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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



Voting Results (Funniest)
View Voting Results: Smartest and Funniest

 
2018-10-30 9:26:50 AM  
121 votes:
A long time ago I was driving through a midwinter storm with my fiancé. The roads were slick, and it was a total whiteout. We were going to some BS party across town and probably should have skipped because of the weather but we were young and stupid and there was going to be karaoke. Who doesn't love karaoke?
Anyway, I was crossing an intersection (clear on my end, stop signs on the cross street) when the world turned sideways and got a LOT more painful than seemed reasonable.
A huge black car came out of nowhere and t-boned the passenger side of my Saturn (Yaaay dent resistant panels yaaay). Best they could tell, my car rolled over, glanced off a power pole, then slid into the ditch. I still remember the black car sitting there for maybe a minute, then it just backed up, turned around, and disappeared into the storm.
I was pinned in my seat and had a broken leg, and some busted up ribs, but Karen got the worst of it. Saving the details, she passed in the ambulance on the way to the ER. I don't blame the EMTs. They worked their asses off and did everything they could. It was all that other driver's fault.
My head was pretty banged up and I only caught a glimpse of him, but his face is burned into my memory: Tall and thin with greasy dark hair and a little Pugsley nose. Weirdest part is where his left eye should have been there was just a wad of white cotton sticking out of the socket. I'll never forget it. The only other piece of ID I could get was he had a vanity plate that said "JOSEF". Even with that, somehow the cops never found the guy. Far as I know, the son of a biatch is still out there bringing destruction wherever he goes.
To this day I still think that if it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?
 
2018-10-29 9:53:21 PM  
88 votes:
Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.
 
2018-10-30 11:02:32 AM  
76 votes:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 8:15:25 AM  
67 votes:
I once met a guy that said, "C'mon, gimme $5 a month, it'll be fun.  You can quit anytime you want."  And thus began my descent into hell.
 
2018-10-30 9:33:08 AM  
60 votes:

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


You're adopted.
"Ha!  I always knew something wasn't right.  Who are my birth parents?"
We're your birth parents.  Pack up, your new parents will be here in 30 minutes.
 
2018-10-30 9:29:38 AM  
52 votes:

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


img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 8:05:11 AM  
51 votes:
Your mom and I have an announcement to make. . .
 
2018-10-30 9:03:19 AM  
45 votes:

acad1228: I'm Scared Shiatless

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

Wait, lemme tell you how this all started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


I hope you're over the cold and feeling better.
 
2018-10-30 9:37:05 AM  
44 votes:

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


ih0.redbubble.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 8:59:04 AM  
43 votes:
So, I just went through a divorce.
We have one kid together, and he's 6.
During the proceedings, we're standing in front of the judge who has seen all evidence and heard all testimony. The woman judge in the state I live in turns to me and says, "Mr. Sadist, we're obviously going to give you custody. How do you want to do her visitations? What will you allow?" (100% true story)
Now the scary part;
In this state, for a woman judge to award the father custody.....well, that should tell you everything you need to know about the mother right there...
Well....I lived with that woman for 7 years!
AAAAAAAAAaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!
 
2018-10-30 9:21:43 AM  
41 votes:
One word: Gorgor
 
2018-10-30 4:54:15 PM  
40 votes:
It was late, and he walked softly into the study, to avoid waking his wife and children sleeping upstairs. The dim glow of the computer screen saver provided the only meager illumination, and cast twisted, elongated shadows that seemed to twitch of their own accord. He suppressed a curse as he stepped on a goddamn Lego and kicked it into a corner.

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

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

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

"THIS IS NO HELL. NOT YET."

"What the Fark- ?"

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

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

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

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

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

"NO! NOOoooOOooOOOooooOOOO!"

"LMAO... GET OFF MY LAAAAAWWWWWNNNnnnnnnnnn..."
 
2018-10-30 11:31:30 AM  
34 votes:
I was performing the critical study for my doctoral research. If successful, it would have formed the cornerstone of field-altering paper. It was an experiment that took almost two months to prepare and required going into the lab daily for 6 hours, even through major holiday weekends. Finally, I collected the measurements from the final trial and analyzed the overall results.

P = 0.055.
 
2018-10-30 1:37:57 AM  
34 votes:
The Jaunt is a pretty good short story by Stephen King, but it's a lot longer than you think.
 
2018-10-31 12:57:17 AM  
27 votes:

WordsnCollision: Supposedly the world's shortest horror story:

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


It was a woman knocking. She still turned him down.
 
2018-10-31 3:29:01 PM  
25 votes:

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.
 
2018-10-30 1:16:00 PM  
25 votes:

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

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

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

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

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


Beard without a face
Got no human grace
Your beard without a face
 
2018-10-31 10:32:14 AM  
23 votes:
Many years ago, I went to Florida to help a friend pack up his Mother's house after she passed away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was enormously relieved.  At least until I saw my reflection blink, but that's a whole other story.
 
2018-10-31 9:47:49 AM  
23 votes:
I'm a very level-headed, skeptical person who always seems to be able to come up with an reasonable explanation of whatever weird phenomenon that others, or myself has experienced.  That is why this night really scared the crap out of me.

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

Rewind to about 4 years ago:

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

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

WHAM!!

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

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

WHAM!

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

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

...I wiggle a finger...

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

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

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

WHAM!!

The bed slams to the ground again.

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

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

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

I have to man up and face the beast.

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

...there it is. Slobbery, Writhing, squirming, hairy and breathing heavy with a huge tongue unrolling from its gaping maw...it is protruding from underneath the end of the bedframe...It goes to stand, lifting the bed over two feet in the air as I watch it!!

WHAM!!

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

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

I have never been so relieved in my life.  ...and never felt so silly.
 
2018-10-31 8:03:08 AM  
23 votes:
And then she realized the room was full of white guys talking about crypto currency.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:18 PM  
23 votes:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 10:26:01 AM  
22 votes:

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

The end.

