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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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2877 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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2018-10-31 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?


img.fark.netView Full Size
 
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 effort into making Halloween the holiday we love.

You guys rock.
 
2018-10-31 8:08:09 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.


You use ur tongue perttier than a $2 hoor!
 
2018-10-31 8:08:09 PM  

Turing_Machine: 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 effort into making Halloween the holiday we love.

You guys rock.



Current voting is (username - previous sponsorships - count) :

Smartest/Scariest :
HedlessChickn 116
Torque (2015) 101
meg12279 48
lymond01 45
Wenchmaster 39
ResidentMuslim(2016) 38
namegoeshere 37
Cpl.D 36
TheLastFrontiernsman (2015, 2017) 31
KarateExplosion 26
---------------
the money is in the banana stand 24
Clark W Griswold 24
ObscureNameHere 24
Acad1228 (2015) 23
Coelocanth 22


Funniest:

Poorjon 96
HedlessChickn 69
PArthoneginic )2017) 58
bighairyguy 50
snotnose 48
Eli WhiskeyDik 40
Dragonchild 30
ResidentMuslim (2016) 35
Walker 33
Sid_the_sadist 31
----------------
Parthenogenic (2017) 30
Calypsocookie 30
farkingismybusiness (2017) 26
TabASlotB 25
IronTom 19
 
2018-10-31 8:10:14 PM  

Turing_Machine: Turing_Machine: 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 effort into making Halloween the holiday we love.

You guys rock.


Current voting is (username - previous sponsorships - count) :

Smartest/Scariest :
HedlessChickn 116
Torque (2015) 101
meg12279 48
lymond01 45
Wenchmaster 39
ResidentMuslim(2016) 38
namegoeshere 37
Cpl.D 36
TheLastFrontiernsman (2015, 2017) 31
KarateExplosion 26
---------------
the money is in the banana stand 24
Clark W Griswold 24
ObscureNameHere 24
Acad1228 (2015) 23
Coelocanth 22


Funniest:
Poorjon 96
HedlessChickn 69
PArthoneginic )2017) 58
bighairyguy 50
snotnose 48
Eli WhiskeyDik 40
Dragonchild 30
ResidentMuslim (2016) 35
Walker 33
Sid_the_sadist 31
----------------
Parthenogenic (2017) 30
Calypsocookie 30
farkingismybusiness (2017) 26
TabASlotB 25
IronTom 19


I never win anything.
 
2018-10-31 8:17:41 PM  

Turing_Machine: Turing_Machine: 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 effort into making Halloween the holiday we love.

You guys rock.


Current voting is (username - previous sponsorships - count) :

Smartest/Scariest :
HedlessChickn 116
Torque (2015) 101
meg12279 48
lymond01 45
Wenchmaster 39
ResidentMuslim(2016) 38
namegoeshere 37
Cpl.D 36
TheLastFrontiernsman (2015, 2017) 31
KarateExplosion 26
---------------
the money is in the banana stand 24
Clark W Griswold 24
ObscureNameHere 24
Acad1228 (2015) 23
Coelocanth 22


Funniest:
Poorjon 96
HedlessChickn 69
PArthoneginic )2017) 58
bighairyguy 50
snotnose 48
Eli WhiskeyDik 40
Dragonchild 30
ResidentMuslim (2016) 35
Walker 33
Sid_the_sadist 31
----------------
Parthenogenic (2017) 30
Calypsocookie 30
farkingismybusiness (2017) 26
TabASlotB 25
IronTom 19


I already have TF, and my entry is a repost from a previous year (although I cleaned it up a bit) so please pass my TF down the line to the next person in line.

Thanks again for doing this!
 
2018-10-31 8:43:54 PM  
One Halloween while I was in law school, I had to register for classes the spring semester and in order to get the best times, you have to do it early in the morning.

So I get to one of the student union on campus (before it got torn down for a parking lot and new buildings) and snag a computer. After a few minutes, I complete registering my courses.

