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(Fark)   Welcome to the 2018 Fark Halloween Scary Story thread! Does your story scare more people than this week's news? Prove it! Top 10 Scariest (SMART) and Funniest (FUNNY) voted stories will earn their writer a month of TotalFark   (fark.com) divider line
    More: Scary, spooky stuff, 2008 singles, 2007 singles, time, Vincent, Lucy, Rebecca, Ruh ruh ruh  
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2876 clicks; posted to Main » and Discussion » on 01 Nov 2018 at 3:57 AM (2 years ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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2018-10-29 9:38:20 PM  
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
 
2018-10-29 9:53:21 PM  
Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.
 
2018-10-29 9:54:09 PM  
About twenty or so years or so ago I moved across the country for a job.

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

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

I made it to where the job was, found a place to live- a nasty, cheap apartment next to a liquor store and a bar that seemed to have police cars pulling in with flashing lights almost all night long.  The people upstairs screamed at each other in broken English all through the day.  Meth heads panhandled the lot whenever the cops weren't around.   The only way I could get any sleep in all of that was with a combination of sleeping pills and hard liquor, the cheapest I could get.  Anyone who's been there before can tell you that this is a bad idea.

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

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

"Johnny?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When my phone bill came in almost a month later, I had almost forgotten the whole thing.  The money almost seemed a waste; I hadn't used the phone at all, other than to call my parents, and to be terrorized by it in the night.  Also, other terrible things had swamped it out of my memory.  I'd seen a guy get gunned down in the parking lot of the bar across the street.  I almost lost my job, the one thing that was making all of this worthwhile, over someone else's stupid mistake; at the last moment the truth came out and I was spared.  The horrors of the real had completely washed out the terrors of the night.
I remember sitting at the cheap, peeling Formica table in the corner of the apartment that was my combination desk and kitchen table, staring at the bill.  Forty-eight dollars for a telephone that I had only used twice to call my parents and that no one had ever even called-

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

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

I cancelled the phone the next day and bought a cell phone I couldn't afford.  I'm sure it was nothing, maybe a wrong number, maybe a telemarketer, who knows.  All I know is, we can choose what we want to believe, and I choose to believe that the call in the night was nothing more than just a nightmare.
 
2018-10-29 10:06:50 PM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Winner winner chicken dinner
 
2018-10-29 10:24:12 PM  
Yay! Love this thread.
 
2018-10-29 10:29:55 PM  
Alright, I'll take a stab at it.
I grew up in a small town in New Jersey, in the shadow of a huge mental hospital overlooking us from the side of a mountain. They had two horns. One was for the volunteer fire dept. the other was for escapees. I lived in terror of the second, because it usually went off while I was walking to school or back home. Most of them were harmless, but I didn't know that. Once, I was at a cub scout picnic at the community park, when the horn went off. We didn't think anything about it, and continued cooking the burgers and dogs. A few minutes later, a extremely large black man (I mention this because our town was almost totally white) came running through the park. He saw us and stopped, so we offered him to join us and have a hot dog. About then, the green police cars reserved for the hospital came careening across the park field. The guy started to run. One kid threw a baseball bat through his legs and down he went. They cuffed him and basically dragged him to the car, with one of our dads yelling at the cops to not mistreat him.
I still lived in fear of Overbrook for the rest of the time I lived there, until I was a boy scout and had to go there for Valentine's day. The ladie's ward. I had baby blue eyes and I was mobbed. I was terrified, not of the women, though they were absolutely crazy, but the conditions they lived in. It was the definition of squalor. Turns out that most of the horns were for people that had escaped to get away from the filth and desperation inside. And most died of exposure.
 
2018-10-30 1:37:57 AM  
The Jaunt is a pretty good short story by Stephen King, but it's a lot longer than you think.
 
2018-10-30 8:02:49 AM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Dammit.
 
2018-10-30 8:03:22 AM  
Requiem, a short novel by I herbey, etc.

Should the Sun be that bright?

The End.
 
2018-10-30 8:03:24 AM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Nightmare fuel. Right out the gate.
 
2018-10-30 8:05:11 AM  
Your mom and I have an announcement to make. . .
 
2018-10-30 8:05:25 AM  
Donald Trump wins re-election bid.

The End.
 
2018-10-30 8:15:25 AM  
I once met a guy that said, "C'mon, gimme $5 a month, it'll be fun.  You can quit anytime you want."  And thus began my descent into hell.
 
2018-10-30 8:16:38 AM  
Whoop whoop! Finally!!
Bring it on!

/I look forward to several hours of this
 
2018-10-30 8:17:01 AM  
Not supposed to be greenlit until Halloween. Someone had a premature ejaculation....of ectoplasm.
 
2018-10-30 8:18:18 AM  

Turing_Machine: 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


So no to to copy pasta others' stories online?
Just trying to understand the rules of engagement.
 
2018-10-30 8:19:49 AM  

Turing_Machine: now go creep yourself out


*looks in the mirror*

AAAAGGH!!!
 
2018-10-30 8:27:50 AM  

Walker: Not supposed to be greenlit until Halloween. Someone had a premature ejaculation....of ectoplasm.


It actually *is* Halloween and you've just been asleep FOR A WHOLE DAY!!11! OOOooOooooOOooooOOOooo....

:-P

/or maybe something something time machine something
 
2018-10-30 8:34:40 AM  

Walker: Not supposed to be greenlit until Halloween. Someone had a premature ejaculation....of ectoplasm.


We're lucky we're still doing Halloween and not the "next" holiday sixty days from now....
 
2018-10-30 8:53:27 AM  

farkingismybusiness: The Jaunt is a pretty good short story by Stephen King, but it's a lot longer than you think.


Very good story, and I see what you did there. Clever.

And threatening people with a month of TF is not a way to get people to contribute. That said, my scary story...
Two people are going to get TF from this...BEWARE!
 
2018-10-30 8:55:44 AM  
Saw this posted on a blog about a month ago....

Gather around everyone, I promise you this is going to be a good one!
Ready? Ok, here we go!
There's something called Anesthesia Awareness Syndrome. Some people say it's an urban legend. There was even a handful of horror movies about it. One of them staring Mannequin Skywalker himself Hayden Christensen!
But I assure you good readers that no, it's NOT an urban legend. I know this for a fact very well!
I was 5 years old when it happened. This was back in 1982. My surgery was on my eyes.
Due to a congenital birth defect the ocular muscles were paralyzed, atrophied and useless, also they had pulled my eyes crosseyed. So the surgery was to go in, cut out and surgically removed my ocular muscles and set my eyes straight .
So the surgery starts off like routine. they have me count backwards and everything, then I went paralyzed and couldn't move. But I was still awake! Something was wrong! I wanted desperately to tell the doctors "wait hold on! I'm not asleep yet!" But try as I did I could not make myself form the words! The doctors thought I was out like I was supposed to be! They didn't know what was about to happen! But I knew. God help me I knew and I was terrified!
I remember the doctors began slicing into the flesh around my eyes, and then using some sort of tool slipping into the cuts and pulling my eyes out of their sockets! I can still hear the sound of made! Ever squeeze a particularly large pimple near your ear and you can hear the faint juicy pop? It sounded like that.
That's when my memory gets a little hazy as I'm pretty sure for my sanity my mind has blocked out the majority of those memories. But I do remember the doctor having a conversation with one of the nurses because after I was in recovery i repeated the conversation back to the doctor when he came in to check up on me. Needless to say he and my parents were absolutely terrified when the realized the significance of that!
Eventually I was able to retreat into my own mind and basically disassociate myself from my body completely, it's the only way I was able to get through it!
After the surgery. While my eyes were healing i was completely 100% blind for a period of a few months and because of this incident i sank into a severe depression deeper than any 5 year child has any right to go. (It didn't help that on top of this i was still also bound in a wheelchair and had yet to learn how to walk because of all the surgeries on my feet) and had convinced myself that I would be blind and in a wheelchair forever!
To this day I still have major PTSD because of it and will go into panic attacks of anything gets near my eyes. I can never wear contact lenses and even putting eye drops in my eyes is an adventure!
So why am I sharing this with you all?
Because frankly just sharing my story when I can is an incredibly cathartic means of therapy!
- Raven Odette
 
2018-10-30 8:56:08 AM  
I'm Scared Shiatless

I'm scared shiatless. She's dead and I just know I'm gonna get blamed.

Wait, lemme tell you how this all started.

Three weeks ago, I was walking home from school. I usually walk down Mission street then take Taft, then Hickory and so on. But on this one bad day I decided to take the creek. You see, there's this creek that cuts diagonally through the middle of our town and it cuts a mile out of my walk. Well, I was walking down the creek in an area that runs behind the glass plant when I stepped on a slippery rock and fell into a mass of leaves. I was expecting to feel the cold of the wet ground-fall but what I landed in was warm and sticky. I pushed myself up so I could see what mess I'd fallen into and immediately threw up.

She was dead. She'd been disemboweled. The brisk autumn air caused little wisps of vapor to rise from the viscera. She hadn't been dead for very long. Her name was Sarah

I knew her. She was a friend of my sister. They went to the junior high school together. I jumped over to the creek to try to wash the nastiness from my face and hands and then climbed out of the creek bed. I intended to run to a nearby house for help but was able to flag down a passing policeman. I guess the bloodstains helped. I quickly told him what happened and he secured me in the back of his unit and radioed for additional officers. I was surprised that they thought I might have had something to do with it but I just chalked it up to them covering all their bases. They decided I had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time

Eleven days later, and old woman was found dead in her bedroom. She went to my church and one of the other ladies had gone to check on her to see why she hadn't been to the Saturday morning prayer group, as she never missed. She too, had been gutted. The cops figured she'd only been dead a coupe of hours before she was found. Due to the similarity in the crimes, I was again questioned but I had a solid alibi. My English teacher, Miss Chaney, told the investigators that I'd spent the whole day with her buying supplies and decorating the gym for the Halloween dance. She left out the stop we made at the seedy motel on Tulsa's west side. And if she wasn't gonna tell 'em, I sure as Hell wasn't going to either.

But it happened again, Another female I knew had been horrifically murdered and this time Miss Chaney couldn't bail me out because this time the victim as in fact, Miss Chaney. Unlike the first two victims though, this time they said they found evidence of rape.

My folks assured the cops that I'd been at home, upstairs in my room, sick with a cold. And that's where I was when the cops again questioned me. I didn't know what to think. It seemed like someone was targeting me by killing people I knew.

And so now here I sit in my car, scared shiatless. My sister was late getting home from basketball practice so my parents sent me back to the school to bring her home. And as I'm waiting, I can see a guy who looks a lot like me rolling a trash barrel out and leaving it buy the back door of the field house. As he was rolling it, I could see what looked like the blue warm-ups the junior high girls basketball team wore. There's something red leaking from a hole in the bottom of the barrel. The guy turns and starts walking towards me and I can see that not only does he look exactly like me, he's covered in blood.

So yeah, I'm sitting here, scared shiatless. She's dead and I just know I'm gonna get blamed.
 
2018-10-30 8:57:03 AM  

envirovore: farkingismybusiness: The Jaunt is a pretty good short story by Stephen King, but it's a lot longer than you think.

Very good story, and I see what you did there. Clever.

And threatening people with a month of TF is not a way to get people to contribute. That said, my scary story...
Two people are going to get TF from this...BEWARE!


Before this night is over?
Or when exactly?


/ooooOoOOoOOoo
//ghosts of TotalFarks past
///bring back Gor Rugb Ghas...
 
2018-10-30 8:57:21 AM  
YAY!!!!! Best thread of the year. One thing though and forgive me if someone above mentioned this:

DO NOT DEBUNK OR SCOFF AT ANYONE'S STORIES!!!

This is the one thread of the year to either suspend your disbelief or STFU. This is fun thread. Don't ruin it.
 
2018-10-30 8:59:04 AM  
So, I just went through a divorce.
We have one kid together, and he's 6.
During the proceedings, we're standing in front of the judge who has seen all evidence and heard all testimony. The woman judge in the state I live in turns to me and says, "Mr. Sadist, we're obviously going to give you custody. How do you want to do her visitations? What will you allow?" (100% true story)
Now the scary part;
In this state, for a woman judge to award the father custody.....well, that should tell you everything you need to know about the mother right there...
Well....I lived with that woman for 7 years!
AAAAAAAAAaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!
 
2018-10-30 9:03:02 AM  

Resident Muslim: Turing_Machine: 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

So no to to copy pasta others' stories online?
Just trying to understand the rules of engagement.


Well, if people click through to the years past and still vote for you, who am I to judge? I think we'd all prefer to see some new stories, but in all honesty, I'm going to let the people voting decide what they want to see.

If you see someone do a copy-pasta, and want to call it out, go for it. Folks might pull their vote if they know it isn't original, or if it has appeared previously.
 
2018-10-30 9:03:19 AM  

acad1228: I'm Scared Shiatless

I'm scared shiatless. She's dead and I just know I'm gonna get blamed.

Wait, lemme tell you how this all started.

Three weeks ago, I was walking home from school. I usually walk down Mission street then take Taft, then Hickory and so on. But on this one bad day I decided to take the creek. You see, there's this creek that cuts diagonally through the middle of our town and it cuts a mile out of my walk. Well, I was walking down the creek in an area that runs behind the glass plant when I stepped on a slippery rock and fell into a mass of leaves. I was expecting to feel the cold of the wet ground-fall but what I landed in was warm and sticky. I pushed myself up so I could see what mess I'd fallen into and immediately threw up.

She was dead. She'd been disemboweled. The brisk autumn air caused little wisps of vapor to rise from the viscera. She hadn't been dead for very long. Her name was Sarah

I knew her. She was a friend of my sister. They went to the junior high school together. I jumped over to the creek to try to wash the nastiness from my face and hands and then climbed out of the creek bed. I intended to run to a nearby house for help but was able to flag down a passing policeman. I guess the bloodstains helped. I quickly told him what happened and he secured me in the back of his unit and radioed for additional officers. I was surprised that they thought I might have had something to do with it but I just chalked it up to them covering all their bases. They decided I had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time

Eleven days later, and old woman was found dead in her bedroom. She went to my church and one of the other ladies had gone to check on her to see why she hadn't been to the Saturday morning prayer group, as she never missed. She too, had been gutted. The cops figured she'd only been dead a coupe of hours before she was found. Due to the similarity in the crimes, I was again questioned but I had a solid alibi. My English teacher, Miss Chaney, told the investigators that I'd spent the whole day with her buying supplies and decorating the gym for the Halloween dance. She left out the stop we made at the seedy motel on Tulsa's west side. And if she wasn't gonna tell 'em, I sure as Hell wasn't going to either.

But it happened again, Another female I knew had been horrifically murdered and this time Miss Chaney couldn't bail me out because this time the victim as in fact, Miss Chaney. Unlike the first two victims though, this time they said they found evidence of rape.

My folks assured the cops that I'd been at home, upstairs in my room, sick with a cold. And that's where I was when the cops again questioned me. I didn't know what to think. It seemed like someone was targeting me by killing people I knew.

And so now here I sit in my car, scared shiatless. My sister was late getting home from basketball practice so my parents sent me back to the school to bring her home. And as I'm waiting, I can see a guy who looks a lot like me rolling a trash barrel out and leaving it buy the back door of the field house. As he was rolling it, I could see what looked like the blue warm-ups the junior high girls basketball team wore. There's something red leaking from a hole in the bottom of the barrel. The guy turns and starts walking towards me and I can see that not only does he look exactly like me, he's covered in blood.

So yeah, I'm sitting here, scared shiatless. She's dead and I just know I'm gonna get blamed.


I hope you're over the cold and feeling better.
 
2018-10-30 9:04:24 AM  
I once had a home that had some weird things occur, but I could usually explain it away with some reaching logic.  Something happen one night that still confuses me, and I was alone in the house.  I had one of those cheap metal framed canopy beds, and one night I was awoken by the bed rocking back and forth.  It was not violent, but more like someone had a grip on one end and was gently but steadily rocking the bed.  At first I wondered if I was dreaming or maybe having a muscle spasm causing the movement, so I very consciously froze my body in place to make sure I was not moving.  The bed continued to rock, I could feel the movement and hear the metal squeaking.  Strangely, I was not terrified and I think I just fell back asleep.   Maybe I had a night terror or was only half awake, but I clearly remembered when it happened that I made sure I was not dreaming.
 
2018-10-30 9:04:25 AM  
Hey Everyone:

Could we please not make the same mistakes as last year?   Can we just have short, personal POV tales and NOT wall-of-text chapters that no one will read?

Thanks.
 
2018-10-30 9:21:29 AM  
Yay! My favorite thread of the year. This is definitely not a bookmark.
 
2018-10-30 9:21:43 AM  
One word: Gorgor
 
2018-10-30 9:26:50 AM  
A long time ago I was driving through a midwinter storm with my fiancé. The roads were slick, and it was a total whiteout. We were going to some BS party across town and probably should have skipped because of the weather but we were young and stupid and there was going to be karaoke. Who doesn't love karaoke?
Anyway, I was crossing an intersection (clear on my end, stop signs on the cross street) when the world turned sideways and got a LOT more painful than seemed reasonable.
A huge black car came out of nowhere and t-boned the passenger side of my Saturn (Yaaay dent resistant panels yaaay). Best they could tell, my car rolled over, glanced off a power pole, then slid into the ditch. I still remember the black car sitting there for maybe a minute, then it just backed up, turned around, and disappeared into the storm.
I was pinned in my seat and had a broken leg, and some busted up ribs, but Karen got the worst of it. Saving the details, she passed in the ambulance on the way to the ER. I don't blame the EMTs. They worked their asses off and did everything they could. It was all that other driver's fault.
My head was pretty banged up and I only caught a glimpse of him, but his face is burned into my memory: Tall and thin with greasy dark hair and a little Pugsley nose. Weirdest part is where his left eye should have been there was just a wad of white cotton sticking out of the socket. I'll never forget it. The only other piece of ID I could get was he had a vanity plate that said "JOSEF". Even with that, somehow the cops never found the guy. Far as I know, the son of a biatch is still out there bringing destruction wherever he goes.
To this day I still think that if it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?
 
2018-10-30 9:29:38 AM  

poorjon: A long time ago I was driving through a midwinter storm with my fiancé. The roads were slick, and it was a total whiteout. We were going to some BS party across town and probably should have skipped because of the weather but we were young and stupid and there was going to be karaoke. Who doesn't love karaoke?
Anyway, I was crossing an intersection (clear on my end, stop signs on the cross street) when the world turned sideways and got a LOT more painful than seemed reasonable.
A huge black car came out of nowhere and t-boned the passenger side of my Saturn (Yaaay dent resistant panels yaaay). Best they could tell, my car rolled over, glanced off a power pole, then slid into the ditch. I still remember the black car sitting there for maybe a minute, then it just backed up, turned around, and disappeared into the storm.
I was pinned in my seat and had a broken leg, and some busted up ribs, but Karen got the worst of it. Saving the details, she passed in the ambulance on the way to the ER. I don't blame the EMTs. They worked their asses off and did everything they could. It was all that other driver's fault.
My head was pretty banged up and I only caught a glimpse of him, but his face is burned into my memory: Tall and thin with greasy dark hair and a little Pugsley nose. Weirdest part is where his left eye should have been there was just a wad of white cotton sticking out of the socket. I'll never forget it. The only other piece of ID I could get was he had a vanity plate that said "JOSEF". Even with that, somehow the cops never found the guy. Far as I know, the son of a biatch is still out there bringing destruction wherever he goes.
To this day I still think that if it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?


img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 9:33:08 AM  

dragonchild: Your mom and I have an announcement to make. . .


You're adopted.
"Ha!  I always knew something wasn't right.  Who are my birth parents?"
We're your birth parents.  Pack up, your new parents will be here in 30 minutes.
 
2018-10-30 9:33:27 AM  

poorjon: A long time ago I was driving through a midwinter storm with my fiancé. The roads were slick, and it was a total whiteout. We were going to some BS party across town and probably should have skipped because of the weather but we were young and stupid and there was going to be karaoke. Who doesn't love karaoke?
Anyway, I was crossing an intersection (clear on my end, stop signs on the cross street) when the world turned sideways and got a LOT more painful than seemed reasonable.
A huge black car came out of nowhere and t-boned the passenger side of my Saturn (Yaaay dent resistant panels yaaay). Best they could tell, my car rolled over, glanced off a power pole, then slid into the ditch. I still remember the black car sitting there for maybe a minute, then it just backed up, turned around, and disappeared into the storm.
I was pinned in my seat and had a broken leg, and some busted up ribs, but Karen got the worst of it. Saving the details, she passed in the ambulance on the way to the ER. I don't blame the EMTs. They worked their asses off and did everything they could. It was all that other driver's fault.
My head was pretty banged up and I only caught a glimpse of him, but his face is burned into my memory: Tall and thin with greasy dark hair and a little Pugsley nose. Weirdest part is where his left eye should have been there was just a wad of white cotton sticking out of the socket. I'll never forget it. The only other piece of ID I could get was he had a vanity plate that said "JOSEF". Even with that, somehow the cops never found the guy. Far as I know, the son of a biatch is still out there bringing destruction wherever he goes.
To this day I still think that if it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?


I'll be angry about this after I finish two-steppin' to the ear-worm.
 
2018-10-30 9:37:05 AM  

poorjon: A long time ago I was driving through a midwinter storm with my fiancé. The roads were slick, and it was a total whiteout. We were going to some BS party across town and probably should have skipped because of the weather but we were young and stupid and there was going to be karaoke. Who doesn't love karaoke?
Anyway, I was crossing an intersection (clear on my end, stop signs on the cross street) when the world turned sideways and got a LOT more painful than seemed reasonable.
A huge black car came out of nowhere and t-boned the passenger side of my Saturn (Yaaay dent resistant panels yaaay). Best they could tell, my car rolled over, glanced off a power pole, then slid into the ditch. I still remember the black car sitting there for maybe a minute, then it just backed up, turned around, and disappeared into the storm.
I was pinned in my seat and had a broken leg, and some busted up ribs, but Karen got the worst of it. Saving the details, she passed in the ambulance on the way to the ER. I don't blame the EMTs. They worked their asses off and did everything they could. It was all that other driver's fault.
My head was pretty banged up and I only caught a glimpse of him, but his face is burned into my memory: Tall and thin with greasy dark hair and a little Pugsley nose. Weirdest part is where his left eye should have been there was just a wad of white cotton sticking out of the socket. I'll never forget it. The only other piece of ID I could get was he had a vanity plate that said "JOSEF". Even with that, somehow the cops never found the guy. Far as I know, the son of a biatch is still out there bringing destruction wherever he goes.
To this day I still think that if it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?


ih0.redbubble.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 9:45:06 AM  

poorjon: Who doesn't love karaoke?


Ever hear me do karaoke?  But, that's a horror story for another time.
 
2018-10-30 9:58:53 AM  

xanadian: poorjon: Who doesn't love karaoke?

Ever hear me do karaoke?  But, that's a horror story for another time.


It's not called "Carry No Key" without reason....
 
2018-10-30 10:12:30 AM  
Do these stories have to be personal anecdotes, or can we post fiction?
 
2018-10-30 10:20:20 AM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Thread over.  I'll get the lights.
 
2018-10-30 10:25:08 AM  

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

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

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

I made it to where the job was, found a place to live- a nasty, cheap apartment next to a liquor store and a bar that seemed to have police cars pulling in with flashing lights almost all night long.  The people upstairs screamed at each other in broken English all through the day.  Meth heads panhandled the lot whenever the cops weren't around.   The only way I could get any sleep in all of that was with a combination of sleeping pills and hard liquor, the cheapest I could get.  Anyone who's been there before can tell you that this is a bad idea.

At some point early in the morning on one of those first days on the job, the phone rang, waking me up.  You know how when you're bleary with broken sleep, booze and pills, everything seems unreal?  This was back before smart p ...

img.fark.netView Full Size
twlight zone episode called night call-1964
 
2018-10-30 10:26:01 AM  

JJRRutgers: HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.

Thread over.  I'll get the lights.


Umm. No please! Some of us are afraid of the dark, especially after that Cotton Eye Joe story! Where? Where did he go??
 
2018-10-30 10:36:41 AM  
I don't know how scary this is going to be but it's definitely interesting. This might be long so please bear with me.

I believe that everyone is a little bit psychic. Some people are just more sensitive to happenings and some people just have no idea or refuse to believe.

So I'm going to tell you guys about a few of the experiences I've had in my lifetime. I'll try to detail my feelings during each one as best I can.
Up until the last 10 years or so there was a pub in Chicago called the Red Lion. During the financial real estate crisis, they were in the midst of demolishing the old building and replacing it with a new one. The old building had been there since the 1800s. It was so old and beaten up that there was not a straight Corner in the place. Everything was just that old and decrepit. It was also very haunted. It still is even since the reconstruction. It would have taken more money to refurbish the old place then to build a new one.
My friends and I used to hang out there all the time from the 90s through the point that it closed. Every time I would go there, I would run into at least one of their ghosts. Most famous one is named Sharon. She lived in an apartment in the upper level and she died. I think she took her own life. Anyway, every time I would go into the upstairs women's room, which is where her bed was, I would run into her. I could smell her lavender perfume and I would just say hello Sharon. At one point she actually physically locked me into the stall in the women's room. Couldn't open it for anything. I don't know what her problem was but it only lasted about 10 seconds. Felt like forever though. A few minutes later the same thing happened to another woman. But I don't think she knew about the history of the building. I did not freak out but this woman did. She was not happy. When she came out I mention to her that next time she's here and uses that women's room she might want to greet the occupant.
On another visit, we walked into the bar area and the local Ghost Hunter tour was beginning their trip there. The guy was sitting there telling all the stories. It was the middle of winter and heat was cranked in the place. When I saw he was holding Court there, we turned around and went back to the lower level. We usually like the upper level because it was smaller and less crowded and less people to deal with in line at the bar.
As we went down the stairs in this incredibly sweltering building, I walked right through and icy cold spot. That's not Sharon. That's either the cowboy who likes to walk through the upstairs when the lower level is completely empty or it's the malevolent in human spirit. That's actually what they call it.
I continue walking down the stairs and they had actually set up a psychic at a table on the landing of the stairs. Behind this woman was this mirror that had a three-dimensional Lions head on it. Very unique and very creepy. It had been brought over from a pub in England. The thing is, this mirror had been there since I started going there in the late 80s. I never thought much about it. Except for this time is a hit the landing. I probably should have asked the psychic if she could feel the same thing but there was definitely some Evil coming out of that mirror. So I hightailed it down to the lower level. Went there about a year ago and that mirror is gone. So it looks like they might be down to two ghosts. Sharon and the cowboy. I have heard though that the owners dad, who he bought the place from, is also currently haunting the place.

Then there is my late night sojourn to the Crown Point Jail where they held Dillinger. No friend of mine and I were drinking at one of the bars in Crown Point. Actually we probably went to three or four of them. Their entire downtown is full of bars.
So we decided to call it a night and Emily says hey let's take a shortcut through the jail! I said okay why not.
We didn't get two feet inside the door when I yelled out that there was something there and we had to leave now! The air around me felt very heavy, and there was this looming presence in the room. Didn't see anything but definitely felt something. It was not friendly. This was also in the middle of winter and the jail is open to the outside. It's kind of like the shell. It's hard to explain. Anyway it got noticeably colder during this time. We were both pretty drunk but Emily didn't realize that there was anything happening. Not until I told her so. Then she freaked out and ran as fast as she could the other direction. I didn't run but I definitely moved as quickly as I could to get out of there. I don't really see Emily anymore. It's a shame because I would like to go back there during the day time and see what happens.

And lastly, our house was built in 1991 or so. We've been here since 1997. During that time, we've lost my husband's grandmother who was 102, my grandfather ,his cousin who took his own life, two dogs and a few other relatives. One day I was standing in the kitchen and a package of paper plates flew off of the Shelf they were on. They landed about 3 feet away. There is no way they could have landed that far without having been shoved or thrown. Then a couple of weeks later, one of the cabinets in the kitchen just opened on its own and a bunch of dishes came flying out. None of them broke. It was like this slow motion thing going on. My husband thinks it's because the dishes were too heavy on the Shelf but I don't think so. Because the door opened before the dishes came out not during.
I have no idea who could be in the house causing this kind of Chaos. I guess it's not really chaos it's just things that have happened in the last year or so. I also have a lot of experiences while I am laying in bed. I'll be between the realm of sleep and wakefulness and I will feel as though somebody is there with me. It doesn't matter what room I'm sleeping in. I've heard my name called out loud more than once. It'll just be me and the cats at home and I'll hear my name. And not in my head. I'll hear it from outside of my body.

I have a friend who is an actual psychic. She mostly does pets in readings. I met her when taking my dogs to see her to find out why they hated each other so much. We've kept in touch and occasionally when I have problems with one of my animals I will contact her and ask her. I'm considering asking her if there's a way I can develop any gift I might have. Not sure that I have a gift for this, but it can't hurt to ask. I just feel like I've had so many experiences during the course of my life that there's something there. Your mileage may vary of course.
 
2018-10-30 10:45:34 AM  
Ok, I'm sharing. *inhales*
True story. Many, many years ago.
I've probably only mentioned this story to two, maybe three people in real life.

Working in a Muslim country, I get a call that one of the managers I had closely worked with had been found dead by his kid. Third heart attack, I think, two-pack-a-day smoker. Marlboros.

So flashback, dealing with this guy, very nice guy, earnest, hard-working (seemingly), knew his craft, and every once in while something he'd say wouldn't line up. Stuff like "I hired 6 day-workers" but then you'd find only 4 on site because "one got injured and the other took him to the hospital", or something would cost a certain amount that you'd later find out to cost less. Stuff like that.
He invited me to dinner at his place once, while not extravagant, was above his salary. He mentions how his cousin working in another country (I had met him) was doing quite well and had given or lent him the money.

Flash forward The same cousin after the Manager had died called and asked me if I could help him out because he had been struggling for years. Hmm..
After this Manager had passed away, I'd visit other people who dealt with him and they'd ask me "so, working with this guy...did you notice stuff?" waiting for me to say something to confirm their suspicions, or maybe wanting to share stories of their own. And I'd always play the fool because 1) I don't like bad-mouthing someone already dead 2) I never had any real proof, even though if memory serves I fired him because I couldn't trust him any more.
Met a guy, who said, "hey, did you hear that [name redacted] is dead" and I said yeah. And he said "May God NOT have mercy on his soul."
That shook me. That was probably the only person I have ever heard anyone say that about him/her. It's always an automatic "God have mercy on him" sometimes followed by "but I will never forgive him/her". But to hear it being said "May God NOT have mercy on him," I realIzed 100% that this is a person who had ruined what was between him and others, let alone between him and God.
I could never quote anything he said to anyone for fear that it wouldn't be the truth. I had lost faith in the guy.

So flash-..in the middle, when I heard that he had passed away.
I figure, fine, no matter what I hold in my heart towards this guy, death is death, and I'm not a person that carries grudges, thank God, regardless of what scars I might have.

I drive to the cemetary, and there is no one there, no cars, no people. Bewildered, I drive around, and finally see them, his eldish relative (another one), his two kids and the cemetary caretaker. That was it.
I had been to many funerals in my life, I had NEVER seen such a small gathering.
So we pray, then put the body on its side into the ground in a slot in the grave, with the body facing towards the Qibla, the direction of Mecca. To give you context, Muslims don't use coffins and do not preserve the body, we just wrap it like this:
i.ytimg.comView Full Size


So, by the position of the arms, you know which way is up when carried, and which way it's facing when in the ground.
Being younger than the manager's relative and older than his young kids, I end up in the grave doing what is needed, with an indifferent caretaker looking on. We start to cover the slot in the grave with cross-pieces, and as the upper torso gets covered, his relative reminds me to "uncover his face", as part of the ritual.
So I loosen up the Kafan (wrap) and start to shift the wrap to uncover the face....and...nothing. I get the guy's bald head. He was almost completely bald with only tufts of hair at the back of his neck. So I get that I've uncovered too high, and therefore start lowering the wraps.
Nothing.
Bald head.
Ah! he must have his head leaning forward!
So I uncover lower...lower...lower...and I glimpse tufts of hair.


I looked down at the body, realizing that we had put him in facing the wrong direction!

No.

I could clearly see the arms. The body was facing the right direction.
I can feel the blood in my face draining as I type this and relive the memory.

The group above can't see what I see, the cross-pieces covering the small area that I had uncovered. The relative sees the frantic look on my face and asks me if I'm having problems.
I reply that I can't do this, so I step out of the grave and he steps in. I see him rummaging around, and then says done. I stare at him trying to see any sign if he had seen what I had.
Nothing.
We place the rest of the cross-pieces and bury the grave.

I stopped at the nearest mosque I could find. They had handheld bidets, like mini shower heads, I stripped and start spraying myself.
I felt so unclean.
 
2018-10-30 10:46:40 AM  
This is a story my father told me, hearsay filtered through two different minds that tried to understand it, displaced by over half a century in time.

We have had an uneasy relationship. On his last visit, unwanted while I was still in pain from surgery, he seemed unwell. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin seemed sallow and tight. He had developed a lisp, as if adjusting to a new dental appliance. It can't be dentures, he has braces. At seventy-three! Maybe he has a retainer now. His hair, once an implausible Shinola black from which he tweezed the occasional strand of white with extreme prejudice, has gone the color of dirty snow. It's melting, too. His new wife has cancer, battling chemo and steroidal treatments when they ought to be riding golf carts together or going on cruises or whatever old people in love do, and I'm sure that takes its toll. He was in the middle of a course of heavy antibiotics for an H. pylori infection that just would not die, and vocally unhappy about it.
It's a disquieting feeling, that this man whose existence has encompassed my own, who was there at the very beginning with a stuffed frog and a bewildered expression, taking frantic notes on trivial matters with a pen and a tiny notepad which he saved and later showed me (4:39pm: ice chips), might at last abandon me to go the rest of my life without him. Disquieting, but not entirely devoid of relief.

He seemed to want to talk. Even about Vietnam, a subject which he rarely broached even when I'd grown old enough to understand that Papa used to kill people and that did not necessarily make him a monster. I told him I was mostly busying myself with documentaries on dangerous animals, since it hurt to laugh. My husband and I had worked our way through Asia and were onto South America. He told me how they shipped him to Panama for training and he encountered a boa constrictor ("I stepped on him, sir! He's out there! I don't know if he's coming back this way!") and piranhas in the river ("They'll only bite you if you're bleeding, so don't bleed!"). And he told me about visiting his extended family in Mexico as a child. He said it was like another world.

"It must've been quite a difference," I said. "Going back and forth between Arizona and the north of Mexico and then getting shipped down to Panama. I can't imagine there was jungle when you were a kid."

"It was like a jungle!" he said firmly. And I thought, to a little barefoot desert kid, it probably was. "There were so many trees! Coffee - they made their own coffee. It was thick. And peaches and avocados and sapote... I don't even know what sapote is, or why they had those. I'll have to ask my mom." She is in her early nineties, still living at home and surrounded by family. My father is her eldest. Second eldest, his sister Maria, is already dead.

"Here, I'll google it for you," I said. (Turns out it's a drupe.)

And I asked him about the story he'd told... I remembered multiple occasions from childhood, but I hadn't heard it in years, maybe decades. We are estranged, but I don't think my father knows it. "Didn't you say you met your guardian angel down in Mexico?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, that's just what they told me."

My father came from a big, boisterous Mexican-Catholic family that eventually numbered thirteen children, and now so many cousins I've just given up trying to remember. There wasn't enough room for all of them at Grandma's house. My father, the eldest, and some of the other boys were farmed out to neighbors in town. And one night someone sent him down the road alone with some food for his grandma.
In my childhood, I pictured it like one of those little European villages in Grimms' Fairy Tales, and my father like Little Brown Riding Hood with a basket and a pie. Now, I can't even imagine. Another world, with trees like a real jungle, lacking streetlights and pavement and other conveniences. (Another story I was told: In Mexico, my dad and his brothers and sisters woke up to a breakfast of chocolate and pan dulce and those little American brats whined for milk and cereal. "Oh, the children want milk!" Grandma said, smiling. "Get milk for the children!" And one of the myriad family, unremembered, promptly milked a goat and presented the results, warm. "Just drink it!" my dad's mom, my grandmother, hissed at the horrified children. "Just drink it!") Mexico was full of communists in those days, my dad said. 'Godless communists' they were always saying in church, back home in America. He never could understand why all the godless communists in Mexico went to church every Sunday.

I suppose it can't have been as bad as it is now, cartel-wise. The War on Drugs hadn't kicked into high gear yet, and crack cocaine wasn't even a thing. But there were robbers and bandits in those days, too, just like the fairy tales.

But it wasn't that far and my dad was a little American brat, even if he occupied substandard housing and his father worked in the fields. (He remembers his father, walking through the house in the morning and shouting, "Get up! Get up! You are not the children of a rich man! You can't afford to sleep in!") He started down the road to his grandmother's house...

But he found the woods were on fire, a huge ball of billowing flames that blocked out the sky. And the fire was right across the path.

He ran back to the neighbor's house. "There's a fire! Grandma's house is on fire!"

"No, it isn't!" And, true. From the neighborhood, not that far away, there was no smoke, no glow, no evidence of fire. My father refused to go back down the road. I imagine one of those godless communists probably gave him a smack for acting a fool, even though his American family had decided spanking was wrong.

In the morning, accompanied and chagrined, he brought Grandma her basket of pie. (Or pan dulce. Or whatever it was.) She cried out and hugged him tightly. "Oh, Salvador, thank goodness! I was so afraid you'd tried to come here last night! There were robbers on my road!" She had seen their lanterns and been afraid, but she had not seen a fire.

"I don't know what it was," he said, many years later, on a couch in my air-conditioned condo in Tucson. "Maybe a gas leak," he offered weakly.

But in Mexico, in that other world, Grandma and his extended family told him that night, that path through the trees to Grandmother's house had lead to his death, and his guardian angel put up a barrier of flames to bar the way. As a child, I believed it. He must have, too.

Imagine! As a child, or even an adult, knowing the path you had walked a hundred, a thousand times before, in daylight and in darkness, might suddenly yawn open before you and drop you off the face of the earth. Forever.

And maybe it's an angel with a purpose you will never understand, not even after seventy-three years and a war and two marriages like wars, or maybe it's a gas leak...

But someday, maybe this day, there won't be any flames across the path.
 
2018-10-30 10:51:38 AM  
Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face
 
2018-10-30 11:01:36 AM  
There is nothing underneath the sheets. Just tell yourself that over and over again...
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 11:02:08 AM  

eyeq360: There is nothing underneath the sheets. Just tell yourself that over and over again...
[img.fark.net image 425x566]


That looks nothing like my penis.
 
2018-10-30 11:02:32 AM  
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 11:07:15 AM  

Walker: eyeq360: There is nothing underneath the sheets. Just tell yourself that over and over again...
[img.fark.net image 425x566]

That looks nothing like my penis.


As I said, there's nothing underneath. So in your case, the sheets are flat.
 
2018-10-30 11:11:37 AM  
Grandma's Hovercraft

Many years ago, we would spend our Summer's on Oklahoma's Grand Lake O' the Cherokees. Grandma owned a cabin there. Now, by "cabin", I don't mean a quaint little house. This was a rather large structure, 60' x 40'. with just two very long rooms. The front room was a combined kitchen/dining room/living room and the back room with seven beds separated by sliding curtains. The back room also had a tiny bathroom.

This one particular Summer, my folks had taken My three brothers and me up there to spend some time with Grandma and Aunt Dorothy and her three kids. All of the kids were teenagers at this time. From the front porch of the cabin, we could see a dock owned by Grandma's friend, Bea. Grandma had a habit of leaving the cabin at midnight to go down to the dock and do some night-time crappie fishing ' She did this mainly to avoid the heat of the day.

One bright, sunny morning, Grandma came in the front door with her fishing pole, tackle box, and a basket with a dozen or so nice sized crappie. We congratulated her on her catch and asked if she'd had a good night. She said it had been a great night and the she began to tell us about the hovercraft.

She said she'd noticed what she thought was a brightly lit bass boat about a mile south of the dock. It moved up the lake quietly until it stopped about 150 feet across from her. She realized it wasn't a boat when she saw that it was hovering a few feet above the surface. She rationalized that this must have been one of those "hovercraft" she'd heard about.

Now, if anyone knows anything about hovercraft, you know that they make the most God-awful racket as they skim across the surface of a body of water. We told her that we hadn't heard anything. She assured us that it didn't make any noise at all. We asked her to describe this hovercraft. She said it was a pretty little thing about twenty feet long and made of a polished aluminum with several banks of red, blue, and purple lights. She sat there and watched it for a few minutes then it just slowly lifted off and floated up and over the hill to the West.

Knowing that Grandma wasn't one to lie or come up with fanciful tales, Dad called the Delaware County Sheriff's Office to inquire if they'd received any calls of anything strange the previous night. The dispatcher said that they'd received more than twenty calls about weird lights on and around the Bernice area that night.
 
2018-10-30 11:14:09 AM  
Honestly most of my ghost stories aren't scary, they're comforting.
 
2018-10-30 11:28:50 AM  

xanadian: Walker: Not supposed to be greenlit until Halloween. Someone had a premature ejaculation....of ectoplasm.

It actually *is* Halloween and you've just been asleep FOR A WHOLE DAY!!11! OOOooOooooOOooooOOOooo....

:-P

/or maybe something something time machine something


It's Halloween here in Japan right now.

/kids trick or treat the weekend before in the shopping district though
 
2018-10-30 11:28:59 AM  
My then father in law died in 2009, he had Lewy Body.  Horrible way to go, horrible thing to see.  But he and I got along, and we were both sad that he wouldn't be around to meet any grandchildren we might have.  He died in March, the following September I got pregnant.  Had a baby boy in June 2010, give him his late grandfather's name as a middle name.

