelter to the end.
It lies
in the center of the lot
and catches every drop
of rain
and keeps me dry.
This is my home.

The roofer
who repaired the roof
when it succumbed
                    to rain,
                       to the blizzard of '68,
                                  the hail of '69,
                     the frailty of wood,
                  indifferent time,
had particular affection for this shingle;
the two-hundredth lain that day:
time for a break
and smoke a cigarette
and rest beneath this tree;
this stump.

A child,
the mortgagor's son,
five years old and feeling brave,
crawled beneath the house one day
and found on every joist
that bore the floor above his head
my other home:
the emblem of the lumber mill that made the boards:
a stand of trees beneath a banner
borne by rampant unicorns, and
bearing the legend of my principality:
"Stanford Lumber--The Stamp Of Quality."
He knew that it was not a symbol,
but a picture of a place,
and of the things in that place.

The land about the stand of trees extended out in all directions.
People would come and go,
inspect the banner and
appreciate its quality and 
honor the unicorns,
and rest beneath the trees:
a storybook setting in a stamp of green ink.
This is my land. 
This is the most important facture.

                                   Once lain in running bond, these scattered

The merest artifact will suffice
to portray the mind as artifice
and as artificer both.

                                         and not of the hands

No juice remains in this bagasse.
I drink of shards of glass. This shattered
bottle is what it once contained.

                                   decay cannot unmake its usefulness

There are minds,
and there are minds.

                                     and I let them stand.

This is my home.

                           the hands

                                                what has been made

                           the mind

                                                      This is my home.


This is my home.
 
2016-10-29 07:11:03 PM  
Once upon a time, a sentient and evil orange cheeto with a blonde toupee ran for president, and actually won the nomination.

How did it end?

YOU ARE STILL IN THE STORY!
 
2016-10-29 07:14:32 PM  
I was probably 11 or 12. A group of about 10 of us were playing with a friend's ouija board, and we grew up in Louisiana so like the majority of people in that part of the country, we were really stupid. I think we all actually believed it could work. One friend swore he wasn't moving it, but we definitely were "communicating" with someone. We took turn asking questions. I asked, "What was the hair color of the person who killed me in one of my nightmares." I hadn't told my friends. The "spirit" said, "red." Yep, that was correct. Other people also had some strange answers.

We were really spooked at this point. It started getting aggressive. Some "f*ck you" responses, some "die" or "murder" responses. Friend one time said he had a headache. Lights were out, and it was turning dark outside so it set the mood there. Friend's parents weren't home.

Finally, someone bothered to ask who we were communicating with.  When we got the answer, everyone bolted out the door. Again, Louisiana, no one was all that literate. One friend and I did give a quizzical look to each other, but we bolted with everyone else.

Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)
 
2016-10-29 07:20:05 PM  
Gosh.  I'm shivering.
 
2016-10-29 07:20:17 PM  

meow said the dog: I was probably 11 or 12. A group of about 10 of us were playing with a friend's ouija board, and we grew up in Louisiana so like the majority of people in that part of the country, we were really stupid. I think we all actually believed it could work. One friend swore he wasn't moving it, but we definitely were "communicating" with someone. We took turn asking questions. I asked, "What was the hair color of the person who killed me in one of my nightmares." I hadn't told my friends. The "spirit" said, "red." Yep, that was correct. Other people also had some strange answers.

We were really spooked at this point. It started getting aggressive. Some "f*ck you" responses, some "die" or "murder" responses. Friend one time said he had a headache. Lights were out, and it was turning dark outside so it set the mood there. Friend's parents weren't home.

Finally, someone bothered to ask who we were communicating with.  When we got the answer, everyone bolted out the door. Again, Louisiana, no one was all that literate. One friend and I did give a quizzical look to each other, but we bolted with everyone else.

Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


I was going to guess it was Bill Murray.

"No one will ever believe you."
 
2016-10-29 07:28:49 PM  
This story has run for the last couple of years. It appears in Heart of Farkness, the Fark Fiction Anthology book available at Amazon.

=======================

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."
 
2016-10-29 07:55:28 PM  

meow said the dog: I was probably 11 or 12. A group of about 10 of us were playing with a friend's ouija board, and we grew up in Louisiana so like the majority of people in that part of the country, we were really stupid. I think we all actually believed it could work. One friend swore he wasn't moving it, but we definitely were "communicating" with someone. We took turn asking questions. I asked, "What was the hair color of the person who killed me in one of my nightmares." I hadn't told my friends. The "spirit" said, "red." Yep, that was correct. Other people also had some strange answers.

We were really spooked at this point. It started getting aggressive. Some "f*ck you" responses, some "die" or "murder" responses. Friend one time said he had a headache. Lights were out, and it was turning dark outside so it set the mood there. Friend's parents weren't home.

Finally, someone bothered to ask who we were communicating with.  When we got the answer, everyone bolted out the door. Again, Louisiana, no one was all that literate. One friend and I did give a quizzical look to each other, but we bolted with everyone else.

Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


My brother and I had a run-in via ouija board with Satin too... man that Satin likes to f*ck with kids...
 
2016-10-29 08:03:30 PM  
I've mentioned this on Fark before, but it seems like a good Halloween story...

I'd been having a weird day already--my brain just wouldn't turn off--and I went into the bathroom. Standing at the sink was a tall, monochrome, glowing humanoid. Being religious, I assumed it was one of the Fair Folk, nodded politely, and went to wash my hands in the sink.

Apparently it was puppy-guarding the sink. It slipped behind me, dipped its head, and sank fangs into my throat.

/Then I realized it wasn't actually real, finished washing my hands, and called my psychiatrist
//AKA The Day I Discovered Bipolar Includes Pyschotic Symptoms, Such As Hallucinations
///that was a fun little adventure.
/V I'm okay now, just learned to pay more attention to triggers around me
 
2016-10-29 08:08:10 PM  

meow said the dog: Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


See, this is why I taught the kidlet how to deal with ghosts and demons on her own. Imagine how much cooler it would have been if one of you had gotten up, doused it with salt, and started cursing creatively at 'Satin'.

Or sat down and tried to outsmart it, but I encourage killing it with fire. :p

/Neo-Paganism: We want YOU to fight the boogieman!
//So much healthier for kids than just being scared
 
2016-10-29 08:59:52 PM  

a particular individual: This story has run for the last couple of years. It appears in Heart of Farkness, the Fark Fiction Anthology book available at Amazon.

=======================

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 image 617x781]


###

    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 ...


That story makes my blood turn cold every time I read it.
 
2016-10-29 09:21:55 PM  

Bathia_Mapes: That story makes my blood turn cold every time I read it.


Thank you. I'm so glad you like it. It's the only ghost story I have in me. There's really only one ghost story, anyway.
 
2016-10-29 09:22:36 PM  
imgs.xkcd.com
 
2016-10-29 09:28:02 PM  
I had my candy bag get jacked by some unknown jerk while trick or treating once as a kid. I expected sympathy from my mother but only got chewed out for losing the flashlight that was in the bag with the candy.
 
2016-10-29 10:10:38 PM  

fusillade762: I had my candy bag get jacked by some unknown jerk while trick or treating once as a kid. I expected sympathy from my mother but only got chewed out for losing the flashlight that was in the bag with the candy.


I found that photo from your childhood:

www.balettie.com
 
2016-10-30 01:28:14 AM  
in before someone posts that stupid Russian sleep experiment story.

tl;dr... it's not very good
 
2016-10-30 02:13:51 AM  
One time your wife said: We need to talk.
 
2016-10-30 02:14:20 AM  

Sid_6.7: fusillade762: I had my candy bag get jacked by some unknown jerk while trick or treating once as a kid. I expected sympathy from my mother but only got chewed out for losing the flashlight that was in the bag with the candy.

I found that photo from your childhood:

[www.balettie.com image 800x450]


Why was he dresses like Hitler?
 
2016-10-30 07:11:46 AM  
A true spooky experience from my childhood.

I was about 8 when I woke up during the night. My bedroom door was open, and from my bed I could see my mum stood at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown. I head my Dad's voice coming from downstairs say "(name), the police are here". I promptly fell back asleep.
The next day I was curious about what had happened, so over breakfast I asked my Dad why the police had come to our house in the middle of the night. He looked confused and told me that the police hadn't been to the house. I described what I'd seen and he told me it must of been a dream. It was really odd as I've never confused a dream for reality before or since.
That night, after I went to bed, there was a knock at the door (for real this time). My Dad who was already downstairs answered the door. My Mum, who was upstairs, went to the top of the staircase in her dressing down. My Dad shouted up to her "(name) the police are here..."
 
2016-10-30 08:26:47 AM  

img.fark.netDSC04434 by jambayalajo, on Flickr




As part of my job I photograph house interiors. I can't have people or personal items in the photos so I review them to remove or blur those items. In this case I had photographed an old,1920's tudor. As I was reviewing this photo, I could not shake the feeling there was a person in the photo, I zoomed in and found nothing, but then I noticed the mirror.

There was no one in the room but me for the photographs, and I had angled myself so I would not be reflected in the mirror. There was no one else in the room.
/posted this in the farktography contest last week
 
2016-10-30 09:25:12 AM  
Here are some posts I made in a TFD thread a couple of weeks ago...off the top of my head.  The thread was riffing on the idea of monsters, etc.... in your house.  I'm trying to find a way to record me reading these, and to play them on a loop outside for Halloween.

Chris Ween: Have you ever suffered from sleep paralysis where the "Dark Man" is at the foot of the bed?  I have.  He's real and he doesn't care if you are an adult or a child.

He is there to steal your soul.  And there is nothing you can do.  You can't move.  You can't fight.  You can't even scream.  At best you make a muffled "ungh" type of sound.  Maybe someone will hear that and wake you so that you are safe.  Maybe not.

Walls, doors and locks, mean nothing to him. And if someone comes to "wake" you and save you, they can't see him.  You see, he isn't really in the room.   He's actually in your head.

But you know something else?  He doesn't appear if there is a light on.  Night lights.  Not just for finding the bathroom.



Chris Ween: Monsters are multi-dimensional beings.  So, to say they hide in the closet or under the bed is a misstatement.  That might be where you first spot them.  But they actually are entering your room by an inter-dimensional portal.  Think about it.  If monsters were from our world, we'd have found some bodies.  Maybe monster scat.  That's poop.  But we haven't.  They come, they hunt, they go home.

What this means is that your room isn't safe just because you checked under the bed or in the closet.  They aren't there yet.  They will be. But not yet.  Again, the best way to handle such a situation is to think outside the box.  Have you ever heard of the bogey man stealing a dog?  No.  Ergo, the bogeyman is afraid of dogs.

Tell mom and dad you need a puppy.  Trust me.  You will thank me later.



Chris Ween: That sound you hear from mom and dad's room is not a monster attack.  Yes, it sounds like maybe there is some smacking going on.  Maybe some taunting to "take me, you monster".  But its not a real attack.  Do not disturb them.

Trust me.  They are adults.  They know how to handle monsters.  Sure, in their case it might be something labelled "Monster" on the cylindrical box it was shipped in, but they have this.  Don't disturb them.  This is something they have to do themselves.  Besides, if it is a real monster then who will tell the story if you wander into the bedroom and get eaten too?



Chris Ween: When the lights go out...you can't see.  Your other senses take over.  Your hearing picks up.  you feel more.  Its amazing what your hearing can pick up...or what your other senses can feel.

Tonight, as you lay down, you hear the creaks of the house.  You can hear mom and dad getting ready for bed.  You can even hear the dog walking around downstairs...click of nails on the floor.  You catalog each sound.   Catalog and forget it.  These are the normal sounds of night.

When you are calm, and your senses are heightened, you can feel the air moving from the registers, and even a slight vibration from the fan that pushes the air.   Its a bit uneven with the old bearings going.  You can even feel your heart beat.  Fast at first, but with more control as you relax more.

Your mind knows all this and relaxes.  No danger tonight.  You can't see, but you can hear and feel.   And everything sounds right.  Time to sleep.

Wait...do you smell that?



Chris Ween: As for the mirror...well, what can I say?  Its a piece of glass over foil.  Its a reflection.  That's all.  A reflection.  But not a perfect one.  I mean, if you study it you will see that it doesn't perfectly match your room.  Maybe the colors are off.  Or there is a shadow that shouldn't be there but is.  Or worse, there is a shadow missing in the mirror image...which of course means something extra is in your room.  With you.  Right now.


Chris Ween: Did you hear that?  Old houses creak.  And groan.  Not like a piece of wood under pressure.  More like a living thing...an old thing...a malevolent thing.  Its just readjusting itself.  Like a troll or ogre rolling over in its sleep.  But a house is not a troll or ogre.

Do you think the house likes to be lived in?  Maybe it does.  Maybe it doesn't.  Maybe like the old people at the rest home it just finds it easier to not get mad about it.  But not all old people are the same.  Some go after kids with their cane.  Others scream at the people.

What if the house is like one of the cranky old people?  What if it could act on it?  And what if its creaking wasn't it readjusting itself or going back to sleep.  No.  What if the noises you hear are the house getting ready to pounce...to attack you.  It could do it, and shuffle you off underneath the foundation and no one would ever know.

Remember the family that used to live down the street and don't anymore?  Hmmm...

I mean, who would suspect a house?
 
2016-10-30 09:30:28 AM  

MorningBreath: [Link][img.fark.net image 504x662]DSC04434 by jambayalajo, on Flickr


As part of my job I photograph house interiors. I can't have people or personal items in the photos so I review them to remove or blur those items. In this case I had photographed an old,1920's tudor. As I was reviewing this photo, I could not shake the feeling there was a person in the photo, I zoomed in and found nothing, but then I noticed the mirror.

There was no one in the room but me for the photographs, and I had angled myself so I would not be reflected in the mirror. There was no one else in the room.
/posted this in the farktography contest last week


So... You took a picture where there was a reflection of something on a far wall in another room that slightly resembles the shape of a head if you really squint and are on 'shrooms?

img.fark.net
 
2016-10-30 10:46:14 AM  

Vesta: A true spooky experience from my childhood.

I was about 8 when I woke up during the night. My bedroom door was open, and from my bed I could see my mum stood at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown. I head my Dad's voice coming from downstairs say "(name), the police are here". I promptly fell back asleep.
The next day I was curious about what had happened, so over breakfast I asked my Dad why the police had come to our house in the middle of the night. He looked confused and told me that the police hadn't been to the house. I described what I'd seen and he told me it must of been a dream. It was really odd as I've never confused a dream for reality before or since.
That night, after I went to bed, there was a knock at the door (for real this time). My Dad who was already downstairs answered the door. My Mum, who was upstairs, went to the top of the staircase in her dressing down. My Dad shouted up to her "(name) the police are here..."


This would be a good story if you edit it a bit.

First off, your mother needs a name. Any name will do, but (name) is just not working. Second, don't put they before or since in the middle. Derails everything.
 
2016-10-30 01:03:31 PM  
The Scratching in the Dark


Moving to a small town from a big city is like stepping into a whole new country.  You're the interloper; everyone here has known each other for generations, and you're the unknown quality.  They're polite and pleasant enough, but you can't call them friendly.  This was perfectly fine with when I moved in a couple of years ago; I wanted to get away from people.

Of course, that's not really possible in this day and age.  Unless you're a reclusive billionaire or are willing to give up on society altogether and live in a hut in the woods, you have to have some kind of living.  That requires a job.  In this sense, I was lucky; a thick resume and a long list of IT qualifications meant I could swing contract jobs over the internet without even leaving my house.  Even if I only managed to pick up a few hours of work a week, what would have been meagre pay anywhere else was enough to keep the mortgage covered and bills paid here in the middle of nowhere.

My psychiatrist says this is a terrible idea; I need to get out more, connect with people, try to build up a life again.  For what I pay her, I'd have expected some practical advice, but from the looks of her she's not much past her late twenties and hasn't really seen much of how terrible the world can be to people.  It's a ninety minute drive to see her once every two weeks, and yet I get the feeling she's the one who thinks she's wasting her time.  She writes prescriptions, at least.  There's that.

This is the point in the story where I have to admit to being an unreliable narrator.  Not that I'm hiding anything, or have any intention of lying to you, but let's just say I spend most of my days fortified with anti-anxiety pills, anti-depressants, liquor.  They tell you never to mix those.  They tell you lots of things.

The house I bought was a two-story American Craftsman fixer-upper, at least in theory; someone else might have been able to summon the will to rehang the sagging gutters and rewire the ancient electrical system and fix whatever the hell was wrong with the drainage in the yard.  I didn't much care.  No one had lived there for years.  When I moved in, I assumed the neighborhood was avoiding me due to being an outsider, or maybe they sensed my desire for solitude.  Either way, the result was fine with me.   I spent a full two years without speaking to any of my neighbors, what few there were; the lot rear-ended on thick forest stretching up into the mountains, and the only people who could have intruded on my solitude were the elderly couple across the street, and the working-class types on either side of me.

Sometimes, when the storms were moving in over the mountains, I went out into my weed-overgrown backyard to watch the thunderclouds roll in.  There's something rejuvenating, something revitalizing, about seeing Mother Nature in her fury; when the sky opens up and all shiat goes to hell, some kind of harmony exists in the universe.  At times like this, I always think: we are not in control of this world, we're just passengers tied to its fate.  Usually I take another couple of swigs from the bottle and crawl in bet to fall asleep to the sound of the world trying as hard as it can to tear itself apart.

But there were other sounds, as well.

I sat on my back porch, countless times, watching the rain come down and heard the sound of what could have been a . . . I don't want to call it a dog, because it didn't sound anything at all like that, but it was a barking, howling, yelping call of some kind that came down from the mountains when the storms rolled in.  The first time it was terrifying; the second, recognizable.  After a dozen or so, it was predictable.  Whatever creature leered or capered in the hills above my house, it was a fixture.  It answered the constant rain.  It was too loud and too impossible to ignore.  After a while, it was welcome; some other thing, whatever it was, seemed to feel the same joy or pain that I felt when the clouds rolled in and the lighting crashed.

For two years, I watched the rain come down.  When I found work I buried myself in it.  When the skies darkened and the evergreens shook in the night, I listened to the cries of whatever was in the mountains.  I drove the long miles into town every two weeks to pick up supplies and tell my psychiatrist that nothing had changed.  One cold January night I thought I heard something scratching at the back door; in the morning, I could see no prints in the wet grass.  If I'd had a visitor in the night, it had left no sign.

I heard nothing more from the dog in the hills for two weeks.

I was awakened in the dead of night by an unearthly howl and shrieking crash.  I can't really remember when dream faded into reality; at some point I standing on the balls of my feet in the darkness, feeling the cold of the hardwood floor sink into me.  I had imagined some kind of unearthly feral dog, smashing its way into the house, but now I was able to remember the sound of twisting metal, as well.  I looked out the bedroom window; a car had apparently gone off the road, struck a tree on the neighbor's front yard and ended up wrapped around it.

I went out to help as best as I could.  The noise had raised the entire neighborhood; I don't know who called 911, but paramedics and State Police were on site in minutes.  Not that they could have done much of anything, or that any of us were any help; the kid inside hadn't been wearing his seatbelt.  They found most of him in the ditch.  According to what I read in the news afterwards, he'd been three times over the legal limit and prior arrests for DUI so I guess the good news was that he hadn't managed to kill anyone else.

Disaster brings people together.  I remember huddling on the side of the road, watching the police lights strobe across the front of my house, as my neighbors slowly realized I was the guy who had moved into that house.  "You seem like a nice enough guy," a middle-aged woman said, as if surprised.

"Thanks," I said.

Once they'd identified me, they couldn't stop talking.  For me, it was torture; all I wanted to do was slink back inside and be left alone.  To them, however, I was a mystery that needed to be unraveled: didn't I know about the house?  Old Man Morgan?  His dogs?  Why would anyone move into that damned house if they knew what had happened there?

There's a simple answer, of course; I didn't know anything and I didn't care.  My wife had died in childbirth and I wanted nothing more of the city we had lived in.  I told a real estate agent to find me the most secluded place in the world.  She came through for me with flying colors and Old Man Morgan's house, and I didn't ask any questions because I didn't think the universe could have any answers.  I wasn't worried about haunted houses.  I have enough ghosts of my own.

"He ran a dogfighting ring," and old man was telling me.  "Least, that's what everyone said.  He was the meanest, angriest bastard there was, raised the meanest, angriest dogs there were.  Used to hear 'em barkin, snarlin, all day and all night."

"Kept 'em right in the house with him, he did," someone else said, in the gloom.

"Oh, ayuh," the old man agreed.  "He'd sic 'em on anyone coming to his door, sometimes he'd let em loose, and everyone'd stay inside fearin they might be rabid."

"Musta been part wolf, some of em," someone else said.  "That's prolly how we got that pack of 'em up in the hills."

"What happened to him?" I asked, mostly as way to try to get the conversation to end.

"Old Man Morgan?  Either his dogs finally kilt him, or he died some other way in that house.  Heart attack, maybe.  He was angry enough all the time his ticker coulda just quit, him up in there with his dogs locked in with him.  By the time anyone wanted to check on him, find out what was up, his dogs had gotten to 'em and you coulda buried what was left in a shoebox."

"Oh, that's just hearsay," an older woman said.  To me: "Don't let these yokels fill your head up with these old stories, you got a nice house in a nice place, and you don't have to worry about whatever is in the past.  Let the past stay dead."  There was general agreement to this.

I saw this as my chance and made an escape, nodding a good night to everyone who still wanted to stand around in the cold and watch the grisly scene.  I made it back inside, the darkness of the house lit redly by the flickering lights of the emergency vehicles on the road.  I couldn't smell anything that smelled like a dog had ever been inside the house.

The seed had been planted, though.  I've always be imaginative.  In the weeks that followed I prowled the house, looking for any sign that anything close to the story I'd been told had happened, but found nothing; the flooring had been replaced in the ground floor rooms, the walls had been painted years before I moved in.  I suppose I could have asked around, but I really didn't want to know anything.  I landed a contract for building a database for an online pet supply store and dove into the work with a feverish energy that could have only been born from irony.

Even so, in the dead of night, when the wind blows and the dog in the hills yowls at the lightning in the sky, it was easy to imagine the sound of claws ticking on the hardwood floor and the smell of blood and wet fur.

Nearly a month went by.  I heard scratching at the back door again, and then again only a week later.  Whatever dog or wolf or thing from the darkness that was coming down to investigate my house was becoming bolder.  The next time a storm rolled in over the mountain, I could hear it howl, and it sounded like it was coming from my back yard.

On my next trip into town, I bought a shotgun.

There are fears, vague and supernatural, that are nothing more than fantasy; we imagine ghosts and the smell of death, we believe in the echoes of the dead lingering in the places they died.  We fear the dark because as creatures of the day, in it we are as out of our element as a deep-sea diver surrounded by sharks.  There are fears, though, that are rational and reasonable.  The idea that a pack of feral dogs bred from bloodstained mongrels that escaped from this house might have some kind of instinctual memory of the place, some kind of slumbering rage against whoever lived here.  The idea that my presence might draw them, somehow, seems mad in the light of day but coldly reasonable the longer the shadows grow in the evening.

The storm finally broke in early April.

I had finished the pet store contract, not particularly to the satisfaction of the owners.  In my defense, I was distracted.  The scratching and sniffing and the doors at night had become almost constant.  I had no idea how many of them there were; I could never find any sign of their passage.  They seemed to stalk through wet grass and dirt without leaving prints.  In the day, all was calm and clear, but as night fell the sniffling, scratching madness would descend.

I remember it was a Friday night.  The weather channel had predicted a stronger than normal thunderstorm for the weekend and I battened down the hatches like a soldier preparing for an artillery barrage: I checked the locks on all the doors and all the windows, latched the storm shutters closed after taking a final look at the gathering darkness.  I had the shotgun close to hand at the head of the bed and a chair under the doorknob of the bedroom door just in case.  I didn't know what I was preparing for.  I still don't, really; I guess it was just in case.

The storm rolled in schedule.  Thunder crashed hard enough to rattle the windows.  The howling, yelping, dog-thing in the hills snarled in the darkness as usual, sometimes closer, sometimes far away, as if it were pacing back and forth waiting for something or someone.  The one thing I remember most clearly: staring at the ceiling in the darkness, thinking hours had passed only to turn towards the clock to find it had only been minutes since I'd last looked at it.

As the hours crept by and the storm shrieked outside, I heard scratching downstairs at the back door.

This is it, I thought, I'm going to send that farker to hell, whatever it is.  I jumped out of bed grabbed the shotgun and started for the door, and that's when the dog, or whatever it was, howled directly below my window.

You hear people talking about blood-curdling sounds, or how a sound can freeze your blood?  I had always thought that was bullshiat, a bad throwaway line from a bad story, but whatever the sound was it froze me where I stood.  I could not move.  I was rooted to the spot.

Maybe driven by the howl, the scratching at the door stopped.  Instead, I heard a heavy thud as is something heavy had struck the house.  The house itself shuddered; then it struck again and the thought came to me that it was trying to break in, whatever it was; it was no longer interested in asking to be let in and was going to come inside whether I wanted it to or not.  I heard glass breaking.

I was in the corner, huddled as far away from the bedroom door as I could get, pointing the shotgun towards it with no memory of how I'd gotten there.  Struck dumb by panic all I could do was shiver as I heard the dog-thing howl again and the door creak as it was struck again.  I could hear the wooden door crack and then break open as the scratching thing in the darkness came through.

Then, very clearly over the wind, I heard a voice, saying simply and clearly:

"Good boy."

I was in the corner of the room until dawn.  I couldn't move.  The storm died in the early hours and petered out to blustery winds; somewhere around six, I guess, the sun started to rise.  It was only when the full light of day was streaming in through bedroom windows that I was able to shakily stand up and open the door.

Downstairs was a mess.  Wet leaves had blown in from the storm and were plastered to the walls.  Rainwater had soaked the carpet.  The back door, overlooking the overgrown yard, had been smashed by some kind of furious force, with the hinges hanging freely from the doorjamb and pieces of wood strewn about the yard.

Did I say yard?  Yes, because that's where the door ended up, broken and blown outwards.  Whatever had done this wasn't scratching at the door to get in; it had been inside and wanted out.  Maybe the howling from hills wasn't directed at me; it was calling to whatever echo was left in this place, and now it was free to cavort in the lighting and thunder of the night, howling and snarling at the storm clouds above.

Whatever happened next with that house, I couldn't tell you.  I was out of there within five minutes and never went back.  It's up for sale, now; maybe some other lucky buyer will see it as a good deal, a good place to go to get away from it all.  Me, I moved back into the city, and I've even found someone to spend my days and nights with.  I've even cut back on the drinking and the pills.

My psychiatrist is overjoyed, of course.  She thinks she's finally accomplished something.  I don't have the heart to tell her about the house in the middle of nowhere and the scratching at the door in the night.
 
2016-10-30 01:05:23 PM  
Also, here's a link to last year's thread:

https://www.fark.com/comments/8909908/
 
2016-10-30 02:01:52 PM  
Trump 2020.

Booga, booga!
 
2016-10-30 02:04:18 PM  

gopher321: Trump 2020.

Booga, booga!


Worst. Bookmark. Ever.

/besides this one
 
2016-10-30 02:59:59 PM  

SecretAgentWoman: Once upon a time, a sentient and evil orange cheeto with a blonde toupee ran for president, and actually won the nomination.

How did it end?

YOU ARE STILL IN THE STORY!


"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
img.fark.net
 
2016-10-30 03:35:25 PM  
You know, I've never seen a ghost or had any type of supernatural experience, but I love this thread every year.

/what's this "bookmark" of which you speak
 
2016-10-30 04:37:52 PM  

gopher321: Trump 2020.

Booga, booga!


3 spooky 5 me!
 
2016-10-30 05:22:13 PM  

toraque: Also, here's a link to last year's thread:

https://www.fark.com/comments/8909908/


And with great thanks to
img.fark.netLawrencePerson

Here's a link to a page with links for all the previous scary story threads by year.
 