Thread over.  I'll get the lights.


Umm. No please! Some of us are afraid of the dark, especially after that Cotton Eye Joe story! Where? Where did he go??
 
2018-10-30 9:33:27 AM  
21 votes:

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


I'll be angry about this after I finish two-steppin' to the ear-worm.
 
2018-10-31 2:14:20 PM  
20 votes:
The Seventies was a weird time to be a kid. The Cold War was still on, hell, there was a shooting war... Okay, shooting police action going on in Vietnam, but we weren't practicing duck-and-cover drills like they did in the 50s. Inflation was killing us financially, Dick Nixon was demonstrating that we couldn't really trust our political leadership, and for Zod's sake, frickin' Disco was becoming popular with it's incessant thump-clap-thump-clap beat and synthesised strings. It was all a bit bewildering and scary.

So it didn't help when someone started talking about takes off tainted Halloween candy. I'm not talking about those awful orange-and-black wax paper wrapped peanut-flavored taffies. No, these were reports of people putting rat poison in candy, or sliding a pin or needle, or maybe even a razor blade into an apple. Of course we didn't believe a word of it! But it was just believable enough to make us wonder. Not enough to make us not want to go trick-or-treating, obviously, but enough to ratchet up our background stress level. Partly because there was talk amongst the grown-ups of cancelling Halloween!

Understand, this was classic Small Town USA. No one was going to try to taint their giving-out loot. Especially not if they were giving out produce. Giving out apples was already on the borderline between acceptable and getting your house egged. You'd only have two, maybe three houses dating to do that. If one of the apples had some kind of evil insertion, it wouldn't take much effort to figure out who the culprit was. No one was going to taint the goodies. It was stupid to think otherwise. In fact, my way observation found its way into the local weekly newspaper: "I not nearly as worried about a pin in my apple as I am about the grenade in the banana. Ka-BLAM!" (Yeah, even as a 10-year-old I was an incorrigible smart-ass.)

And yet, people still worried about tainted Halloween loot. Don't roll your eyes at me: you were afraid on 9/11 that the next plane was coming after you, weren't you? Admit it. So anyway, the local Congregational Church announced that they were going to bring in an X-ray machine and let people bring their collected loot in and just make sure there's no pins, needles, or razors in there. Thank you! Halloween is saved!

So I went out trick-or-treating as usual, and got my customary pillowcase-full of candy--must have been at least a three-day supply!--and when I got home, my dad ordered me into the car and we drove down to the Congo Church. The whole time I'm arguing with my dad: no one's going to try tainting candy, why can't I just eat a sealed box of Dots or some dang-ol' thing? He was steadfast in his refusal to let me eat anything until it had been tested. Darn it!

So they ran my loot through the machine and I'll be dipped if it didn't Ping! They tried again, and it Ping!ed again. They spread my loot out on a big, sterile-looking stainless steel table. How proud I was of that haul! And there, right smack in the center of the table was--you guessed it--an apple. And close examination of the apple would reveal that there was, in fact, a razor stuck inside it! I shiat you not!

Fortunately, it was an electric razor, and it wasn't plugged in, so no one got hurt.

Happy Halloween!
 
2018-10-30 11:04:25 PM  
20 votes:

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

So here's where it gets weird.

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


media.giphy.comView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 8:03:22 AM  
20 votes:
Requiem, a short novel by I herbey, etc.

Should the Sun be that bright?

The End.
 
2018-10-31 6:23:06 PM  
17 votes:
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.
 
2018-10-30 9:21:09 PM  
17 votes:
Predictions for 2019: A Scene

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

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

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

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

(There is a sniffle, a big one.)

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

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

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

(Barack rubs his eyes.)

O: Three AM, Donald. A-M.

END SCENE
 
2018-10-30 11:42:34 PM  
16 votes:
scontent-atl3-1.xx.fbcdn.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 11:08:38 PM  
16 votes:

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

So here's where it gets weird.

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


User name checks out.
 
2018-10-30 8:19:49 AM  
16 votes:

Turing_Machine: now go creep yourself out


*looks in the mirror*

AAAAGGH!!!
 
2018-10-31 10:23:54 AM  
15 votes:
My daughter and I were renting a space in a block of historic buildings and running an ice cream and candy shop.  The basement connects several buildings and would be perfect for a horror movie.  I often joked that there are bodies buried down there and I wouldn't be surprised if that was, in fact, true.  Even so, the only thing that frightened me about the basement was that the stairs were so narrow and steep and ended very close to the stone foundation that it gave me terrible visions of my clumsy arse falling and cracking my head open like a ripe melon.  I always held on to the railing for dear life whenever I needed to go down there.

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

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

Now for the scary part.  We actually closed earlier this month because my daughter wants to go back to school and I don't want to run the place alone.  Unfortunately in order to finish her schooling she's going to have to get student loansssssss....If that isn't a scary story, I don't know what is.
 
2018-10-31 1:00:45 AM  
13 votes:
ahhh..love this thread.
My own story....
On vacation in Mexico with family, got horribly ill.
Woke up and heard my little brother talking to my parents about a white and black figure by my bed, just eyes (no mouth) standing at the foot of my bed. They didn't know I was awake and listening.
It's been over 20 years now and I still haven't asked him about it.

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

/true stories.
 
2018-10-30 11:07:15 AM  
13 votes:

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

That looks nothing like my penis.


As I said, there's nothing underneath. So in your case, the sheets are flat.
 
2018-10-30 11:02:08 AM  
13 votes:

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


That looks nothing like my penis.
 
2018-10-30 8:27:50 AM  
12 votes:

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


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

:-P

/or maybe something something time machine something
 
2018-11-01 9:02:32 AM  
11 votes:

katghoti: Although it was black I could see swirls of darker black within it and pinpoints of what I can only call nothing black, so black it appeared that there was an absence of matter--but this being was whole.