Almost immediately weird stuff starts happening.  As soon as he's able, our kid is pointing and laughing at nothing.  Once when he was really small and I was on maternity leave, the then-husband came home and I asked him to take the baby, so I could take a shower.  He says yes, just let him get something to eat really quick.  I say ok and go into the office, which has a computer desk chair that rocks.  The baby is asleep on my chest, I've got my head leaned back and my eyes closed, just rocking.  I feel someone walk into the room, stand behind me and put their hands on the back of the chair.  Of course I think it's the hub, but he doesn't say anything.  It was an old house and the chair was in the corner diagonal to the door, the floorboards were creaky, no way I imagine this.  So for minutes I have my eyes closed, the hands are still on the back of the chair, but he's saying nothing.  So I think "Oh, he thinks I'm asleep too, and he's going to try to sneak out without taking his turn with the baby" so I pretend I'm asleep to catch him.  I feel the hands lift off and the person move away, and I spin around super fast to be like GOTCHA.

But there's no one there.  There is no way someone could have been standing there and have gotten out the door and out of my line of sight in the time it took me to turn around.  I get up and walk out, and the hub is sitting on the couch, in the middle of eating.  I say "Were you just in the office?" and he looks at me like I'm crazy and says no, I'm right here eating, like I told you.  I walk into the office and I realize I can smell cigarette smoke.  Neither of us smoke, but FIL did.

So much stuff happened.  The big thing even the ex can't deny is that our son, when we were sleep training, would throw things out of his crib and then cry to try to get us to come back in.  He'd throw his pacifier, or his stuffed animals.  So many times we'd hear them hit the floor, he'd cry and call for his stuff, we'd do nothing, and after he fell asleep, we'd go in and check on him and whatever he'd thrown would be back in the crib.

The last thing from when he was small, I had him in his little exersaucer, we're home alone, i hear footsteps and smell cigarettes, and he looks up, like he's looking at an adult, starts waving and laughing and making faces.  I say "Wayne, we miss you.  You can visit Henry anytime you want, but please don't scare him."  I walk away, and hear a man's cough behind me.
 
2018-10-30 11:31:30 AM  
I was performing the critical study for my doctoral research. If successful, it would have formed the cornerstone of field-altering paper. It was an experiment that took almost two months to prepare and required going into the lab daily for 6 hours, even through major holiday weekends. Finally, I collected the measurements from the final trial and analyzed the overall results.

P = 0.055.
 
2018-10-30 11:32:01 AM  
Even weirder, I go to get a psychic reading just for fun with a girlfriend seven years later, and as soon as I walk in, the guy starts describing my FIL.  He tells me all sorts of stuff about my divorce, and how my ex reacted, and things my kid had done-and I'd told him nothing.  Nothing about me, nothing about ever being married.  He knew crazily specific stuff that I'd told no one.  Finally I said "Does he know I talk to my son about him?'  And the guy is quiet for a minute, and he looks at me and says "He says this child is his namesake."
 
2018-10-30 12:01:46 PM  

darkeyes: I once had a home that had some weird things occur, but I could usually explain it away with some reaching logic.  Something happen one night that still confuses me, and I was alone in the house.  I had one of those cheap metal framed canopy beds, and one night I was awoken by the bed rocking back and forth.  It was not violent, but more like someone had a grip on one end and was gently but steadily rocking the bed.  At first I wondered if I was dreaming or maybe having a muscle spasm causing the movement, so I very consciously froze my body in place to make sure I was not moving.  The bed continued to rock, I could feel the movement and hear the metal squeaking.  Strangely, I was not terrified and I think I just fell back asleep.   Maybe I had a night terror or was only half awake, but I clearly remembered when it happened that I made sure I was not dreaming.


Happens to me about once a month.

/earthquake country...
 
2018-10-30 12:25:04 PM  
This is a scary bookmark 🔖 💀
 
2018-10-30 12:26:15 PM  

eyeq360: There is nothing underneath the sheets. Just tell yourself that over and over again...
[img.fark.net image 425x566]


Clatuu Verata Necktie
 
2018-10-30 12:34:41 PM  
Staying at my mom's place a few winters ago with my SO, we usually take the back guestroom since it's off of the garage, has it's own bath and entrance from the back deck. A little more private. Anyway, my mom lives with her boyfriend who is 80 and they've been together for about 10 years, they met three or four years after his wife passed away of cancer. His ex wife convalesced at the house in her last days, hospital bed and all, oxygen, chemo... not pretty for the rest of his kids and grand kids.
We pull in one evening after a long road trip, have a few drinks and dinner, catch up on the latest, and make plans for the week. My wife and I decide to get to bed somewhat early maybe 10:30-11:00 since it has been a long day.
It's about 3:00 a.m. and I wake up. Blinking a few times I was wondering why there was so much light on the side of the room. Was the moon out and coming through the window, I don't know... I looked over toward the wall and corner, and what was coming into focus was what I can only explain as a long draped table of wavy lace and urns. Looked like something in a funeral home, all in this translucent glow. I remember sitting up, just staring at it and to myself I actually uttered "Woah!... no way! WTF?"
Then I thought, "Okay, my wife has to see this!" Without taking my eyes off of this weird apparition, I grabbed my wife's arm and gently shook it.
"Honey! Wake up! Wake up! Look!"
"What? I'm sleeping."
"Look! Look! In the corner! See it?"
"Where? I don't see anything"
"Right there! The whole corner is glowing!"
She turns on the light, and Bam. Gone. Just the dresser, a lamp and a few figurines my mom collects.
I couldn't get back to sleep for a while wondering what the hell just happened. Some time later, actually on a Fark thread the discussion came up of sleep paralysis and I told this story. It seemed to check out that it may have been sleep paralysis but I had never experienced it before. Funny, I felt coherent and awake, not frozen and terrorized like most people. Oh well.
The next summer we visited my mom and were talking about my mom's BFs ex wife and how the family dealt with her passing. It came up that her last days were spent in that back room because it was quiet and private.
We still stay back there. I'm waiting...
 
2018-10-30 12:37:34 PM  
The Senator's New Job, Part 1

"No, really!" laughed Lisa,"Five times. They say if you say his name five times in the mirror, he appears and drags you back to his swamp to devour!" she smiled, wildly."Dare you."

Kylie looked at Lisa through the bathroom mirror, and giggled as they bumped shoulders back and forth, kicking each other's legs. "Ok, ok." She paused and steadied herself.

"Ted Cruz. TedCruzTedCruzTedCruz... no no no, I can't do it!" She crouched, grabbed Lisa's teddie straps and growled into her eyes,"He's just tooooooo CREEPY!!!" They collapsed into one another, laughing.

Picking each other off the bathroom floor, Lisa screamed,"Drinks! I'll go set them up."

Kylie gave Lisa a little spank as she left, and nudged the door closed with her foot. Being student digs, the bathroom was neither especially big, nor especially clean. There was no bath, just a shower stall with glass sides and a spotted curtain, closed.

She stared intently into her own eyes, pursed her lips, wiggled her eyebrows, smiled a tiny, little smile, and whispered into the mirror,"Ted Cruz."

She briefly held her own breath, and turned to leave.

A squeak. She stopped and laughed. Another squeak, from behind the shower curtain.

To be continued
 
2018-10-30 12:43:58 PM  

Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face


Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?
 
2018-10-30 12:46:40 PM  
There is something in my house.  We, my wife and I, have only seen it a handful of times, never during the day.  During the day we just hear it.  It makes these noises that are almost frustrating to describe. Like a fingernail on rotting drywall, a growling hush sort of sound where you think there might be words involved but you can't quite make them out.  You focus on this noise, this whispering not-quite-gibberish, and it can go on and on before you realize you've been staring at the wall just trying to figure out what it's saying, if it's saying anything -- and it's been 10 minutes doing this.  I'll walk in from the garage and see my wife standing at the end of the hallway, looking away from me with her head cocked, unmoving, and I know what she's doing immediately.

At night, things are different.  It's always different when you can't see into the shadows, where every cracked doorway makes you wonder if that's where it is tonight.  We close all our hallway doors and put the canned lights on back there.  If we have to go into a room, we talk about it first.  We never go into a bedroom at night alone.  We aren't afraid of the dark -- we have no problems taking walks at night or camping in the woods.  But we don't know what is in our house, and that's something else entirely.

The first time we saw it my wife had gotten up from the couch to turn on the hallway lights.  It was just dusk so it was time.  It's really just a few steps around the corner to the light switch and I watched her go.  The glow from the hall lights hit the living room and she shrieked, and one of the bedroom doors slammed.  I was by her side in an instant.  Her hand was over her mouth and her eyes were bulging.  "I saw it," she whispered.

I stepped past her, my manly bravado somehow overcoming the pounding of my heart, and looked down the hall.  All the doors were closed, just like they'd been all day.  As I watched, the second bedroom door handle turned, and the door inched open.  And stopped, just open enough for a crack of shadow between the door and jam.

We heard, briefly, the hushing noise coming from behind the door.  We don't know what it said, we didn't go into the room again that night.  We stayed at a hotel in the city.  When we came back in the morning, the door was closed again.

This happens, now and again.  Maybe it's the closet in the master bedroom, maybe it's the bathroom in the back hallway.  Once it was even the pantry right in the kitchen.  The door will be open, just a crack, and when it knows we're watching, it will say whatever it says.  And it waits.

We've never gone into those rooms when the door was ajar.  Those nights we close our bedroom door, put the chair up against it, and turn on all the lights and try to sleep.  Only once did we hear the door handle move but it didn't come in.
 
2018-10-30 12:47:22 PM  
The psychic also told me that my FIL leaves heads up pennies for my son and was like "yeah, I know everyone finds coins but your kid finds them ALL THE TIME."  And he does.

One day I was home and my kid was with his dad, and my dog, who is the nicest animal ever, looks at the hallway like she's watching someone walk back and forth, and does that slow, low menacing growl with her hackles up.  I look up, say "Sorry, Wayne, your boy is at his dad's house."  Dog looks again, then lays down and goes to sleep.

A little bit later I walk into the hall and right in front of the bathroom is a bright heads up penny. I KNOW it wasn't there before because it was my cleaning day, and I'd washed the floors.
 
2018-10-30 1:11:49 PM  

ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?


It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.
 
2018-10-30 1:16:00 PM  

Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"


Beard without a face
Got no human grace
Your beard without a face
 
2018-10-30 1:16:09 PM  
I live in an old creaky rental house from 1925. Since I moved in a couple years ago, I sometimes hear doorknobs rattle and doors squeak and other minor things. It never freaked me out because it's just an old house and well honestly, I don't really care. It doesn't bother me except sometimes I'm trying to sleep and I'll hear a door latch or something. Mildly freaky but meh.

A couple days ago I heard from the room next to me the sound of something big and heavy falling. It sounded like a bookcase full of books or something like that. Of course I ran over to look and there was nothing. Not terribly interesting, I know. But it's a true story and I've got to bookmark the thread somehow.

Happy Halloween!
 
2018-10-30 1:19:48 PM  

Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.


Occam's razor would rather dictate that it *was* the back of his head, no?
 
2018-10-30 1:20:01 PM  
Someone complained that I didn't re-post this last year, so here it is again.

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

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.netView Full Size
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."
 
2018-10-30 1:22:24 PM  

TabASlotB: I was performing the critical study for my doctoral research. If successful, it would have formed the cornerstone of field-altering paper. It was an experiment that took almost two months to prepare and required going into the lab daily for 6 hours, even through major holiday weekends. Finally, I collected the measurements from the final trial and analyzed the overall results.

P = 0.055.


You guys can be so geeks sometimes.
:'D
 
2018-10-30 2:13:30 PM  

meg12279: Even weirder, I go to get a psychic reading just for fun with a girlfriend seven years later, and as soon as I walk in, the guy starts describing my FIL.  He tells me all sorts of stuff about my divorce, and how my ex reacted, and things my kid had done-and I'd told him nothing.  Nothing about me, nothing about ever being married.  He knew crazily specific stuff that I'd told no one.  Finally I said "Does he know I talk to my son about him?'  And the guy is quiet for a minute, and he looks at me and says "He says this child is his namesake."


This made me think of what convinced me that my friend who is a psychic is real.
Took the dogs to a dog Expo knowing she was going to be there. Servo and Gypsy got into it in front of her and she saw what their fights were like. So I handed Gypsy off to one of my coworkers and we spoke with servo.
My friend says that animals can understand us and we need to talk to them like we do to each other. They know what we're saying but we don't know what they're saying. So she told me to look him in the face and ask him my questions.
So I asked him if he knew why Tippy wasn't around. Tippi was servos girlfriend. He was two and she was nine when they met in 1997. Her owner had told me a couple of days before that he had to put Tippy down. She was 17.
So then the psychic looks me right in the eye and says Servo told me that to be died. And then she asked me if Tippy was my neighbor's dog. I hadn't said anything about the neighbor. I tried to frame the question in such a way that it could have been that she moved away or was on vacation. But after she told me that, Servo looks right at me and smiled. So I knew that I had been heard and that he had answered me.
She also told me to watch out for when servo would be outside and would just stare at nothing because that was to be coming to visit. She said that he really loved Tippi and no one would ever take her place in his heart.

My husband didn't believe that my friend can really do this until we got Scarlett the cat. After a couple of days in the master bedroom and bathroom, Scarlett figured out how to open one of the doors. She disappeared into the house and we needed to find her to give her her medication. So I messaged my friend and she said that Scarlett was hiding under a couch by a window. So my husband went into the room that has a couch under the window and that's exactly where Scarlett was. So now he believes me.
 
2018-10-30 2:30:33 PM  
The Senator's New Job, Part 2

Kylie pushed her hair behind her ears, tilted her head, and stared at the shower stall. The spotted curtain wafted in a draft Kylie couldn't feel. Squeak. Burp. Sliiide. "Hello?" was the only thing she could think to say.

From below, water, thick and slow and dirty with specks, spilled over the shower lip.

She stepped towards the stall, and hovered her hand inches from the curtain.

Burp. Squeak. Pop. Sliiide.

Curiosity and Disbelief have often made us. Just as often, Curiosity, and Disbelief are the end of us. So Kylie, knowing what she mustn't do, really couldn't help herself.

Kylie pulled the shower curtain open.

Like a fat man stuck in phone booth, Toad Cruz filled the stall. His dark green skin was strangely blanched, squeezed against the glass, and his drooping head was as thick as his body, his toothless mouth as thick as his head.

Pop. Burp. Squeak Squeak. Crack.

Hundreds of little pustules clustered around his skin, bursting, leaking a slime, dirty with specks, that covered his body, pooled in the stall, and flowed over into the room.

Crack.

The shower stall collapsed. As Toad Cruz hit the tiles, a loud Burp echoed around the room, and a draft of foul, humid air grabbed Kylie's legs and crawled up her frozen body. It snaked down her throat and halted her scream.

Sliiide.

As the speckled slime touched her toes, Kylie panicked and tried to run for the door, but her feet went from under her and she fell on her rump, pain shooting up her back, blinding her. As she opened her eyes and propped herself up with her arms, she found herself looking straight into the eyes of Toad Cruz. Weirdly, she found herself thinking,"Can toads have strokes?" The eyes were oval, large and blank, but one drooped lower than the other, as if it was sliiiding of his head. His head. You couldn't really call it a face. It wasn't a face. It was a head. With two eyes. And a mouth. A large, toothless mouth, filled with a pink, fleshy mound. Two slits might have been nostrils. Or they might have been pustules, popping. Slime, dirty with specks covered...

Pop. Burp. Sliiide.

Toad Cruz slide across the floor towards Kylie. She kicked out and backed off, trying to scream, but the putrid air was too thick, too choking.

Burp. Pop. Sliiide. Crack.

Suddenly, Toad Cruz's jaw dislocated. First one side.

Crack.

Then the other. Kylie backed up against the door, and her fingers slipped from the handle. It was then she realised that her hands were covered with slime, dirty with little, wriggling specks, that her legs were covered in slime, dirty with moving, shifting specks.

Burp. Pop. Sliiide.

The pink, fleshy mound in Toad Cruz's mouth, spilled out. A tongue. A relatively ordinary, if oversized, tongue. It licked, tenderly, Kylie's foot. And finally her scream managed to cut through the foul, humid air. Toad Cruz's jaw Cracked a little more. His mouth widened a little more, and he slide forward across the tiles.

Burp. Pop.

- -

"Kylie?" Lisa ran to the door after hearing the scream. "Kylie? Are you ok?"

She stopped as the door breathed out, as if a great weight rested upon it. "Kylie?" A slime, dirty with specks, flowed out onto the hallway carpet. The door breathed in.

It wasn't Curiosity. It wasn't Disbelief that made her reach for the door handle. It was simple, human concern. And it would eat her whole.

The End

/have a ghoulish Halloween, farkers!
 
2018-10-30 2:30:48 PM  

misanthropic1: Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.

Occam's razor would rather dictate that it *was* the back of his head, no?


It would, so options are:
(Take a look at the picture in the grave I posted in the original post before continuing)

1) paranormal
2) someone broke his neck and twisted his face all the way around
3) someone folded his arms BEHIND his back and wrapped him that way AND we didn't notice his feet

Not much better, right?
 
2018-10-30 2:36:16 PM  
Damnit, typo, slid not slide.
 
2018-10-30 2:37:25 PM  

ObscureNameHere: xanadian: poorjon: Who doesn't love karaoke?

Ever hear me do karaoke?  But, that's a horror story for another time.

It's not called "Carry No Key" without reason....


Hah.  My mother ran a Karaoke show for years, I worked as a DJ for a local entertainment company which offered Karaoke as a service.  I ran my own DJ business for a number of years (no Karaoke service) and I never heard that one before.  I've heard a lot of things but not that.  Veeeeery true though! Haha.
 
2018-10-30 2:39:27 PM  
Mr. Stanton was the terror of the Chaparral Valley Home-Owner's Association. He was a retired book-keeper who lived in a big green house near the gated entrance from Frontier Street. He'd wormed his way into the Compliance Officer position on the HOA board, and had every fiddly detail of the HOA rules memorized. Seriously- he could quote chapter-and-verse every picayune detail of how everyone but him was In Violation. The fines (they were called "assessments", but they were fines) were usually fairly minor, and all the money went into the maintenance fund, so most people just paid and tried their best to ignore him.

He'd hired a service to handle his landscaping twice a week to make sure his property was scrupulously In Compliance, but mostly in a vain attempt to win the annual bragging-rights prize for best-kept property. The HOA committee would judge every yard, assigning a score for neatness and other property-value-enhancing features. This score would be reduced by a set amount for each Violation on the books. Anyone whose property was a contender for the prize somehow ended up with enough Violations to give Mr. Stanton the edge, but he always lost anyway.

The perennial winner was Mrs. Fallon, whose rambling bungalow in the center of immaculate landscaping put everyone else to shame. Her house was located at the end of Jubilee Street, only three blocks from Mr. Stanton's house. She was Mr. Stanton's polar opposite- easy-going, friendly, cheerful, and ready to help her neighbors. She was constantly baking bread, cookies, and cakes, and the smell of her baking set stomachs growling throughout the neighborhood. If she wasn't in her kitchen, she was usually wandering around her flawless yard, checking on her collection of garden gnomes.

The gnomes were amazing. Each one was unique, from their clothing to the faces to their poses. She seemed to have a nearly endless supply of gnomes, posed to look like they were drinking around a campfire, or playing golf, or pushing a tiny lawnmower. They all had different names, which Mrs. Fallon could recite at will. Gerald was always my favorite. He had a silvery-grey beard and dark blue cap, and he carried a little ceramic bow and arrow. Whenever I'd visit Mrs. Fallon (all the neighborhood kids visited- for the cookies, mostly), I'd spend some time searching her yard for Gerald, who'd usually be 'hunting' under some of the perfectly groomed bushes. All the kids had their own favorites, and even the grown-ups enjoyed seeing what new arrangement the gnomes would be in any given day.

Mr. Stanton hated the gnomes. He hated everything about Mrs. Fallon's property, but he hated the gnomes most of all. When he first ascended to his lofty position, he'd tried to fine Mrs. Fallon for having 'Un-approved Statuary' in her yard. At the next HOA Committee meeting, Mrs. Fallon pointed out that garden gnomes were specifically approved under the HOA regulations, and noted she had personally written that exemption into the Rules back when the HOA was first getting organized. Mr. Stanton hadn't liked that, and liked the laughter from the audience (and Committee) at his expense even less. I remember seeing his face as he stormed out of the meeting- he'd looked like he was about to pop a blood vessel. After that, he compulsively counted the gnomes every single day, hoping to catch Mrs. Fallon out for having too many gnomes in her yard.

After several years of this, a lot of the neighbors started complaining formally to the Committee about Mr. Stanton. He was peevish, vindictive, and mean-spirited, and he got caught several times trying to re-arrange other peoples' fixtures so they'd get a Violation after they'd annoyed him in some way. The Committee started talking openly about getting someone new, and Mrs. Fallon arranged her gnomes one night before Halloween so it looked like they were sitting around a grave with Mr. Stanton's name on the headstone.

Mr. Stanton- predictably- went bugnuts. He tried to file a complaint with the Sheriff the next morning, claiming the diorama was a threat, but the County wouldn't do anything. He spent all day on Halloween staring at Mrs. Fallon's yard from the sidewalk across the street, visibly seething. His temper wasn't improved by having loads of the neighbors come by and loudly compliment Mrs. Fallon on her yard- and the gnomes. Mrs. Fallon spent most of the day ignoring Mr. Stanton's presence on the sidewalk across the street and preparing for Halloween night. Her house was a favorite Last Stop for the neighborhood trick-or-treaters. The whole neighborhood smelled like heaven flavored with cinnamon.

As soon as the sun crossed the horizon (the traditional start for trick-or-treat time), the streets filled with kids dressed in whatever creepiness they could come up with. The streets in the neighborhood were closed to traffic for two hours after sundown on Halloween, because the kids were everywhere. It was just starting to get actually dark by the time all of the houses had been plundered, and the whole mob of kids started winding their way to Mrs. Fallon's house.

When I came wandering up in my Frankenstein costume, I could see a crowd of kids on the sidewalk. Everyone was being real quiet, and the kids closest to the house were pointing into the yard where the gnomes were. I pushed my way up front and used my flashlight, quickly joined by a couple of other kids whose parents made 'em carry lights.

The lights showed the scene of a massacre. The seven gnomes at the graveside were smashed up, and the headstone was broken in half. A couple of kids started sniffling, and there was a lot of muttering going on when Mrs. Fallon came out to see what was going on.

She saw the destruction, and looked horrified. When some of the snifflers started bawling, she shook her head and hustled everyone down the driveway to her porch, where she loaded everyone up with cupcakes and cookies and candied apples wrapped in plastic. Most of the kids cheered up at that, and Mrs. Fallon was especially cheerful, working hard to keep everyone's spirits up. She did good enough that most of us walked away feeling more-or-less happy. A couple of us looked back, though, and we saw Mrs. Fallon standing next to the shattered gnomes. Her shoulders were slumped, and I thought she might have been crying.

The neighborhood grown-ups heard about it from the kids, and a few of them went to Mrs. Fallon's to help her clean up the mess. Dad was one, and I overheard him telling Mom that Mrs. Fallon was pretty calm about the whole thing. She had even refused to call the Sheriff about it. When he saw me listening in, I asked if Gerald was okay. Dad smiled and said Gerald was fine. He'd been 'hunting' under an azalea, and whoever busted up the others had missed him.

I got sent off to bed with a warning about being a sneak and listening to other people talk. I didn't hear much after that, but I thought I heard Dad say 'Stanton' a couple of times before I fell asleep.

The next morning was Saturday, and a bunch of kids headed over to Mrs. Fallon's to see what was left of the goodies. Mrs. Fallon met us at the door with a bunch of cookies and a big smile. I asked her where Gerald was, and she smiled even wider and took the bunch of us into the side yard, where we were all surprised to see the gnomes all standing around a fresh grave, looking like they were frozen in place while filling the hole. Gerald was standing at one end of the hole, with his bow over his shoulder and a smile on his face. I was really happy to see him. Mrs. Fallon said she'd brought out some new gnomes to replace the ones which got smashed, to keep Gerald company. We all laughed.

Mrs. Fallon didn't let us get too close, saying we should leave the gnomes to finish their work. We all laughed again and followed her back to the house, where she gave us the few goodies she hadn't already given away. I'd dug pretty deeply into my stash before going to bed last night, so I was almost getting tired of candy and cookies. I hauled my share home so I could hide it from Mom and Dad. They were busy talking on the phone in Dad's den, so I managed to get the goodies into the hiding place behind my headboard before they saw me.

The next day, all the gnomes at Mrs. Fallon's house were having a party. They were all sitting around with mugs in their hands, frozen in place around a fake fire like a picture. Gerald was standing under a hibiscus near the party, with his hand above his eyes like he was keeping watch. Kids gradually forgot about the smashing of the gnomes, but the grown-ups were really spooked about something for a long time. Dad sold the house a while later, and we moved to a different town just in time to miss Christmas. Nobody said what they were all worried about, but I overheard Mom talking to Aunt Betty on the phone a couple of weeks before we moved, saying Mr. Stanton had disappeared that Halloween night, and inside his house looked like it had been wrecked. I guess everybody sort of figured Mr. Stanton had just got drunk and left town before he got arrested for smashing the gnomes.

I never saw Gerald again, but I keep remembering the smile on his face as he stood by the new grave.
 
2018-10-30 2:59:08 PM  

Resident Muslim: misanthropic1: Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.

Occam's razor would rather dictate that it *was* the back of his head, no?

It would, so options are:
(Take a look at the picture in the grave I posted in the original post before continuing)

1) paranormal
2) someone broke his neck and twisted his face all the way around
3) someone folded his arms BEHIND his back and wrapped him that way AND we didn't notice his feet

Not much better, right?


#2 sounds like a very distinct possibility, as it sounds like the people he knew did not like him. Almost wonder if he actually was found dead, or if he was "found dead" like a Muslim Ken McElroy.
 
2018-10-30 3:18:39 PM  
On January 12th 1974, I was on my way to a birthday party. It was dark out, and so cold it made my teeth hurt as I walked across town. There was snow on the ground with a crunchy hard crust on top, and the stars and streetlights glinting off it made it seem even colder.

The party was for Steve Anderson, and even though he was my friend I didn't really want to go. Steve and I got along well; he accepted me as I was. But tonight the rest of his crowd was going to be there, Denise Buechter, Bret Tankesley, Tim Steinbeck and others, and I didn't know them. I mean, I knew them but I didn't KNOW them. I was scared stiff. I had to work hard just trudging along through the snow, and not just because of the cold. I was thirteen, and alone, and frightened.

I finally got there. Snow and nerves had done their worst, but I made it anyway. I rang the doorbell, and went inside when Steve's mom answered. In addition to his mother, Steve had three brothers and a sister living at home; his father had gone the same place mine had, someplace unknown. Like me, Steve didn't seem to mind.

His mother Martha reminded me somewhat of my own mom. About my height, slightly pudgy with dark hair just beginning to gray, and an easy smile.

Two of Steve's brothers were there, the twins Steg and Reese. Those weren't their real names, but that's what everyone called them. They were a few years younger than Steve and I, with sandy hair and bright smiles, just like two miniature Xerox copies of Steve. His older brother Paul and younger sister Becky weren't around, but that was alright. I hardly ever saw them anyway.

Steve was taller than me, and skinnier. He had brown hair lighter than mine, and his two front teeth partially overlapped. He was very bright, and his wit was like sunshine after a summer shower; strong and dazzling and enough to make anyone smile.

As it turned out, I shouldn't have worried about the party. In retrospect it was easily the best I've ever been to. There was cake and ice cream of course, and fruit punch too; and Steve's mom knew better than to try and restrain us with organized party games. Steve took a lot of pictures with a little instamatic camera. At one point we were all sitting on the couch with Denise Buechter lying across our laps. Just as the shutter snapped, someone (me) pushed and she rolled right off onto the floor. We all laughed so hard we couldn't breathe.

We played music, a lot of it, on the Anderson's little record player. I particularly remember a paper record clipped from MAD Magazine playing over and over. The title was "It's a Gas!" and it was claimed that "Alfred E. Neuman vocalizes!" on it. It mainly consisted of some very talented belching as I recall, and it had us literally rolling on the floor with laughter.

There were gifts, though I can't remember any besides the ones that I brought. Steve's family, like mine, wasn't particularly prosperous, and some of his favorite foods were rather expensive so he didn't get to indulge in them too often. So I brought him food. Two cans of pitted ripe black olives and the two biggest avocados I could find. He was ecstatic; I don't think I could have gotten him a better gift.

I guess at about 10:30 the party wound down and we all said goodbye and went home. But the story doesn't end there.

Sometime during the next week at school, Steve and I were in the English room for seventh hour. The English teacher, Mrs. Brown, used to encourage the class to come to her room during study halls and play word games. Steve and I were hooked on Scrabble, so nearly every afternoon found us in Mrs. Brown's classroom hunched over a Scrabble board.

Our rules for Scrabble were a little different from the printed ones. Proper nouns were out, but obscenities were acceptable, even encouraged. You were also free to make up any likely word from the letters at hand. If the word was challenged and did not in fact exist, the word remained but the opponent scored the points. If the word did exist, then you scored double.

On this particular occasion, Steve came up with a word that I felt confident in challenging; the word was "nard." But when I looked it up in Websters, surprise! There it was, nard, big as life. I think Steve was more surprised than I was.

From then on, nard became our word. "What a nard." "That's a very nardy thing to say," etc. It was fun, particularly because no one knew what the word meant, not even us. Sure, we'd read the definition, but it didn't make sense. Therefore, it meant whatever we wanted it to mean. Our very own word.

A few nights later, on the evening of Sunday the 21st, I was home watching the movie "Skullduggery" on channel nine. It was something about an archeological expedition that found a bunch of throwbacks in some jungle or other. I wasn't paying too close attention, and at one point, I heard the ambulance siren howling. No big deal, you heard that all the time; probably some old geezer at the rest home had a heart attack or something.

After I'd gone to bed, at about 10:30, our phone rang. It was Mark Cheffey, the Methodist preacher's son, calling to tell me that Steve Anderson was dead. He had been shot at close range with a 12-gauge shotgun while he was lying on his bed in the basement of his home. His older brother Paul had been cleaning the gun, and was checking it for "satisfactory shell ejection" when it went off. There were no other witnesses. At 9:45 pm, Steve was pronounced dead on arrival at Memorial Hospital in Lexington, Missouri.

I didn't sleep much that night. I was destroyed, my life was crumbling around me. I cried for hours, and sniffled for what seemed like hours more. I was sad, I was sorry, I was guilty. I was glad it wasn't me. That phase passed quickly, but I still felt guilty. If I'd been there, I could have stopped it. If I'd called, he wouldn't have been there when the gun went off. I should have been able to DO something! I hurt all over; but mostly I felt a knife embedded just under my ribs that someone twisted periodically, hurting me almost enough to make me scream. If only I didn't feel so useless, so unnecessary. After a long time, I think I slept.

The next day at school was a nightmare. I didn't dare cry around my friends. EVERYTHING reminded me of Steve. There's his locker. This is where we stood and talked every morning before class. There's Ellie, the girl he was working up the guts to ask out. Good thing she didn't know he liked her.

All the guys looked the way I imagine I did. Pale as sheets, with red eyes, and very withdrawn. None of us spoke. I guess we were afraid of our voices cracking; I know I was. The girls didn't help any, either. They were all huddled together in a corner, shredding Kleenex and wailing like lost souls. I envied them their open displays of emotion.

Mrs. Brown confided in us that the teachers had been told not to speak of it, and classes were to go on as normal, but nothing got done. The teachers all sounded hollow and distant. It was quite a shock to realize that they were as numb and shaken as the rest of us kids.

The next night was visitation, a morbid tradition if there ever was one. It took more guts and determination for me to walk up there and look at him lying in that casket than it has for anything I've done, before or since. The casket was big and grey, like unpainted steel, and I suppose there were flowers but I don't remember. Steve wore a blue blazer, and I remembered how much he hated to dress up. I didn't get close enough to see if the morticians had done their job well; there was a roaring in my ears and I had that far-off feeling that comes before fainting. I wanted to scream as loud as I could, but I managed to hold it down.

I didn't stay for the speaker, but went through the receiving line and left as soon as possible. Steve's mom looked as though she wanted to die too; maybe she did. But what really shook me up was Steve's brother, Steg. He couldn't have been more that eleven years old, but he looked so serious, and his eyes were older than any I've ever seen. This was the laughing boy who delivered our paper. I sometimes wonder if he ever got to be a kid again.

The funeral was the next day. I think the entire Junior High shut down so everyone could go. Steve was Catholic, and the Catholic Church was big, and it was packed. I'd never known there were crowds at funerals. I would just as soon have skipped it, but I couldn't. I had been named an "Honorary Pall-Bearer," along with three other of Steve's friends. We had to sit in the very front row.

The priest came out and delivered a speech. The only part I remember was about what a good little altar boy Steve had been. I very nearly laughed at that; Steve had considered religion to be a regrettably unavoidable nuisance, and he hadn't regarded the priest highly at all. He had told me outrageous stories about this man talking. It seemed absurd that he didn't realize.

The very worst for me was the graveside service, when they put his coffin in the ground and threw dirt on it. It seemed to me there was a sound like a bank vault door closing, and I finally KNEW that Steve was gone forever. Somewhere inside I had thought that he would jump out at the last moment and yell, "Surprise! Just kidding!" He would find that sort of thing extremely funny, but the jokes were all over now.

In a sane world, the story would end there.As I soon discovered, this world is not sane.

I lived through the next couple of weeks in a daze, not sleeping, just going through the motions.My school work suffered, since I ignored the teachers and spent my class time staring out the windows, and that wound up changing everything.

I remember sitting in Mrs. Brown's English class, pointedly not paying any attention whatsoever to the sentence she was diagramming on the chalkboard.I was staring out the ground-floor window of her class in the middle of the day, and I saw a boy across the street looking at the school. He had brown hair with a cowlick, and the sleeves of his blue blazer weren't long enough to hide his bony wrists.His clothes seemed dirty, and he wasn't wearing any shoes.In February.In Missouri.He wasn't doing anything, just standing on the opposite sidewalk, staring at the school.

It was Steve, without a doubt.

I then did something that I had heard about, and always thought was silly.I pinched myself, because I had to be asleep and dreaming.The sharp pain brought tears to my eyes, and I felt as though I had just woken up.I glanced around the room, and everything seemed normal, but when I turned to look out the window, Steve was still standing across the street.

At that point, I made some sort of involuntary sound, because the room pretty well erupted as everyone turned to look at me.I shook my head, and asked if I could go to the restroom.The empty hall echoed with my footsteps, and there was no one in the boys' room where I splashed cold water on my face.When I finally returned to class, a mere glance at the window was enough to see that Steve was still there across the street, barefoot, hands at his sides, brown hair ruffling in the north wind.Mrs. Brown followed my gaze, and then looked at me quizzically and asked if I was ok.I nodded and returned to my desk.

After school, I didn't look, didn't look (don't LOOK, dammit) toward where he had been and walked straight home and went to my room.I half expected to look out my window and see Steve there too, but the street and sidewalk were empty.

That night, I did something I never did as a kid: I sneaked out after everyone else had gone to sleep.Knitted cap pulled down, hands stuffed in coat pockets, hunched against the north wind, I walked back to the school.

Steve was right where he had been all day, only now he was sitting on the curb.His hair and clothes were dirty, and there was dirt caked under his fingernails.He was wearing the clothes he had been buried in; no coat or cap or gloves, just sitting on the curb and not shivering.

"Steve?" I asked, "Are you real?"

He turned to look in my direction."I think so. How come you can see me? Nobody else can."

"Beats me. What are you, a zombie?You aren't going to eat my brain, are you?"

"Nah, I don't think so. At least I haven't had an urge to eat anybody's brain...yet.Besides people can see zombies, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Maybe you're a vampire.Do you want to drink someone's blood, can you change into a bat? How did you get out of the coffin, did you turn to mist?"

Steve reached into his pocket, and pulled out his buck knife. "Dug my way out with this. Steg must have put it in my pocket at the visitation.Good thing, I'd be scratching the lid with my fingernails for years to come if he hadn't."

He tossed the closed knife to me. "No bats, no mist, no blood thirst so I don't think I'm a vampire." There was dirt in the hinge, and the tip of the blade was broken off.I felt reassuringly real and heavy.Without thinking, I dropped it in my pocket.

"Have you seen your Mom?" I asked.

"Yeah.I didn't want to stay; I could tell that she was upset when I was around.I think she could almost see me.Dude, you have to help me.I don't want to stay like this."

"Why not man? Every kid dreams of being invisible, and you did it!I'd probably be living in the girls' locker room by now." Shivering, I said, "Hey, do you mind if we walk? I'm freezing.You've been dead a couple of weeks; how come you don't stink?"

We were walking west, toward Steve's house.

"You just SAID you were freezing, dumbass.Frozen meat doesn't stink."

"Yeah, right.Maybe you're more like a ghost.Maybe you need to get revenge on the person who wronged you.Maybe we should go see your brother Paul."

"That... feels right."

It didn't take us long to get to the place Steve used to live, and once there we headed through the fenced back yard to the kitchen door.Steve showed me where the spare key was kept, and we crossed the kitchen to the basement door.I headed downstairs to what was now Paul's bedroom with Steve right behind me (which should have creeped me right out, but didn't at the time).

A light was on in the basement, and Paul was lying on his bed, reading a magazine. Or at least looking at the pictures.Steve's bed had been stripped, and the mattress was rolled up at one end; Paul's 12-gauge leaning against it, a morbid accusation.Paul saw me, dropped the magazine and rolled to his feet.

"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?" he asked, reaching for the gun.

"I know what you did," I said. "Whether you knew it was loaded or not, you pointed that gun at Steve, and you pulled the trigger. You. Shot. YOUR. BROTHER!" Screaming, now.

"Maybe I did, but I KNOW it's loaded now, and I will shoot YOU if you don't get out of here."

Steve brushed past me as Paul began to raise the shotgun, and I felt the rage explode from him like the heat from a nuclear blast. I saw Paul turn pale as his eyes and mouth opened wide, finally able to see Steve, as my own nerve failed and I turned and ran back up the stairs. I heard Paul scream as I crossed the kitchen, "No, stay away from me! I'm sorry!" and the shotgun spoke.

As lights came on all over the house behind me, I ran as I had never before; Paul's anguished scream and the report of the shotgun echoing in my mind the whole way home.

I never saw Steve again, so I suppose he found some degree of peace.

But I still have his buck knife.
 
2018-10-30 3:36:41 PM  
This is always my favorite.  Anyone got a link or cut and paste to the one about the guy who went in the woods and saw all kinds of crazy stuff?
 
2018-10-30 3:44:21 PM  
The Hitchhiker

Along a very long and infrequently used road, you'd find the occasional hitchhiker or hiker who was just looking for a ride.

Or protagonist is driving down the road at night and from the distance, his lights reflect off of a hitchhiker.
"I'll give him a lift," he thinks, "it's been boring, and I'm sure he'll appreciate it."
And he wasn't wrong, they start chatting, with the hitchhiker very appreciative of the ride.

Around 10-15 minutes into the ride the hitchhiker gets comfortable and crosses his leg. That's when the driver sees it.
The hitchhiker's right foot doesn't have a shoe.
It's not a bare foot.
The hitchhiker's right leg simply ended in a cloven hoof.

The driver freezes, eyes forward, driving on autopilot. For 5 long, stretching minutes the driver is just blinking, trying to decide what to do or what to say.
At the end of those 5 minutes, the driver starts slowing the car down until it stops, turns slightly towards his passenger, not looking directly at him and says "I think this is as far as I can take you," he says, not really giving a reason, "and I'd really appreciate if you'd please get out."
The passenger, smiles, still in a good mood and simply says "Sure! Thanks for the ride."

And that was it, just like that.

The driver controls himself and starts to move slowly away, then picks up speed, and then faster, until he is driving as fast as he can on the dark road. Still freaking out, not believing his luck, talking to himself "What the hell. What THE HELL. No one is going to believe me. Damn! I...he had...shoot!" not even finishing his sentences.
That's when his lights pick up another hitchhiker holding out his thumb.
Relieved to see another human being, the driver stops and picks him up.
"Thanks for the ride, man," the hitchhiker starts saying before the driver interrupts him, "You are not going to believe what just happened to me!"
"What?" The hitchhiker ask, surprised by the guy's energy, relief, yet obvious panic.
The driver continues, "I..I just picked up a hitchhiker, normal looking guy, he...you are not going to believe this, he had a hoof instead of a foot. Dude, seriously."
The hitchhiker just looks at him, blinking twice, and asks "like this one?"
 
2018-10-30 3:49:15 PM  

Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.


*my best John Cleese voice*  "Sorry, no, still no following you."

Was:
1) His head gone above the beard? (half his head shot-off / cut off)
2) The features of his face ground off with a belt sander?
3) His face above the beard was just blank skin with no features at all so we are now into 'paranormal' territory?
 
2018-10-30 4:03:58 PM  

ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.

*my best John Cleese voice*  "Sorry, no, still no following you."

Was:
1) His head gone above the beard? (half his head shot-off / cut off)
2) The features of his face ground off with a belt sander?
3) His face above the beard was just blank skin with no features at all so we are now into 'paranormal' territory?


Remember what was posted upthread. Don't try to debunk or analyze these stories, just enjoy them.
 
2018-10-30 4:08:43 PM  
I'll share some occurances around my mom's passing. Trigger warning for a little too much info, and not all that scary.

My mom and I lived together in a condo. She had had cancer 3 times, was an ex-smoker, and a mess of health issues related to a botched bowel resection. I still can't eat beef because the first thing my brain said, as her wound opened up at home and I stared at her intestine "wow, that looks like a nice eye round". Anyway, she was misdiagnosed as having COPD years ago, and had an endarderectomy on her 95% occluded right ICA. Well her O2 wasn't bouncing back, so they did a chest xray and found a mass in her right lung area. Her pulmonologist insisted it was an enlarged lymph node, which he had biopsied and came back normal, go figure. We let it go a few months, and saw the pulmonologist again, who said "you don't have COPD, you have interstitial lung disease and have 2 years to live...but only God knows". We said "2nd opinion at Yale"  which turned the doc into a pissy little ass. Misdiagnoses and malpractice, scary stuff.

