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(Fark)   Like a floating red balloon, the 2017 "Fark Scary Stories" thread is waiting for you. Top 10 voted Smart or Funny stories get a sponsored month of TotalFark. We all float down here   ( fark.com) divider line
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4721 clicks; posted to Main » on 31 Oct 2017 at 11:57 PM (2 weeks ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook   more»



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2017-10-24 04:52:03 PM  
From the Fark NotNewsletter:

Halloween is coming up, and it's time to start scaring the hell out of yourself. We'd like to help. Every year, Fark has a Halloween thread where Farkers share their own spooky stories. These are always fun threads, and a great way to kill some time at work. Here are the first 13 Fark scary story threads - now go creep yourself out.

2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016
 
2017-10-24 07:51:31 PM  
Donovan is four.  Well, four and a half. He'd want me to make that distinction.  When the 'big kids' are six years old, that distinction is important.  When he was just four, he came to live with me for a couple of months.  He also brought his father, who is my brother, his mother and his sister as well, but they don't factor into the story.  They were moving from California back to the east coast and were staying with me while their old house sold and their new house was vacated.  That doesn't factor into the story either.
Donovan is smart.  Precocious is the normal word for it.  He has been reading for a year and doing math for almost as long.  He's not a savant or anything, but he's well ahead of the normal curve.  Most people don't realize he's only four, as he's not only very well spoken for his age, he's larger than normal.  He is the physical size of most of those 'big kids' who are six.  He's also smarter than most of them.  He is, however, emotionally just a four year old.  That tends to cause problems.  He's too immature to get on well with the 'big kids' and to advanced to have any patience with his peers.  He tends to get frustrated and 'act out'.

Thus, he tends to look inward for company.  His imagination is probably his best friend.

We were playing together, a few weeks after he'd moved in.  Long enough time that he was comfortable with the new sights, surroundings and people.  He'd become acclimated enough to me to be able to request that we play, rather than wait for my invitation.

Like many four year old boys, he loves cars - especially trucks.  We were playing with his cars one evening, racing across the floor, when I 'crashed' and rolled my car.
"Oh no!" he cried with playful severity, "You crashed!"
I nodded, "Can you help me, sir?"  
He thought for a moment, "Yes sir, I can.  I have a mechanic truck that can fix you."
"Whew!  Good!  Thanks!"
He looked up a me, suddenly serious.
"The mechanic truck is downstairs."
I needed to get something to drink anyway, so I took advantage of the situation.
"You go get the truck and I'll get us some juice!"
He nodded and stood. He looked solemn.  I didn't understand.  I wondered if maybe he was taking my car crash a little more seriously than the play warranted.
"It'll be OK," I said, referring to my crashed car.
He nodded again and began walking toward the basement door.  I followed along behind and walked into the kitchen, which was next to the basement door.  I heard Donovan muttering something as he went down the stairs, so I went over and poked my head into the opening.

As he went down each step he kept whispering.
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
He reached the bottom of the stairway and made his way toward the area of the basement where his mechanic's truck waited.
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
I realized that he was afraid.  It reminded me of being his age, being afraid of the dark corner and the dark windows made opaque from the interior lights; possibly hiding anything just on the other side of the glass.  I remembered being that afraid at night.

I remembered having to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.  Staying underneath my covers, trying in vain to hold my pee all night long.  I could picture making my way down the dark hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom; trying to be as quiet as possible.  Trying to avoid the attention of - whatever.  I peed as quickly as possible, the closeness of the bathroom window hovering above me drawing my complete attention.  Having finished, more or less, I sprinted, breath held, back down the hallway to leap into my bed and dive underneath the covers.

I remembered my toy farm set, specifically the cardboard silo.  It was a simple cardboard tube, maybe five inches in diameter, with a metallic plate at the base and a plastic, removable dome top. I came to use that as my night-time toilet. I can still remember worrying that my mother would discover the urine filled silo as I emptied it each morning after the demon banishing light had returned for the day.
Like Donovan, I had to look to myself for companionship.  In my case, it was because my family - at that time, just myself, my mother and my father - lived on a farm deep in the Virginia mountains.  It was remote, but the price was right.  My father was attending college at the time and the farm belonged to my uncle, my father's brother in law.  We stayed there for no cost.  I'm sure that was a huge help to my parents, but for me, at four years old, it was lonely.

That was about the time that lifelong memories began to form for myself, and I remember much about being at the farm.  I remember 'my' pony.  I remember learning how to feed it carrots, making sure my fingers were stretched as far as possible when I had the carrot on my palm so I wouldn't get bit.  I remember riding it, with my Irish setter, Penny, running along side.  I recalled how the field past the horse pasture had a large tree, underneath which lived an old bull.  I remembered how much fun it was to run to tag the tree and try to run back and roll underneath the fence before the bull could charge me.  I remember Penny nipping the bull's flank if it got too close to me.

I remember Timmy.

Timmy was my best friend.  He and I played together every day.  Timmy lived at 1606 Buddingbrook lane. Timmy was four years old too.  He liked my toys.  He told me he was afraid of the dark, too, and didn't like it when he had to get up in the night to pee either.  Timmy and I spent a lot of time talking to each other.
I couldn't tell you, however, what Timmy looked like.  Timmy was my imaginary friend.  He wasn't secretive or anything like that.  Mom would dutifully set a place for Timmy at dinner and remind me to say goodnight to him before bed..  She always made a point to remind me to include Timmy in my prayers, every night.

Being a lonely four year old, Timmy was a big part of my life.

A few years back, I asked my parents about that time.  About Penny. We had to give her away after dad graduated and we moved to the city in an apartment too small to keep a large dog.  I still remember looking at her and her adoptive owners as we drove away.  I wasn't crying, just waving.  I didn't understand that was the last time I'd see her.

It turned out that Mom knew about the silo.  She laughed, recalling the rusted metal bottom and the repeatedly wet cardboard that started to fall apart.  She never worried too much about it since I was pretty good about emptying it most mornings.

Mom told me about Timmy.

Timmy was four years old.  Timmy lived at 1606 Buddingbrook lane.  Timmy died in a fire.
She'd been concerned when I first told her about Timmy.  That he was my friend. That I talked to him and that he talked to me.

She worried that I'd seen the news reports about Timmy when he had died in that fire.  He died in his sleep, his parents unable to save him when 1606 Buddingbrook lane caught fire in the middle of the night.  She made sure that I didn't pay too much attention to the news when that kind of story came on.  You never know what kids will pick up.

All of that came back to me as I listened to Donovan run to get his truck.
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
I was overcome with pride.   My memories had brought back just how overwhelmingly terrifying the unknown terrors of the lonely basement or midnight bathroom were.  But Donovan was pushing through it, scared though he was.  I wouldn't have had the guts to do that when I was four.
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
Donovan got to the top of the stairs, mechanic's truck clutched in his little hands.  He looked up and me and started, unaware that I had been at the top of the stairs.
I looked down at the little brave guy, unsure of what to say.
"I'm sorry," I began, "I should have gone down there with you.  It must have been scary."
"That's ok," he smiled.  "I wasn't really alone."
I smiled back, "No.  I was here the whole time."
"I didn't mean you," he shook his head, "I meant my friend.  Timmy.  He's four years old.  He lives at 1606 Buddingbrook lane."
 
2017-10-24 09:08:55 PM  
President Trump and a GOP-controlled House and Senate. Boo.
 
2017-10-24 09:17:44 PM  
One time on a road trip with my gf we stopped at a rest stop to use the bathroom. The only other car in the lot was a beat up van. We parked one spot away from it. Upon returning to the car after using the facilities (the gf was still in the bathroom) I noticed a $50 on the pavement between our car and the van. And the side door of the van was open. As I'm about to get in the car a raspy voice from inside the van says "Pick it up".

Needless to say I ignored him and when gf was back we got the hell out of there pronto.
 
2017-10-24 09:20:22 PM  
Weird, now that I re-read this story from last year I notice I changed a number of details. Memory is HARD.

Also: how can we Smart or Funny posts when the buttons aren't enabled?
 
2017-10-24 09:34:32 PM  
Couldn't find my keys this morning. I blame ghosts.
 
2017-10-24 09:49:52 PM  
I once saw my dad and mom doing it
 
2017-10-24 09:53:11 PM  

SEX ZOMBIES ON WHEELS


"That's the stupidest story I've ever read!"

And with that, another door slammed in my face - POW! - so hard, it made the tip of my nose tingle. Despondent, I turned around and trudged back down the hallway. How many publishers had I been to now? Ten? Eleven? It felt like a dozen.

And all of them, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

I stopped. I counted. How many "no's" was that? I tried to count again, but decided it was no use. I was never going to sell my novel.

I checked my watch. Uh oh! If I didn't hurry, I was going to be late for my date!

I tucked my manuscript under my arm and proceeded to march down the crowded city sidewalk.

An hour later, I arrived at the diner. I immediately grabbed a seat, and the woman turned around and slapped me. I then found my way to a booth and waited for Lucy.

Ah, Lucy. My first date with a lady in over a year. She was cute as a button and twice as smart. Her good looks actually helped earn her a living. She worked in the button store on the east side of town. She fit in well. So well, in fact, it was often hard to find her when she was standing among the merchandise. But, whenever I did happen to spot her, I always asked her out.

And she always told me no, for reasons I didn't quite understand at the time, and still don't quite understand today. But yesterday, for some equally inexplicable reason, she said yes. So, we arranged to meet at the south side diner for lunch.