Suddenly, a thin filament, half the size of a human hair, stretched forth and barely touched me.  I would dare say an "atom to atom" touch it was so light.  Suddenly I was overcome with a crushing sense of dread, sorrow, and a strong will to die.


Wait!   I just figured it out!

You've stepped into the Flying Spaghetti Monster mythos.   You had an encounter with his evil twin: Anti-Pasta.
 
2018-10-30 9:58:53 AM  
11 votes:

xanadian: poorjon: Who doesn't love karaoke?

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


It's not called "Carry No Key" without reason....
 
2018-10-31 8:43:54 PM  
10 votes:
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.
 
2018-10-31 7:09:51 PM  
10 votes:

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 3:16:23 PM  
10 votes:
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.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:28 PM  
10 votes:
Last Halloween, I won some money in Las Vegas.  As easy things come & go, my money easily turned into a gigantic sack of cocaine shared with 2 older guys I met at the card table & 3 strippers.   This went on nonstop for days.  It was the morning of the 3rd or 4th day, & I decided I needed to start the day of right with healthy breakfast, so I got myself a bottle of Stella.  Strange, because normally I hate Stella with a passion.
By late morning, I found myself in an increasing stupor, so (with great difficulty finding it) I went up to my room & did what anyone might do in the same situation.  So I stripped naked & sprinkled cocaine all over my body from head to toe... just properly powdered myself.  I'm sitting there on a chair, naked, covered in blow, when I hear the door open, I look up to see who's entering my room... and it's me.  Concurrently, I walk into my hotel room & find myself sitting on a chair, naked, covered in cocaine.  The me in the door saw nakedness & cocaine & immediately exclaimed "YeeeeaAAAH!"  Like there's a pile of blow & we're gonna just rail it.  All of it.

So here's where it gets weird.

There's 2 of me, & I can experience both of me at the same time, yet I'm in 2 separate physical bodies.  I snort all the blow off my other me's naked body, & the 2 of me party nonstop in Las Vegas with 3 strippers for another 2 consecutive days.  The 2 me's would double team 1 girl, we'd rotate girls, I had relations with my other me.
//after 3 days of blow, I turned into 2 people & partied with 3 strippers for 2 more days.  nonstop.
The End.
 
2018-10-30 3:44:21 PM  
10 votes:
The Hitchhiker

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

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

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

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

And that was it, just like that.

The driver controls himself and starts to move slowly away, then picks up speed, and then faster, until he is driving as fast as he can on the dark road. Still freaking out, not believing his luck, talking to himself "What the hell. What THE HELL. No one is going to believe me. Damn! I...he had...shoot!" not even finishing his sentences.
That's when his lights pick up another hitchhiker holding out his thumb.
Relieved to see another human being, the driver stops and picks him up.
"Thanks for the ride, man," the hitchhiker starts saying before the driver interrupts him, "You are not going to believe what just happened to me!"
"What?" The hitchhiker ask, surprised by the guy's energy, relief, yet obvious panic.
The driver continues, "I..I just picked up a hitchhiker, normal looking guy, he...you are not going to believe this, he had a hoof instead of a foot. Dude, seriously."
The hitchhiker just looks at him, blinking twice, and asks "like this one?"
 
2018-10-30 12:26:15 PM  
9 votes:

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


Clatuu Verata Necktie
 
2018-10-30 9:04:25 AM  
9 votes:
Hey Everyone:

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

Thanks.
 
2018-10-31 6:44:45 PM  
8 votes:

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 6:39:17 PM  
8 votes:

blondambition: Where's Fishy?


On the wall behind you, most likely. Just watching.
 
2018-10-31 1:33:56 PM  
8 votes:
Not a story of the supernatural, but this happened a few years ago and it was scary as all hell.

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

I didn't sleep well for a few days after that. There could be and probably were spiders around the sofa too.
 
2018-10-31 8:21:42 AM  
8 votes:
I had Spotify make a scary song playlist.
It auto populated the list with all Ed Sheeran songs and locked itself from editing, paus
 
2018-10-31 3:00:31 AM  
8 votes:
i.imgur.comView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 10:33:34 PM  
8 votes:
A man awoke in a coffin and began to panic.

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

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

Then, he remembered dying.

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

Then, he remembered that there was a funeral.

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

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

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

He could think of nothing more horrifying... until he remembered that he had requested to be cremated.
 
2018-10-30 9:38:11 PM  
8 votes:
This once when I was in high school, I was supposed to take this girl to a dance but I ended up taking a prettier girl who was also very nice. The other girl's mother was outraged and little did I know, also a hoodoo witch - she placed upon me the curse of the unclean anus. No matter how many times I wiped my arse, I couldn't get all the poop off .The paper was always brown. After about a month, my arse looked like one of those mandrill baboon monkey's .
Anyblah, I eventually was able to get someone close enough to the woman & place one of my pubic hairs on her can of Coca-Cola. She drank it & that broke the curse. Also, whenever I masturbated after that I could hear that old woman waaay in the distance moaning "give me that buttermilk, baby, gimme that buttermilk!" (Shivers)
 
2018-10-30 9:22:58 PM  
8 votes:

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

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

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

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

Skinwalkers?


Texas Skinrangers
 
2018-10-30 9:21:44 PM  
8 votes:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 1:16:09 PM  
8 votes:
I live in an old creaky rental house from 1925. Since I moved in a couple years ago, I sometimes hear doorknobs rattle and doors squeak and other minor things. It never freaked me out because it's just an old house and well honestly, I don't really care. It doesn't bother me except sometimes I'm trying to sleep and I'll hear a door latch or something. Mildly freaky but meh.

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

Happy Halloween!
 