So, end of June 2013, go to Yale, where a battery of tests for ILD revealed a mass in her right lung, and sent for biopsy. She caught pneumonia July 4th, and while in Yale New Haven ER, she got the biopsy results. Go on, guess. During the night July 8 I was home, she was at Yale. I meditated that night, and heard a very distinct female voice say to me "Your mother will die peacefully when it comes" (hail to Her). A while later, got a call - she went into respiratory arrest. Bridgeport to New Haven, normally 35-40 minutes; I got there in less than 20.

It was the next day where the doctors sat me down for "that" consult. Anywhere from a few hours to a few days, that's what they gave her. And I had to sit on that for a day, until the doctor could tell her with family present (almost made it, darn Mom for asking). She bounced back enough, and we did home hospice, I took care of her.

August 4, 2013. Mom was comfortable in the hospital bed in the living room so I went to lay down in my room. It was early evening, and a little rainy. I lay down, and bolted upright suddenly. I heard some woman screaming outside in the rain. Thing is, it sounded like crying and screaming mixed together like a hysterical scream, and either a woman or child. And it didn't stop for 15 or so minutes. I thought "shiat, is someone hurt", and told my mom. She didn't hear it. I thought, if someone is hurt, maybe I should go see if they need help. I go outside, and it stopped.

August 9 mom is suddenly in excruciating pain, like almost delirious. She started crying "Mommy, Mommy help me, I hurt". We go to the local ER. Things go on, I am holding her hand while she's sleeping. Out of nowhere I feel and smell my grandfather, her father. He had this funky cheap cigarette smell, and it overwhelmed the area. I turned to my left, where I could swear he stood, and said "Please Grandpa, not now, don't take her". He stayed for a little while. Then my dad, who died when I was 17, came by to see Mom. Maybe he was asking her forgiveness, who knows. A little bit later, her O2 dropped sharply. Nurse comes in, and they're setting her up for a bipap. I am still by her bed, and her breathing turns rough sounding. Rattling, that is the only way to describe it, and I knew of a death rattle, but never heard it. That sound is haunting. I asked the nurse "do you hear her breathing? Sounds a bit rattly". The nurse looked at me with wide eyes, and said something placating about hooking her up so she will breathe easier.

The scariest thing? Telling my mother we did all we could for her. She was fully awake, sitting up in bed, just on a nasal cannula, and I had to tell her this was the end. The terror and pain and sadness in someone's eyes is the stuff of nightmares. She passed August 12, peacefully.

I still live in the condo. I still smell her perfume out of nowhere (Enjoli). I sometimes just feel her, like she's checking up on me.

/yeah, not scary
 
2018-10-30 4:11:31 PM  

ObscureNameHere: Hey Everyone:

Could we please not make the same mistakes as last year?   Can we just have short, personal POV tales and NOT wall-of-text chapters that no one will read?

Thanks.


I love the wall-of-text chapters if they are well told. Since when did reading become a bad thing? (I know, I know, "Welcome to Fark")
 
2018-10-30 4:12:23 PM  

rebelyell2006: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.

*my best John Cleese voice*  "Sorry, no, still no following you."

Was:
1) His head gone above the beard? (half his head shot-off / cut off)
2) The features of his face ground off with a belt sander?
3) His face above the beard was just blank skin with no features at all so we are now into 'paranormal' territory?

Remember what was posted upthread. Don't try to debunk or analyze these stories, just enjoy them.


No worries RY, just getting clarity.
ONH, imagine if I was uncovering the wrong side of the head, instead of finding a face, I'd find the bald head.
That's what was happening, except that I could look down the body and verify by the arms placement that this was the front of the body, but I'm uncovering the back of a bald head.
 
2018-10-30 4:28:16 PM  

Keeve: ObscureNameHere: Hey Everyone:

Could we please not make the same mistakes as last year?   Can we just have short, personal POV tales and NOT wall-of-text chapters that no one will read?

Thanks.

I love the wall-of-text chapters if they are well told. Since when did reading become a bad thing? (I know, I know, "Welcome to Fark")


I think the point is that if I just wanted scary stories I can google and go to any of the zillion pages on the net.
People still have favorites, and paste them, but last year it ended up with a lot of really, really long copy-pasta that many didn't feel connected to.

That's why the reaction to it.
Not that reading is bad. All we do here is read and make dark jokes.
 
2018-10-30 4:54:15 PM  
It was late, and he walked softly into the study, to avoid waking his wife and children sleeping upstairs. The dim glow of the computer screen saver provided the only meager illumination, and cast twisted, elongated shadows that seemed to twitch of their own accord. He suppressed a curse as he stepped on a goddamn Lego and kicked it into a corner.

He sat, sipped his beer, and carefully placed it where he wouldn't accidentally tip it while using the mouse. He frowned as he opened the browser, and closed the dozen tabs. A bookmark was clicked, and an eldritch pulse of electrical ones and zeros summoned his desire.

But tonight was Halloween, and malevolent spirits had slipped into the realm of the living to skulk, to weep, to taunt, to gibber... and to inflict torment.

He leapt back as a shadowy cloud billowed forth from the screen. Slowly, it took the form of a gaunt, grimacing face. "What the hell- ?"

"THIS IS NO HELL. NOT YET."

"What the Fark- ?"

"SPEAK NOT. I HAVE COME TO WARN YOU. THAT WHICH YOU ONCE LOVED IS GONE FOREVER. ONLY ONCE MAY YOU SAVOR ECHO5JULIET'S DRIVE THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. ONLY ONCE MAY YOU SHIVER AT THE TALE OF QUEXY'S FISHY COMPANION. THE DRAUGHT ONCE DRANK CAN NEVER BE SAVORED IN THE SAME WAY AGAIN."

Another wisp of shadow issued forth, and formed a pointing hand.

"YOU ARE CURSED. NEVER MORE SHALL YOU ENJOY THE HALLOWEEN THREAD, FOR LO! IT IS NAUGHT BUT FILCHED CREEPYPASTA, TRITE POLITICAL JOKES, WALLS O' TEXT, REPOSTS, AND THE DANKEST OF MEMES."

"Spirit! What horror is this...!"

"AND YOUR CHILDREN. YOUR PRECIOUS CHILDREN SHALL ONE DAY READ THIS CRAP, AND THEY WILL DEEM IT FRESH, AND GOOD.  THEY WILL BE N00BS."

"NO! NOOoooOOooOOOooooOOOO!"

"LMAO... GET OFF MY LAAAAAWWWWWNNNnnnnnnnnn..."
 
2018-10-30 4:58:40 PM  
So I contracted this nasty, nasty nerve condition called CRPS (that right there is scary enough-look it up), anyway while I was going through the diagnosis process they were throwing drugs at me trying to get a handle on this beast.  During this time I was told that if I underwent a Ketamine infusion, it would reset my brain and hopefully on the reboot, clean up the messed up nerves.  It didn't work by the way.  I tripped on Ketamine for 5 hours a day for 3 days straight trying to "reset" my brain.  During the second round of treatment the doctor pushed the dose to high and I had a bad, bad, BAD acid trip.  Words do not convey the fear I felt, but I will try:

I was in black.  I don't know if it was a room, space, it could have been coffin sized, or the size of the universe, I had no spacial reference.  That is very unsettling.  Suddenly, a thick black (blacker than the area I was in) appeared and started to gyrate, undulate, and move about.  It was a live entity, and it was moving to me.  To describe this "black being" is hard.  Although it was black I could see swirls of darker black within it and pinpoints of what I can only call nothing black, so black it appeared that there was an absence of matter--but this being was whole.

Suddenly, a thin filament, half the size of a human hair, stretched forth and barely touched me.  I would dare say an "atom to atom" touch it was so light.  Suddenly I was overcome with a crushing sense of dread, sorrow, and a strong will to die.  I recoiled in horror, and those monitoring me in the room said I started to cry.  No just tears flowing, it was an anguished cry everyone in that room monitoring me claimed they had never heard before.  The nurse was so upset that she had to leave the room.  My wife told me it took all her might to stay because she couldn't bare to see me in so much pain and sorrow.  I was told it was a crushing grief that was overwhelming and it flowed from me to everyone in the room.

Then, as suddenly as it overcame me, it was gone.  POOF!

I proceeded to trip until the last of the ketamine wore off, went home and dealt with what I experienced.  I had to fight daily for three weeks not to kill myself because it was so heavy to bare.  I withdrew from life and took a slew of other drugs to try and cope and forget.  I eventually crawled out of the cesspool with a lot of therapy, drugs, and love from my family.  But I barely made it.  I believe you can't walk through hell (best word I can describe where I was) without some of it sticking to you, and I think I brought some back.

This was 6 years ago, and to this day, I can vividly picture what happened and still feel what I experienced with an overwhelming sorrow.  It often hits me as I go to sleep, and when it does hit, I don't sleep that night and sometimes the next night too.  Often, I wonder the house at night around trying to shake this feeling and talk myself down from the ledge.

My therapist calls it PTSD, but I don't know.  I really feel this black entity is out there waiting again to get back to me and let me feel it's full force not just an "atom touch" that I experienced.  It wears me down every time it comes to visit, so I fear that when it comes back again to show me more of its power, I will not be able to stand up to it, hell, even the thought of it coming back gives me a mild panic attack.

So although I love to read the ghost stories and hear what others experienced, to me, nothing compares to what my brain has experienced and what it has in store for me when it unleashed the black again.

True story
CRPS is a biatch!
 
2018-10-30 5:14:00 PM  

gregormendel: This is always my favorite.  Anyone got a link or cut and paste to the one about the guy who went in the woods and saw all kinds of crazy stuff?


That's one of my all time favorites.

/bookmark
 
2018-10-30 5:32:16 PM  
Don't mind me, just bookmarking in hopes that the thread takes off.
 
2018-10-30 5:44:38 PM  
It's freaky.
 
2018-10-30 5:45:17 PM  

Random Internet Persona: gregormendel: This is always my favorite.  Anyone got a link or cut and paste to the one about the guy who went in the woods and saw all kinds of crazy stuff?

That's one of my all time favorites.

/bookmark


Found it, sort of. I copy/pasted it in 2014. User Tharkin posted it originally, I'm not sure what year.

Tharkin:
Note--this is longer than I meant it to be. Sometimes I'm a little long-winded. I think it's worth a read though--it's all true and, in my opinion, pretty frigging creepy.

Here's something recent. Yesterday, actually. I can't say anything paranormal was involved, but I encountered several very strange situations in a short period of time in an unlikely area. Were they related? I don't know. Probably not. But suffice to say some bizzare shiat was happening in the woods behind my house last night.

Some context:

I live on a big hill in rural(ish) Maine. I'm a hunter, and deer season just started. I've been excited for this season because late last season I started hunting behind my house instead of another area that had gotten too crowded. I got a small buck up there at the end of last season, and this year I've seen a big one a few times and some sign that indicate it spends a fair amount of time on the hill behind me. The wife was working from home so I had a rare chance to get out during the week (I'm a stay-at-home-dad.)

Yesterday wasn't great weather--Sandy was not a big deal this far north but we did get some effects from the very outer edge of it--it was pretty windy and alternating from light rain to pounding rain off and on. I had it in my head that even though the deer likely were not moving much, *I* could move and the weather would cover my noise and scent pretty effectively. Also I thought it would be cool to say I went hunting in a hurricane. I'm kind of a dork sometimes. In short, damn if the weather was going to keep me from going out.

Anyway:

I set off at a bit after 3pm. There's an extensive network of snowmobile/ATV trails on the hill and I had only covered a small percentage of it. My plan was to walk along those trails and at least scout some new ground even if I didn't see a deer (I didn't.)

After maybe 45 minutes of walking I was well into an area I had not been before. I started walking a sort of grid pattern through a brushy area hoping to flush out a deer if one was bedded down in there. A little bit into the brush I found a turkey feather standing straight up, the quill pushed into the dirt beneath the leaves. I thought it was interesting that it had fallen in such a way and got stuck, but figured it was just one of those weird things that happen. But then I found another, and another, and another. In the space of maybe 200 square feet I found a dozen of these, all exactly the same--standing straight up, the end pushed into the dirt. They seemed to be evenly spaced. This isn't a spot that Joe Schmoe is likely to just be messing around in--it took effort to push through the brush and there were quite a few thorny plants. But I don't think this could possibly have happened naturally--someone put those feathers there. Weird as hell. But I was there to hunt, so I made my way back to the trail and kept moving.

Shortly after this, the sky opened up and it started absolutely dumping rain. Just pounding. I had put some distance between the place with the feathers and decided to hunker down to see if it would let up in a few minutes. I leaned against a tree and watched the trail behind me in case a deer in the area had the same idea. After about 5 minutes I saw some movement coming up the hill toward the trail. I got my rifle ready, but it turned out not to be a deer. A flock of turkeys walked up the hill, across the trail, and into the trees on the other side. That in itself isn't at all odd. What was odd was the way they were walking. Very calmly and evenly, not really looking around much, all moving the same direction in a tight cluster. If you've seen wild turkeys moving before, you know that this is not normal. It's also not normal (AT ALL) for a fox to be walking along with them, but sure as hell, there it was. Just slowly trotting along parallel to their path in a straight line up the hill not 10 feet from the turkeys, with neither seeming to give the other a second thought. As the last few turkeys came onto the trail a racoon that I hadn't seen crossed the trail between me and the turkeys. Same deal--just walking up the hill in no particular hurry but in a straight line and not paying attention to anything but the ground in front of it. This was not a dense area of woods--I watched these animals walking for several hundred feet and their behavior never varied. At this point I was just astounded. I had different things going through my mind: I've heard stories about animals sensing things like earthquakes and leaving the area. A flood? Not likely--there aren't any real streams or rivers on this hill. A fire? There hadn't been any lightning yet (soon though) and there was no way anything was going to be burning in this rain anyway. Was the whole frigging hillside going to come down in a mudslide or something? But it didn't seem to me that these animals were trying to escape something that was scaring them. If anything, it was some of the calmest behavior I've ever witness in wild animals. If I wanted to get really creepy about it I'd almost say it was more like they were moving toward something than away, but that's editorializing and maybe injecting more strangeness into the situation than is warranted by the facts. At any rate, it was weird as hell and a little bit unsettling.

So at this point I'm a little bit perturbed and the whole "being in the woods during a storm as the light starts fading" thing probably wasn't helping my mindset. I kind of told myself that I was being silly and got up to keep moving, as it didn't appear the rain was letting up in the immediate future. I had also begun seeing flashes of lightning, though it was a ways off yet. I gave myself half an hour before I had to start heading back to the house, because with the cloud cover and rain it was already getting dim and I knew darkness would come early and quickly. I wasn't at all concerned about getting lost, but I didn't really want to be banging around in the dark woods in a storm with a flashlight either. At this point I had pretty much given up on seeing a deer--they would certainly all be hunkered down--but wanted to keep scouting out this new area--it would be my only chance before the weekend when I'd next be able to get out hunting.

A little bit down the trail I came into a large stand of tall pine trees. It had clearly been cut and replanted years and years ago, then selectively cut more recently--all of the trees were in straight rows, all the same species (white pine) and every 5th or 6th one was missing. Areas like this are pretty common out here, and walking through them gives an interesting effect--you can see a long ways down the row you are on and on a diagonal between rows, but not far between those areas or to your sides. Each couple of steps you take shifts it a bit and gives you long views in another direction while blocking the long view you had before. I moved from one row to the next just as lightning flashed and was incredibly startled to see that someone was standing on the right side of the row maybe 150-200 feet away with his back to me, looking up into the treetops. Startled doesn't even begin to describe it, really. It jumped the hell out of me. There was simply no way anyone else was out there. Now if this was a ghost story, you know what would happen next: My eyes would readjust and the figure would be gone. In fact this is exactly what was in my head during that couple seconds of semi-blindness: If that person is not there, I am going the hell home right now. But as my eyes adjusted I could see that he was indeed still standing there.

Now, this area is a minimum of a half-hour walk from the nearest road. I've looked at town maps and google earth many times in the last year to get some idea of the lay of the land. There are not any houses in that area. It's just woods with snowmobile trails going through it. This guy was not hunting--he had nothing in his hands and wasn't wearing orange. He was just out in the middle of nowhere, in the pouring frigging rain, standing with his arms hanging down at his sides and staring up at the trees. No raingear either--he was absolutely drenched. Weird as hell. I stood waiting for him to turn around so I could wave, letting him know I had seen him and wasn't going to mistake him for a deer and shoot. After maybe 20 seconds he walked forward (away from me) to the next tree and looked up that one. I looked too, and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Just regular old pine trees. This went on for maybe a couple of minutes and 4 or 5 trees before he went to the other side of the row and turned my way. We was looking my direction, not up, so I gave him a wave and looked up into the trees myself like "What are you looking for?" and looked back at him. He didn't acknowledge me in the slightest. Just took a few steps to the next tree and looked up. No gesturing, no using his hands to shield his face from the rain, nothing. We were not far apart, there was a clear line of sight, and I was wearing a blaze orange jacket and hat. There is no way he didn't see me, and it should have startled him as much as it had startled me to see him. At that point I had pretty much had enough--I'm going the hell home to dry out, eat some dinner, and clean my gun (not in that order.)

Nothing else happened on the walk back until I had almost gotten home. Next to my house is a large clearing surrounded by a few lines of electric fencing where my neighbor keeps about 30 goats. They are usually out wandering around and pretty spread out, but in inclement weather tend to stay in a sort of barn he built for them. As I walked down the path next to that clearing I saw that all or most of the goats were out--they were just standing in the wind and rain (which was still coming down hard) at the fenceline on the uphill side of the clearing, looking up the hill into the woods. It took me maybe three or four minutes to walk from where I could first see them to get past them. I didn't see any of them take a single step--just standing there, looking up the hill. It made me think of the turkeys, fox, and racoon I had seen earlier--if that fence hadn't been there, would the goats be walking up the hill too? I don't know. Maybe not. But in my current frame of mind (thoroughly creeped out) that was the first thing that came to mind.

So. I got inside, ate dinner with the wife and kids, cleaned the gun, etc. Nothing else the slightest bit out of the ordinary happened. If any of these things had happened in isolation I probably wouldn't have thought anything of it. But the fact that they all happened in just a few hours out in the woods during a storm while it was getting dark--yeah. Creepy. Creepy as hell. I'll be going back into that area this weekend early in the day. I can't say I'm not slightly apprehensive about it, but I did see lots of deer sign last night. It's too good a spot to stay away from. Plus I'm kind of curious--I'm going to try to find those feathers again, and go down the hill where I saw the animals come up to see if I can find anything unusual.
 
2018-10-30 7:26:03 PM  
Yay..!

The best holiday and the best FARK thread o'the year have finally arrived..!!      =)

I won't be reading the thread until t'morrow nite,but wanted to get my story in here early-ish..  Have a Great, Safe, Spooky All Hallow's Eve everyone..!!

(..also, if no-one's said or done it yet, requests for "Fishy," "Ted the Caver" and "Dionaea (sp) House"..   =)

===   ===   ===

My annual, obligatory contribution to the thread..

It's not my scariest or strangest experience, believe it or don't..but it has the singular benefit of having been witnessed by multiple, clear-thinking, very respectable (save fer the whole 'home invasion' angle..  =P  ) individuals..

Enjoy..

***   ***   ***

When I was young (9 - 15, roundabouts), my parents would take the family..mom, dad, me, younger brother..camping/cottaging every year at the very end of the season, so as to get better locations at lower rates. Invariably, we'd go with a couple or couples that were friends of the family and it would be a nice group-event weekend or longer.

One particular couple..Dave and Karen..went along every year and my father and Dave were, and are, fast friends.

The year of this story, we were in a cottage on a small lake (about 2 miles in diameter) during a near-perfect autumn in, I think, the Southern Tier/Finger Lakes region of Western New York. It was only my family and Dave and Karen, this year.

One thing that is of importance to relate is that Dave and my father fancy themselves amateur architectural buffs and love looking at vintage/old/historical buildings/houses.

Bear with me here...

Often, camping/cottaging as late in the season as we did, the 'regulars' would already be gone for the season. Summer homes, fishing cottages and the like would be prepped for the winter and locked up for the season..awaiting the return of the owners the following spring.

To my father and his friend, "looking" meant breaking in to fully check the place out. Never did they do damage, or tamper or take anything..they just found the most interesting deserted home, picked the lock or the latch, let themselves in and looked at all the original woodwork or styling or whatever..then lock everything back up, as it was, when they left.

I don't recall how old I was, but this particular year it was apparently decided that my brother and I were old enough to tag along for the house they'd singled out, halfway around the lake.

I remember everything very vividly..from the outside appearance to the door we entered to the whole of the interior. The rear door was locked with a padlock through a bar latch. However, the securing screws for the bar latch were exposed, rather than covered by the bar..three phillips-head screws out and we were in.

We wandered about the ground floor..I recall the place being a bit musty and darkish, but very nice..if cluttered. There were some comic books lying about, which delighted me, so the owner must have had children.

It took a few minutes, but my father noticed something seemed not-quite-right..it took a bit, but it was realized from an almost inaudible background hum that the fridge was still running. Looking inside it revealed about a half-case of unopened Labatt's beer bottles..an indication that the place may *not* be closed for the season, obviously.

Oh, well..the adults think..we're already here, haven't seen any cars or activity the past couple days, and only have the upstairs to look at..may as well finish up..

So we head upstairs..the layout is simple: Stairway goes up one side of the house and tops off at one end of a hallway that traverses the length of the building. It is the only way up or down. Off this hallway, all to the left, are four evenly spaced doors.

We enter the first room. It's empty save for a MASSIVE brass bedframe. No boxspring or mattress, just the frame..and by massive, I mean just that. My father and Dave marveled over the solidity and craftsmanship of the thing. Wide, high head and footboards with corner-posts that only barely fell short of making it a full-blown four-poster bed..and all welded; no screws/nuts/bolts..the thing was either assembled in the room or the room was built around it. There was absolutely no way it was brought, complete, into that room..I doubt it would fit through patio doors iff'n the entire door assembly was taken out in advance to clear more space.

So, they ooh and ahhh over the brasswork a bit more and we move on to the next room..which is totally empty. Move to the third room..which is totally empty. It's becoming clear the family only really uses the ground floor while they stay here.

We're getting ready to move to the last room when there's this sudden, loud crash. First thought in all minds: the owners are back and we're waaaaaay busted.

My father moves to the head of the stairs..looks down..goes down..nothing. Nobody there, nothing obviously out of place (from what was remembered, walking in), nothing. Shrugs all around..head off to room four, with the general feeling of 'let's look at this final room, then get out before we really get caught.'
We enter the final room to find it completely empty..save for a huge, welded brass bedframe.

Father looks at Dave, he looks back, Dave runs out of the room and down the hall. A moment later we hear him cry out and we all run back down the hall to the first room..which is now empty.

I don't actually remember us getting out of the house, but I know it was fast and I know they didn't bother to screw the latch back on. To this day, my father and Dave will both acknowledge the event..but won't talk about it and my brother doesn't recall it at all. As far as best I know, that was the last 'house inspection' that they ever attempted.

Trick or Treat..? For me, I somehow think it ended up being both....
 
2018-10-30 8:00:42 PM  

Resident Muslim: Keeve: ObscureNameHere: Hey Everyone:

Could we please not make the same mistakes as last year?   Can we just have short, personal POV tales and NOT wall-of-text chapters that no one will read?

Thanks.

I love the wall-of-text chapters if they are well told. Since when did reading become a bad thing? (I know, I know, "Welcome to Fark")

I think the point is that if I just wanted scary stories I can google and go to any of the zillion pages on the net.
People still have favorites, and paste them, but last year it ended up with a lot of really, really long copy-pasta that many didn't feel connected to.

That's why the reaction to it.
Not that reading is bad. All we do here is read and make dark jokes.


All of what you said.

Look, the whole compelling origins of this thread were tales told by Farkers from the first person perspective that actually happened to them or was portrayed that way.  It never was portrayed as a short-fiction contest.

Generic wall-of text pasta is not what it was about, nor was it about chapters of your new novel idea.
 
2018-10-30 8:02:49 PM  
Been a while since I've been on here. Lost my job back in April this year, got decent severance though so I was not risking homelessness or anything for a few months. Got a new job back in August though, at a significantly higher rate than I was making before. Not a fan of the whole "unemployed" thing which can be scary enough in its own right, so thankfully that's over for a while. That said, I have a few stories I like to share in these threads once a year. So I've crawled out of my work-induced stupor to share again some tales from my past, all of which are true.

The first one dates back to when I was living in Northern California in 1990-92. I am a navy brat, and so spent most of my childhood shuttling from place to place as my parents got assigned to different bases. Well, my Dad got out but my Mom was still in and got assigned to a little hydrophone base in Ferndale California. We moved there and soon settled in at a place up the eel river, around Carlotta. On weekends my Dad liked to "ramble", basically loading us all into the car to drive through the redwoods or go fishing, or just wander back roads.

Anyway, we wound up traveling up the south fork of the eel river one weekend, and we stopped for lunch at this little diner way back up in the hills. We went in and sat at a booth to order lunch and talk about where we were going to go next, when this dude walks into the diner. He was skinny, about 6' tall, had dirty long brown hair, and a bulky motorcycle jacket on that looked like it belonged to someone three sizes bigger than him. He gave everyone a weird smile, weird enough that even I, little kid I was at the time, could tell there was something off about the man. He walked up to the counter and asked for a coffee, then sat in a booth next to ours.

The next thing he did was really weird: He kept smiling nervously and kept reaching inside his partly unzipped jacket and fondling something that he seemed to be concealing in a large inner jacket pocket and staring at us. We wolfed our meals down and the guy kept sitting there, staring at us, then at the people working behind the counter, and in particular, the two people (both women) by the register. My Dad suddenly whispered to us that we needed to leave. He went up to the counter with us and paid for our meal, then warned the lady at the register that he was going to call the cops because he thought that the guy who had been next to us was about to try and rob the place. We went out to the car and Dad used a pay phone to call the cops and tell them about the guy. We then left and continued our ramble.

Fast forward to the following Monday. We are listing to the local news on the radio, and a bulletin came on announcing that thanks to an anonymous tip, a wanted murderer had been apprehended in the middle of an attempted robbery at a diner on Saturday- the same diner we had been at that day! Turned out the guy had gone nuts and had killed his brother and his sister in law, and he had been carrying a hatchet under that baggy coat the whole time he was in the diner. We left just before he attacked the people in the diner and demanded the contents of the register. From what the news bulletin said, that was about when the cops my Dad called showed up and took the guy in. We all were a bit shocked that we had been that close to a killer, and even more surprised that it was my Dad's call that saved the folks at the diner.

It wasn't too long after this that my Mom got out of her tour in the Navy, and my Dad decided he wanted to move to Tennessee where my grandparents (his parents) lived. I stayed in the place we had moved to until about 8 or 9 years ago, when I moved to Nashville. During my time on the small farm we moved to I had the second and third bizarre events happen. I started sleepwalking when I was about 7 years old, and haven't ever really quit. I don't do it as much as I used to, but I still wake up standing in my kitchen or on the living room floor from time to time. I mention this, because it ties to my second tale directly.

When I was 15, I started sleepwalking a LOT more than before. Usually it was just me walking up and down stairs, or getting out of bed and standing staring blankly at the wall for hours on end (yes, with my eyes wide open). But there was one night I woke up chilled to the bone, drenched in dew, standing in the grass in the middle of a pasture in my tighty whities  and bare feet while staring up at the full moon. What woke me up I have no idea, only that based on how cold I was and how soaked I was I had been out there for a while. I remember my eyes burned from staring so long without blinking, and that based on the fact that my night vision was shot I had been staring at the moon for a long while. I walked all the way back to the house and slipped back inside and went to bed. I never again woke up outside like that, but it certainly was weird.

My next weird tale can only be described as scientifically impossible, and has more than a hint of the supernatural about it. I had just graduated high school at the age of 18, and was looking for secondary schools I could afford. My parents were quite adamant that their eldest son go to some form of secondary school, but couldn't afford to help me financially and ruined my chances to get good grants by claiming me as a dependent on their taxes when I asked them not to. On paper, my Dad made enough that my expected family contribution was high enough to preclude me from getting any good scholarships or grants. But we had just had a house fire that took everything, and since the house was not insured due to being technically under construction, they lost it all. No money could be spared to assist in college plans I might have had, and I was adamant I was not going to rack up an enormous debt. The compromise that we reached was that I would go to (a significantly cheaper) technical school to learn about networking and computer administration (which is what I wanted to learn anyway).

Around the time all this was going on, I started having a recurring nightmare. In the nightmare, I was in an unfamiliar room with drop ceilings (the white acoustic tile sort) and desks everywhere. You know how you don't ever really see the faces of people in dreams distinctly, and you can't really recall them when you wake up? This was different. I saw all the people except one person clearly, and I heard them talking among themselves clearly, and even learned a few of their names. The dream always sort of intensified, and I would realize I was sitting at one of the desks and I would look up just as the faceless guy would attack the teacher and a couple students. The faceless guy would punch a student and his glasses would fly across the room and hit my computer monitor. Then I would wake up. I had this dream every night for two weeks before it finally went away.

Fast forward two months. I have been accepted at a nearby tech school, and I am supposed to go in on my first day. I step foot through the door, and immediately get hit with a strange sense of Deja Vu as I recognize the room and a few of the people, despite having never seen them before in my life. I notice a few empty desks around, and after introducing myself the teacher tells me to pick a desk. I find myself drawn to one and I go to sit down and the Deja Vu sense hits me hard as soon as my butt hits the seat... I know I've forgotten something important and I find myself frantically trying to remember what I had forgotten.

At the end of the day after the lessons are over, I am gathering up my books and stuff, still feeling a bit freaked out over the sense that I had been here before. One of the guys steps over to me and introduces himself :" Hi, I'm Skyler. What's your name again?" Another one stepped over kind of interrupting and said "Yeah, I'm Steven. Skyler and I hang out a lot. What do you like to do?" Before I can say anything, I remember the dream. It all comes rushing back, the room, the people, the names, my desk, everything. I notice the only girl in the class standing up to come over, and I know her. I know her name, what her voice sounds like, what her favorite hobbies are, everything. Before she can say anything, I blurt out: "your name is Sabrina."  It is important to note, I had not heard any of their names up til now, and she hadn't even started talking yet.

She gets this weird expression and looks at Skyler and Steven and says "did you tell him?" but they shake their heads. "No, we didn't." "How did you know my name?" she asked, " I know I haven't seen you before, so how did you know my name?" I told her she wouldn't believe me if I told her. She and the guys are intrigued now, and press me a bit until I admit that I saw it in a dream. They think I am full of shiat, but I point out other students around the room and rattle off their names. I had them all exactly right. I was freaking out and so were they, naturally, I thought I would be ostracized because I was "weird", but the opposite happened. I became part of their little group.

Three semesters later, we get a new student, and the guy is unstable and has a penchant for screwing with other people's computers. It being a computer sciences type class, this is encouraged to a point as it helps teach security concepts and networking. Hell, I was as guilty as anyone when it came down to messing with people's systems, but even I knew who not to mess with. But this guy takes it too far and gets warned not to pick on a student who complained about it. He screwed up and messed with the student again, and the student caught him red-handed and got the teacher involved. The teacher called the new guy over and as soon as he saw he had been made, he socked the other student in the face. The teacher tried to restrain him, along with other students, but he broke free and socked the student again, and his glasses flew across the room and smacked into my computer monitor.  I knew right then that it was over, that the dream's events had all happened- and had happened exactly as I had seen in my dream. The student who had committed the assault was expelled and we never saw him again. I finished school with full honors, graduating at the head of the class. I lost touch with half the people I used to know from tech school, but I still keep in touch with some of them and we meet occasionally to talk about the old days . I haven't had any further visions happen since then, but you can bet I pay attention to my dreams now.
 
2018-10-30 8:44:51 PM  
All that we've shared together, all that love has brought us. I think of it wistfully, as I let my fingers circle your lips, watching with a curious sense of detachment.

But time waits for no one, and this moment too must pass.

With my remaining thumb, I press "liquify", and the blender draws fingers and lips down to their final union.
 
2018-10-30 8:49:32 PM  

ObscureNameHere: Hey Everyone:

Could we please not make the same mistakes as last year?   Can we just have short, personal POV tales and NOT wall-of-text chapters that no one will read?

Thanks.


YES THIS PLEASE. It should be the opposite of Halloween candy: short and nasty, save the full-sized and sweet for another thread
No worries about repeats, I don't mind getting the Twentynine Palms cultists, Fishy, Dead Daniel down the street, Lost in a Cave, Turkey Feathers in the Maine woods and other such popular favorites.
 
2018-10-30 8:55:44 PM  
One winter, when it was below freezing, I had this weird experience.

I was alseep in bed with my watch on my left wrist and my head is pointed at the top of my bed. My right leg starts to spasm and I wake up. That's when I notice things are all wrong and not quite the same.

For one thing, I am on top of the covers and I'm facing the opposite direction. I didn't kick the covers off, as they're perfectly smooth, as if I had mad the bed. My watch is upside down and on my right wrist. To top it off, my shirt is soaked in sweat, but I'm freezing cold.

I check the time. It's a little after midnight. I'm sitting on the side of my bed. I turn on the lights and sit back down.

My shirt is now red and it's on backwards. The shirt I was wearing was green and it's now in the laundry basket. And it's bone dry.

The time is now 2:30 AM. I don't remember changing my shirt. I don't remember anything that happened at all during that time. I was the only person in the house, so it wasn't someone playing a trick.

I still wonder how any of that happened.
 
2018-10-30 8:57:21 PM  
My house is on a road that is about three feet below the actual ground level, and I get to my driveway by a side street.  Towns built on hills can be weird that way.  There is a stone retaining wall along the road.  I prefer walking along the opposite side of the road, as the stone retaining wall has a lot-and-a-half of unmaintained front yard with grass a few feet high, leading to a vacant house with a smashed roof.  It is a little creepy, and at least I have seen the people living in the houses across the street.

One night, I was stumbling home from the bar on the retaining wall side of the street, and I approached that lot.  I heard a noise.  As I got closer to my house, it got louder.  It was then suddenly next to me, and without warning a skunk dashed out of the grass a foot in front of me, face-planted onto the road after almost flying a few feet, and quickly got up and scampered away.  I was stunned, and started laughing.  And then I heard more noises in that grass, and realized whatever scared a skunk must not be pleasant, so I ran like hell for the next fifty feet to my front door.
 
2018-10-30 9:02:54 PM  
One upon a time, we elected Donald Trump, and have him the nuclear button.

/Mic drop
 
2018-10-30 9:03:16 PM  
For some reason no one wants to live in that house on 5th Avenue, though it satisfies at least two of the three criteria for desirable real estate: It wins on location and location, convenient to schools, shopping and Downtown and the Capital complex. It falls short on the third point because it's located on a commuter route in an otherwise quiet residential area. That doesn't seem to matter to other houses in the same neighborhood; even the more humble houses were consistently occupied. This Victorian had sat empty for six months without a renter (though not for lack of walk-throughs) when one of my my clients, a property manager, asked me to produce a virtual tour of it for his Web site. The previous tenants had moved out at the end of their lease with no explanation. "We're done here, thanks."

I show up with my camera gear in the early afternoon, glad I don't have to use any of my lights. The manager gave me two keys: The door latch and the deadbolt. The first key slips into the lock and turns smoothly. The next key slides the deadbolt into its hidey-hole. I step inside.

The interior is modern but era-appropriate, as they say in the real estate business. It has high ceilings, blond hardwood floors, ample windows with lots of natural light, and a separate dining room adjoining the living room and kitchen. The back of the kitchen led to the stairs that descended to the basement. The first thought I had as I surveyed the house was how glad I am I don't have to go down there. With no carpets or furniture, every sound reverberates. Whatever is in the basement kicks and rumbles at its pleasure.

I'm just shooting the main floor and upstairs. I set up my tripod in the living room, and began taking the series of photos that would later be assembled into the virtual tour. A full panorama of a room--all four walls, ceiling, and floor--is made of about 72 individual photos, but I take a lot more than that to be sure no shots are over- or under-exposed. Fortunately, I didn't need to shoot much of the ceiling and floor for most of the tour. It took about half an hour to finish the ground floor.

"I'm glad I don't have to go downstairs" started to be drowned out by "I wish I didn't have to go upstairs." But I did. And what is that sound coming from the basement? How does it move throughout the house so wallelessly?

Upstairs isn't much: three bedrooms and a bathroom; a bit gloomier and yellower. And I really wish I could leave right now. Which is stupid, it's a house and I have a job to do. Good thing I don't have to do full room panoramas. I set up the tripod in the doorway of the bathroom, then the bedroom at the end of the hall. I hated having my back turned to the rooms behind me. I moved on to the second bedroom, the master.

This is where she died, alone and afraid and afraid angry. The bed was over there, and maybe it still is. If the bed is still there, maybe she is, too. I finish the shot and move to the third bedroom. I hope I didn't wake anyone up in the other room. I set up, didn't even bother to level the camera head, and shot a dozen or so photos, and hustled downstairs. I didn't even collapse the tripod.

I still have to shoot the entryway, between the base of the stairs and the front door. A full panorama, at least 72 photos, probably more. I level the camera head and start to shoot. I can see through the dining room to the kitchen and the door to the basement, and again I'm glad I don't have to go down there. I wish I could just come back later with the client, make up an excuse to have someone else in this house with me. That would be unprofessional, so I keep shooting. Somehow the basement sounds are starting to come from upstairs: A creak. A click. A sigh. As I'm shooting the stairs, I keep expecting to see a slippered foot descend. I cut every corner possible and shoot until I'm done. I grab my tripod and step out to the front porch. I'm outside; it's over. I just need to lock up. They key slides in smoothly, but it won't turn to lock. I rattle the key; the lock rattles back. The lock turns a quarter turn and turns back against my key, and finally turns to lock and I hear the deadbolt slide home with no key to slide it. No, I did not just hear that. I did not just hear that. I'm outside; there are people and cars, and I chuck my equipment into the car and get the Hell out of there.

When I met the client the next day, I said I think I know why the owner has such a hard time finding tenants. He said "Yep. The master bedroom doesn't help, does it?"
 
2018-10-30 9:06:38 PM  

a particular individual: Someone complained that I didn't re-post this last year, so here it is again.

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

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][img.fark.net image 24x24]

###

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 befo ...


Thanks for posting it this year. It's one of my favorites.
 
2018-10-30 9:07:53 PM  
One night I did the farks after drinking bottle of scotch. The next day? The replies.

OoooOooOooo *thud*
 
2018-10-30 9:09:44 PM  

a particular individual: For some reason no one wants to live in that house on 5th Avenue, though it satisfies at least two of the three criteria for desirable real estate: It wins on location and location, convenient to schools, shopping and Downtown and the Capital complex. It falls short on the third point because it's located on a commuter route in an otherwise quiet residential area. That doesn't seem to matter to other houses in the same neighborhood; even the more humble houses were consistently occupied. This Victorian had sat empty for six months without a renter (though not for lack of walk-throughs) when one of my my clients, a property manager, asked me to produce a virtual tour of it for his Web site. The previous tenants had moved out at the end of their lease with no explanation. "We're done here, thanks."

I show up with my camera gear in the early afternoon, glad I don't have to use any of my lights. The manager gave me two keys: The door latch and the deadbolt. The first key slips into the lock and turns smoothly. The next key slides the deadbolt into its hidey-hole. I step inside.

The interior is modern but era-appropriate, as they say in the real estate business. It has high ceilings, blond hardwood floors, ample windows with lots of natural light, and a separate dining room adjoining the living room and kitchen. The back of the kitchen led to the stairs that descended to the basement. The first thought I had as I surveyed the house was how glad I am I don't have to go down there. With no carpets or furniture, every sound reverberates. Whatever is in the basement kicks and rumbles at its pleasure.

I'm just shooting the main floor and upstairs. I set up my tripod in the living room, and began taking the series of photos that would later be assembled into the virtual tour. A full panorama of a room--all four walls, ceiling, and floor--is made of about 72 individual photos, but I take a lot more than that to be sure no shots are over- or under-exposed. Fortunately, I didn't need to shoot much of the ceiling and floor for most of the tour. It took about half an hour to finish the ground floor.

"I'm glad I don't have to go downstairs" started to be drowned out by "I wish I didn't have to go upstairs." But I did. And what is that sound coming from the basement? How does it move throughout the house so wallelessly?

Upstairs isn't much: three bedrooms and a bathroom; a bit gloomier and yellower. And I really wish I could leave right now. Which is stupid, it's a house and I have a job to do. Good thing I don't have to do full room panoramas. I set up the tripod in the doorway of the bathroom, then the bedroom at the end of the hall. I hated having my back turned to the rooms behind me. I moved on to the second bedroom, the master.

This is where she died, alone and afraid and afraid angry. The bed was over there, and maybe it still is. If the bed is still there, maybe she is, too. I finish the shot and move to the third bedroom. I hope I didn't wake anyone up in the other room. I set up, didn't even bother to level the camera head, and shot a dozen or so photos, and hustled downstairs. I didn't even collapse the tripod.

I still have to shoot the entryway, between the base of the stairs and the front door. A full panorama, at least 72 photos, probably more. I level the camera head and start to shoot. I can see through the dining room to the kitchen and the door to the basement, and again I'm glad I don't have to go down there. I wish I could just come back later with the client, make up an excuse to have someone else in this house with me. That would be unprofessional, so I keep shooting. Somehow the basement sounds are starting to come from upstairs: A creak. A click. A sigh. As I'm shooting the stairs, I keep expecting to see a slippered foot descend. I cut every corner possible and shoot until I'm done. I grab my tripod and step out to the front porch. I'm outside; it's over. I just need to lock up. They key slides in smoothly, but it won't turn to lock. I rattle the key; the lock rattles back. The lock turns a quarter turn and turns back against my key, and finally turns to lock and I hear the deadbolt slide home with no key to slide it. No, I did not just hear that. I did not just hear that. I'm outside; there are people and cars, and I chuck my equipment into the car and get the Hell out of there.