I slid into the booth and looked out the window expectantly.

I took the manuscript out from under my arm and held it in my hands as I gazed through the foggy, streaked window at the bustling street outside.

Then, it struck me. WHAP!

The manuscript! This was a first date! If she asks me what I do, I might have to tell her! If she sees me with my book, she might want to read it!

Panic filled my chest, and I felt tiny beads of sweat pop out of my pores.

I can't let her read this! That would be too much, too soon! No way, no how! Nuh-uh, buddy!

I squirmed around in the booth, and slid the manuscript down my pants.

Just then, Lucy appeared on the horizon. She looked as radiant as a light bulb on fire, with bright rosy cheeks under sparkling brown eyes. She walked into the diner, just as pretty as you please, and caught my eye.

"Hi, Eddie!" she squealed with delight. I waved at her, and she hurried over.

Sliding into the seat next to me, Lucy looked me right in the mouth.

"How ya doin'?" she said in a voice so low and sultry it sounded like a 45 RPM record being played at 33 1/3 speed then chained to the back of a truck and dragged over a gravel road.

"P-p-pretty good," I stammered. "How has your day been?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe," she moaned, flipping her hand in the air dismissively. "I could tell you, but you wouldn't believe."

The waitress came over and handed us a pair of menus. "Something to drink?" she asked.

"Wa-wa-water!" I said, raising my finger in the air, and then immediately lowering it as I realized that I should have let the lady order first. It was only polite.

I gestured in Lucy's direction.

"Milkshake," she said.

The waitress nodded.

"Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Chocolate," Lucy replied.

The waitress made a note on her notepad.

"Vanilla," Lucy said.

The waitress looked at her.

"Half and half," Lucy said, as she slowly turned her head toward me and licked her lips.

"That's... the way I like it."

I gulped, looked at the waitress, and let out a nervous laugh.

"Ha ha ha, w-w-water for me! Thanks! Thank you!" I said with a shaky voice.

The waitress nodded and walked away. I let out another nervous laugh. I didn't know what to say.

"My boss at the button store? Get this," Lucy whispered conspiratorially, "He's thinking of expanding into fabric. Fabric! Can you believe that?"

"Well, it seems kind of a natural, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"Fabric... buttons. They kind of go together, you know?"

"Oh, I know," she said. "But do you know how much room fabric takes up? They come in these really big rolls. Huge. They take up a lot of room, let me tell you. More room than we've got, that's for sure. We have ten thousand square feet in the store, and we still have barely enough room to hold all the buttons that we already have in stock. I told him, 'Mr. Lemberer, sir. Fabric is all well and good. I like it. You like it. Everybody likes it. But, don't you think that maybe we should offer things like needles and thread first? Y'know? Before we go jumping straight to fabric?' And, of course, he's all like..."

Lucy bowed up her arms, stuck out her lower lip and grunted several times, mimicking her boss.

"Ruh ruh ruh. Ruh ruh ruh."

The waitress returned to our table with my water and Lucy's half-vanilla, half-chocolate milkshake.

"Ready to order?"

Lucy ordered a hamburger, extra rare with double mustard. I ordered the cod casserole, extra well done with double ketchup.

As the waitress walked away, Lucy finished her story.

"You wanna know what I think?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I think that my boss thinks that if we offer needles and thread in our store, we're going to end up hurting the business of all the needle stores and all of the thread stores on our block, and they might get mad at us."

"Really?" I asked.

"Sure. A small businessman in the button industry doesn't dare go up against Big Needle. Are you kiddin'? Going against Big Needle AND Big Thread? At the same time? Phew!" She shook her head, rolled her eyes, and laughed derisively. "That would be a recipe for economic disaster. Or, so he thinks," Lucy said as she unwrapped her straw and dunked it into the whipped cream that topped her biracial shake.

I took a napkin and used it to dab the moisture off my upper lip. Then, I took a big swig from my water glass. The icy liquid felt absolutely exquisite splashing around the inside of my hot throat.

"Mmmaaannngahhh..." I said, smacking my lips and setting my glass down. Why was I so nervous?

"Look at me, talking about myself, on and on, blah blah blah," Lucy laughed. "Enough about me. I want to know what you've been up to today."

"Oh, you know, the usual thing," I said, exhaling a large breath that I hadn't realized I had been holding up until that moment. "Visiting publishers. Looking for work."

"Publishers?"

"Yeah, I'm a, I'm a..."

I let out another nervous laugh that sounded half-phony and half-crazy. I then thought of my laugh as the verbal equivalent of Lucy's milkshake, and the idea made me blurt out another loud laugh, this one sounding 100% maniacal through and through.

"I'm a writer," I said guiltily, as if I were confessing to defecating into mailboxes. I felt shame and guilt engulf me, surrounding and enveloping me like a big, wet catcher's mitt made of despair. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to grab my manuscript and beat myself to death with it.

"A writer! That's interesting!"

I looked at her in stunned surprise.

"You, you think that's... that's interesting?"

"Is sure is. What do you write?"

"Well, a book, I suppose you might call it," I said slowly, my quivering hands reaching out toward my water glass again.

"What's it about?"

I sipped my water as I considered my answer. I set the glass back down on the table carefully, tracing the drops of condensation on my fingertip in a slow circle around the edge of the rim as I pondered her question.

I smacked my lips and made a decision. I was going to tell her the truth, damn it!

"Honestly?" I looked her in the eyes. "It's the story of a relationship. A man and a woman who are deeply in love."

Her eyes lit up.

"Oh, yes?"

"They want to be married. But then," I swallowed hard. "Then the man finds out that she's been unfaithful."

"Oh, no! That's terrible."

"Yes. Yes, it is. It starts with him confronting her, and ends with him finally standing up to her and her lover."

My voice trailed off, and I gazed out the window absently.

"What happens then?"

I pulled the manuscript out of my pants.

"You can read it if you want to," I said. "Every publisher that's seen it so far has turned it down." I shrugged. "It's probably not the type of thing that one should bring up on a first date, anyway."

"Why not?" She seemed genuinely curious about what seemed painfully obvious.

"A first date, I suppose, is about the beginning of a relationship, right?"

"I guess," she said, in an uncertain tone.

"This particular story is about a relationship ending. Badly. Wallowing in that negativity on a first date is a bit of a... downer, don't you think?"

Lucy looked at the manuscript.

"Well, it's fiction, isn't it?"

I didn't reply. Luckily, she kept on talking.

"I think it's amazing that you've written a novel at all. That's pretty special."

The food arrived. After the waitress walked away, Lucy asked me if she could read my book.

Now.

I agreed. What the hell?

As she sat and ate and drank and read, I sat and ate and drank, and watched her sit and eat and drink and read.

-


MY SUMMER AT A NEW ENGLAND PREP SCHOOL



A Novel By


Eddie Dartson


Vincent stood in the doorway, his eyes brimming with tears.

"What is it?" cried Rebecca. "What's wrong with you? Why won't you talk to me?"

Vincent threw a rotting penis onto the kitchen table.

The penis squirmed. Rebecca gasped.

"Where - where did you find that?"

"In our bedroom!"

Rebecca clenched her teeth and held her breath. Her eyes were wide as saucers.

"W-w-where?"

Vincent could barely bring himself to say. When he did, it was as if the words were being torn from his very soul.

"In our bed!"

The shockwave of emotion reverberated through the room. With a quick motion, Rebecca slapped Vince across the cheek. Vincent, in a rage, picked up the penis and hit Rebecca on the side of the head with it.

Rebecca collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

"Tell me the truth!" Vincent shouted, his face red and sweaty. He shook the writhing penis at Rebecca. "Are you sleeping with a zombie?! Yes or no?!"

Rebecca looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with fury.

"Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!" she screamed.

Vincent couldn't believe it. He was utterly stunned. He dropped the penis to the floor and sank to his knees.

"How... how could you do this to me, Rebecca?" Vincent said through anguished sobs. "I loved you! We were to be married in June!"

In a flash, Rebecca reached out and snatched the penis off the floor. She stood up quickly and brandished it at Vincent.

"Because he's not what you think!" Rebecca hissed. "He's not just a zombie!"

"What is he, then?!" shouted Vincent.

"He's a... he's a..."

"SAY IT!!!"

"He's a sex zombie!!!"

Thunderstruck, Vincent fell over backwards onto the ground. He twitched on the floor, whimpering. He could feel his heart breaking in his chest. Thud, thud, crack. Thud, thud, crack. Thud, thud, crack. He only regained his senses at the sound of the kitchen door slamming shut.

"Rebecca! Wait!"

Vincent scrambled to his feet, tore through the back door, and ran out into the yard. Darting across the lawn, he caught up to Rebecca. Vincent seized her by the shoulders, spun her around quickly, and grabbed her roughly by the wrists.

"You have to tell me! You must! You must!"

Rebecca struggled to pull herself free from Vincent's iron grip. "Let me go!" she cried.

Vincent held firm and shook her wrists harder. The rotten penis clutched in Rebecca's hands flopped back and forth between them as they struggled.

"Do you love him?!" Vincent asked, fresh tears welling in his eyes. "Do you?!"

Rebecca turned her head away, and Vincent shook her harder.

"Do you?!" he yelled. "Tell me!"

"I love his motorcycle, okay? I LOVE HIS MOTORCYCLE!" Rebecca screamed. She finally pulled herself away from Vincent and ran down the road, weeping.