A girl in a cat costume asks if I am done with the computer. I reply that I am. She asks why I'm not in a costume.

I reply that I am in a costume. I am dressed as an animal lover and I am looking for a cat to adopt. She found it amusing.

Being an idiot, I didn't get her name, number, or email. I fail on so many levels.
 
gac
2018-10-31 9:10:34 PM  
why beg for treats now
transition from light to dark
dark is not the choice
 
2018-10-31 9:45:46 PM  

Turing_Machine: Turing_Machine: 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 effort into making Halloween the holiday we love.

You guys rock.


Current voting is (username - previous sponsorships - count) :

Smartest/Scariest :
HedlessChickn 116
Torque (2015) 101
meg12279 48
lymond01 45
Wenchmaster 39
ResidentMuslim(2016) 38
namegoeshere 37
Cpl.D 36
TheLastFrontiernsman (2015, 2017) 31
KarateExplosion 26
---------------
the money is in the banana stand 24
Clark W Griswold 24
ObscureNameHere 24
Acad1228 (2015) 23
Coelocanth 22


Funniest:
Poorjon 96
HedlessChickn 69
PArthoneginic )2017) 58
bighairyguy 50
snotnose 48
Eli WhiskeyDik 40
Dragonchild 30
ResidentMuslim (2016) 35
Walker 33
Sid_the_sadist 31
----------------
Parthenogenic (2017) 30
Calypsocookie 30
farkingismybusiness (2017) 26
TabASlotB 25
IronTom 19


I request that if I'm still in the running when the votes are tallied, that I NOT receive a month of TF.

I've gotten sponsored in the 2014, 2016, and 2017 Halloween threads by submitting improvisational shiatposts that pour directly from my id through my hands into the keyboard and thence over the internet into your eyeballs, without ever being edited by my brain. (Here's my "winning" steaming pile o' crap from 2014:  https://www.fark.com/comments/​8473300/​93760231#c93760231 )

There are better posts written by people with more thought, care, and craft, that are more deserving.

And TBH, TF discussion kinda scares me, you weirdos.
 
2018-10-31 10:08:08 PM  
When I was a young man, I was sawin' on a fiddle and playin' it hot. Well, the devil jumped up on a hickory stump and said, "boy, let me tell you what.  He said I guess you didn't know it, but I'm a fiddle player too and if you'd care to take a dare, I'll make a bet with you. I was really scared but also intrigued since I had gone through 8 bottles of Jack Daniels and half jar of 714's. Now you play a pretty good fiddle boy he said, but give the devil his due, I'll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul 'cause I think I'm better than you". Well, I thought to myself, no big loss, I'm going to hell in every religion anyway 'cause I don't have soul, so why not? Anyway, I said my name's Johnny and it might be a sin, but I'll take your bet and you're gonna regret 'cause I'm the best there's ever been.  So I rosin up my bow and played my fiddle hard 'cause hell's broke loose in Georgia, and the devil deals the cards. If I win, I get this shiny fiddle made of gold, but if I lose, the devil gets my soul. Anyway, the devil opened up his case and he said, "I'll start this show" and fire flew from his fingertips as he rosined up his bow. Then he pulled the bow across the strings and it made an evil hiss and a band of demons joined in which I thought was really unfair. I mean he had like an entire orchestra which he didn't mention at all against me alone. When the devil finished, I said, "well, you're pretty good, old son, but sit down in that chair right there and let me show you how it's done".  I played Fire on the Mountain run boys, run.  The devil's in the House of the Rising Sun. I got distracted 'cause I'm ADHD and saw a chicken in a bread pan pickin' out dough. Then I saw Granny and asked does your dog bite? No child, no. Well, the devil bowed his head because he knew that he'd been beat and he laid that golden fiddle on the ground at my feet.  I said, "Devil, just come on back If you ever want to try again.  I done told you once you son of a biatch, I'm the best that's ever been".  Then I drove to Detroit and sold the fiddle for $50 at a pawn shop. It was a good but scary time in my life.
 
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