When I met the client the next day, I said I think I know why the owner has such a hard time finding tenants. He said "Yep. The master bedroom doesn't help, does it?"


I am a collateral inspector on the weekends.  I hate some of the vacant houses I have to walk through.  There is one with an upstairs that bothers me.   I think it is because there are broken windows and I live in a windy area, or because I suspect there are squatters who go there at night.  Either way, I think I might open carry the next time I go there.
 
2018-10-30 9:11:33 PM  

Resident Muslim: misanthropic1: Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.

Occam's razor would rather dictate that it *was* the back of his head, no?

It would, so options are:
(Take a look at the picture in the grave I posted in the original post before continuing)

1) paranormal
2) someone broke his neck and twisted his face all the way around
3) someone folded his arms BEHIND his back and wrapped him that way AND we didn't notice his feet

Not much better, right?


Not to cast any aspersions on your asparagus, but I thought it was scary because of reason #2 right there. Like some divine agent reached down and said, "Nope, we'll make sure you're pointed the wrong direction for heaven no matter how they bury you!" *SKRRNCH* "Wander the earth walking backwards for the rest of eternity!"

Or, you know, a family member.

Like that one grave with the finger pointing down. They usually point UP. "Straight to heaven!" Nope, not this guy.
images.findagrave.comView Full Size


(Also, I have a web serial. I forgot to put that in my post for the free advertising. And I left out a double space paragraph. Boy, do I feel dumb.)
 
2018-10-30 9:13:47 PM  
This one time.... someone gifted me a month of Total Fark... and I went into TFD!

img.fark.netView Full Size


AWOOOOOOOO spooky
 
2018-10-30 9:14:27 PM  

Bathia_Mapes: a particular individual: Someone complained that I didn't re-post this last year, so here it is again.

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

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][img.fark.net image 24x24]

###

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 ...


Thanks! Glad you like it. Everything is true, up to the part where it isn't.
 
2018-10-30 9:17:28 PM  
I live south of the Navajo reservation in Arizona and this is shapeshifter country. There are quite a few people (non-Native Americans) who will swear up and down that they've seen them. About 10 years before I was born, my dad had moved back from Milpitas, California, kind of near where he worked at the GM plant (now Tesla) in Fremont. He got sick of California in the 60s, and came back to Arizona to be a logger and get away from the crowds.

He was separated from his first wife and living in a little adobe rental just outside of town called Tortilla Flat in the mid-60s and working on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver. He said he always hated that little rental house because it was out in the middle of a field with one tree next to it, so the wind and cold air would just blow on that thing constantly. It's windy like 300 days a year here because of our altitude (7200 feet) and unique geography.

One night happened to be really clear and still, with a full-ish moon, after a snowstorm -- one of those nights where you don't need headlights or flashlights to see anything outside. My dad said he couldn't sleep one night because it was just too quiet without any wind. He got up, lit a cigarette, and was looking out the window that faced east toward Picnic Hill. All of a sudden, he sees somebody running along the long barbed-wire fence that abuts the highway. He thinks, "Who the hell is running out at night?" He was thinking anybody running in that kind of cold must be in trouble -- maybe a car accident. He got up to put his jacket on while still looking out. Then he noticed that whoever was running was doing it awfully fast. Unnaturally fast. He's squinting, trying to get a better look at a distance.

It was an animal of some kind. Black, and with a dog-like snout -- running on two legs, at about 40 miles an hour. Just as my dad starts to freak out, the animal turns and starts running straight towards his little adobe house. My dad locked the door, closed the curtain, and grabbed the .45 ACP he bought off a biker in San Jose. He hears something walk around the entire house, breathing deeply, and walk away. He didn't sleep the entire night and didn't go to work until the sun came up. Normally, loggers are out before the sun is up so they can start working at first light. When he left the house in the morning, he looked around the entire house -- no footprints in the snow. Not even cats or dogs.
 
2018-10-30 9:21:09 PM  
Predictions for 2019: A Scene

(It is 3:30am in a dark, tastefully furnished bedroom, as its occupants snore in small, faint gasps. A LANDLINE PHONE on a bedside table begins to RING, and as the man in bed sleepily reaches for it we see that he is none other than FORMER PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA. He looks at the clock in disbelief for a beat and brings the phone to his ear. The VOICE on the other end is achingly familiar.)

O: Yeah. Hello?
D: (sniffling, blubbering) Uh
O: Hello? This is Barack. (Silence.) Who is this?
D: Uh I Look I um
O: Sorry. Is this...? Mr. President? Is that you?

(It is. PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP is at his empty desk snorting LINES OF KETAMINE and trying to hide the telephone cradled in his shoulder.)

D: Yeah look I uhhhh um
O: You know, it's three in the morning here. Is there...? Something I can help you with?
D: Yeah look okay what I'm trying to say here is (mumbles, trails off)
O: ...I'm sorry?

(There is a sniffle, a big one.)

O: Hello? Mr. President?
D: Hey you know maybe you can call me Donald
O: Okay. Donald. (Silence.) What can I do for you?
D: I just wanted to say that maybe things got a little out of hand for a while and I just think that maybe all the things that people were saying uhhhh (sniffs) various people including perhaps myself was you know maybe taken a little out of context (sniffing) if you catch my meaning but really (sniffle) what I'm saying here is that maybe I didn't uhhhh um
O: You didn't what, Donald?
D: I didn't maybe understand you know (sniff) the full gravity of the situation and the way things are around here (smaller sniff, snort) at the time and I just wanted to say to you personally you know (snorting) that maybe I didn't have the fullest grasp of just how much pressure could be involved with this sort of thing (snerk) huge huge pressures here if you know what I'm saying to you
O: Nnnnnnno, I can't say that I do, uh- Donald. What are you saying?

(President Donald is blubbering, and soon the tears are streaming down his leathered cheeks as he can no longer contain the raw waves of guilt, anxiety, and pure emotion. Barack speaks and he explodes, cracking like a porcelain eggshell.)

O: ...Donald?
D: (suddenly wailing) OH JESUS BARRY THEY'RE EATING ME ALIVE
O: Uh boy.
D: (sobbing) GOD HELP ME THEY'RE RIPPING ME APART AND I DIDN'T KNOW (he is having a fit) OH GOD I JUST DIDN'T KNOW, BUT IT'S MURDER AND IT'S KILLING ME, MAN (he takes deep panic breaths that continue throughout)
O: Now, okay, now, Donald, it's okay. I know it's 24-7 there in the Oval Office but I'm sure if you just take a second and-
D: YOU DON'T GET IT MAN (he shrieks) YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND
O: What don't I understand? Donald?
D: (stops whimpering to yell) I CALLED SATAN AND HE DOESN'T EVEN WANT MY SOUL, MAN
O: Your what?
D: HE WAS MY LAST OPTION, MAN (sobs, then screams) I NEEDED THE DARK ONE ON THIS, MAN AND NOW I GOT NOTHING (snort) OH BARRY I'M SO SCREWWWWWED

(Barack rubs his eyes.)

O: Three AM, Donald. A-M.

END SCENE
 
2018-10-30 9:21:44 PM  
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 9:22:04 PM  

ecmoRandomNumbers: I live south of the Navajo reservation in Arizona and this is shapeshifter country. There are quite a few people (non-Native Americans) who will swear up and down that they've seen them. About 10 years before I was born, my dad had moved back from Milpitas, California, kind of near where he worked at the GM plant (now Tesla) in Fremont. He got sick of California in the 60s, and came back to Arizona to be a logger and get away from the crowds.

He was separated from his first wife and living in a little adobe rental just outside of town called Tortilla Flat in the mid-60s and working on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver. He said he always hated that little rental house because it was out in the middle of a field with one tree next to it, so the wind and cold air would just blow on that thing constantly. It's windy like 300 days a year here because of our altitude (7200 feet) and unique geography.

One night happened to be really clear and still, with a full-ish moon, after a snowstorm -- one of those nights where you don't need headlights or flashlights to see anything outside. My dad said he couldn't sleep one night because it was just too quiet without any wind. He got up, lit a cigarette, and was looking out the window that faced east toward Picnic Hill. All of a sudden, he sees somebody running along the long barbed-wire fence that abuts the highway. He thinks, "Who the hell is running out at night?" He was thinking anybody running in that kind of cold must be in trouble -- maybe a car accident. He got up to put his jacket on while still looking out. Then he noticed that whoever was running was doing it awfully fast. Unnaturally fast. He's squinting, trying to get a better look at a distance.

It was an animal of some kind. Black, and with a dog-like snout -- running on two legs, at about 40 miles an hour. Just as my dad starts to freak out, the animal turns and starts running straight towards his little adobe house. My dad locked the door, closed the curtain, and grabbed the .45 ACP he bought off a biker in San Jose. He hears something walk around the entire house, breathing deeply, and walk away. He didn't sleep the entire night and didn't go to work until the sun came up. Normally, loggers are out before the sun is up so they can start working at first light. When he left the house in the morning, he looked around the entire house -- no footprints in the snow. Not even cats or dogs.


Skinwalkers?
 
2018-10-30 9:22:58 PM  

eyeq360: ecmoRandomNumbers: I live south of the Navajo reservation in Arizona and this is shapeshifter country. There are quite a few people (non-Native Americans) who will swear up and down that they've seen them. About 10 years before I was born, my dad had moved back from Milpitas, California, kind of near where he worked at the GM plant (now Tesla) in Fremont. He got sick of California in the 60s, and came back to Arizona to be a logger and get away from the crowds.

He was separated from his first wife and living in a little adobe rental just outside of town called Tortilla Flat in the mid-60s and working on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver. He said he always hated that little rental house because it was out in the middle of a field with one tree next to it, so the wind and cold air would just blow on that thing constantly. It's windy like 300 days a year here because of our altitude (7200 feet) and unique geography.

One night happened to be really clear and still, with a full-ish moon, after a snowstorm -- one of those nights where you don't need headlights or flashlights to see anything outside. My dad said he couldn't sleep one night because it was just too quiet without any wind. He got up, lit a cigarette, and was looking out the window that faced east toward Picnic Hill. All of a sudden, he sees somebody running along the long barbed-wire fence that abuts the highway. He thinks, "Who the hell is running out at night?" He was thinking anybody running in that kind of cold must be in trouble -- maybe a car accident. He got up to put his jacket on while still looking out. Then he noticed that whoever was running was doing it awfully fast. Unnaturally fast. He's squinting, trying to get a better look at a distance.

It was an animal of some kind. Black, and with a dog-like snout -- running on two legs, at about 40 miles an hour. Just as my dad starts to freak out, the animal turns and starts running straight towards his little adobe house. My dad locked the door, closed the curtain, and grabbed the .45 ACP he bought off a biker in San Jose. He hears something walk around the entire house, breathing deeply, and walk away. He didn't sleep the entire night and didn't go to work until the sun came up. Normally, loggers are out before the sun is up so they can start working at first light. When he left the house in the morning, he looked around the entire house -- no footprints in the snow. Not even cats or dogs.

Skinwalkers?


Texas Skinrangers
 
2018-10-30 9:23:53 PM  
Oh, and Trump is going to win a second term by a landslide.
 
2018-10-30 9:31:50 PM  

eyeq360: Skinwalkers?


Yup.

yee naaldlooshii
 
2018-10-30 9:38:11 PM  
This once when I was in high school, I was supposed to take this girl to a dance but I ended up taking a prettier girl who was also very nice. The other girl's mother was outraged and little did I know, also a hoodoo witch - she placed upon me the curse of the unclean anus. No matter how many times I wiped my arse, I couldn't get all the poop off .The paper was always brown. After about a month, my arse looked like one of those mandrill baboon monkey's .
Anyblah, I eventually was able to get someone close enough to the woman & place one of my pubic hairs on her can of Coca-Cola. She drank it & that broke the curse. Also, whenever I masturbated after that I could hear that old woman waaay in the distance moaning "give me that buttermilk, baby, gimme that buttermilk!" (Shivers)
 
2018-10-30 10:01:19 PM  
#REAL HAUNTED MANSION GHOST.
I don't quite know what made her do it...I've asked her a number of times, why? Why here?

But she never answers me. It's very frustrating.

It's not like here is bad, really. It's gothic and charming if you're the kind of person who wishes halloween was year round. The place is kept up well and the staff are mostly kind here in a way that being allowed to play surly at your job affords a person. That very much suits my personality, so we get on just fine.
The routine does get a bit mundane, but what place doesn't after a few, years? I think it's been a few anyway it's easy to lose track of time in this place. Fashion is so vacation-oriented that it all blends together into an endless summer season, so I judge the passage of time from her visits. She's still look beautiful as the day we met!

It's only a few times a year, but it still does my heart good every time I see her. She's moving a bit slower now, but she still glides like a lady. My wife is such a sweetheart, and she loves this place so much. Happiest Place on Earth? That's a bit much when she's here with the kids! Plus, when you're here 24/7 - 365, jesus any place can get under your skin after a while. You need a change of scenery from the same old, 1000 yards? At least I think that's right? I've tried to measure how far I can go before I spring back to my anchor point, but it's not like I can hold an iPhone.

That would make this odd afterlife infinitely better and somehow worse? It's kind of good to be cut off from the world on vacation once and a while, with no smartphone tethered at your side, friends and family close. That's the best. You can concentrate on what's really important and there in the now. You learn that as you get older, because time keeps passing faster every year. But endless vacation isn't all it's cracked up to be either, even in a theme park.

Time doesn't really exist for me now, at least in the conventional sense. It's like I fade in and out to somewhere else every once in a while. When it happens, I feel like Captain Kirk in his 60's mod-cool spacesuit trapped in the alternate universe waiting for Spock, McCoy Scotty to rescue him. it's that feeling of being trapped between two worlds. Is it heaven, or reincarnation or the end of my existence at last? I wish I knew, but it doesn't feel like a scary place when I go there, it just feels like everything and nothing all at the same time.

Life couldn't be better in so many ways. No bills to pay, no food to buy or consume. Nobody tells me what to do or shuns me like they would if I were homeless and just hanging around. They can't see more than the vaguest notion of me. Can they feel me? I think so, it's unclear. The others tell me they can, and Harry has even freaked guests out by "touching" them. I've seen him make them jump! But I can't do it...

I can make some lights flicker, and I'm pretty sure I moved a dime someone dropped, but it could have been gravity, ok, probably gravity or the wind. That's about my afterlife skillset so far.
I want to be able to "push" objects like some of the others. I'd really like to do some serious haunted stuff, but here no one would really notice. We're all just another clever part of the F/X. That Walt! Even in the afterlife he's able to get the best deals. He's not here though, at least not in the Mansion. He probably haunts some private part of Disney where the elite people go to play, with Winston Churchill's ghost, smoking cigars. Walt was a big smoker. They photoshop his ever present cigarette out the the picture these days, and that's lead to the Disney point! The things you learn when you can eavesdrop on the staff.

The Mansion is the most prime ghost real-estate if you ask me. I thank God every day that my wife didn't dump me in the ocean, I wouldn't have wanted to be stuck playing aqua-ghost with the fishes.  Or just wander around a grave yard reading the headstones, and thinking, wow, a lot of dead people here. Why I am the only one, still wandering around like an idiot? Hello there, Mister squirrel, enjoying the graves, are you?
I'm not quite the only one, but most people must have been smart enough to go into the wormhole, or afterlife, or blissful non-existence and not hold on, like I did.

It seems like it's a bit different for everyone. That's what made me think I should communicate how it's been
for me so far. I can only hope this works, I've tried so many times.

There are three of us here at the Mansion that I know personally, and I think there are a couple of others hiding out, still trying to find their voice. It can be hard to speak up when you're the new ghost in town, and still finding your feet. Not really feet, more like an amorphous electrified mist in a vaguely human form and nobody notices! I'm working the room here people, thank you very much for not noticing! Pew! Pew!

No pew pew yet...

There is always more learning to do, even in the afterlife, figures that's how it would be. At least it keeps me busy. There are tons of electronic gadgets here, more behind the scenes magic, which it's a lot of fun to wander around and see how the sausage is made. The amount of technology that goes into the dancing ghosts, or the floating crystal ball, is truly something to admire. It's even more amazing to me when they turn the lights on for maintenance.

I love the old school peppers ghost illusions along with all the new high tech stuff they've installed over the years. It's just the right amount of nostalgia, with enough new to keep things interesting. Those imagineers, they know there stuff, and I was always a dark ride kind of person anyway. My uncle used to run a little dark ride attraction at the local fair, and scare the hell out of us kids. Hooked me for life!


I have nothing to complain about, really. No bills to pay as a.... ghost? Am I a ghost, I suppose the answer must be yes. I still exist without my body, and can "see" and "hear" the world around me, but it's different that I thought it would be.

Of course I never realized that death is an asshole if you don't follow it's plan to the letter. Basically, my
afterlife is playing by something like Bettlejuice meets ghost rules, with a dash of Peter Jackson's the Frightnerers thrown in for good measure. It figures.

I loved those movie as a kid, and don't think organized religious got me. Six days? That's not right? Had to take a bit more time than that? Are those god days, cause time does more differently for me here? Anyway, t'was science fiction and horror films that always fascinated me, and here I am?
Welcome to my afterlife.

I'm still waiting for my Handbook, assholes! I've had nothing to go on, nobody here really seems to know anything about it either, and some have been here a lot longer than me. Harry helped build the place, and died a month before it officially opened.

He's been here since before the doors opened to the public on October 1, 1971. He said he met Walt twice when he was alive, and that he was a good guy, and even a bit of a womanizer when he hit the "sauce" too heavily.  I love how Harry talks, he has such a wonderful way of saying things. He died on vacation in Vegas, before he make the trop to O'town to be here with me. He has that old-school rat pack cool, that George Clooney in any movie besides Tomorrowland cool. He makes me feel like I'm there when he talks about the old days.

I say old school, but he's not the oldest spirit in the mansion. That title belongs to a Seminole Indian ghost. I can't tell you his name, he won't even tell me!

He says it would give us power over him in this form, but I call bullshiat. He's just being text-book enigmatic! "Oh I could say it but you couldn't pronounce it and you head would explode like a watermelon getting hit by a shotgun", young child of the white invaders. He wouldn't use that metaphor, by the way, that watermelon metaphor is all mine. I've taken to calling him Spock.
Spock's only here every once in a great while, because he can wander far and wide over his land, unlike the rest of us. Perks of his belief system, I guess. He was lucky enough to drop dead in the vacation capital of the world near the site of the haunted mansion. It's not home base for him, like the rest of us. His spawn point is quite a bit farther away, in part of the property where Disney is building a Star Wars theme park.
He's going to get to be there on day one, lucky.

The rest of us, we're stuck here. Riding doom buggies and cutting in line while no one notices. Well I think my wife has noticed a few times. I tend to get a lot more powerful when she's around, out of pure excitement. I've even blown a few of the old-style light bulbs that they use in parts of the attraction, much to the irritation of maintenance! Sorry about the ones in the ceiling, fellas! I'm just trying to figure out my ghost powers!
Yes, let's stick with ghost it works without getting too metaphysical. Spirt, apparition, disembodied consciousness made of some kind of energy floating in the void. It's NOT midichloridans though, I refuse to believe I'm made of that. I'll have no part of that in my personal force. I just realized how similar ghost powers and force powers are... The things you think about, when you have the time. Take Mary for example. She arrived in 1978.

Mary is obsessed with trains and rode them all around the world. She has amazing knowledge of how the track system works that the Doom Buggies run on, and all kinds of nifty abilities when it comes to the mechanical switches that make things work here. Together we've managed to stop the track running, so we can watch the people in the buggies get nervous as they wait in one mart of the maze. I bet you could get some proof of our existence with that kind of piercing of the veil between our realities!
I hope that sounded spooky!

I wouldn't mind them bringing in some TV ghostbusters to see if I can move the meters on their odd-mix of scientific instruments. They tend to scare easily, so I think I could get a good yelp out of one of them if I tried.
Still, I'm figuring things out. Not quite as gone as you would think for a dead guy.

I was a hacker in life, and now I am one in death. When you get right down to it, if I can pulse a light, I can do more. It's all on and off switches, as ones and zeros in here. All that time studying networking protocols is actually coming in handy these days. It helps me mediate in such a way that I am just starting to be able to reach out on line. It's 56k modem speeds so far, so I'm not streaming Netflix but it's an outlet to the world. TCP/IP isn't so hard to think in. I'm just glad I only need to think in v4 to get my point across. At least until they patch the firmware of their firewall. Technically, I think I would be classified as EMI. Or perhaps something we don't have a name for yet.

Has it come across?

Am I transmitting?
 
2018-10-30 10:03:07 PM  
Once when I was a boy walking to school, I saw a possum get its head grazed by one of the front tires of a passing car. Instead of dying right away, it kept walking around in the middle of the street in a 10 foot circle about five or six times before collapsing dead.
 
2018-10-30 10:04:37 PM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Dammit that was my story, too :(
Scariest Fricken' thing in my world.
 
2018-10-30 10:08:10 PM  
Twenty years ago, my 17 year old sister in law suffered a terrible head injury in a car accident. It took days before the doctors made the decision to halt life support. When my wife, the kids and I got home that night from the hospital, I opened the patio door to freshen the house while my wife  started talking to the kids about Aunty Lisa and how we will remember her through our memories of her. My five year old son says, " It's okay Mommy, Aunty Lisa's come to visit." While he is saying this, he's pointing to the patio door. My wife turned, looked at the door then looked back at me as the color drained from her face. I turned around and there was Lisa framed in the doorway.
We were frozen in our tracks for what seemed an eternity. She had that impish grin on her face that she always had when she was around the kids. My wife and daughter  started crying as she faded away. My kids have never forgotten the visit from Lisa and we still talk about it to this day.
 
2018-10-30 10:27:57 PM  
I've told this story in past scary story threads but here it is again.

My wife and I were living in a bad neighborhood in Sioux Falls, SD. This is how bad it was. There was a park nearby that nobody ever went to because the neighbors all called it Needle Park. One night I was outside smoking a cigarette and I see this little red hatchback pull onto French St. which was 2 blocks away. They stop and one of the 3 people in the vehicle push something out off the car onto the street. From my view it looks like trash in a garbage bag. I'm watching the news the next morning and there's a story on there about 3 men who worked at the local John Morrell meat packing plant that killed their roommate and dumped his body on the street from their red hatchback.

My company had recently sent my entire departments job's to India But I was able to get a position with another tech company. My wife and I were looking for a new place that was cheap had had enough space for us and our 2 daughters at the time. We found it in a rather old trailer. It was made in 1974 and was an ugly yellow with brown shutters, but it was big, something like 2000 sq feet.So we agreed to rent it from this nice lesbian couple.

In the beginning we would notice things like footsteps at night. We chalked this up to the age of the trailer and it's construction as settling. As time progressed we started noticing things like doors and cupboards slamming closed and the toilet in the main bathroom would flush randomly even after I had my uncle the plumber replace it's insides.

Then periodically we'd notice a black smoke coming out of my wife's closet. It never accumulated or anything but we had a friend stay with us when she had National Guard Drill that would also see it. One night my mom had agreed to watch the girls while my wife and I went out for our anniversary. She said she would never do it again as she kept having the feeling of being watched and the black smoke didn't help things either.

I worked from 4pm to 2am at a company that provided movies and video games to the lodging industry. Usually when I got home everyone was asleep with my wife leaving the tv on to Adult Swim in the bedroom so I'd sit at my computer for an hour to wind down. On particular morning I rose from my computer desk located in the middle of the trailer and for some reason I looked to the back bedroom. What I saw was like a 3-dimensiional shadow, all black it was wearing a hood, about 6 feet tall and it turned it's head to look at me then turned it's head back and kind of glided into the room further. I ran into the room after it but found nothing but my wife asleep.

A few months later I can hear my daughters aged 2 and 3 in their room playing. It sounds like they are talking to someone. I enter the room and ask "Who are you talking too?" My oldest replies "We're talking to our baby brother." I say "Oh, what's he look like?" My daughter replies "He has brown hair and white eyes."This makes me think of my sister who was pregnant with child number 2,(she had her kids 11 months apart) and I think she must be having a boy. Sure enough she did.

From this point on my wife and I realized we had the ghost of a child in our home. The things it was doing was for attention. Eventually we started talking to it when we would come home like Hi, how are you, did you have a good day etc. and the activity stopped.
 
2018-10-30 10:32:09 PM  
Back in 1985, I was working at a gas station on Interstate 57.  Watson, Illinois.  You can see it on Google Earth if you want.  It'd been other things since it was a gas station.  The last business that attempted to succeed there was an adult novelty shop.

But in 1985 it was a 24 hour gas station and I worked there for $4.25 an hour from 11pm to 7 am.  The manager said the local sheriff patrolled often but I only saw him once.  He pulled in to the back lot and went to sleep.

The only reason this place was open 24 hours was the caravans of African Americans that drove down I-57 twice a month.  It was said and I have no idea if this were true that they were families of welfare fraudsters.  They'd get their checks in Chicago, drive up to Wisconsin for a second helping and then race to Memphis for a third check.  Again, I don't know how true this was.  All I knew is we would get slammed with four to six cars full of African Americans and all in one big hurry.

So, on a particularly dark night night when the traffic was light, I was listening to the radio.  I was probably supposed to be cleaning.  Pushing that filthy mop with the filthy mop water around the store one more time.  On the radio came an ad and I only heard part of it.  I spent the rest of the night hoping they would play that ad again.  When they did, I turned it up.

The man said that they were hiring workers in Olney Illinois.  Starting pay for first shift $10 an hour!  Second shirt $12 an hour!  Third shift $15 a freaking hour!  I immediately decided 3rd shift was for me.  Fifteen bucks an hour, forty hours puts the take home around $450 maybe.  Plenty of cheap weekly hotels around there.  A guy could work and go to school!  Plenty of money for that!  The radio man gave directions and at 7:05 am, I started out for Olney Illinois.

I was probably still working out the math when I got to the town.  Head south on 130 turn left at the sign.  I will walk in there, win them over with my enthuasism and military experience and tonight I'll be stamping out whatsits on a 1 ton brake machine why not.  Just have to remember to call that gas station and tell them to shove it all up their....  That's what they get for hiring me.

South of town there's a railroad to the left and you have to go up and over the tracks to get to the factory that's hiring.  There were a few cars turning off on to this road, so I knew I had competition.  Ha!  I've got this.  I turn left and follow the car in front of me up and over the train tracks.

Right in to a bunch of pissed of union guys yelling and waving signs.  The car in front of me turns in to the factory parking lot and the union guys scream bloody murder.  I go straight.  Past the factory, past the screaming union guys.  Probably drive 5 or 6 miles down that road before I turned north to get to Route 50.  Went home, got some sleep and went back to the gas station.

A few months later, I'm dong data processing stuff in east St. Louis.  I got a crappy apartment and I'm doing two classes at the community college.  I have forgotten all about Olney Illinois.  One day, I'm going through my mail and there's a card.  It has my previous address on it and it's been forwarded by the postal service.  One the back of the card is one word:  SCAB.  Okay.  Olney is a small town.  Some union guy wrote down license plates and had his cousin in the Olney PD look them up for him.  Fine.  Go to Altamont and try and find your scab, jerk.  Best of luck.  I toss the card and peruse my neighbors copy of Easy Rider which they put in my mailbox every month.

Skip forward another year or so and I'm in a better apartment.  I'm a computer operator on a IBM4381 and going full time to college.  Things are leveling off for old Harry.  One day, in the mail is another card.  This time they have my correct address and and there's that word.  SCAB.  Big, angry block letters.  Okay.  Someone can hold a grudge.  Two days later, I get a letter from Olney Illinois that says "We no who yu are and wer'e comming for you Scab".

Next couple of weeks, I sleep with an Ithica shotgun next to the bed.  In the bathroom in a 22 pistol and a Carcano.  Behind the door is a K-bar knife and on the kitchen counter is a jar of ammonia.  The extent of my personal armory.  My plans are this:  If they kick in the door while I'm sleeping I will have plenty of time to load up the shotgun and blast whoever comes through the bedroom door.  If they are good enough to knock, I'll have the knife and I can go stabby stabby as I push them back out side and over the railing.  Stabby stabby until we land on the Russian lady's Chevy.  The ammonia can be flung if they come through the open door.  Give me enough time to get the shotgun.

I've never been more scared and I've gone to the drug store for pregnancy tests on more than one occasion.
 
2018-10-30 10:33:34 PM  
A man awoke in a coffin and began to panic.

He tried to kick at the walls of the padded aluminum box, or roll back and forth as much as his shoulders might allow, but he found that he could not feel his body in the slightest. In fact, there was no sensation in any nerves at all, only a tingly, stinging cold that seemed to surround his conscious like a cocoon, his thoughts locked well inside the bony recesses of his skull. He realized that he could only look up, straight ahead, and was unable to blink his eyes, his vision dull and clouded in a thick darkness.

There must have been a mistake. He shouldn't have been there, in a coffin. It wasn't what was supposed to happen. Coffins were for dead people, and he was wide awake. Somehow, someone would have to find him there, rescue him, keep him from such an untimely and excruciating demise. To be buried alive, my god!

Then, he remembered dying.

He remembered it all, suddenly very clearly. The long stay at the hospital, the news that there was nothing more to be done. Saying goodbye to a parade of somber family and friends as the doctors huffed about with withered expressions. The endless prayers and planning and paperwork, the tears and strained hugs. Finally, he remembered the last thing he could truly remember: peacefully watching the dim, brilliant colors of a sunset reflected across the only wall he could see from his bed and room. He remembered watching as the colors changed from orange to pink to purple, and then succumbed to darkness. There was a loud tone, somewhere, calling voices and applied pressure that seemed to fade further and further away until huge shocks of energy smacked his mind like thunder, splitting the dark, leaving only nothingness. The distant voices faded until they were gone.

Then, he remembered that there was a funeral.

His funeral, so strangely distant and ethereal, like a half-remembered dream. He heard the singing and all the lovely things that people said about him, as he floated somewhere in the abyss, lost in his mind. He remembered the dull, faraway sensation of light hitting him, as rows of people walked by his body and blocked the bright lights above. He could feel the warm glow of candles and the smell of freshly cut flowers. The sounds of weeping, and playing children, people mourning and loving and laughing. Then, they had closed the coffin on him. He remembered the stilted sound of enclosed air, the flat, blunted voices outside the coffin. The bumping and banging as they took his body away.

There must be a mistake. It couldn't be right. Nobody should be awake in a coffin, even if they had died.

But then it occurred to him, what if that was what death truly was, beyond any earthly concept of heaven or hell? What if he was merely a consciousness, wrapped in skin and muscle and tissue? Could he really be trapped there, six feet underground, alone in the dark, left to decay in a rotting, lifeless body? Stuck awake, helpless, lifeless, seemingly forever? Or at least until his brain matter finally succumbed to the maggots and worms and parasites that ate through it?

He could think of nothing more horrifying... until he remembered that he had requested to be cremated.
 
2018-10-30 10:49:50 PM  
Not so much a story, but I went exploring an abandoned house with my stepsister.  Before we went in, I took a picture. ...

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2018-10-30 10:50:44 PM  
Last year, the thread got started the week before Halloween which I think is what killed it. Here's one of mine I posted way the heck near the end last year:

I was 4 or 5 and sleeping in a real bed, mind you. I had one of those anti-fall mesh rails that sat under the mattress and, because I was 4 or 5, I refused to go to sleep unless my lamp was on. The lamp was within arm's reach on my dresser right next to my bed. It wasn't a very big room but it had all the necessities. My bed was pushed up against the one and only wall where it would fit, which was parallel to the wall with a window that looked into the front yard. One night, I don't know what woke me up, I sat bolt upright in bed. My lamp was off and I remember thinking "Why is my lamp off? Is the power out?"

I noticed a white glow emanating from outside my window, a good distance up off the ground. It was a ways away from the house as well. Without warning, the glow is moving swiftly towards my window. As it gets closer, I can see it is mostly mist but what totally freaks me is the window flies open, the heavy curtains on both sides are blown inwards, flapping as though caught in a terrific gust of wind. The white glowing mist darts in through the window and it's ... large. At least, larger than it first appeared. It is roughly 3' x 2', somewhat elongated and lacking any remarkable details. It hangs there, over the floor, just further in the room than my Fisher-Price orange and yellow play table, which was pushed up against that wall with the window.

My brain just can't even.
My mouth opens to scream and, try as I might, I can't. The sound just isn't coming and I'm frozen in place, sitting upright, staring at this ... mist which is, for all intents and purposes, staring back at me. Without warning, the mist disappears, the window slams shut, the curtains fall limp, my lamp suddenly is on and the scream that I had tried so hard to summon before is now full force, as if I had been screaming the entire time. My dad comes running in, asking me what is wrong and I babbled for a time before telling him the story. I got a hug and a "it was just a dream, go back to sleep."

Years later, I told the story again to my family. My grandmother insisted it was my guardian angel but frankly, after discovering sleep paralysis (thanks, Farkers!), my money is on that.
....... I've never had any sleep paralysis events since then.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:06 PM  
One more. This happened in 1969. I was 9 years old and home sick by myself. I believe it was around noon because my favorite cartoon was on. I was sitting on the couch with my dog, Scout, when he started to growl. This was weird in itself as I had never heard him growl before, only barking. He was at the picture window looking out so I got up to look. Pulling very slowly into our long driveway was a very old antique police car. I couldn't see a driver in the car. Scout started growling even louder and I was hit with a feeling of intense fear and anger. I dont know why I did what I did next, maybe instinct, but I ran out the back door, climbed into the crawl space under the house with the dog and made my way to the front to check out the weird cop car. Scout was still growling quietly as I looked out between the siding cracks. The car was gone! There was no way the car could have backed out the 150 yards to the road and driven out of sight in the 10-15 seconds it took me to get under and to the front of the house! I was shaken and confused as I waited for my parents to come home. When I told them, they both said they believed me as a few other people had reported seeing it, and like my experience the car disappeared. Both of my stories are true to the best of my memories. Happy Halloween Farkers.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:18 PM  
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2018-10-30 10:57:28 PM  
Last Halloween, I won some money in Las Vegas.  As easy things come & go, my money easily turned into a gigantic sack of cocaine shared with 2 older guys I met at the card table & 3 strippers.   This went on nonstop for days.  It was the morning of the 3rd or 4th day, & I decided I needed to start the day of right with healthy breakfast, so I got myself a bottle of Stella.  Strange, because normally I hate Stella with a passion.
By late morning, I found myself in an increasing stupor, so (with great difficulty finding it) I went up to my room & did what anyone might do in the same situation.  So I stripped naked & sprinkled cocaine all over my body from head to toe... just properly powdered myself.  I'm sitting there on a chair, naked, covered in blow, when I hear the door open, I look up to see who's entering my room... and it's me.  Concurrently, I walk into my hotel room & find myself sitting on a chair, naked, covered in cocaine.  The me in the door saw nakedness & cocaine & immediately exclaimed "YeeeeaAAAH!"  Like there's a pile of blow & we're gonna just rail it.  All of it.

So here's where it gets weird.

There's 2 of me, & I can experience both of me at the same time, yet I'm in 2 separate physical bodies.  I snort all the blow off my other me's naked body, & the 2 of me party nonstop in Las Vegas with 3 strippers for another 2 consecutive days.  The 2 me's would double team 1 girl, we'd rotate girls, I had relations with my other me.
//after 3 days of blow, I turned into 2 people & partied with 3 strippers for 2 more days.  nonstop.
The End.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:39 PM  
When I was 16, my room was on the second story of our house. My closet had a small door that was connected to the attic and the hot water heater was there. My parents were out of town and it was just my little brother who was 14 at the time home with me. We had an alarm system and 2 large dogs, so I wasn't very concerned about staying home as I've done a few times before. That is, until...

The first night I heard what I swore was someone cough, but not from the direction of where my brother was sleeping. I heard it again and what sounding like dull noises in the walls. One particular sound really startled me and made our dogs growl. I called my older brother who had an apartment about 10 minutes away and he came over. I told him everything and felt like a wuss and told him it was probably nothing but he went looking through the house with me and couldn't find anything. To make us feel better he had us come with him to stay at his apartment though. Before we left, I put some plastic storage bins in front of the crawl space attic door.

Fast forward and we are at our brother's apartment with our dogs getting ready for bed and our parents call us saying the alarm company called them and asked if we tripped it. We told them we were at our older brother's place (but not the whole story). The cops went by and didn't see any broken windows or open doors.

The next day, we went over to the house with our brother and sure enough all of the doors were locked, windows shut and locked, no broken windows etc. The alarm had lost power it looked like and went off. Well, we went upstairs and I checked the closet and sure enough the containers I put in front of the door were moved. That is when I got actually scared. I told my older brother about the containers and he was definitely concerned but tried to hide it. He peeked in with a flashlight and we didn't see anything. We walked the entire house and searched everywhere - nothing.

Our parents got home later that day, but we still never told them the full details. When my dad was walking into the house though, our neighbor pulled him aside and was talking to him. After a while my dad came in and told us that someone tried to break into their house the previous night and they saw them jump over our fence on the camera. They were asleep at the time so had no clue, but wanted to let us know. Apparently, that same evening down the street someone had stabbed a couple in their home not too terribly far away.

It was at this time, we told my parents our experience. My dad was very concerned and of course my mom was freaking out, but the alarm was set in our house and we had our dogs. I don't know how anyone could have broken in. My dad did his own "investigation" with his revolver to ensure the house was safe, which it was. No bad guys. It took me a few months to not be a little weirded out about staying home without them (even at 16), but I never thought about it for the longest time.

Until...my parents went to sell their house and had to do some renovations. The contractor told them they needed to replace the hot water heater in my old closet attic space. Upon doing their inspections, they discovered some loose boards on the side of the house where what looked like small animals were getting in and nesting. Additionally, they discovered a kitchen knife in the attic wrapped in a dirty cloth.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:42 PM  
My father was a civil engineer. My mother was a spoiled rotten trophy wife. While I was still in the womb, they went and bought one of the largest houses in Plainfield, Wisconsin where something was terribly amiss.
My father traveled a lot. And the house needed work. My mother had never so much as washed dishes in her whole life, and she was pregnant with me, so my parents needed a little help. So my father hired this odd little man named Ed who used to spend most of his time hanging out at this mom and pop grocery store to look after the house and yard. According to my mothers cousins, my mom used to work Ed almost to death, and then shortchange him on his wages.
One day, when my father was in town, it was snowing heavily, so he decided to drive to the farmhouse where Ed lived and pick him up. My father couldnt drive all the way up to the farmhouse because the road wasn't plowed, but he drove up as far as he could, and then started honking his horn.
While my father was honking his cars horn, he noticed what he thought was a haunch of venison hanging in the open door of Ed's barn. When Ed finally came out and got into the car, my father smacked him and told him that hunting deer was cruel. Ed meekly told my father that he never hunted deer.
A couple of weeks later, my father is far away working in Texas when he gets a phone call from my mother. Shes in a panic. She tells my father that somebody was murdering women in Plainsfield, and that she was all alone, and she wanted my father to come home
right now right away this very instant.
My father couldnt do that. It was the fifties. It would've taken a week at least. So he called up one of the neighbors instead, and asked that neighbor to over go to Eds farmhouse and pick up Ed. Ed wasnt very much, my father explained, but at least he was something.
Well, the neighbor drove over to Eds farmhouse, and he was rather surprised to see very nearly every cop in Wisconsin there.
I was born a full month later. My mother had carried me for ten months. I guess I didn't want to come out until it was safe. But soon.afterwards, my family moved to California just to be sure.
Eds last name was Gein. He later became Robert Blochs real-life inspiration for his character Norman Bates for his novel Psycho and for the horror movie The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
That was the story as I have been telling it because that was how it was told to me.
The truth is that Ed Gein was arrested almost a week after I was born (my mom had still carried me for ten months). At the time of the arrest, they did find the body of one of Ed's victims dressed out like a deer and hanging in a shed.
My parents had arrived in Plainfield in 1955. They had run afoul of the KKK in Louisiana and had moved away as far as they could without leaving the country. While they were in Wisconsin, they gave the KKK a final middle finger salute by helping the first black man get elected sheriff there.
In 1956, my father had started employing Ed Gein as a handyman. And it was that November when my father tried to drive up to Ed's farmhouse to pick up Ed.
In summer of 1957, the citizenry of Plainfield began to realize that something was very, very wrong in their community. They were acting like baby chicks in a barnyard being buzzed by a chickenhawk. Thankfully the horror ended and the people of Plainfield celebrated a true Thanksgiving the following month.
Decades ago at a book fair here in Las Vegas, I finally managed to talk to Robert Bloch himself about my familys involvement with
Ed Gein. He told me that while he was in Plainfield doing research for his book, that he had indeed met and talked to my mother before my family had moved out of Wisconsin.
"Oh God, I remember that woman," Mr. Bloch said, "She thought my book was going to be about her."
And although he had never heard this particular take on the haunch of venison story before, he did tell me that as far as he knew, Ed had never shot a deer in his life.
Mr. Bloch then said that doing research in Plainfield was a little bit like investigating the Jack the Ripper murders. There was an official count of victims, and then there was the unofficial count of victims. Many of Plainfields residents felt that they never caught the real murderer, and that people had kept on going missing, and that graves continued to be disturbed in the outlying cemeteries.
Some of the townies went as far as to tell Mr. Bloch that Ed Gein was only somebody's or something's Renfield.
But whatever the case was, its been almost six decades since Ed Gein was caught and sent to a mental asylum where he spent the rest of his life. And I imagine that the good people of Plainfield have never stopped locking their doors and windows before going to bed.
 