-

A few hours later the waitress brought us dessert and coffee as Lucy neared the end of my manuscript.

She was one hell of a fast reader. Maybe the fastest I'd ever seen.

-

"I want to speak to him," Vincent demanded.

"You can't!" Rebecca replied, fear in her eyes. "What good would it do us now?!"

"I want to see him now! Where is he?"

Before Rebecca could reply, a cold voice came out of the darkness.

"Right here."

Vincent spun around. Out of the shadows stepped Samuel, the sex zombie.

Samuel crossed his arms. There was a long silence. The only sound was the steady drip drip drip of maggots falling out of Samuel's ass.

"I didn't think you'd have the guts to come back, Sam," Vincent said.

Samuel sneered, his green, moldy teeth glinting in the moonlight.

"Is that supposed to be a joke? If so, bravo, old man, bra-vo."

Samuel began clapping his hands sarcastically. It sounded like two wet steaks slapping against each other.

Vincent gestured toward Samuel's crotch.

"I see you have your penis back."

Samuel glanced down.

"Oh. Yeah. That. Sorry I have to leave it out like this. I just had it re-attached, and my zombie doctor told me I shouldn't wear anything below the waist for at least forty-eight hours."

"It wouldn't fit in your pants, anyway," Rebecca spat, her voice filled with vitriol.

Samuel raised his hands up in a supplicating gesture. He looked bewildered and hurt.

"Hey, hey, hey. What is this? Both of you are ganging up on me now? That's fair."

"You're one to talk about fairness!" Vincent cried as he jabbed an angry finger at Samuel. "Why don't you take those maggots, shove them back up your ass, and leave us in peace?!"

Silence filled the air.

Suddenly, Samuel hunched over. His face was hidden from view, but judging by the slight trembling of his shoulders and the gentle wavering of the tip of his penis, it appeared as if he were crying.

He turned around and began to walk away.

The anger inside Vincent subsided like a deflating balloon. What had, moments before, been volcanic feelings of betrayal and jealousy, swiftly morphed into a desolate spiritual desperation.

"Sam... wait!"

Vincent and Rebecca looked at each other in surprise. Both had spoken the very same words at the very same time.

Samuel turned and looked at them sadly.

"I know the both of you think that you want me to stay. But, you really don't."

"We do!" Rebecca sobbed.

"No, you don't. That's not the point."

"Then what IS the point?!" Vincent pleaded.

Samuel shook his head and gave them a woeful smile. "Poor, sweet Vincent. This isn't about the maggots in my ass, or even the penis in your bed," he said softly. "This is really about the maggots and the penises in your hearts."

Vincent and Rebecca began to cry. Soon, Samuel was crying too. But, despite the dusty tears spilling down his hollowed cheeks, Samuel kept on speaking. He spoke faster and faster, his voice rising in intensity.

"If you two can honestly look at me and say that I haven't touched your hearts, or your genitals, and that the time we've spent together wasn't important to you, then... then..." He struggled to speak. "Then, that's it, man. I'll just go out there, I'll get on my chopper, and I'll ride, baby. I'll ride far, far away, and I won't ever come back."

Vincent and Rebecca listened intently as Samuel spoke his final words to them, each syllable that passed his lips a dagger driven deep into their souls.

"But, if you could say, truthfully, that while I was in your lives I made one person laugh, one person think, one person come, then... then I'll know that it wasn't all in vain. I'll know, in my heart of hearts, that somehow, somewhere, in some small way, I helped someone learn how... to love... again!"

With a final, hitching sob, Samuel turned on his heel and walked off into the darkness, never to return.

Vincent and Rebecca clutched to each other and crumpled to their knees, crying silent tears for what might have been. They couldn't live without Samuel, and Samuel couldn't live. The light that had once illuminated their lives had been suddenly and irrevocably extinguished.

And now, nothing would ever be the same.



THE END


-

Lucy folded over the final page of the manuscript. It was clear that it had evoked powerful emotions in her. I sat my empty coffee cup down as the waitress cleared the final dishes from our table.

Lucy wiped the tears from her face. She was silent for a long, long time.

Finally, she spoke.

"That's the stupidest story I've ever read!"
 
2017-10-24 10:30:25 PM  
Voting?
 
2017-10-24 10:41:46 PM  
Ooh yay! Can we keep this near the top of Main so it won't get lost under new shiat?
 
2017-10-24 11:27:01 PM  
[::::::::::::::::::][ + ]::::::::::::::::)
 
2017-10-25 02:24:11 AM  
When I was 12 the town I grew up in had what were called "near-riots", so that was the last year I got free candy from strangers.

It was awful until I was 13 and had a job mowing lawns.  Then I realized that I could make cash for doing work and exchange that for all the candy I wanted.

Once I realized I could buy my own candy Halloween seemed kind of stupid.

Sorry.  That's my story.
 
2017-10-25 03:09:30 AM  
It was a dark and stormy night in November, a Tuesday, and the started to count the votes. ...
 
2017-10-25 03:18:00 AM  

Smock Pot: Ooh yay! Can we keep this near the top of Main so it won't get lost under new shiat?


It doesn't go live until October 27th at 8 PM ET, so that shouldn't be an issue.
 
2017-10-25 04:12:26 AM  

davidphogan: Once I realized I could buy my own candy Halloween seemed kind of stupid.


You can buy candy, but the screams of children and unwary parents from a good Boo! are priceless.
 
Xai [TotalFark]
2017-10-25 07:22:55 AM  
He woke up, "It was just a bad dream" he thought; he turned on the TV, the headline scrolled past TRUMP RE-ELECTED!!!!

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
 
2017-10-25 07:23:48 AM  

Uncle Eazy: President Trump and a GOP-controlled House and Senate. Boo.


Two posts.  It took two posts.
 
2017-10-25 07:27:51 AM  
Oh shoot, already? On a Wednesday?

But I can't do quality work unless I'm drunk, dammit!

Welp, guess I'll check back later.

i.imgur.com
 
2017-10-25 07:35:08 AM  
Neither of these are mine, but this thread will soon be replete with creepypasta.

He Stood Against My Window

I don't know why I looked up, but when I did I saw him there. He stood against my window. His forehead rested against the glass, and his eyes were still and light and he smiled a lipstick-red, cartoonish grin. And he just stood there in the window. My wife was upstairs sleeping, my son was in his crib and I couldn't move I froze and watched him looking past me through the glass.

Oh, please no. His smile never moved but he put a hand up and slid it down the glass, watching me. With matted hair and yellow skin and face through the window.

I couldn't do anything. I just stayed there, frozen, feet still in the bushes I was pruning, looking into my home. He stood against my window.

Annoying Neighbour

I used to live in a small building downtown. One of the reasons I moved out was the bad neighbourhood, including this guy in the apartment right over mine. It was a weird looking fella who mostly kept to himself. Around midnight though, there was frequently a strange noise that got on my nerves. It wasn't loud, to be fair, but I sleep really lightly so it was hard to get my eyes shut with those little bumping sounds going on and on. It reminded me of high heels walking about, but not as loud, as if the person causing the noise was actually trying to be silent. After a few days, i realised the pattern was always the same, like a recording played over and over with random intervals in between. And that went on for the best part of an year, always the same sequence of bumps, slowly tattooed into my mind, sometimes for hours straight during the night.

It was only several years later, helping my daughter with her homework, that I learned a little bit of Morse code. She knocked on the table with her knuckles and a shiver immediately went through my spine as I recognised that exact pattern. When I asked her what it meant, she laughed.

"It's the easiest one, Daddy" she said. "It's the one to call for help.".
 
2017-10-25 07:39:53 AM  
Here's mine. It's true, but, yeah, it's probably nothing. "Small child does not like cold water, gets scared." But the thing is, I don't know, and there's no way to find out. My mother and grandmother are both dead now (died within a month of each other), but even when they were alive, it's not like I could've asked. Maybe that's the scary part. Or maybe it's not scary, just dumb. (Typos probably included, free of charge!)

---

The ocean fronting Oxnard, California is cold. Not New-England-cold. Not Alaska-cold. The sort of cold that is neither majestic nor threatening. Just cold enough to encourage one to dip in without taking any preparation or care. The sort of cold it is just possible to put your head down and take. Sissy-cold? Maybe. It never snows in Oxnard, but the fog rolls over the blue sky like heavy cotton batting every evening at six, sometimes earlier, and it stays until the sun burns through as a pale, white circle, at ten o'clock the next morning, or sometimes not at all. Clouds do not signify rain in Oxnard, merely morning, evening, or nothing at all. Every morning the grass is wet, and the cars are covered with dew like shining, glass beads.

A friend once told me, on visiting, that there is a river of cold current running through the Pacific ocean that breaks directly on the shores of Oxnard, California. It is why the ocean in San Diego, or even Santa Barbara, is so much milder. I know this now, but I didn't used to know it. When I grew up the ocean was cold, and that was all.

I never swam. I used to wear swimsuits, or perhaps I should say that when I was quite small my parents would put me in swimsuits. When I was older and could shift for myself I did not bother. I knew I would not swim. I wore shorts, and often rolled and cuffed them to make them even shorter, because, though I did not swim, I dearly loved to chase the waves. The cold ocean was uncomfortable, then painful, then numbing. I suppose it made me a masochist, because if you got through the pain you could wade with impunity, feel the sand shift under your feet and the draw of the tide. Squish into the wet muck way down deep and when a wave washed over your ankles, your toe and heel, beneath the sand, were obliterated, nothing but two soft, elongated V's, etched in the sand by the water rushing around your legs. You could twist and wiggle and dig the mud into chunks, finally revealing cold toes and numb feet like strange pink pearls, and then, at the next wave, make them disappear again.