2016-10-30 05:38:32 PM  
Russian researchers in the late 1940s kept five people awake for fifteen days using an experimental gas based stimulant. They were kept in a sealed environment to carefully monitor their oxygen intake so the gas didn't kill them, since it was toxic in high concentrations. This was before closed circuit cameras so they had only microphones and 5 inch thick glass porthole sized windows into the chamber to monitor them. The chamber was stocked with books, cots to sleep on but no bedding, running water and toilet, and enough dried food to last all five for over a month.

The test subjects were political prisoners deemed enemies of the state during World War II.

Everything was fine for the first five days; the subjects hardly complained having been promised (falsely) that they would be freed if they submitted to the test and did not sleep for 30 days. Their conversations and activities were monitored and it was noted that they continued to talk about increasingly traumatic incidents in their past, and the general tone of their conversations took on a darker aspect after the 4 day mark.

After five days they started to complain about the circumstances and events that lead them to where they were and started to demonstrate severe paranoia. They stopped talking to each other and began alternately whispering to the microphones and one way mirrored portholes. Oddly they all seemed to think they could win the trust of the experimenters by turning over their comrades, the other subjects in captivity with them. At first the researchers suspected this was an effect of the gas itself...

After nine days the first of them started screaming. He ran the length of the chamber repeatedly yelling at the top of his lungs for 3 hours straight, he continued attempting to scream but was only able to produce occasional squeaks. The researchers postulated that he had physically torn his vocal cords. The most surprising thing about this behavior is how the other captives reacted to it... or rather didn't react to it. They continued whispering to the microphones until the second of the captives started to scream. The 2 non-screaming captives took the books apart, smeared page after page with their own feces and pasted them calmly over the glass portholes. The screaming promptly stopped.

So did the whispering to the microphones.

After 3 more days passed. The researchers checked the microphones hourly to make sure they were working, since they thought it impossible that no sound could be coming with 5 people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated that all 5 must still be alive. In fact it was the amount of oxygen 5 people would consume at a very heavy level of strenuous exercise. On the morning of the 14th day the researchers did something they said they would not do to get a reaction from the captives, they used the intercom inside the chamber, hoping to provoke any response from the captives they were afraid were either dead or vegetables.

They announced: "We are opening the chamber to test the microphones; step away from the door and lie flat on the floor or you will be shot. Compliance will earn one of you your immediate freedom."

To their surprise they heard a single phrase in a calm voice response: "We no longer want to be freed."

Debate broke out among the researchers and the military forces funding the research. Unable to provoke any more response using the intercom it was finally decided to open the chamber at midnight on the fifteenth day.

The chamber was flushed of the stimulant gas and filled with fresh air and immediately voices from the microphones began to object. 3 different voices began begging, as if pleading for the life of loved ones to turn the gas back on. The chamber was opened and soldiers sent in to retrieve the test subjects. They began to scream louder than ever, and so did the soldiers when they saw what was inside. Four of the five subjects were still alive, although no one could rightly call the state that any of them in 'life.'

The food rations past day 5 had not been so much as touched. There were chunks of meat from the dead test subject's thighs and chest stuffed into the drain in the center of the chamber, blocking the drain and allowing 4 inches of water to accumulate on the floor. Precisely how much of the water on the floor was actually blood was never determined. All four 'surviving' test subjects also had large portions of muscle and skin torn away from their bodies. The destruction of flesh and exposed bone on their finger tips indicated that the wounds were inflicted by hand, not with teeth as the researchers initially thought. Closer examination of the position and angles of the wounds indicated that most if not all of them were self-inflicted.

The abdominal organs below the ribcage of all four test subjects had been removed. While the heart, lungs and diaphragm remained in place, the skin and most of the muscles attached to the ribs had been ripped off, exposing the lungs through the ribcage. All the blood vessels and organs remained intact, they had just been taken out and laid on the floor, fanning out around the eviscerated but still living bodies of the subjects. The digestive tract of all four could be seen to be working, digesting food. It quickly became apparent that what they were digesting was their own flesh that they had ripped off and eaten over the course of days.

Most of the soldiers were Russian special operatives at the facility, but still many refused to return to the chamber to remove the test subjects. They continued to scream to be left in the chamber and alternately begged and demanded that the gas be turned back on, lest they fall asleep...

To everyone's surprise the test subjects put up a fierce fight in the process of being removed from the chamber. One of the Russian soldiers died from having his throat ripped out, another was gravely injured by having his testicles ripped off and an artery in his leg severed by one of the subject's teeth. Another 5 of the soldiers lost their lives if you count ones that committed suicide in the weeks following the incident.

In the struggle one of the four living subjects had his spleen ruptured and he bled out almost immediately. The medical researchers attempted to sedate him but this proved impossible. He was injected with more than ten times the human dose of a morphine derivative and still fought like a cornered animal, breaking the ribs and arm of one doctor. When heart was seen to beat for a full two minutes after he had bled out to the point there was more air in his vascular system than blood. Even after it stopped he continued to scream and flail for another 3 minutes, struggling to attack anyone in reach and just repeating the word "MORE" over and over, weaker and weaker, until he finally fell silent.

The surviving three test subjects were heavily restrained and moved to a medical facility, the two with intact vocal cords continuously begging for the gas demanding to be kept awake...

The most injured of the three was taken to the only surgical operating room that the facility had. In the process of preparing the subject to have his organs placed back within his body it was found that he was effectively immune to the sedative they had given him to prepare him for the surgery. He fought furiously against his restraints when the anesthetic gas was brought out to put him under. He managed to tear most of the way through a 4 inch wide leather strap on one wrist, even through the weight of a 200 pound soldier holding that wrist as well. It took only a little more anesthetic than normal to put him under, and the instant his eyelids fluttered and closed, his heart stopped. In the autopsy of the test subject that died on the operating table it was found that his blood had triple the normal level of oxygen. His muscles that were still attached to his skeleton were badly torn and he had broken 9 bones in his struggle to not be subdued. Most of them were from the force his own muscles had exerted on them.

The second survivor had been the first of the group of five to start screaming. His vocal cords destroyed he was unable to beg or object to surgery, and he only reacted by shaking his head violently in disapproval when the anesthetic gas was brought near him. He shook his head yes when someone suggested, reluctantly, they try the surgery without anesthetic, and did not react for the entire 6 hour procedure of replacing his abdominal organs and attempting to cover them with what remained of his skin. The surgeon presiding stated repeatedly that it should be medically impossible for the patient to still be alive. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery stated that she had seen the patients mouth curl into a smile several times, whenever his eyes met hers.

When the surgery ended the subject looked at the surgeon and began to wheeze loudly, attempting to talk while struggling. Assuming this must be something of drastic importance the surgeon had a pen and pad fetched so the patient could write his message. It was simple. "Keep cutting."

The other two test subjects were given the same surgery, both without anesthetic as well. Although they had to be injected with a paralytic for the duration of the operation. The surgeon found it impossible to perform the operation while the patients laughed continuously. Once paralyzed the subjects could only follow the attending researchers with their eyes. The paralytic cleared their system in an abnormally short period of time and they were soon trying to escape their bonds. The moment they could speak they were again asking for the stimulant gas. The researchers tried asking why they had injured themselves, why they had ripped out their own guts and why they wanted to be given the gas again.

Only one response was given: "I must remain awake."

All three subject's restraints were reinforced and they were placed back into the chamber awaiting determination as to what should be done with them. The researchers, facing the wrath of their military 'benefactors' for having failed the stated goals of their project considered euthanizing the surviving subjects. The commanding officer, an ex-KGB instead saw potential, and wanted to see what would happen if they were put back on the gas. The researchers strongly objected, but were overruled.

In preparation for being sealed in the chamber again the subjects were connected to an EEG monitor and had their restraints padded for long term confinement. To everyone's surprise all three stopped struggling the moment it was let slip that they were going back on the gas. It was obvious that at this point all three were putting up a great struggle to stay awake. One of subjects that could speak was humming loudly and continuously; the mute subject was straining his legs against the leather bonds with all his might, first left, then right, then left again for something to focus on. The remaining subject was holding his head off his pillow and blinking rapidly. Having been the first to be wired for EEG most of the researchers were monitoring his brain waves in surprise. They were normal most of the time but sometimes flat lined inexplicably. It looked as if he were repeatedly suffering brain death, before returning to normal. As they focused on paper scrolling out of the brainwave monitor only one nurse saw his eyes slip shut at the same moment his head hit the pillow. His brainwaves immediately changed to that of deep sleep, then flatlined for the last time as his heart simultaneously stopped.

The only remaining subject that could speak started screaming to be sealed in now. His brainwaves showed the same flatlines as one who had just died from falling asleep. The commander gave the order to seal the chamber with both subjects inside, as well as 3 researchers. One of the named three immediately drew his gun and shot the commander point blank between the eyes, then turned the gun on the mute subject and blew his brains out as well.

He pointed his gun at the remaining subject, still restrained to a bed as the remaining members of the medical and research team fled the room. "I won't be locked in here with these things! Not with you!" he screamed at the man strapped to the table. "WHAT ARE YOU?" he demanded. "I must know!"

The subject smiled.

"Have you forgotten so easily?" The subject asked. "We are you. We are the madness that lurks within you all, begging to be free at every moment in your deepest animal mind. We are what you hide from in your beds every night. We are what you sedate into silence and paralysis when you go to the nocturnal haven where we cannot tread."

The researcher paused. Then aimed at the subject's heart and fired. The EEG flatlined as the subject weakly choked out, "So... nearly... free..."
 
2016-10-30 06:11:26 PM  
Not really scary, but definitely the strangest thing that ever happened to me.

A few years back I was home from college for the summer and went out for an afternoon hike with a good friend of mine.  We went to a local conservation area that long ago was farmland, but is now forest filled with stone walls, old roads to nowhere, and cellar holes.  We parked in the empty lot at the trail head and walked in.  After about ten minutes we both heard the sound of a little girl laughing, coming from just out of sight behind us.  Not wanting our hike to be spoiled by the sounds of a noisy family following us, we picked up the pace to put some distance between us.  After half an hour of walking at a very brisk pace we stopped to explore a cellar hole that was just off the path.  I had no sooner climbed down into it when again, the sound of a little girl laughing came from just behind us.  I said "There's no way a girl that young could have kept up with us" and we stayed put for a good 15 minutes waiting for the laughing girl and her family to come around the bend in the trail, but nobody ever came.  We both heard the laughter a few more times on the hike, always close behind us but never in sight. When we got back to the parking lot my car was still the only car there.
 
2016-10-30 10:13:30 PM  
How did this thread get put on the back burner so long this year?  Should have been opened on Friday posted Sunday morning.
 
2016-10-30 10:16:37 PM  

meow said the dog: MorningBreath: [Link][img.fark.net image 504x662]DSC04434 by jambayalajo, on Flickr


As part of my job I photograph house interiors. I can't have people or personal items in the photos so I review them to remove or blur those items. In this case I had photographed an old,1920's tudor. As I was reviewing this photo, I could not shake the feeling there was a person in the photo, I zoomed in and found nothing, but then I noticed the mirror.

There was no one in the room but me for the photographs, and I had angled myself so I would not be reflected in the mirror. There was no one else in the room.
/posted this in the farktography contest last week

So... You took a picture where there was a reflection of something on a far wall in another room that slightly resembles the shape of a head if you really squint and are on 'shrooms?

[img.fark.net image 212x238]


I have a spooky 'shroom story.

A buddy and me are camping on mushrooms late one night and the fire looks like it's burned out. Nothing but a huge cloud of billowing white smoke and no flames. My buddy starts waving a glo-stick through the smoke and I'm reminded of a cauldron so out comes some Shakespeare "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble"* The words are barely out of my mouth when FOOM the fire bursts back to life.

We spent the next several minutes convinced the Devil was going to appear and take us away.

*yes, I'm aware I got the line wrong
 
2016-10-30 10:52:40 PM  

Old Man Winter: How did this thread get put on the back burner so long this year?  Should have been opened on Friday posted Sunday morning.


I asked the admins to run it today, but this is what we got. Maybe if we get enough signatures they can make it run retroactively.
 
2016-10-30 11:07:31 PM  

a particular individual: Old Man Winter: How did this thread get put on the back burner so long this year?  Should have been opened on Friday posted Sunday morning.

I asked the admins to run it today, but this is what we got. Maybe if we get enough signatures they can make it run retroactively.


Oh, you were involved, I should have known.
Yeah this was serious bs.
Nothing better going on and it was a popular once a year thing, so WTF MODERATOR ADMIN DREW.
Why ruin it for us?
 
2016-10-30 11:09:06 PM  
A yearly thread, one time, getting at least 300 each year.
Shame.
 
2016-10-30 11:16:23 PM  
Guess aforementioned forgot they purchased TFD for winners.
You all suck so hard, you ruined Halloween for single people.
Thanks
 
2016-10-30 11:19:00 PM  
This is also one of my favorite threads. I remember years ago some really terrifying stories. And while I know I could find some really spooky stories just around the internet there is really something special about reading them here.
 
2016-10-30 11:22:50 PM  

miss jinxed: This is also one of my favorite threads. I remember years ago some really terrifying stories. And while I know I could find some really spooky stories just around the internet there is really something special about reading them here.


I'm sterile, I got no kids, ever.  Yay!  But the mix of scary, dumb, and people was a comfort.
I'd genuinely like to know why this thread got push so far up Fark's ass it just coming out now.
 
2016-10-30 11:27:40 PM  
Also API, I get everything until you go to the tits again, then you lose me.
 
2016-10-30 11:28:16 PM  

Old Man Winter: Also API, I get everything until you go to the tits again, then you lose me.


*toys
 
2016-10-30 11:31:13 PM  

Old Man Winter: Old Man Winter: Also API, I get everything until you go to the tits again, then you lose me.

*toys


API, has this been you all along?
 
2016-10-31 12:48:38 AM  
Michaela was a smart little girl who didn't want to go to bed. Mommy put her down far too early for her pleasing. Reading bedtime stories about green eggs and ham was for little babies, not a big girl like Michaela. She got up, slipped out of her bed and stepped across her room. As theirs was an older wooden house, the floor creaked, even with her light weight. She walked first in a circle, then another, ending near her bedroom door. Michaela quietly opened her door. stepping lightly into the dark hallway, then closed the door. Her naked feet made no sound as she crossed over to the closet to hide where Mommy kept towels and bed sheets.

Mommy climbed up the stairs in answer to Michaela's footsteps. Her breathing sounded winded, as if from making this trip too too many times. Mommy opened the bedroom door and entered Michaela's dark room, walking toward the empty bed. "Michaela," said Mommy, "Are you up again? I only put your to sleep 10 minutes ago. I'm really tired of these games each night." Mommy saw in the dim moonlight that Michaela was not in bed, then Mommy heard giggles coming from the closet. "What are you doing in there, little girl? You should be in bed now," Mommy exclaimed in an exasperated fashion. Mommy walked over to the closet, opened its door and walked in.

Michaela slipped across the hallway and poked her head into her room. She just caught her bedroom closet door swing shut quickly, slamming behind Mommy. Michaela turned and ran down the hallway to the stairs. She was halfway down to the ground floor when Mommy's screams started. But they stopped by the time Michaela got the kitchen to raid the cookie jar.
 
2016-10-31 12:48:50 AM  

Old Man Winter: Old Man Winter: Old Man Winter: Also API, I get everything until you go to the tits again, then you lose me.

*toys

API, has this been you all along?


I submitted the thread this year. When I did, I asked the admins to main-page it today (Sunday.) They didn't. Oh, well.

I ran "Danny" last year and the year before. Last year, I think it was toraque. I don't know if anyone has spearheaded it before, or if it's just a matter of whoever takes the initiative.

=====

Re-read "Danny." Note how I have to do everything for him. Why do toys keep disappearing and getting "replaced" with older versions? The kitchen is important, too: strawberries and tobacco. The big question: Did Rick know what he was doing when he showed me the toys, or did he only remember afterward?
 
2016-10-31 12:52:15 AM  

a particular individual: I ran "Danny" last year and the year before. Last year, I think it was toraque


I mean, I think toraque started the thread last year. I wrote "Danny."

/proofreading...
 
2016-10-31 09:10:55 AM  
Freakazoid's Scary Story
Youtube gBSlrbZy4-U
 
2016-10-31 09:10:59 AM  
I see one ghost all the time. I work in a 40 story building, on the 30th floor. My firm has 6 floors of the building. Our mail-room/central services and copy center is located on the 5th of our 6 floors. There was a distinctive woman that worked in our copy room. I didn't know her well, or at all really. She was distinctive because she was older (50s) and a bit of hippy free spirit looking woman. Anyway, she died about five years ago. An announcement went out in the intra-company e-mail with instructions on how to send condolences and information on a memorial service. I also saw her obituary in the paper, with her picture. Clear as day. She definitely died.

But, I still see her all the time; and not in a spooky lights-flickering ghostly way. I just see her coming in the morning. I see her walking down the hall. I see her most frequently getting in and out of the elevator. She looks like everyone else.

I can't tell if other people see her or not. I assume they do, but I'm not sure. I've never seen her interact with anyone else. I watch really closely when I see her, to see if other people notice her; to see if she talks to anyone or touches them. She never does. I've never seen her talk to anyone or interact with anyone in any way. But I think everyone sees her because she's right there.

Where I work people aren't tight-knit. This is a big firm in a big building and we all go about our business like people downtown do. I have never seen her when I'm with one of my "friends," but I have seen her plenty of times around people I sort of know. However, I feel like it would be really weird to ask them if they see the dead lady. If they don't, they'll think I'm bonkers and spread rumors. If they do, they might not know she's dead, and will wonder if I'm making some sick and stupid joke. So, I just don't say anything. Maybe some of them see her too and feel the same way. I wonder how many other ghosts I walk right past every day without knowing it.

I was in the elevator alone with her once, and asked her very politely if she knew she was dead (it was an awkward sort of "so, you know you're dead right...."). She turned and looked at me, and she looked furious. Like she absolutely hated me. It scared the hell out of me. I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the elevator. She didn't say a thing, but I understood that whatever we are under all this mess of gristle and sinew that makes us anxious, and fret, and march through a litany of miseries every day out of fear of what will happen if we don't, ... that doesn't go away after the end. There's no sweet release and peace. It just gets worse, and so she keeps coming in everyday out of fear of the void and I would be well advised not to raise the damn issue with her again.

I won't talk to her again. I still see her and leave her alone. I have to work at night a lot. I'm up here late at night on the 30th floor alone in this big empty deserted building at least once a week, and it sucks now. I think she's still pissed and skulks right outside my office door. I can't concentrate sometimes because I get the sense that if I turn around she'll be standing behind me looking at me, and looking furious at me for putting a dent in the spell and marching her one step closer to true oblivion. It feels like I have a knob on my heel attached to every nerve in my skin, and someone's cranking on it. I may need to get out of this building and get a new job.
 
2016-10-31 09:12:43 AM  
WOOHOO!! Best. Thread. of the Year. I will be back as soon as I can. Stupid Monday making me have things to do. DON'T YOU PEOPLE KNOW IT IS A HOLIDAY???

Place holder:

img.fark.net
/don't ever get it wet...
 
2016-10-31 09:24:40 AM  

DCBuck: I see one ghost all the time. I work in a 40 story building, on the 30th floor. My firm has 6 floors of the building. Our mail-room/central services and copy center is located on the 5th of our 6 floors. There was a distinctive woman that worked in our copy room. I didn't know her well, or at all really. She was distinctive because she was older (50s) and a bit of hippy free spirit looking woman. Anyway, she died about five years ago. An announcement went out in the intra-company e-mail with instructions on how to send condolences and information on a memorial service. I also saw her obituary in the paper, with her picture. Clear as day. She definitely died.

But, I still see her all the time; and not in a spooky lights-flickering ghostly way. I just see her coming in the morning. I see her walking down the hall. I see her most frequently getting in and out of the elevator. She looks like everyone else.

I can't tell if other people see her or not. I assume they do, but I'm not sure. I've never seen her interact with anyone else. I watch really closely when I see her, to see if other people notice her; to see if she talks to anyone or touches them. She never does. I've never seen her talk to anyone or interact with anyone in any way. But I think everyone sees her because she's right there.

Where I work people aren't tight-knit. This is a big firm in a big building and we all go about our business like people downtown do. I have never seen her when I'm with one of my "friends," but I have seen her plenty of times around people I sort of know. However, I feel like it would be really weird to ask them if they see the dead lady. If they don't, they'll think I'm bonkers and spread rumors. If they do, they might not know she's dead, and will wonder if I'm making some sick and stupid joke. So, I just don't say anything. Maybe some of them see her too and feel the same way. I wonder how many other ghosts I walk right past every day without knowing it.

I was in the elevato ...


1. Try sneakily taking a picture of her some time.
2. Send to media with pic of her in her obituary
3. Profit?
 
2016-10-31 09:27:05 AM  
It was this time last year that I opened my favorite traditional Fark thread with delight, only to find it filled with repeats that weren't really all that good the first time around and nonsensical creepypasty. Noooooooo!
 
2016-10-31 09:27:43 AM  
Early 80's - when I wasn't working on the tugboats, I was typically in the Harvey office dispatching them.  We had a couple of really qualified, but idiosyncratic skippers offshore, one of whom was Captain Rumbeaux.  He used to arrive for his crew change early, and regale us with tales of life on the ocean, and other interesting yarns.  He insisted his wife was a witch, and told several stories purporting her "arts" and "abilities".  Some were really far out there, and while we were naturally skeptical, he was always entertaining.  The man could really tell 'em.

One morning, after a boneyard shift, I was hanging around with the gang in the Traffic Department, and Mrs. Rumbeaux stopped by the office to await her husband's imminent return from Port Fourchon.  She was pleasant, just as gregarious as Captain R, and we invited her to sit in the Traffic office while she waited.  Billy Jones, who was one of the assistant managers, confronted her about her husband's claim.

"Yes, I'm a witch.  How do you think I keep my husband safe offshore?  You've heard his stories."

We all had a good laugh, and the conversation took a few winding turns, until Captain R arrived, and checked in.  They went to depart after a few more minutes, as Captain R was eager to get home.  I said something like, "Watch out for the black cat that hangs around the neighborhood."

Mrs. R looked at me, smiled and winked, and turned to go.  As she left the office, she reached out and rapped her knuckles twice on the wall next to the door.

At the count of two more heartbeats, the outer door closed, and the fluorescent ballast on the ceiling made a little burp/belch noise, while the fixture dropped about twelve inches on one end, as it was caught by a little safety chain that attached it to the rafters above the drop ceiling.  We all looked at each other agape - Billy's hair was standing on end, and I sensed a very creepy feeling running through my body.

The bulb should have gone out, but it stayed on for about 30 more minutes, until we got our maintenance man out of the ship stores warehouse to come fix it.

Spookiest thing that I have ever seen that happened while the sun was up.
 
2016-10-31 09:28:34 AM  
This is a not-scary, disturbing but true story and it did happen to me:

I had an elderly cat, Mindy, who had a lot of health conditions. She mostly hung around the house and slept a lot, and I knew that every day I had with her was a blessing since she had various types of cancers.

One morning she wanted to go outside. While this was unusual, I had other outdoor cats and we live on a large plot of land, and she used to go out when she was younger.  When I let her out she laid on the front porch. She was there sleeping all day. But when I went to call everyone in for dinner, I couldn't find Mindy.

My husband and I searched for her for hours, but eventually determined that the reason she probably had wanted to go outside so that she could go off and die. It was sad, but not entirely unexpected as she had been ill for several years, and was 16 years old.

I also have a sister in law with some mental health issues. She was very fond of Mindy and very upset when he disappeared. Apparently, she made it her life's mission to "find" lost Mindy.

Fast forward a week or 10 days, I'm out in the yard doing some gardening and my sister-in-law comes down the driveway crying, holding a large cardboard jewelry box with a bow on it, and Mindy's collar. She handed me the color, and I thank you for it, because it's a nice Keepsake to have. And I tried to comfort her from her crying, thinking that now she realizes that Mindy hss passed on and she won't have to look for her anymore.

Then she hands me the Box. "What's in the box?" I asked...

img.fark.net

She tells me, "Just open it."
...
I shiat you not, it was Mindy's head.

/ WTF?!
// Seriously, WTF?
 
2016-10-31 09:29:34 AM  

meow said the dog: I was probably 11 or 12. A group of about 10 of us were playing with a friend's ouija board, and we grew up in Louisiana so like the majority of people in that part of the country, we were really stupid. I think we all actually believed it could work. One friend swore he wasn't moving it, but we definitely were "communicating" with someone. We took turn asking questions. I asked, "What was the hair color of the person who killed me in one of my nightmares." I hadn't told my friends. The "spirit" said, "red." Yep, that was correct. Other people also had some strange answers.

We were really spooked at this point. It started getting aggressive. Some "f*ck you" responses, some "die" or "murder" responses. Friend one time said he had a headache. Lights were out, and it was turning dark outside so it set the mood there. Friend's parents weren't home.

Finally, someone bothered to ask who we were communicating with.  When we got the answer, everyone bolted out the door. Again, Louisiana, no one was all that literate. One friend and I did give a quizzical look to each other, but we bolted with everyone else.

Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


Smooth.
 
2016-10-31 09:31:50 AM  
Homeland Security is on the first floor of my building and we share half of our floor upstairs with the FAA.

Today I walked straight into the building clad in green leather with a mask and hood carrying a compound bow into work for Halloween (Green Arrow).  Nobody made a peep.

Scary, huh?
 
2016-10-31 09:33:49 AM  
This happened about a week ago/  Around 4:30, I woke up to hear light knocking on my bedroom door.  Really quiet.  I laid there for a few seconds trying to wake up fully so I'd know if I was imagining it.  I asked my wife if she heard it, and she - also wide awake - did as well.  Then it stopped.  A few seconds later, it started again.  I look up at the windows, and the curtains aren't moving, so I know it's not wind, and it also wasn't random - there was a definite, managed pace to it.

Bear in mind, there's a second door to the main part of the house, so I knew it wasn't my dog or anything - she sleeps in the main part of the house.  I go to the door, and when I'm standing next to it, it's definitely not a rattle by the frame (as it would be if there was air pressure moving it), but rather that the sound is coming from right in the center of it.  (Again, like someone tapping on it.)

I open the door and, of course, there's nothing.  I open the other door, and the dog is sitting in the middle of the room, also wide awake, and she's trembling.

I went back to bed (dog in tow) and said, "It wasn't the wind, I don't know what it was, and we're not talking about this anymore tonight."

The worst/silliest part is that when I was trying to fall back asleep, I was thinking, "Well...at least I have something to share in the Fark thread this year..."
 
2016-10-31 09:34:46 AM  
Even if ghosts were real, I wouldn't be scared of them. After all, what is scarier, an undead thing, or a chubby redhead who is nude after getting out of the shower and stinks because he slathered on a lot of cheap aftershave? I think ghosts tell stories about me.
 
2016-10-31 09:39:31 AM  
The original and most terrifying:
"Erl-King" ("Erlkönig" in english) by Goethe
Youtube qCSGq9zPycs

/my childhood nightmare fuel
 
2016-10-31 09:42:09 AM  
My stupid brother beileived in this 'thing' called the Great Pumpkin. Every Halloween, instead of Trick or Treating, he'd sit in a pumpkin patch waiting for the Great Pumpkin. Oh, how I despised him and his sophomoric beliefs. With the approaching of yet another Halloween, I conspired a plan to rid myself of my brother and his Great Pumpkin once for ever.

I feigned interest in his stupid belief and I told him that this was the year the he would see his orange savior appear. He believed it, too being of simple mindedness. I set up fake web pages and registered the domains in Ukraine showing that a Great Pumkin had visited the believing children there. He fell for it like a crack headed hooker for a fake hundred dollar looking religious tract. And like the aforementioned hooker, he swallowed every bit of it too.

Did not the pages that I showed him say that the faithful had drank massive quantities of pumpkin cider to show their appreciation for the great gourd? My brother was beside himself. There was no pumpkin cider to be found in the IGA or the Red Fox grocery stores. I calmed him, for this was a major part of my plan. I knew of a location of such cider and would take him there. He willing agreed as long as we were back in time to be in the pumpkin patch. No problem, I assured him. My plan was coming together better than an IKEA Workbench model I9780-213-A. Not the B model. Leaning piece of crap.