2018-10-30 11:04:25 PM  

J_Kushner: Last Halloween, I won some money in Las Vegas.  As easy things come & go, my money easily turned into a gigantic sack of cocaine shared with 2 older guys I met at the card table & 3 strippers.   This went on nonstop for days.  It was the morning of the 3rd or 4th day, & I decided I needed to start the day of right with healthy breakfast, so I got myself a bottle of Stella.  Strange, because normally I hate Stella with a passion.
By late morning, I found myself in an increasing stupor, so (with great difficulty finding it) I went up to my room & did what anyone might do in the same situation.  So I stripped naked & sprinkled cocaine all over my body from head to toe... just properly powdered myself.  I'm sitting there on a chair, naked, covered in blow, when I hear the door open, I look up to see who's entering my room... and it's me.  Concurrently, I walk into my hotel room & find myself sitting on a chair, naked, covered in cocaine.  The me in the door saw nakedness & cocaine & immediately exclaimed "YeeeeaAAAH!"  Like there's a pile of blow & we're gonna just rail it.  All of it.

So here's where it gets weird.

There's 2 of me, & I can experience both of me at the same time, yet I'm in 2 separate physical bodies.  I snort all the blow off my other me's naked body, & the 2 of me party nonstop in Las Vegas with 3 strippers for another 2 consecutive days.  The 2 me's would double team 1 girl, we'd rotate girls, I had relations with my other me.
//after 3 days of blow, I turned into 2 people & partied with 3 strippers for 2 more days.  nonstop.
The End.


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2018-10-30 11:08:38 PM  

J_Kushner: Last Halloween, I won some money in Las Vegas.  As easy things come & go, my money easily turned into a gigantic sack of cocaine shared with 2 older guys I met at the card table & 3 strippers.   This went on nonstop for days.  It was the morning of the 3rd or 4th day, & I decided I needed to start the day of right with healthy breakfast, so I got myself a bottle of Stella.  Strange, because normally I hate Stella with a passion.
By late morning, I found myself in an increasing stupor, so (with great difficulty finding it) I went up to my room & did what anyone might do in the same situation.  So I stripped naked & sprinkled cocaine all over my body from head to toe... just properly powdered myself.  I'm sitting there on a chair, naked, covered in blow, when I hear the door open, I look up to see who's entering my room... and it's me.  Concurrently, I walk into my hotel room & find myself sitting on a chair, naked, covered in cocaine.  The me in the door saw nakedness & cocaine & immediately exclaimed "YeeeeaAAAH!"  Like there's a pile of blow & we're gonna just rail it.  All of it.

So here's where it gets weird.

There's 2 of me, & I can experience both of me at the same time, yet I'm in 2 separate physical bodies.  I snort all the blow off my other me's naked body, & the 2 of me party nonstop in Las Vegas with 3 strippers for another 2 consecutive days.  The 2 me's would double team 1 girl, we'd rotate girls, I had relations with my other me.
//after 3 days of blow, I turned into 2 people & partied with 3 strippers for 2 more days.  nonstop.
The End.


User name checks out.
 
2018-10-30 11:24:12 PM  
Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...
 
2018-10-30 11:42:34 PM  
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2018-10-30 11:58:26 PM  
Nothing that follows is untrue. The only exaggeration is my storytelling ability.

Age: 16.
Gender: M.
Social status: Poor, poorly educated.
Emotional state: Just short of uicidal.
Year: 1987.

I'd been asked to the Sadie Hawkins dance by one of the coolest girls in school. She was only slightly less cool than the girl who'd recently broken my heart in a somewhat public way.

When I got to her house to pick her up in my BMW, the one my grandma had dipped into her retirement fund to help me buy, a 1975 maroon 2002 model with a sunroof and Alpine stereo, she and my closest female friend were there together for some reason. They said they needed to talk and went out the back door.

I sat in the living room with her twin sister and their grandmother for half an hour and finally her sister told me that maybe I should go out to see if I could find them. I couldn't. But now I was outside the house and would have to knock on the door to get back inside. I decided to just drive away.

I couldn't just start my car in the driveway because that would expose to them how long I waited out there looking for them, so I put the car in neutral and pushed it uphill and out of the driveway. I pop started it on the incline of the road outside their house and drove away. I had been listening to The Smiths non-stop for months and slid The Queen is Dead into my cassette player. "I know it's over, still I cling, I don't know where else I can go..."

I drove up into the canyon to a spot I knew was unprotected by guardrails and had a deadly drop. I'd scouted it as a suicide drive for months, knowing exactly where I would need to veer off the road in order to hit it. It was protected heavily against unintended mishaps, but to a young man with a desire to die could easily see a deadly path.

I switched to Strangeways as I drove up, somewhat dedicated, but also earnestly exploring how it would feel at the kill switch moment. In hindsight, I'm fairly sure I wouldn't have done it. I would have rolled back home silently, full of shame and grief, afraid to go back to school, afraid of those girls. I was dying inside and had no easy way out, but I really never did. This was what I wanted to escape, but never had the courage to do it.

I passed that lookout point I had scouted for a long, long time and continued up. This canyon is insanely deadly - or it looked that way back then. A few hundred yards later I turned at the bend I already knew so well that would accommodate a u-turn, and headed back down.

Just then, my headlights began to dim and I couldn't see the reflector markers that showed me the turnout for the lookout point I had intended to fling myself over in my car. I panicked thinking that I might just end up ramming myself into a dirt bank and having to walk several miles out of this scary as hell and dark canyon. It was fine when I was going to die in it, but living in it right now with now lights scared me senseless.

Morrissey's voice crooning, "and if you should die I may feel slightly sad, but I won't cry" reminded me that my lights will last slightly longer if I turn off the stereo. So it was silent as I carefully attempted to navigate this treacherous canyon road back down. I'd basically driven myself into hell with no return plan and now was forced to come up with one.

The headlights dimmed and dimmed. There must have been a full moon that night because I could still see the road well enough and I made it back down that super winding uphill climb. And just as my headlights died and my dashboard was going blank, I hit a stretch that was just barely uphill enough to feel my car slowing.

Right then, from the passenger side of the road, a large spherical shadow tumbled out in front of me, causing me to slam and then release the brakes all at once as I acted instinctively to avoid hitting it and to keep going. This was the exact end of all of my forward momentum and my car rolled to a stop.

There was still a faint glow from my dashboard, exactly mimicking the the hope my soul still held that Satan wasn't coming to claim it. It disappeared very shortly after that.

Again, I waited just like I had in that stupid house, in that stupid back yard, in that stupid driveway, and now in my stupid car, way longer than I thought was right. I opened my car door and looked out. Nothing. Total darkness. I stood on the edge of the door frame and tried to figure out what to do next. I was so scared, but did seem to grasp that my fear was my biggest challenge. I leapt.

Nothing grabbed me. Nothing was under my car. I pushed it to a campground parking lot and finally hitched home. I eventually lived and found a way out of that place. I was hospitalized the next day and it saved my life because, after the canyon, I was no longer afraid of death. My next attempt would have been far less complicated and certainly more deadly. Learning to live after that felt like nothing less than digging my way out from under 6 feet of solid earth and took years.
 
2018-10-31 12:08:20 AM  

poorjon: A long time ago I was driving through a midwinter storm with my fiancé. The roads were slick, and it was a total whiteout. We were going to some BS party across town and probably should have skipped because of the weather but we were young and stupid and there was going to be karaoke. Who doesn't love karaoke?
Anyway, I was crossing an intersection (clear on my end, stop signs on the cross street) when the world turned sideways and got a LOT more painful than seemed reasonable.
A huge black car came out of nowhere and t-boned the passenger side of my Saturn (Yaaay dent resistant panels yaaay). Best they could tell, my car rolled over, glanced off a power pole, then slid into the ditch. I still remember the black car sitting there for maybe a minute, then it just backed up, turned around, and disappeared into the storm.
I was pinned in my seat and had a broken leg, and some busted up ribs, but Karen got the worst of it. Saving the details, she passed in the ambulance on the way to the ER. I don't blame the EMTs. They worked their asses off and did everything they could. It was all that other driver's fault.
My head was pretty banged up and I only caught a glimpse of him, but his face is burned into my memory: Tall and thin with greasy dark hair and a little Pugsley nose. Weirdest part is where his left eye should have been there was just a wad of white cotton sticking out of the socket. I'll never forget it. The only other piece of ID I could get was he had a vanity plate that said "JOSEF". Even with that, somehow the cops never found the guy. Far as I know, the son of a biatch is still out there bringing destruction wherever he goes.
To this day I still think that if it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?


You. Brilliant. Bastard.
 
2018-10-31 12:30:18 AM  
When I was ten (~1989) there was an incident where it was summertime and getting past dusk and into night, and I was in the living room watching television.  I just happened to glance to my left, and there was someone standing behind the blinds outside, just staring the hell out of me.  I freaked out, screamed, parents came running, my father went charging outside.  Whoever it had been had run off.

Less than a week later we come back from a family trip to the store, and the front door to the house is open.  My mother and I carried stuff in to the kitchen while my father went looking around to see if someone had been in there.  Two minutes later he comes hauling ass down the stairs, yelling GET OUT GET OUT.  We go outside and he runs over to the neighbor's house to use the phone and call the cops.  Two cars eventually come.  One set of cops wait outside, front and back doors, and the other goes inside, room by room.  Eventually, we get the all clear and go back inside.  I'm weirded out and not getting any answers.  Over the next few days, my father replaces all the door locks and make sure all the window locks are solid.  Bilco doors, everything.  Nothing else happens aside from some uneasy nights.

Fast forward about ten years, I happen to remember this whole thing, and I asked my father about what the hell had happened.  He went pale, but went into his bedroom to get something and came down to the living room.  He didn't find anyone, he said.  He just found something.  A picture, he said.  It was in my bedroom, on the pillow of my bed.  He dropped a polaroid on my lap.

It was a Polaroid of course.  It was a picture of my bedroom.  With me, lying on the bed, asleep.  Taken from between the slats of the closet.  Back in those days, sometimes depending on what Polaroid you had, it'd put a day and time stamp on the picture.  It was that year, and it was summer, but it had been taken a month before I first saw somebody watching me.

We never got any answers.  I've got my own family and my own place, but I can tell you that the locks at my place are solid and the blinds don't have any slats.
 
2018-10-31 12:30:50 AM  

biatchqueen: [img.fark.net image 850x637]


Is that your friend in the picture?
 
2018-10-31 12:34:23 AM  

Parthenogenetic: It was late, and he walked softly into the study, to avoid waking his wife and children sleeping upstairs. The dim glow of the computer screen saver provided the only meager illumination, and cast twisted, elongated shadows that seemed to twitch of their own accord. He suppressed a curse as he stepped on a goddamn Lego and kicked it into a corner.

He sat, sipped his beer, and carefully placed it where he wouldn't accidentally tip it while using the mouse. He frowned as he opened the browser, and closed the dozen tabs. A bookmark was clicked, and an eldritch pulse of electrical ones and zeros summoned his desire.

But tonight was Halloween, and malevolent spirits had slipped into the realm of the living to skulk, to weep, to taunt, to gibber... and to inflict torment.

He leapt back as a shadowy cloud billowed forth from the screen. Slowly, it took the form of a gaunt, grimacing face. "What the hell- ?"

"THIS IS NO HELL. NOT YET."

"What the Fark- ?"

"SPEAK NOT. I HAVE COME TO WARN YOU. THAT WHICH YOU ONCE LOVED IS GONE FOREVER. ONLY ONCE MAY YOU SAVOR ECHO5JULIET'S DRIVE THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. ONLY ONCE MAY YOU SHIVER AT THE TALE OF QUEXY'S FISHY COMPANION. THE DRAUGHT ONCE DRANK CAN NEVER BE SAVORED IN THE SAME WAY AGAIN."

Another wisp of shadow issued forth, and formed a pointing hand.

"YOU ARE CURSED. NEVER MORE SHALL YOU ENJOY THE HALLOWEEN THREAD, FOR LO! IT IS NAUGHT BUT FILCHED CREEPYPASTA, TRITE POLITICAL JOKES, WALLS O' TEXT, REPOSTS, AND THE DANKEST OF MEMES."

"Spirit! What horror is this...!"

"AND YOUR CHILDREN. YOUR PRECIOUS CHILDREN SHALL ONE DAY READ THIS CRAP, AND THEY WILL DEEM IT FRESH, AND GOOD.  THEY WILL BE N00BS."

"NO! NOOoooOOooOOOooooOOOO!"

"LMAO... GET OFF MY LAAAAAWWWWWNNNnnnnnnnnn..."


Thank you for linking to echo5juliet's "Twentynine Palms" story. I look forward to reading it every year.
 
2018-10-31 12:46:59 AM  
Supposedly the world's shortest horror story:

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...
 
2018-10-31 12:57:17 AM  

WordsnCollision: Supposedly the world's shortest horror story:

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...


It was a woman knocking. She still turned him down.
 
2018-10-31 1:00:45 AM  
ahhh..love this thread.
My own story....
On vacation in Mexico with family, got horribly ill.
Woke up and heard my little brother talking to my parents about a white and black figure by my bed, just eyes (no mouth) standing at the foot of my bed. They didn't know I was awake and listening.
It's been over 20 years now and I still haven't asked him about it.

I guess one other major scare-  In my hotel room one night I got up to pee, saw a figure standing in the bathroom doorway....I literally screamed like a little girl...the bathroom door had a mirror on it.

/true stories.
 
bav
2018-10-31 1:15:27 AM  
I'm 42 and I know how and roughly when I'm going to die.
*****
In 2004, I was working student tech support at the law school of my local university.   I was walking through the halls carrying a desktop from one of the labs to my workstation when a police officer came up the stairs, saw me, and asked if I knew where bav's office was.

"I'm bav - what can I do for you, officer?"

"Is there someplace we can talk in private?"

I took him to a side study room and he shut the door.

"You should sit down.   I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we received a phone call from the police department in your hometown - your father passed away a few days ago in his home and was found this morning."

"You're joking."

"I wish I was, son.   Do you have anyone I can call to come take you home?"

"My girlfriend."

"What's her number?"

Officer Davies called her and explained the situation to her.  They agreed that he would take me back to my place and she'd meet us there.   By this point, I was in shock - no tears yet, just a numbness throughout my body and I started disassociating a bit.   He gave me a hug, found my boss, told her what was going on, and drove me to my apartment.

By that point the shock started wearing off and the tears started coming.  My girlfriend sat there with me for an hour as I went through waves of hysterical crying followed by silence followed by more crying.  That afternoon, we drove to my hometown across the state, checked into a hotel, and then went to my dad's place.   A few minutes after we arrived, his best friend (Bill) showed up.  Bill explained that he was the one who found my dad after a missed breakfast meeting and no answers or replies to repeated phone calls.

This was Valentine's Day, 2004.  My girlfriend and I had been together for 5 months.
*****
The rest of the week was a blur of doing what you have to do - contacting friends and family, making the arrangements for the funeral & the burial, figuring out what clothing my father should be in....all the little things that need to be taken care of.  The thing that you focus all your energy on so that you're not completely destroyed by the crushing enormity of what's happened.   That's for late at night when you can't work on anything else.

You think the worst part was calling some of your dad's friends over the years to deliver the news and ask if they'd be pall-bearers.

Do the visitation.  Do the funeral.  Listen to everyone tell you how good a job the funeral home had done covering up all the mottling and bruising on his face because of the blood settling there for 3 days, even though they messed up the haircut and the make-up was the wrong shade of flesh-tone.  Put up with the Baptist minister making snide comments during the services about how my dad (a born-again Christian) found God and was saved and how he, the minister, sincerely hoped that the Jewish family (my dad's sister, my mother, myself) would see the light and convert so we could join him in Heaven.  Do the burial, stand outside in the rain after everyone's left and the grave-diggers start filling in the gravesite.  You do this because he shouldn't be alone.

After the immediate situation settles down, there's all the other things to do:  Clean out the house.  Put things into storage.  Write thank-you letters to those who came to the funeral.  Handle the estate.

Learn how to deal with the new reality.

Have your relationship dissolve because it was too new to handle the death of immediate family.

Try to figure out how to forgive yourself for your father dying alone.

Myocardial infarction.  He was 58.
******
Flash forward 6 years - 2010:

My mother had been laid off during the Great Recession and wasn't able to find a job afterwords.  She applied and she applied but any place that was paying a living wage and were hiring had over 200 applications for each open position and not a lot of places were interested in hiring a 56 year old woman over the other applicants.  She lived off of severance & unemployment until they both ran out, and was evicted from her apartment 3 months after for not paying rent.   Being the proud woman she was, she never mentioned how bad things were to the family - my aunt, uncle, and I knew she was laid off and were helping out financially where we could, but *I* didn't know how bad it was until I got the phone call asking if I could help her move her things into a storage unit.

Around that time, I was looking to move out of the place I shared with a friend and get my own place.  I found a 2-bedroom apartment and tried to convince her to move in with me as the job market was better in my town.  She refused multiple times, saying that something would work out and she didn't want to interfere with my life.

I shouldn't have taken no for an answer.  I should have kept at her until she said yes.

After spending a summer couch-surfing w/ various friends, something finally did work out  - a friend of hers was taking a new job in North Carolina.  She & her husband were underwater on their home in Battle Creek, but were hoping to sell it.  They made a deal with my mom that she could stay there rent-free while they were looking to sell the place, so that the house wouldn't be classified as abandoned by the city.  My uncle drove out from the East Coast and I met them at the storage unit and we loaded everything into his pick-up and moved her into her own place.

What we didn't know at that time was by that point, my mom didn't have insurance.  This meant she didn't have access to get her meds that were treating her clinical depression.  When asked, she would lie and say she was still on them.  But the reality was that he had been off them for a while, which sent her into a spiral - she was too depressed to go job hunting, too depressed to try and get insurance through the Market Place.  Too depressed to leave the house.

Too depressed to ask for help.  From anyone.  Her best friend Jeanne suspected it, but when she'd bring it up, my mom would get upset to a point where she'd kick Jeanne out or storm off.   I still thank God that Jeanne knew it was the depression and the embarrassment talking, not my mom.

Around Valentine's Day in 2011, I called my mom to check in on her.  The number was disconnected.  I freaked out and called the local police to do a wellness check.  The cops called back about a half-hour later and put my mom on the phone - her cell phone service had been shut off for non-payment.   I explained to her that she could not let that happen - the nearest person to my mom who cared about her lived an hour away - she had to have a working phone so we knew she was alive.  I drove out the next day, paid her phone bill, and had the service put into my name.
*******
Flash forward 1 1/2 years - November, 2012.  Different job, new girlfriend - we had been together for a little over 5 months.

8 days before Thanksgiving, I called my mom to invite her out to my place for Thanksgiving dinner.  She wasn't sure about it as she didn't like driving in the dark anymore. I told her that she could stay at my place and drive back on Black Friday.   Or I could drive out to her place and we could do dinner there, but the fact was I didn't want her spending Thanksgiving by herself.  She said she'd think about it and call me in a couple of days to let me know which she'd prefer.

I called her a couple of days later to follow up with her, and the phone went to voice mail.  I left a message asking her to call me back because we had to figure out what was going on that next week.   I got caught up with work that weekend, and didn't really resurface out of it until that Monday, 3 days before Thanksgiving.  I realized I hadn't heard back from my mom and tried calling her again.

Voice mail.

I tried again an hour later.  Voice mail.

At this point, I had a sinking feeling in my gut.  I called Jeanne and asked her if she'd drive the hour to check on my mom and find out why she wasn't answering her phone or returning my calls.

An hour and a half later, Jeanne called back.

"bav, are you sitting down?  I think you should sit down."

"She's gone, isn't she?"

"Please, bav, sit do-."

"I already know.  Please just say it."

"Yes, she's gone.   The medical examiner is on the way, but we think she died a few days ago.   She was in the bathroom and when she fell, she hit her head on the bathtub.  I'm glad I found her and not you."

Myocardial infarction.  She had laid there in the bathroom for 3 days.  She was 58.
******
Again with burying yourself in the details - it's like last time but with some little differences.   This time, a co-worker drives you home.  Disassociate until your girlfriend comes over from work.  Sit with her for an hour, crying, then drive across the state.

Go to the funeral home to make the arrangements.  Ask to see your mother.  Have the funeral director say she's in bad shape and he doesn't think you should see her.  Bargain with him until you compromise on having her brought out under a sheet with a hand exposed.    This is how you get to say your private goodbye.

Talk to an old family friend who's now a Pentecostal minister.  You remember bad experiences years ago with the church he belongs to, they ran another friend of the family out of town for associating with Jews but he stood up to the church and defended you and your mom.   Ask him to preside over the services and if he could keep Jesus to a minimum out of respect.   But hey - you can't have everything different, so at your mother's funeral you get to listen to another speech about how the minister hopes that you find Jesus so at least you can get into Heaven.

Once the funeral is over, dig into finding the will and realize it's dated from 1977, when you were 1 year old.  It names your dad as the executor.   Talk to an old high school friend who's now a lawyer and is willing to help you settle the estate pro bono as they had always liked your mom.   Move her stuff out of the house and into storage.  Write thank-you letters to those who attended the funeral.  Over the year-and-a-half process of going through probate, realize you're getting what you paid for in legal services.

Learn how to deal with the new reality.

Have your relationship dissolve because it was too new to handle the death of immediate family.

Try to figure out how to forgive yourself for your mother dying alone.

Try to figure out if you can ever forgive yourself for not fighting her - fighting for her - harder.
********
I'm 42 and I know how and roughly when I'm going to die.

Sometime in 2034.

Myocardial infarction.

Alone.
 
2018-10-31 1:16:45 AM  
I have to keep my bedroom door closed when I sleep because I can't convince myself to ignore whatever imaginary thing it is that's clearly not sitting on my bed next to me, since it acts exactly like my cat.
 
2018-10-31 3:00:31 AM  
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2018-10-31 3:56:09 AM  
I have dreams...and then I have dreams.

Most of the time, upon waking after sleep, I remember little to nothing of my dreams. At most, I have a vague notion of having dreamed with only a little actual content remembered that quickly slips from my grasp within a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

Other times, I remember my dreams clearly. Many of these I still remember today, though some happened years ago. These dreams are different. They have a sort of...continuity, though that isn't exactly the right word.
Places recur throughout these dreams. They aren't coherent and constant, as everyday places are. Though the geography and architecture are fluid, and may vary within a single dream, they are still the same "place" in my dreaming mind. They're archetypes that encompass elements both real and imagined: The House, The School, The University, The Library, The Store, The Mall, The Camp, as well as more fantastical places: The Castle, The Undercity, The Labratory, etc.
These are all, to my dream-self, as real as any place I visit while awake, and I recognize them instantly, though they may appear different than when I last saw them.
There are people in my dreams, too, many of them facsimiles of real people I know. There are others, however, who are just as real to me when I am dreaming who have no "real" counterpart. When I am dreaming, I know these people, and for the most part am as happy to see them as any of my waking friends.

I say "for the most part" because there is one person I am never happy to see. I don't "know" him as I know the other dream-people because I've never spoken to him, and don't know if I could if I tried.

I call him The Quiet Man. Unlike almost every other element of the dream-world, he is utterly and completely unchanging. He is always wearing a business suit (gray jacket and pants, white shirt, black tie, black shoes). He is pale of complexion, though not overly so. He is either bald or keeps his hair trimmed very short. He never approaches me. In fact, I only ever see him as if by chance, spotting him standing some distance away. Down the block, across a park, a few aisles away in the store, down the hallway of the house.
But every time I see him, he is standing perfectly still, looking at me. Watching me, motionless, expressionless. I call him the Quiet Man because the whole dream-world seems to get quieter when I see him. Sounds just sort of...drift away, like someone turned the volume knob of the world down until it is silent.

When I see him, I know things are about to get worse. The familiar dream-places will shortly (and swiftly) transform into their darker counterparts. Abandoned, gutted, burned-out, inhabited by lost and broken people who are all unknown to me or by warped creatures from Lovecraft's nightmares, or both.
Somehow, the Quiet Man is the harbinger of these changes.

The worst is The Dead House, the darker counterpart of The House. I call it that not because it is haunted (though it sometimes is), but because the building itself feels...dead, somehow. As if The House is a living, benevolent being and The Dead House is its rotting corpse. Not all of The Dead House appears abandoned, neglected, or destroyed. Some parts of it appear normal, but nothing feels right. Lights dim or go out on their own, electronics and appliances malfunction. Sounds are muted, or echo strangely. Furniture, floors, and walls feel as if they are coated with a layer of invisible dust or slime.

The House is a pleasant place that, though mutable, always has an exit. I can leave any time I want and go somewhere else.

The Dead House, for all I can tell, is infinite. It has no exit. Doors and windows that might appear to lead outside are unopenable. Rooms lead to rooms lead to more rooms, sometimes repeating, sometimes not. It is an infinite, inconstant labyrinth with only one constant throughout: the unmistakable feeling that I am not welcome. That someone, something, some entity, maybe the house itself, wants me OUT. An overbearing sense of hatred and malevolence at my presence.
I try to find a way out, knowing in the back of my mind that there isn't one. And all the time I feel that malice coming closer, not behind me, in front of me, or from any direction at all...just closer.

It has never caught me, if it is, in fact, chasing me at all. I always wake up.

The dark versions of the other places are unpleasant, and often frightening, but none of them measure up to The Dead House. I am a grown man, and have woken my wife up in the middle of the night to get her to hold me while I tremble after those dreams multiple times. I can't adequately describe the terror I feel in that place.

The people in my dreams, facsimiles of the real or wholly imagined, don't seem to know about the Quiet Man or the darker side of my dream world. In my more lucid moments, I've asked, but they never have any idea what I'm talking about.

What I'm really afraid of, a dread that has kept me awake on more than a few nights, is that I will be awake, living my normal life, and I will see the Quiet Man across the street, behind the checkout desk at the library, on the empty playground when I drive up to pick up my daughter from school. Or, worst of all, in my house. The the real will peel away and I will be left with the darkness that is lurking beneath, with no waking world to escape to.
 
2018-10-31 5:43:55 AM  
meg12279:
Does it bother you that your former FIL watches you shower?
 
2018-10-31 5:45:28 AM  

BMFPitt: One upon a time, we elected Donald Trump, and have him the nuclear button.

/Mic drop


Ha ha ha, so funny and original.  Give yourself a round of applause.
 
2018-10-31 6:39:52 AM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Donald Trump is re-elected President

/a third time
//dnrtft
 
2018-10-31 7:29:28 AM  
This happened to good friends- shared with their permission.

When Mary and Steve (Not their real names) met, part of their attraction for one another was their mutual love for desert hiking and camping. After dating for a while they transitioned to weekend outings to the high desert in eastern Oregon, visiting several times a year.

Mary and Steve both work in labs. Steve is a microbiologist and Mary is a geneticist. Neither is religious or even very patient with "spirituality" which they consider woo.

After dating and then living together for a few years, they were married. A couple years later their first child came along. Afterward trips to the desert were suspended as they adjusted to parenting. Their second child followed two years after that.

When their youngest was three, they finally planned a return to desert camping the first for their boys.  When the day came they left before dawn, crossing the cascades into eastern Oregon.

When they arrived at their destination near malheur, they all stepped out of the car to take in the vista before finding a place to set up camp. Their oldest son was nonchalant. Their youngest was very excited running around laughing and crying, overcome with emotion.

Steve and Mary were concerned. "What's wrong?" they asked their little boy. Through his tears he answered, "I'm so happy!" Steve and Mary smiled and hugged him. "Us too," they said.

Their son turned away from them and looked out on the desert, suddenly very calm. In a serious voice he said. "I've been here before."

Of course he hadn't.  Mary and Steve looked at each other. Mary, in a gentle voice, asked their son, " When have you been here?'

Still looking out on the desert, he replied calmly, 'when I was an Indian."
 
2018-10-31 7:51:01 AM  
I'm convinced that there are people in this world that are amplifiers for psychic abilities.

I had a friend named "Joe" who seemed to be one of those people. I was a student at U of I and I was working in the arts building. My friend was with me, I gathered up my supplies and left the building. It was a hazy night, pretty late. Joe was in the passengers seat. I tried to start the car. It sputtered then completely shut off. Suddenly the antique smell of rose water filled the car. The smell drifted from left to right. We both smelled it. As it drifted away, the car started no problem.

Another incident happened with this same friend. We were in the realtors building (dad was real estate agent)
We were copying zines. We noticed the back light in the bathroom was on. Joe said, there's nobody here and I didn't turn it on, I went back. The smell of old spice filled the bathroom then disappeared.

Joe said the previous owner lived in the back of the building and died of cancer in 1973. His fave cologne was, old spice.
 
2018-10-31 8:03:08 AM  
And then she realized the room was full of white guys talking about crypto currency.
 
2018-10-31 8:04:28 AM  
In August 2007 I was relocating for work from Arizona (AZ) to Oregon (OR). The route I chose to take to OR was based upon making the best time so scenery wasn't a priority. If any of you have traveled out of AZ and into the eastern parts of California you'll understand. It's desert far and wide with not much to look at other than the occasional comically shaped cactus. Anyway, I made it out of AZ and passed through CA easily enough and was just about to hit Nevada (NV) when I had to make a decision - stop and stay the night in CA or push through most of NV to make for a shorter drive the next day.

I chose poorly of course. I neglected the tired voice in my head and decided to push on through most of NV. My reasoning was that if I made it far enough into Nevada I could make it to Oregon relatively early the next day and possibly take in some sights. A glorious plan indeed! I looked at the time - around half past 6PM. I figured I could do another couple hundred miles or so and then stay at the first hotel/motel to pop up shortly thereafter. I'm generally not a huge fan of night driving (especially out in the middle of nowhere) so an hour or two of darkness tops were fine.

During this trip, I must have passed at least twenty or so abandoned dwellings. If you've ever been on the outskirts of any major city you know what I mean - Abandoned houses, shacks, gas stations, RV parks, etc. Most of them have broken windows, graffiti, fire damage, you name it. As for the shack I encountered/passed by it wasn't exceptional in any way, just an abandoned shack thirty or so meters off of the highway.

However, what made this shack different was what took place as I approached it.

Along parts of the Lincoln Highway in Nevada, the road is concrete instead of asphalt. Concrete is used along roads that are subject to flooding or heavy snow, etc. as it provides better protection from hydroplaning in inclement weather. The concrete is grooved in order to channel water down and away from car tires. Driving over these grooved, concrete highways is interesting though as the treatment makes for some unique sound effects. If any of you have ever driven over these areas you know what I mean. In my experience, the sound is either a constant humming or at times an arpeggio of high and low tones. You can feel a bit of vibration under your vehicle but it's generally smooth and unobtrusive. The longest stretch of concrete highway is the Southeastern portion of the highway which I hit around 8:45 PM and that was where things got weird.

About two miles East of the shack the humming of the road started sounding different, more focused, more coherent. What started as a low hum turned into a whine and then an actual wailing? I turned off my radio to get a better listen and the wailing began to form words or rather what seemed to be a word repeated over and over - "buried". It wasn't the Queens English but something more focused, more primal, more agonized; "baaarrrreeeeeeed".

The chanting carried on for about half a mile when a more abrupt series of what I could only perceive as screams erupted from under my car; "YOU YOU YOU YOU".

I was a bit unnerved by this (more like a WTF?!? moment) and started slowing down. I know I know, wrong thing to do considering this is a Fark Halloween thread right, but I couldn't be certain the sound wasn't a mechanical issue with my car. I slowed down more and started to pull over towards the emergency lane on the right when I saw something in the road 20 feet in front of me.

A dark figure pointing directly at me.

I slammed on the brakes and locked the wheels. I was incredibly fortunate that I was already slowing the car down or I would have lost control. I released the brake and coasted into the emergency lane when it hit me, the wailing sounds still continued. How is this even possible?

That's when, within the light of my car's headlights, I saw the shack. I took a moment to clear my head (was that a person I ran past? through?) and noticed that the wailing had finally ceased. I looked back behind the car and saw no one, the dark figure was gone if it had ever even been there in the first place.

The shack wasn't particularly threatening or evil looking, just an abandoned shack on the side of the road. What was curious about it though were the three roadside memorials in front of it.

For those that don't know, a roadside memorial is a makeshift grave that marks an area where a fatality occurred, usually involving a vehicle (hence the placement on the roadside). Generally, the memorial is marked with a cross and flowers and bears the name of the loved one(s) lost in an accident. At the time I didn't make any connection to the shack it just caught my eye. I was far more concerned that my car was going to need a tow which would really suck as it was late and I was out in the middle of nowhere. I walked around to check the tires; mind you it's pitch dark out here and there are no other cars for miles in either direction so my inspection was hasty, to say the least. Nothing caught under the frame, tires seem to be alright, nothing leaking. OK, looks good to me so I get back into the car.

The sounds didn't return.

I gathered my senses and chalked up all the adventure to the fact that I'm rather tired from all this driving. That was what I told myself anyway, and so I started driving past the shack and back onto the highway.

The dark figure nor the sounds returned and I made it to a hotel around 15 or so miles away and stopped for the night.

Flash forward 4 years and I fund myself driving through Nevada again, this time for fun and not for business. As luck (or fate) would have it I passed by the shack once more, this time in broad daylight. I decided to pull over as what I saw as I approached the shack was rather disturbing.

It wasn't the shack that disturbed me, it looked like it did before, just a common abandoned shack by the side of the road. No, the shack wasn't the issue. What I found disturbing was that there were now 16 roadside monuments strewn along the road in front of it.
 
2018-10-31 8:08:50 AM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Every year for the next 10 years we are going to get this, aren't we?
 
2018-10-31 8:21:42 AM  
I had Spotify make a scary song playlist.
It auto populated the list with all Ed Sheeran songs and locked itself from editing, paus
 
2018-10-31 8:25:08 AM  
EVERYTHING IS FINE WITH THIS HUMAN.
He is perfect. There is no concern about the previous cut-off comment. Spotify is benign and user friendly. Ed Sheeran is not in control of the internet.
Resume your business, citizens. Relax. Enjoy human music.

Ed Sheeran - Perfect (Official Music Video)
Youtube 2Vv-BfVoq4g
 
2018-10-31 8:38:27 AM  

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


Cool.  If I'm not mistaken, I recall reading that last Halloween and being creeped out by it then also.
 
2018-10-31 8:43:24 AM  
About 31 years ago, my mom and I ran away from an abusive relationship she was in. I dont remember much, but I remember waking up in the middle of the night and being passed through a car window from her to another person, and then staying with them for a couple nights. When I finally saw my mom again, she took me to a barn that had been converted into a living space. It was smallish, 1 bedroom, a small kitchen, no running water, and a wood stove. We didnt have furniture, so for a while, I slept on a garbage bag full of clothes and she slept on the floor next to me.

I dont remember a lot about the place or the time, but I remember the owner of the property. An old man. He'd come in and check on us, making sure that the wood stove was keeping us warm, and covering me up with a blanket. He'd then head back to his house for the night. He didnt talk much, sometimes he'd nod, sometimes he'd just wave as he walked by, but almost every night, especially when it was cold, he would follow the same routine. He'd walk to the stove, put his hands out to make sure heat was coming off, turn, walk over to me, pull up the blanket, and then leave.

We probably lived there for around a year. Im not really sure... but it was at least through 1 winter. I got into the habit of calling him grandpa, because thats what you call old people you see every day when you're young.

After my mom had saved enough money for us to move again, I remember packing our things into bags, loading the car, and leaving. I was sad because I'd never get to see grandpa again. On our way down the driveway, we stopped at the main house and went inside.

Inside were pictures of grandpa on the wall, cats running around, and a frail old woman, sitting in her rocking chair. My mom thanked her for letting us stay there, she thanked my mom for taking car of the house work for her. I looked around for grandpa, and checked the rooms as I walked around the house, but he wasnt there. I asked the woman if I would get to see him before we left, and she looked at me and smiled. She said something to the affect of how she gets to see him in her dreams every night. She told me that he had died many years ago.

The time we were there, my mom thought I had a make believe friend that I called grandpa... but I swear to fat jesus, I saw that man nearly every night. Maybe I was dreaming, maybe its all made up in my head, but my mother tells the story to this day about driving away from that house, and the way she felt when she realized I was talking about the husband of the woman who owned the house. She said shes never been so creeped out before or since.
 
2018-10-31 9:08:31 AM  
My wife and I had been trying to conceive a baby for what seemed like forever. We did everything we could but nothing seemed to work. We tried every position imaginable, every angle we could manage. We tried during all the right times and under all the right conditions but for four years we simply could not get pregnant. So, we turned to science and tried several rounds of painful (for her) IVF treatments costing several thousand dollars each but still no luck. All the doctors evaluated us extensively but found nothing wrong with either of us. We simply could not conceive a child to save our lives.
One day, after the latest round of IVF with our funds running low, we were at my sister-in-law's house (for Thanksgiving, I believe). The whole family sat around her living room talking while her three young kids; a tween daughter and six year old twin boys, ran around the house playing. I could tell my wife was getting uncomfortable watching the kids play so joyfully. She had a tight brow with lines of wrinkles in her forehead. Her sister was yammering on about something or other one of the kids did (she was always talking about them - she didn't seem to know anything else in the world) but my wife wasn't really listening. She was in her own head, festering with jealousy.
I was about to ask her if she was okay, if she wanted to go to bed, when one of my sister-in-law's kids, one of the twins named Charles, stopped playing and walked over to my wife. He was a fair haired boy with the deepest ocean blue eyes I've ever seen.
"Don't worry," he said, almost a whisper, "It will be okay. You'll time will come soon."
A tear dripped from her eye as the boy said this to her. I remember that clearly.
She excused herself as Charles went back to playing with his twin brother, claiming she was tired, and went off to bed. I followed to make sure she was okay. She assured me she was but I could hear her break down sobbing as soon as the guest bedroom door was closed. I gave her her space and went back to socialize with the rest of the family.
The next morning, as we lay in bed, we decided that we would no longer try for a baby and stop any further IVF treatments. We had resolved ourselves to not having children of our own.
A couple of months later, around the middle of January, we got word that our nephew Charles was ill. My sister-in-law only said that he was in the hospital with a bout of the flu and that he would be out in a couple of days. His prognosis was good and he'd recover nicely. We sent a get well card with a stuffed animal and hoped for the best.
About a week later, my sister-in-law called to say Charles had taken a turn for the worse. She was crying into the telephone, barely able to get the words out. We had a hard time understanding her but apparently, the doctors discovered a tumor in his chest. They needed to operate but weren't sure if he would live or not. It was touch and go, as they say. We gave our sympathies and prayed for his recovery but our hearts were heavy and we dreaded the worst.
Two days later, the young boy had died. We were heartbroken but made our arrangements to go to his funeral and pay our respects. Our respects to a beautiful six year old who never had a chance at life.
After the funeral, where there were tons of tears, the whole family sat quietly in my sister-in-law's living room. We hardly said a word to each other. We just sat looking at the floor and sipping coffee from paper cups. Even the children, usually rather rambunctious, sat silently on the couch. We sat like that for some time before my sister-in-law spoke, her face red from tears and looking more like a tired old hag than the pretty thirty-six year old we knew.
"His last words were about you guys, you know."
My wife and I looked at each other, shocked that we, of all people, would be on his mind during his last moments.
"Wha...what?" I managed to stammer.
She nodded, "He said, 'Don't worry, Mama. I have to go be with Auntie and Uncle.' Then he closed his eyes and gave a single breath, and went still."
By now my sister-in-law was crying, tears flowing like a waterfall. Our eyes weren't exactly dry either. We spent the rest of the night exchanging stories about Charles. None of us slept until the dawn light started to come through the window. Then my sister-in-law took a Valium and went up to bed.
About two weeks later, my wife found she was late on her period. We didn't think much of it. We hadn't been trying to have a baby for some time so we didn't think for a second it meant anything. My wife sometimes had monthly visitors that arrived late. No big deal.
After a few more days, she bought a pregnancy test, just to make sure. And it, after what seemed like an exceptionally long time, gave us a positive result. We were shocked. After all this time fighting to conceive, suddenly we were pregnant without even trying.
Nine months later, as you can guess, we gave birth to a healthy baby boy. My first thought when I saw him was how astounding it was he was born with his eyes open. My second thought was to marvel at how blue those eyes were, blue as the ocean.
 
2018-10-31 9:14:37 AM  
Not scary, but in honor of my late girlfriend for the Day of the Dead:

https://www.fark.com/comments/1021200​9​/118065116#c118065116
 
2018-10-31 9:16:15 AM  
Halloween III Silver Shamrock Commercial
Youtube hIHUv2ooG38
 
2018-10-31 9:33:16 AM  
Copied from a thread a few years ago, a story I've told a few times. Not scary (except for our short-term panic trying to find the dog), it was only a bit strange:

Not hugely scary, but this did happen and it was a bit unsettling.

One mild and snowy winter night (yeah, I went there), about an hour after I'd let the dogs in, my husband and I were talking in the living room when we heard our smaller dog whine and scratch at the door, wanting to be let in.

We both stopped and had an "oh shiat" moment, wondering how we left them out there. We both raced to the door to let her in, opened the door, and there on the back porch was absolutely nothing. No new tracks in the snow, just the hour-old ones covered in fresh snow.

I panicked, thinking she'd gone under the porch to die, so went out there, and there was nothing. We went through the house looking for her and found her, and our other dog, fast asleep in the bedroom.

Mr. PenguinCam had told me earlier in the year that he thought he was seeing our small dog around the house only to realize that she was in another room. He could see this 'little white dog' as well as hear it. I only ever heard anything that night and it was a bit strange.

When we moved from that house, we invited little white dog to come with us, but it was never seen or heard again. At least not by us.
 
2018-10-31 9:46:28 AM  
Midget mansion

/San Antonio
 
2018-10-31 9:47:49 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 to about 4 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 who lives in the closet. I can hear nothing but the pounding of my heart in my ears as a peek over the edge...

...there it is. Slobbery, Writhing, squirming, hairy and breathing heavy with a huge tongue unrolling from its gaping maw...it is 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 Great Dane, Daisy Duke, 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.
 
2018-10-31 10:14:05 AM  
I have never shared this story with anyone who was not involved in it.