Daring the cold brought access to the best rocks for collecting, and the best shells. The smooth ones, the wet ones that still shimmered like jewels. And they were clean, the ocean made them so. From a young age I knew that anything past the scope of the tide was filthy. There was a line, a literal line of piled, brown seaweed and driftwood, that marked the clean places, the wet places. Beyond that there were cigarette filters, broken glass, pop tabs, bottle caps, and sharp, coarse sand that prickled. But the ocean, where it touched, made everything smooth and clean.

The ocean eats. The ocean obliterates. The ocean destroys.

So I learned, I guess. But I only remember thinking that it was cold, and it was nice that it was cold, but it would be nice to be warm again, too. At home there would be a shower, and a change of clothes, a shedding of sand and salt. Even before going into the car, you brushed off your legs and feet as best you could, and put on your shoes. And then, driving home, a delicious blossom of warmth when the heater kicked in. Perhaps we would purchase a drive-thru dinner, and a drive-thu dinner meant a meal and a toy.

I have good memories of the beach.

I have another memory, too. A confusing one, hazy and full of holes, like many of my earliest memories. More dream than memory. I have read and learned about the making of memories, and I know they are a distorted glass. Perhaps, by my age, the dream has eaten the memory, like the ocean eats the sand. But I do remember, and I was not dreaming then.

My mother and my grandmother (my mother's mother) took me by the hands, one on the left side, one on the right. They began to walk into the sea. The water was cold, and I was very small. I felt very small, and I do not remember them looking down at me, if they looked down at me, or speaking to me, if they spoke to me, and I do not remember any expression of intent. But I was small, and the world of adults was large and mysterious, and I'm sure many things explained went forgotten or misunderstood.

The water came over my feet, then to my waist. I do not remember if it ever came over my waist, because I became very afraid. I wanted to go back and they did not want to go back. I was afraid, I do not know of what, and I cried. They spoke to me, but I do not remember what they said. Perhaps they scolded, perhaps they only tried to reassure me, but I would not stop crying and we did not go any farther into the sea. I don't remember turning around, getting out and coming home, but we must have done, for I am here.

I thought, for a long time, that I was only afraid, like a little kid gets afraid, because I didn't understand what was happening or why. I thought I was probably stupid, for being afraid.

Now I am older, and I know more things. I know that my mother and grandmother both battled with depression. I know that at different times within my childhood, both of them became very sick. I know now that when my grandmother came to stay for a time and slept on the couch was because she was very sick, and would not eat, and my grandfather could not handle it alone. I know now that when my mother went away for a few days and I made a paper replica of her to kiss goodnight, that she had gone to a psychiatric facility to receive electro-convulsive therapy. I don't know if it helped any. There is much I don't know and will never know, but now I do know more.

I know that when people become suicidal, they sometimes decide to take others out with them. Maybe they are afraid to die alone, maybe they wish to spare their loved ones the pain of their death, or the pain of life itself. I cannot fathom the thoughts one must think, to make that decision and then to go through with it.

I know my mother and my grandmother held me by the hands and walked into the sea. The sea was cold, I was afraid, and I cried. This is all I know. I do not know what they intended. I do not know what would have happened if I hadn't cried.

Sometimes it is very hard to sleep.
 
2017-10-25 07:43:38 AM  
This one time, at bandcamp, I ate candy corn. Sleep tight.
 
2017-10-25 07:46:39 AM  

thatguyoverthere70: biracial shake


As an editor: change it to "miscegenated shake" instead.

/that is all
 
2017-10-25 07:51:35 AM  
Windows is updating....
Your files are exactly where you left them....
 
2017-10-25 08:20:49 AM  
I once passed a beat up '79 Ford pickup on the highway with a white refrigerator on the back of it.
A few miles down the highway,  I passed the same beat up truck with the same white fridge on the back of it.
 
2017-10-25 08:24:20 AM  
Sorry, not an actuaL story, but this thread is as good a place as any to mention that Harper&Row have finally pulled their heads out of their asses and rereleased the old "Scary stories to tell in the dark" books with all of the original artwork intact. Anyone with younger kids in the family might want to grab a set or two before someone at the publisher pusses out again.
 
2017-10-25 08:28:30 AM  

Parthenogenetic: Oh shoot, already? On a Wednesday?
But I can't do quality work unless I'm drunk, dammit!
Welp, guess I'll check back later.
[i.imgur.com image 500x830]

I am Groot?
 
2017-10-25 08:28:59 AM  

Flt209er: Sorry, not an actuaL story, but this thread is as good a place as any to mention that Harper&Row have finally pulled their heads out of their asses and rereleased the old "Scary stories to tell in the dark" books with all of the original artwork intact. Anyone with younger kids in the family might want to grab a set or two before someone at the publisher pusses out again.


So glad my kids were readers long before discovering the "Goosebumps" series of books, because those endings used to scare me.

/great books, though
 
2017-10-25 08:31:07 AM  
Why the hell is this thread 6 days early?
 
2017-10-25 08:31:47 AM  

ObscureNameHere: Why the hell is this thread 6 days early?


...the better to scare you with?
 
2017-10-25 08:32:09 AM  

ObscureNameHere: Why the hell is this thread 6 days early?

Got the jump on you didn't it?  Didn't see it coming, right?
 
2017-10-25 08:45:50 AM  
(Work in progress.  Needs more ghost splaining)

The 1st Iraqi Ghost Tank Battalion

2024 Saudi - Iraq border 2300hrs

The M1A1E glided quietly over the desert.Propelled by hydrogen oxygen fuel cells, it was almost deadly quiet.  Spread out behind it in a wing formation were 8 more tanks and four eBradleys.  Tank Commander looked through the periscope.The BattleNet Operator or Tank Nerd looked at the Tank Commander and spoke up over the intercom."Drones report ISN armor is still 40 clicks away, TC.  You aren't gonna see anything but sand and sky for a while yet.  Apaches and Commanches are inbound.  By the time we get there, it'll be scraps."

Tank Commander looked through the periscope.  Directly ahead was a soft green glow.  "Slow down," TC said."There's something out there."

Tank Nerd: "Drones were over this area 100 times.  Nothing out there but sand.  "TN looked through his site.  "Weird.  Maybe it's bad optics or the reflection of the lights of a nearby city or oilfield.   You see all kinds of weird stuff out here."

TC repeated "Slow down.  I'm not taken us in to an ambush.  Get a drone to do another flyover."

"You're the boss, boss."  TN tapped his screen and sent the request.   "One drone inbound.ETA 7 minutes.  But we'll get a good view when the Apaches flyover.  Their ETA is 3 minutes.  They'll go right over it and you'll see it's nothing."

TC cursed under his breath.  He wanted to warn the flyboys but they'd wouldn't stop to pee on a burning tank.  Maybe it's just the jitters, he thought to himself.  The Apaches will fly over in 3 and in 15 they'll be reducing ISN's armored force to scrap.  They should go back to full speed, TN thought.  Go through this mirage and get the remains of ISN.

Tank Driver spoke up."I see it too, TC.It's not just your drinking problem.  Keep on course?"

"Stay on course, TD.  But keep your eyes open."

"Apaches and Comanches overhead."TN said over the intercom.  He didn't need to.  The noisy gas turbine engines and even the laminated blades still made the helicopters louder than the tanks and APCs.  "They're going to fly right over the green.  We'll have some good video on the BattleNet in no time."

TC watched the helicopters fly ahead in to the darkness.  For a moment, they were nearly overhead and then they were gone.  No running lights.  Just black silhouettes against a starry sky.  They were too high to be backlighted by the low green glow still on the horizon.Maybe the nerd was right.  Just an illusion.

"The helicopters are gone!" yelled TN over the intercom.  He didn't need to use the IC, everyone in the tank heard him.  "They're gone.Off the screens.  Visual, heat, electronic.  Everything!"

"Maybe they went under the radar," TD said nervously."  Just swooped in."

"Naw," TN replied.  We have full sweeps and active satellite.  They flew over the site and just disappeared.  One moment they were.  Next, they weren't"

TC said "Change course.  Take us to the left and give us a wide margin.  Keep everyone behind us behind us.  I don't want the right flank getting close to that.   Whatever it is.  Let 2nd Brigade know that we're swinging their way.  Let's hope the Apaches pop out back up.  We've had glitches on BattleNet before.  If not, we're goin to meet ISN first.  Be ready."

Tank Nerd spoke up "Everyone's been updated.  Drone's got a long look at the place.  It doesn't see anything on heat, EM.   Too far for a good visual but I am seeing green.  This is coming from the east so what I know about optical illusions, they don't work from two different directions.

"This is close to where we went over in '91," TC said.  "My father was near here.   Further south.  He made contact with a lot of Iraqi T-72s.  He said the anti-tank round went right through them.  So fast, they just vaporized the people in the tank.  Little people chucks blown out the tank's exit wound.  Just imagine.  One moment you're doing tank stuff, the next you're ham salad all over the desert.  Do you think it might have registered that you're dead?  That you've ceased to be?  What about the soul of the tank?  We think this old bucket's got a heart and soul.  We've all said that.  Remember how she doesn't like starting on raining mornings back at Knox?  Always takes two tries to get the juice flowing.  Even if she was in the shed all night and bone dry.  Just she just doesn't like getting wet.  Maybe those are ghost tanks and ghost tankers out there."