I led him to an old house near the pumpkin patch. "See?" I assured him. "We will be done with the task at hand and will be in the patch before nightfall." This calmed him. We went in to the old house that I had rented in the name of Donald J. Clinton. No one would even know it was I. We went down in to the basement. It was dark and I paused to light a lantern that I had purchased in the name of Hillary J. Trump. Again, untraceable. He willingly followed my down the corridor, dank and cold. I pointed to a spot near then end of the hall. There is a large bottle of pumpkin cider. Go and fetch it and we shall leave" I said. He nearly flew to the spot. "The bottle is not here!" he cried. "The Great pumpkin will not visit me because I have failed in my faith!"

I shot him with a taser that I purchased under the guise of Anthony Wienerdog. He fell in to a corner and proceeded to brick up the corridor with him trapped in the corner. I used mortar and bricks that I placed nearby and followed the instructions that I had found on YouTube. Row after row. My hands flew at the task. Soon, there was but a few bricks remained to be placed and my brother and his accursed Great Pumpkin shall be gone from me forever. I heard him moan "Oh Great Pumpkin. I have failed you" and then he fell silent. Perhaps it was his knowing that he would never again sit in a pumpkin patch awaiting his false God that weakened him. Perhaps it was that I tased him while he stood in a puddle of water. We will never know. I put the last brick in place and stood back. No one could tell that it was a new construction. YouTube. What can't it do?

I fled the house. My parents would soon receive a text from their son that he was leaving to join the Trump Junior Brownshirts. That should end all questions as to his whereabouts. Mom and dad were Hillary people. They'd never miss him now.

It was evening as I crossed the pumpkin patch. I was eager to start my new life conning old people out of candy. How much of this had I missed out because of my accursed brother? Suddenly, before me was a great howl. A figure rose out of the pumpkin patch! It was the Great Pumpkin! His howl shook me to my very bones and caused my heart to cease beating. I fell to my knees in pain and in an attempt to spare my life from his wretched vengeance. The howling did not cease! Was it only I that heard this?

My bones shattered. Blood poured from my eyes. "I beseech you, Great Pumpkin," I cried. "Mercy upon me! I only desired free candy on this night!" But mercy was not forthcoming. I fell to the ground, shaking as my life fled my destroyed body. This is where those who may search for me will find my corpse. May they know what horrible things happened upon it this night.

As my eyes drew their last vision, I was not to see the horrible visage of the Great Pumpkin. Instead, it was that dog of the idiot next door. It was his howling that scared me to the door of death. I departed this world with this only thought.

I'm glad I pulled that football away from that a-hole every time.
 
2016-10-31 09:43:42 AM  

namegoeshere: WOOHOO!! Best. Thread. of the Year. I will be back as soon as I can. Stupid Monday making me have things to do. DON'T YOU PEOPLE KNOW IT IS A HOLIDAY???

Place holder:

[img.fark.net image 188x251]
/don't ever get it wet...


...and now for the annual reminder of when I have you Farky'd as "Most likely Tharkin"...
 
2016-10-31 09:44:47 AM  
Ghost stories bore me as they're non-sensical. What, after all, is a ghost, anyway? A wibbly warbly thing in your body. Well, if you're a ghost, then why on earth be afraid of another ghost? Ah haaaa!!!!

And so on.

But some oddish, unexplained things have happened to me. The first one happened when I was very very young; around 4 or 5. I was in the top bunk, the blankets bundled up next to my head. Cold, I guess. Just the other side of the door way was the washer and dryer. At some point I thought I heard the washer start running, that machine buzzing noise it makes.

I got up to check it out. This meant crawling to the foot of the bed and climbing down the ladder of the bunk beds. It was so strange, the washer running, but here I was, about to investigate it. As one foot made ready to land on the cold floor, something shot out from under the bottom bunk. It was fuzzy and black. In later years, I would think of it as more like a video effect than a material thing. It shot out with a buzzing noise. My very next memory is of opening my eyes and looking at the ceiling. I was levitating right up at the ceiling exactly above the foot of the bed, just looking at the ceiling. When you're 4, all you can do is experience things; trying to puzzle it out.

This always stuck with me, b/c it's one of those times when you feel sure you know the difference between dreaming and a waking state... Anyway, I closed my eyes, then awoke back in bed. That night, I dreamed of owning a trumpet, b/c I'd always wanted one. It was an exhilarating dream, and heart breaking to wake up and realize I didn't own a trumpet.
 
2016-10-31 09:47:05 AM  
I've been waiting for weeks for this!!!


O)__(O
 
2016-10-31 09:48:57 AM  

calbert: in before someone posts that stupid Russian sleep experiment story.

tl;dr... it's not very good


It starts out really good, but just turns to absolute crap at the reveal.
 
2016-10-31 09:49:45 AM  
So I'll repost this from last  year:

Growing up (teenage years), my best friend thought his bedroom was haunted. He was a really down to earth guy in every respect. He didn't believe in aliens, conspiracy theories, bigfoot, or anything else like that, but his bedroom? Haunted. Strange things would happen at night he said: curtains would sway when there was no wind, books would fall off his desk unassisted, electronics would switch on and off, even his closet door would creak open and shut.

I didn't really know what to tell him, being a skeptic myself. I settled on "its just your head playing tricks", but he was genuinely disturbed for YEARS about it.

One day I'm hanging out with his two older brothers and tell them about what's happening to my friend, telling them that I was concerned. I explained to them of odd occurences in as much detail as I was told. They held out as long as they could, but eventually lost it and bust into laughter.

They then explained, in great detail and alot of pride, how they would rig up elaborate systems of strings to do things like make the curtains say, move objects, and even open doors. They even rigged remote switches to control electronics, all in an effort to convince my best friend his bedroom was haunted.

None of us ever spilled the beans, btw. To this day (we're both in our mid thirties now) he believes his childhood bedroom to be haunted. Even brings it up now and again.

/csb?
 
2016-10-31 09:51:16 AM  
When i was like 8 i was on the sidewalk and me and a friend were throwing stuff at each other. I threw a stick which went way wide and hit a car as it went by. The car screeched to a halt and a guy got out, pulled a gun, and pointed it at me. I just stood there for about 5 seconds frozen in fear, he got back in his car and sped off. It was just up to a coin flip whether I lived or died that day... which, when you think about it, it's really a coin flip every day for everyone.
 
2016-10-31 09:51:19 AM  
I just moved into an old house and I keep hearing door latches and squeaking hinges. But this is really just a bookmark.
 
2016-10-31 09:51:22 AM  
Okay, listen up, Farkers. I wanted to post this right at the beginning of the thread, but my TF fell off last week. (On my birthday. That sucked) Then I hoped we could all be cool and it wouldn't be necessary to say anything, but apparently not. So here it is:

HALLOWEEN STORY THREAD IS SPECIAL THREAD

The rules are different for this thread. Just this once, just for this one thread, this special thread, DON'T BE A DICK. Don't try and debunk the stories. Don't scoff at the stories. Don't call bullshiat. Don't critique unless asked. Just read and enjoy. Or exit out of this thread and go spend the day in the Politics Tab, which is pretty f*cking horrifying in its own right.

Do not wreck this thread for those of us who wait all year for it. If you can't be nice, SHUT THE F*CK UP AND/OR LEAVE.

I'm serious. Just for this one very special Halloween thread.
 
2016-10-31 09:52:05 AM  
Short story on Reddit, probably too long to copy/paste here:  Toes part 1
 
2016-10-31 09:52:26 AM  
Not really scary, but one of those instances that make a skeptic like me wonder about things.

I moved to Texas for a new job and temporarily moved in with my father until I got myself established.   I ended up staying for about four years because I got laid off from that financial crash back then.

Anyway, one night around three in the morning my dad knocks on my door and wakes me up.  He asks if everything was ok.  I said yes, there was no problem, and he said he had an overwhelming feeling there was something wrong and had to check on me.  This was very uncharacteristic of my dad as it never happened before or since.  Seconds after he went back to bed my phone rang, and an ex-girlfriend that I hadn't spoken to in years called and asked if I was ok, said she had a feeling something was wrong and just had to check on me.  I told her thanks for calling but everything was fine.

Coincidence?  Or was there some other unexplained force at work that caused this?  To this day I do not know which answer seems stranger.
 
2016-10-31 09:53:01 AM  
I had a weird one just this weekend, although I admit to seeking it out rather than running in terror as I should have.

It was mid morning, and I was herded into a small, windowless room with dozens of others to sit in cheap plastic seats.  The door shut quietly behind us and large computer screens lit up all around us. The audience shushed and a woman began chanting in a strange, strange language that grew more confusing and obscure the more you tried to understand the syllables.  They were all English words, but somehow put together in odd, frightful combinations that left the audience staring helplessly forwards, unable to escape.

And that's how I learned about how Derrida's theories apply to phallologocentrism in computer languages.

/Yes, I'm serious
 
2016-10-31 09:53:35 AM  
I was driving in the desert through a region known to be a hotspot for satanic group activity.  Up ahead I see a red Pontiac Fiero stopped sideways across both lanes, a suitcase open with clothes scattered everywhere and two bodies laying face down in the road, a man and a woman.

The hair on the back of my neck is standing up. Something seemed very wrong, it looked too perfect as if it were staged. An ambush? Was I being paranoid? Something was just wrong. Getting out of the car seemed unthinkable, it was the horror movie move.

I swerved around the bodies and the Fiero. I continued forward a couple hundred feet and slowed down so I could breathe and let my heart slow down. As I looked up into the rearview mirror I saw that the two bodies had gotten up to their knees and twenty or so people emerged from the tall grass on either side of the road by the car and bodies.

At that moment my right foot smashed the gas pedal to the floor and did not let up until I had to slowdown for the I-40 east onramp.

"Shee-it man, that was close," I said to the yellow, four-foot tall, bulgy-eyed humanoid standing on the windshield.

"Shoulda stopped," said Fishy, and it shuffled back to his spot in the rear seat, where it resumed staring at me in the rearview mirror.
 
2016-10-31 09:54:51 AM  
When I was about four years old, I woke up to see my teddy bear up at ceiling level in one corner of my bedroom, just nestled there looking down at me and moving just a tiny bit, as if someone were wiggling it gently.

It was a dream obviously, but a vivid one that I still remember fifty years later.
 
2016-10-31 09:57:10 AM  

poorjon: calbert: in before someone posts that stupid Russian sleep experiment story.

tl;dr... it's not very good

It starts out really good, but just turns to absolute crap at the reveal.


Exactly how I feel about it.  I really enjoy, maybe, 75% of it.  It's got some good stuff in there...and then....blah.
 
2016-10-31 09:58:29 AM  
For Trick-Or-Treat, we got 6 Donald Trumps. Each got a pack of Tic-Tacs to stick in their basket of deplorables. Everyone else got chocolate. I even had a couple of rocks in case anyone came dressed as Charlie Brown (no-one ever does). Most were just superheroes or Star Wars characters.
 
2016-10-31 10:06:04 AM  

doglover: Sid_6.7: fusillade762: I had my candy bag get jacked by some unknown jerk while trick or treating once as a kid. I expected sympathy from my mother but only got chewed out for losing the flashlight that was in the bag with the candy.

I found that photo from your childhood:

[www.balettie.com image 800x450]

Why was he dresses like Hitler?


img.fark.net
Charlie has a sad.
 
2016-10-31 10:08:16 AM  
Parthenogenetic:"Shoulda stopped," said Fishy, and it shuffled back to his spot in the rear seat, where it resumed staring at me in the rearview mirror.

img.fark.net

Goddamn that was funny
 
2016-10-31 10:08:44 AM  

Weidbrewer: namegoeshere: WOOHOO!! Best. Thread. of the Year. I will be back as soon as I can. Stupid Monday making me have things to do. DON'T YOU PEOPLE KNOW IT IS A HOLIDAY???

Place holder:

[img.fark.net image 188x251]
/don't ever get it wet...

...and now for the annual reminder of when I have you Farky'd as "Most likely Tharkin"...


Heh, Schrodinger's Tharkin. ;)
 
2016-10-31 10:10:43 AM  

namegoeshere: Weidbrewer: namegoeshere: WOOHOO!! Best. Thread. of the Year. I will be back as soon as I can. Stupid Monday making me have things to do. DON'T YOU PEOPLE KNOW IT IS A HOLIDAY???

Place holder:

[img.fark.net image 188x251]
/don't ever get it wet...

...and now for the annual reminder of when I have you Farky'd as "Most likely Tharkin"...

Heh, Schrodinger's Tharkin. ;)


Nice.

Hey, don't get me wrong...if my suspicion is correct, it's one of the best committing-to-the-bit I've ever seen.  Respect.
 
2016-10-31 10:11:53 AM  
I share this scary story every year...


img.fark.net

Beer fridge.
 
2016-10-31 10:13:08 AM  
So I live in New Jersey. I'm a no-nonsense military veteran who my friends know as a straight shooter. I've never put much stock in the supernatural until last year.

I bought a new telescope so I could do stargazing out at Cherry Springs State Park in Pennsylvania. A dark sky park- you can see planets, galaxies. You name it. I live close to Philly so if you've ever seen the Philly skies, you know there's a ridiculous amount of light pollution. So, I decided to head out to the Pine Barrens and try out my new scope. Calibrate it, if you will. Well, as I was setting it up in a good spot, a cop comes by. Ranger. Tells me I can't set up my scope anywhere near the road.

He then directs me to a wooded area about a mile away. He says it's dark over there, flat too. Good enough for stargazing. I grumble a bit and pack up my rig. Just as the ranger said, there's a nice dark spot near a ranger's forest station. Nobody's around, it's dark. It's the night of the new moon, so there's no moonlight, even if I wanted to see. I've got my car headlights, and a powerful flashlight that doubles as the power source for my telescope.

I set things up. Level my scope. Get it calibrated. Use a two star alignment. Before long, I'm getting good images of Saturn, zoomed in on the rings. Really captivating.

CRRRRAAACK.

I look around. Expect to see a spooked deer, or some other nocturnal creature hanging out.

KAAAAAWHOOF. KAAAAWHOOOF.  KAAAAAWHOOOF.

Sounded like something breathing heavy. Exhaling. After thinking about it later, it sounded more like heavy wings flapping. You know that primal feeling at the back of your head, the reptilian instincts that force fight, flight, or freeze? Mine was going off like crazy, telling me I needed to stop what I was doing.

leave now. haul ass. leave now.

I don't know why I ignored it. Curiousity. Bravado. Stupidity.

At the expense of losing my already attuned night vision for 20 minutes, I turned on my car, and aimed the headlights in the direction of the noise.

I saw it. A flash of green, then red. Two orbs of red, rocking back and forth slowly. Eyeshine.

it's been watching me

"Holy shiat..."

how tall is it

CRRRRACCCCCKKKKK


It moved. A tree limb cracked. I threw my gear in the car, and fled.

I haven't gone back during a new moon. I'm not that foolish or brave. I went back later, during the afternoon, to get an idea of where this thing was. The oddest thing was the trees. Green trees don't break, they kinda bend and cave. Well, there were branches as big around as my arm just snapped off, with strange claw marks.

I can't say for sure if it was a bear, but I can say I've never been more afraid in my life. Was it a Jersey Devil? Who knows? But I'm a believer now.

Anyone who is curious can do a search for "Atsion Ranger Station" in Shamong, NJ.
 
2016-10-31 10:13:21 AM  

meow said the dog: I was probably 11 or 12. A group of about 10 of us were playing with a friend's ouija board, and we grew up in Louisiana so like the majority of people in that part of the country, we were really stupid. I think we all actually believed it could work. One friend swore he wasn't moving it, but we definitely were "communicating" with someone. We took turn asking questions. I asked, "What was the hair color of the person who killed me in one of my nightmares." I hadn't told my friends. The "spirit" said, "red." Yep, that was correct. Other people also had some strange answers.

We were really spooked at this point. It started getting aggressive. Some "f*ck you" responses, some "die" or "murder" responses. Friend one time said he had a headache. Lights were out, and it was turning dark outside so it set the mood there. Friend's parents weren't home.

Finally, someone bothered to ask who we were communicating with.  When we got the answer, everyone bolted out the door. Again, Louisiana, no one was all that literate. One friend and I did give a quizzical look to each other, but we bolted with everyone else.

Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


The dark lord of fabric.
 
2016-10-31 10:15:23 AM  
The Blue Mist
What's scary about this story is it's true. This happened in my home town Framingham, Massachusetts. I know this story because my girlfriend lived in the house where this happened and she was told this prior to moving in.
Some years before there was a family of five living in this big farmhouse near Framingham Centre where Rte. 30 mysteriously disappears and re-appears 5 miles away in another part of town. I have given directions so many times to people new to the area....but I digress.
One fall night, this family was sitting in the living room idly when one noticed a strange, glowing blue mist roll in like a fog. It seemed to roll over the house and into the backyard in the area of the barn. One of the boys decided to go look. After a while, when he didn't return, another boy said he would go see. When he didn't return, the third son went to check. After some time, the father went to check and found three piles of smoldering flesh and bones in the barn. And nothing else but a glowing, blue mist. The case has never been solved.
 
2016-10-31 10:16:17 AM  
Parthenogenetic:
"Shoulda stopped," said Fishy, and it shuffled back to his spot in the rear seat, where it resumed staring at me in the rearview mirror.

Thread winner right here.

*prays to Satan for new stories this year*
 
2016-10-31 10:19:41 AM  
1. Put snakes on plane:
*prays to Satan for new stories this year*

No, no - Satin.  Pray to Satin.  Much more effective.
 
2016-10-31 10:21:41 AM  

meow said the dog: Once upon a time a TFette sent me BIE. I'm still suffering.


and that's when we found out the meow was sending WIE to themselves
 
2016-10-31 10:22:38 AM  
Waiting for a good
hook-for-hand bloody camping tale...

i.ytimg.com
 
2016-10-31 10:22:44 AM  

baronbloodbath: So I live in New Jersey. I'm a no-nonsense military veteran who my friends know as a straight shooter. I've never put much stock in the supernatural until last year.

I bought a new telescope so I could do stargazing out at Cherry Springs State Park in Pennsylvania. A dark sky park- you can see planets, galaxies. You name it. I live close to Philly so if you've ever seen the Philly skies, you know there's a ridiculous amount of light pollution. So, I decided to head out to the Pine Barrens and try out my new scope. Calibrate it, if you will. Well, as I was setting it up in a good spot, a cop comes by. Ranger. Tells me I can't set up my scope anywhere near the road.

He then directs me to a wooded area about a mile away. He says it's dark over there, flat too. Good enough for stargazing. I grumble a bit and pack up my rig. Just as the ranger said, there's a nice dark spot near a ranger's forest station. Nobody's around, it's dark. It's the night of the new moon, so there's no moonlight, even if I wanted to see. I've got my car headlights, and a powerful flashlight that doubles as the power source for my telescope.

I set things up. Level my scope. Get it calibrated. Use a two star alignment. Before long, I'm getting good images of Saturn, zoomed in on the rings. Really captivating.

CRRRRAAACK.

I look around. Expect to see a spooked deer, or some other nocturnal creature hanging out.

KAAAAAWHOOF. KAAAAWHOOOF.  KAAAAAWHOOOF.

Sounded like something breathing heavy. Exhaling. After thinking about it later, it sounded more like heavy wings flapping. You know that primal feeling at the back of your head, the reptilian instincts that force fight, flight, or freeze? Mine was going off like crazy, telling me I needed to stop what I was doing.

leave now. haul ass. leave now.

I don't know why I ignored it. Curiousity. Bravado. Stupidity.

At the expense of losing my already attuned night vision for 20 minutes, I turned on my car, and aimed the headlights in the direction ...


Sounds like a mothman. We have an infestation of those down in southern Ohio too, on the river. Nasty suckers. Inter-dimensional beings. Usually follow death, disaster, foulness and rot around (... or cause it?). You don't want one of those things to take an interest in you. That usually turns out badly. I'd steer clear of that spot for a while.
 
2016-10-31 10:27:47 AM  
My dog got into Halloween candy this morning while I was in the shower.

The living room is worse than any haunted house.

/Likes Dots, doesn't like Nerds.
 
2016-10-31 10:29:21 AM  
greatest thread evar, year in and year out.  Unfortunately, due to my current job, I won't be able to participate as much.  Looking forward to the couch picture, the one where, when the pic contrast is changed you can clearly see the ghoul (and it's real), the story about the car in the road, and all the others!!!
 
2016-10-31 10:33:19 AM  

stir22:  Looking forward to the couch picture, the one where, when the pic contrast is changed you can clearly see the ghoul (and it's real)


I don't know this one.  Of course, it doesn't make much difference as changes in my office firewall since last year no block pictures in Fark threads for some reason.
 
2016-10-31 10:34:49 AM  
Pumpkin Rolling

This is a tradition that my friends and I have passed down to friends and family over the past 15 or so years.  It started as a crazy idea of revenge and ended up as a yearly custom.  I encourage you to join along.

First off, make sure you wait until 11/1 to begin.  If you do this before 11/1 you are being a dick.

Step 1) The Hunt.  Ride around residential areas and find the biggest REAL pumpkins you can find.  Uncarved ones are the holy grail.  The less carved the better.  Now run your ass up to their house and steal that pumpkin and bring it into the car.  Repeat until you have a stash of pumpkins.  If someone spots a pumpkin that they think is real and it turns out to be fake make sure to insult and degrade them.

(We consider this like trash service.  Nobody wants pumpkins after Halloween so we're doing them a favor.)

Step 2)  The release.  Now drive along the highway to a place where there's no cars around and chuck those pumpkins out the window.  They will roll for awhile then explode like an orange firework.  Bigger carved ones will explode on impact where as the uncarved ones will spin and fly and explode majestically.

It's really stupid fun.  There's mischief, recycling, and helping the community all put in one.  Enjoy and please pumpkin roll safely!
 
2016-10-31 10:34:51 AM  
I don't have any scary fiction, just a single non-fiction event.  Since it's true, it won't be as scary as the stuff you guys can make up, but it happened to me.

Growing up, I was friends with Paul.  Paul's father was rich - stupid rich.  And since this was in Northern Virginia, to be "stupid rich" in comparison to everyone else took some money.  Paul's father was a real estate developer.  In addition to the large family homestead in NoVA, Paul's father had acreage - lots and lots of acreage - out south of Winchester, in the Shenandoah valley.

The land was pretty far out in nowhere, so we could go out there shooting.  Except for twenty or thirty acres right at the front, the land was all woods, and that clearing boasted a two story farmhouse.

Nobody lived in the house full time, but someone from Paul's clan was usually there on the weekends in the spring, summer or fall and in the winter during hunting seasons.

There were a lot of rules in the house.  Like, posted-on-signs rules.  One was:

"Don't fully close doors.  He doesn't like it."

I asked Paul who "he" was.  Paul just shrugged and smiled.

The house itself was nothing special.  For the most part.  Just a regular two story white farmhouse built in the early 20th century.  The front room, however, was different.  It was a rectangular room; about ten feet deep and twenty wide.  Unlike the rest of the house, it was made of log.

This part of Virginia was first settled by colonists in the mid 18th century, and much of it was still being settled when the French-Indian wars were occurring.  On the western frontier, the colonists established a fort.

The log room was that fort.

It was built in 1758.  There were no windows in the room, only a front and back door.  The front door now served as the entrance to the farmhouse.  The backdoor entered into the house's kitchen.  The backdoor remained permanently propped open.

He doesn't like closed doors.

At some point during those wars two things of note happened.

The first, a young Virginia gentleman stayed at the fort while he surveyed the surrounding land.  His name was Thomas Jefferson.

The second, was a massacre.

The story is, Indians allied with the French surrounded the fort one night and overwhelmed it.  Given that the building was so small, it probably didn't take too many of them, but they were able to prevent the soldiers from getting out of either door.  No militia survived.

The theory is that "he" was in the militia, and that he doesn't like doors to be closed because they prevent his ready escape.  It sounded like horse-shiat to me, but it made for a good story to tell around the fireplace on a cold, December Virginia night.

Paul and I were down there one weekend in the late fall.  He was going to be out in the land to prepare his blinds for an upcoming season - whether bow or black-powder, I don't recall.  I was just going to keep him company and because I'd always enjoyed going up to the farm.  I'd spent many a drunken weekend there with groups of friends (and *never* heard or seen anything that had served to blunt my teenage skepticism about "ghosts" or whatever).

Just about every time we'd all gone up there, we'd gotten hammered in the fort; drinking until blind as teenagers tend to do.  But even if someone passed out, they weren't left in the fort overnight.  They were always taken into the great room or one of the bedrooms.   And every time we'd gone up there, Paul had told us all stories about the house; such as the one time that the family had brought a "psychic" to the house to try to get a "reading".

She walked up the front stoop, put her hand on the front door of the fort, turned around and left without a word.  She refused not only to enter the fort but to ever return to the property.

So, Paul and I are up there one cold December night - the only people for miles around.  Since we're the only ones in the house, and we're only there for one night, it made no sense to heat up the entire house.  We would both sleep in the great-room.  It was as large as the fort, but part of the more modern house.  Along either wall were two large leather couches.  Paul took one and I the other.  He got a big fire going in the fireplace and we both curled up into our sleeping bags.  I could see, in the flickering firelight across the room, Paul's breath as he exhaled.

"Shouldn't you close the door?" I asked.  "To keep the heat in the room?"

He just smiled his shiat-eating grin, "He doesn't like closed doors."

I snorted and tried to go to sleep.  After a short while however, I heard the distinct sound of a series of footfalls from upstairs.  Up the stairs to the second floor of the supposedly otherwise empty house.  I looked over to Paul, to make sure that he hadn't snuck out to try to pull something on me.

His teeth gleamed across the room at me, an "I told you so" look in his eyes.

The boots continued to pound across the second story then stopped.  A door slammed.

Paul chuckled, "I closed one of the doors up there earlier.  He doesn't like that."  He laughed again lightly then rolled over.

Paul went to sleep.

I didn't.
 
2016-10-31 10:35:12 AM  
I work in one of those big old country clubs that have been around for a century. We have a hotel/residences for members that they can use. Because they tend to be the older members, there have been people who've left the building feet first which might explain some of the stories about the place and some of things I've experienced.

I've heard that once, late at night, a security guard and the night auditor were sitting in an office behind the front desk. They hear the front desk bell ring, look into the security camera monitors and don't see anybody there. The bell rings again still nobody there. The bell stops ringing and then one of the elevators' doors open up and the elevator starts to go up. BTW the elevators automatically lock at 11:00pm

A security guard was doing a patrol and a set of automatic doors kept opening closing he turned the lights on and the doors stopped swinging, He turns the lights back off and the doors start swinging again.

It's a common occurance and I've had this happen to me. I once was working very late at night in one of our restaurants nobody else was around the volume on the music system was playing at a certain level. I come back down a half hour later and the system is playing noticeably louder.

This actually happened to me. I was setting up the same restaurant to reopen for the season. So it's just me there. I start whistling and I stop but I hear someone whistling. I start whistling again and someone keeps whistling. The odd thing is that it sounds like they're trying to whistle was I was whistling (The flute theme from The Inner Light). I stop working in there for the day. Also I once heard what sounded like a little girl giggling behind me there.

Oh yeah, once it looked like the walls of my bathroom at work were bleeding.
 