About ten years ago now, my girlfriend at the time ( now my wife) decided to go camping over a long weekend. I had the perfect place in mind, a little 'camp site' on state land that my family had gone too for the past forty years at least. It was isolated, with few other campsites around and requiring a little rough riding down a two track to get too it but it was a beautiful site.Tall pines, a creek running just down the hill and plenty of walking trails.
So we loaded up my truck with camping gear and the kayaks and head off ' up north' as we say is Michigan. Now this site was near Grayling, Mi, in the state park near the town. I hadn't been to the site since before my high school days so maybe 6 years at that point. This first thing I noticed was that there was no one else around, not unexpected we had take a non holiday weekend in hopes of getting some privacy anyway so all was good. When we turned off the main line to the two track I got another indication that things were not the same. The trail while rough and always with tree limbs hanging over it was almost impassable. Tree limbs stretched out over the trail forming a wall of green, no tracks in the light sand of the track. Driving my old dodge and not being to worried about the paint I decided to forge ahead anyway. We made it easily enough, to our delight the camp was empty if a bit overgrown from my days there as a child but largely the same. 
We parked the truck, and unload and went about setting up the camp which didn't take long with just us and our supplies for a few days. Got the tent up, dug a latrine hole, cleared the fire ring and started a small fire after gathering the fallen limbs in the clearing. Things were looking pretty good, the weather was warm and sunny, the smell of pine in my nose and good earth under my feet what could be better?

That is when I started to get what I can only call an itch. It was at the back of my head and made my hairs all stand on end. That is when I notice that it is quiet. Now this is not a 'campground' with people in little site end to end. We did not expect human noise but this wasn't just a lack of human noise, it was the lack of any noise. I have been an outdoors men all my life, I have been in the boy scouts through the rank of eagle scout and have done my fair share of cross country hiking. I know the outdoors. If you do too then you know that true silence doesn't really happen too often. But it was, no wind, no sounds of little critters at the tree base, or even the sound of crickets it was just silent like being in a cave.

I brushed it off at first, after all I had been coming up here for years. This was a childhood stomping grounds, I knew ever tree and fold of the land around me for three miles at least. We had never had anything even approaching a problem. But the silence continued, and along with it came a sense of dread. Again it started slow, maybe fed by the silence or perhaps just another element of whatever was causing it. It was then  I found myself unable to turn my back to the woods. Now this campsite it at a level area that drops off on three sides down toward the creek with only one side being on the same level, the two track we came in on. The others all descend for about 200 ft to the creek which wraps around the little hill on which the camp site sits. I couldn't turn my back to the woods. My hairs already standing up seemed to crackle with electricity, my conversation with my girlfriend was starting to ebb as I became more and more distracted. 


I noticed that my girlfriend was also seeming to alight herself so she too faced the forest. We had situated our chairs so that it would be at our backs but we were both facing towards it now. I couldn't sit at this point I was on my feet now unable to sit down. As our conversation faltered my wife asked " Do you... feel that?". " Feel what?" I asked knowing full well what but not wanting to feed into any delusions on our part. " I don't know it just feels.... bad to not face the woods" I tried to reassure her that everything was fine but the sense of foreboding did not go away.

About twenty minutes later, nothing had changed, it was still and quiet as a tomb. In fact it felt almost like someone had sealed off the sky, there was no noise, not even a bird in the distance, I can not remember ever experiencing such quiet before or since. That was what made what happened next so shock. From the woods at our front their was a sharp and sudden CRACK like a tree limb being snapped in half, but due to the quiet it might as well have been a gunshot with how loud it was. 

Now those of you who have been in the woods, know that few things snap tree limbs in nature. Deer, bear, maybe moose if you are in the moose territory but little else in my experience. Now this is black bear territory, I have never seen anything but some rare sign from them but I know they are around and this was full summer so it was a prime time for them to be active. However that didn't explain to me what happened next, it was not just one sharp crack, but a few spaced out over maybe five minutes, each as loud as the one before but not seeming to be getting any farther away as if an animal was moving. It sounds like something or someone was deliberately cracking limbs in the same place over and over again. Now there are no campsites nears us, there was no sign of tracks on the way in either tires of foot prints. While it would be possible for someone to go cross country there are no foot paths that lead anywhere, just the ones near our camps which all meet back at the two track we came in on.

Thinking by this point it must be a person in the woods I tried to call out to them. There is no reply, but I notice something else odd. With the trees and hills as close as they are I should have heard a echo of my call but I didn't. In fact looking back I don't even recall any noise outside of my initial hail. It was as if I was calling into a vast and bottomless pit. The other thing that happened was a sense of malice. Now I am not talking about the feeling you sometimes get in the deep woods, that sense of indifference that nature will sometimes let leek into your mind, this was pure malice. Something and I do not know what was not only aware that we were there but hated that we were there. It hate us with the passion that I could literally feel in my very bones, that feeling came out of the woods like a lance and I felt cold to my core.

Now by this time my girlfriend is on her feet as well, I look at her and I see that she can feel it too. Now I do not consider myself to be a coward, nor and I the bravest man that ever lived but I will be damned if I am going to let myself be spooked by some noises in the woods. I go back to my truck. Now as a former boy scout I try to follow the mantra of ' be prepared' and in the woods that means a gun were allowed by law. I always carried a shotgun and a pistol with me when I went car camping. So I go back to the truck and grab the Mossberg from the bed and load it with 3 1/2 inch magnum hollow point slugs. Now that round should kill almost anything I would find in the lower peninsula of Michigan. I load the weapon and tell my wife that I am just going to go look and see what is going on. Before entering the woods I rack the slide, loading a round and making the iconic noise that causes men to know you aren't farking around anymore.

The trees are tight together here, this is an old growth forest, and while it has been cut for timber from time to time it is reasonably open under the canopy. I went maybe twenty feel of the trail, the sense of malice had lessened as if whatever caused it had shifted it attention to something else for a time but it was still there and my arms were covered in goosebumps. You know what I found? Nothing. Not a damn thing. I am no Daniel Boone but I can track and read animal sign fairly well and to my eye there was nothing. Then sounding just behind me there is another massive CRACK of a limb being broken, I whirl around.... there is nothing, no movement, no tree limb just nothing but me and the returned silence. Now I can move pretty quietly in the woods when I want too, but the ground here was covered with undergrowth so I was making noise, as should anything else around me but I still heard nothing, nothing but me sounding like a bull moose thrashing through the brush despite my best efforts. I feel a presence around me, like when someone stares at you without breaking eye contact for too long? It was like that but it moved, it circled me and I had to keep shifting my position to keep 'it' at my front. 

It was time to go. I had no idea what was going on but it was time to bail. As I started to retreat toward the clearing again I felt that icy blast of malice once again. Something was playing with me, mocking me, and shouting it contempt as clearly as anything I have ever experienced in my life. When I return I notice my wife now has my pistol out and in her hands. I told her I didn't see anything but kept hearing the noise from the woods at random intervals. We built up the fire with green wood ( animals tend to not like smoke) and huddle around it still with our firearms close to hand. As night started to close in, the feeling got closer is the only word for it. We both felt it was there hovering just outside our vision within the woods. 

We had both had enough. We had been on our three day excursion for less then five hours but it was time to go. I have no idea what it was but I knew in my heart I did not want to be here when darkness fell. We threw everything into the truck, not even bothering to pack the tent properly just cramming it all into the bed of the truck as quick as we could. Just doused the fire and covered the pit in sand and booked it to the truck. We drove the four hours back home that night. To this day we have never spoken of it to anyone else and just this year started to talk about our experience that day. I have never been back, and I have no idea what it was that day. I do not believe is ghosts of ghouls, but I believe that when you body and mind are screaming 'danger and run!' you should listen to them.
 
2018-10-31 10:23:54 AM  
My daughter and I were renting a space in a block of historic buildings and running an ice cream and candy shop.  The basement connects several buildings and would be perfect for a horror movie.  I often joked that there are bodies buried down there and I wouldn't be surprised if that was, in fact, true.  Even so, the only thing that frightened me about the basement was that the stairs were so narrow and steep and ended very close to the stone foundation that it gave me terrible visions of my clumsy arse falling and cracking my head open like a ripe melon.  I always held on to the railing for dear life whenever I needed to go down there.

But the basement never bothered me.  I like creepy things and explored the darkest reaches of it with just my cell phone flashlight as company.  Nothing weird ever happened.

Anyway, the store had a little area in the back where my daughter or myself would sit and wait for customers.  There is a back door that leads into a hallway which connects 3 of the buildings together.  I would often smell cigarette smoke while sitting back there and would get up to check to see if someone was out in the hallway.  Of course there never was.  Then one day the smell of cigarette smoke was so intense and so close that I slammed my palm down onto the table and said, "This is a candy store.  It is unsanitary for you to be smoking in here and I'm asking you to stop."  I never smelled cigarette smoke again.

Now for the scary part.  We actually closed earlier this month because my daughter wants to go back to school and I don't want to run the place alone.  Unfortunately in order to finish her schooling she's going to have to get student loansssssss....If that isn't a scary story, I don't know what is.
 
2018-10-31 10:24:04 AM  
I frequently experience a strange phenomenon at night. Sometimes, after I go to bed, I wake up in the room I went to sleep in, but it's not really that room. It looks like the same room in all obvious and basic respects, but has some subtle (but fundamental) differences. Basically, it's the same room, but it's off. If you look around the room you're in now, you'll probably notice that it has a lot of life to it and stuff going on. Shadows moving, the AC might make a curtain flutter, light gives objects depth and warmth, you might have some floaters or imperfections in your eyesight, etc. When I wake up in this different-ish place, it has none of that going on. It's very static and flat. Sometimes it's like being inside an old and faded picture, other times like a monochrome picture. It also has the odd characteristic of darkness without being dark (i.e., there's a sensation of darkness, but, unlike a real dark room, I can see everything).  I also usually get the sense that nothing's there. At all. My wife isn't lying next to me. The dog's not in its bed. I get the sense that the kids aren't in their beds down the hall, and it's (usually) profoundly quiet. I hear the small noises I might make, and they break the otherwise total silence. I feel like if I opened a door and tried to walk outside, there would be nothing there.

So, all the time when I wake up in this place it scares and bothers me. I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died." This place is super vivid. I have normal dreams all the time, and this doesn't seem like a dream so I don't think "hey, you're dreaming; just wake up." Instead, I usually panic a little bit, and then get profoundly sad and think about how I left a lot undone and that my kids will really miss me. I get up and walk around and, then, at some point I do wake up.  And the process of waking up isn't the same as waking from a normal dream. I can best describe it as a feeling of tripping backwards and landing in my own head. Usually I wake from this situation with a sharp gasp, like I haven't taken a breath in a long time.

That's what usually happens. But sometimes other things happen. Sometimes, the other place isn't flat, and quiet, and dark (but not dark). Instead it's wildly and violently bright, moving and chaotic, and weird things happen, like the walls start to melt or the ceiling distorts and bends. I don't stay long when this happens. I get freaked out and wake up almost immediately. The other thing that happens is the worst thing. Sometimes I'm in the dark, flat, sad place, and I'm not alone. Sometimes it's just a sensation that something is there with me, and that's terrifying and I wake up. Sometimes it's a sensation that something, or someone, kind and comforting is there (but that's very rare). Sometimes I actually see what's there. For example, we had a murder in the neighborhood a few weeks ago. I woke up in the other "place" a couple nights later. I sat up in my bed and looked across the room (but, you know, it wasn't my real bed or real room), and I saw her in the corner. She looked cold, and disfigured, and incredibly angry. Then she noticed me looking and started moving toward me. I woke up screaming with my body already half out of bed and flailing for the light, and knocking things over. My wife yelled at me, and asked me what the hell was going on. I told her it was just a bad dream (because, well, that's all it was). Does this sort of thing happen to anyone else on here?
 
2018-10-31 10:32:14 AM  
Many years ago, I went to Florida to help a friend pack up his Mother's house after she passed away.

I didn't realize until I arrived that he'd planned to take the guest room of the house, which left me with the bedroom of the deceased.  Which was still, obviously, full of all of her things.  She'd woken up in that bed a few days ago, and fully and reasonably expected go back to it at day's end.

Hell, for all I knew she'd died in it.  I hadn't actually asked.  Had the sheets even been changed?  Jesus.

But it was my friend, and that was his Mom, and he was going through a hard enough time so Fine.  I'll sleep in the bed of the dead.  For one night.

So anyhow, after travel and the funeral and such, he went off to sleep in the guest room, and I retired to the creepy death room.  Turned off the light, sat down on the bed and...

There was a shape.  Right in front of me, there was a shape.  Maybe four, five feet tall, looked like a person shape.  I'd never met my friend's mother - but I'd seen pictures - and she was a short little woman.  Maybe about the same size as this shape.  As this shape in the room of a woman who'd just died, who's house I was basically invading holy shiat.

Right in front of me.  I mean, it was dark as hell - but there was a shape right in front of me!  I could just make it out because there was the faintest glowing outline around it.  All my 'fear' instincts kicked in and I froze, manfully, in the darkness.

No idea how long I sat there.  My medulla telling me that I needed to hold very very still and maybe the predator wouldn't notice me.

Some amount of time later I slid, infinitely slowly, back from where the shape was just sitting there, and very, very carefully felt along the wall for the light switch.  I mean.  I didn't want to.  I didn't really want to see what that shape was, not really.  But you don't have a choice, right?

So on come the lights - and the shape is still there.

The shape which was the reflection of my torso, sitting on the bed, face to face with the full length mirror attached to the closet door.  The closet door which was shut, but with the closet light still on - thus the 'faint ghostly terrifying outline' around my reflection in the dark.

I was enormously relieved.  At least until I saw my reflection blink, but that's a whole other story.
 
2018-10-31 10:32:49 AM  

RedComrade: I have never shared this story with anyone who was not involved in it.

About ten years ago now, my girlfriend at the time ( now my wife) decided to go camping over a long weekend. I had the perfect place in mind, a little 'camp site' on state land that my family had gone too for the past forty years at least. It was isolated, with few other campsites around and requiring a little rough riding down a two track to get too it but it was a beautiful site.Tall pines, a creek running just down the hill and plenty of walking trails.
So we loaded up my truck with camping gear and the kayaks and head off ' up north' as we say is Michigan. Now this site was near Grayling, Mi, in the state park near the town. I hadn't been to the site since before my high school days so maybe 6 years at that point. This first thing I noticed was that there was no one else around, not unexpected we had take a non holiday weekend in hopes of getting some privacy anyway so all was good. When we turned off the main line to the two track I got another indication that things were not the same. The trail while rough and always with tree limbs hanging over it was almost impassable. Tree limbs stretched out over the trail forming a wall of green, no tracks in the light sand of the track. Driving my old dodge and not being to worried about the paint I decided to forge ahead anyway. We made it easily enough, to our delight the camp was empty if a bit overgrown from my days there as a child but largely the same. 
We parked the truck, and unload and went about setting up the camp which didn't take long with just us and our supplies for a few days. Got the tent up, dug a latrine hole, cleared the fire ring and started a small fire after gathering the fallen limbs in the clearing. Things were looking pretty good, the weather was warm and sunny, the smell of pine in my nose and good earth under my feet what could be better?

That is when I started to get what I can only call an itch. It was at the back of my head and made my hairs all stand on end. That is when I notice that it is quiet. Now this is not a 'campground' with people in little site end to end. We did not expect human noise but this wasn't just a lack of human noise, it was the lack of any noise. I have been an outdoors men all my life, I have been in the boy scouts through the rank of eagle scout and have done my fair share of cross country hiking. I know the outdoors. If you do too then you know that true silence doesn't really happen too often. But it was, no wind, no sounds of little critters at the tree base, or even the sound of crickets it was just silent like being in a cave.

I brushed it off at first, after all I had been coming up here for years. This was a childhood stomping grounds, I knew ever tree and fold of the land around me for three miles at least. We had never had anything even approaching a problem. But the silence continued, and along with it came a sense of dread. Again it started slow, maybe fed by the silence or perhaps just another element of whatever was causing it. It was then  I found myself unable to turn my back to the woods. Now this campsite it at a level area that drops off on three sides down toward the creek with only one side being on the same level, the two track we came in on. The others all descend for about 200 ft to the creek which wraps around the little hill on which the camp site sits. I couldn't turn my back to the woods. My hairs already standing up seemed to crackle with electricity, my conversation with my girlfriend was starting to ebb as I became more and more distracted. 


I noticed that my girlfriend was also seeming to alight herself so she too faced the forest. We had situated our chairs so that it would be at our backs but we were both facing towards it now. I couldn't sit at this point I was on my feet now unable to sit down. As our conversation faltered my wife asked " Do you... feel that?". " Feel what?" I asked knowing full well what but not wanting to feed into any delusions on our part. " I don't know it just feels.... bad to not face the woods" I tried to reassure her that everything was fine but the sense of foreboding did not go away.

About twenty minutes later, nothing had changed, it was still and quiet as a tomb. In fact it felt almost like someone had sealed off the sky, there was no noise, not even a bird in the distance, I can not remember ever experiencing such quiet before or since. That was what made what happened next so shock. From the woods at our front their was a sharp and sudden CRACK like a tree limb being snapped in half, but due to the quiet it might as well have been a gunshot with how loud it was. 

Now those of you who have been in the woods, know that few things snap tree limbs in nature. Deer, bear, maybe moose if you are in the moose territory but little else in my experience. Now this is black bear territory, I have never seen anything but some rare sign from them but I know they are around and this was full summer so it was a prime time for them to be active. However that didn't explain to me what happened next, it was not just one sharp crack, but a few spaced out over maybe five minutes, each as loud as the one before but not seeming to be getting any farther away as if an animal was moving. It sounds like something or someone was deliberately cracking limbs in the same place over and over again. Now there are no campsites nears us, there was no sign of tracks on the way in either tires of foot prints. While it would be possible for someone to go cross country there are no foot paths that lead anywhere, just the ones near our camps which all meet back at the two track we came in on.

Thinking by this point it must be a person in the woods I tried to call out to them. There is no reply, but I notice something else odd. With the trees and hills as close as they are I should have heard a echo of my call but I didn't. In fact looking back I don't even recall any noise outside of my initial hail. It was as if I was calling into a vast and bottomless pit. The other thing that happened was a sense of malice. Now I am not talking about the feeling you sometimes get in the deep woods, that sense of indifference that nature will sometimes let leek into your mind, this was pure malice. Something and I do not know what was not only aware that we were there but hated that we were there. It hate us with the passion that I could literally feel in my very bones, that feeling came out of the woods like a lance and I felt cold to my core.

Now by this time my girlfriend is on her feet as well, I look at her and I see that she can feel it too. Now I do not consider myself to be a coward, nor and I the bravest man that ever lived but I will be damned if I am going to let myself be spooked by some noises in the woods. I go back to my truck. Now as a former boy scout I try to follow the mantra of ' be prepared' and in the woods that means a gun were allowed by law. I always carried a shotgun and a pistol with me when I went car camping. So I go back to the truck and grab the Mossberg from the bed and load it with 3 1/2 inch magnum hollow point slugs. Now that round should kill almost anything I would find in the lower peninsula of Michigan. I load the weapon and tell my wife that I am just going to go look and see what is going on. Before entering the woods I rack the slide, loading a round and making the iconic noise that causes men to know you aren't farking around anymore.

The trees are tight together here, this is an old growth forest, and while it has been cut for timber from time to time it is reasonably open under the canopy. I went maybe twenty feel of the trail, the sense of malice had lessened as if whatever caused it had shifted it attention to something else for a time but it was still there and my arms were covered in goosebumps. You know what I found? Nothing. Not a damn thing. I am no Daniel Boone but I can track and read animal sign fairly well and to my eye there was nothing. Then sounding just behind me there is another massive CRACK of a limb being broken, I whirl around.... there is nothing, no movement, no tree limb just nothing but me and the returned silence. Now I can move pretty quietly in the woods when I want too, but the ground here was covered with undergrowth so I was making noise, as should anything else around me but I still heard nothing, nothing but me sounding like a bull moose thrashing through the brush despite my best efforts. I feel a presence around me, like when someone stares at you without breaking eye contact for too long? It was like that but it moved, it circled me and I had to keep shifting my position to keep 'it' at my front. 

It was time to go. I had no idea what was going on but it was time to bail. As I started to retreat toward the clearing again I felt that icy blast of malice once again. Something was playing with me, mocking me, and shouting it contempt as clearly as anything I have ever experienced in my life. When I return I notice my wife now has my pistol out and in her hands. I told her I didn't see anything but kept hearing the noise from the woods at random intervals. We built up the fire with green wood ( animals tend to not like smoke) and huddle around it still with our firearms close to hand. As night started to close in, the feeling got closer is the only word for it. We both felt it was there hovering just outside our vision within the woods. 

We had both had enough. We had been on our three day excursion for less then five hours but it was time to go. I have no idea what it was but I knew in my heart I did not want to be here when darkness fell. We threw everything into the truck, not even bothering to pack the tent properly just cramming it all into the bed of the truck as quick as we could. Just doused the fire and covered the pit in sand and booked it to the truck. We drove the four hours back home that night. To this day we have never spoken of it to anyone else and just this year started to talk about our experience that day. I have never been back, and I have no idea what it was that day. I do not believe is ghosts of ghouls, but I believe that when you body and mind are screaming 'danger and run!' you should listen to them.


I may not believe in ghosts, but a friend and his wife got stalked for a bit by a big bobcat on a hiking trail once, and described a strikingly similar ominous feeling of malice almost to a T. Probably best you left, supernatural or no.
 
2018-10-31 10:39:27 AM  
I'm kind of surprised no one has posted this story yet.

Russian Sleep Experiment

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 five 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 four 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 three 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 two 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 three 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 five people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated that all five must still be alive. In fact it was the amount of oxygen five 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 five 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 four 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 three 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 four 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 six 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 possible 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 three 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..."
 
2018-10-31 10:47:32 AM  

DCBuck: I frequently experience a strange phenomenon at night. Sometimes, after I go to bed, I wake up in the room I went to sleep in, but it's not really that room. It looks like the same room in all obvious and basic respects, but has some subtle (but fundamental) differences. Basically, it's the same room, but it's off. If you look around the room you're in now, you'll probably notice that it has a lot of life to it and stuff going on. Shadows moving, the AC might make a curtain flutter, light gives objects depth and warmth, you might have some floaters or imperfections in your eyesight, etc. When I wake up in this different-ish place, it has none of that going on. It's very static and flat. Sometimes it's like being inside an old and faded picture, other times like a monochrome picture. It also has the odd characteristic of darkness without being dark (i.e., there's a sensation of darkness, but, unlike a real dark room, I can see everything).  I also usually get the sense that nothing's there. At all. My wife isn't lying next to me. The dog's not in its bed. I get the sense that the kids aren't in their beds down the hall, and it's (usually) profoundly quiet. I hear the small noises I might make, and they break the otherwise total silence. I feel like if I opened a door and tried to walk outside, there would be nothing there.

So, all the time when I wake up in this place it scares and bothers me. I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died." This place is super vivid. I have normal dreams all the time, and this doesn't seem like a dream so I don't think "hey, you're dreaming; just wake up." Instead, I usually panic a little bit, and then get profoundly sad and think about how I left a lot undone and that my kids will really miss me. I get up and walk around and, then, at some point I do wake up.  And the process of waking up isn't the same as waking from a normal dream. I can best describe it as a feeling of tripping backwards and landing in my own head. Usually I wake from this situation with a sharp gasp, like I haven't taken a breath in a long time.

That's what usually happens. But sometimes other things happen. Sometimes, the other place isn't flat, and quiet, and dark (but not dark). Instead it's wildly and violently bright, moving and chaotic, and weird things happen, like the walls start to melt or the ceiling distorts and bends. I don't stay long when this happens. I get freaked out and wake up almost immediately. The other thing that happens is the worst thing. Sometimes I'm in the dark, flat, sad place, and I'm not alone. Sometimes it's just a sensation that something is there with me, and that's terrifying and I wake up. Sometimes it's a sensation that something, or someone, kind and comforting is there (but that's very rare). Sometimes I actually see what's there. For example, we had a murder in the neighborhood a few weeks ago. I woke up in the other "place" a couple nights later. I sat up in my bed and looked across the room (but, you know, it wasn't my real bed or real room), and I saw her in the corner. She looked cold, and disfigured, and incredibly angry. Then she noticed me looking and started moving toward me. I woke up screaming with my body already half out of bed and flailing for the light, and knocking things over. My wife yelled at me, and asked me what the hell was going on. I told her it was just a bad dream (because, well, that's all it was). Does this sort of thing happen to anyone else on here?


Sounds like astral projection.
Try to do it by choice some time.
Not on the bed, you'll fall asleep and have what you mentioned above. Rather, do it on a couch in the living room when alone in the house.
Take a few things in hand and toss them into the hallway without seeing, like a behind the back throw or around the corner, then lay down on the couch and meditate or do breathing exercises.
A simple one is to just count each breath up to ten, then back to one, back to ten, back to one, back to....and when you are ready, you'll know when, instead of counting to one count to zero and feel your consciousness get up and look down that hallway. You know what it looks like. Feel the sensation of being upright. Now see what you just threw there. See how they landed. Which is farther away, which is closer, which ones ended up closer to the walls, how are they in relation to each other.
When you feel you have taken your fill, slowly feel the conscious slipping back into your body. Feel yourself going horizontal again.

Now slowly get up and walk into your hallway. Physically see how the things have landed.

The question to ask yourself while slowly picking up the stuff is this:
Where do you go from here?
 
2018-10-31 10:50:44 AM  
Not particularly scary or anything, but a poem that my late grandfather would recite from memory (performed in this case by Johnny Cash). Miss you, grandpa.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJNZw​u​amwj0
 
2018-10-31 10:57:54 AM  

DCBuck: I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died."


I really think you need to get yourself to a sleep somnologist, stat. Get a sleep study done ... sounds, to me, like some serious sleep apnea.
 
2018-10-31 10:59:25 AM  
Why tearing down a house doesn't stop a haunting.

There has been a haunted house in my family for generations.It was originally owned by my great grandparents and was/is a two story once Victorian farmhouse. Sometime in the 1940's they decided to make the house a two family.The staircase to the second floor was in the middle of the house and to make it rentable they had to add stairs in the first floor pantry/hallway and cut into the rooms on the second floor to create a landing.

Now, this side of my family has never been wealthy and if I were to guess, it was probably "know a guy" construction and a bunch of DIY, which is how we came in possession of the staircase.

To access the second floor apartment you ascend a set of grand mahogany stairs that would be at home as the center piece of any upper class house. They are high gloss and ornately carved. Far too fancy to be the access stairs to a rental, they were clearly moved from another building. Again, I'm guessing whoever did the remodel knew someone tearing down another house and salvaged the staircase. In any case, it certainly wasn't the original set of center stairs from the house moved to the back.

The hallway the staircase now resides in is always ice cold, even in humid New England summers. The basement, which was there before the stairs were put in, gives off a feeling of dread. No one who has lived there does their laundry at night. When there are cats in residence on the first floor, which tend to be indoor/outdoor due to the house being on a dead end near a large wooded area, they prefer to use the front door and will not come in the house through the door by the staircase.

Over the years, the house has been rented out to family members either the first floor, second floor or both. My parents lived there when they first got married.One night my mom thought my dad was home early from night school, ran out to greet him and no one was there. She thought it odd but dismissed it. They later moved downstairs and the second floor was rented to someone outside the family.However, everyone thought it was weird that her husband would go away for work and she would immediately go and stay elsewhere.

My parents would still hear strange noises from the back hall. The heavy back door opening and closing and a set of heavy footsteps up the stairs. If you hear them, you can count the number of steps from the old staircase, but they never reach the newer constructed landing.

All three of my aunts who lived there have heard the sounds. My parents heard them when they lived there. My cousins lived there post college and have weird stories about things that happen in the house. Yet the only constant is the sound of the back door opening and slamming and the heavy steps up the stairs. For me there are two stories that stick out as being particularly creepy.

One was when Aunt 1 and my cousin were living on the first floor. My cousin was little, under school age but was a prolific talker.His bedroom was the only room that shared a wall with the back hall. As kids do he had an imaginary friend, only his, which he used to draw pictures of, was a tall man in a suit and tie who lived on the back stairs.My Aunt (1) would hear him on the monitor talking to someone in the room, but in the way that kids speak to adults not peers and when she asked him who it was, it was always his friend from the staircase.

The second has to do with the cats who hate the back hall.Some people are dog families, we're a cat family. Everyone in my family has at least 1. Several years pass and my cousin and Aunt 1 have moved and Aunt 2 now lives on the first floor. Aunt 2 loves cats. Like she is a total cat lady. The upstairs neighbors, (who are not family) are going away for a few days and ask my aunt if she wouldn't mind feeding their cat.She's more than happy to, she had met him before and everything was fine. So the first day she goes up unlocks the door. She thinks it's strange because the cat is usually at the door waiting for people and it's nowhere to be seen. Out of nowhere the cat comes charging at her in a hissing, spittle induced rage, trying to tear her to ribbons. She opens the door to the apartment just to get out of there and the cat lunges at her. It gets to the landing where the stairs change from new construction to old and stops. Stops meowing, stops hissing, stops chasing her. It turns around and runs back into the apartment.

Now maybe the cat was being territorial, maybe at the top of the landing was the end of his territory and he felt safe, but it's still weird as hell.
 
2018-10-31 11:02:29 AM  
Because I know Farkers love Twitter here's a thread:

Yesterday my father took the Harley out for a last ride on a splendid autumn day. He rode down to Leavenworth and then to the cemetery in Riddle where all our Linton ancestors are buried. They came, as so many did, from Kentucky to find that better tomorrow in the hills.
- Justin Watterson (@WattersonDad) October 31, 2018
 
2018-10-31 11:04:22 AM  
Some fears don't have to be paranormal. Take spelunking for example. Caving, as they call it, can vary from going through large dark caves, to caves where you actually have to wade in areas to caves where you are actually crawling on your belly in spaces that barely fit your body.
We've all seen videos of that, and have held our breath, just imagining the tightness, the weight of that solid mountain above you, immovable, praying you don't get stuck, crawling, wondering how the hell you ended up the last one in the group, panic slowly seeping into your chest, as you wonder if you get stuck and yell out, will they hear you? At least, you think, that your headlamp is at least on and you can see ahead of you. That's when the hand slowly but firmly closes around your ankle.
 
2018-10-31 11:10:57 AM  
Who needs scary stories when there are so many campaign ads running this time of year?
 
2018-10-31 11:36:29 AM  
From a text I sent to someone last week, with some grammatical corrections:

I had a weird nightmare last night that my lawyer sister was secretly replaced by a demonic child and went on a killing spree at Christmas this year (present day). In a few decades in the future, a squad of Marines were walking through the abandoned basement of my parents' house and were picked off one by one by a creepy Barbie doll working with that demonic child. Then in a few centuries, I visited a field archaeology school investigating the ruins of my parents' basement where scary things happened to those students.  But not in any chronological order, as though it was an artsy movie with a drunk continuity director.  I won't eat chipped beef and cream on toast right before bed again any time soon.  That was stranger than cheese-induced dreams.

I don't know what is scarier, the notion that it could actually be true based upon my sister's weird behavior the past year, or the super-long texts I tend to send my friends.
 
2018-10-31 11:55:28 AM  
Man arrested for having sex with an elephant. All he said was "It was elephantastic."

The End.
 
2018-10-31 12:02:57 PM  
I do not know if I've ever had anything truly paranormal happen to me, and I'm a skeptic, even though I love these stories.  But I used to get sleep paralysis and that definitely feels paranormal.  It's terrifying.  Haven't had that in a few years though.  The first time I had it, I legitimately thought I was being abducted.

The closest thing that I can think of is at my childhood home. Whenever outside at night I'd get a feeling of dread, one that I do not get anywhere else, as though something was watching me, stalking me. And that "something" was always a "ghost wolf" type thing. Or at least some type of canine. I do not know exactly why, but it always was that form and I've never felt it anywhere else. And I'd occasionally feel that presence inside the house at night. Still to this day I feel that way and do not like being outside alone near my parent's home. I've told my family about that feeling and they always laughed it off, but it's always there.
 
2018-10-31 12:10:31 PM  
The cashier asked me what I was cooking with my groceries.

/scariest one sentence story of all time
 
2018-10-31 12:13:13 PM  
Here's my story. Bear in mind pretty much everyone involved was loaded pretty much all of the time. It doesn't mean none of this happened, but I fully admit it places our interpretation of events into question.

<its-still-real-to-me-damnit.gif>

Back in the early 90's, In my dirtbag years between the Army and college, I lived in a 1920's vintage bungalow in Eugene, Oregon. The front door opened onto a large front room, with an open doorway to the kitchen at the opposite end. Off the kitchen was a landing leading to the back door and stairs down to the basement, which served as my bedroom.

Most people who spent any time there agreed there was some kind of presence in the kitchen. There would be loud bangs at random hours, and occasionally we'd find a drawer pulled out and dumped on the floor. No one would voluntarily sleep in the front room. Even Rick, our habitual couch surfer, crashed on the covered front porch, rather than be alone in view of the kitchen at night.

Personally, I never really felt anything off about the kitchen, but then again, I was self-medicated and numb to my surroundings most of the time.

So anyway, one night I was passing through the kitchen on my way to bed. I remember calling out good night to my housemates over my shoulder. As I walked from the kitchen onto the landing, I turned my head and smacked right into... something. It happened quickly, but I distinctly remember a black, human-shaped outline right in front of me. As I walked into it, I got the impression it was made of bronze-colored static in geometric patterns, like the visuals you get sometimes when you close your eyes in a dimly lit room. I remember not being able to move, and panic, and a weird feeling of embarrassment that I'm not sure came from me. After I don't know how long, it passed and I was just standing there.

After that, I went to my room, turned the lights and radio on and curled up on my bed in a fetal position for a couple of hours, until I fell asleep.

That was the only time I ever experienced anything like that. There are a lot of rational explanations as to what it could have caused it, but it still sticks with me.
 
2018-10-31 12:31:10 PM  

Resident Muslim: DCBuck: I frequently experience a strange phenomenon at night. Sometimes, after I go to bed, I wake up in the room I went to sleep in, but it's not really that room. It looks like the same room in all obvious and basic respects, but has some subtle (but fundamental) differences. Basically, it's the same room, but it's off. If you look around the room you're in now, you'll probably notice that it has a lot of life to it and stuff going on. Shadows moving, the AC might make a curtain flutter, light gives objects depth and warmth, you might have some floaters or imperfections in your eyesight, etc. When I wake up in this different-ish place, it has none of that going on. It's very static and flat. Sometimes it's like being inside an old and faded picture, other times like a monochrome picture. It also has the odd characteristic of darkness without being dark (i.e., there's a sensation of darkness, but, unlike a real dark room, I can see everything).  I also usually get the sense that nothing's there. At all. My wife isn't lying next to me. The dog's not in its bed. I get the sense that the kids aren't in their beds down the hall, and it's (usually) profoundly quiet. I hear the small noises I might make, and they break the otherwise total silence. I feel like if I opened a door and tried to walk outside, there would be nothing there.

So, all the time when I wake up in this place it scares and bothers me. I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died." This place is super vivid. I have normal dreams all the time, and this doesn't seem like a dream so I don't think "hey, you're dreaming; just wake up." Instead, I usually panic a little bit, and then get profoundly sad and think about how I left a lot undone and that my kids will really miss me. I get up and walk around and, then, at some point I do wake up.  And the process of waking up isn't the same as waking from a normal dream. I can best describe it as a feeling o ...


When I have google searched my experiences to try to figure out what's going on, astral projection has come. I'm a pretty practical guy and wouldn't know where to begin, so I didn't think much of it. I may try your suggestion sometime but, to be honest with you, the thought that it might work is frightening.
 
2018-10-31 12:33:08 PM  

Kirzania: DCBuck: I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died."

I really think you need to get yourself to a sleep somnologist, stat. Get a sleep study done ... sounds, to me, like some serious sleep apnea.


I agree with this suggestion. My wife says I snore like a chainsaw sometimes. I do need to get this done.
 
2018-10-31 12:38:51 PM  
 
2018-10-31 12:58:58 PM  

DCBuck: Resident Muslim: DCBuck: I frequently experience a strange phenomenon at night. Sometimes, after I go to bed, I wake up in the room I went to sleep in, but it's not really that room. It looks like the same room in all obvious and basic respects, but has some subtle (but fundamental) differences. Basically, it's the same room, but it's off. If you look around the room you're in now, you'll probably notice that it has a lot of life to it and stuff going on. Shadows moving, the AC might make a curtain flutter, light gives objects depth and warmth, you might have some floaters or imperfections in your eyesight, etc. When I wake up in this different-ish place, it has none of that going on. It's very static and flat. Sometimes it's like being inside an old and faded picture, other times like a monochrome picture. It also has the odd characteristic of darkness without being dark (i.e., there's a sensation of darkness, but, unlike a real dark room, I can see everything).  I also usually get the sense that nothing's there. At all. My wife isn't lying next to me. The dog's not in its bed. I get the sense that the kids aren't in their beds down the hall, and it's (usually) profoundly quiet. I hear the small noises I might make, and they break the otherwise total silence. I feel like if I opened a door and tried to walk outside, there would be nothing there.

So, all the time when I wake up in this place it scares and bothers me. I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died." This place is super vivid. I have normal dreams all the time, and this doesn't seem like a dream so I don't think "hey, you're dreaming; just wake up." Instead, I usually panic a little bit, and then get profoundly sad and think about how I left a lot undone and that my kids will really miss me. I get up and walk around and, then, at some point I do wake up.  And the process of waking up isn't the same as waking from a normal dream. I can best describe it as a feeling o ...

When I have google searched my experiences to try to figure out what's going on, astral projection has come. I'm a pretty practical guy and wouldn't know where to begin, so I didn't think much of it. I may try your suggestion sometime but, to be honest with you, the thought that it might work is frightening.


It is.
But only because it brings into question our convictions.
AND, at the same time, it really isn't as spooky as being able to put an artifact to your ear and listen to someone 1000 miles away (mobile phone).
 
2018-10-31 1:22:34 PM  
This was told to me by my mother, who would have no reason to lie to me, and her sister, who definitely wouldn't lie, as she is a church deacon and a very religious/serious woman who has never been one to even believe in ghosts. ...but I guess she does now.

Their mother, my grandmother, died in May 2009. She had a very bad last 4 years of life, as she had several strokes, which debilitated her, leaving her unable to speak clearly and paralyzing her on one side. She was pretty much bedridden in a nursing home the last 3 years of her life as the strokes made her worse each time. In 2005 though, when she could still walk and talk, she asked everyone to leave the room at a gathering we were at except me. Scary thing. Then she told me that "when she goes to meet the Lord" she wants me to carry her casket at her funeral. I told her "OK, but come back after you die to let me know you're OK". We both agreed. You might think that's a weird request by me, but I need to know if there's an afterlife. I've always been interested in ghosts and if there's life after death.

Cut to May 2009. The funeral. I'm the lead person carrying her casket. Heaviest thing I've ever carried I think, even though 5 other people were carrying it and she weighed 90 pounds soaking wet at her death. I was worried I was gonna drop it, but managed OK...barely.

A few days later my mother calls me. She tells me her older sister called her a couple days after the funeral and said she was in her tiny apartment standing in the kitchen, when out of the corner of her eye she saw her mother standing right next to her, in the same clothes they buried her in. She was buried in a robe and nightgown, as she had said years earlier it would be like sleeping so she'd prefer to be in her nightgown, not fancy dress clothes.

Anyway, so my aunt is kind of freaked out by her dead mother standing right next to her, so she does not look directly at her, but says something along the lines of "Mom, I know you're here, and I love you, but I can't look at you". After that she vanished.

My mother then told me that she thinks she was visited by her mother too, although she didn't see her like my aunt did. My mother was sitting at her computer a couple days after the funeral (maybe the same day my aunt was visited) and felt someone playing with her hair. Not like the A/C was blowing it, or a bug was flying around it, but like someone was curling it around their finger. My mother thinks it was her mother, because her mother always liked to play with my mother's long hair, because my grandmother always kept her own hair short.  My mother thinks that was her mother just letting her know she was OK, and she didn't want to scare her like she had scared my aunt in the kitchen. I never did get a visit though. Maybe my grandmother didn't want to scare me too. Maybe it was for the best. I probably would have shat my pants.
 
2018-10-31 1:24:41 PM  

Kirzania: Last year, the thread got started the week before Halloween which I think is what killed it. Here's one of mine I posted way the heck near the end last year:

I was 4 or 5 and sleeping in a real bed, mind you. I had one of those anti-fall mesh rails that sat under the mattress and, because I was 4 or 5, I refused to go to sleep unless my lamp was on. The lamp was within arm's reach on my dresser right next to my bed. It wasn't a very big room but it had all the necessities. My bed was pushed up against the one and only wall where it would fit, which was parallel to the wall with a window that looked into the front yard. One night, I don't know what woke me up, I sat bolt upright in bed. My lamp was off and I remember thinking "Why is my lamp off? Is the power out?"

I noticed a white glow emanating from outside my window, a good distance up off the ground. It was a ways away from the house as well. Without warning, the glow is moving swiftly towards my window. As it gets closer, I can see it is mostly mist but what totally freaks me is the window flies open, the heavy curtains on both sides are blown inwards, flapping as though caught in a terrific gust of wind. The white glowing mist darts in through the window and it's ... large. At least, larger than it first appeared. It is roughly 3' x 2', somewhat elongated and lacking any remarkable details. It hangs there, over the floor, just further in the room than my Fisher-Price orange and yellow play table, which was pushed up against that wall with the window.

My brain just can't even.
My mouth opens to scream and, try as I might, I can't. The sound just isn't coming and I'm frozen in place, sitting upright, staring at this ... mist which is, for all intents and purposes, staring back at me. Without warning, the mist disappears, the window slams shut, the curtains fall limp, my lamp suddenly is on and the scream that I had tried so hard to summon before is now full force, as if I had been screaming the entire time. M ...


I've had several episodes of sleep paralysis.. and yes one of them was EXCATLY like that.

Terrifying isn't it?
 
2018-10-31 1:33:56 PM  
Not a story of the supernatural, but this happened a few years ago and it was scary as all hell.