"You are one creepy drunk, TC" TD replied.  "Could be the ISN just blew up some chemicals this afternoon and those idiot pilots flew through it without their masks.  We're 100 percent protected from Nuclear, Biological and Chemical attacks.  I over pressurized the compartment.  Whatever is out there will stay out there.  You'll see, TC.  Just war crap."

"It's off to our right," TN announced."  Track 7 will come to about two miles of it.  Johnson will be the closest.  He's pressurized and watching.  We're still getting his feed...  Aw... Seven just went dark!  They lost power!  Track 5 is turning around.  What do we do?"

"We don't leave them behind.  Have the Bradleys and the left wing attach themselves to second brigade.  Us and the right wing will swing back for 7.  One and three will move in behind 5.   Do we have a visual from the drone?  Anything.

TN:"I have a distant shot of 7.  It's just sitting there.  No EM.  Regular heat from the crew.  Whatever happened to it affected even the batteries.  I not even getting a blip on the drone's EM wavelength.  Aw geeze, TC.  5 just stopped.  Everything but heat is gone on them too.  Bout 50 yards this side of 7.  This is not good."

"Let everyone know to avoid this area.  Put everything you've got on the BattleNet with a priority flag.  Have three stay back.  We'll catch up to them and get a real visual.  Get a couple of recovery vehicles brought up for 5 and 7.  Most important, let's recover the crews and protect the tanks in case this is an attack."

"What kind of attack could this be?"TD asked nervously.

"Well, if it isn't ghosts, then it has to be some kind of electromagnetic jamming.  Chemical wouldn't stop all the electronics. ISN set up some kind of giant EM pulse weapon?  Dumb place to put it."

"Plus it would show up on our scans and all our vehicles are supposed to be protected against EM pulses.  Also, it wouldn't affect our batteries.  TC, your idea of Iraqi ghost tankers is making more sense.  Sad to say."

"Just a stupid, stupid thought."TC said.  "Anything from the drone?"

TN:"Drone is at 3 thousand meters.  Three times higher than when the Apaches flew over.  I'm keeping it away from the glow zone.  I got a thermal on 7.  Looks like the guys are bailing on it.  Got three separate signatures.  Now two.  They must be bunching up..."

"Have three wave a light at them.  Let them know we're here," TC said.  "But make sure it's directly at 7 and 5's area.  Everyone else stays in their tracks and stays back."

"Now two signatures.  Must be on top of each other...  Track 7 is completely cold.  Only showing up on visual.  Not even the electrical motors...  They're gone."

"Gone!?  What do you mean 'gone', Nerd?"

"They were on heat, moving towards 5.  Now they're gone.  No heat.  If they fell in a hole, it was a mighty deep one.   Now, three's crew is leaving the track.  Three good sigs.  Oh gawd."

"What?"

"All gone.  No heat.  They were nowhere near 7."

TD:"I vote we back up.  Maybe to Kentucky..."

TC:Good idea.  Nerd, tell 3 to reverse it too.  Don't turn around.   Just back it up.  Try and get the drone closer.  There has to be a reason..."

TD:"3 just stopped, TC.  This cannot be good.  They're just 50 feet that way," he said pointing right.

"Driver, back us up, full speed.  Look for the crew from 3."

Then everything went quiet and dark.

Three people cursed the exact same words.  Outside, there were screams.  Horrible screams and then silence.

TC:  "Time to bail.  Meet me 50 yards directly behind the track.  Run now!"

Because there was no power, Tank Nerd had to push the automatic loader out of the way.  Then he was up and out of the turret, his rifle in one hand and a portable satellite phone in the other.  He was standing on the turret when TC came up.  Down in the front, TD was coming out of the driver's port.  He reached in for his rifle and then started to jump off the track's left side.  His boots never hit the sand.  He screamed as something grabbed him and pulled him 10 feet up in the air.  He hovered there struggling and screaming until he just ceased to exist.  It looked like he was blown to bits.

"Drop your rifle, Nerd.  Put your hands up!"  TC yelled.  "Surrender!"

The nerd dropped his rifle and did as TC said.  They both started slowly moving off the turret.  Hands in the air.  Things were swirling around them.  There was a palpable taste of hatred everywhere.  TC jumped off the track with his hands up.  He started moving away from the tank.  Things moved around him.  Nerd was still on the track.  He had come down off the turret and was standing on the back.  Suddenly, there was a sound and Nerd went up.  Nerd's 9 mm pistol flew out of a NOMEX pocket and hovered briefly before his face.  Nerd screamed, went up and Nerd was blown to bits.

TC fell down to his knees in the sand.  Things continued to fly at him from all directions.  TC knew they were trying to get him to lower his hands.  Just for a moment.  But he wouldn't.  He shut his eyes and willed his arms to stay up.  The universal sign for surrender.

The recovery crew showed up at 0900.  Two tankers had gotten their big old toy stuck in the sand.  Made them miss the big battle.  The recovery crew figured they meet a couple of crews and their stuck tanks.  First one they came to was empty and clearly not buried in sand.  And it started right up.   All they had to do was a quick reset.  Well, maybe they wandered over to the second tank.  Nope.  Empty and it, too, started right up.

Further reconnaissance found two more tanks.  There was one tanker but he refused to move or say anything.  He even refused to lower his arms.  Medevac was called and he had to be sedated before his arms would come down.

Staff Sargent Justin Holloran, US Army, decorated Tank Commander has been a patient here for the last 6 months.  Unless he is sedated, he insists on keeping his arms held above his head.  He is non-verbal but will scream if his arms are forced down either by restraints or by two orderlies.  Scans show massive trauma to several parts of his brain and various treatments have not yielded any positive results.  The Army has investigated the site where he was found.  Miniscule tissue, which matches the DNA of several tankers were found after an exhaustive search.  There is no conclusive reason for the probable deaths of four tank crews save for Holloran.  The Army investigators are very interested in getting a statement from Holloran and are to be contacted if we achieve any breakthrough.
 
2017-10-25 08:52:23 AM  

cman: I once saw my dad and mom doing it


so they have a clown fetish do they?

images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com
 
2017-10-25 09:07:06 AM  
A real, 4 word horror story:

"Daddy ate my eyes."

Look it up if you dare.
 
2017-10-25 09:11:28 AM  
"Family Cries"

Huffert lay in his crib, frozen in abject fear. He saw it move this time, he knew it. He thought he'd seen it out of the corner of his eye before, but now he was absolutely sure. That dangling thing with the things hanging from it suspended above him threateningly, especially the dangling thing with the many arms and the big head that gave him nightmares. He cried himself to sleep every night ever since dad put it there. Really, what sort of thing needed that many limbs? He did just fine with four. All Huffert knew, other than that this thing moved, was that dad must hate him.

Huffert couldn't take his eyes off the many-limbed thing. He saw it move, and he was determined to see it do so again while he was watching it. Watching it like a - well, like a thing which had really sharp eyesight and a propensity for watching things with unwavering intensity. Whatever such a thing could be, that was Huffert. He really had no idea what he was going to do if he did see it move, but he figured he would deal with that if - no, when it happened.

And it did. The excessively belimbed thing slowly started descending toward him, bit by terrifying bit, and Huffert realized that his body had already decided for him what he was going to do next by the sudden expansion and increase in temperature in the seat of his diapers. Unfortunately, this didn't seem to help, and the thing was right above him now, slowly sinking down below his field of view, underneath his chin, sliding around his neck. Huffert figured this would probably be a good time to cry.
Within a few moments, Huffert heard the dull thump of feet tromping their way toward his room. The polypedal demon, now nearly coiled entirely around his neck, suddenly and rapidly recoiled back to its constellation of blackest evil above his crib.

-

Jep padded groggily toward his son's room, cracking a profound yawn and trying to clear his head. Who needed an alarm clock when you had a baby? At least this time he waited until it was almost time to get up for work anyway before he started crying. He opened the door to his son bawling away as infants did for just about any and every reason. Cooing and hushing quietly, he reached down into the crib and gently picked Huffert up in his arms, careful not to hit his head on the ocean-themed mobile. Huffert seemed to cry even louder the closer he got to it; maybe he didn't like fish.

Once he had the baby comfortably over his shoulder he realized the other reason for the tantrum. As a new father, he understood and was prepared for the fact that he would have to change diapers. What nobody did or could prepare him for was the degree of horror this act often involved. It gave him an appreciation for sewer workers.

Jep changed Huffert's diaper as quickly and efficiently as one is able to when one is dealing with it like the disposal of a roadkill skunk, and after getting him cleaned up and freshly diapered, brought him into the kitchen for breakfast.

-

So the demon thing was afraid of dad. Good to know. Once Huffert was removed from his crib and had the less effective of his defense mechanisms cleared away and fresh diapers applied, he felt a lot better. For now, anyway. He was hoisted over dad's shoulder, which he hung on to. Mom was up now, too, and as they entered the kichen he was handed over to her. Mom rubbed his back. It felt nice.