2016-10-31 10:36:27 AM  
 
2016-10-31 10:44:24 AM  
I took my best girl (yes I am that old) to see the Amittyville Horror on Halloween and we decided to spend the night together in my families newly purchased home that had been abandoned for some five or six years.  Of course we turned on the taps jokingly to make sure there was no blood coming out, and sure enough red rusty water sputtered into the sink.  That was unnerving but perfectly understandable.  Then, we toured the house to see what had been left behind.  The home was empty except for the basement where we found a stained old ouija board.  The only other thing of note in the basement was a small trap door.  We were about to open it but something came over us and we chickened out and started making our way towards the stairs.  When the trap door swung open slowly, creaking loudly, we both scrambled up the stairs pushing each other back as we tried to get in front of each other and climb the stairs.  Flushed, we both laughed at our reaction.  I did not get laid that night :(
 
2016-10-31 10:44:53 AM  
Okay, so I went to this Halloween party a few years back.  There was this girl there, dressed up as... she said she was Catwoman, but I think she just couldn't decide between Sexy Catgirl and something involving latex, so she found a way to split the difference.  Not that I was complaining, mind you.  Over the course of the evening, we both got a little drunk, and she started whispering in my ear that she could do this thing where...  Wait, what do you mean "not that kind of Halloween story?"  Oh.  Ohhh.  Nevermind, forget I said anything.
 
2016-10-31 10:52:25 AM  

Weidbrewer: "and we're not talking about this anymore tonight."


That made me laugh.
CSB
 
2016-10-31 10:58:16 AM  

Diogenes: Homeland Security is on the first floor of my building and we share half of our floor upstairs with the FAA.

Today I walked straight into the building clad in green leather with a mask and hood carrying a compound bow into work for Halloween (Green Arrow).  Nobody made a peep.

Scary, huh?


farking millenials....
 
2016-10-31 10:59:33 AM  
I'm on the road for work this week, so I didn't get to submit the thread (damn you Subby!)

But, I am continuing my tradition from last year: if the mods keep this thread towards the top of the front page, I will buy Total Fark for the top two winners (or Bare Fark if they already have TF, or...say congratulations if they already have both).

So get to scarin'!

Oh, and thanks to Bathia_Maps for the TF!
 
2016-10-31 11:02:04 AM  
This very morning, I had a strange dream. It was so strange that I knew I would be posting it in this thread the moment I woke up.
I dreamed I was taking a cruise. I don't go on cruises. The idea of being trapped with large crowds and keeping to an itinerary just doesn't appeal to me. This particular cruise was not normal though. The ship itself was enormous, like Manhattan Island. The top deck had a landing strip like an aircraft carrier for both private and commercial flights. Below that was the residential and recreational decks for first class passengers, below that were decks filled with stores like an endless mall. And on the bottom were the lower class passengers and the employees on the ship. If the ship had a name, it wasn't relevant to my dream.
The ship didn't visit ports of call. There were no destinations. The ship itself was a destination. The ship just wandered the ocean. You flew or sailed to it, then departed again when you were done. I'm not sure how it came to be that my family and I were aboard it, but we had a modest berth in the lower decks of the ship.
I was sitting on a bed in our room when a steward knocked on the door. When I opened it, he handed me an invitation. It was made of fine paper and had fancy lettering and twining plant stems like some medieval bible. I had "won" a chance to attend a party in the first class area of the ship in some kind of automatic raffle. I was instructed that I could bring no guests.
In addition to not being fond of cruises, I am also not fond of parties. I suspected this was going to be some kind of timeshare sales thing, like I could buy part of a suite in the upper decks or something. But my wife encouraged me to go. Once in a lifetime, and all that.
So I put on the best clothes I had with me and started off to find the party in First Class World. The elevators from the steerage class decks only went as far up as the giant mall deck, from there I would have to get on a reserved elevator to go up further. And silly design, the steerage elevators were at the opposite end from the First Class elevators, I would have to traverse the entire shopping deck to get there. So I began my journey. Initially, the shops were fairly normal stores selling your basic necessities, but eventually I passed by tacky souvenirs and finally the high end crap that companies advertise to rich people.
As I approached the First Class elevators, I saw that there was a crowd formed around them. People were trying hard to get in, but there was a bouncer type who checked credentials and kept out people who didn't belong. When I pushed through to get to him, I realized that I had lost my invitation. Fortunately, I guess, a very tall man put his hand on my shoulder and vouched for me. He was whip thin and dressed in a garish outfit made of red and black leather. He had a large nose that gave him the bearing of an ancient Roman patrician. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with heavy amounts of gel with curls on the back of his neck. He struck me as some sort of nouveau-riche plutocrat.
He said, in exchange for getting me into the party, that he would send someone to bring me to him. He wanted to offer me a deal. Aha, here was the timeshare crap. I reluctantly agreed to hear out his offer at the appointed time.
So I milled about the party, observing the rich people. None were as badly dressed as that man had been, but none seemed to really be enjoying themselves. They mingled and chatted with a sort of automatic-ness like a factory worker who keeps pulling the levers and pushing buttons, but has long since zoned out. The food and music and atmosphere were all better than I normally enjoy, but not particularly amazing. I certainly wouldn't be regaling my family with astonishing tales upon my return to lower class.
Eventually, a woman came to find me. She looked very much like the man who had let me into the party; she was even wearing a dress made out of the same black and red leather. She wore a severe expression and had piercing eyes. She guided me through the staff area where food and entertainment were prepared. Occasionally, a person or people would come running through the hallways; lower class people attempting to crash the party. Some were even clearly suffering from deformities or illnesses. Regardless of their conditions, the woman would call a security detail to chase them down on throw them out. She was obviously not a sympathetic person, and would make snide comments about the party crashers after we encountered them.
She led me to a private balcony where the man sat in a chair under an awning in front of a coffee table with documents spread out upon the top. The woman, who was apparently his sister, perched herself on the arm of his chair and stared at me imperiously.
His offer was as follows: My family and I would receive updated accommodations for the duration of our current stay and on all future stays. We would receive a substantial recurring payment that would leave us living comfortably with all our worries remedied. We would have superior medical protection, such that my son would even have his seizure disorder completely cured. In return, I must agree to perform an unnamed act when called upon to do so, regardless of time, morality, or criminal nature of the act. If I failed to do so, everything would be forfeit.
I was tempted. To live without want or need would be amazing. But I had seen the character of the woman, and I suspected the man was much the same, and I was reluctant to be beholden to such merciless people. It was then that I began to suspect that this man not only was the host of the party, but also the owner of the ship. That every aspect of its design was intended to make those in the lower decks desperate to reach the First Class decks. And as such, each would be offered this tempting deal and be made his sleeper cell servants.

At that point my alarm clock went off; it was time to give my son his medicine. And no, I did not read Faust before going to bed.
 
2016-10-31 11:03:49 AM  
When I was about 15 years old, I came home from swim practice.  Normally, my parents and my two brothers would be home at that time of night.  As I approached the house, I noticed the front door was swinging open and all the lights in the house were on.  Weird.  As I got closer, I could see red spattered all about the entryway.  I poked my head in the door and called out for anyone.  No response.  But I could see from the door that there was blood all over the floor.  Some of it was even on the walls.

I ran to the neighbors house.

It wasn't a mass murder though -- turns out my brother just cut off three of his fingers with a jigsaw.  They all rushed him to the hospital and no one bothered to leave me a note.  We all had a good laugh about that later.
 
2016-10-31 11:05:48 AM  

darkeyes: Not really scary, but one of those instances that make a skeptic like me wonder about things.

I moved to Texas for a new job and temporarily moved in with my father until I got myself established.   I ended up staying for about four years because I got laid off from that financial crash back then.

Anyway, one night around three in the morning my dad knocks on my door and wakes me up.  He asks if everything was ok.  I said yes, there was no problem, and he said he had an overwhelming feeling there was something wrong and had to check on me.  This was very uncharacteristic of my dad as it never happened before or since.  Seconds after he went back to bed my phone rang, and an ex-girlfriend that I hadn't spoken to in years called and asked if I was ok, said she had a feeling something was wrong and just had to check on me.  I told her thanks for calling but everything was fine.

Coincidence?  Or was there some other unexplained force at work that caused this?  To this day I do not know which answer seems stranger.


Did you ask them if they had dreamt something about you? I believe in premonition, especially dreams.
 
2016-10-31 11:07:20 AM  
What you are about to read is true. The events that occurred have shaped me into the weirdo I am today.

It was around this time of year probably about 15 years ago. You know, this time of year when young kids like to watch scary movies, scare the shiat out of each other and just cause general mischief. I was a teen punk, just looking to find some trouble with some friends.

Needless to say, our idea of fun involved getting some shiatty cheap beer and finding a biatching place to drink said beer. I forget who had the idea, but someone said "let's go drink in the abandoned house down the street!" We all looked at each other, nodded and collectively said "fark YES! Let's do it!" I mean, what could possibly go wrong? The cops show up and ruin our night of underaged drinking? Someone steps on a rusty nail? How naive we were back then...

Fast forward to later that night - the back seat of my 1990 Ford Escort hatchback coup has 5 people crammed in with a case of Red Dog beer and a half of a bottle of watered down vodka from someone's parents liquor cabinet. (The reason it was watered down was because we'd been pilfering it for months and putting water in it to mask the amount we took - rebels, I know). With all the boys together and our supplies in order we began our journey to that old house.

I parked the car a block away so that no one would get wise to the fact that there were kids partying in the abandoned house. We had all our bases covered. Momma didn't raise no fool. We set out on foot on that crisp autumn night toward our goal of having a good time at the old house. A good time indeed... yeah right.

As we walked closer and closer to the house the temperature seemed to drop 10 degrees and a dense fog had descended upon the property. Our breath was now visible in the air, which was strange considering that, that year we were in the middle of an Indian summer. We should have turned back then. We should have known what was to come. But we were 16/17 years old! We were going to live forever! God, the folly of youth!

We got to the front walk of the old place, we were hushed and giggling and pretty excited that we were about to embark on the American teenager's rite of passage of drinking and recklessness. However we stopped a moment before proceeding up the walk to the door to this old home. It seemed as if there were a faint light flickering like a candle just out of sight from the window. shiat! Someone stole our idea and already claimed this as their hangout! No matter, we figured there was enough room for everyone to have a good time. So, the brace young bucks that we were, we swaggered up the steps.

We navigated up the old busted steps onto the porch of this house. It seemed to creek with every step we took - there goes the element of surprise we had for whoever was inside. We continued toward the door. It was slightly ajar. Being the brash and brave guy I am I gave it a slight push. The ungodly moan and creek of that door opening is something that haunts me to this day. It seemed like the noise of hell escaped that house with the opening of that door.

We stood at the doors opening. The light that was faint from outside was clearly coming from the next room over. We decided that it was now or never. We carefully stepped into the house and toward the illuminated room, because obviously that's where the fun was going down. We got to the entrance of the room. My fingers grasped the entrance of the door jamb and I slowly leaned in to see what was going on. I'll tell you now, I wish I had never agreed to go to this place. I wish we had the sense enough to turn around when we saw the building was occupied.... my eyes grew wide with fear as I spied into that room. It's not something I will ever forget... my skinned crawled as this dark figured gazed at me.... its mouth opened and it began to speak:

I'm Rick Harrison, and this is my pawn shop. I work here with my old man and my son, Big Hoss. Everything in here has a story and a price. One thing I've learned after 21 years - you never know what is gonna come through that door.
 
2016-10-31 11:08:36 AM  
I have two half sisters (or one whole sister, I used to joke.  Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk, I was a kid, what do you want) who I only saw in the summertime.  Don't get the wrong idea, this isn't a story about, like, one sister everyone could see and one who turned out to be a ghost or something.  No - these were (and are) two perfectly normal human beings and this is a perfectly normal story.

Every now and again I'd try to be a good older brother (I'm the oldest by two years) even though I wasn't really accustomed to having siblings most of the time, and I'd try and get them a gift or something, but usually it was such a long time between when I'd think of getting them a toy and the summer when I'd see them, that most of those gifts never even got delivered.

I'm not a very good brother.

One of the gifts though, that didn't get delivered, was not delivered very much On Purpose.

I'd been on a school trip for some reason or another, and saw a stuffed animal duck.  Not, like, an actual representation of a duck - more like a knock-off anthropomorphised Donald Duck - wearing a little uniform, had a little hat, and so on.

The thing about the Duck was that it would quack, if you patted it on the head.  If you squeezed the little duck-hand it would bust out into a 'song', that was actually all quacks, but whatever.  But you get the idea - Duck takes batteries, and has a pressure sensor in the head and hand that set off some quacking.  Good times.

So I get home from the trip, Duck in tow, and promptly put it in the closet for me to forget about it.  Time goes by, I forget all about it until one night I'm sleeping happily in my bed and I hear a noise.  As I'm gradually coming awake, I hear it again.  It is faint, in that 'did I really hear anything' kind of way - but as I wait, and wait - I hear it again.  Still faint, but I'm sure I heard something.  From the closet.

Then, oddly, and I remember the sequence of emotions really clearly - I'm suddenly overwhelmed with relief.  I realize it is just a very faint 'quack'.

So for an instant I think - "Ah, right!  The Duck! - nothing to worry about!  It is just the stuffed Duck in the closet that makes a quack when....something....touches.....it."

Now I am much, much less relieved.  I'm trying to ignore it.  Trying to have NOT heard a suddenly less jolly quack from my closet.

I hear it again.  It sounds...louder.  I don't like this.  I don't like this.

Then, oddly - because I have never been brave, I jump out of bed, fling open the closet - carefully do NOT look at anything, but grab the Duck and fling it out of the closet before slamming the door and jumping back into bed.  I guess my logic was that whatever was roaming around in the closet was free to do so, but dear god I did not want to Know it was in there!

So...life went on.  Time went by.  I don't know if I got any sleep that night, but nothing emerged from the closet to murder and devour me,   All was generally back to normal.

Until another night - long enough later that I'd pretty much forgotten about the whole incident - I was again woken in the middle of the night, but this time by a Flurry of manic quacking, coming right from beneath my bed!  Like that farking Duck was being murdered under there!  I hadn't even realized that in my tossing the Duck out of the closet it had wound up under the bed (I hadn't really wanted to know) - but now it was there and Something was going after it with a vengeance!  So I boldly hunkered down in the bed until morning and tried to sleep through the avian massacre happening beneath me.

In the morning, I fished the Duck out with a broom.  It appeared no worse for wear - but I had had enough.

Out of the house and into the garbage can it went.  On the way, I idly wondered (in the light of day) if maybe it had just had a short.  Right!  I simple electrical short!  That would explain everything very tidily, without the unsettling questions of nighttime visitors bent on fuzzy duckling destruction.  So I popped open the battery pack to reveal....No Batteries.  The damned thing had Never had batteries in it at all.

My sister may have been upset at not getting a birthday present from me that year, but I like to think that sparing her Satan's plush duck toy was the best gift I could possibly give her.
 
2016-10-31 11:10:02 AM  
My dad died in 2009. He had Parkinson's. He had been in a nursing home and he decided he didn't want to go on anymore, so we brought him home. My mom got the house already and prepared for a long haul. The doctors told my brother and me that if my dad went off his meds, he'd last about a day. It was about 18 hours...

Dad's last meal was Skipper's Fish and Chips. Sounds weird I know, but you give the dying their last requests. We said our goodbyes, gave dad some pain meds and he slipped in to sleep. I remember whispering to him that it was okay to let go. Later that night my dad died quietly in his sleep.

I remember standing at the end of my dad's bed with my brother...and I heard my brother say: Captain Trips...I then proceeded to go on about the Stephen King novel The Stand and Captain Trips...you know comparing and contrasting those deaths and how Parkinson's was an awful way to go...blah blah blah. My brother turned and looked at  me with the most perfect...WHAT THE FARK IS WRONG WITH YOU look in the history of WHAT THE FARK IS WRONG WITH YOU looks in the world.

He said: I didn't say Captain Trips...I said camping trips. My brother was expressing his love of camping trips we all took together when we were younger.

We laughed.

(not so scary...I know)
 
2016-10-31 11:12:16 AM  
So far, we've had two instances in our house that can be considered "unusual".

For a little background, we have very scant knowledge of the previous inhabitants of our house. We know that there were three owners before us, but none of our neighbors recall anything odd or any deaths or anything. However, in one of the non-master bedrooms, there was a wire run that would appear to have been for some sort of intercom, but it had been cut off inside the room and in the attic, so we have no idea where it originally went.

The first odd event was within our first month in this house. We had our child, all of 18-months-old, in her bedroom...the one with the intercom wire. I was tucking her into bed when our dog, Brownie, came into the doorway, growling. Full-out, defensive growling, with all the fur on her back straight up, teeth bared. I traced the line of where she was looking and it was directly at the corner where the south and east walls met the ceiling. That was really odd, but it got weirder when my daughter stood up on her bed, pointed at the same corner and made an "ooooooo!" sound, as if she saw something amazing up there. The pointing and growling continued for a few more seconds, then both stopped, at the same time. It was really, really friggin weird.

The second event was when I was home alone one day, working from home. The house has a 2nd floor, but the entirety of it is a single room, just a loft. I was sitting in our family room directly beneath the loft, working, when I heard...footsteps. The first time I heard it, it raised red flags, but I passed it off as maybe a woodpecker tapping at the side of the house, as they do from time to time. But, it happened again, and this time, I noted that yes, the footsteps moved, all across the floor above me. It really sounded like a small person or child was running across the loft. I went to investigate and found...nothing. Of course, while I was up there, I never heard it, but when I was downstairs, after about 10-15 minutes, it happened again. Investigate...nothing. I sat in the stairwell for a bit, thinking I could look faster, but while I was in the stairwell, nothing happened...when I went downstairs, sure enough, running footsteps again. Really, really odd, but to this day, several years later, it's never happened again.
 
2016-10-31 11:18:00 AM  

Resident Muslim: darkeyes: Not really scary, but one of those instances that make a skeptic like me wonder about things.

I moved to Texas for a new job and temporarily moved in with my father until I got myself established.   I ended up staying for about four years because I got laid off from that financial crash back then.

Anyway, one night around three in the morning my dad knocks on my door and wakes me up.  He asks if everything was ok.  I said yes, there was no problem, and he said he had an overwhelming feeling there was something wrong and had to check on me.  This was very uncharacteristic of my dad as it never happened before or since.  Seconds after he went back to bed my phone rang, and an ex-girlfriend that I hadn't spoken to in years called and asked if I was ok, said she had a feeling something was wrong and just had to check on me.  I told her thanks for calling but everything was fine.

Coincidence?  Or was there some other unexplained force at work that caused this?  To this day I do not know which answer seems stranger.

Did you ask them if they had dreamt something about you? I believe in premonition, especially dreams.


No, but I often wonder if I was dreaming something that could have been transmitted somehow, but I do not remember if/what I dreamt.  Just one of those things that mess up my logical view of the universe.
 
2016-10-31 11:19:15 AM  
I'm a very level-headed skeptical person who always seems to be able to come up with an reasonable explanation of whatever weird phenomenon that others, or myself has experienced.  That is why this night really scared the crap out of me.

Now, I have always had sleep issues...and several times I have experienced sleep paralysis and all of the terrifying "symptoms" that accompany it: Paranoia, paralysis, trouble breathing, hallucinations etc...  Those experiences, although I know are not real, have all stayed with me.  It truly can be horrifying.

Rewind about 3 years ago: Something startles me awake.  I know something is wrong.  Was it a loud noise?  Is someone breaking in?  Perhaps it's just one of those feel 'like you are falling the moment you fall asleep' things, where you seem to still be bouncing in the bed when you are startled back into consciousness?

I don't think much of it, probably just one of my many sleep issues I think. I'm sleeping well (for once) so I start to drift back to sleep....

WHAM!!

There it was again, I was only half asleep this time....but still unsure what woke me.  Still feels like the falling thing but, no, something is much more tangible here.  My heart is racing, I stay quiet....Someone is breaking in!?!  My girlfriend hasn't reacted so maybe it's nothing.  The dog too....she would normally be going crazy at any abnormal noise at night.  Still, I'm on edge.  Something is wrong and adrenaline is coursing through me.

"This is silly" I tell myself, and close my eyes.

WHAM!

Whoa!  WTF!!??!! I felt it this time.  I fell!  I actually farking fell and was still bouncing on the mattress!  The girlfriend didn't wake...not a peep out of the dog.  "this has got to be another sleep paralysis" I tell myself... so I do a little test; I try to move.

Now, in this moment, the little boy in my head is telling me not to move too much, ya know, so as to not alert the monsters in the room that I'm awake...but I'm a grown @ss man! 30 years old dammit!..."Pshht, I got this...what are you afraid of 2kanzam?" I say to myself.

...I wiggle a finger...

Ok, then...My finger moved.  Wait? so does my head.  I can breath, there is no lurking figure...this is no sleep paralysis I start to realize...

...then it dawns on me: "Wait...if this isn't sleep paralysis, then WTF?  I just fell from the air. This is REAL!?!?!?"

Right then I feel it.  The whole bed moves.  I'm watching it...With me and my girlfriend in it, the whole farking bed is lifting into the air!  I see it, I feel it...holy FARKING shiat I'm in a levitating, bed; totally awake and sober and this IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO HAPPEN!!!!!

WHAM!!

The bed slams to the ground again.

I'm horrified, shocked...shaking and trying to rationalize what is happening.  Trying to rationalize away the fact that I just saw my bed- with me in it- levitate and then come crashing to the ground.

My GF wakes up..."What was that?" She uttered.  I don't know what to say: "Ummm...so you felt that?  I don't know...but we were just farking floating and....and I dunno!!"  She kinda jumps to attention saying.."What?".  All I can do is basically repeat myself.  "The farking bed lifted in the air and fell down...I saw it..."  "What do you mean??" she says, she can tell I'm serious and that I'm a little freaked.

This is it folks.  I know I have a duty.  I have to investigate, I need to find out what is happening no matter how terrifying the answer might be.  "This will change my life, change everything I know to be real and will cause me to question all absolutes I've known to be true up until this point." I think to myself as I muster up the courage to see what this is....if anything.

I have to man up and face the beast.

I slowly get out of the covers.  I pull myself to the foot of the bed.  I feel like I'm 4 years old again, fretting over the existence of the boogie man my sisters warned me of. I can hear nothing but the pounding of my heart in my ears as a peek over the edge...

...there it is. Writhing, squirming, hairy and breathing heavy...protruding from underneath the end of the bedframe...It goes to stand, lifting the bed over two feet in the air as I watch it!!

WHAM!!

The bed makes one final descent and slams the floor like a judges gavel signaling the final verdict...

...It was my dog.  My Great Dane who was in the early stages of bone cancer had accidentally wedged herself under the edge of the bed and couldn't drag herself out due to her lame right front paw.  She still had the power in her back legs to lift that queen sized bed with wooden frame...me and my girlfriend along for the ride.  But just couldn't quite release herself from it's grip.

I have never been so relieved in my life.  ...and never felt so silly.
 
2016-10-31 11:25:27 AM  
I love this thread.

Here's one I've put down in previous years, sorry if you've already read it.

I used to work at a hospital in the records department.  The place was built in the early 1900's in a sorta neo-gothic style, on a hill basically overlooking downtown.  Looks like a friggin' castle, basically.  They did some wonky experiments with mind-altering drugs there, too, during the cold war, but that's a whole other thing.  Anyway, place has a reputation for being creepy AF and basically everyone had stories about sounds and such during the later shifts.  No big deal.

The records department was in a re-purposed ward where they had sorta split it into had cubicles/offices and the rest was the actual filing room.  Just row after row of heavy shelves on rails for a solid 100 feet or more.  I don't think the place had been built with that kind of weight on the floor, so there was a tendency for the shelves to rest in the middle if left alone.

So, here I am, working 2nd shift from 4-12, basically just chilling out sorting papers and on-hand to run files up to the ER if they needed anything in a hurry.  Every now and then I find something that has to go into a chart, so I saunter over, roll open the aisle I need and do my thing, jamming the aisle open with a little cart because the stacks just can't help by roll back to their neutral position.  Everything's going pretty as per usual, until the shelves decide they're not happy to sit in their usual "downhill" spots.  They start rolling all over the place.  They're opening, slamming closed, trying to squeeze me when I duck in to grab some files, the whole thing.  This goes on for maybe 20-30 minutes before I decide enough's enough and just holler "Knock it off, I'm trying to get work done!" for no real reason than to hear my own voice.  Things stop.  Nice.

This is pretty close to quitting time, and my relief calls to say she'll be late.  I'm not super happy, given the weird shelf problem, but I hang around waiting for her to get there.  Finally, she walks in, I bolt out for my walk to the nearest metro stop.  To get there, I have to walk down the hill along the side of the building where my department is.  As I'm going, I can look into the 2nd storey windows where the filing room is, and I can see my co-worker sitting at a desk, headphones on, doing whatever.  I can also see that the shelves are moving again, which I think is pretty spooky and THEN I see the thing that really made my skin crawl.

I can clearly see the silhouette of someone standing in a window, either staring directly out (at me) or staring in.  Thing is, there's no space for a person to stand since the shelves leave only a couple inches clearance as they roll back and forth.  I looked at it for a few seconds as I walked past, went straight home, poured four fingers of scotch and refused to work there alone at night ever again.
 
2016-10-31 11:27:54 AM  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Elisa_Lam
I don't have the time or skill to give a full synopsis of this remarkable, true, tale. Just read it.
 
2016-10-31 11:34:29 AM  

Weidbrewer: stir22:  Looking forward to the couch picture, the one where, when the pic contrast is changed you can clearly see the ghoul (and it's real)

I don't know this one.  Of course, it doesn't make much difference as changes in my office firewall since last year no block pictures in Fark threads for some reason.


It's an awesome one.  There's this living room, and you can't see the ghoul at first.  Iirc, there's a guy laying on the couch,  though I might be wrong.  The ghost cannot be seen at first....but when you chang the contrast setting, he jumps out and scared the shiat outta me.  I'm sure the pic will pop up in today's thread.  It has every year.
 
2016-10-31 11:36:23 AM  
Here's my big one:

I love to travel and see the world. When I was in my early twenties, I took a job in Europe (I'm American), because how better to see a different country than to move there?

I got a studio apartment on the first floor. The building was old, probably dating from the late 1800s to the early 1900s, but the apartments were all nicely renovated.

After having been there maybe a month, I was awoken by someone banging on my window. This wasn't a physically impossibility or anything: my apartment was on the ground floor and my windows faced the street/sidewalk. I thought maybe my coworker who would sometimes give me rides to work was trying to wake me up, that I had overslept.

I groggily walk to the window, and throw up the shade and...it's the middle of the night. The street is deserted. The knocking had continued right up to the moment I opened the shade.

I figured it was a dream or weird old-building sounds or whatever and went back to bed.

The knocking happened at random times, at least once a week, for the entire time I lived there. It happened in summer and in winter and in rain and shine. It always stopped the moment I opened the shade.

The TV in that apartment also would turn itself on at random times. I literally never watched television there (preferring to watch DVDs on my laptop), but I would get out of the shower or come home from work and the TV would be on. One time, the TV turned itself on literally right in front of me, as I was sitting at my desk working, the remote control on the other side of the room.

I'm sure there are reasonable explanations for all of this: old pipes for the knocking and power surges for the TV, but when you're young and 5000 miles away from home, that sort of thing can be spooky.
 
2016-10-31 11:36:42 AM  

Weidbrewer: This happened about a week ago/  Around 4:30, I woke up to hear light knocking on my bedroom door.  Really quiet.  I laid there for a few seconds trying to wake up fully so I'd know if I was imagining it.  I asked my wife if she heard it, and she - also wide awake - did as well.  Then it stopped.  A few seconds later, it started again.  I look up at the windows, and the curtains aren't moving, so I know it's not wind, and it also wasn't random - there was a definite, managed pace to it.

Bear in mind, there's a second door to the main part of the house, so I knew it wasn't my dog or anything - she sleeps in the main part of the house.  I go to the door, and when I'm standing next to it, it's definitely not a rattle by the frame (as it would be if there was air pressure moving it), but rather that the sound is coming from right in the center of it.  (Again, like someone tapping on it.)

I open the door and, of course, there's nothing.  I open the other door, and the dog is sitting in the middle of the room, also wide awake, and she's trembling.

I went back to bed (dog in tow) and said, "It wasn't the wind, I don't know what it was, and we're not talking about this anymore tonight."

The worst/silliest part is that when I was trying to fall back asleep, I was thinking, "Well...at least I have something to share in the Fark thread this year..."


4.bp.blogspot.com
/spooky
 
2016-10-31 11:38:18 AM  
I keep having this reoccurring nightmare that the Cubs are in the World Series, and a twit named Joe Buck is announcing.  It's scary enough to drive me to drink.
 