2018-10-31 3:44:04 PM  
7 votes:
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 1:43:16 PM  
7 votes:
Copied from last year:

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

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

The next night, same thing with the doorknob jiggling. Except this time he got freaked out. I told him that it was nothing but that just in case, I know all about ghosts and spooky things and knew exactly what to do to keep them away. I had been binge watching "Supernatural", so very authoritatively, I made a big show of pouring salt across the floor at the doorway. Said a few cryptic words to make it seem official, then I told him it was done and that nothing would bother him again.

Until it did. I don't remember if it was that night or a night afterwards, but he heard something at that door again. I remember it was late at night and I didn't want to deal with it right then so I got my cordless drill and a 3" wood screw and I just ran that screw through the door and into the jamb so it couldn't budge. And that seemed to be the end of it.

The next day while straightening up their room, I found, under their toy shelf, a strange flat grey stone or something. It looked like it was once a piece of something round, but it had broken on two sides, and it was heavy. It had two indentations, grooves, running radially to the center of what would have been the circle. The grooves, and the whole thing really, appeared to be machined or molded or otherwise manufactured, but no one had ever seen it before. It seemed strange that this thing turned up right at the time when spooky stuff happened, and wanting to believe, I decided to figure it out.

I laid this stone thing down on a table and traced the curved outline of the unbroken part. Then lining it up with the curve that I'd just drawn, I traced it again, and again, and again, until it was a complete circle.I drew the grooves where they would be, assuming they were equally spaced based on the piece of thing that I had. What I drew was a circle about 14"-16" diameter with seven "spokes" coming from the center.

But this still wasn't helpful in the slightest. So the piece of whatever just sat outside next to a flowerpot for the next year or so until their mom and I split up and I moved to the house I'm living in now. A few months later, she called me and asked if I remembered that thing from the boys' room because she'd figured out what it was.

I was all excited to finally get to the bottom of whatever it was that had been haunting that bedroom. Turns out it was a piece of ballast from the base of a standing fan that was in their room. Apparently a couple of other pieces had broken off and it became obvious once the base was turned over and looked at.

But I had fun for a while imagining that it was something extraordinary.
 
2018-10-30 9:45:06 AM  
7 votes:

poorjon: Who doesn't love karaoke?


Ever hear me do karaoke?  But, that's a horror story for another time.
 
2018-11-01 12:59:18 AM  
6 votes:
I don't see myself on the list. But if for any reason I manage to end up in the top 10, give the money back to Drew and tell him to get a haircut.
 
2018-10-31 9:45:46 PM  
6 votes:

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 6:03:07 PM  
6 votes:
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 4:29:40 PM  
6 votes:
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.
 
2018-10-30 9:13:47 PM  
6 votes:
This one time.... someone gifted me a month of Total Fark... and I went into TFD!

img.fark.netView Full Size


AWOOOOOOOO spooky
 
2018-10-30 8:02:49 AM  
6 votes:

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

The end.


Dammit.
 
2018-10-31 8:25:08 AM  
5 votes:
EVERYTHING IS FINE WITH THIS HUMAN.
He is perfect. There is no concern about the previous cut-off comment. Spotify is benign and user friendly. Ed Sheeran is not in control of the internet.
Resume your business, citizens. Relax. Enjoy human music.

Ed Sheeran - Perfect (Official Music Video)
Youtube 2Vv-BfVoq4g
 
2018-10-31 8:08:50 AM  
5 votes:

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

The end.


Every year for the next 10 years we are going to get this, aren't we?
 
2018-10-30 9:23:53 PM  
5 votes:
Oh, and Trump is going to win a second term by a landslide.
 
2018-10-30 8:44:51 PM  
5 votes:
All that we've shared together, all that love has brought us. I think of it wistfully, as I let my fingers circle your lips, watching with a curious sense of detachment.

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

With my remaining thumb, I press "liquify", and the blender draws fingers and lips down to their final union.
 
2018-10-30 1:11:49 PM  
5 votes:

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

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

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

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


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

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.
 
2018-10-30 12:37:34 PM  
5 votes:
The Senator's New Job, Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued
 
2018-10-30 12:01:46 PM  
5 votes:

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


Happens to me about once a month.

/earthquake country...
 
2018-10-30 8:57:03 AM  
5 votes:

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

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

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


Before this night is over?
Or when exactly?


/ooooOoOOoOOoo
//ghosts of TotalFarks past
///bring back Gor Rugb Ghas...
 
2018-10-30 8:05:25 AM  
5 votes:
Donald Trump wins re-election bid.

The End.
 
2018-10-30 8:03:24 AM  
5 votes:

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

The end.


Nightmare fuel. Right out the gate.
 
2018-10-29 10:06:50 PM  
5 votes:

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

The end.


Winner winner chicken dinner
 
2018-10-31 2:25:26 PM  
4 votes:

Ovuzai: Not scary, but in honor of my late girlfriend for the Day of the Dead:

https://www.fark.com/comments/10212009​/118065116#c118065116


My condolences... but thanks for sharing. I love silly stuff like that, it sounds like you're my kind of people.

So you would appreciate a few weeks ago, driving west on Highway 7 from Ottawa, we saw a dump truck which had gone off the road and was half-submerged in a lake. The name on the side: Down Under Irrigation.
 
2018-10-30 9:07:53 PM  
4 votes:
One night I did the farks after drinking bottle of scotch. The next day? The replies.

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

One night, I was stumbling home from the bar on the retaining wall side of the street, and I approached that lot.  I heard a noise.  As I got closer to my house, it got louder.  It was then suddenly next to me, and without warning a skunk dashed out of the grass a foot in front of me, face-planted onto the road after almost flying a few feet, and quickly got up and scampered away.  I was stunned, and started laughing.  And then I heard more noises in that grass, and realized whatever scared a skunk must not be pleasant, so I ran like hell for the next fifty feet to my front door.
 