As his mother turned around, Huffert was able to see dad, who was bringing out a new chair for him to eat at. His other one had broken somehow, so dad had gotten him a new one, and this was apparently it. Dad set it down near the table where the grown-ups ate. The chair seemed to be grinning at him.

Grinning. It was grinning. Maliciously. He could feel the evil coming off of it. He thought he heard a low, quiet, rumbling sort of demonic chuckle. It wanted to eat him. It was going to eat him, and his parents were going to feed him to it; dad lifted the hinged table - its mouth - for him to sit in. They were going to place him right in its mouth! They were going to place him in its mouth and it was going to eat him! How could they do this to him?

Huffert began to bawl.

-

Jep took Huffert from Marble, his wife, and over to the chair. "Wow, he's really crying. I don't think he likes this chair."
"Oh, don't worry," his wife said. "He'll stop crying once he gets fed."
"I suppose," Jep replied, seating Huffert in the high chair and swinging the table back down over his head. Huffert seemed to be trying to keep him from doing that, but he moved his little hands out of the way and set it down, where it locked in place with a click.

Jep returned to his wife at the counter, who had retrieved a jar of strained peas from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer, handing them to him. "Your turn," she said, opening the jar.
Jep took the spoon and jar and turned back toward Huffert, whose crying had abruptly stopped.
Huffert wasn't there.
"Huffert?" Jep called.
Marble turned at Jep's call with a sudden look of concern on her face. "Huffert?" she echoed, noticing the empty chair.
"Huffert!" Jep called more loudly.
"He must have slipped out of his chair," Marble offered.
"But where? I only had my back turned for a second!"
"Huffert!" they called in unison, slowly looking around the kitchen for the wayward child, but finding no one.
"Check the guest room," Jep said to his wife. "I'll check the living room."
Jep entered the living room and began searching under the coffee table, behind the couch, and in any area where Huffert might have been hiding, but with no luck.
"He's not in here!" Jep called to Marble. "Any luck?"
There was no response.
"Honey?" Jep called again, but again was met with silence. He made his way to the guest room, but found it empty.
"Marble!" Jep called, now starting to panic. "Huffert!"

He started dashing around the house, checking rooms, overturning things, looking in places that weren't even large enough to contain a human of any size, just in case. He ran upstairs, dashed into the bedroom and flung open the walk-in closet, flipping through pants, blazers, dresses, just in case this was some sort of elaborate hide & seek prank, but nobody was there. He turned to leave.

The door slammed. A rumbling, gutteral chuckle came from behind him. Jep turned. He screamed.

-

Jep suddenly bolted awake with a scream to the sound of a baby crying. He had it again. The same nightmare he had been having for two weeks now. He could never fully remember it when he awoke, but he knew it involved his family disappearing, and it always left him with a profound feeling of dread.
His wife, Marble, stirred beside him. "That dream again?" she said, straining the words around the remnants of sleep.
"Yeah," Jep replied with a heavy sigh.

Jep got up, shoved his feet into his slippers, and padded groggily toward his son's room, cracking a profound yawn and trying to clear his head. Who needed an alarm clock when you had a baby?
 
2017-10-25 09:17:29 AM  
Booooooooooooooooooooo (not the scary boo)
This thread is supposed to occur on Halloween, not 10/25.
I refuse to read any entries until Halloween!
 
2017-10-25 09:20:09 AM  
DoBeDoBeLurk:

Maybe you're a Deep One, and they were sad because they wanted to return...
 
2017-10-25 09:22:16 AM  
im.ezgif.com
 
2017-10-25 09:26:11 AM  
The Trump is coming from inside the White House!
 
2017-10-25 09:26:18 AM  
3.bp.blogspot.com

/too bad it didn't get a sequel.
 
2017-10-25 09:31:02 AM  
I posted the story ofmy friend Steve and the radioactive liquid speed before in these threads, and I think the time has come to add a bit to that story.Not about Steve, but about something odd that happened to me during my time serving Uncle Sugar as a submariner back in the Cold War.  I'm sure that I won't be able to do it justice.

I left INEL (Idaho National Engineering Laboratory) in August of 1980, and headed to the east coast to meet my boat, the USS Finback (SSN-670), where I was assigned to Reactor Controls division.I spent four years on the ol' Finlips (long story, basically due to the command's enthusiastic embracing of the BOHICA principle: Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.As nukes, we got screwed. A lot.After all, our shaft never stops), and we did a bunch of interesting stuff that I can't talk about, even now.There's a reason they call the submarine force the Silent Service: they have the mother of all non-disclosure agreements which never expires.

Sometimes boats will come back to port damaged in some way. Sometimes one of ours and one of theirs turned out to have been in the same operational area, and in the enthusiasm of the hunt and evasion, they bumped into each other. Hell, I remember a time when one of our boats came home with an exercise torpedo sticking out of its sail. The term "Crazy Ivan" (a sudden reversal of course) exists for a reason; Russian sonar wasn't as good as ours back then, and it was a way for them to say "back off, Yank" in no uncertain terms.We learned to maintain both horizontal and vertical separation, just to be on the safe side. (I highly recommend the book "Blind Man's Bluff," by Sherry Sontag, Christopher Drew and Annette Lawrence Drew for more on these shenanigans).Sometimes though, there were no other submarines operating in the area and boats came back banged up anyway.

It turns out that we and the Russians (Soviets back then) have lost some nuclear submarines at sea with no declared hostilities. The Russians lost seven (five during the soviet era). We lost two, the Thresher (SSN-593) and the Scorpion (SSN-589). There are official explanations, at least on our side; the Scorpion was lost in 1968, and there are as many explanations as there are submariners; officially it was due to charge reversal and resultant explosion of the ship's battery. Just what might have caused that to happen is left unexplained. The Thresher was lost in 1963 off the Atlantic coast due to an unexpected loss of electrical power and subsequent reactor shutdown, loss of propulsion and depth control. Now, just what in the world could cause an "unexpected loss of electrical power?" I wish I knew, because the thought of such a thing keeps me up nights-mainly because it happened to us, too.

This was sometime during the early 1980's, somewhere in the North Atlantic. Watch conditions were "shiat in the tanks, air in the banks, ahead 2/3rds going THAT way," and there were no sonar contacts to speak of when I was headed back to take the watch; I used to like to drop by the control room to see what was up on the "spook board" before heading back to my watch station in the maneuvering room in engineering. I was standing watch as RO (Reactor Operator) in front of the Reactor Plant Control Panel (RPCP); to my left was the Throttleman at the Steam Plant Control Panel (the SPCP, the Navy is REALLY into acronyms), to my right the Electrical Operator (at the EPCP, of course), and behind him was the Engineering Officer of the Watch (the EOOW), the officer nominally in charge of the aft half of the ship.

Since we were in the North Atlantic, the sea water was pretty cold.No big deal, mainly it just meant that the steam plant was more efficient than usual, and the AC plant didn't have to work as hard. The bunk spaces got a little chilly, but that's why they issued us blankets, right? Wear your socks to bed if you must, you lightweight non-qual dink puke. We were due for a field day (all hands turn-to and clean the ship), and the CO had arranged with higher for a Norwegian diesel boat to take our station while we pulled farther out to sea where the bad guys were less likely to hear us if we made some noise, and no sooner had we started in earnest when all hell broke loose.

Understand, we were in international waters but we were also right in Ivan's back yard, and when Ivan gets angry he doesn't hold much back. This time, it looked like he was angry enough to be starting WWIII; EVERYTHING came out of the ports we were hanging outside of; there were whole squadrons of aircraft dropping active sonobouys ahead of literally everything that could float charging out of the harbors with active sonars pinging away like mad.They had that poor Norwegian boat surrounded before he had a chance to get away.He was in a box of Krivak ASW ships continuously pinging at him; it had to have been awful. And all the rest of that stuff was coming our way.

I'm not an expert in submarine warfare, but I've read a lot of Tom Clancy, so I kind of figured out some of what had to have happened later on; at the time I was stuck in Maneuvering and only had data from the power plant, the depth gauge repeater and the seat of my pants. I know we did a lot of fancy twisting and turning, porpoising up and down in depth; basically trying to stay ahead of them in the places where they weren't listening. I don't think anybody knows whether the reds knew we were out there and intentionally herded us where they did, or if they just knew about whatever it was and inadvertently herded us into it in their effort to stay away from it; I just know what happened, and what happened to us was absolutely terrifying.

We train for just about every possible casualty in the Navy, and the scariest ones are not necessarily what you might think. You might think that flooding would be the worst, and "water in the people tank" is up there; but we train for that until our fingers are pruny in a damage control trainer in Groton Connecticut.Fire is MUCH worse underway, and will generally kill you in a more painful fashion. But the absolute worst is the loss of all AC power.

Imagine that you are trapped in a steel tube thirty feet in diameter and about 300 feet long, travelling at nearly 20 miles an hour more than 400 feet underwater (maybe quite a lot more than 400 feet underwater) in which literally everything is dependent upon electricity, and suddenly everything goes picth black.All the fans that supply breathable air, whose hum you edit out of conscious hearing, suddenly quit. Everything just goes dead, but no alarms are ringing because there is no power to set them off; silence. There's no air conditioning and no circulation, so suddenly it's stifling hot, and if you're even a little claustrophobic (and who isn't?) the walls suddenly seem a LOT closer than they were a moment ago. As Reactor Operator, you KNOW that the plant is not in a safe condition because the pumps that cool the reactor have stopped.The control rods have dropped shutting the reactor down (loss of power will do that), but that thing is HOT and always needs cooling water or really bad things will start to happen soonish. There was total silence for a few seconds as we were all stunned, then there was a lot of yelling, maybe even some screaming.Hell, some of it might have come from me.