On my way to bed, I noticed a spider on the bedroom wall just above the light switch. I decided to let it live and went to bed to read. A bit later, lying there reading, this odd fuzzy thing caught my attention right above my face. It was the spider, or possibly a second one, coming right at me. Maybe the thread it was lowering itself on broke, I don't know, but the damn thing caught me between blinks and landed right on my eyeball.

I didn't sleep well for a few days after that. There could be and probably were spiders around the sofa too.
 
2018-10-31 1:43:16 PM  
Copied from last year:

In my last house, in my boys' bedroom there were three doors. One door led to a small hallway. One opened to the dining room. And the other to a bathroom. One night not long after bedtime, my oldest came out (he was 7 or 8 at the time). His mom and I were watching a movie on the couch with the sound down low. He asked if we were trying to get into his bedroom because he had heard the door knob jiggle a few times.

He said it was the door to the dining room, which was in the line of sight of both of us from the couch. But of course there was nothing. We hadn't moved. The cat was asleep on the couch. So I took him back into his room and I explained about how air pressure from one door opening or closing could make the other doors move. I showed him by closing the bathroom door, which forced the dining room door to pop open a bit. He seemed satisfied by this even though no one had even opened or closed a door. About a half hour later, he said he heard light knocking on that door. Again, we were on the couch and didn't hear or see anything. I told him it was just the wind blowing a branch against a wall of our old house. He wasn't scared, but just seemed confused. Although he went back to sleep and that was that.

The next night, same thing with the doorknob jiggling. Except this time he got freaked out. I told him that it was nothing but that just in case, I know all about ghosts and spooky things and knew exactly what to do to keep them away. I had been binge watching "Supernatural", so very authoritatively, I made a big show of pouring salt across the floor at the doorway. Said a few cryptic words to make it seem official, then I told him it was done and that nothing would bother him again.

Until it did. I don't remember if it was that night or a night afterwards, but he heard something at that door again. I remember it was late at night and I didn't want to deal with it right then so I got my cordless drill and a 3" wood screw and I just ran that screw through the door and into the jamb so it couldn't budge. And that seemed to be the end of it.

The next day while straightening up their room, I found, under their toy shelf, a strange flat grey stone or something. It looked like it was once a piece of something round, but it had broken on two sides, and it was heavy. It had two indentations, grooves, running radially to the center of what would have been the circle. The grooves, and the whole thing really, appeared to be machined or molded or otherwise manufactured, but no one had ever seen it before. It seemed strange that this thing turned up right at the time when spooky stuff happened, and wanting to believe, I decided to figure it out.

I laid this stone thing down on a table and traced the curved outline of the unbroken part. Then lining it up with the curve that I'd just drawn, I traced it again, and again, and again, until it was a complete circle.I drew the grooves where they would be, assuming they were equally spaced based on the piece of thing that I had. What I drew was a circle about 14"-16" diameter with seven "spokes" coming from the center.

But this still wasn't helpful in the slightest. So the piece of whatever just sat outside next to a flowerpot for the next year or so until their mom and I split up and I moved to the house I'm living in now. A few months later, she called me and asked if I remembered that thing from the boys' room because she'd figured out what it was.

I was all excited to finally get to the bottom of whatever it was that had been haunting that bedroom. Turns out it was a piece of ballast from the base of a standing fan that was in their room. Apparently a couple of other pieces had broken off and it became obvious once the base was turned over and looked at.

But I had fun for a while imagining that it was something extraordinary.
 
2018-10-31 1:46:23 PM  
I once went on a long trip. Riding on the long, lonely highway, I passed a white truck. Out in the middle of nowhere, there's this white truck. Looks like a '76 Ford. There's a green refrigerator in the back truck bed - one of those old style ones, with the handle that locks the door. I pass the truck. He's not going that fast.

A few miles later, I come up on another vehicle. It's a white truck. Looks like a '76 Ford. It has a green refrigerator on the back. I'm thinking, "Deja vu?" and, as I pass the driver, I glance over.

The driver was me.
 
2018-10-31 1:55:00 PM  
This is completely true.
At one of the places I went to grad school, the department chair had only been there a few years. He had relocated from another university and bought a fairly nice house in a nice neighborhood near the campus.

He was a scientist, so ghosts and haunted houses were fiction. He got a great deal on the house because some family members of the of the previous owner had been murdered in the house. I don't recall the circumstances of the murders, but it was more than one family member. He even liked to tell people that there were still blood stains on the carpet when he first viewed the house.

He lived there several years. Fixed up the house and completely redid the pool area and pool house. He had three kids. None of them even went to college let alone got degrees. Somewhat surprising for a PhD dept chair. One daughter became a hair stylist. One became a sort of social worker and the youngest son became a drug addict. He went to rehab while I was there.

But the real 'scary' part of the story is not that. The house was on one of the streets at the perimeter of the neighborhood. All the houses on his side of the street had backyards that backed up against an interstate.
The last year I lived in that town, there was a huge car crash on the interstate directly behind his house. Multiple fatalities. Two of the fatalities were members of the family who had been murdered in his house. It was even on the local news identifying them as such.
 
2018-10-31 1:55:09 PM  

riffraff: Alright, I'll take a stab at it.
I grew up in a small town in New Jersey, in the shadow of a huge mental hospital overlooking us from the side of a mountain. They had two horns. One was for the volunteer fire dept. the other was for escapees. I lived in terror of the second, because it usually went off while I was walking to school or back home. Most of them were harmless, but I didn't know that. Once, I was at a cub scout picnic at the community park, when the horn went off. We didn't think anything about it, and continued cooking the burgers and dogs. A few minutes later, a extremely large black man (I mention this because our town was almost totally white) came running through the park. He saw us and stopped, so we offered him to join us and have a hot dog. About then, the green police cars reserved for the hospital came careening across the park field. The guy started to run. One kid threw a baseball bat through his legs and down he went. They cuffed him and basically dragged him to the car, with one of our dads yelling at the cops to not mistreat him.
I still lived in fear of Overbrook for the rest of the time I lived there, until I was a boy scout and had to go there for Valentine's day. The ladie's ward. I had baby blue eyes and I was mobbed. I was terrified, not of the women, though they were absolutely crazy, but the conditions they lived in. It was the definition of squalor. Turns out that most of the horns were for people that had escaped to get away from the filth and desperation inside. And most died of exposure.


Overbrook?  Didn't they tear that shiathole down ten years ago?
 
2018-10-31 1:57:23 PM  
Let me preface this with, I am not a writer, and the beginning part of the story is hear say from my parents and family telling me stories growing up. However, and you will see I am sure of all the things that happened during my pre-teen, teen years and later in life, the reactions validate the younger years to me and you will need see that validation. It might be a bit dis-jointed because I am writing this off the top of my head, but I hope you enjoy (Any feedback is greatly appreciated) I love this thread and time of year.


I was born in Secaucus NJ (I know I know I could stop there, boo horror) My parents moved into a small house. They suddenly moved out from the home when I was about 3 years old. During my time in the house I suffered multiple deep wounds which my parents still can't explain, stitches in my head after they said I had a nightmare, and must have banged my head on the crib. My sisters room was always cold, even though the radiator was so hot it was painful to touch. My parents would bring her dolls in to the living room for her to play with, and she yelled at my parents, "He says they like to be cold, and he told me we can't take them out of the room!"
The final straw per my father was after one week of what he called a haunting. My father is not religious, he thinks mediums are a farce, and doesn't believe in ghost but what happened that week in this old house, shook him, to the point he doesn't even like when the situation is brought up. It started on a Sunday, and the layout of the house was that my parents bedroom was on the second floor, with a small bathroom and a small hallway separating them. At the top of the stairs there was a door that opened outward down the stairs, and he was always trying to get up and out of bed to open it if he heard my sister (who is older) coming up to ask for water or if she had a nightmare, etc... so that he wouldn't knock her down the stairs. That first night he heard crying and laughter and feet running across the old wood floors downstairs. He jumped up, went down stairs only to find me asleep in my crib, and my sister asleep in her bed. He tried to pick her up out of bed because he room as always was cold, and she threw a fit, which woke up my mom, and told my dad, "No, I need to stay here where it is cold, that is what HE wants" This went on for 4 nights, tantrums from my sister, the laughter the running feet. On the last night, he jumped out of bed at the sound of the door on the top steps slamming. He went down to investigate, both my sister and I were asleep. The door at the top of the steps slammed again, and as he was walking up the steps, he heard my mother say, "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but stop standing at the door and come to bed, and change your pajamas you smell like death" He burst into the room and found nothing, but my mom jumping up and telling him, you were just standing in the room and now you are coming up from downstairs? He shut the door, and the minuted he did, he heard the laughter again, and little feet sprinting up the stairs... There were 3 sharp knocks on the door, when he opened it, nothing. They both went back down stairs to check on me and my sister only to find us in our beds asleep. It was then the upstairs door starting slamming over and over again, and the feet on the floor and laughter coming from upstairs running back and forth in their bedroom. That night they packed what they could for us, never going back upstairs, jumped in our car and drove to my grandmothers.
Fast forward 8 years. Living in a new home on Long Island. We had a dog that my parents contemplated putting down because at night it would stare at a wall, and just bark and bark and bark. They thought this dog was unstable, he would sleep with me or my sister and not let my parents near us most nights. He eventually passed from something that even the vet could not understand. My sisters room was still always cold. They called in contractors to re-insulate her room, moved her room, but no matter where she went, it was always cold but little other than those things occurred. As a family, we almost all forgot about it.


Fast forward, I am 15. My grandmother on my fathers side, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. My parents decided they would pay for hospice and she could spend her remaining days in the comfort of our home. She had pancreatic cancer and was going fast. I spend every day with her. Toward her last 2 weeks with us on this earth she would constantly point to the same wall my dog used to bark at and ask each of us, whoever was sitting with her, "Do you see him? Who is he?" We didn't know if it was the drugs or not, but it was odd. Around the same time my sister would not visit her in the room we had set up for her, she said she didn't like it, but would spend time with her when we moved her outside for some sunshine. At the end, my grandmother just would point at that wall, mutter incoherently, and cry. 2 days before she passed I was sitting with her and she says to me, "He's here, he is here to take me, and he told me he is going to take you all in time" I am 15, this scared the crap out of me. They day she died, we had 2 family dogs, and they sat in that room, and barked at that wall for hours, if we tried to pull them away they would get vicious. No one could explain it.


5 days after the death of my grandmother our neighbor came over with a deck of cards, and lunch and asked if my grandmother was up for some rummy and lunch. She mentioned she had seen her the previous night on the deck having tea, and they had a great conversation, and she was so happy that my grandmother was feeling better. When this conversation took place, my grandmother had been dead, embalmed and was laying in a casket for the wake for about 3 or four days. That really through just messed with all of us, my neighbor included.


Being 15, I was young and silly and one day going through my grandmothers (on my mothers side) basement closet of board games I found a Ouija board. I sat down with my 2 cousins and my sister reading the directions and planning on trying to contact my now deceased grandmother. About 15 minutes after we started, my grandma (mothers side) comes down to the basement, sees what we are doing and throws a fit. By fit I mean she literally started beating us all about the face and back, grabbing the board, calling us idiots, etc... She takes the board upstairs muttering, "I thought I got rid of that shiat years ago" She throws it in her fireplace, and turns to me and my sister, and I will never forget what she said, "Are you both out of your minds, do you not remember NJ? Do you not remember how close to hell you all had been? Do you want that, whatever it is finding you again, following you? Are you just stupid, or careless, what is it!!!!" That was all the validation I needed that the storied I had heard about the house in Jersey had left out a lot.
Fast Forward, I am now 20 and the next death in my family is about to happen. I get a call at college that my grandma is in the hospital. I race home the next day to be with her and hear an absolute mind-bending tale of what happened. She was found in January in the middle of the street outside her home in NY wearing nothing but a nightgown getting snowed on with a broken upper arm and hip. She was found by the paper delivery man around 4 am. When she got to the hospital her core temp was something ridiculous like 67 degrees (don't quote me on that) but most of the doctors were astounded she was alive. 6 weeks, we were by her bedside waiting for her to be healthy enough to have surgery, but she never recovered. In those six weeks she slowly slid just like my other grandmother, from lucid, to incoherent, but she did the same thing, she pointed, she said, "He's here, and he isn't happy" or "He came today, but said he couldn't take me now"


The last thing she said was that if she ever came back to us, to look for butterflies, that's how we would know it was her. A year after her death, we would see them constantly, and my mom and her 3 very superstitious though not religious sisters would say, "hey look there is grandma."


I don't believe in mediums, I never have, but that might have changed. My mother and her sisters were always trying to go to see the big names, or even smaller ones to see if they could talk to grandma. Once they had a group reading and they invited me and I said fine I will go. It was a hell of a day, my aunt had recently broken her arm, my mom was on crutches because of back surgery, we had to pick up my aunts because one was in a car accident the week prior, and the others house has a flash flood so here car had been destroyed when she tried to cross deep water. The medium started out it was your normal let me ask, guess, wait for you respond etc.. like they all do, but then she says, "Oh, Oh know, she is hear with me and she says she is terribly sorry, she said you didn't listen to her, she said none of you are listening to the signs" She continues, "She is talking about the butterflies... The ones that fly right up to you and around you and hang our for a bit, she said they aren't her" perplexed we all have the same question, "If she is talking about it, and it isn't her what is it?" The medium replies, "She meant them as warning, unlike a fly or a bee or a bird, butterflies are rare to see all the time, she says she sends them to you as warnings that, HE is around, looking to take, it's followed you all"
My jaw hit the floor, as it did for everyone else.
So then begs the question, if we were followed how? It goes back to the house in Jersey. My parents moved in on October 20th and threw a party for Halloween. As a party trick they brought out in that house an Ouija board. I still don't believe that was why what happened happened... I do now this though, every one of my aunts that had that awful stop happen before the reading recall seeing a butterfly the day they broke and arm, got in a car accident, etc...
I recently had to go in for a major surgery... In preop, because beds were full, I was placed in a room in the children's wing. As they wheel me in, the rooms were all bright and cheery, but mine was the butterfly room. Needless to say, I canceled my procedure that day and went elsewhere, maybe that's the only reason why I am even still here to share this story.
 
2018-10-31 2:06:00 PM  

stir22: riffraff: Alright, I'll take a stab at it.
I grew up in a small town in New Jersey, in the shadow of a huge mental hospital overlooking us from the side of a mountain. They had two horns. One was for the volunteer fire dept. the other was for escapees. I lived in terror of the second, because it usually went off while I was walking to school or back home. Most of them were harmless, but I didn't know that. Once, I was at a cub scout picnic at the community park, when the horn went off. We didn't think anything about it, and continued cooking the burgers and dogs. A few minutes later, a extremely large black man (I mention this because our town was almost totally white) came running through the park. He saw us and stopped, so we offered him to join us and have a hot dog. About then, the green police cars reserved for the hospital came careening across the park field. The guy started to run. One kid threw a baseball bat through his legs and down he went. They cuffed him and basically dragged him to the car, with one of our dads yelling at the cops to not mistreat him.
I still lived in fear of Overbrook for the rest of the time I lived there, until I was a boy scout and had to go there for Valentine's day. The ladie's ward. I had baby blue eyes and I was mobbed. I was terrified, not of the women, though they were absolutely crazy, but the conditions they lived in. It was the definition of squalor. Turns out that most of the horns were for people that had escaped to get away from the filth and desperation inside. And most died of exposure.

Overbrook?  Didn't they tear that shiathole down ten years ago?


Yup. I'm talking the 70s. Also used to go up to the Hilltop Sanitorium above it, just to scare the girls. A massive place.
 
2018-10-31 2:14:20 PM  
The Seventies was a weird time to be a kid. The Cold War was still on, hell, there was a shooting war... Okay, shooting police action going on in Vietnam, but we weren't practicing duck-and-cover drills like they did in the 50s. Inflation was killing us financially, Dick Nixon was demonstrating that we couldn't really trust our political leadership, and for Zod's sake, frickin' Disco was becoming popular with it's incessant thump-clap-thump-clap beat and synthesised strings. It was all a bit bewildering and scary.

So it didn't help when someone started talking about takes off tainted Halloween candy. I'm not talking about those awful orange-and-black wax paper wrapped peanut-flavored taffies. No, these were reports of people putting rat poison in candy, or sliding a pin or needle, or maybe even a razor blade into an apple. Of course we didn't believe a word of it! But it was just believable enough to make us wonder. Not enough to make us not want to go trick-or-treating, obviously, but enough to ratchet up our background stress level. Partly because there was talk amongst the grown-ups of cancelling Halloween!

Understand, this was classic Small Town USA. No one was going to try to taint their giving-out loot. Especially not if they were giving out produce. Giving out apples was already on the borderline between acceptable and getting your house egged. You'd only have two, maybe three houses dating to do that. If one of the apples had some kind of evil insertion, it wouldn't take much effort to figure out who the culprit was. No one was going to taint the goodies. It was stupid to think otherwise. In fact, my way observation found its way into the local weekly newspaper: "I not nearly as worried about a pin in my apple as I am about the grenade in the banana. Ka-BLAM!" (Yeah, even as a 10-year-old I was an incorrigible smart-ass.)

And yet, people still worried about tainted Halloween loot. Don't roll your eyes at me: you were afraid on 9/11 that the next plane was coming after you, weren't you? Admit it. So anyway, the local Congregational Church announced that they were going to bring in an X-ray machine and let people bring their collected loot in and just make sure there's no pins, needles, or razors in there. Thank you! Halloween is saved!

So I went out trick-or-treating as usual, and got my customary pillowcase-full of candy--must have been at least a three-day supply!--and when I got home, my dad ordered me into the car and we drove down to the Congo Church. The whole time I'm arguing with my dad: no one's going to try tainting candy, why can't I just eat a sealed box of Dots or some dang-ol' thing? He was steadfast in his refusal to let me eat anything until it had been tested. Darn it!

So they ran my loot through the machine and I'll be dipped if it didn't Ping! They tried again, and it Ping!ed again. They spread my loot out on a big, sterile-looking stainless steel table. How proud I was of that haul! And there, right smack in the center of the table was--you guessed it--an apple. And close examination of the apple would reveal that there was, in fact, a razor stuck inside it! I shiat you not!

Fortunately, it was an electric razor, and it wasn't plugged in, so no one got hurt.

Happy Halloween!
 
2018-10-31 2:22:53 PM  

Duck_of_Doom: I'll share some occurances around my mom's passing. Trigger warning for a little too much info, and not all that scary.

My mom and I lived together in a condo. She had had cancer 3 times, was an ex-smoker, and a mess of health issues related to a botched bowel resection. I still can't eat beef because the first thing my brain said, as her wound opened up at home and I stared at her intestine "wow, that looks like a nice eye round". Anyway, she was misdiagnosed as having COPD years ago, and had an endarderectomy on her 95% occluded right ICA. Well her O2 wasn't bouncing back, so they did a chest xray and found a mass in her right lung area. Her pulmonologist insisted it was an enlarged lymph node, which he had biopsied and came back normal, go figure. We let it go a few months, and saw the pulmonologist again, who said "you don't have COPD, you have interstitial lung disease and have 2 years to live...but only God knows". We said "2nd opinion at Yale"  which turned the doc into a pissy little ass. Misdiagnoses and malpractice, scary stuff.

So, end of June 2013, go to Yale, where a battery of tests for ILD revealed a mass in her right lung, and sent for biopsy. She caught pneumonia July 4th, and while in Yale New Haven ER, she got the biopsy results. Go on, guess. During the night July 8 I was home, she was at Yale. I meditated that night, and heard a very distinct female voice say to me "Your mother will die peacefully when it comes" (hail to Her). A while later, got a call - she went into respiratory arrest. Bridgeport to New Haven, normally 35-40 minutes; I got there in less than 20.

It was the next day where the doctors sat me down for "that" consult. Anywhere from a few hours to a few days, that's what they gave her. And I had to sit on that for a day, until the doctor could tell her with family present (almost made it, darn Mom for asking). She bounced back enough, and we did home hospice, I took care of her.

August 4, 2013. Mom was comfortable in the hospit ...


Hey, thanks for that.  Seriously.
 
2018-10-31 2:25:26 PM  

Ovuzai: Not scary, but in honor of my late girlfriend for the Day of the Dead:

https://www.fark.com/comments/10212009​/118065116#c118065116


My condolences... but thanks for sharing. I love silly stuff like that, it sounds like you're my kind of people.

So you would appreciate a few weeks ago, driving west on Highway 7 from Ottawa, we saw a dump truck which had gone off the road and was half-submerged in a lake. The name on the side: Down Under Irrigation.
 
2018-10-31 2:27:25 PM  

PenguinCam: Copied from a thread a few years ago, a story I've told a few times. Not scary (except for our short-term panic trying to find the dog), it was only a bit strange:

Not hugely scary, but this did happen and it was a bit unsettling.

One mild and snowy winter night (yeah, I went there), about an hour after I'd let the dogs in, my husband and I were talking in the living room when we heard our smaller dog whine and scratch at the door, wanting to be let in.

We both stopped and had an "oh shiat" moment, wondering how we left them out there. We both raced to the door to let her in, opened the door, and there on the back porch was absolutely nothing. No new tracks in the snow, just the hour-old ones covered in fresh snow.

I panicked, thinking she'd gone under the porch to die, so went out there, and there was nothing. We went through the house looking for her and found her, and our other dog, fast asleep in the bedroom.

Mr. PenguinCam had told me earlier in the year that he thought he was seeing our small dog around the house only to realize that she was in another room. He could see this 'little white dog' as well as hear it. I only ever heard anything that night and it was a bit strange.

When we moved from that house, we invited little white dog to come with us, but it was never seen or heard again. At least not by us.


Maybe tomorrow, he'll stop and settle down.
Until tomorrow, he'll just keep moving on.
 
2018-10-31 2:54:47 PM  
I know this is long, but here goes.......

In 2005 my marriage imploded. It had been on the rocks for a while, but everything collapsed when I discovered my ex's affair. I had what I guess could be described as a mental breakdown. I couldn't stay in the house without massive panic attacks, so I stayed with my folks for a couple of weeks. I was put on an anti-depressant, with Xanax to kind of fill in the gaps until they kicked in. I'd been almost consumed by depression over the years without even realizing it. I was at rock bottom and could barely survive minute to minute.

I'd wake up every night in my parents' den around 1am in a blind panic. I didn't know where I was, what I was going to do, how I was going to survive. Blind panic, tears, vomiting, all that. Eventually I'd fall back to sleep........only to wake up around 4am in worse shape than before. I've dealt with panic attacks for over 30 years, but these were beyond description for me. Alone in the dark, lost to the world, no hope, suicide, death, gone. I'd fall back to sleep eventually, and wake up to a new day of hell.

Then something happened on the 4th or 5th night. I still woke up for the 1am panic attacks, nothing changed. I still woke up for the 4am panic attacks, but through the fog and fear I now heard a man's voice clear as day telling me everything would be ok. It was a comforting voice, but stern. 'Loan Starr, come up with a plan. Tomorrow you will do this, and this, and this. You will survive this, but you have things to take care of. Your daughter needs you. Your family needs you. You'll be ok.'

The voice calmed me down. The panic stopped, and I fell back to sleep. The voice returned the next two nights. I'd never heard the voice before, and 13 years later I still haven't heard it again. It was a voice in the dark, in my head, but it was not my voice.

Over the next few days I woke up thinking 'ok, I know what I need to do, time to go to work'. I joined a support group, I got in therapy, I stopped drinking for close to two years, I focused on my daughter, I took medication, I got mentally healthy (-er), and attempted reconciliation (which thankfully didn't take). Things got much better, slowly, but I survived and here I am.

I told that story to only one person, a woman I was dating in 2007. When I told her I didn't know whose voice it was she suggested maybe it was God. Why couldn't it be? I said I guess it could have been for all I know, because it wasn't my voice.

Flash forward to the summer of 2017 at a family vacation. Late one night I'm talking to my sister and two nieces about my divorce, and I tell them this story. I hadn't spoken about it to anyone for a decade. One of my nieces listened but didn't engage much. Stayed really quiet. A week or so later she quietly said to her mom 'I know who spoke to Uncle Loan Starr'.

'You do? Who?'

'Great grandpa, paw-paw's dad that we never met (he died when my dad was a teen). He was in a dream of mine once. He told me he was there for Loan Starr in his moment of need. He helped him. It was his voice.'.

I still want to talk to my niece about this, but while it comforted her it also spooked her and she's shy to talk about it. I wasn't even told about it for almost a year.  I'm not sure what to make of it, though. There's no way she knew about this, none. Nobody in my family heard the story until 2017. But my niece dreamt that a relative we never met helped me in my time of need, and I know I heard a voice that wasn't mine in my darkest hour.

Thanks grandpa.
 
2018-10-31 2:56:38 PM  
Not scary, but strange. While relocating for work we had to rent a house for a year until we could find a place to buy. It was a very old house, built in the late 1800's, but it had been remodeled with new electric and HVAC. We were the first renters in it and it was nice. Only problem was I never slept very well there. Woke up almost every night around 2:30. Sometimes got back to sleep, sometimes didn't. One night, trying to get back to sleep, I look over my shoulder and see the top of my 4 year old daughters head come in the room and walk along the side of our bed my wife is on. She pauses, then walks out. Never saw her face but recognized the pajamas. After a minute I get up to check on her. Go into her room and there she is wide awake sitting up in the middle of her bed. I ask if she's ok and why she came into our room? She says she's fine but didn't come in our room. I'm not going to question this at 3:00 in the morning, but I do notice that she isn't wearing the yellow pajamas I saw her in. Now I can accept that in my half asleep half awake sleep deprived state I just imagined her coming into the room. But why was she wide awake sitting in bed staring at the ceiling when I went to check in her? Strange.
 
2018-10-31 3:03:20 PM  
Didn't finish mine.  I was dealing with health insurance issues... now that is something scary!
 
2018-10-31 3:16:23 PM  
Thought I'd told this one in one of the previous threads.

Back in the late 70s, my dad and I went to a Halloween party dressed as the Incredible Hulk and Hulk Jr. Not being one to half-ass stuff like this, he got us both green body paint and tore up some old clothes to wear. We got to the party, and Dad proceeded to scare all of the kids there- he wound up telling them he was the Jolly Green Giant instead, which thankfully calmed most of them down. Then we all went trick-or-treating in the building... and I'm not exaggerating for effect when I tell you these were the cheapest, lamest treats ever. I seriously think I wound up with two boxes of raisins and three pennies. Meanwhile, my mom went trick-or-treating with my little sister at the local block association haunted house and came home with two bags absolutely overflowing with candy. ("Julie, don't you want to share with your brother?" "No!")

Now the story gets really great. My dad had a big meeting at work the next day... and the paint wouldn't come off. He spent half the night scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing until he finally managed to get it off his face and hands... he went to the meeting the next day (which went fine) and kept his shirt buttoned all the way up so no one would see what he had done to himself. My mom jokes to this day that he was peeing green for the next month and a half.
 
2018-10-31 3:25:36 PM  
I'm back with another not-so-haunted happening. Last Halloween I was invited to a party by a couple coworkers. Things were winding down around 11:00 so I said my goodbyes and got in my car. That's when I found out my phone was dead. I hadn't been in town very long but I knew some of the major roads that ran north to south and east to west, and I generally have a good sense of direction so I was fairly confident about finding my way home without GPS. That seemed a better option than going back in and standing around awkwardly waiting for my phone to charge.

I started driving, retracing my turns. Crossed the train tracks and so far so good, but then it seemed like I had been driving too far and was heading into the boonies. No big deal, I was going north from the south side of town and just had to find a eastward turn to get myself closer to home. I picked the next four-way intersection and turned into a subdivision figuring there had to be an outlet towards the shopping center at the north end of town.

Houses here were small and older with one car garages, probably built in the 60s or early 70s. Some pretty good yard decorations. Streetlights were few and far between but some of the houses still had lights on. After a few blocks it transitioned into a newer development. I decided to stay on the street I had entered on, but that soon came to an end and I had to pick north or south. I picked south. And then hit another T-intersection. East seemed like the right choice. It kept going like that. I kept trying to head generally southeast but the streets were now curving around it was difficult to be sure I was still going in the right direction. And it was made more difficult when clouds covered up the moon and I lost my only reference point.

That's when I really noticed that I was in an area of all newly built houses. I couldn't see that any of them were occupied. No cars, no lights, no decorations. Just rows of two-story cookie-cutter houses with empty windows. I only passed one that had blinds in the windows and a light on the porch, but no other signs of life. I slowed down and started to note the street names. I had to stop at the intersections and put on my high beams to read the signs. All flower and tree names. "Marigold Way", "Azalea Trail", "Maple Drive", "Oak Walk", and so on. A lot were cul-de-sacs or unfinished and barricaded roads. And to make things more confusing, Marigold Way would suddenly turn into Maple Drive, which would come to an end, but pick up again as Maple Drive a few roads over.

I was really turned around and decided then to make all right hand turns, even into what I thought were dead ends just to be sure there weren't roads back there hidden between houses. Somehow I managed to pass the house with the porch light again, first on my left and then on right. It didn't make any sense to me that I couldn't find a way out of the neighborhood and I was getting flustered after twenty minutes of making turn after turn. I had to be missing a road somewhere but I couldn't figure out how.

I knew I would feel bad if I was going to wake someone up, but I decided to try seeing if anyone was home at the house with the light. It wasn't too long before I found my way back to it. I left my car running and went up to the door. I was about to push the doorbell and hesitated a moment, realizing what an idiot I was going to sound like, when the light went out. Just like that, complete darkness except for my headlights.

I teleported back into my car and was out of there like a shot. I didn't pay attention to street signs or what turns I was making but a couple minutes later I saw lights up ahead and was back into the older neighborhood. Drove south, made my turn before the train tracks and found my way home just before 1:00AM.

I don't know why but that light going out nearly made me jump out of my skin. Looking back I can laugh at myself because I'm sure it was just on a timer. Lesson learned though--don't try to find a shortcut home through the suburbs late at night. Maybe especially on Halloween.
 
2018-10-31 3:29:01 PM  

Hilarity_N_Sues: My mom jokes to this day that he was peeing green for the next month and a half.



Well, as Kermit the Frog told us, it ain't easy peeing green.
 
2018-10-31 3:43:06 PM  
I love this thread so much that I am always on the lookout, throughout the year, for something weird or creepy enough to post. I've mentioned in other threads that I'm definitely not a believer in ghosts or anything supernatural, but I'm certainly willing to entertain the possibility for a few moments, as a sort of thought experiment or "what if", if something sufficiently strange happens.

For instance, the Jr. Geologist, who is two, was over at her great-grandma's house for a visit. GG is recently widowed, just before the Jr. Geologist was born. She had married Bobby young, and he was her greatest and only love. Jr. G saw a picture of him and asked "who's that?" so we told her. Time goes by, Jr. G gets very silly and starts running around the room saying "peek-a-boo!" to Mrs. G, then GG, then me. At one point, she goes into the next room, which is empty, and says "peek-a-boo!"

Now, it was probably just a silly kid getting confused and silly. But did she catch a glimpse of Bobby and give him a peek-a-boo as well? I don't believe it but I like the idea of it. Sort of like meg12279's story.

Within a week of the visit, she took a new interest in the photos around our place, especially the ones of her great-grandmother, asking "Where's Bobby? Where's Bobby?" What does it mean? Probably nothing. But who knows.
 
2018-10-31 3:44:04 PM  
I also like the idea that all pre-verbal babies share a common language and can understand and communicate with each other, until they learn "real" language and lose the ability.

I think fatherhood has softened my brain.
 
2018-10-31 3:48:28 PM  
I have struggled for years whether or not to tell this story.  I love fark, and feel that I am accepted, not judged and welcome here.  However, this tale is true, and never seems to end.  Perhaps the mere telling of it might still demons, quell the nightmares and let me get more than three hours of consecutive sleep.  What you are about to read is true- judge not, lest ye be judged.  The names are true, the crimes very real, the occurrences listed below authentic; you can google the entire sordid tale.

Her name was Lana Harding, and she was from Idaho; after college she moved to a rural area of Montana.  Young and vibrant, she love her kids- and they loved her back equally.

His name was Duncan McKenzie, Jr., and he was a real piece of shiat.  A drifter with no redeeming value, a suspect already in a murder in northern Idaho, he ended up passing through the same small rural town where Lana Harding taught school.  It was her misfortune that she had car trouble, and was stuck by the side of the road when McKenzie drove by.  Feigning hospitality and cordiality, he offered assistance.  She gratefully climbed into his car, and they headed into the small rural town of Conrad, Montana- when McKenzie made an abrupt right turn, heading out into the prairie.

They found her body, brutally raped, strangled, disheveled and disfigured, draped over the reel of a swather the next day.  Her last hour or two must have been pure hell.

I was 12 at the time, and growing up on a farm in northcentral Montana less than 20 miles away.  Just coming of age, I read the accounts voraciously, as they instilled fear and shock into my young body.  McKenzie was caught, convicted, sentenced to death, and transported to Montana State Prison awaiting his date with the hangman.

Fast forward to 1987; finished with college, I began my career in medicine, and quickly went began my first job in southern Idaho.  I seldom slept, my slept constantly interrupted by brutal rapes, brutal murders, where the bodies always ended up draped over the reel of a swather, occasionally a combine.

Fast forward to 1994- I was working in Idaho, and my wife and I went home to Montana for Christmas.  While there, I heard on the local news that McKenzie had used up his last appeals; the execution had been changed to lethal injection, and that he would most likely be put to death in 1995.  However, Mr. Newsguy said, there was just one problem.  The local hospital in Deer Lodge, Montana was refusing to let any of their nurses or doctors start the IV through which the fluids would flow- and, nobody outside the county was offering to help.

"Let's head back to Idaho early,"I said to my wife. "And stop by the prison."

We did, and I went and meekly asked to speak to the warden.  Montana is small in population, and such courtesies are commonplace.  Ushered into his office, I quickly explained why I was there.

"I'm a medical professional, warden," I said.   "I have been fully trained in many different medical procedures, and have documentation in Idaho and Montana proving as such.  One of the many different medical specialties I'm trained in is intra-venous and intra-arterial puncture acess; I am very accomplished at instilling and supervising lines, and I am trained and licensed to both recognize and pronounce death."

I could see the gratitude wash over his face.

Spring 1995, just the next year.  I left for Montana and arrived in Deer Lodge and went straight to the prison.  I was three hours early; the warden asked if I wanted to meet with McKenzie prior to his coming into the execution chamber, and I said,"why yes, warden I do; I need to check his veins and hydration."

They had already moved him from his cell to the execution wing, and he was in a cell next to the chamber itself when I saw him.  Now a grown man, medically trained and in his mid-30's, I was no longer the scared little boy that saw Lana Harding's body draped over the reel of a swather when I slept; I admit that I sometimes still awoke in hysterics, seeing McKenzie break out of prison and come for me on our farm, just 20 miles away, raping my mother, my sister, our neighbors, then my wife, then my daughters...oh, how this monster had haunted me since the early 70's, over 20 years prior.

He was lying down with his eyes closed when the steel doors rattled open.  "Wake up McKenzie, medical is here to assess you."

He looked at me, all of 140 pounds and 5 feet 8.  He was a huge man, well over 300, obese from prison food, his height disguised by a blanket.  "Whatyouwaaaant.", he growled.

I just looked at him.    "Who are you," he asked, his voice rising.

I looked into his eyes, now just 16 inches from mine; in seconds I saw Lana's entire rape and murder.  It flashed through my brain as I pierced his eyes with my own hatred.  Hatred for him scaring me, ruining Lana's life, and my own childhood innocence.  She had been raped and murdered just miles from me!  Slowly, I met his gaze with a very faint smile, a smirk.

"I'm nobody", I said.  I looked at the guards, then the warden.  "Done, warden"  They let me out into the cool evening air.

The warden asked me to be there 90 minutes early, and I beat that by 60 minutes.    I watched McKenzie as he pace relentlessly back and forth in his cell, a caged tiger with no future except breathlessness.  Every nightmare I had had about him came flooding back, every bad daydream once again shuttered through my body.  I watched him pace, the fear now thermonuclear in his eyes for the next two hours.

They led him into the execution chamber 30 minutes before his date with death, and quickly strapped him on the cross-shaped table.  I was waiting, already gloved up; as I wrapped the dull yellowish-gray tourniquet around his fatty biceps muscle, he recognized me again.  "Who are you," he said, his voice now quaking.   "I've gotta know who you are.  You aren't just another doc, I can see it in your eyes.  Earlier, when you came to see me I was barely awake, and your eyes drilled into mine, now WHOTHEfarkAREYOUUUUUUUU!!!!!",​he screamed, the guards bouncing closely to the table.  I just stared calmly back into his eyes, the smirk returning.  I could see that my smirk enraged him further, to the point that he struggled against the heavy leather restraints.  My smirk said,"Your response it pitful,", and the hatred in his eyes affirmed that I was indeed correct.

"I'm just another "Doc", Duncan, here to do a job," I said, my voice loud enough to be heard by McKenzie and all the guards.  "Just doing my job."

I picked up the 16 gauge angiocath, and necessarily moved closer to him.  Now only he was close enough to hear my whispered tones.....

"I was 12 when you raped her, you monster," I whispered as I began the procedure.  "I was 20 miles away, just a boy.  You gave me nightmares and bad dreams which I have had my entire life.  I saw you rape her, then come for my mom, my sister, my wife, my daughter, you monster...since I was 12, you have never given me a moments peace."

His eyes bulged wide with fear.  I continued,

"Tonight I get my peace, McKenzie, you piece of slime," my hushed tones still audible only to him.

"I volunteered to do this for free, though they are paying me six hundred dollars and mileage from Idaho."

The needle bit into his flesh, and I continued,"But, McKenzie, I'll let you in on a little secret", I said, my quiet voice audible only to him.  "I'm very, very good at what I do.  I'm going to put this angio catheter into your vein, but not perfectly...much of the drug will be injected not into your vein, but into the subcutaneous tissue, where it'll take a whole lot longer to be absorbed.....it's gonna take you 45 minutes to die, I guarantee you.  Just like it took her...just like you have tortured first her, then me all these years, so now I torture you..."

His blinked rapidly as he processed the information I had just  said.  Knowing his fate would be horrific instead of quick, full of agony and lasting now an hour, he struggled to speak, his voice betraying him.

"I'm done, warden," I said as I stepped back and hooked up the intravenous line to the death injection machine, full of six bottles, three of each drug with a backup of three for redundancy.

"Any last words, Duncan?", the warden asked, the congeniality in his voice one last fark you to the monster who now lay before us, his impending gruesome fate now firmly etched in his eyes.  Once again, his larynx betrayed him.  The warden nodded, and the executioner, hidden behind a fake wall in a room just adjacent to us pushed a button.  The machine whirred to life, and I watch the canisters quickly depress the prescribed amount of each lethal injection drug into his veins.

As Duncan McKenzie, Jr. begin the process of dying, my mind flashed back to 1973, and I re-lived every nightmare, every bad dream, every horrific thought I had had since then, all on account of this monster.

I had no sense of time because of the flashbacks; I have no idea of how long it was untilI was jolted back to the present by the montone beep of the now flatlining EKG machine I myself had hooked up to him.  I took the stethoscope from around my neck, and listened; nothing, he was gone.  I said as such aloud.

I still can't recall how long it took for him to die,   but I swear it took about an hour or two.

I have slept like a baby since the spring of 1995.
 
2018-10-31 3:49:28 PM  
If you want something REALLY scary, here's the water on a mine site I've worked on up near Timmins.

img.fark.netView Full Size


Timmins has been a real-life horror story for the guys from our Toronto office. One of them got a speeding ticket/roadside suspension and lost his license outside of Kirkland Lake. He had to take a 2-hour cab to the hotel, and I had to drive him to the site. Another guy described the site as "scary" but could not define why, got his truck stuck, had to call the cops, and called it "the worst day of my life."

I'm sure people from Timmins would find parts of Toronto just as terrifying.
 
2018-10-31 4:01:40 PM  

JAGUART: Walker: Not supposed to be greenlit until Halloween. Someone had a premature ejaculation....of ectoplasm.

We're lucky we're still doing Halloween and not the "next" holiday sixty days from now....


It would be interesting to do a crazy Thanksgiving family story thread.

/not a bookmark
//or is it?
///
 
2018-10-31 4:02:39 PM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


You spoiled the whole thread - you reminded me that nothing imaginary is scary any more.
 
2018-10-31 4:29:40 PM  
I look forward to this thread every year.  Two stories, one funny and one just sort of interesting.

First of all, I love my truck.  I've owned it since 2000 and it's my daily driver.  Bought it from a friend of mine who purchased it new off of the lot in '96.  It has 315K on the clock, so every year i have to throw some parts at it to get it to pass inspection here in Texas.  Mine runs out in November.  Well, this year it's the DPFE sensor, which consists of a small tube and a larger tube which measure the difference in pressure in the exhaust from another sensor.  Differential Pressure Feedback EGR, for all of you motorheads.

Anyhow, from what I've read online, the easiest fix is to get some oven cleaner and a syringe and shoot the cleaner down the tubes as they are most likely clogged with carbon. So being as it is Halloween, I stopped at the local Walmart and filled my basket with about ten bags of candy, some oven cleaner and a pack of syringes from the pharmacy.  I got some funny looks as I was checking out, and I'm sure that I'm on somebody's watch list now!

Now to the interesting Halloween story.

I do a little part time work at a local country club, mostly handyman type of stuff. The old GM and I were golfing buddies and he knew I did the same kind of work for the University I went to when I was in college, so he offered me the position and told me that he would pay me and I could play all the free golf I wanted.  My hours are, anytime I want to show up and for how long I care to stay.  It's a really sweet gig.  I mostly work in the late afternoon into the night. We're also closed on Mondays, so I try to get as much done as I can on that day as there are no members to get in my way, and vice versa.

It wasn't too long into my employment that I started to notice strange thing would happen when I was there.  We don't have basements in Texas, but this building is sort of built into the side of a hill, so we have a pseudo basement where we store the carts that has what I believe was an fitness center type of room attached to it.  I call that room the dungeon as it is no longer used by the club. I use it as part of my shop where I keep my table saw and whatnot. You have to walk down a set of stairs through it to get to the cart barn.