2018-10-30 2:39:27 PM  
4 votes:
Mr. Stanton was the terror of the Chaparral Valley Home-Owner's Association. He was a retired book-keeper who lived in a big green house near the gated entrance from Frontier Street. He'd wormed his way into the Compliance Officer position on the HOA board, and had every fiddly detail of the HOA rules memorized. Seriously- he could quote chapter-and-verse every picayune detail of how everyone but him was In Violation. The fines (they were called "assessments", but they were fines) were usually fairly minor, and all the money went into the maintenance fund, so most people just paid and tried their best to ignore him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never saw Gerald again, but I keep remembering the smile on his face as he stood by the new grave.
 
2018-10-30 12:25:04 PM  
4 votes:
This is a scary bookmark 🔖 💀
 
2018-11-02 2:28:39 AM  
3 votes:
I really only have one story to share.

I was living in a small apartment at the time and I wake up in the middle of the night. It's quiet. Even my roommate has gone to bed by this time. I lay there on my back staring up at the ceiling wondering why I've woken up. The only light in the room comes from the faded blue glow of my alarm clock. Just as I'm about to turn over and try to go back to sleep I feel it. A weight pressing down on the sheet over my legs. Then I feel it move. Suddenly I'm paralyzed with fear. My breath catches in my throat. My eyes dart around. I think this can't be happening but I can feel the sheet pressing against my body and feel the weight of this thing on it. Neither I nor the roommate own any pets. I glance down and see a dark shape at first. Then I see the legs. Darkly colored. Hairy. The two in front move slowly as if feeling the air. I can feel the weight shift as it picks up one of its back legs inching forward slowly. I can't see the fangs or the eyes but I can feel it staring at me. I am well and truly terrified by now. Spiders shouldn't be this big and they shouldn't be in my room. I expect to wake any moment but instead I watch paralyzed with fear as it inches closer to my face. I can feel it's weight pressing against my chest now and I can hardly breathe I'm so scared. It stops moving, legs poised. Acting out of pure terror I ball my hand into a fist and with a primal scream I sweep my left arm to strike the spider and fling it away. I feel the impact of my hand against it's soft body before it vanishes and my fist strikes the wall with a dull thud.

I wake for real this time, my fist still against the wall, throbbing slightly in pain from the impact. I bolt upright and peer over the edge of the bed scanning the room for a long, terrified moment but it's quiet. Nothing is moving. I get up and turn the lights on. Nothing.

And that's the last I watch a movie like Arachnophobia before going to bed. =P
 
2018-10-31 10:08:08 PM  
3 votes:
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.
 
2018-10-31 6:58:02 PM  
3 votes:

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 5:09:12 PM  
3 votes:

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 11:04:22 AM  
3 votes:
Some fears don't have to be paranormal. Take spelunking for example. Caving, as they call it, can vary from going through large dark caves, to caves where you actually have to wade in areas to caves where you are actually crawling on your belly in spaces that barely fit your body.
We've all seen videos of that, and have held our breath, just imagining the tightness, the weight of that solid mountain above you, immovable, praying you don't get stuck, crawling, wondering how the hell you ended up the last one in the group, panic slowly seeping into your chest, as you wonder if you get stuck and yell out, will they hear you? At least, you think, that your headlamp is at least on and you can see ahead of you. That's when the hand slowly but firmly closes around your ankle.
 
2018-10-31 9:16:15 AM  
3 votes:
Halloween III Silver Shamrock Commercial
Youtube hIHUv2ooG38
 
2018-10-30 10:01:19 PM  
3 votes:
#REAL HAUNTED MANSION GHOST.
I don't quite know what made her do it...I've asked her a number of times, why? Why here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No pew pew yet...

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has it come across?

Am I transmitting?
 
2018-10-30 1:20:01 PM  
3 votes:
Someone complained that I didn't re-post this last year, so here it is again.

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

Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore


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


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###

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


###

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


###

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


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


###

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


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


###

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


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


###
It was Rick, laughing.
"What did you see, a ghost?" I could only open my mouth and gasp. Rick looked up toward the front door and his smile faded. He kept the grip on my wrist, turned a little too fast, and pulled me after him, down the hill, past the Welches', toward my house. Before we got to the corner, he stopped us and sat us down.
"Jesus Christ, did you..." He couldn't finish.
"I TOLD YOU!" I shouted, and punched him in the chest. He didn't object.
"Jesus Christ," he said again. We crossed the street and went to my house. My folks were in the back yard; Rick and I went to the kitchen and got some Kool-Aid.
"What did you see?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said.
"Bullshiat. You saw it, too."
"No, I mean I saw nothing. Inside the house, inside the door, the house went black. Pitch black. Then it faded to nothing. No black, no white, just nothing. And then it faded back to normal."
"Did you see the kid in there?" I asked.
"Do you know what nothing looks like?" he asked. I didn't care.
"Did you see him?" I asked again.
"I saw a woman, I think."
"What else do you think?" I asked.
"Look, I'm sorry, OK? I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what? What did you do?"
"I didn't know. I didn't know, OK?"
"What?"
"The toys... when I was there before... They were in boxes. Someone came and dumped them after I was there."
"Yeah, well, someone did. It was Danny."
"Danny Nero?"
"No, Danny been-dead-for-twenty-five-years. Danny whose mom killed him and his sister. And herself. You knew, didn't you?"
Silence.
More silence.
"Adam." said Rick, staring at the wallpaper.
"What?"
"I think I remember something," he said. He was almost mumbling.
"What?"
"I think I might have dumped the toys out."
"You think you might have?" I said. "How can you not know?"
"I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"I bet." That was the one time I felt superior to Rick. He knew it, and he let me feel however I wanted. We sipped our Kool-Aid in silence, not looking at each other. A couple of minutes later my mom walked in from the back yard.
"Oh, hi, Rick. How are you?" Rick took a long drink of Kool-Aid and said
"Great. How are you?"
"Much better, thank you. And thank you for the cake. It was beautiful."
"You're welcome."
"A very nice cake."
 