Submarines are designed with multiple redundancies so that this sort of thing is not possible underway; nevertheless, there are systems that will kick in and save your ass. We have what are called "battle lanterns," battery powered lights we switch on if we lose power; the ships battery and motor/generator sets which supply power to the main electrical system likewise.We are NOT supposed to be able to lose AC power while underway.

But we did.

Not only did we lose AC, we lost the battery too.How the hell does a battery that weighs several tons not push out electrons? Batteries in ALL the battle lanterns died too, the instant we tried to turn them on. That, my friends, is the definition of terror. You're in the dark, an eighth of a mile underwater with an overheating nuclear reactor a few yards away, and half the laws of physics seem to have been suspended... and then you hit something.

There was nothing on the navigation charts, we checked them later.The ocean where we were was more than a mile deep.No other subs around; we would have heard them (the Russians were LOUD back then).We were too far south for icebergs at that time of year (this was before global warming was really hitting its stride, remember)... but the boat shuddered and rang as something large and very hard scraped down our starboard side.

We still had hydraulics for a bit coontil the pressure dropped and the pumps failed to kick in), and we still had steam from the residual heat in the reactor plant. Thank god the Navy had changed safety procedures after the Thresher, and our Main Steam Stops stayed open; that meant the turbines kept turning, and the screw kept spinning, and we coasted out the other side. We spent two and a half minutes in the dark before the lights came back on; the turbine generators had been spinning all along at full load, they just weren't supplying any power. The batteries all stayed dead, though.

Once we had power back, our training kicked in and we were able to recover from the multiple casualties and save the ship. Nobody ever talked much about it, but I assume that the captain put it in the logbook; something like, "unknown underwater phenomenon nearly a mile in diameter with hard central area suppressed all non-biological electrical activity near coordinates..."
 
2017-10-25 09:38:53 AM  
Is this the official halloween thread or practice, either way I know what I am doing all day
 
2017-10-25 09:42:07 AM  
This one is a little bit silly, but still in the appropriate vein.

"Murder is Meat"

Apart from the bonfire lapping at the sky a dozen feet in front of him, it was dark. Oppressively so. Paolo stood shivering in the chill night air, made to wear only a pair of skimpy plum smugglers. He was of the age where, per tradition, he was to undergo El Rito de la Carne -- The Rite of Meat. It was a ritual where, upon turning 18, the first-born male of the family must pay his penance to the animals he has eaten as a way to apologize to them and thank them for providing them nourishment and life. Paolo had no idea what the ritual involved and nobody would tell him, which was supposedly part of the ritual.

He felt alone. He could see nothing beyond the ring of light cast by the fire, and he stood just on its edge so he could see nothing beyond his own backside. Above the crackling of wood, a distant, indiscernible sound wafted by on the breeze, too faint to resolve. Probably a coyote off in the hills, or perhaps just the wind through the treetops. Paolo wished they'd just start the ritual already. He was already cold, being just a little too far away from the fire to properly benefit from its warmth, and the mounting tension coupled with his growing sense of unease were making him shiver. Or was that the point? Maybe the nervousness and uncertainty themselves were meant to build to a fever pitch, eating away at him like a guilty conscience in anticipation of something that would never come. Could they be so sneaky?

Another sound came drifting by, louder this time but still indistinct. It was probably nothing -- probably something he heard all the time but which his mind, in its present state, was making hazy, fearful shapes out of. Was he supposed to be scared? Was that it? Or was he supposed to battle the fear like some manly rite of passage? If this was really a psychological game, then he supposed his first test was to figure out how he was supposed to react. As a passage into manhood it made more sense that he fight back the fear to prove his strength of will. But then, if this wasn't a test of his manliness, then he could be wrong and fail the test when he was supposed to let the fear consume him in penance as he was told.

Fortunately -- or unfortunately, given the circumstances -- he was saved from having to puzzle it out by way of a heavy, wet smack against his bare chest which jolted him out of his thoughts. He looked down at his chest. A sizable area was splattered with crimson. At his feet was what looked to be a bloody, raw steak. Paolo looked around, though he could still see nothing but the fire. The sound came again -- louder still, and this time he could just about identify it: It sounded like the lowing of a cow. Not the normal sort of lowing, but a deeper, more angry sound that dropped significantly in pitch at the end, like the punctuation at the end of an assertive statement. He'd never heard a cow make a sound like that before.

Another wet smack, this time on his back. He couldn't see the spot where it hit, but turning around he saw, through the shadow cast by his body, another piece of meat on the ground. It looked like a pork chop, which he then confirmed by the grunt of a pig some distance away. He spun again as he heard the cow lowing again -- very close this time. Slowly, almost menacingly, he saw first the cow's head, then its forequarters step into the dancing firelight. It lowed again as it looked down its snout at him. He'd never seen a cow look like that before, either. It was a cold, murderous glare. Or maybe it was his mind, blooming with panic, that put that look in its eyes, ascribing to an otherwise docile creature a murderous intent that it shouldn't be capable of.

Impossibly, the cow began to stand upright on its hind legs. Paolo's mind recoiled in fear as it stood, and then screeched in white hot panic as he watched it shove a cloven hoof straight into its chest, tear out another hunk of bloody meat, and throw it at him. The flesh hit him square in the chest once again, leaving another splotch of bright red. The squeal of a pig behind him followed by another wet smack on his back told him that the pig was doing the same thing. He didn't even have to look. He couldn't look anyway, as he was paralyzed with abject terror. Another cow stepped into the ring of light, and then another. More grunting pigs appeared behind him, to the side, joining the cows as each one in turn reached inside themselves and tore off more chunks of their flesh to throw at him. He began to stagger from the rapid pelting on all sides, but he couldn't let himself fall.

No. No, this wasn't real. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be real. Animals couldn't do that. His mind was playing tricks. Awful, horrible, terrifying tricks. This was a mind game, the psychological experiment he thought about. His mind began to calm itself as realization dawned. This was the fear. This was his battle. He understood now.

Paolo released a primal scream, a battle cry, an insane howl like the wolf they wanted him to be.

---

"I don't know," Miguel responded. "It was going fine, but then he just..." He couldn't continue as he broke down in tears again.
"Did you know the victims?" the police officer asked.
"No," Miguel said between sobs. "We hired them for the festivities. It was supposed to be a joke! Just a joke!"
"Okay, just wait here and rest," the officer told him. "We may have more questions later."

With that the officer left to speak with a superior. Miguel looked around him. Seven of the eight they had hired were dead, their throats ripped clean out. Only one had survived, and then only because he had managed to run far enough away in the commotion that Paolo hadn't noticed, where he was able to call the authorities. He sat out the back of one of the ambulances now, his cow head removed and lying by his feet. Paolo was detained in another ambulance on the other side of the yard, strapped tightly to a gurney. His face was caked with blood, and he still struggled against his bonds, making vicious growling sounds. The rest in attendance were being separately questioned by police.

This was an unmitigated disaster. Miguel had no idea how this could possibly have gone so wrong, so tragically wrong. He was sure -- as absolutely sure as he was about anything in life -- that Paolo would get all eight.
 
2017-10-25 09:44:36 AM  
One more.  A bit unusual, but fun in a gory sort of way.

"Sin Aesthetic"

Dorpa answered the phone in response to its special ring that indicated someone was calling her from the lobby of her apartment building. "Hello?"
"Uh, hi," said the reverberating, attenuated voice on the other end. "I'm here about the couches?"
"Come on up! Apartment 304."

She pressed 6 on the receiver to unlock the lobby door and waited patiently for the gentleman to come up. She looked around the living room again. The walls were a deceptively flat maroon, but the rainbow legs of her coffee table peeked out from under the tie-died tablecloth, atop which was a crystal vase containing an artful arrangement of crocuses, posies, daisies, orchids, violets, honeysuckle, and baby's breath.

Accompanying them, and bracketing the coffee table on two sides were the couches she had posted for sale online. Their flower pattern wasn't quite as colourful, being predominantly brown and orange with splashes of green and yellow, but they were a symphony all their own -- and she meant that quite literally. Dorpa was a synesthete, which meant that the part of her brain responsible for processing sensory input had a few crossed wires. There are numerous different kinds of synesthesia; some people associated colours with numbers and letters; for others, numbers and letters occupied different positions in space. Dorpa was a colour-sound synesthete, which meant that she associated certain colours with certain musical notes and instruments.

The sensation was quite strong, and as such everything she saw made sound. Much of the time, particularly walking around in public, it was just a jumble of random notes, like an orchestra warming up, all tuning their instruments at the same time. Art galleries were always a mixed bag. She liked the most of the sounds of Renoir, Monet, and da Vinci, but Picasso, Van Gough, Munch, and Dali all evoked various levels of cacophony that she couldn't stand to be around.

It was with this aural aesthetic that she chose her surroundings. It mattered not so much that her paints, furnishings and decorative notions looked good to the average eye, but that it sounded good to the synesthetic ear, and especially that it sounded good with the rest of the room. Her choice of wall paint, for example, provided a nice, constant, low-pitched drone of a cello that served as a foundation for the rest of the things in the room to build their symphony upon.