2016-10-31 11:43:02 AM  

2KanZam: I'm a very level-headed skeptical person who always seems to be able to come up with an reasonable explanation of whatever weird phenomenon that others, or myself has experienced.  That is why this night really scared the crap out of me.

Now, I have always had sleep issues...and several times I have experienced sleep paralysis and all of the terrifying "symptoms" that accompany it: Paranoia, paralysis, trouble breathing, hallucinations etc...  Those experiences, although I know are not real, have all stayed with me.  It truly can be horrifying.

Rewind about 3 years ago: Something startles me awake.  I know something is wrong.  Was it a loud noise?  Is someone breaking in?  Perhaps it's just one of those feel 'like you are falling the moment you fall asleep' things, where you seem to still be bouncing in the bed when you are startled back into consciousness?

I don't think much of it, probably just one of my many sleep issues I think. I'm sleeping well (for once) so I start to drift back to sleep....

WHAM!!

There it was again, I was only half asleep this time....but still unsure what woke me.  Still feels like the falling thing but, no, something is much more tangible here.  My heart is racing, I stay quiet....Someone is breaking in!?!  My girlfriend hasn't reacted so maybe it's nothing.  The dog too....she would normally be going crazy at any abnormal noise at night.  Still, I'm on edge.  Something is wrong and adrenaline is coursing through me.

"This is silly" I tell myself, and close my eyes.

WHAM!

Whoa!  WTF!!??!! I felt it this time.  I fell!  I actually farking fell and was still bouncing on the mattress!  The girlfriend didn't wake...not a peep out of the dog.  "this has got to be another sleep paralysis" I tell myself... so I do a little test; I try to move.

Now, in this moment, the little boy in my head is telling me not to move too much, ya know, so as to not alert the monsters in the room that I'm awake...but I'm a grown @ss man! 30 years old dammit!..."Pshht, I got this...what are you afraid of 2kanzam?" I say to myself.

...I wiggle a finger...

Ok, then...My finger moved.  Wait? so does my head.  I can breath, there is no lurking figure...this is no sleep paralysis I start to realize...

...then it dawns on me: "Wait...if this isn't sleep paralysis, then WTF?  I just fell from the air. This is REAL!?!?!?"

Right then I feel it.  The whole bed moves.  I'm watching it...With me and my girlfriend in it, the whole farking bed is lifting into the air!  I see it, I feel it...holy FARKING shiat I'm in a levitating, bed; totally awake and sober and this IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO HAPPEN!!!!!

WHAM!!

The bed slams to the ground again.

I'm horrified, shocked...shaking and trying to rationalize what is happening.  Trying to rationalize away the fact that I just saw my bed- with me in it- levitate and then come crashing to the ground.

My GF wakes up..."What was that?" She uttered.  I don't know what to say: "Ummm...so you felt that?  I don't know...but we were just farking floating and....and I dunno!!"  She kinda jumps to attention saying.."What?".  All I can do is basically repeat myself.  "The farking bed lifted in the air and fell down...I saw it..."  "What do you mean??" she says, she can tell I'm serious and that I'm a little freaked.

This is it folks.  I know I have a duty.  I have to investigate, I need to find out what is happening no matter how terrifying the answer might be.  "This will change my life, change everything I know to be real and will cause me to question all absolutes I've known to be true up until this point." I think to myself as I muster up the courage to see what this is....if anything.

I have to man up and face the beast.

I slowly get out of the covers.  I pull myself to the foot of the bed.  I feel like I'm 4 years old again, fretting over the existence of the boogie man my sisters warned me of. I can hear nothing but the pounding of my heart in my ears as a peek over the edge...

...there it is. Writhing, squirming, hairy and breathing heavy...protruding from underneath the end of the bedframe...It goes to stand, lifting the bed over two feet in the air as I watch it!!

WHAM!!

The bed makes one final descent and slams the floor like a judges gavel signaling the final verdict...

...It was my dog.  My Great Dane who was in the early stages of bone cancer had accidentally wedged herself under the edge of the bed and couldn't drag herself out due to her lame right front paw.  She still had the power in her back legs to lift that queen sized bed with wooden frame...me and my girlfriend along for the ride.  But just couldn't quite release herself from it's grip.

I have never been so relieved in my life.  ...and never felt so silly.


I've seen that happen with a younger english mastiff. It is really sad to see a once-active and carefree dog hobble around. Even worse, knowing that there is no surgery to fix it, and the dog would have to be euthanized because otherwise the cancerous bone would eventually shatter in an incredibly painful manner.
 
2016-10-31 11:43:20 AM  

Erma Gerdd: Weidbrewer: This happened about a week ago/  Around 4:30, I woke up to hear light knocking on my bedroom door.  Really quiet.  I laid there for a few seconds trying to wake up fully so I'd know if I was imagining it.  I asked my wife if she heard it, and she - also wide awake - did as well.  Then it stopped.  A few seconds later, it started again.  I look up at the windows, and the curtains aren't moving, so I know it's not wind, and it also wasn't random - there was a definite, managed pace to it.

Bear in mind, there's a second door to the main part of the house, so I knew it wasn't my dog or anything - she sleeps in the main part of the house.  I go to the door, and when I'm standing next to it, it's definitely not a rattle by the frame (as it would be if there was air pressure moving it), but rather that the sound is coming from right in the center of it.  (Again, like someone tapping on it.)

I open the door and, of course, there's nothing.  I open the other door, and the dog is sitting in the middle of the room, also wide awake, and she's trembling.

I went back to bed (dog in tow) and said, "It wasn't the wind, I don't know what it was, and we're not talking about this anymore tonight."

The worst/silliest part is that when I was trying to fall back asleep, I was thinking, "Well...at least I have something to share in the Fark thread this year..."

[4.bp.blogspot.com image 400x216]
/spooky


Is that Oddjob and Pee Wee Herman in the background?
 
2016-10-31 11:43:30 AM  
Another story:

My mother died when I was a teenager. After she died, it was just me and my father in a house that was way too big for us. We had inherited the house from my mother's father, and he had lived there for fifty years or so and done extensive changes, including adding a whole second story to the house. The core of the house was old, over 100 years old at the time I lived there (and this was twenty years ago now).

My father and I only ever went into the den (where the TV was), the kitchen, the bathrooms, and our respective bedrooms. We never went into the formal living room, the foyer, the formal dining room, the guest bedroom, or the glassed-in front porch.

Anyway, my father was at work one day while I was off from school (maybe it was the weekend or summer break, I don't remember exactly). I was upstairs in my bedroom reading when I become aware of people talking downstairs. It wasn't scary yelling or anything, just two people having a quiet conversation. I was curious, because I didn't think my father would be home yet and we never had guests over, so I couldn't imagine who it could be.

I slowly walk downstairs and look around, only to realize that no one is home. I still hear the voices and notice that they're coming from the formal living room - a room that I (and I had presumed my father) had not entered in years.

In the living room, against the far wall, was an old (from the 1960s or 1970s) hi-fi set, the huge kind that was a piece of furniture in its own right, the width of a loveseat. It was on, and tuned to a talk radio station. That's the conversation I heard.

I had not been in that room since my mom died, and I had never turned on that radio. I didn't even know it worked. To turn it on, you had to slide a decorative panel to one side and then flip a fairly heavy switch, so it's unlikely that it got turned on by accident.

Anyway, I turned off the radio. I never asked my father about it, but presumably he turned it on after going in there for some unknown reason, since I never saw him go in there before or after.
 
2016-10-31 11:44:21 AM  
Cornelisz House

Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, is the sort of average urban neighborhood that could be anywhere, or nowhere.

Its old Brooklyn.  Its away from the teeming hipster bars of Williamsburg, the slums of Brownsville and Bed-Stuy, and the Manhattan-light of downtown.   Its residential, with a decent mix of good delis, Lebanese tavernas, bars, and the requisite pizza places claiming to be "New York's best."

Most of the buildings in the area date from the 1920s, with some 19th century holdouts in the older parts of the neighborhood.  Here, where the British landed in 1776 and chased Washington out of the city, next to nothing remains of anything prior to 1865.

On 82nd Street, between 5th and 6th Avenues, there is an exception.  It's a Dutch colonial, in the literal meanings of those words, and not that of modern day real estate agents.  One of three buildings in the entirety of the city, and the only one in the borough of Brooklyn, that dates to the time when the area was called Geel Hoek, Breukelen, Nieu Nederland

A town house that was once a farm house, the red brick home stands jammed in a row of three story walk-ups and is a blend of Baroque touches capped with a later Victorian mansard roof.  White paint flakes from the window sills and stone curlicues, lending to the sturdy Dutch masonry a strange sense of both solidity and quiet decay.

It is called the "Cornelisz House," and even boasts its own rusted state historic marker.  Despite being on the National Register of Historic Places, you'll be hard pressed to find it on a map.  It is maintained by the Friends of Yellow Hook Historic Society, but you won't find a picture of it on their website.

Should you want to visit the Cornelisz House, you'd take the R Train to Bay Ridge, and get off at either 77th or 86th Street, almost the end of the line. You may ask locals directions to the house, and their responses will range from "what?" to "why?"  Eventually, you'll make your way to 82nd Street, and over to 5th Avenue after having walked a block in the wrong direction.  You'll pass the house once and on the second pass wonder why you didn't see the Baroque pile the first time around.

The façade is impressive enough, what with the combination of crumbling Baroque touches with later Victorian updates, the heaviness of age oozing out onto the street.  You're sure to wonder why someone would build such a fine home in what was, in the days of old New Netherland, the boondocks.  The windows are dark, and make the imagination soar.  Perhaps to a macabre dream or nightmare you'd had recently.  To murder mysteries, cults, and the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe.

Then you'll notice that this stretch of 82nd Street is peculiarly quiet.  There will be few people around, perhaps one or two watching you from across the street.  No children at play.  You'll cross the far side of the street from the Cornelisz House and take out your smart phone or camera to take a picture.  A neighbor will warn you, "Don't take pictures."

It's a common enough warning in museums to not take pictures, as flashes will damage sensitive works of art, but the outside of a house?

"Why?" you'll ask.

If you're lucky, the neighbor will have been around long enough to give you a reasonable framework why.

"It sounds like a lot of haunted house stuff," she'll begin, "but the Old Dutchman, that's what we called the house as kids, we were just warned by our folks.  My grandmother told me it was built by a fella named Cornelisz, and that he was an artist back in Holland.  He was chased out and came to Bay Ridge when the Dutch still owned it.  I think he was in a cult or something.  Like he had real weird ideas about God and stuff.  I was told to never take pictures, and never to stare.  I think the last family to live there was back in the 1940s or something."

You'll ask for more but just she'll shrug.  She'll glance at the house for a brief moment, before saying that anytime she looks at the house for too long, she has nightmares and doesn't sleep well for a week.  Putting away the camera, you might grab some lunch and google Cornelisz over a sandwich

Jeronimus Cornelisz was an artist of some renown in his day and mostly forgotten today.  His specialty was the still life.   His paintings were so lifelike that they would fool insects.  He once painted a ham that looked so real, that the glistening from the glaze appeared to shimmer as one walked past.  His paintings were unreal.  I say this in the past-tense as many of his paintings were lost or destroyed, through any number of the upheavals that have swept through northern Europe during the last four hundred years.

One verified painting remains and only gives a hint to the legends surrounding the man's works.  It's a silver flagon on a dark field, sitting atop a broadsheet.  The wear and tear on the canvas gives the impression one is looking at the flagon through a screened window and not at a centuries-old painting

Cornelisz, despite his profound talent, grew to be a pariah and was convicted and fined for blasphemy, a rarity in the religiously tolerant Netherlands, in 1629.  The court papers from Cornelisz's hometown of Haarlem state that he boasted that his works were "divinely inspired" and that he could "make a better flower than God himself."  Subsequent historians hint at Satanism or Paganism and the usage of unorthodox pigments in his oils.  In 1633, the year he fled to New Netherland, Cornelisz was accused of murdering his fourteen-year-old house maid.  The details of the murder are gruesome, but how Cornelisz escaped Holland, and how he escaped the noose are unknown.  Those records have since been lost or destroyed.

So you'll return to 82nd Street and look into the darkened interior of the house.  It won't be open the day you're there, and part of you will be glad.  Not that the local historic society has the home open very often.   You're sure to notice that the hinges and the lock on the front door haven't been opened in quite some time and have been painted shut by an almost unknowable number of coats.  Perhaps they enter through the alley to do maintenance?

The interior, as viewed from the outside, doesn't look sinister, but a knot will form in your stomach as if you're about to walk past a large dog of questionable friendliness.

Out with the camera again.  A man walking down the far side of the street might say something to the effect of, "it doesn't like its picture taken."  He's gone before you can ask what he meant.

You might ponder that for a moment.  A house doesn't want its picture taken?  Pretty ironic for a house built by an artist.  "It doesn't like its picture taken"?

You'll think its silly, but that knot in your stomach urges caution.  But you're adventurous.  You're here to photograph one of the oldest houses in the city, and the home of a man who was convinced that his work was perfect.

You snap your first picture.  Looking down at your phone, you see its blurry.  No good.  You frame up a second shot.  Again, blurry.  Looking at the result of your third try, this time instead of a blurry picture, you see a still life of a skull and three overturned glasses.  You attempt to frame up another picture but now your phone shows another still life, in near photographic realism, of a skull sitting atop a Persian rug with a vase of spilled tulips beside it, rendered in the glow of a sunset through a window.  Then, bones among discarded books with pages pulled out.  An overturned chair.  Dried blood spattered on a wall.  A candlestick bent out of shape.  Chaos, bones, and dread.

You snap your first picture.  Looking down at your phone, you see its blurry.  No good.  You frame up a second shot.  Again, blurry.  Looking at the result of your third try, this time instead of a blurry picture, you see a still life of a skull and three overturned glasses.  You attempt to frame up another picture but now your phone shows another still life, in near photographic realism, of a skull sitting atop a Persian rug with a vase of spilled tulips beside it, rendered in the glow of a sunset through a window.  Then, bones among discarded books with pages pulled out.  An overturned chair.  Dried blood spattered on a wall.  A candlestick bent out of shape.  Chaos, bones, and dread.

Go and visit, if you wish, but take only memories when you leave.
 
2016-10-31 11:45:43 AM  
Waiting for the 'rainy night in Maine, guy looking up the tree in a thunderstorm, animals acting weird' tale.
 
2016-10-31 11:46:22 AM  
Here's one I wrote last year. More humorous than anything else. Kind of B-movie horror narrative.
 
2016-10-31 11:48:16 AM  
Last one:

My older son is five now. He's always been very verbally-gifted, speaking in complete sentences from a very young age (and never shutting up...we just remind ourselves that we'll miss the adorable chatter when he's a teenager).

Starting when he was around two years old, he'd tell me and my wife about all the things he'd do "when [he] was Burt Smith." (I've changed the last name for privacy, but the name he used was an equally generic one).

Burt Smith lived in Iowa. Burt Smith had a twin brother named Bern. Burt Smith was married to Sarah.

We thought it was cute. My wife's name is Sarah (again changed to protect the innocent, but in this case it was a slightly more rare name). My wife's family is from Iowa. He just combined all this to make up a story, right?

Just for the hell of it, one day I did a search and found an obituary for Burton "Burt" Smith from Des Moines, Iowa, who was predeceased by his wife, Sarah, and his twin brother Bernard "Bern" Smith.

My son was born a month and a half early; Burt died right around my son's predicted due date (i.e. a month and a half after his actual due date), and his brother Bern had died a few days before my son was born.
 
2016-10-31 11:49:44 AM  

Weidbrewer: namegoeshere: Weidbrewer: namegoeshere: WOOHOO!! Best. Thread. of the Year. I will be back as soon as I can. Stupid Monday making me have things to do. DON'T YOU PEOPLE KNOW IT IS A HOLIDAY???

Place holder:

[img.fark.net image 188x251]
/don't ever get it wet...

...and now for the annual reminder of when I have you Farky'd as "Most likely Tharkin"...

Heh, Schrodinger's Tharkin. ;)

Nice.

Hey, don't get me wrong...if my suspicion is correct, it's one of the best committing-to-the-bit I've ever seen.  Respect.


I would love to accept props for that one, but alas, I have only ever been me on Fark.
 
2016-10-31 11:53:01 AM  
As a child I frequently experienced what I now know were sleep paralysis episodes. Full blown from the muted voices nearby, buzzing sound prelude, inability to move, feeling of impending doom, and visions of the cloaked aspiration with nothing but the darkest of dark abyss for a face.

Then, one day, they stopped and never happened again.

As an adult (and thanks to the internet) I learned what they were and shared it with my best friend. Without a beat and to my shock he said "oh yeah. I've had those, too." He was the only other person I knew who experienced them to the extent that I had.

A few years later my friend is given his death sentence... Inoperable pancreatic cancer. 12 weeks left at best. He was only 41.

At that point in his life he had no family left, except for me, my husband, and his fiancé. We all had dreams of growing old together. Those dreams, obviously, would never come to pass.
One night, and for the first time in decades, I had a sleep paralysis episode. I saw the apparition in the corner of my bedroom watching me from the shadows.

Now that I was prepared and "knew" what it was I "said" to it "a-HA! There you are!" at which point it appeared to get startled, flew out through the wall and looked at me through the window.
Before it disappeared, the one thing I noticed was that, for the first time ever, it was looking at me with glowing green eyes shining from the darkness of its face.

I relayed the tale to my husband the following morning. We both went "humph. Very creepy and interesting," but did not dwell since we had bigger fish to fry and drove up to our friend's house to take care of him some more.

Once we got to his house, we were all sitting around telling nostalgic stories and trying to get him to eat something.

He starts a tale of his own and it went like this... "Last night I had a dream. A sleep paralysis dream. I haven't had one in years, but it was as real as ever. The apparition was looking at me from the foot of my bed. The one weird thing was that this time, in the blackness of its face, it looked at me with glowing green eyes."

If I wasn't already sitting, I would have fainted.

He fell off this mortal coil a few days later.

True story.
 
2016-10-31 12:05:04 PM  
Before I add my non-fiction story, I thought I'd post one of my favorite pastas:
Ability
I live in Osaka, Japan and often use the subway to go to work in the morning. One day, when I was waiting for the train, I noticed a homeless man standing in a corner of the subway station, muttering to himself as people passed by. He was holding out a cup and seemed to be begging for spare change.
A fat woman passed by the homeless man and I distinctly heard him say, "Pig."
Wow, I thought to myself. This homeless man is insulting people and he still expects them to give him money?
Then a tall businessman went by and the homeless guy muttered, "Human."
Human? I can't argue with that. Obviously, he was human.
The next day, I arrived early at the subway station and had some time to kill, so I decided to stand close to the homeless man and listen to his strange mutterings.
A thin, haggard-looking man passed in front of him and I heard the homeless guy mutter, "Cow."
Cow? I thought. The man was much too skinny to be a cow. He looked more like a turkey or a chicken to me.
A minute or so later, a fat man went by and the homeless man said, "Potato."
Potato? I was under the impression that he called all fat people "Pig".
That day, at work, I couldn't stop thinking about the homeless man and his puzzling behavior. I kept trying to find some logic or pattern in what he was muttering.
Perhaps he has some kind of psychic ability, I thought. Maybe he knows what these people were in a previous life. In Japan, many people believe in reincarnation.
I observed the homeless man many times and began to think my theory was right. I often heard him calling people things like "Rabbit" or "Onion" or "Sheep" or "Tomato".
One day, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to ask him what was going on.
As I walked up to him, he looked at me and said "Bread."
I tossed some money into his cup and asked him if he had some kind of psychic ability.
The homeless man smiled and said, "Yes, indeed. I do have a psychic ability. It is an ability I obtained years ago. But it is not what you might expect. I can't tell the future or read minds or anything like that."
"Then what is your ability?" I asked eagerly.
"The ability is merely to know the last thing somebody ate." he said.
I laughed because I realized he was right. He said "Bread." The last thing I had eaten for breakfast that day was toast. I walked away shaking my head. Of all the psychic abilities someone could have, that one must be the most useless.
 
2016-10-31 12:07:10 PM  

cgraves67: This very morning, I had a strange dream. It was so strange that I knew I would be posting it in this thread the moment I woke up.
I dreamed I was taking a cruise. I don't go on cruises. The idea of being trapped with large crowds and keeping to an itinerary just doesn't appeal to me. This particular cruise was not normal though. The ship itself was enormous, like Manhattan Island. The top deck had a landing strip like an aircraft carrier for both private and commercial flights. Below that was the residential and recreational decks for first class passengers, below that were decks filled with stores like an endless mall. And on the bottom were the lower class passengers and the employees on the ship. If the ship had a name, it wasn't relevant to my dream.
The ship didn't visit ports of call. There were no destinations. The ship itself was a destination. The ship just wandered the ocean. You flew or sailed to it, then departed again when you were done..


Your randian nightmare come true: http://freedomship.com/ .

i.huffpost.com
 
2016-10-31 12:13:45 PM  

Cletus from Canuckistan: cgraves67: This very morning, I had a strange dream. It was so strange that I knew I would be posting it in this thread the moment I woke up.
I dreamed I was taking a cruise. I don't go on cruises. The idea of being trapped with large crowds and keeping to an itinerary just doesn't appeal to me. This particular cruise was not normal though. The ship itself was enormous, like Manhattan Island. The top deck had a landing strip like an aircraft carrier for both private and commercial flights. Below that was the residential and recreational decks for first class passengers, below that were decks filled with stores like an endless mall. And on the bottom were the lower class passengers and the employees on the ship. If the ship had a name, it wasn't relevant to my dream.
The ship didn't visit ports of call. There were no destinations. The ship itself was a destination. The ship just wandered the ocean. You flew or sailed to it, then departed again when you were done..

Your randian nightmare come true: http://freedomship.com/ .

[i.huffpost.com image 850x425]


Yes, I've seen that before, and it is probably an indirect inspiration for the ship in my dream. I even left out a whole part about a casino and reflection upon the absence of law and order in international waters. I'm just weirded out that I got a visit from Mephistopheles in a dream on Halloween.
 
2016-10-31 12:16:37 PM  
Now for the real-life story.

I grew up on a horse farm in rural Minnesota.  My mother specializes in Shires, a very large and very sweet draft horse breed.  She also "collects" and takes care of horses that may be unwanted or just need a good home.  This included, over the years, a few ponies so my sister and I, and our friends and various other neighborhood kids, would have a less-intimidating steed upon which to learn to ride.

Horses are not stupid animals, and frequently curious and adventurous, so two or three times a year (especially when we let any of the ponies out to graze with the rest of the horses), some horses would escape through the fencing.  We'd usually find out by noticing a front yard full of horses, or we'd get a call from our neighbors, who were familiar with our herds.

One night, we get a call from our horse vet, who happened to live about a mile down the road.

"I was driving up my driveway, and two of your horses ran in front of me.  It was a tall Shire mare with four long white feet and a very broad nose blaze, and a sprinkling of white speckles over her belly, and a small light brown pony.  They seem to be having a pretty good time, too, jumping around and playing."

My mom was quiet for a moment, and replied,"Well, that's really good to know.  Because that sounds like Juliet and Tiny, and they've been dead for years."
 
2016-10-31 12:16:50 PM  
namegoeshere:
I would love to accept props for that one, but alas, I have only ever been me on Fark.

Just a total coincidence that the two accounts were created within a day of each other and you're the only one who ever brings up the story...

<touches finger to side of nose and winks>

Roger.  Got it.
 