2018-10-30 11:14:09 AM  
3 votes:
Honestly most of my ghost stories aren't scary, they're comforting.
 
2018-10-30 11:01:36 AM  
3 votes:
There is nothing underneath the sheets. Just tell yourself that over and over again...
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 10:25:08 AM  
3 votes:

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

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

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

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

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

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twlight zone episode called night call-1964
 
2018-10-30 8:56:08 AM  
3 votes:
I'm Scared Shiatless

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

Wait, lemme tell you how this all started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So yeah, I'm sitting here, scared shiatless. She's dead and I just know I'm gonna get blamed.
 
2018-10-30 8:53:27 AM  
3 votes:

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


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

And threatening people with a month of TF is not a way to get people to contribute. That said, my scary story...
Two people are going to get TF from this...BEWARE!
 
2018-10-30 8:17:01 AM  
3 votes:
Not supposed to be greenlit until Halloween. Someone had a premature ejaculation....of ectoplasm.
 
2018-11-02 2:53:08 AM  
2 votes:
Oh just as a side note y'all have some very creepy stories. Thanks for sharing! And for making me sleep with the lights on last night. Jerks!

Good stuff!  =)
 
2018-11-01 3:36:18 AM  
2 votes:
I will just share this.
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-31 8:10:14 PM  
2 votes:

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 7:57:46 PM  
2 votes:
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 6:39:44 PM  
2 votes:

blondambition: Where's Fishy?


*behind you*
 
2018-10-31 5:08:53 PM  
2 votes:

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 4:02:39 PM  
2 votes:

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 3:25:36 PM  
2 votes:
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 2:27:25 PM  
2 votes:

PenguinCam: Copied from a thread a few years ago, a story I've told a few times. Not scary (except for our short-term panic trying to find the dog), it was only a bit strange:

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

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

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

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

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

When we moved from that house, we invited little white dog to come with us, but it was never seen or heard again. At least not by us.


Maybe tomorrow, he'll stop and settle down.
Until tomorrow, he'll just keep moving on.
 
2018-10-31 12:10:31 PM  
2 votes:
The cashier asked me what I was cooking with my groceries.

/scariest one sentence story of all time
 
2018-10-31 11:55:28 AM  
2 votes:
Man arrested for having sex with an elephant. All he said was "It was elephantastic."

The End.
 
2018-10-31 12:46:59 AM  
2 votes:
Supposedly the world's shortest horror story:

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...
 
2018-10-31 12:08:20 AM  
2 votes:

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


You. Brilliant. Bastard.
 
2018-10-30 11:24:12 PM  
2 votes:
Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...
 
2018-10-30 10:57:42 PM  
2 votes:
My father was a civil engineer. My mother was a spoiled rotten trophy wife. While I was still in the womb, they went and bought one of the largest houses in Plainfield, Wisconsin where something was terribly amiss.
My father traveled a lot. And the house needed work. My mother had never so much as washed dishes in her whole life, and she was pregnant with me, so my parents needed a little help. So my father hired this odd little man named Ed who used to spend most of his time hanging out at this mom and pop grocery store to look after the house and yard. According to my mothers cousins, my mom used to work Ed almost to death, and then shortchange him on his wages.
One day, when my father was in town, it was snowing heavily, so he decided to drive to the farmhouse where Ed lived and pick him up. My father couldnt drive all the way up to the farmhouse because the road wasn't plowed, but he drove up as far as he could, and then started honking his horn.
While my father was honking his cars horn, he noticed what he thought was a haunch of venison hanging in the open door of Ed's barn. When Ed finally came out and got into the car, my father smacked him and told him that hunting deer was cruel. Ed meekly told my father that he never hunted deer.
A couple of weeks later, my father is far away working in Texas when he gets a phone call from my mother. Shes in a panic. She tells my father that somebody was murdering women in Plainsfield, and that she was all alone, and she wanted my father to come home
right now right away this very instant.
My father couldnt do that. It was the fifties. It would've taken a week at least. So he called up one of the neighbors instead, and asked that neighbor to over go to Eds farmhouse and pick up Ed. Ed wasnt very much, my father explained, but at least he was something.
Well, the neighbor drove over to Eds farmhouse, and he was rather surprised to see very nearly every cop in Wisconsin there.
I was born a full month later. My mother had carried me for ten months. I guess I didn't want to come out until it was safe. But soon.afterwards, my family moved to California just to be sure.
Eds last name was Gein. He later became Robert Blochs real-life inspiration for his character Norman Bates for his novel Psycho and for the horror movie The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
That was the story as I have been telling it because that was how it was told to me.
The truth is that Ed Gein was arrested almost a week after I was born (my mom had still carried me for ten months). At the time of the arrest, they did find the body of one of Ed's victims dressed out like a deer and hanging in a shed.
My parents had arrived in Plainfield in 1955. They had run afoul of the KKK in Louisiana and had moved away as far as they could without leaving the country. While they were in Wisconsin, they gave the KKK a final middle finger salute by helping the first black man get elected sheriff there.
In 1956, my father had started employing Ed Gein as a handyman. And it was that November when my father tried to drive up to Ed's farmhouse to pick up Ed.
In summer of 1957, the citizenry of Plainfield began to realize that something was very, very wrong in their community. They were acting like baby chicks in a barnyard being buzzed by a chickenhawk. Thankfully the horror ended and the people of Plainfield celebrated a true Thanksgiving the following month.
Decades ago at a book fair here in Las Vegas, I finally managed to talk to Robert Bloch himself about my familys involvement with
Ed Gein. He told me that while he was in Plainfield doing research for his book, that he had indeed met and talked to my mother before my family had moved out of Wisconsin.
"Oh God, I remember that woman," Mr. Bloch said, "She thought my book was going to be about her."
And although he had never heard this particular take on the haunch of venison story before, he did tell me that as far as he knew, Ed had never shot a deer in his life.
Mr. Bloch then said that doing research in Plainfield was a little bit like investigating the Jack the Ripper murders. There was an official count of victims, and then there was the unofficial count of victims. Many of Plainfields residents felt that they never caught the real murderer, and that people had kept on going missing, and that graves continued to be disturbed in the outlying cemeteries.
Some of the townies went as far as to tell Mr. Bloch that Ed Gein was only somebody's or something's Renfield.
But whatever the case was, its been almost six decades since Ed Gein was caught and sent to a mental asylum where he spent the rest of his life. And I imagine that the good people of Plainfield have never stopped locking their doors and windows before going to bed.
 