It was her couches that bothered her, though. They sounded lovely at the thrift store, and their colour scheme and flowery pattern were in a key that matched her wall paint. To most people however, they were hideous, and so they were marked cheaply, which suited Dorpa just fine. She had them delivered to her home, and once they were brought in and put in place, they did sound rather nice, but after a while she realized that they fell flat somewhere, like an orchestra that was missing a crucial section. They unbalanced the room -- like too many strings and not enough piano. Over time, that began to bother her quite seriously. That was why she decided she had to do something with them, hence her post online inviting someone to come and take them.

There was a knock at the door. The man had finally made it up the elevator. She went over, unlatched the chain lock, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door to invite him in.

"Come in, please. The couches are right over there," Dorpa waved a hand toward the living room where the couches awaited.
The man politely removed his shoes and headed into the living room. Dorpa followed behind after closing the door behind him.
"Wow," the man said as he regarded the couches. "That is some serious 70s kitsch. It's great! I have a thing for 60s and 70s styles, you know. Lava lamps, bean bag chairs, disco balls -- you ought to see my place, it's like stepping back in time."
"I'll bet," Dorpa replied. Clearly he was stuck in the past and almost certainly lived alone, but otherwise he seemed perfectly harmless and utterly mesmerized by the couch. That's why he didn't even notice Dorpa's knife slicing his throat open.

She worked quickly. She made sure to cut deep enough to sever the vocal cords so he couldn't scream, but not all the way through. She needed some control. She quickly supported him from behind with one arm under his and around the barrel of his chest, while the other held his head back, allowing her to aim the twin jets of arterial spray.

In as measured a manner as she could, she directed him this way and that until his heart finally stopped beating. She then stepped back to regard her work. Now that was perfect. The swaths of blood red across the couches provided just the right note to complete the symphony. Now the couches sang harmoniously with the rest of the room. Dorpa was rather pleasantly surprised to note that the man's lifeless corpse, now slumped on the floor, added a couple of bass notes and a C-major chord that played a fascinating and unexpected counterpoint. She was rather disappointed now that she'd have to get rid of the body.
 
2017-10-25 09:44:45 AM  

toejam: A real, 4 word horror story:

"Daddy ate my eyes."

Look it up if you dare.


Fark, I'd just forgotten about that story and now it's back in the old brain.
 
2017-10-25 09:56:40 AM  

Delezaio: toejam: A real, 4 word horror story:

"Daddy ate my eyes."

Look it up if you dare.

Fark, I'd just forgotten about that story and now it's back in the old brain.


Yeah. Sorry about that.
 
2017-10-25 10:18:21 AM  

Flt209er: Sorry, not an actuaL story, but this thread is as good a place as any to mention that Harper&Row have finally pulled their heads out of their asses and rereleased the old "Scary stories to tell in the dark" books with all of the original artwork intact. Anyone with younger kids in the family might want to grab a set or two before someone at the publisher pusses out again.


I still have my hardback compilation from *before* they changed the artwork :)

This is my favorite thread of the year. You farkers are awesome!
 
2017-10-25 10:21:02 AM  

Uncle Eazy: President Trump and a GOP-controlled House and Senate. Boo.


*sigh*
 
2017-10-25 10:21:46 AM  
When me and my husband were about to have our first baby the house hunting began.  We had lived in a small 2 bedroom apartment for a few years, but thought a home with a nice yard was absolutely necessary when raising a kid, also i love to garden and the small potted plants outside the window wasn't cutting it.  The pre-approval process and house hunting with our idiot realtor could have been the scary story, but actually, we didn't end up buying a house at this time.  After a few months of house hunting and not finding anything within our budget we could both agree too we talked through it a little more, realistically an infant is not going to be playing in a yard, we have at least a few more years before it becomes a real concern, and i work full time anyway, so my gardening hobby it's all that important.  So we stuck around the apartment until Camden was 3 and i was pregnant again, this time we were much better prepared for finding a home, and instead of going with a traditional realtor we used RedFin.  After a few weeks we found what looked like the perfect house, it was quaint cottage type house in a good neighbor hood, 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, nice kitchen, good playroom in the basement.  The yard was fenced in, and bare soil neatly bordered the outside of the house, with a matching border bordering the inside of the fence.  Lush green grass sprawled between the two borders, in the spring this would be the perfect place for a garden.  We quickly contacted our agent and made a bid on the house, it was at the high end of the other houses in the neighborhood but still will within our budget. At closing we found out the previous owner had died in his late 50's, and his adult children were selling the house.  They told us their dad was a jack-of-all trades guy who would do all of his own house repairs, but also had a full-time job as an entomologist.  That was interesting, but also kind of boring, we just wanted to close on the house and start getting moved in.  At the end of closing, besides the key, they also gave us their dad's journal, telling us he insisted that whomever buys the house take the journal to get a history of everything he's done on the house.  Again, interesting, but we don't plan on making any major changes, so i throw the journal in my shoulder bag.  We move in early-fall, Halloween in the new neighborhood goes off without a hitch, everyone is very friendly.  During Christmas the whole family is very cheery around a nice fireplace.  As spring approaches my work tells me I will be making an off-site visit across the country in a month.  I look at my schedule, and plan day off before the trip, as those with an infant and toddler know, you don't really have time to do anything, unless you get a day off from everyone.  The day before the trip i drop the kids off at day-care, and begin working on the garden.  I probably won't have another real day to get this done so i go to town on everything, I go to an organic supermarket and ask them what grows best in the area, and then follow up buying all that organic fruit.  I always thought, why use one seed when you can use giant bunch of them.  I cut the fruit into slices and bury them in neat patch all around the border.  I do the same with the vegetables, i'm not exactly a gardening expert, but this seems like it should work.  After a long day the entire garden has been turned and planted.  I shower pick up the kids, and we all go out for dinner before my trip.  In the morning I give my kids a kiss on the forehead as the are still sleeping, and give my husband an affectionate goodbye before driving to the airport.  After the trip, and the meetings, i'm back in the hotel, i've Skyped the family and their having fun, but due to a 3 hr difference i'm still wide awake when they go to bed.  I watch TV for a few hours, then go through my shoulder bag to makes sure I have all my things before my trip back tomorrow.  I find the homeowners journal still in my bag and chuckle, what the heck do we need a journal for?  I toss it towards the garbage bin, but it misses and flops open to near the end of the journal, the top of the page is titled:

DO NOT GARDEN IN THIS YARD

I feel a pit in my stomach as i retrieve the journal, going back to the beginning it's all a boring account of normal housekeep, but towards the end every page is titled "DO NOT GARDEN IN THIS YARD".

I go back to the first page with this claim:

I'm not sure how it happened, but on my last trip to Australia, a Bulldog ant must have somehow came back with me.  I didn't realize this until I was working in the garden and felt an incredible pain in my hand.  I was shocked at what I saw, but what's more concerning is it didn't look exactly like a Bulldog Ant, it also looked a little like Argentine Ant.  I know these are invasive throughout the US, but I've never heard of these two ants mating.  The Argentine ants reproduce incredible quickly, so once i noticed what bit me i did a through search of the house and some had made it inside.  I immediately bought multiple containers of pesticide (sorry bugs), and sprayed the entire garden.  Know these bugs, i'm going to have to rip the gardens out to prevent them from expanding.

Next Page:

I think i've gotten rid of any of the ants that made it into the house, when i sprayed yesterday the fled either into the house or into the lawn.  Luckily, they hadn't expanded enough to make a significant impact on the house.  Knowing how fast they move, and how quickly they can kill, i still didn't sleep through the night, I need to be sure there are none in the house before i attempt to sleep again.

Next Page:

I'm fairly certain the house is clear, i'm spraying the gardens with pesticides every day to be sure they are not expanding, i'm going to rent a hotel room for the night so i can actually get some sleep.

Next Page:

I'm fairly certain the house is clear, i'm spraying the gardens with pesticides every day to be sure they are not expanding, i'm going to rent a hotel room for the night so i can actually get some sleep.

Next Page:

I'm officially saying the house is clear, I haven't seen them for two days, i think i'll leave some food out by the door to see if they come in.  I'm spraying everyday now, so i doubt it, I've also begun spraying the lawn.  I'm pretty sure it's been contained.

Next Page:

The food was completely clear, i'm officially going to sleep back in my house tonight.  Sprayed the yard and borders again, this time i put food out on the borders, and the lawn, hopefully this menace has been handled.

Next Page:

Well the food on the borders were clear, but the food on the lawn was completely devoured.  I'm continuing to spray and set up food, they appear to be in this for the long haul.

Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured

I think i'm going to vomit.  I call my husband, pick-up, pick-up, pick-up, pick-up, he answers groggy.  He says hello then "ewe", he tells me something was crawling on his phone.  He turns on the light and then goes into a panic, "they're everywhere", almost on queue i hear the children begin wailing in the background.
 
2017-10-25 10:45:55 AM  

Walker: Booooooooooooooooooooo (not the scary boo)
This thread is supposed to occur on Halloween, not 10/25.
I refuse to read any entries until Halloween!


Yes,  this thread will be spent in 2 days.  Can someone from the Fark Management explain this decision?   Sorry,  this thread is a Halloween highlight of my year and y'all dun goofed.
 
2017-10-25 10:48:05 AM  

mama2tnt: thatguyoverthere70: biracial shake

As an editor: change it to "miscegenated shake" instead.

/that is all


"miscegenated milkshake" for the alliteration.
 
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