2016-10-31 12:17:06 PM  
These words just might be the last traces of me in this world, so i must take care in that they convey exactly what I desire them to.  The experiences of the last few months have been such a strange journey, and now the next phase is to begin once i finish this last gesture of documentation, more for myself as a purging or release than for whomever chooses to gaze upon it.
It was a warm summer night, the road glistening and the air still smelling of the by-then  ceased rainfall.  I was walking down an unfamiliar street after walking out early of a movie that turned out to be all hype and no actual substance, when a peculiar sight grabbed my attention. Along the mostly deserted street were clusters of shops, and the particular store i was next to displayed a brash pink neon sign, seemingly leftover from the 80's, that said "VHS RENTALS HERE." l almost burst with laughter  at the ensuing mental images and the perversity of some "hipsters" opening and operating a vhs-only store in this day and age. Having nothing else to do and feeling pecks of curiosity, I walked inside. The lighting was quite dim, almost nonexistent. There were no decorations on the bare yellowing walls, simply two long shelves in the middle of the room with numerous VHS boxes.  There were some gaps in between the boxes indicating a few here and there were out, but many still remained. A quick glance down the aisle revealed them all to be horror, if the grisly covers were any indication of content.  The covers were mostly drawings but a few were photographs, and each of the images were disturbingly haunting in its own way. A woman half-naked and screaming, eyes bulging and fingers desperately grasping for a knife mere inches away as a reptilian humanoid oozing translucent goo with long claws and two mouths reached out for her. A man in a pickup truck whose face was contorted into an expression of anguish and repulsed fear driving away as behind him a horde of children with glowing eyes, elongated limbs and gnashing sharp teeth, their hungry smiles stained red,  were seemingly catching up to him. No titles, just a gruesome cover image and one or two stills from the film on the back, from the few I inspected.  Being a fan of horror i did not recognize any of the images front or back. Everything inside of me froze as my eyes caught a glimpse of one particular box. The full-color drawing, rendered in the highest detail imaginable, was that of an alien-like structure akin to some sort of gazebo  with a long flat table-like surface in the middle covered in blood and organs, as children attempted to flee, the vaguest hint of two terrifying eyes looking down upon it all from the sky. That image captivated and chilled me thoroughly.  Before I was even aware of my own actions I had taken this box and walked up to the glass counter. The cashier looked more like the beefy bouncer of a shady nightclub one would never dream of angering.
"Membership card?" he asked in a thick deep voice. After indicating that one was not something I owned, he shook his head and said "OUT." I stood there confused. "I- I'd like to apply for one." He shook his head again. "It doesn't work that way. Out NOW." He lifted his arm, pointing a very thick finger towards the door. A thin tall and bearded man appeared from behind him, seemingly materializing from the darkness when in reality he most likely stepped from behind the black curtain that was difficult but not impossible to see in the dim light. "What seems to be the trouble here, Edward?" The thin man took a long look at me before siezing the video box from Edwards' hand, and the two stepped back and quarreled for a moment, before the cashier disappeared into the curtain. The thin man smiled at me, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the box still in his hands. "Greetings, I am Allen, the owner of this establishment. I do apologize for Edwards' behaviour, as we tend to be very discerning about our customers, being that our titles cater to a specialized few." He pointed to the box in his hand "This... is a special product, fairly intense for newcomers. For someone not accustomed to our productions it may be a little too much." He gestured to a closed door to our right. "It actually should have been in there with the films of its equal, as opposed to on the main shelves. As owner of this establishment as well as someone who has seen and been involved in the creation of every film that graces our shelves, might i recommend something a little less revealing, that may help with one developing a taste for what we have to offer?" There was something in what he said that troubled me, but since it seemed the  membership issue was being skirted I leapt at the chance knowing i would eventually see the film that i had a deep and sudden urge to view. He walked down the aisle and i followed. He stopped, picking up a particular box and handing it to me. "Oh good, i was hoping this one had not been rented already. Yes, there is a bit of a love story" He rolled his eyes at these words, echoing the mild loathing dripping from the words as he said them, "but it is actually well done and this is a wonderful introduction to our 30+ years worth of work in the industry." Winking at me, he then said "Return it within a week and based upon you're reaction we will pick another selection. And keep in mind, in the spirit of things as well as due to having other duties we are only open at night" Without looking i took the box, eager to watch whatever it was. I felt like I had been allowed into some sort of exclusive club, when i sensed the reality was so much more mundane. I suspected this whole scenario had been staged, some sort of desperate attempt of a floundering business to make a random potential customer feel more at home. I couldn't deny that if this were indeed the case, it had worked.
After a 15 minute drive and some thorough digging through my basement to rescue my dusty forgotten VCR, i was ready to watch the mysterious cassette. I still hadn't even looked at the cover and decided not to. I had no idea what to expect other than some long-forgotten low budget horror movie, perhaps even one i had seen before in my many years as a genre fan.
It began almost immediately, no credits or title. Cheesy yet sinister organ music blared over the soundtrack sometimes drowning what dialogue there was, though the plot was quite easy to grasp despite this technical issue. It seemed to be filmed on a handheld camcorder in a fake documentary manner, a bit distanced from the action as if the cameraman and audience were voyeurs of the unfolding events.  The simple plot concerned a man who found himself suddenly in some menacing woods and stumbles upon a coven of witches. He finds himself falling in love with a woman whom the Queen witch had captured and made her slave. The Queen offered to free the girl and allow them to be together on the condition that he sells his soul to her. Eventually he does so, and his love interest is then increasingly terrified of him as the man is forced to do the Queen witches bidding, culminating unexpectedly in the startlingly graphic, brutal  sequence in which he slaughters his would-be love interest. Up to this point there had been not a single death or drip of blood, no indication that the film would become so grisly. The murder dragged out for a good five minutes or so, the actor becoming increasingly covered in blood as he slams this sacrificial knife into her flesh nonstop, occasionally struggling to pull the embedded knife out of bone, her body slowly transforming over time into an unrecognizable mess of meat.  This was also the only part of the movie to not have that overbearing organ droning on, further adding to the shock value. The camera just kept zooming in closer to the horrific  massacre until the film abruptly ended, leaving me stunned and with a lingering feeling of dread and slightly nauseous.
I slept little that night, thoughts focused on that film and some of the strange details I noticed during and afterwards. Every time i drifted off, something would snap me back to consciousness. What year was it made? Based on my experience with low-budget horror i would have guessed early to mid 80's, but the effects seemed too well done for that era leading me to believe older cameras were used in a more recent date. Who were the actors? I did not recognize a single face but that is nothing unusual in dealing with low budget films. What was unusual was the high quality of the acting. There were no flubbed lines or stilted acting, everyone was very convincing in their roles, the kind of acting that would lead to some recognition, even low-level.  Where was it filmed? Those woods in which the film took place seemed quite familiar, as did the abandoned church that was the sole location shown. Most interior shots were simply a red curtain backdrop but at one point the pews could be seen, and i was certain I myself had been in that church at one point in time, long ago. Why no credits or title? I did my best to push these thoughts out of my mind, but others came to the surface or reappeared until the sun rose. I went about my day, consuming more coffee than usual to avoid sleeping until it could be fended off no more, and sometime afternoon I fell into a restless dreamless slumber. Needless to say, upon awaking i found myself back in my car headed to the video store.
I arrived just as Allen was unlocking the front door. "Ah, back so soon?" There was a faint grin in his words as he stepped onto the hardwood floor and flicked on those almost nonexistent lights. "That was quite an - " I struggled for the right word but wound up choosing the first that came to mind "Interesting movie. I'd love to see more." He nodded, taking the tape from me, checking the contents before nodding and setting it back on the shelf. "Well, as you can see, we have many more, of equal or greater quality than that title." he walked around to the other side of the shelf and began scanning thoroughly with his eyes. Someone entered, and without looking Alan raised a finger and said "I'll be with you in a moment, Nigel, i'm with a special customer," and reached for a tape on  the bottom shelf. He glanced at the box for a moment,  smiling slightly before passing it to me. "This is quite a good one, in my opinion. And admittedly that is a biased one given that I not only run this store but all of our productions are made in-house so to speak." Before i could ask him any of the several questions that I had about the first film, he was engrossed in a conversation with an older man whom i assumed to be Nigel.
Not wishing to make the same mistake twice, i went to sleep early with the resolve to watch this second film in the morning. The cryptic cover drawing was that of four teenagers surrounded by a glowing hazy fog, with several eerie zombie like shapes lumbering towards them in the background. Three hours my resolve had broken, and I was sitting in front of the television, a very large, black and strong cup of coffee in my hands.
This second video was recorded in that same pseudo-documentary style, this time the camera shifted between that stalker-like camerawork and a footage from a camcorder passed between the characters as they documented their experience. The story centered on four teenagers, two male and two female, vacationing for two weeks in an unnamed Asian city.  They unfortunately picked an area that was still somewhat angry towards America over the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. and the locals seemed mildly hostile. Due to a lack of subtitles it was hard to make out what all was being said by the Asian characters. In a nightclub, the one modern place shown in the otherwise old fashioned town, one of the main male characters angered one of five men wearing suits and ties. Not only were they the owners of the club but also seemed to be some sort of black magic practicing Yakuza, and cursed the main characters through eerie chanting. The singer at the nightclub, who spoke fractured English through a thick accent and seemed to be sympathetic to the Americans, said something about a "curse of 12 sorrows". The film then changed tone, and the rest was one nightmarish situation after another. Upon awakening the following morning, they were all covered in giant pustules and boils. One of the girls, a friendly blonde, screamed in agony as one of the boils on her face burst open, something strange falling to the ground. The camera panned down revealing a large thick centipede that crawled under the bed.
Each event that took place was increasingly graphic or horrific, many of them too terrible to describe. Yet there were no deaths, just one sickening or startling occurrence to one or the group as a whole. Near the end, it seemed as if nobody in town could see or hear our four protagonists as they pathetically groped down rainy streets in search of some sort of reprieve or assistance from the agonies descending upon them.  Eventually the black magic Yakuza members lured and trapped them in a large circular steel building much like a silo, but seemingly empty except rocks covering the ground and large scraps of metal. There seemed to be two windows high above, too distant to escape from but just enough to let a little moonlight in.  From the outside there was a long tracking shot of the cameraman circling the building from the outside, and the rest of the movie was captured by the camera owned by the main characters. One of them had a pack of matches and after a bit of fumbling managed to light one and set the whole pack on fire. .Whoever had the camera dropped it with a scream, yet despite this it landed just right so the rest of what occurred was visible. A series of shapes emerged from the opposite end of the room, human-like figures in various states of decay, some gurgling and most barely more than bone held together with the barest amount of rotted tissue, slowly lumbering and shambling towards the main characters, who appeared frozen in absolute terror at this sight. Before anything else could be done those hideous remnants of what were once humans descended upon the main characters and one could only see a grotesque sort of huddle. one of the girls cried out in disbelief "They're HUGGING us!" After a moment, her boyfriend spoke up. "Don't you see, they were cursed too!" and with those words the girls began sobbing. The camera lingered on this uncomfortable image for a small eternity before fading out.
I sat there as the tape rewound itself, fidgeting slightly and staring vacantly at the blue television screen lost in thought. That film had been unnerving in ways similar and different to its predecessor. The acting was quite good, very convincing, and yet I did not recognize a single face from my years watching various b-movies. Again, it was hard to place a year to the movie, though this was mainly due to it taking place or being filmed in a foreign location.  The effects of those living corpses was utterly convincing and well executed way beyond the means of some low-budget project made in the middle of nowhere, though perhaps it was some sort of co-production with foreign backers putting up some extra cash and work into the props.
Now, at this point i must confess that the rest of what i have to say will not be easy for me to force myself to recall, so forgive any difficulty i have in conveying properly what unfolded next. Its not easy to go through such experiences once, let alone repeatedly.
When I arrived at the video store, Allen was there, seemingly waiting for me. He locked the door behind me, and said "This will be a private screening, here, for reasons you will soon understand." He opened the door to our right and led me in. There was a shelf in the back with a few films, and a large screen tv covering most of the wall on the opposite side, two fold-up chairs in front of it.  In his fingers Allen held a vhs tape, THE vhs tape, sliding it into the player and turning to me. "This beautiful creature was my first film of this kind. I was sent to the location with no knowledge of what was to be filmed.  My few years working in the documentary field had somewhat prepared me, but not completely, for what was to come." His eyes almost seemed teary as the play button was pressed. He sat down and gestured to the empty seat which i soon after occupied. My eyes turned toward the screen, eager but increasingly nervous of what this film contained.
The television was abruptly filled with the image of a dirt road surrounded by trees, with a clearing seen on the right some distance ahead. The early morning sky began to darken as a schoo lbus appeared to the left, gradually slowing and coming to a stop. The doors opened and a rotund man wearing suspenders stepped out, cursing after lifting the hood and peering inside. He lumbered to the doors and bellowed out "Ok,everybody out, we'll have to walk from here!"  
As children appearing to be 6-8 years of age filed out of the bus, as the driver called out for them to use the buddy system, the camera zoomed in on the woods behind the bus. Although the image was slightly out of focus, a shifting could be seen, some single source of movement which suddenly multiplied into a bustle of activity. The camera zoomed back, showing the driver and children walking down the road, toward the clearing. "Strange" the bus driver could be heard saying as the cameraman slowly walked to capture the images, the sound of twigs breaking distorting other audio. "That wasn't here this morning." The camera panned to the right. In the center of the clearing sat the hideous gazebo-like structure, and as the camera lingered upon it and the children walking closer to it, the skies above began to darken.
The gnawing fear slowly blooming with in me exploded as the cameraman carefully crossed the street in order to  switch positions and capture the childrens' faces. A pair of blonde twins stood out in particular. "No" somehow passed through my lips as the camera abruptly switched to the woods, and about five or six - things erupting from behind the trees, scurrying at a rapid pace towards the interlopers. "What in the he-" was all the bus driver was able to get out as his throat  was shredded open and rendered useless  with a single swipe of obscenely sharp talons. The soundtrack became awash in a sea of high pitched screams of terror and pain as the images became increasingly red.  The cameraman could be heard retching as blood, organs and limbs littered the ground. Some of the children were running into the woods, some in the opposite direction towards the bus. The camera followed the blonde twins, a boy and a girl, as they rushed towards the clearing and that structure clutching hands.  I closed my eyes, not wanting to see anymore. However I  still saw the image from memory as two of the creatures materialized and tore the girl, in half, my hand still gripping hers as it became detached from the rest of her. I opened my eyes and lept up to stop the tape and demand answers, but there was something oddly calming about the single "Don't" that Allen softly spoke that changed my mind. Shaking, nauseous and reeling with a form of terror and fear that had been brought back to life after being told for years it was all in my head and had all been just a nightmare, I reluctantly returned to the screen wondering what this madman intended me to further see.
The blonde boy - it was best not to think of him as me at this point - was cowering behind the strange alter slab, crawling and trying to stay hidden. The camera shifted up as a rumbling overtook the soundtrack, revealing two large eyes in the sky. Most of the creatures appeared to have vanished, presumably to look for the dozen or so children who had escaped. One was sniffing the air and quickly approaching the boy. the camera panned down, its holder running away. It stopped at the bus drivers remains, a hand fumbling into the mans pockets and turning up a Swiss army knife. The camera was a blur of motion as its' holder ran back to the structure, where the boy, eyes shut and mouth open with screams barely audible overtop the increased rumbling, was being held by the shoulder by a creature, his legs flailing several feet from the ground. The cameraman shouted as his free hand buried the knifes' corkscrew into the creatures back, directly in center. It dropped the boy in surprise, a dark green substance oozing from the wound. the view shook and became barely watchable as presumably the camera was slammed into the creatures skull. The camera fell to the ground, landing in such a way as to be pointed upward. A young bearded man stood, holding his hand out to the boy. "Come, let's get you to safety" the man said, picking up the camera as the boy took his hand. The image slowly faded into blackness as they ran.
Though the room was now silent, there certainly was much noise internally as my mind grasped to reconcile all of this. Thankfully i had something else to focus on as Allen quietly spoke. "Imagine being a 20 year old documentarian with a growing career in nature films, and receiving a very random call to be at this place at this time and being told not to interfere with the proceedings. I went out of sheer curiosity, and wound up witnessing - that." He swallowed before continuing. "I do not regret breaking the protocol to rescue you, it was worth the - reprimanding - to know that a life was spared and in doing so, the gateway was not fully opened so the owner of those eyes could not fully cross over into our world. But he is still here, looking for cracks in the surface separating our dimension from his, and he will in time find them unless we are vigilant."
We talked, for a long time. All of my questions were in time answered, and i had a better understanding of things, as much as anyone could.
That night, armed with a list of names, i made a series of phone calls. I traveled to various stores and purchased handguns and the proper ammunition. Half of the guns I armed with a single bullet. I selected one, loaded it fully and set it aside. That one would be mine. As much as i would like to play hero and attempt to save the day, that role was already chosen in the stars for someone else.  After informing that individual of their predestined duties, i intend on taking myself out of the equation if the forces beyond will be so kind as to allow me this graceful exit. I fear they won't.

(This is kind of a "chapter zero" for a story i have been toying with writing for a long time.)
 
2016-10-31 12:17:28 PM  
The Price
by Neil Gaiman

Tramps and vagabonds have marks they make on gateposts and trees and doors, letting others of their kind know a little about the people who live at the houses and farms they pass on their travels. I think cats must leave similar signs; how else to explain the cats who turn up at our door through the year, hungry and flea-ridden and abandoned?
We take them in. We get rid of the fleas and the ticks, feed them and take them to the vet. We pay for them to get their shots, and, indignity upon indignity, we have them neutered or spayed.
And they stay with us, for a few months, or for a year, or for ever.
Most of them arrive in summer. We live in the country, just the right distance out of town for the city-dwellers to abandon their cats near us.
We never seem to have more than eight cats, rarely have less than three. The cat population of my house is currently as follows: Hermione and Pod, tabby and black respectively, the mad sisters who live in my attic office, and do not mingle; Princess, the blue-eyed long-haired white cat, who lived wild in the woods for years before she gave up her wild ways for soft sofas and beds; and, last but largest, Furball, Princess's cushion-like calico long-haired daughter, orange and black and white, whom I discovered as a tiny kitten in our garage one day, strangled and almost dead, her head poked through an old badminton net, and who surprised us all by not dying but instead growing up to be the best-natured cat I have ever encountered.
And then there is the black cat. Who has no other name than the Black Cat, and who turned up almost a month ago. We did not realise he was going to be living here at first: he looked too well-fed to be a stray, too old and jaunty to have been abandoned. He looked like a small panther, and he moved like a patch of night.
One day, in the summer, he was lurking about our ramshackle porch: eight or nine years old, at a guess, male, greenish-yellow of eye, very friendly, quite unperturbable. I assumed he belonged to a neighbouring farmer or household.
I went away for a few weeks, to finish writing a book, and when I came home he was still on our porch, living in an old cat- bed one of the children had found for him. He was, however, almost unrecognisable. Patches of fur had gone, and there were deep scratches on his grey skin. The tip of one ear was chewed away. There was a gash beneath one eye, a slice gone from one lip. He looked tired and thin.
We took the Black Cat to the vet, where we got him some antibiotics, which we fed him each night, along with soft cat food.
We wondered who he was fighting. Princess, our white, beautiful, near-feral queen? Raccoons? A rat-tailed, fanged possum?
Each night the scratches would be worse -- one night his side would be chewed-up; the next, it would be his underbelly, raked with claw marks and bloody to the touch.
When it got to that point, I took him down to the basement to recover, beside the furnace and the piles of boxes. He was surprisingly heavy, the Black Cat, and I picked him up and carried him down there, with a cat-basket, and a litter bin, and some food and water. I closed the door behind me. I had to wash the blood from my hands, when I left the basement.
He stayed down there for four days. At first he seemed too weak to feed himself: a cut beneath one eye had rendered him almost one-eyed, and he limped and lolled weakly, thick yellow pus oozing from the cut in his lip.
I went down there every morning and every night, and I fed him, and gave him antibiotics, which I mixed with his canned food, and I dabbed at the worst of the cuts, and spoke to him. He had diarrhoea, and, although I changed his litter daily, the basement stank evilly.
The four days that the Black Cat lived in the basement were a bad four days in my house: the baby slipped in the bath, and banged her head, and might have drowned; I learned that a project I had set my heart on -- adapting Hope Mirrlees' novel Lud in the Mist for the BBC -- was no longer going to happen, and I realised that I did not have the energy to begin again from scratch, pitching it to other networks, or to other media; my daughter left for Summer Camp, and immediately began to send home a plethora of heart-tearing letters and cards, five or six each day, imploring us to take her away; my son had some kind of fight with his best friend, to the point that they were no longer on speaking terms; and returning home one night, my wife hit a deer, who ran out in front of the car. The deer was killed, the car was left undriveable, and my wife sustained a small cut over one eye.
By the fourth day, the cat was prowling the basement, walking haltingly but impatiently between the stacks of books and comics, the boxes of mail and cassettes, of pictures and of gifts and of stuff. He mewed at me to let him out and, reluctantly, I did so.
He went back onto the porch, and slept there for the rest of the day.
The next morning there were deep, new gashes in his flanks, and clumps of black cat-hair -- his -- covered the wooden boards of the porch.
Letters arrived that day from my daughter, telling us that Camp was going better, and she thought she could survive a few days; my son and his friend sorted out their problem, although what the argument was about -- trading cards, computer games, Star Wars or A Girl -- I would never learn. The BBC Executive who had vetoed Lud in the Mist was discovered to have been taking bribes (well, 'questionable loans') from an independent production company, and was sent home on permanent leave: his successor, I was delighted to learn, when she faxed me, was the woman who had initially proposed the project to me before leaving the BBC.
I thought about returning the Black Cat to the basement, but decided against it. Instead, I resolved to try and discover what kind of animal was coming to our house each night, and from there to formulate a plan of action -- to trap it, perhaps.
For birthdays and at Christmas my family gives me gadgets and gizmos, pricy toys which excite my fancy but, ultimately, rarely leave their boxes. There is a food dehydrator and an electric carving knife, a bread-making machine, and, last year's present, a pair of see-in-the-dark binoculars. On Christmas Day I had put the batteries into the binoculars, and had walked about the basement in the dark, too impatient even to wait until nightfall, stalking a flock of imaginary Starlings. (You were warned not to turn it on in the light: that would have damaged the binoculars, and quite possibly your eyes as well.) Afterwards I had put the device back into its box, and it sat there still, in my office, beside the box of computer cables and forgotten bits and pieces.
Perhaps, I thought, if the creature, dog or cat or raccoon or what-have-you, were to see me sitting on the porch, it would not come, so I took a chair into the box-and-coat-room, little larger than a closet, which overlooks the porch, and, when everyone in the house was asleep, I went out onto the porch, and bade the Black Cat goodnight.
That cat, my wife had said, when he first arrived, is a person. And there was something very person-like in his huge, leonine face: his broad black nose, his greenish-yellow eyes, his fanged but amiable mouth (still leaking amber pus from the right lower lip).
I stroked his head, and scratched him beneath the chin, and wished him well. Then I went inside, and turned off the light on the porch.
I sat on my chair, in the darkness inside the house, with the see-in-the-dark binoculars on my lap. I had switched the binoculars on, and a trickle of greenish light came from the eyepieces.
Time passed, in the darkness.
I experimented with looking at the darkness with the binoculars, learning to focus, to see the world in shades of green. I found myself horrified by the number of swarming insects I could see in the night air: it was as if the night world were some kind of nightmarish soup, swimming with life. Then I lowered the binoculars from my eyes, and stared out at the rich blacks and blues of the night, empty and peaceful and calm.
Time passed. I struggled to keep awake, found myself profoundly missing cigarettes and coffee, my two lost addictions. Either of them would have kept my eyes open. But before I had tumbled too far into the world of sleep and dreams a yowl from the garden jerked me fully awake. I fumbled the binoculars to my eyes, and was disappointed to see that it was merely Princess, the white cat, streaking across the front garden like a patch of greenish-white light. She vanished into the woodland to the left of the house, and was gone.
I was about to settle myself back down, when it occurred to me to wonder what exactly had startled Princess so, and I began scanning the middle distance with the binoculars, looking for a huge raccoon, a dog, or a vicious possum. And there was indeed something coming down the driveway, towards the house. I could see it through the binoculars, clear as day.
It was the Devil.
I had never seen the Devil before, and, although I had written about him in the past, if pressed would have confessed that I had no belief in him, other than as an imaginary figure, tragic and Miltonion. The figure coming up the driveway was not Milton's Lucifer. It was the Devil.
My heart began to pound in my chest, to pound so hard that it hurt. I hoped it could not see me, that, in a dark house, behind window-glass, I was hidden.
The figure flickered and changed as it walked up the drive. One moment it was dark, bull-like, minotaurish, the next it was slim and female, and the next it was a cat itself, a scarred, huge grey-green wildcat, its face contorted with hate.
There are steps that lead up to my porch, four white wooden steps in need of a coat of paint (I knew they were white, although they were, like everything else, green through my binoculars). At the bottom of the steps, the Devil stopped, and called out something that I could not understand, three, perhaps four words in a whining, howling language that must have been old and forgotten when Babylon was young; and, although I did not understand the words, I felt the hairs raise on the back of my head as it called.
And then I heard, muffled through the glass, but still audible, a low growl, a challenge, and, slowly, unsteadily, a black figure walked down the steps of the house, away from me, toward the Devil. These days the Black Cat no longer moved like a panther, instead he stumbled and rocked, like a sailor only recently returned to land.
The Devil was a woman, now. She said something soothing and gentle to the cat, in a tongue that sounded like French, and reached out a hand to him. He sank his teeth into her arm, and her lip curled, and she spat at him.
The woman glanced up at me, then, and if I had doubted that she was the Devil before, I was certain of it now: the woman's eyes flashed red fire at me; but you can see no red through the night-vision binoculars, only shades of a green. And the Devil saw me, through the window. It saw me. I am in no doubt about that at all.
The Devil twisted and writhed, and now it was some kind of jackal, a flat-faced, huge-headed, bull-necked creature, halfway between a hyena and a dingo. There were maggots squirming in its mangy fur, and it began to walk up the steps.
The Black Cat leapt upon it, and in seconds they became a rolling, writhing thing, moving faster than my eyes could follow.
All this in silence.
And then a low roar -- down the country road at the bottom of our drive, in the distance, lumbered a late-night truck, its blazing headlights burning bright as green suns through the binoculars. I lowered them from my eyes, and saw only darkness, and the gentle yellow of headlights, and then the red of rear lights as it vanished off again into the nowhere at all.
When I raised the binoculars once more there was nothing to be seen. Only the Black Cat, on the steps, staring up into the air. I trained the binoculars up, and saw something flying away - - a vulture, perhaps, or an eagle -- and then it flew beyond the trees and was gone.
I went out onto the porch, and picked up the Black Cat, and stroked him, and said kind, soothing things to him. He mewled piteously when I first approached him, but, after a while, he went to sleep on my lap, and I put him into his basket, and went upstairs to my bed, to sleep myself. There was dried blood on my tee shirt and jeans, the following morning.
That was a week ago.
The thing that comes to my house does not come every night. But it comes most nights: we know it by the wounds on the cat, and the pain I can see in those leonine eyes. He has lost the use of his front left paw, and his right eye has closed for good.
I wonder what we did to deserve the Black Cat. I wonder who sent him. And, selfish and scared, I wonder how much more he has to give.

Happy Halloween and thank you Bathia!
 
2016-10-31 12:30:18 PM  
I often joked about dying young and leaving a good-looking corpse. I always felt I would be really lucky to survive my late teens and early twenties. I was raised in a strict fundamentalist-evangelical household. My mother burned my "occult" comics and my rock LP's at a church function that was held as to "battle the demonic forces that threaten your home".  After I graduated, I chose a university that was far from my family. Having never been allowed to drink or experiment with any drugs, I soon regularly began to indulge in binge drinking and readily devoured copious amounts of narcotics and hallucinogens. I often had no idea what I was taking. Not only did I abuse LSD, MDMA (Ectasy/Molly), crystal meth, mescaline, peyote, psilocybin  mushrooms... but often did so in dangerous combinations, or while abusing narcotics and other opiates.

On one particular evening, we went to see the movie "A Clockwork Orange" at the campus auditorium. Earlier that day,  I'd gone out to a cow pasture and gathered a huge hatful of psychedelic mushrooms. We boiled down an extra-strong concentrate which we mixed with powdered Kool-Aid to mask the nasty flavor. My girlfriend (who was a nursing student) and I shot up some T's & Blues (pentazocine/tripelennamine) shortly after we finished brewing the 'shrooms and crashed for a couple hours before the show. We went to the film that evening in full costume. White shirts and pants with suspenders and mascara,bowlers and derbys, huge exaggerated cod pieces. We had drank a couple cups of the mushroom punch and snorted a couple Quaaludes each for good measure.  The ultra-violence of the film had made us anxious and high-strung. My girlfriend, Susan and I went back to our apartment and tried to have sex, but it only lasted a short time, primarily because we had zero attention span and our thoughts were fleeting and confused. Susan decided she would shoot some more Talwin and hopefully pass out. She was having a hard time with the mushrooms, laughing and crying simultaneously and occasionally would vomit. I was way too wired to sleep and there were no more narcotics or Valium left in the house. My roommate, Lee had gone home for the weekend. His family was well-connected politically and wealthy. Lee's little sister, Paula called me and told me she had some good sinsemilla bud and a bottle of tequila. She had been staying with friends, but was still a long way from where I lived. I had always thought she was cute and knew she had a bit of a crush on me, but her brother Lee had asked me not to have sex with her. Like forbidden fruit, I began to obsess about her. I was tripping balls but the idea of her cute legs and feet, her pretty blue eyes and blonde hair completely clouded any good judgement or reservations I would have normally had.

I jumped in my old beater car and headed out into the Mississippi night. It was early morning now, just after midnight.  It was dark and cloudy. There was no moon and I raced to the house where I knew she would be staying. By the time I arrived, she was pretty wasted. Most of the people she was partying with were much younger. Even though I was an 18 year old college sophomore, I was at the age where I thought I was 'too cool' to be hanging with high school kids. I quickly chugged a couple beers and smoked a couple bowls and then hurried out the door with Paula in hand.  I was in a drug-fueled frenzy. I was trying to think where I could take her, knowing that my girlfriend Susan was back at my apartment. Paula suggested we go to her family's hunting camp. I had brought a quart Pepsi bottle full of the mushroom punch. I urged Paula to drink it down. I wanted her to be in the same frame of mind as me (horny) and I secretly hoped that it would later break down any inhibitions she might be harboring. She took a few sips of the punch, but was still pretty drunk from the tequila and beers she had drank earlier. She curled up on the front seat and before I knew she was sound asleep. I knew where the hunting camp was located. I had been there a couple times with my roommate. Lee was not an avid hunter, but we'd sometimes go there to party or camp out.

As I drove, the hallucinogens were kicking in HARD. I became keenly aware of not just the clouds, but of the night. I looked down at my dimly lit speedometer and was surprised to find I was doing over 70 mph on a two-lane country road with no streetlights or traffic. I began to get a little nervous but found my coping skills were quickly slipping away from me. My mind argued with itself. Slow down for safety vs. speed up to get there. I begin to question my own judgement and ability. I was having guilty feelings for betraying my roommate and my girlfriend. I was becoming keenly aware that it was not just cloudy, but now it was beginning to rain! My old, rusty Pontiac was a typical student's first car... a cheap, broken down 'hoopty'. The windshield wipers were dry-rotted and they smeared the rain intermittently and nosily. Rather than making my view better, it was actually making it even harder to see. I was no pilgrim to drugs. I often joked "that I did not experiment with drugs", but instead I would jokingly boast that "I was into full-scale research!"  Previous negative experiences had enlightened me to what is known in the drug world as a "bad trip". I knew that fear, guilt, anxiety were all contraindicated when tripping on mushrooms and LSD.
within seconds, I began to panic. My mind was simultaneously filled with dozens of thoughts all at once.
I'm driving too fast. I've got another passenger in this car that I'm responsible for. I'm on drugs. I'm completely wasted. My wipers don't work. I'm driving down a highway at 70 mph.The entire windshield is pitch black at this point. I can't see!