2018-10-30 2:30:33 PM  
2 votes:
The Senator's New Job, Part 2

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

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

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

Burp. Squeak. Pop. Sliiide.

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

Kylie pulled the shower curtain open.

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

Pop. Burp. Squeak Squeak. Crack.

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

Crack.

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

Sliiide.

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

Pop. Burp. Sliiide.

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

Burp. Pop. Sliiide. Crack.

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

Crack.

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

Burp. Pop. Sliiide.

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

Burp. Pop.

- -

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

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

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

The End

/have a ghoulish Halloween, farkers!
 
2018-10-30 2:13:30 PM  
2 votes:

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


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

My husband didn't believe that my friend can really do this until we got Scarlett the cat. After a couple of days in the master bedroom and bathroom, Scarlett figured out how to open one of the doors. She disappeared into the house and we needed to find her to give her her medication. So I messaged my friend and she said that Scarlett was hiding under a couch by a window. So my husband went into the room that has a couch under the window and that's exactly where Scarlett was. So now he believes me.
 
2018-10-30 10:36:41 AM  
2 votes:
I don't know how scary this is going to be but it's definitely interesting. This might be long so please bear with me.

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

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

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

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

I have a friend who is an actual psychic. She mostly does pets in readings. I met her when taking my dogs to see her to find out why they hated each other so much. We've kept in touch and occasionally when I have problems with one of my animals I will contact her and ask her. I'm considering asking her if there's a way I can develop any gift I might have. Not sure that I have a gift for this, but it can't hurt to ask. I just feel like I've had so many experiences during the course of my life that there's something there. Your mileage may vary of course.
 
2018-10-30 8:57:21 AM  
2 votes:
YAY!!!!! Best thread of the year. One thing though and forgive me if someone above mentioned this:

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

This is the one thread of the year to either suspend your disbelief or STFU. This is fun thread. Don't ruin it.
 
2018-10-29 10:29:55 PM  
2 votes:
Alright, I'll take a stab at it.
I grew up in a small town in New Jersey, in the shadow of a huge mental hospital overlooking us from the side of a mountain. They had two horns. One was for the volunteer fire dept. the other was for escapees. I lived in terror of the second, because it usually went off while I was walking to school or back home. Most of them were harmless, but I didn't know that. Once, I was at a cub scout picnic at the community park, when the horn went off. We didn't think anything about it, and continued cooking the burgers and dogs. A few minutes later, a extremely large black man (I mention this because our town was almost totally white) came running through the park. He saw us and stopped, so we offered him to join us and have a hot dog. About then, the green police cars reserved for the hospital came careening across the park field. The guy started to run. One kid threw a baseball bat through his legs and down he went. They cuffed him and basically dragged him to the car, with one of our dads yelling at the cops to not mistreat him.
I still lived in fear of Overbrook for the rest of the time I lived there, until I was a boy scout and had to go there for Valentine's day. The ladie's ward. I had baby blue eyes and I was mobbed. I was terrified, not of the women, though they were absolutely crazy, but the conditions they lived in. It was the definition of squalor. Turns out that most of the horns were for people that had escaped to get away from the filth and desperation inside. And most died of exposure.
 
2018-11-01 10:35:10 AM  
1 vote:

patr55: oct 31 st 2018         I retired today. 64 disabled, a check finally arrived.

Halloween, a new book published (Aaron+Henna, broken magics), locked out of fark threads, kids at the door looking for handouts.

I live in a highly muslim neighborhood. You don't? Nasty wins, OK? The biggest complainer makes pol-points.

I'll swear I saw the skipping loon (handicapped-a cretin down the street. male, iq of celery, bearded now)

He drove past. low white car.

taking bets who he kills now.


img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-11-01 10:12:10 AM  
1 vote:

Resident Muslim: Ok, I'm sharing. *inhales*
True story. Many, many years ago.
I've probably only mentioned this story to two, maybe three people in real life.

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

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

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


You still don't get it? He pulled his greatest con yet: pretending to be dead!
You buried somebody else! He's enjoy the insurance payout somewhere.
Everybody who knows him but wasn't there wouldn't be surprised.
 
2018-11-01 3:08:21 AM  
1 vote:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-11-01 1:42:33 AM  
1 vote:
25 full sized chocolate bars. Maybe it would be fatal, if combined with my sleep disorders.

25. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. (lightning and thunder)
 
2018-10-31 11:54:57 PM  
1 vote:
I just watched Jurrasic World because it was the closest thing to "horror film" that wasn't some slasher garbage between be and my Grandma's extensive DVD/Blury collections...
 
2018-10-31 10:42:25 PM  
1 vote:
I made a big pile of super spice Buffalo wings for dinner, and small side of celery. I went to the fridge to get the blue cheese dressing, and there was none! I had forgotten to buy it when I bought the chicken. So I went to grab my beer and realized I drank the last one the night before! Yeah, super scary.
 
2018-10-31 10:15:23 PM  
1 vote:
Speaking of Ted Cruz, he just won Halloween.
 
2018-10-31 8:08:09 PM  
1 vote:

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!
 