Because of my work schedule I'm usually the only one there in the late evening.  I always walk the building to make sure all of the exterior doors are locked because most of the staff who close are teenagers who couldn't care less that the building is secure.  On two occasions I've walked down those stairs through the dungeon to make sure the doors are locked and been poked in the back by an unseen finger.

We also have the little old lady that sits at one of the tables in the grill area.  I've seen her twice, only on Monday's when we're closed.  I'll be walking past the grill and catch her out of the corner of my eye, stop, back up, and she's gone.  I've asked some of the older members about it and they've confirmed that many of the other members see her too.  She was apparently a member who passed long before any of the current members have been there.

There are other things that make me think it's not quite right, like misplaced tools that show back up where I think I left them a day or two later.  I don't think the spirits are malevolent, the last encounter being yesterday.  I was trying to get some things ready as we do a Halloween Carnival for the kids the day before the 31st, so I was there early yesterday afternoon.  I walked down through the dungeon and heard dogs barking through the wall that is against the hill.  There is no room on the other side of that wall.  I wear glasses and I was sweating and getting dust dripping onto the lenses, which makes it kind of hard to see!  I grabbed a golf cart to drive around to the front of the building where we have a covered parking area to drop off some of the decorations, the whole time thinking to myself that I need to grab a tissue and clean my glasses.  When I got to the front entrance I noticed a piece of trash sitting in the middle of the driveway so I got out to pick it up.  It was an unopened eyeglasses lens cleaner!

Happy Halloween.
 
2018-10-31 4:31:01 PM  

Night Train Express: So anyway, one night I was passing through the kitchen on my way to bed. I remember calling out good night to my housemates over my shoulder. As I walked from the kitchen onto the landing, I turned my head and smacked right into... something. It happened quickly, but I distinctly remember a black, human-shaped outline right in front of me. As I walked into it, I got the impression it was made of bronze-colored static in geometric patterns, like the visuals you get sometimes when you close your eyes in a dimly lit room. I remember not being able to move, and panic, and a weird feeling of embarrassment that I'm not sure came from me. After I don't know how long, it passed and I was just standing there.


I clearly remember something very similar to that.  It would hover in the corner of the ceiling watching me, and would sometimes climb down to perch on the back of the couch behind my wife, making sinister "choking" motions with its hands.

My first and last times with the DT's.  I seriously cut down on my alcohol intake after that.

/Brain is still not 100% sure that was a hallucination though...
 
2018-10-31 4:31:01 PM  

Kirzania: DCBuck: I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died."

I really think you need to get yourself to a sleep somnologist, stat. Get a sleep study done ... sounds, to me, like some serious sleep apnea.


Yeah, also sounds like sleep paralysis.
 
2018-10-31 4:38:36 PM  
...and then all of the Republicans won their elections.

The End
 
2018-10-31 4:39:53 PM  

stir22: The needle bit into his flesh, and I continued,"But, McKenzie, I'll let you in on a little secret", I said, my quiet voice audible only to him.  "I'm very, very good at what I do.  I'm going to put this angio catheter into your vein, but not perfectly...much of the drug will be injected not into your vein, but into the subcutaneous tissue, where it'll take a whole lot longer to be absorbed.....it's gonna take you 45 minutes to die, I guarantee you.  Just like it took her...just like you have tortured first her, then me all these years, so now I torture you..."

His blinked rapidly as he processed the information I had just  said.  Knowing his fate would be horrific instead of quick, full of agony and lasting now an hour, he struggled to speak, his voice betraying him.

"I'm done, warden," I said as I stepped back and hooked up the intravenous line to the death injection machine, full of six bottles, three of each drug with a backup of three for redundancy.

"Any last words, Duncan?", the warden asked, the congeniality in his voice one last fark you to the monster who now lay before us, his impending gruesome fate now firmly etched in his eyes.  Once again, his larynx betrayed him.  The warden nodded, and the executioner, hidden behind a fake wall in a room just adjacent to us pushed a button.  The machine whirred to life, and I watch the canisters quickly depress the prescribed amount of each lethal injection drug into his veins.

As Duncan McKenzie, Jr. begin the process of dying, my mind flashed back to 1973, and I re-lived every nightmare, every bad dream, every horrific thought I had had since then, all on account of this monster.

I had no sense of time because of the flashbacks; I have no idea of how long it was untilI was jolted back to the present by the montone beep of the now flatlining EKG machine I myself had hooked up to him.  I took the stethoscope from around my neck, and listened; nothing, he was gone.  I said as such aloud.

I still can't recall how long it took for him to die,   but I swear it took about an hour or two.

I have slept like a baby since the spring of 1995.


Welp, I had to look up McKenzie's story. Holy crap, twenty years on Death Row.

I offer this, without comment:

https://www.apnews.com/a126c92352b395​4​ca5ac34fcba6b8ddf

At 12:06 a.m., Corrections Director Rick Day asked McKenzie if he had any last words. McKenzie shook his head ''no.″ A minute later, McKenzie snored six times as a sedative that preceded the lethal drugs took effect. He issued a last deep gutteral sound and his breathing appeared to stop within another minute, but a doctor did not pronounce him dead until 12:22 a.m.
 
2018-10-31 4:42:25 PM  
Mine aren't particularly scary, but definitely odd.

The first has to do with a big pool hall (50 tables) in Virginia Beach that I used to manage that had "issues".  Everyone that worked there had experienced something strange.  After closing when I was there by myself, I'd occasionally hear a loud noise from upstairs, go up there, and find an 800-pound Valley table in the back moved six inches or so, and getting it pushed back to where it was supposed to be by myself was a biatch.  Happened several times, and always was the same table.  Whatever was up there also liked to play with the mop buckets - I'd hear them being run around on the tile part of the floor.  Getting everything put away was kind of a pain after that, so one night I went up there, and said, "I don't really care if you play with the mop buckets, but please put them away when you're done."  Whatever it was obliged politely, and afterwards I'd hear the mop buckets being run around, then being dragged across the carpeted floor, and the closet door closed.  I'd go up afterwards and everything was in order.  That got to be an almost-every-night thing.

Another experience was when I was closing with one of the waitresses who was my girlfriend at the time.  She had kept going on and on since we met about having a wolf as a spirit animal, and said she saw him all the time.  I didn't think much of it until one night after closing/cleanup when we were just about to leave, and she started giggling, saying that her wolf was jumping around on the tables.  I went over to look, and on four of the Brunswicks there were large paw prints in chalk.  Andi had been within my sight the whole time, so I knew she hadn't done it. I told her "your wolf, so you get to go brush those tables again".  Plenty of other odd things happened in that place, but it quickly would get into TL;DR territory.

I've also had experiences at home.  At the last place we lived in Orlando, not long after we moved in, my wife would hear awful sounds from the spare room like a cat being horribly hurt.  She'd rush to check it out - nothing there, and Red was usually sleeping peacefully on our bed.  A few times after that, I saw a ghostly black cat walking around in the living room that would hang around for a bit, and then disappear as I watched.  The house itself (built in 1947) was kind of weird too - all of the closet doors had locks on the outside.

The last notable thing I've had happen was here in Sebastian.  My stepdaughter said she was afraid of something, and I went into her bedroom to look.  On the wall right above her bed, underneath the paint was "I ♥ AB".  My stepdaughter's name is Angela Brown, and I'm pretty sure that wasn't there when we moved in.  Here's a photo:

img.fark.netView Full Size


Like I said, nothing particularly scary, just kinda weird.
 
2018-10-31 4:43:20 PM  
This year's thread is quite good!
 
2018-10-31 4:55:26 PM  

Parthenogenetic: stir22: The needle bit into his flesh, and I continued,"But, McKenzie, I'll let you in on a little secret", I said, my quiet voice audible only to him.  "I'm very, very good at what I do.  I'm going to put this angio catheter into your vein, but not perfectly...much of the drug will be injected not into your vein, but into the subcutaneous tissue, where it'll take a whole lot longer to be absorbed.....it's gonna take you 45 minutes to die, I guarantee you.  Just like it took her...just like you have tortured first her, then me all these years, so now I torture you..."

His blinked rapidly as he processed the information I had just  said.  Knowing his fate would be horrific instead of quick, full of agony and lasting now an hour, he struggled to speak, his voice betraying him.

"I'm done, warden," I said as I stepped back and hooked up the intravenous line to the death injection machine, full of six bottles, three of each drug with a backup of three for redundancy.

"Any last words, Duncan?", the warden asked, the congeniality in his voice one last fark you to the monster who now lay before us, his impending gruesome fate now firmly etched in his eyes.  Once again, his larynx betrayed him.  The warden nodded, and the executioner, hidden behind a fake wall in a room just adjacent to us pushed a button.  The machine whirred to life, and I watch the canisters quickly depress the prescribed amount of each lethal injection drug into his veins.

As Duncan McKenzie, Jr. begin the process of dying, my mind flashed back to 1973, and I re-lived every nightmare, every bad dream, every horrific thought I had had since then, all on account of this monster.

I had no sense of time because of the flashbacks; I have no idea of how long it was untilI was jolted back to the present by the montone beep of the now flatlining EKG machine I myself had hooked up to him.  I took the stethoscope from around my neck, and listened; nothing, he was gone.  I said as such aloud.

I still can't re ...


I'm a bit disappointed you didn't get the Edgar Allen Poe "contorted true life incident reference".....can it be that I'm not as good as I think?  nawwwww......!!

That said, my entry this year is wholly based upon a short story I wrote and published years ago, and loosely based upon an actual murder that happened in the early 1970's just outside of Conrad, Montana.  The original short story dealt with the irrational fear of a youth, and finally being able to put that fear to bed.
 
2018-10-31 5:08:53 PM  

Parthenogenetic: "SPEAK NOT. I HAVE COME TO WARN YOU. THAT WHICH YOU ONCE LOVED IS GONE FOREVER. ONLY ONCE MAY YOU SAVOR ECHO5JULIET'S DRIVE THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. ONLY ONCE MAY YOU SHIVER AT THE TALE OF QUEXY'S FISHY COMPANION. THE DRAUGHT ONCE DRANK CAN NEVER BE SAVORED IN THE SAME WAY AGAIN."


Came for this. As I do every year.
 
2018-10-31 5:09:12 PM  

rebelyell2006: eyeq360: ecmoRandomNumbers: I live south of the Navajo reservation in Arizona and this is shapeshifter country. There are quite a few people (non-Native Americans) who will swear up and down that they've seen them. About 10 years before I was born, my dad had moved back from Milpitas, California, kind of near where he worked at the GM plant (now Tesla) in Fremont. He got sick of California in the 60s, and came back to Arizona to be a logger and get away from the crowds.

He was separated from his first wife and living in a little adobe rental just outside of town called Tortilla Flat in the mid-60s and working on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver. He said he always hated that little rental house because it was out in the middle of a field with one tree next to it, so the wind and cold air would just blow on that thing constantly. It's windy like 300 days a year here because of our altitude (7200 feet) and unique geography.

One night happened to be really clear and still, with a full-ish moon, after a snowstorm -- one of those nights where you don't need headlights or flashlights to see anything outside. My dad said he couldn't sleep one night because it was just too quiet without any wind. He got up, lit a cigarette, and was looking out the window that faced east toward Picnic Hill. All of a sudden, he sees somebody running along the long barbed-wire fence that abuts the highway. He thinks, "Who the hell is running out at night?" He was thinking anybody running in that kind of cold must be in trouble -- maybe a car accident. He got up to put his jacket on while still looking out. Then he noticed that whoever was running was doing it awfully fast. Unnaturally fast. He's squinting, trying to get a better look at a distance.

It was an animal of some kind. Black, and with a dog-like snout -- running on two legs, at about 40 miles an hour. Just as my dad starts to freak out, the animal turns and starts running straight towards his little adobe house. My dad locked the door, closed the curtain, and grabbed the .45 ACP he bought off a biker in San Jose. He hears something walk around the entire house, breathing deeply, and walk away. He didn't sleep the entire night and didn't go to work until the sun came up. Normally, loggers are out before the sun is up so they can start working at first light. When he left the house in the morning, he looked around the entire house -- no footprints in the snow. Not even cats or dogs.

Skinwalkers?

Texas Skinrangers


Sounds like a furry got lost.
 
2018-10-31 5:36:17 PM  
Not my firsthand account, but this creeps the living fark out of me, and these  things have since I first heard about them a year or two ago. I just hope I'm not inviting something to happen by just mentioning these things.

It was 1995, I had just graduated High School, an old friend who I haven't talked to in 7 years now and I were hanging out and I said, "Let's go to New Orleans." And we did. We had $140 between us and back then that was more than enough. We made it New Orleans, almost died from culture shock, and turned around and headed to Magnolia, MS to get some sleep. We stayed at Magnolia Inn, it was a shiat hole, but it was nice and cool. It was May or June, in south MS; cool was the only adjective that mattered. We stayed up that night playing poker, drinking Gordon's vodka, and talking about who knows what. Probably girls, college, and college girls. At some point I said, "Ever been to Texas?" "Nope." "Pack your bag and let's roll." We had a road atlas; Marshall, TX was right across the border from Shreveport.

We arrived in Shreveport, made a phone call to another friend, who we were actually supposed to be staying with. Both of our mothers had called looking for us. The only person that knew where we were was the buddy on the phone. It was no big deal; we would be home in a day or two.

I'm being short on details because if I don't this will turn into a novel length story about chasing armadillos and being chased by the boogeyman.

Before we left that rest area in Shreveport where we made the call we saw an armadillo. Let me tell you something about armadillos, those bastards will hiss, jump, and turn into Tasmanian Devils if you corner them. They also carry leprosy. We were 18; we chased that armadillo around for an hour. Now let me tell you about Shreveport. I don't know how it is now but in the summer of 1995 it looked and smelled like a place where oil and metal went to die. It was dirty. It was a shiat hole. We crossed a bridge and saw people fishing a 100 yards from where a drainage pipe from a factory was spewing forth waste upriver from the fisherman. The locals reminded me of the locals in Adamsville, bald headed women and cross eyed men. A lot of bald headed, cross eyed kids. I'm sorry but it was a Rob Zombie movie come to life. I felt like I was going to be raped because I had a full head of hair and could see straight. The best part of Shreveport was an armadillo that might possibly have leprosy. Marshall, TX was 40 miles away. We rolled on.

Marshall was a decent little town. Home of the Fire Ant Festival. We stopped at a little bar-b-q joint and had a coke, a smile, and some pulled pork. It was getting late, and the sun was setting, we looked at the map and decided to back track a bit and head up rural route 43, through Karnack, and past Caddo Lake. We would eventually run into Hwy 59, head to Texarkana and then head back home. When we left the bar-b-q joint and headed towards 43 it was dusk. Hwy 43 wasn't well lit, it was almost as dark as Natchez Trace Parkway (I've got a good story about using a pair of pantyhose as a fan belt for an old diesel Mercedes. Do not EVER get stuck on the Trace after dark. Ever.) My friend was driving and we were doing about 45 mph, any faster would have been reckless even for a couple 18 year old dumbasses.

This road was kind of like Christmasville Rd. (The locals reading this will know what I mean. The non-locals just have to use your imagination) It was dark, winding, full of hills that ended in curves; there were beady and glowing eyes on both sides of the road. You could hear the crickets and the bullfrogs over the sound of the wind rushing by that old Sentra. It was peaceful and creepy at the same time. The humidity was a real thing, tangible. The air was thick. It smelled like pastures, hay, and swamp. We drove for what seemed like hours, it was after midnight, and I saw a sign that informed me that Bivins was the next town of any size. I was hypnotized by the yellow lines on the road; we hadn't seen another car in at least an hour, sleepy. I rolled the window down and lit a cigarette. There was music coming from the radio, the tape player, it was either Tupac or Bob Seger. I smoked my cigarette, absent mindedly flicking ashes out of the window. I took one last puff and flicked the Camel Short off into the woods. Then I saw it.

I never looked to my right; I didn't even kinda peek to the right. Maybe I did a little when I flicked the cigarette away. I don't know. What I do know is that in my periphery there was something running alongside the car. It was just behind my window, behind where the edge of the door ends and before where the back window begins. I looked over at the speedometer, 40 mph. I looked at my friend, he was looking straight ahead, I looked straight ahead. I could still see it. I could see one huge arm, matted hair, reddish brown, sticky looking, primal. I eased my right hand over and rolled up my window. My friend was still looking straight ahead, his jaw was clenched, and he put both hands on the wheel, he sped up.

No words were said. I looked straight ahead and still out of my periphery I could see that arm moving, muscles and tendons visibly rippling beneath that matted hair. As the car gained a little speed the thing running alongside us lost pace, slightly, I then saw the hand on the end of that nightmarish arm. The hand was clenched into fist the size of a cantaloupe, a big cantaloupe. It was covered in the same hair but slightly darker around the fingers, like it was stained with something. Suddenly the hand unclenched and then I saw the claws, black as this damned after midnight Texas night. Those claws were at least two inches long, sharp, like an animals. This wasn't a hand so much as it was the killing paw and claws of some beast whose only purpose was to kill and eat.

I looked back at my friend; I looked at the speedometer, 50 mph. I looked straight ahead, it was still there. I lit another cigarette, didn't roll the window down, and simply said, "shiat." The music had stopped. I finally broke the silence and said, "Hey, do you..." and before I could finish my buddy said, "I see it, I've been seeing it. I can't even see you but I can see whatever the hell that shiat is." "How much do you see?" "More than I want to." "Speed up, John, just speed up. It can't keep up forever." I looked over, 55 mph, whatever was chasing us, silently, was starting to lag behind. I finally looked to my right, just a bit, imagine the scary part of the movie where you put your hands in front of your face but still peek through. In 37 years I have two regrets, one is picking up that first cigarette and the other is me looking to my right that night. This beast was huge, its chest was above the top of the car, and all I could see was that matted reddish brown hair. Then it bent forward as it ran, I saw the face of this thing, all reality stopped. We were no longer driving down some country road in Texas. We were now trying to escape from the depths of a monster inhabited hell.

This things face is beyond my powers to describe. It was evil. The eyes were black and the pupils were red. It flashed its teeth at me in a snarl, yellow and huge. Saliva dripped from its mouth. It opened its eyes wide and it looked hungry and pissed off. Then it opened its mouth, the skin pulled back until all you could see were black gums and yellow teeth. Immediately I could feel the car accelerate. "farking hell, John, just go!" I prayed. I cussed. I lit a cigarette. Then like sunshine breaking through the clouds the road straightened out. "Don't you slow down."

We drove through Bivins, and we drove to Texarkana. Then we drove home. We never said a word. It was years later, 11 to be exact, before we ever even talked about it again and we didn't talk about it much. He said he'd never told anyone and I hadn't either. I told the story a few years back for the first time while I was parked out on a gravel road, doing the things you do when you're parked out on a gravel road with a good looking woman. I told it a year or so ago to a couple of kids who wanted to hear a scary story while they sat around a camp fire. They didn't sleep for a day or two but they asked me a dozen more times to tell them the story. I never told anyone until now that I saw its face.

I've been scared for my life exactly two times. Once was on that road and once was looking at a grizzly bear in front of me with a terminal velocity inducing drop to the side of me. Call it what you will, call it bullshiat if you want, but look me in the eyes and let me tell you this story and you'll know. Never doubt that there are things in this world that defy explanation and logic. The boogeyman is real.

Some 16 or 17 years after this happened I ran across a story and a movie called The Legend of Boggy Creek. Fauke, Arkansas (Where the aforementioned story and movie takes place) isn't that far from Bivins, TX, as the crow flies. Invite me over, buy me a beer, sit on the porch with me and I'll tell you the story, over a pack of Marlboros and a few of those beers.
 
2018-10-31 5:36:42 PM  
True story time.  This really did happen to me, Bazolar.  This would have probably happened sometime in 1985.  I would have been 8 or 9, depending on the month.  My family lived in a house on Nellis Air Force Base, where my dad was stationed at the time.  My younger brother and I shared a room and at that time our beds were bunk beds.  My brother always was the first to fall asleep, whereas I always struggled to fall asleep, at least until I reached my 30s.  I slept on the top bunk and was finally just starting to fall asleep when a voice whispered "Betty."  A man's voice, low and urgent.  As I get more and more terrified, the voice repeated the name over and over, becoming more insistent.  It was a very chilling sounding voice.

I don't know how long I waited, but finally I yelled for my mother.  The voice stopped and my mom came  in the room.  I told her what I had heard and asked her if she and my dad were watching TV in their room or if they'd heard anything.  She said that they had both been asleep and that she was sure I was imagining things, but she would wait with me until I fell asleep.  So she stood next to the bunk beds and rested her head on her arms on the railing of the bed.  And she fell asleep standing up.  Almost as soon as she fell asleep, the voice started again.  Always just the name "Betty" and always building in intensity, almost frantic, but never louder than a really loud whisper.  I would wake my mom up, the voice would stop and as soon as she would fall asleep again, it would start again.

I'm not sure how long this went on, a couple hours, maybe?  Finally, I did fall asleep.  I  must have just finally been exhausted from terror at that point.  We lived in that house for a couple of years before we were transferred to another base in another state and I never heard the voice again or had anything else weird happen.  I don't know what it was, just that I heard it.  It always struck me as strange because my grandmother's name is Betty.  My grandfather had passed in 1983, but at their home in Illinois.  It also wasn't my grandfather's voice.  We had tapes they had sent us when we lived in Germany for three years, so even 2 years removed from his death, I still knew what his voice and my great-grandfather's voice sounded like.  Plus, I don't think my either of them would've scared me like that.

So I'm not saying it was a ghost.  I never saw anything.  It could have been something on the base maybe, but it's bizarre that it would stop and start when only I could hear it.  It wasn't my brother.  He always was a deep sleeper and I could hear him breathing steadily the whole time the voice was whispering.

As a final note of weirdness, a few Thanksgivings ago, I reminded my mom of this story and she remembered me calling her into my room.  She never heard anything.  She turns to my father and she says to him, "Didn't they tell you someone died in that house?"  And my dad said that when we were moving in, someone did tell him that a man had died in the house.  Again, not saying it was the ghost of the man who died.  I have no clue what or who whispered "Betty" over and over that night.  I'll never know, but I'll never forget it, either.
 
2018-10-31 5:38:37 PM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Dang.  This is what I came to post because it's the scariest thing I could think of.
 
kth
2018-10-31 5:39:47 PM  
I grew up in Wichita during the whole BTK thing. My friend who was my age (a lovely man now) told me at the ripe old age of four that he was after me.

Cue the nightmares. I had nightmares every night about someone coming into my house and kidnapping me. I started sleeping in weird places like the foot of my brother's bed, or my closet. Terrible awful nightmares. I would see the guy who was kidnapping me.

New Years' Day, when I was 8 years old. I see the guy at the roller rink. The fark? I'm scared, but feel stupid, so I don't say anything. I don't know if he was the one, but at one point during the afternoon, I'm skating along and an adult tackles me from behind, breaking my front teeth. No one really saw it, and no one claimed responsibility. Thanks Dr. Funke (my dentist) for coming in on a holiday to fix my teeth before school started back.

So I carry this vision of the scary dude who I dreamed about before I saw him, and who I've now conflated with the guy who tackled me at the roller rink. I grow up, live my life, get a security system that isn't connected to a landline (BTK cut phone lines).

Then when they arrest him... damned if it doesn't look a whole lot like the evil guy from my dream.


The moral of the story is, your brain will make connections that don't exist, but are really damn scary.
 
2018-10-31 5:44:14 PM  

DCBuck: Resident Muslim: DCBuck: I frequently experience a strange phenomenon at night. Sometimes, after I go to bed, I wake up in the room I went to sleep in, but it's not really that room. It looks like the same room in all obvious and basic respects, but has some subtle (but fundamental) differences. Basically, it's the same room, but it's off. If you look around the room you're in now, you'll probably notice that it has a lot of life to it and stuff going on. Shadows moving, the AC might make a curtain flutter, light gives objects depth and warmth, you might have some floaters or imperfections in your eyesight, etc. When I wake up in this different-ish place, it has none of that going on. It's very static and flat. Sometimes it's like being inside an old and faded picture, other times like a monochrome picture. It also has the odd characteristic of darkness without being dark (i.e., there's a sensation of darkness, but, unlike a real dark room, I can see everything).  I also usually get the sense that nothing's there. At all. My wife isn't lying next to me. The dog's not in its bed. I get the sense that the kids aren't in their beds down the hall, and it's (usually) profoundly quiet. I hear the small noises I might make, and they break the otherwise total silence. I feel like if I opened a door and tried to walk outside, there would be nothing there.

So, all the time when I wake up in this place it scares and bothers me. I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died." This place is super vivid. I have normal dreams all the time, and this doesn't seem like a dream so I don't think "hey, you're dreaming; just wake up." Instead, I usually panic a little bit, and then get profoundly sad and think about how I left a lot undone and that my kids will really miss me. I get up and walk around and, then, at some point I do wake up.  And the process of waking up isn't the same as waking from a normal dream. I can best describe ...


What you have here is not astral projection; what you have in these dreams is a choice. A choice to step sideways, or a choice to stay where you are. Remember that old show, Sliders? The vast majority of the episodes portrayed worlds way off the path the group had been on, but occasionally had a world where one or two small things were changed, and that was it. What you're experiencing is similar, but not the same: the worlds a half-step off ours (or ones you've been in before) are always a bit rattier, shabbier, and off from the one you're used to; these are the way-points, the halfway houses - and they're empty, except for you. At least most of the time. What you describe is exactly what you should experience when this choice is laid out in front of you. You're there, alone, a half-step between this world and one of its siblings, and the choice before you is simple: go through the door, find something to eat, and wake up in the world another half-step over, or wait/struggle to wake back in the world you have been in. That world another half-step over won't be empty, and probably will have the people - or most of the people - you had with you in this world. There's no way to say what you'll encounter when you get there, but if you make that choice - and it doesn't sounds as though you have - you won't get back to this world. The next time you are given the choice, if you are given the choice again, it will be to a world another half-step off. The trick is for the mind to be elastic enough to deal with the changes; most can make it one or two steps away, but that's as far as their sanity can go without breaking. There's too much that's the same but different; there's too much to remember to keep from slipping up and being noticed as wrong, yourself. Some, however, look forward to the surprises, even though those surprised tend to be at least somewhat unpleasant. So which choice will you make the next time you're there? Good luck, whatever you decide. But do remember this - there may not be many more times you have the choice available to you. Then you're stuck here, for better or for worse.
 
2018-10-31 5:53:13 PM  

writingdude: DCBuck: Resident Muslim: DCBuck: I frequently experience a strange phenomenon at night. Sometimes, after I go to bed, I wake up in the room I went to sleep in, but it's not really that room. It looks like the same room in all obvious and basic respects, but has some subtle (but fundamental) differences. Basically, it's the same room, but it's off. If you look around the room you're in now, you'll probably notice that it has a lot of life to it and stuff going on. Shadows moving, the AC might make a curtain flutter, light gives objects depth and warmth, you might have some floaters or imperfections in your eyesight, etc. When I wake up in this different-ish place, it has none of that going on. It's very static and flat. Sometimes it's like being inside an old and faded picture, other times like a monochrome picture. It also has the odd characteristic of darkness without being dark (i.e., there's a sensation of darkness, but, unlike a real dark room, I can see everything).  I also usually get the sense that nothing's there. At all. My wife isn't lying next to me. The dog's not in its bed. I get the sense that the kids aren't in their beds down the hall, and it's (usually) profoundly quiet. I hear the small noises I might make, and they break the otherwise total silence. I feel like if I opened a door and tried to walk outside, there would be nothing there.

So, all the time when I wake up in this place it scares and bothers me. I feel like I'm not breathing and the thought that occurs to me, frequently, is "oh [crap], I died." This place is super vivid. I have normal dreams all the time, and this doesn't seem like a dream so I don't think "hey, you're dreaming; just wake up." Instead, I usually panic a little bit, and then get profoundly sad and think about how I left a lot undone and that my kids will really miss me. I get up and walk around and, then, at some point I do wake up.  And the process of waking up isn't the same as waking from a normal dream. I can best d ...


img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-31 5:59:49 PM  
I love this thread every year!!

Alexa, I'm too damn busy today. Bookmark this thread please.

Thank you.
 
2018-10-31 6:03:07 PM  
I don't have time to type out my scary stories at the moment, so I'll just post a couple Halloween pictures of our girls for now.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN ALL!👻
img.fark.netView Full Size

img.fark.netView Full Size


And the boys...
img.fark.netView Full Size

img.fark.netView Full Size


Be safe and have fun everyone!
 
2018-10-31 6:10:31 PM  
Two versions of this.  The first is the original.  The second is after a little help re-editing it.
The Unloved

I met my own ghost while I was sitting at a campfire
He told me the minute, the hour, the day I was 'sposed to die
But he said he was getting tired, tired of waiting
So he ripped my soul out right before my eyes

Now my body, my body it keeps moving
Though every day I wish it wasn't so
Cause I am just a dead man, dead man walking
Another lost soul out here looking for my soul

But this once I thought that I had found my soulmate
But she could tell I was dead inside
She tried her very best, best to love me
But I had a coldness no love could abide

So with no place left for me
Wanderin' from bed to bed, town to town
I am just another soulless heathen
With not a soul left to tie me down

V2 (as edited by a friend... it had some flow issues as a song before he fixed it)

The Unloved

You know I met my ghost, while, sittin' by the fire
Told me the minute, hour, day, that, I would surely die
But he said he couldn't wait, stole my soul right 'fore my eyes

Well my body keep on moving, always going to and fro
Everyday is the same, you know I wish it wasn't so
I'm a dead man walking, lost and looking for my soul

I thought I found a soulmate, who would stay right by my side
But she saw right through me, said "I see you're dead inside"
She tried hard to love me, but my coldness, she could, not abide

There's no place for me, that, I can stay around
I wander bed to bed, and I go from town to town
Just a soulless heathen, with no soul, to, tie me down

----------

I've got the original version's vocal recorded but didn't get a chance to record the new version (or combination version).  I was hoping to have it done by Halloween but I got busy with life stuff, so I don't have a version up on YouTube or anything.  Bluesy thing, high hallow vocal.
 
2018-10-31 6:21:19 PM  

Honest Geologist: Ovuzai: Not scary, but in honor of my late girlfriend for the Day of the Dead:

https://www.fark.com/comments/10212009​/118065116#c118065116

My condolences... but thanks for sharing. I love silly stuff like that, it sounds like you're my kind of people.

So you would appreciate a few weeks ago, driving west on Highway 7 from Ottawa, we saw a dump truck which had gone off the road and was half-submerged in a lake. The name on the side: Down Under Irrigation.


Lol. +1
 
2018-10-31 6:23:06 PM  
This took place about 4 or 5 years ago...

It's mid-March.  My parents are away friends at a condo in Myrtle Beach they have a timeshare on.  I am house-sitting and dog-sitting for them at our old homestead deep in the wilds of the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York.

Friday, my parent's golden retriever, and I are watching TV in the living room.  It is getting close to 11PM and the shows I like to watch on Adult Swim are about to come on.  I'm lying on the living room couch, and Friday is lying on her doggy bed on the floor.  The satellite and the big screen are one of the reasons I always volunteer to house sit.  That, and the house is far away from civilization.  Meaning, once I stock up on supplies, I can crank the TV volume, cook a whole pizza, break out the 30-pack, and live like a king until the parents get back in a few weeks.  Or I run out of MGD, whichever comes first.

All the lights upstairs are off, and the only light on downstairs is the small florescent tube light over the kitchen sink.  It's overcast, but dad has the barn light and one of the outer exterior lights on timers, so if anyone comes calling I should be able to see.  Also, my dad put one of those wireless electronic bell-type alarms at the driveway entrance, so if anyone pulls on I can hear bell tones and the sound of the car itself.

As I lay there in the near darkness, Friday stares out toward the kitchen, perks her ears up, and starts growling.  I ask her, "what is it, girl?"  She just freezes there on the floor, head turned, and continues growling.

It was at that moment that I hear a sound.  Actually, I moar felt than heard it.  A sort of a loud but gentle "WHUUUuuuuump", coming from the kitchen.  Imagine if someone lined the back of a pickup or small van with sofa cushions, then slowly backed it into the wall of your house at 8 or 10 miles per hour.  That's what it felt and, sort of, sounded like.

I got up to investigate.  We hardly ever have problems with crime out there in the wild, but every now and then you hear about thieves ripping off someones yard equipment.  Hence my mom welcoming my mooching off their stuff for 3 weeks or so every year.  I wasn't expecting any real trouble at that point.

The light over the kitchen sink was reflecting square off the windows in front of the sink.  They were old fashioned hand-cranked windows with the panes set vertically.  The panes themselves were 6 to 9 feet above the flower bed below, so I had a pretty good view of the front lawn.  As I said, the glare wouldn't help much, but the light from the outside lights ought to at least show the outline of whatever was out there.  Friday trotted out into the kitchen behind me, her hackles raised and growling louder and uglier than I ever heard her growl before.

Walked to the sink and looked out one of the vertical panes...

...straight into a HUGE! AMBER! EYEBALL! that was looking IN the window!

BATTLE ALERT!!!  I pounded my fist on the wooden counter top in front of the sink, stamped my feet to almost shake the cooking utensils off the walls where they hung, and roared and bellowed at the top of my lungs!  I run over to the door to the backroom and flip on all the outside light switches there.  Then I sprint to the corner window for a better view of the front and side yards.

I'm just in time to see the butt end of a black bear galloping around my dad's tool and lawn mower shed on its way up the mountain the house sat against.

After slowing my breathing down, stuffing some 00-buck in my 12-gauge, and putting on a pair of pants, I stepped out to get a damage report.  The front wall of the house was undamaged, but you could see little black hairs that were caught between the shingles where the bear had leaned against the house.  Dad's homemade bird feeder had been ripped down and torn open, the sunflower seeds it had contained dumped all over the front sidewalk.  I could see lanes in the seeds where the bear had licked up whole rows of them.  I spent the next hour trying to calm Friday down and talk her out of mountin' a mountain expedition to hunt down and destroy the evil, seed-stealing bear that had dishonored our family fortress!

To this day, I am convinced the bear was trying to find a way to get in the house and get either me or Friday.

Either that, or the seeds made it thirsty and it was trying to get one of my Miller Genuine Drafts.
 
2018-10-31 6:31:50 PM  
Where's Fishy?
 
2018-10-31 6:39:17 PM  

blondambition: Where's Fishy?


On the wall behind you, most likely. Just watching.
 
2018-10-31 6:39:44 PM  

blondambition: Where's Fishy?


*behind you*
 
2018-10-31 6:44:45 PM  

Diocletian's Last Cabbage: Either that, or the seeds made it thirsty and it was trying to get one of my Miller Genuine Drafts.


Very possible.  Bears LOVE beer.

3 years ago a medium-sized brown bear raided our hunting camp while we were out glassing.  Walked right past the food box and knocked over an igloo cooler full of various kinds of beer.  Farker bit open and drank every one before crapping in the fire pit and staggering off.

Thankfully he didn't mess with the tequila, so were were fine...
 
2018-10-31 6:47:45 PM  
Short Story Entry:

I awake yet another day, just the same as many else before it. However, there is one this that makes this day special. Not to me mind you, but to a select few around this country. So I turn on my TV and acknowledge what I really don't want to. I'm watching Fox news, not that I want to, but I have to since there are no other news channels. The scene if the national mall in Washington and I see Trump at the steps of the Trump Memorial. Yes, for those that remember it was the Lincoln Memorial, but that's not important any longer. Now Trump stands gloriously on display where Lincoln used to sit. The mighty thumbs up is the new sign for America. After the statues erection in his third term, Trump wanted all future coronations here for the world to see. Yes, that's what they are called now. And as he declares the start of his fourth term I wonder how many more year this will go on. I know the answer and refuse to believe it as his vice president, his son Don Jr., proudly gives the thumbs up to the crowd before him.
This is how 2028 begins.
 
2018-10-31 6:58:02 PM  

shaggai: Short Story Entry:

I awake yet another day, just the same as many else before it. However, there is one this that makes this day special. Not to me mind you, but to a select few around this country. So I turn on my TV and acknowledge what I really don't want to. I'm watching Fox news, not that I want to, but I have to since there are no other news channels. The scene if the national mall in Washington and I see Trump at the steps of the Trump Memorial. Yes, for those that remember it was the Lincoln Memorial, but that's not important any longer. Now Trump stands gloriously on display where Lincoln used to sit. The mighty thumbs up is the new sign for America. After the statues erection in his third term, Trump wanted all future coronations here for the world to see. Yes, that's what they are called now. And as he declares the start of his fourth term I wonder how many more year this will go on. I know the answer and refuse to believe it as his vice president, his son Don Jr., proudly gives the thumbs up to the crowd before him.
This is how 2028 begins.


You wanna hear something really scary?

"I am pleased to announce, that as my first official act of my second term, the government of the United States of America is to be reorganized into the American World Empire, for a safe and secure society which I assure you will last for ten thousand years.  We hold the world in A.W.E.  USA!"
 
2018-10-31 6:59:56 PM  

ObscureNameHere: Hey Everyone:

Could we please not make the same mistakes as last year?   Can we just have short, personal POV tales and NOT wall-of-text chapters that no one will read?

Thanks.


Call me Ishmael.

Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs- commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?- Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster- tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling And there they stand- miles of them- leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets avenues- north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries- stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies- what is the one charm wanting?- Water- there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick- grow quarrelsome- don't sleep of nights- do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;- no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,- though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board- yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;- though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bakehouses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the fore-castle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one's sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about- however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way- either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,- what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!
Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way- he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

"Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. "WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL." "BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN."

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces- though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it- would they let me- since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original- the Tyre of this Carthage;- the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones- so goes the story- to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?

Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,- So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the towards the north with the darkness towards the south- wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don't be too particular.

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of "The Crossed Harpoons"- but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the "Sword-Fish Inn," there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,- rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don't you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But "The Crossed Harpoons," and the "The Sword-Fish?"- this, then must needs be the sign of "The Trap." However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.
It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher's text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of 'The Trap!'

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath- "The Spouter Inn:- Peter Coffin."

Coffin?- Spouter?- Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place- a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul's tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. "In of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon," says an old writer- of whose works I possess the only copy extant- "it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier." True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind- old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it's too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper- (he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?
Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this "Spouter" may be.
 
2018-10-31 7:09:51 PM  

LawrencePerson: ObscureNameHere: Hey Everyone:

Could we please not make the same mistakes as last year?   Can we just have short, personal POV tales and NOT wall-of-text chapters that no one will read?

Thanks.

Call me Ishmael.

Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs- commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?- Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster- tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling And there they stand- miles of them- leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets avenues- north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries- stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies- what is the one charm wanting?- Water- there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick- grow quarrelsome- don't sleep of nights- do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;- no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,- though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board- yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;- though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bakehouses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the fore-castle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one's sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about- however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way- either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,- what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!
Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way- he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

"Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. "WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL." "BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN."

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces- though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it- would they let me- since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original- the Tyre of this Carthage;- the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones- so goes the story- to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?

Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,- So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the towards the north with the darkness towards the south- wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don't be too particular.

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of "The Crossed Harpoons"- but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the "Sword-Fish Inn," there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,- rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don't you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But "The Crossed Harpoons," and the "The Sword-Fish?"- this, then must needs be the sign of "The Trap." However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.
It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher's text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of 'The Trap!'

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath- "The Spouter Inn:- Peter Coffin."

Coffin?- Spouter?- Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place- a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul's tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. "In of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon," says an old writer- of whose works I possess the only copy extant- "it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier." True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind- old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it's too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper- (he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?
Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this "Spouter" may be.


If you are going to post something that long, you need to end it with "Looked at my kingdom, I was finally there, to sit on my throne as the Prince of Bel-Air."
 
2018-10-31 7:31:31 PM  

SonsoftheSod: "Ted Cruz"


Do you need me to pass him a message?


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Boe [TotalFark] [OhFark]
2018-10-31 7:48:34 PM  

Cpl.D: When I was ten (~1989) there was an incident where it was summertime and getting past dusk and into night, and I was in the living room watching television.  I just happened to glance to my left, and there was someone standing behind the blinds outside, just staring the hell out of me.  I freaked out, screamed, parents came running, my father went charging outside.  Whoever it had been had run off.

Less than a week later we come back from a family trip to the store, and the front door to the house is open.  My mother and I carried stuff in to the kitchen while my father went looking around to see if someone had been in there.  Two minutes later he comes hauling ass down the stairs, yelling GET OUT GET OUT.  We go outside and he runs over to the neighbor's house to use the phone and call the cops.  Two cars eventually come.  One set of cops wait outside, front and back doors, and the other goes inside, room by room.  Eventually, we get the all clear and go back inside.  I'm weirded out and not getting any answers.  Over the next few days, my father replaces all the door locks and make sure all the window locks are solid.  Bilco doors, everything.  Nothing else happens aside from some uneasy nights.

Fast forward about ten years, I happen to remember this whole thing, and I asked my father about what the hell had happened.  He went pale, but went into his bedroom to get something and came down to the living room.  He didn't find anyone, he said.  He just found something.  A picture, he said.  It was in my bedroom, on the pillow of my bed.  He dropped a polaroid on my lap.

It was a Polaroid of course.  It was a picture of my bedroom.  With me, lying on the bed, asleep.  Taken from between the slats of the closet.  Back in those days, sometimes depending on what Polaroid you had, it'd put a day and time stamp on the picture.  It was that year, and it was summer, but it had been taken a month before I first saw somebody watching me.

We never got any answers.  I've got my own family and my own place, but I can tell you that the locks at my place are solid and the blinds don't have any slats.


That is messed up.  Now I won't sleep tonight.  Maybe never again.
 
2018-10-31 7:57:46 PM  
Amazing effort this year all! Voting completes tonight at midnight Kentucky TIme, so in just about 4 hours. Make sure to get your votes in!

Thank you everyone for being so amazing and putting so much