Then without warning, the most horrible thought of all creeped into my head... YOU ARE SINNING AGAINST GOD!!! All of the fear of death and Hell that my evangelical parents had driven into my head now came to the forefront of my thoughts. If I were in fact, driving at this point, it had to be on instinct or involuntary control. But I knew I was still racing blindly toward destruction and possibly death. I was unsure about everything, but I was positive that I had not pulled the car over to stop. I was completely powerless. My foot pressed harder onto the accelerator and suddenly I looked into my rearview mirror and was horrified at what I saw. The image was straight out of Dante's Inferno. Winged demons were seated in the back seat which was acrid with black smoke. Fire-red eyes leered at me. Fanged teeth begin to slowly appear from a twisted smile. Sharp razor teeth like that of a serpent or a beast. The smoke began to fill the car. It crept over my front seat like dry ice or a fog rolling in from a dark lake. I could hear non-human laughter. It was guttural and unnerving. It was icy cold. I was now completely devoid of any of my senses yet the car raced into the dark. I could no longer distinguish between the dark of the night and the black smoke surrounding my demonic guests. I was aware of time and of what was taking place, but I was completely powerless. My arms and legs were weak and no longer responded to my command. As if dreaming a horrible nightmare, I was unable to resist in any way. The presence of pure evil filled both me and the interior of the car. I wanted so badly to "wake up" and tried to utter a prayer or but found I was unable to scream or speak. My eyes filled with tears. I grew sick and felt the drugs and the mushrooms churning in my stomach like soured puke. I choked and gagged at the smoke and felt the sickness rise from my guts. I was aware that the tears combined with the dark and the rain had completely prevented me from taking any kind of defensive action.

I was no longer merely crying, i was sobbing uncontrollably. I reached down to touch Paula, but my hands passed completely through her. I knew she was sleeping beside me, but I had no perception of touch or reality. The demon I spotted first, now spoke. His voice was easier to understand than before. He spoke confidently and knowingly. He was very matter of fact, but this only confirmed that my terror was genuine and well-founded. The words between us were no longer vocalized. He had reached into my heart, my mind and into my very being. Our conversation did not need to be spoken, and understanding between us had been implied. I had him allowed to enter me through a portal. I willingly had chose to consort with him by ingesting and injecting potentially lethal doses of drugs. A horrific epiphany suddenly washed over me. Time was now frozen, the past was my life choices and but I could no longer envision any future. I began to plea and to bargain. Other lesser creatures that filled the back seat scorned me or laughed at my feeble attempts to save myself.  I knew if I could just utter Christ's Name or claim the protection of "His Precious blood" my mother had so often spoke of, that there might still be some small inking of hope. The red-eyed devil was not concerned at my feeble attempts of salvation in the least, he alone was aware of the reality and inevitability of my situation. He now was fully able to imparted his thoughts directly to me He simply wanted me to admit to the hopelessness of my situation. I did not want to deny my Faith, but now, what little I had ever possessed was unable to manifest. I schemed and thought I might somehow be able to trick my captor. Surely there HAD to be some ruse. After all, I had always been so clever. I had always been so smart, so cute, so young. I knew that if I gave in to this evil being, my very soul would be forfeited forever. Maybe if I agreed with him, but didn't really mean it... I tried desperately to convince myself, that would good enough, wouldn't it?  Surely he would not be able to discern that my fingers were crossed when I pledged that despite knowing the consequences of my actions, I still had denied God, and chosen Death. A sickening acceptance fell over me. I was no longer in my car. There was no rain.There was no Paula. I was utterly alone. There was only endless darkness and my tormentors around me. I pleaded for this to be a horrible nightmare. If only I could JUST wake up. If only I had not done so much. If only I had been more careful. If only I had listened.

I could see my body, lifeless and laying in a coffin, buried beneath the ground. My mother crying over me. Her sobbing at my grave. My brothers fighting back to tears, wanting to be strong for my mother.
If only I had listened.
 
2016-10-31 12:32:30 PM  
Still waiting for something creepy to happen to me but no luck yet, so I'm re-posting the only story I have.
______________________________________________________________________​______________

One November evening a few years ago, I arrived home from work before my husband, as usual. Our place is on three acres in a rural area with dirt roads and cows and whatnot. No streetlights, either, so it's good and dark out there. Our entire three acres is fenced and we keep the gate locked.

As is my custom when I get home, I lock the gate behind me, park the car, grab a flashlight, and head out to feed the geese and change their water before I go inside. That done, I walk back toward the house but suddenly remember that I'm still carrying the cup we use to scoop up the goose food with, so I turn around to head back to the storage building where the cup lives.

And I see, maybe 20 feet from me and out of range of the outside light of the house, a man walking just beyond our dirt driveway, headed toward the gate. Because it's dark I can't really see his face, but I can tell that he's wearing jeans and an old denim jacket. I get the impression that he is on the younger side of life - maybe in his early 30s - and has sandy blond or light-brown hair. His right hand is in the pocket of his jeans and he has his head down like he's looking at the ground.

There is no way anyone other than my tenant and me should be on the property - and my tenant is an older fellow who uses a walker. It's not him. I lose sight of him as he disappears behind the storage building.

By then I've recovered from my initial surprise, so I turn the flashlight back on and head toward the gate to find out who he is, what the hell he's doing on my property, and how he got in. But there's no one there at all and on one on the road to our house.

Puzzling over all this, a few things occur to me:
- The man was walking not on our driveway, but just past it, in the desert - in the dark. The area is thick with cactus and other stickery things and the ground is really uneven.
- I didn't hear any footsteps as he was walking.
- Our dogs, who were hanging around with me, didn't bark or appear to even notice the man. They would normally go nuts if a stranger were on our property.

I have to assume this was a case of pareidolia. The realism was startling, though, and I can see why people end up being convinced they've seen ghosts. You can't always believe what your brain is telling you you're seeing.
 
2016-10-31 12:34:01 PM  
When I first moved to Sacramento, I didn't know anybody but my husband.I was pregnant and lonely but in love, newly wed and reasonably happy.I was working a long-term assignment at a temp job at a medical call center.I became friendly with a number of the ladies there.One of them was an older woman named Vera.Vera had lost her only child, a four-year old daughter named Sarah, some years earlier.I never learned the details except that she died of a head injury.When I was 7-8 months pregnant my co-workers threw me a surprise baby shower, with a cake and gifts.Vera gave me a Fisher Price busy box that she said had once belonged to her own daughter.We installed the busy box in the crib in the baby's room.

If you don't know what one is, it looks like this:

img.fark.net

It wasn't too long before we noticed something a little off with this toy.It had a music box that played a tinkling little nursery tune ("Row, Row, Row Your Boat?""Pop goes the Weasel?"I don't remember now) and a bell that rang when you pressed a button. My daughter would be asleep in her crib and suddenly the bell would chime a few times out of nowhere. Or we would all be in the livingroom and the baby monitor would crackle to life with the sound of the music box going off by itself in the nursery.My husband would morbidly joke that it was Vera's daughter playing with her toy from beyond the grave.I'm not a superstitious person but eventually I got unnerved enough by the thing to take it out of the crib and relegate it to the basement.

Minor epilogue:When my daughter was around 3, she had an invisible playmate named Sarah who lived in the palm of her hand.She would hold her hand out to you, palm up and say, "Can you see my best fweind?" and then she would caution, "But don't eat her!"One day I went into her room and she's sitting on the floor studiously playing with a toy.The busy box.I know it's been in the basement for at least a year so I ask her, "Where did you get that?"She doesn't even look at me as continues to flip buttons and twists knobs and she nonchalantly replies, "It's Sawah's."

I sold that sucker at our next yard sale.
 
2016-10-31 12:35:51 PM  
My next door neighbor and I were kids when our former babysitter killed herself.
She had a history of mental issues but nothing ever surfaced when she babysat me that I can recall though, she always seemed nice. My friend and I being typical young boys used to make fun of her behind her back. Her name was Anna and therefore we christened her; "Anna Banana.". We would giggle ourselves into fits over it.

So flash forward a year or so where one evening she went behind the local Catholic church and shot herself in the head.

My next door neighbor's parent were close to the girl's family and so my friend was asked to help clear out her room after the suicide. My friend was a bit spooked at the prospect so he asked me to join him in. I accepted and here's what happened when we both began cleaning her room.

The room was pretty non descriptive - standard belongings of a girl in her late teens. I remember there were framed photographs, a few stuffed animals, and a closet with a cardboard box inside.
The box was there for us to place the objects contained in the room. The box was empty save for her telephone.

Our plan was pretty simple, we started taking the items within the room and placing them in piles on the floor based upon their size. Big pile, medium pile and small pile. Neither of us said much as we didn't really know how to feel about the situation. neither of us had experienced the death of anyone close to us so we just kept quiet and placed the items into our piles.

The piles were completed and as my friend went to pull the cardboard box from the closet the phone within the box - Anna's phone, began to ring.

Our first instinct was to run but something came over us (probably too terrified to run) and we just looked at each other. I then looked at the phone and again back to my friend. I managed to utter a single sentence; "You have to answer it." and he looked back at me with a look composed part "are you crazy?" and part "I'll show you..." He walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.

he put the phone up to his ear and looked at me. His eyes widened and he dropped the phone and bolted for the door. My initial instinct was to run with him but i held back, staring at the phone as it bounced off the carpet, the receiver landing face-up.

I stared at the receiver. I could hear a voice coming from it but it was too faint to make it. All I knew was that it was repeating the same thing over and over. It had a strange rhythm to it, like a childhood sing song. This moment staring at the phone probably took all of 4 seconds but it felt like hours. I looked at the phone cradle and realized that the phone jack was NOT connected to the wall input. The phone shouldbe dead yet there was that voice still speaking on the other line.

I had to do something, anything, to snap out of this trance so I decided to pick up the receiver. I had to know what was on the other line. I reached down and slowly lifted the phone up to my ear. The voice on the other end became clearer. I never got the phone up to my ear as I suddenly understood what was being said on the other line. I ran from that room, from the house and to this day I have never been back.

When I got the phone close enough to my ear that I finally made what was being said it was a young woman's voice repeating the same taunting words over and over and over...

"Anna Banana! Anna Banana! ANNA BANANA!"
 
2016-10-31 12:37:23 PM  

Vesta: A true spooky experience from my childhood.


One of the few things I remember about my kindergarten years...

We had just watched the "Venus Probe" episode of The Six Million Dollar Man and of course, it gave me a nightmare.  (seriously, this is scary shiat)
img.fark.net

I had woken up convinced that the "killer tank" was outside the house so I snuck into my parents room trying to be absolutely silent so it wouldn't hear me.  The instant - and I do mean the instant - I got to the side of my parents bed their window exploded, sending glass all over the place.

I didn't shiat myself, but there was still a change of underwear needed.

Turned out the window-mounted air conditioning unit had chosen that exact moment to slip it's mounting bracket and come crashing into the house, pulling the window in with it.

/still hate that got-damn Venus probe...
 
2016-10-31 12:37:57 PM  
I have lots, but most recently we've had something hanging around our house.  Noises, stuff moved, etc.  I was freaked out at first but it seems to be looking out for us.  At least three times in the last week I've been driving, at times when I'm usually distracted, on roads I'm very familiar with, and have barely avoided accidents because something has told me to wait, or called my attention to a car that's about to pull out in front of me.

The most obvious time, I was leaving work, and I'm always in a hurry to go pick up my kid, because I miss him.  I was approaching a light I usually get through pretty quickly.  It turned green and I hear something say "Wait."  So I do.  A few seconds later a car blows through the red light, going pretty fast.  Had I gone they would have t-boned me on the driver's side.  I don't see how I would have survived.

I feel like it's my kid's grandfather.  He checks in every so often.
 
2016-10-31 12:41:54 PM  
It was Fall, 1972.My family would soon be moving away from the OKC area, so I new this would be my last Halloween with my best friend, Butch. His real name was Frank, but his dad started calling him Butch as a baby and the name just stuck. He and I had just started the fifth grade. Due to the way their birthdays fell, Butch's older sister, Patty, was in the same grade with us (she was only 10 months older). The three of us had been friends since first grade and we spent a lot of time together since their grandparents lived next door to my family.

Across the street and down the block a ways lived T. Dalton. He was an asshole.He had beaten up every kid in the neighborhood. There were rumors that he had misused a young girl who lived across the alley from him. He liked to brag that he was descended from the same bunch who made up the Dalton gang that had terrorized the Oklahoma/Kansas border around the turn of the century. We had no reason not to believe him.

Then there was the old lady. She lived in the creepy old two story house down the block, across from Dalton. We use to see her sweeping her front porch, muttering to herself. She never talked to anyone, and it seemed no one ever came to visit her. Being kids, we said she was a witch and that her creepy old house was haunted. The only lights we ever saw in her house appeared to be from candles she carried from room to room.

Patty, Butch and I were a little too old for trick or treating but we still put on masks just to score some free candy. We stopped just before we got to the old lady's house so we could decide whether or not to cross NW 10th street and go to the houses over there. We'd just made up our minds to do so when Dalton stepped from the shadows and grabbed Butch in a headlock. Butch was screaming to be let go and Patty and I were punching and kicking Dalton with all we had. He backhanded Patty and then grabbed me by the throat.
He said, "If you want me to let him go, you're gonna have to bring me the old witch's broom."
I said, "She ain't a witch and you know it. Now let him go. You're hurting him!"
"Yeah and I'm gonna keep hurting him until you bring me that broom." He said.

Patty and I ran up the stairs and looked all over the front porch but couldn't find the broom. "She must have taken it inside." I shouted down to Dalton. "Now let him go." Butch hadn't given up fighting, but the more he fought, the tighter Dalton squeezed his head.
"Then you're gonna have to go inside and get it." He said.
I yelled, "I'm not going in there."
"Just go get it!" yelled Butch. "This asshole won't let go of me if you don't."

So, Patty and I tried the front door. It was open. The house was dark, but we could see well enough to tell that there wasn't any furniture in the parlor or living room. I found the broom and whispered for Patty as I went out the front door. The door slammed behind me as I threw the broom down to Dalton. When he reached for it, he lost his grip on Butch, who promptly broke free and kicked him right square in the nuts. It was the first time any of us kids had put Dalton on the ground.

Butch ran up to me, smiling at his triumph. "Where's Patty?" he asked.
"She was right behind me." I said as I tried to open the front door. It was locked. It was an old style lock that required a skeleton key. We tried looking in the windows but couldn't see anything. I started pounding on the front door as Butch ran around to try the back door. No luck. We were frantic. Butch finally threw caution to the wind and broke one of the front windows. He unlocked and raised the sash and we both climbed inside. We couldn't find a light switch, but we did manage to find candles and matches. We looked all around the first floor but could find no sign of Patty. We also noted that the dining room and kitchen also had no furniture.

Then we saw her crossing the hallway and going into one of the rooms upstairs. Patty had no reason to go up there, but that was the only place left to look. We crept up the stairs and found nothing. No Patty. No old woman. Nothing but empty rooms. Completely empty rooms. It was as though no one lived there at all. We were no longer being quiet. We ran from room to room, yelling for Butch's sister.

"You better go get your dad." He said. Without thinking, I grabbed for the front door and it opened freely. I took hold of Butch's jacket collar and pulled him out with me and shut the door.
"What did you do that for?" He asked as he tried to go back in. The door was locked again.
"That's why." I said as I ran to get my dad. Mom Butch and Patty's folks and everyone came running. Still we couldn't find her. They eventually called the police who went over the house with a fine toothed comb. They determined that no one had lived there in many years. All the adults in the neighborhood insisted that they had seen the old woman at the house. Still, the cops could find no sign of her or Patty.

Butch and I had to recount our story several times to the police. Dalton insisted that he hadn't seen us that night, but no one believed him. Mom and Dad delayed moving away for two weeks to do what they could to find Patty. In the end, we had to move away. The City eventually tore down the old house. They didn't use bulldozers, opting instead for picks and pry-bars, tearing it down stick by stick. They never found anything, even after digging up the old basement. Patty had simply vanished.
 
2016-10-31 12:42:59 PM  
I have a true story.  It's not all that scary, more strange and has a logical explanation I'm sure.

I remember a very specific dream.  I don't know how old I was, 7 or 8 maybe.  A Queen, looked like the evil one from Snow White, threw a disc at me.  I saw it approach and when it hit me in the head I woke up in pain and crying.  I went to my parents room and dad grabbed a baseball bat and went to investigate my room.  Why?  Well because I was bleeding profusely from my head, just above the eye.

The culprit turned out to be a picture frame that had fallen off of the wall.  Either the dream was an astonishing coincidence or it was produced as a direct result of the pain in an instant.  It still weirds me out a little.
 
2016-10-31 12:49:48 PM  
Opening to "The Fog"
Youtube cwSbRKd_J8k
 
2016-10-31 12:52:11 PM  

Vesta: A true spooky experience from my childhood.

I was about 8 when I woke up during the night. My bedroom door was open, and from my bed I could see my mum stood at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown. I head my Dad's voice coming from downstairs say "(name), the police are here". I promptly fell back asleep.
The next day I was curious about what had happened, so over breakfast I asked my Dad why the police had come to our house in the middle of the night. He looked confused and told me that the police hadn't been to the house. I described what I'd seen and he told me it must of been a dream. It was really odd as I've never confused a dream for reality before or since.
That night, after I went to bed, there was a knock at the door (for real this time). My Dad who was already downstairs answered the door. My Mum, who was upstairs, went to the top of the staircase in her dressing down. My Dad shouted up to her "(name) the police are here..."


Why were the police at your house, if I may ask?
 
2016-10-31 12:53:29 PM  
I was on hard times a little while back and took a job as a caretaker for an old hotel up in the mountains. Nobody told me there'd be so much snow you could drive, what a son of a b*tch finding that out was. Then my poor little kid went nuts, I think maybe from the loneliness, started seeing things and talking to imaginary people and whatnot, I felt terrible, so I pretended there was an imaginary bartender from 100 years ago to make him feel more normal, but that didn't work. At least my imaginary bartender liked me anyway.

Don't get me started on my wife, I still have an axe to grind over THAT. sheesh
 
2016-10-31 01:02:39 PM  
Not really a scary story I suppose, but it gave me the creeps as it was happening.

We took our daughter out of town for her birthday this past week. She turned 3 so we figured staying a few days at one of those indoor water-park places would be fun for her. Get there and the place is incredibly nice and hardly anyone there. Spend the whole day having fun at the park before going up to the room for the night. No issues at this point. Kid is incredibly antsy and doesn't want to go to bed, but eventually decides to settle down for the night.

Around 1 I wake up to her just standing at the room's door that leads to the hall. Not creepy at first, because she is known to do this occasionally at home as well. I figure she is just half-asleep and does what she would normally do at home...go stand at what she assumes is mommy and daddy's doorway. I go over to get her back into bed when I realize she has been whispering to herself and clawing at the door. Ooookay, a little weird but it must just be a new sleep walking thing that I haven't witness her doing before. Take her back to the other side of the room and get her back down with little issue.

Another hour later and she is back up, but full on bawling this time. She didn't make it back to the door, but actually was trying her best to climb into our bed while keeping a good watch on the doorway. The commotion wakes up my husband this time and he calms her down. He decides that what is bothering her is the iron and ironing board over by the door, that I suppose could look like a person standing there to a kid in the dark. Turned all the lights on and walked over to show her it wasn't real. For good measure we take the damn thing down and all go back to sleep.

She wakes me up again after this, except this time she is just kind of crying gently with her hands over her eyes. All she keeps saying is 'Go away. Go away' and 'Mean lady'. I ask what lady and just points to the doorway. NOPE. I don't care if what she is seeing is real or not, it is real enough to her to creep the hell out of me as well. Turned the TV back on and I doubt I slept for more then 30 minutes the rest of the night.

That morning my husband went down to the desk to ask about if there had been any noise complaints about last night, because we were sure with as loud as she had been there had to be. None that my husband reported back, but when he explained that he thought maybe she was having night terrors they offered to move us to another part of the resort that didn't have much people to disturb if it happened again. We move to the new room, which was identical to the last one so we thought great, whatever was bothering her about the last room will surely repeat itself here too. ...except it didn't. She was perfectly fine the rest of the trip and had no issues sleeping in that room, ironing board up and all.
 
2016-10-31 01:06:46 PM  
My son wrote this poem when he was seven years old. I think it's a little beyond the abilities of a seven-year-old, but it is what he came up with.:

Jack's Smile

Ghosts are white, Cats are black.
Mom carved a pumpkin. We name it Jack.
Jack had a smile when we put him out there.
We didn't think a smile could scare.

Ring went the bell. "Trick or treat!" they cried.
Dad opened the door, we looked outside.
Ghosts and goblins and witches galore.
Such costumes as I'd never seen before.

They danced on the lawn, 'though they had no feet.
Then they floated away down the darkened street.
We went to see if they could be found.
Then we saw it.... Jack's smile... Upside down...
 
2016-10-31 01:09:23 PM  
Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


My stripper ex-girlfriend???
 
2016-10-31 01:09:34 PM  

acad1228: My son wrote this poem when he was seven years old. I think it's a little beyond the abilities of a seven-year-old, but it is what he came up with.:

Jack's Smile

Ghosts are white, Cats are black.
Mom carved a pumpkin. We name it Jack.
Jack had a smile when we put him out there.
We didn't think a smile could scare.

Ring went the bell. "Trick or treat!" they cried.
Dad opened the door, we looked outside.
Ghosts and goblins and witches galore.
Such costumes as I'd never seen before.

They danced on the lawn, 'though they had no feet.
Then they floated away down the darkened street.
We went to see if they could be found.
Then we saw it.... Jack's smile... Upside down...


I hope you encouraged your son in the arts, because that was awesome.
 
2016-10-31 01:10:43 PM  

acad1228: My son wrote this poem when he was seven years old. I think it's a little beyond the abilities of a seven-year-old, but it is what he came up with.:

Jack's Smile

Ghosts are white, Cats are black.
Mom carved a pumpkin. We name it Jack.
Jack had a smile when we put him out there.
We didn't think a smile could scare.

Ring went the bell. "Trick or treat!" they cried.
Dad opened the door, we looked outside.
Ghosts and goblins and witches galore.
Such costumes as I'd never seen before.

They danced on the lawn, 'though they had no feet.
Then they floated away down the darkened street.
We went to see if they could be found.
Then we saw it.... Jack's smile... Upside down...


Your kid is Stephen King?
 
2016-10-31 01:29:19 PM  

UnrepentantApostate: Before I add my non-fiction story, I thought I'd post one of my favorite pastas:
Ability
I live in Osaka, Japan and often use the subway to go to work in the morning. One day, when I was waiting for the train, I noticed a homeless man standing in a corner of the subway station, muttering to himself as people passed by. He was holding out a cup and seemed to be begging for spare change.
A fat woman passed by the homeless man and I distinctly heard him say, "Pig."
Wow, I thought to myself. This homeless man is insulting people and he still expects them to give him money?
Then a tall businessman went by and the homeless guy muttered, "Human."
Human? I can't argue with that. Obviously, he was human.
The next day, I arrived early at the subway station and had some time to kill, so I decided to stand close to the homeless man and listen to his strange mutterings.
A thin, haggard-looking man passed in front of him and I heard the homeless guy mutter, "Cow."
Cow? I thought. The man was much too skinny to be a cow. He looked more like a turkey or a chicken to me.
A minute or so later, a fat man went by and the homeless man said, "Potato."
Potato? I was under the impression that he called all fat people "Pig".
That day, at work, I couldn't stop thinking about the homeless man and his puzzling behavior. I kept trying to find some logic or pattern in what he was muttering.
Perhaps he has some kind of psychic ability, I thought. Maybe he knows what these people were in a previous life. In Japan, many people believe in reincarnation.
I observed the homeless man many times and began to think my theory was right. I often heard him calling people things like "Rabbit" or "Onion" or "Sheep" or "Tomato".
One day, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to ask him what was going on.
As I walked up to him, he looked at me and said "Bread."
I tossed some money into his cup and asked him if he had some kind of psychic ability.
The homeless man smiled and said, "Yes, indeed. I do have ...


"Human?"
 
2016-10-31 01:31:15 PM  
This one is maybe not the scariest you'll read today, but it is true.

I have always been fascinated by out-of-time-and/or-space stories. Most of us have had the experience of pulling into our driveway with no memory of having driven there. Driving hypnosis is the most common explanation. Like going on autopilot. I'm not talking about that.

I was around 13, and the thing to do on a Friday night in February was go skiing at the local slope. It was open until 1 am, but I didn't drive and my mom didn't stay up that late, so my friend Mary and I needed to be in front of the lodge, skis ready to go up on the rack, at 11. Not 11:02.  It was a beautiful, clear night with a big, bright moon, uncomfortably cold but we were young and tough so we stayed out and skied, despite painful fingers and toes. Besides, we had met a couple of 13 year old boys, and were trying to impress them. It was about 10:15 and we were at the top of the slope. The wind had picked up, and we were absolutely freezing to the point where it just wasn't fun anymore. We skied halfway down one slope, then decided to take a cutoff to the trail that ended up closest to the lodge. We were done for the night.

 Halfway across the cutoff, there was a small, unmarked but passable trail headed down. I had never noticed it before although I  had grown up skiing that hill. The boys wanted to try it. I absolutely did not. Mary was more adventurous than me though (okay, fine, she was maturing faster than I was, uncomfortably so, and our decade-old friendship was nearing its end) and with the boys I was outvoted. And being 13, being seen as lame and chicken was about as bad as it gets so I went along. We skied down the trail until it dead ended at a little lodge. It was obviously old and no longer in use, but we were freezing so we decided that if the door opened, we'd go in out of the wind. Just for a minute. It did and we did.

 The place was stone and log cabin style, small but very cute. The main room was an open space with a dusty stone floor. Any furniture had been removed long ago. The only other room was a small kitchen, with counters and cupboards but empty spaces where the appliances had been removed. We sat on the dusty floor of the main room, just talking and laughing and awkwardly flirting as 13 year olds do. At some point someone mentioned being hungry, and the rest of us agreed. One of the boys, Mark, I think his name was, offered to search the kitchen for food. I thought this was a waste of time, it was obviously empty, but he went anyway. He came back with four of those packaged honey buns like in the checkout line at the grocery store, and four juice boxes. They were reasonably fresh and tasty. It seems obviously odd looking back, but at the time, no one thought to question this. It was one of those times where it just seemed right that food should be there for us when we needed it.

Anyway, we stayed there, on the dusty floor of that old, unused lodge, for a long, long time. Hours. No one had a watch so we weren't sure how many, but when it finally occurred to me that we should probably get going, I was sure that we were well past curfew (I wondered it the place had closed down, it was that late) and I was extremely dead. You did NOT make my mother wait. She had no patience for children who weren't at the pick up spot on time. (She once left my older brother in the middle of the city to find his own way home, but that's a different story.) I was sick and near tears with dread as we were skiing down the path towards where it met back up with the main slope.

Fortunately when we rejoined the main trail, the lights were on and it was still full of people, so it wasn't 1 am yet. Small favors. We skied down to the lodge and immediately looked at the big clock on the side of the building. I didn't want to, but I had to know.

It was 10:45.

There was no possible way it was 10:45, we were in that lodge for hours, but it was. I said to Mary, "How is it...?" She just shook her head and didn't say anything. We never talked about it, that night or after.

Mary and I never skied together again after that. We grew apart and stopped being friends, as 13 year old girls do. I skied that slope every winter until I left home, though, and every single time, I took that cutoff and looked for that trail. It wasn't there. Not just wasn't passable, but there was no gap in the thick trees where it could have been. I became a bit obsessed with that little lodge, and hiked all over the hill in warm weather. There is no path, and no lodge.

 I hiked every inch between the two slopes, that summer and years after. I still go up there when I'm home.

It isn't there.
 
2016-10-31 01:41:19 PM  
Not mine. link to source at the bottom:

This happened in my junior year of high school.

One evening, my mother and stepfather had gone out to some event, maybe it was an extended dinner or a concert, it's hard to remember. I had stayed at home to work on a paper that was due the next day (I was one of those kids who procrastinated until the last minute) and spent the whole night working at the desk in my room. To give you a picture of the room, my desk faces a wall and sits next to a small window that's on the same wall, and from where I sit, my back faces my doorway. While I was working, I was wearing these great headphones that I had gotten for my birthday - the kind that are noise canceling.
My parents left the house around 6:00 PM, and the whole time they were gone, I sat at my desk, blasting music through my headphones and writing my essay. Occasionally, I would take breaks and watch the rain and lightning outside my window (we lived in Houston at the time and there was a big storm that night). I never left my desk.