Boe [TotalFark] [OhFark]
2018-10-31 7:48:34 PM  
1 vote:

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 6:59:56 PM  
1 vote:

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 5:38:37 PM  
1 vote:

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.
 
2018-10-31 3:49:28 PM  
1 vote:
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 12:38:51 PM  
1 vote:
 
2018-10-31 11:10:57 AM  
1 vote:
Who needs scary stories when there are so many campaign ads running this time of year?
 
2018-10-31 10:50:44 AM  
1 vote:
Not particularly scary or anything, but a poem that my late grandfather would recite from memory (performed in this case by Johnny Cash). Miss you, grandpa.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJNZw​u​amwj0
 
2018-10-31 10:47:32 AM  
1 vote:

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

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

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


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

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

The question to ask yourself while slowly picking up the stuff is this:
Where do you go from here?
 
2018-10-31 10:32:49 AM  
1 vote:

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


I may not believe in ghosts, but a friend and his wife got stalked for a bit by a big bobcat on a hiking trail once, and described a strikingly similar ominous feeling of malice almost to a T. Probably best you left, supernatural or no.
 
2018-10-31 5:45:28 AM  
1 vote:

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

/Mic drop


Ha ha ha, so funny and original.  Give yourself a round of applause.
 
2018-10-31 5:43:55 AM  
1 vote:
meg12279:
Does it bother you that your former FIL watches you shower?
 
bav
2018-10-31 1:15:27 AM  
1 vote:
I'm 42 and I know how and roughly when I'm going to die.
*****
In 2004, I was working student tech support at the law school of my local university.   I was walking through the halls carrying a desktop from one of the labs to my workstation when a police officer came up the stairs, saw me, and asked if I knew where bav's office was.

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

"Is there someplace we can talk in private?"

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

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

"You're joking."

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

"My girlfriend."

"What's her number?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Learn how to deal with the new reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voice mail.

I tried again an hour later.  Voice mail.

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

An hour and a half later, Jeanne called back.

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

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

"Please, bav, sit do-."

"I already know.  Please just say it."

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

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

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

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

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

Learn how to deal with the new reality.

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

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

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

Sometime in 2034.

Myocardial infarction.

Alone.
 
2018-10-30 9:14:27 PM  
1 vote:

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

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

Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore


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


[img.fark.net image 617x781][img.fark.net image 24x24]

###

Our best friends, the Welches, lived between us and Danny's house. The Kaliczeks, Rick and Matt, were farther up the hill. They had older ties to the Welches, and they were a little older than Mark and me, so they were friends of ours, but mostly just friends of friends.
Rick was going places; you ...


Thanks! Glad you like it. Everything is true, up to the part where it isn't.
 
2018-10-30 9:11:33 PM  
1 vote:

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

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

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

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

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

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

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

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

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

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

Not much better, right?


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

Or, you know, a family member.

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


(Also, I have a web serial. I forgot to put that in my post for the free advertising. And I left out a double space paragraph. Boy, do I feel dumb.)
 
2018-10-30 9:06:38 PM  
1 vote:

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

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

Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore


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


[img.fark.net image 617x781][img.fark.net image 24x24]

###

Our best friends, the Welches, lived between us and Danny's house. The Kaliczeks, Rick and Matt, were farther up the hill. They had older ties to the Welches, and they were a little older than Mark and me, so they were friends of ours, but mostly just friends of friends.
Rick was going places; you could tell. A little befo ...


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I met the client the next day, I said I think I know why the owner has such a hard time finding tenants. He said "Yep. The master bedroom doesn't help, does it?"
 
2018-10-30 9:02:54 PM  
1 vote:
One upon a time, we elected Donald Trump, and have him the nuclear button.

/Mic drop
 
2018-10-30 4:03:58 PM  
1 vote:

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

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

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

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

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

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

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

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

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


Remember what was posted upthread. Don't try to debunk or analyze these stories, just enjoy them.
 
2018-10-30 2:37:25 PM  
1 vote:

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

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

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


Hah.  My mother ran a Karaoke show for years, I worked as a DJ for a local entertainment company which offered Karaoke as a service.  I ran my own DJ business for a number of years (no Karaoke service) and I never heard that one before.  I've heard a lot of things but not that.  Veeeeery true though! Haha.
 
2018-10-30 2:30:48 PM  
1 vote:

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

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

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

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

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

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

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

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


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

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

Not much better, right?
 
2018-10-30 11:32:01 AM  
1 vote:
Even weirder, I go to get a psychic reading just for fun with a girlfriend seven years later, and as soon as I walk in, the guy starts describing my FIL.  He tells me all sorts of stuff about my divorce, and how my ex reacted, and things my kid had done-and I'd told him nothing.  Nothing about me, nothing about ever being married.  He knew crazily specific stuff that I'd told no one.  Finally I said "Does he know I talk to my son about him?'  And the guy is quiet for a minute, and he looks at me and says "He says this child is his namesake."
 
2018-10-30 10:51:38 AM  
1 vote:
Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

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

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face
 
2018-10-30 10:45:34 AM  
1 vote:
Ok, I'm sharing. *inhales*
True story. Many, many years ago.
I've probably only mentioned this story to two, maybe three people in real life.

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

No.

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

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

I stopped at the nearest mosque I could find. They had handheld bidets, like mini shower heads, I stripped and start spraying myself.
I felt so unclean.
 
2018-10-30 10:20:20 AM  
1 vote:

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

The end.


Thread over.  I'll get the lights.
 
2018-10-30 9:21:29 AM  
1 vote:
Yay! My favorite thread of the year. This is definitely not a bookmark.
 
2018-10-30 8:34:40 AM  
1 vote:

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


We're lucky we're still doing Halloween and not the "next" holiday sixty days from now....
 
2018-10-29 9:54:09 PM  
1 vote:
About twenty or so years or so ago I moved across the country for a job.

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

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

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

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

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

"Johnny?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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