My parents returned around 11:00 PM. At some point late late in the evening, I had removed my headphones, so when my parents came home (coincidentally just a few minutes after I had taken off my headphones), I clearly heard the garage door open and my parents open the door to the house. Seconds after I hear them enter, I hear my mother shout my name. "Adrian!" she screams, "what on earth happened in here!?" Confused, I get out of my chair and start walking through the house to them. There's only a small hallway that separates my room from the living room. Due to my rush to figure out why my mother was yelling, I paid little attention to the hall and the house. After a few moments, I get to my parents. My mom looks livid. She's pointing at the carpet floor yelling, "Was this you!? Did you have friends over!?" I look down. The carpet is ruined. It's covered in muddy footprints.
I frantically explain to her that I have no idea how those got there, that I spent the whole night at my desk working on my paper. I watch as her face goes from anger, to confusion, to fear. We realize that someone else must have entered the house. Quickly we scan the footprints, trying to make sense of the situation. It only takes us a few moments to figure out where they start: our back door, which we usually left unlocked. Then we noticed something else. The footprints started at the backdoor, but there were no footprints exiting the back door.

We hear something pounding through our house. We hear the front door get torn open, then slammed shut with a sharp WHAM!
We all run into the garage and lock the door. My mom starts shouting at the police through the phone, "Please come quickly! Someone's broken into our house!"After what seems like hours, the police arrive. An officer stays with us in the garage as his partner goes through the house room by room. His partner tells us that it's safe to go back in, that there's no one in the house. Then she asks us a question. She asks us whose room is down the hall to the left. My parents look at me and I tell the officer that it's mine. She asks us to follow her down the hall.

As we go, it's easy to see that the footprints weave through my house from the back door. They go through the living room, through the small hallway, into my parents room (which is down the hall to the right) and then turn around towards my room. They stop in my doorway.

Then the officer points at my door, which I had left open the whole night. On it, in black sharpie, was written the following:

My Log
8:47: I see you
8:53: You forgot to lock the back door
8:59: You seem focused
9:24: Turn around
9:47: Look at me
10:15: Look at me
10:37: Look at me
10:49: Look at me
For nearly two hours, someone stood in my doorway watching me. To this day, I shutter to think about what would have happened if I had ever turned around and looked at them.

http://jezebel.com/11-more-of-the-scariest-stories-weve-ever-heard-16​5​3038439

GAAAAAHHHHHHH
 
2016-10-31 01:54:30 PM  
I've shared this one several times already, it's not overly dramatic or scary but it was weird.

One evening, while Mr. PenguinCam and I were talking, we heard one of our dogs, the little 30-pound beige one, whine and scratch at the door a few feet away from us. We both heard it and stopped talking, while having a "what the hell" look on us, thinking we'd forgotten Snoopy outside on a winter evening. It wasn't too cold, but still, it was winter in Ottawa and it had been snowing all day.

We both rushed to the door, opened it and... there was no dog there. No tracks in the snow other than the ones that were hours old and covered with fresh snow. It was strange, but still I started to panic, thinking she had gone under the porch to die (despite no new tracks) so raced out there and still nothing.

I went running all around the place to find her, and found both dogs asleep on the bed upstairs.

For months Mr. PenguinCam had been regularly saying "hi Snoopy!" when she wasn't there and he reluctantly admitted he'd been seeing a little white dog around that was a bit like our little beige one. So we figured maybe the doggy whine and scratch at the door was Little White Dog as it became known. I don't really believe in ghosts but I hedged my bets that evening, opened the door and invited Little White Dog to come inside to warm itself.
 
2016-10-31 01:57:47 PM  

namegoeshere: Okay, listen up, Farkers. I wanted to post this right at the beginning of the thread, but my TF fell off last week. (On my birthday. That sucked) Then I hoped we could all be cool and it wouldn't be necessary to say anything, but apparently not. So here it is:

HALLOWEEN STORY THREAD IS SPECIAL THREADThe rules are different for this thread. Just this once, just for this one thread, this special thread, DON'T BE A DICK. Don't try and debunk the stories. Don't scoff at the stories. Don't call bullshiat. Don't critique unless asked. Just read and enjoy. Or exit out of this thread and go spend the day in the Politics Tab, which is pretty f*cking horrifying in its own right.

Do not wreck this thread for those of us who wait all year for it. If you can't be nice, SHUT THE F*CK UP AND/OR LEAVE.

I'm serious. Just for this one very special Halloween thread.


Boy, did I have a smart-assed reply to that.

J/K.  Good thoughts, good words, good deeds.  I've read every single one.
 
2016-10-31 02:01:02 PM  

Colour_out_of_Space: UnrepentantApostate: Before I add my non-fiction story, I thought I'd post one of my favorite pastas:
Ability
I live in Osaka, Japan and often use the subway to go to work in the morning. One day, when I was waiting for the train, I noticed a homeless man standing in a corner of the subway station, muttering to himself as people passed by. He was holding out a cup and seemed to be begging for spare change.
A fat woman passed by the homeless man and I distinctly heard him say, "Pig."
Wow, I thought to myself. This homeless man is insulting people and he still expects them to give him money?
Then a tall businessman went by and the homeless guy muttered, "Human."
Human? I can't argue with that. Obviously, he was human.
The next day, I arrived early at the subway station and had some time to kill, so I decided to stand close to the homeless man and listen to his strange mutterings.
A thin, haggard-looking man passed in front of him and I heard the homeless guy mutter, "Cow."
Cow? I thought. The man was much too skinny to be a cow. He looked more like a turkey or a chicken to me.
A minute or so later, a fat man went by and the homeless man said, "Potato."
Potato? I was under the impression that he called all fat people "Pig".
That day, at work, I couldn't stop thinking about the homeless man and his puzzling behavior. I kept trying to find some logic or pattern in what he was muttering.
Perhaps he has some kind of psychic ability, I thought. Maybe he knows what these people were in a previous life. In Japan, many people believe in reincarnation.
I observed the homeless man many times and began to think my theory was right. I often heard him calling people things like "Rabbit" or "Onion" or "Sheep" or "Tomato".
One day, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to ask him what was going on.
As I walked up to him, he looked at me and said "Bread."
I tossed some money into his cup and asked him if he had some kind of psychic ability.
The homeless man smiled and said, "Ye ...


Wow, that went right over my head.  One 'Smart' for you.
 
2016-10-31 02:05:01 PM  

Old Man Winter: Guess aforementioned forgot they purchased TFD for winners.
You all suck so hard, you ruined Halloween for single people.
Thanks


jesus h. christ,  farkface, now we know why you're single.  be grateful for what you get, and for what you have, instead of  biatching and thread-shiatting multiple times in the best thread of the year.  don't like it?  find another page...i hear reddit is great for people like you.  or, perhaps you could e-mail drew, and in and adult fashion, lay out your grievances, and ask him to change them next year.  I've e-mailed drew many times about fark issues, and never-not once- has he not gotten back to me.  Of course, I didn't present myself as a whiny little biatch.

/enjoy the thread
 
2016-10-31 02:13:35 PM  
Mods, could we maybe get a bump on the front page now or in the next little bit? Thank you!
 
2016-10-31 02:16:09 PM  
At this really old hospital, something weird was going on.
In the ICU, specifically the bed in the corner, there were more deaths than average.
If that wasn't weird enough, the deaths all occurred between 12 midnight and 12:15.
Doctors being doctors, were not a superstitious bunch, but it really made them uncomfortable.
It got to the point were nurses avoided using that bed as much as possible.
So the next time the ICU filled up and they had to use that bed, Dr. Gravis, who had been there for a long time walked in and sat down in the chair in the dark corner facing that bed. He stood watch, wanting to get to the bottom of this.
Several nurses walked in and out, but because he was in the dark corner, most didn't even notice him.
By the time the evening shift had started, things were already quieting down.
His eyelids started to droop...the fatigue of a full day at work, and now this vigilance were taking their toll on him.
He dozed off, slowly going into a deep sleep.
At almost 12 midnight EXACTLY the rustling of the door woke him up. The room was darker now as obviously some of the nurses had turned off the lights.
That's when he saw the grey figure walk quietly in...his heart skipped a beat.
Then he sighed inaudibly in relief when he realized it was Harrick the janitor on his nightly round.
He looked on silently as Harrick walked all the way across the room, passed the bed in the corner, unplug the ventilator and plug in his floor-polisher.
 
2016-10-31 02:17:34 PM  
For the record, that wasn't mine. Rehashed from a joke I heard a long time back.
 
2016-10-31 02:19:09 PM  

Resident Muslim: For the record, that wasn't mine. Rehashed from a joke I heard a long time back.


And retold in just about every epidemiology course ever taught.
 
2016-10-31 02:23:34 PM  

Imaginativescreenname: These words just might be the last traces of me in this world, so i must take care in that they convey exactly what I desire them to.  The experiences of the last few months have been such a strange journey, and now the next phase is to begin once i finish this last gesture of documentation, more for myself as a purging or release than for whomever chooses to gaze upon it.
It was a warm summer night, the road glistening and the air still smelling of the by-then  ceased rainfall.  I was walking down an unfamiliar street after walking out early of a movie that turned out to be all hype and no actual substance, when a peculiar sight grabbed my attention. Along the mostly deserted street were clusters of shops, and the particular store i was next to displayed a brash pink neon sign, seemingly leftover from the 80's, that said "VHS RENTALS HERE." l almost burst with laughter  at the ensuing mental images and the perversity of some "hipsters" opening and operating a vhs-only store in this day and age. Having nothing else to do and feeling pecks of curiosity, I walked inside. The lighting was quite dim, almost nonexistent. There were no decorations on the bare yellowing walls, simply two long shelves in the middle of the room with numerous VHS boxes.  There were some gaps in between the boxes indicating a few here and there were out, but many still remained. A quick glance down the aisle revealed them all to be horror, if the grisly covers were any indication of content.  The covers were mostly drawings but a few were photographs, and each of the images were disturbingly haunting in its own way. A woman half-naked and screaming, eyes bulging and fingers desperately grasping for a knife mere inches away as a reptilian humanoid oozing translucent goo with long claws and two mouths reached out for her. A man in a pickup truck whose face was contorted into an expression of anguish and repulsed fear driving away as behind him a horde of children with glowing eyes, elongated lim ...


I'd pay good money to read this to its conclusion.
 
2016-10-31 02:25:44 PM  

Skyd1v: Vesta: A true spooky experience from my childhood.

One of the few things I remember about my kindergarten years...

We had just watched the "Venus Probe" episode of The Six Million Dollar Man and of course, it gave me a nightmare.  (seriously, this is scary shiat)
[img.fark.net image 262x192]

I had woken up convinced that the "killer tank" was outside the house so I snuck into my parents room trying to be absolutely silent so it wouldn't hear me.  The instant - and I do mean the instant - I got to the side of my parents bed their window exploded, sending glass all over the place.

I didn't shiat myself, but there was still a change of underwear needed.

Turned out the window-mounted air conditioning unit had chosen that exact moment to slip it's mounting bracket and come crashing into the house, pulling the window in with it.

/still hate that got-damn Venus probe...


GAAAH!  8 year old me is now triggered.   You owe me recompense!

/between that and the Amityville episode of 'In Search Of....."
 
2016-10-31 02:29:47 PM  
fark.com users be all


i.ytimg.com
 
2016-10-31 02:31:35 PM  
I have a good Halloween story for you.

Jeff Dunham, his puppets, and I decide to take a walk in the woods on a crisp fall night. As we move deeper into the forest, we become unsettled by the rustles and growls coming from the brush surrounding us. Desperate for some light, we fumble in the darkness for branches to build a fire, only to find the forest floor eerily bare. I beg and plead with him, "just one puppet-the annoying one, and we can get a fire going." He reluctantly agrees, but we soon find that the light is not sufficient, and need to add another. Each time the fire starts to die, the noises around us grow more ominous, and are now accompanied by glimpses of the creature stalking us. Eventually, the clearing is filled with a big bonfire. All of Jeff's puppets burn brightly, their poly blend guts sending a giant spark-filled whoosh into the night sky. Jeff falls to his knees in front of the fire, crying with huge heartbroken sobs. Suddenly from the darkness, the creature stalking us emerges. Jeff sighs with relief when he sees it is just Wayland and Madame, but his relief turns to puzzlement as Wayland and I begin to laugh maniacally at his tears. I move beside him, bend down and whisper "your act was funnier when Jay Johnson did it."

Fin.
 
2016-10-31 02:43:24 PM  
Not mine either:

Walking back to her apartment from the library, Liza decided to take the shortcut in front of the cemetery that she usually avoided, especially at night. She was tired, and just wanted to throw herself into bed after all of those hours in those lousy library chairs.
However, the closer she got to the cemetery the more nervous she got. By the time she reached the first corner of the cemetery her nerves were so frayed she was about to turn back and walk all the way around, even if it meant more time.
Before her feet slowed down to a complete she noticed a young guy, about her age leaning against the cemetery wall. She flashed him her cute smile and asked him if he'd walk her to the other corner. He just smiled back, said "sure," and started walking in that direction.
"He's kind of cute" she thought, even though neither of them said anything while they walked the distance.
Three quarters of the way down, Liza was startled by a sudden bark. It was nowhere close, but the suddenness of it, especially at how silent they had been and how quiet the night was made her grab his hand. She didn't care that it was cold, it was a relief to feel the human touch.
"I'm sorry," she said, "if there is anything that scares me more than cemeteries, it's dogs."
"It's ok," he replied, "I used to be scared of dogs when I was alive, too."
 
2016-10-31 02:44:27 PM  
When I was little, maybe 5 or 6, our dog died. I don't remember what story Mom gave me: Ran away, living on a farm, went to another family. I doubt she told me that Precious was dead because I believed that it was possible for the dog to come home.

I lay in bed that night, and I prayed. I prayed over and over for God to return Precious to me. I spoke about how much I loved her and missed her. I was eventually interrupted by a booming male voice that seemed to come from everywhere, and boy was he irritated. "HERE'S YOUR DOG!"

I opened my eyes to see a fur rug on my closet door. The fur perfectly matched Precious. It was there long enough for me to feel full panic, and then it was gone.

I haven't prayed since.
 
2016-10-31 02:44:32 PM  
I have a fear.

It is a secret fear, because I am so afraid of it that I think telling anyone will make it possibly come to pass, as a joke, or just because if I put the idea into somebody's head they'll be more likely to think of doing it without thinking.

My fear is of being replaced.

The fear comes on like this - I can see it in my head.  I'm walking up to my front door, coming home from work, or the store, or anywhere.  I can see my hand reach out and press the doorbell - even though there is nobody else in the house.  But I press it - and then an instant later I hear footsteps approaching the door, and the knob starts to turn.

I don't know what I expect to see when the door opens - but it terrifies me, and I know that somehow by ringing the doorbell, or calling my own phone number, I have called something into being.  Called something and now it is answering, and now my home belongs to Them.  Has always belonged to Them, actually.

I experience this fear every time I approach my door - in the same way that I don't like standing near ledges because I know that some small part of my brain, if it were able to take over for just an instant, would have me leap over the edge.  I worry that the insane part of my mind could get control in just the wrong moment and ring that bell.

Because when you ring the bell, someone will be Home.
 
2016-10-31 02:47:39 PM  
This is actually a true story that happened a month ago. The place I work at has 3 towers. Towers 1 and 3 are companies. Tower 2 is a Hilton Hotel that has a lot of large convention areas.

About a month ago we get an email from Building Management that said starting at 2pm all the main roads to leave the parking garages will be blocked off until 6pm.

Due to a Donald Trump fundraiser.

We all fled the building after lunch. Scariest day of my life
 
2016-10-31 02:47:51 PM  

Last Man on Earth: Okay, so I went to this Halloween party a few years back.  There was this girl there, dressed up as... she said she was Catwoman, but I think she just couldn't decide between Sexy Catgirl and something involving latex, so she found a way to split the difference.  Not that I was complaining, mind you.  Over the course of the evening, we both got a little drunk, and she started whispering in my ear that she could do this thing where...  Wait, what do you mean "not that kind of Halloween story?"  Oh.  Ohhh.  Nevermind, forget I said anything.


img.fark.net
 
2016-10-31 02:49:24 PM  
When I woke up this morning, I realized that the padded duvet over my face was backed by solid wood.
 
2016-10-31 02:51:38 PM  
My uncle committed suicide.  Very terrible how much he must have been suffering to do that.  That was 5 years ago near the end of September.  Earlier this year in August we happened to have a chance to visit the cemetary where him and several other relatives are buried.

Its very isolated.. Closest person lives 1/2 mile away.. Next closest after that is a mile+.  We pulled up to the cemetary and there was this guy standing near his grave looking down.  Odd i thought.. But not unheard of, he was a very popular person, well liked.  I got out of the car and waved hi.. My kid asked what i was waving at.  I looked over and there was no one there. I was a little spooked so I started at the other side of the cemetary visiting those relatives.  As I turned towards his grave across the distance I seen the same figure walk out from behind the tree next to his grave and walk through the fence and into the bush towards where he used to live.  My wife and kids watched me staring into the difference and asked what I was doing.  I lied and said I tjought I saw a bird. I never told anyone what I thought I saw

A week later Im talking to my cousin..she says to me uncle says hes sorry for spooking you.
 
2016-10-31 02:53:28 PM  

ObscureNameHere: When I woke up this morning, I realized that the padded duvet over my face was backed by solid wood.


Well just rollover and get up, silly. ;)
 
2016-10-31 02:54:32 PM  
I've already given you my two promised stories. I apologize for the typos and I know I could have told them better if I hadn't waited until the last minute to write them down both years, but here they are if you want to refresh your memory.

2014

2015

I didn't originally plan to write anything this year, but I haven't related the one thing that truly scares me, so here's another story.

After last year's thread, I really got to thinking about the past. I looked up Mark and found his obituary. It didn't come out and say it, but he killed himself. I can't say I'm surprised. Dave's in the wind. The number I had for him is not in service, and the address and number I found on whitepages aren't his anymore. I know how difficult it would be for Dave to get in touch with me with all the moving around I've done, and I've had no interest in putting my info up on social media.

I did get a call from someone at the FBI sometime in the spring, a woman this time, so I guess I'm not impossible to find. Asking me to verify some details, half which I couldn't answer, mostly about the pictures on the camera film. She also had some questions about the agent I had met, starting by asking me his name. I thought that was strange but instantly dredged up the name Stillson which she confirmed. She asked me some other questions about what he had asked me and if he had shown me any pictures, so I got the impression he left or died and his notes on the case had gotten lost. I didn't manage to get any info out of her other than that they are still looking into some things all these years later. I digress from the main point of this, but I wanted to relate for those who were interested in my story from last year.

Anyway, things got me to start reflecting on my life and how I've never really held on to any one place or anybody. Not friends, or girlfriends, or even any relatives. I never kept any family photos or mementos. I looked up a cousin my family had spent time with when we were younger and found out she had suddenly passed away a few years ago from some sickness. Her parents had died years before so it wasn't surprising no one contacted me. I spent a month or so digging around to find some other living relative and came up empty. Older relatives, all gone, and I'm the only remaining great grandchild I could find mention of. I thought about using one of those services to find any records going back farther, but what would I say to anyone I could find so distantly related to me?

Still, I was starting to feel something like nostalgia, or wanting to connect to something. Finally a couple weeks ago I decided to take a trip back to the area I grew up in, pull up some memories of things I had pushed down and tried to forget. What is it they say though? You can never go back?

My first house is gone, the whole neighborhood basically is in fact. All the old 1950's tract houses are gone, replaced with a modern subdivision. The grade school and junior high school too, replaced with one big fancy building for the area. Roads and neighborhoods all changed, unrecognizable to me.

In the town we moved to after I finished junior high, there's a new high school, though it's still in the same place. I visited and asked where the trophies and pictures earlier than the 90's were. All gone in a fire that had gutted the place. No copies of the yearbook either. They had asked around and hadn't located many yearbooks for the years lost, and the library didn't have copies either. My copy of course had been tossed long ago. All records of my class and others were gone too--all just paper records that had been stored in the school.

And then there was the manor house. The entire block is now filled with apartment buildings with shops on the ground floor and parking lots. There's nothing remaining, not even a tree. I can try to picture where the manor, driveways, and carriage house used to be, but I may as well have been in a city foreign to me.

My last stop was to the graveyard which used to be on the outskirts of town. The farmhouse next to it is still there but has fallen into disuse, and the fields around and behind it are now subdivisions of the growing city. My parents and my brother are buried here. I stood there for some time, realizing I have nothing I need to say. They are gone, and any words I could speak would be for myself.

And so I come to the one thing I fear. This cemetery for a town which has since passed on has no room in it for me. I will be cremated and spread to the wind in whatever city I spend my final days in. There will be no marker for me, nothing that will serve as my memorial. Even to you reading this, I will be nothing more than a hazy memory of an anonymous author who shared some stories on Halloween. I will not be mourned, or even remembered. Any mark I choose to make now would be a construct of desperation, not something that would demonstrate how I lived or who I was.

But even more than that, I am adrift with nothing but these gravestones to anchor me to this existence. Everything and everyone I knew and ever loved is gone. All I have to hold are tattered memories. Even surrounded by both the living and the dead, I am truly and utterly alone in this world, already forgotten and unknown. And that terrifies me.
 
kth
2016-10-31 02:56:25 PM  

Circusdog320: My dad died in 2009. He had Parkinson's. He had been in a nursing home and he decided he didn't want to go on anymore, so we brought him home. My mom got the house already and prepared for a long haul. The doctors told my brother and me that if my dad went off his meds, he'd last about a day. It was about 18 hours...

Dad's last meal was Skipper's Fish and Chips. Sounds weird I know, but you give the dying their last requests. We said our goodbyes, gave dad some pain meds and he slipped in to sleep. I remember whispering to him that it was okay to let go. Later that night my dad died quietly in his sleep.

I remember standing at the end of my dad's bed with my brother...and I heard my brother say: Captain Trips...I then proceeded to go on about the Stephen King novel The Stand and Captain Trips...you know comparing and contrasting those deaths and how Parkinson's was an awful way to go...blah blah blah. My brother turned and looked at  me with the most perfect...WHAT THE FARK IS WRONG WITH YOU look in the history of WHAT THE FARK IS WRONG WITH YOU looks in the world.

He said: I didn't say Captain Trips...I said camping trips. My brother was expressing his love of camping trips we all took together when we were younger.

We laughed.

(not so scary...I know)


Sounds like our family. My grandmother outlived my grandfather by a few years. His name was Jack. She got non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, and was in hospice. Being a large Irish catholic family, it was pretty much a non-stop family dinner at her house for the last two weeks of her life - exactly how she wanted it.

Well, she woke up on the anniversary of her husband's death, and was disappointed. She woke up three days later on Valentine's Day, and was disappointed. Couple of days later she passed away in the middle of the night, with all of her children and some of her grandchildren in the room. So we called and left a message for Hospice.  They called back and the gentleman introduced himself as Jack. My uncle says in a loud voice "MOM! Dad says hurry up!" I'm sure we all sounded like lunatics laughing hysterically.
 
2016-10-31 02:57:07 PM  
It has been reported that some victims of torture, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not wake up. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren't being tortured. The only way that they realized they needed to wake up was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to wake up. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and please wake up.

/oldie but goodie
 
2016-10-31 03:03:28 PM  
I was 8 years old when I first heard this true story.  My Mothers's cousin was visiting from out of state.  They were sitting on our back porch steps and talking privately, although I was playing with my cars and trucks at their feet.  I remember almost every word I heard and verified this with my Mom years later.

Cousin Susan and her family lived in Tallahassee, Florida.  She was married to a police officer, who worked the night shift.  They had 2 sons, 8 and 6 and a 4-year-old daughter.  They lived in a rural area with the nearest neighbor about 1/4 mile away.  They had bought a little 3 bedroom house so the boys shared a room.

One day at breakfast she overheard the boys talking about shadows in their room, with the youngest being a little freaked out.  The older boy was teasing him a bit saying he was afraid of shadows.  The younger boy remarked that it wasn't a shadow but a man.  They were just talking to each other but their Mom asked "what do you mean a man?"  The younger son said a man came into his room last night and stood near, watching them sleep.  The older boy laughed and said it was nothing because his brother woke him up and he didn't see anyone.  The younger boy said that the man disappeared into the corner of the room when the older boy woke up.  Their Mom dismissed it as shadows and over imagination.

Several nights later, she was woken by the boys screaming and yelling.  She rushed to their room and turned on the light.  Both boys were in the same bed and screaming and pointing at a corner across the room from them.  There was nothing there.  She asked them what was wrong and, this time, the older son said he saw a man standing there and he was reaching for him.  The younger son had woke up at his screams and saw it too.  She rushed them out of the room and called her husband.  When he got there, they were all huddled together in fright waiting on  him.  He searched the entire home, checked the windows and doors and scouted the outside for any signs that someone was there.  Nothing.

Again, they dismissed this as shadows and basic fears.  The boys refused to go back into the room and slept with their Mom for several nights.  They finally convinced them to go back to their bedroom after a few days.  Several weeks went by with no problems.

Cousin Susan told my Mom that when she heard the screams and shrieking one night a few weeks later, she thought that her son's were being murdered.  She woke up, grabbed her husband's pistol from the nightstand drawer and rushed to their room.  They were already coming out of the door yelling and crying.  She sent them to her room and went into their bedroom, turning on the light.  Nothing.  But she though, before she flipped the switched, that she saw someone backing away into the corner of the room.  She was prepared to shoot but there was nothing there.  She gathered the kids and fled into the car, where she called her husband from a neighbor's house.  Again, they searched and found no signs of an intruder.  They questioned the boys and they said a man came out of the shadows in the corner and had grabbed the 8-year-olds leg and pulled.  The younger boy saw it too and said the man was just grinning the whole time.  They kicked at him and ran out the door.

 While they were talking to the boys, She noticed the older son wasn't wearing his PJ bottoms and was just in his underwear.  She asked him where the bottoms were and he said he had kicked them off to get away.  Her husband later went back and could not find them anywhere in the house, outside or the car.  Although they eventually went back to the house, the boys refused to sleep in their room and they eventually moved.  Nothing like this ever happened again but the older son had to go through some therapy for it.

This story was told in confidence to my Mom and was not an embellishment or something her cousin spoke about often.  I believe it because of that reason.  There was no reason for her cousin to lie or make up the story.  I could tell, even at my young age, that she was still freaked out by it.
 
2016-10-31 03:04:23 PM  
My house is about 100 years old, and too cozy to be haunted, but it does make the usual noises of an old creaky house.  It's also got thin walls, so we'll also hear car doors and voices and noises from other houses.  Recently, though, I've noticed that if a noise spooks me from within the house, it's more likely to be coming from me and not the house.  Like I'll hear a CLUNK while sitting in the living room, and eventually realize it's the bearing of the swivel chair I'm sitting in, and somehow I failed to localize the sound.

A couple weeks ago one evening , we're eating dinner and we hear a CRACK---FSSSSSSHHHHHHH from just around the corner in the next room.  My wife heard it too, and also thought it came from just around the corner.  We look around, half-doubting that it could have been something outside, but pretty sure it was from inside the house and just a few yards away.  Neither of us can get back to dinner until we figure this out.  Whatever it was, it sounded like something breaking that would need to be fixed.  There is nothing in our living room that could break down with a CRACK---FSSSSSHHHH.

Eventually I realize that we just replaced our water heater, and maybe that was the problem.  I go into the basement and find nothing unusual.  I check everything else that could make a FSSSSSSHHHH and there's nothing.  Furnace seems okay, dehumidifier would never be that quiet, etc.  We uneasily conclude that it must have been a truck going by, but sure that was weird.

After dinner I go to my computer and realize I had the MLB.com Flash play-by-play open for the Cubs vs the Dodgers, and someone hit a home run.