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(Fark)   Gather around, Farkers, it's time for Fark's 16th annual spooky story thread. Get into the Halloween spirit and share your true ghost/scary stories. 👻 Farkers who bring up politics get thrown in the dungeon ☠   (fark.com) divider line
    More: Creepy, Figure It Out, Existential quantification, hard time, closest thing, Good thing, lifelong friend, last year, first time  
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1395 clicks; posted to Main » and Discussion » on 31 Oct 2019 at 9:05 PM (1 year ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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2019-10-31 12:58:22 AM  
I am SO tempted to get thrown in the dungeon.


/Tru....
//nope nope nope
///eeek! slashies!
 
2019-10-31 12:59:11 AM  
"...and that's when I realized I had given her my real name and number!"

/I'm going for shorts this year, it seems :)
 
2019-10-31 1:00:29 AM  

Non Sequitur Man: I am SO tempted to get thrown in the dungeon.


/Tru....
//nope nope nope
///eeek! slashies!


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2019-10-31 1:03:22 AM  

Resident Muslim: "...and that's when I realized I had given her my real name and number!"

/I'm going for shorts this year, it seems :)


Why not? Those can be pretty cool. Heck, Netflix has a series based off of two sentence horror stories.
 
2019-10-31 1:08:08 AM  

a particular individual: granolasteak: a particular individual: I keep wanting to write another one. "Danny Doesn't Live Here Anymore...

You wrote that??

I've had dreams about that story.

Wow. I'm flattered. It went through a lot of rewrites. You could throw Strunk & White at that story, and it'd bounce off.

Keep in mind that it's all true... up to a point. That's the point where it's obviously not true.

I want to write a fictionalization of my childhood in Oklahoma City. I won a CSB thread with my story about the psycho bomber that almost blew up my friend in my back yard.


I would read it.
 
2019-10-31 1:08:13 AM  

Wendigogo: Non Sequitur Man: I am SO tempted to get thrown in the dungeon.


/Tru....
//nope nope nope
///eeek! slashies!

[Fark user image image 425x208]


Fark user imageView Full Size
 
2019-10-31 1:14:04 AM  

Keeve: a particular individual: granolasteak: a particular individual: I keep wanting to write another one. "Danny Doesn't Live Here Anymore...

You wrote that??

I've had dreams about that story.

Wow. I'm flattered. It went through a lot of rewrites. You could throw Strunk & White at that story, and it'd bounce off.

Keep in mind that it's all true... up to a point. That's the point where it's obviously not true.

I want to write a fictionalization of my childhood in Oklahoma City. I won a CSB thread with my story about the psycho bomber that almost blew up my friend in my back yard.

I would read it.


I'll see if I (the mods) can find it. It had newspaper clippings, and everything.
 
2019-10-31 1:21:01 AM  
I read in the early thread that a lot of ghost events are caused by infrasound (low frequencies you feel more than hear).  I looked it up an youtube and sure enough it worked.  I don't ever get anxious, but I could feel myself getting anxious almost immediately after listening.  Even after I turned off the sound shadows would dance at the corners of my vision as I walked through the dark house to bed and every creak was something behind me ready to jump out.  It was a really trippy experience.  I suggest you load this up, and listen while you read the thread.

19Hz infrasound - The fearing frequency
Youtube k5hZGh7Ndms
 
2019-10-31 1:28:07 AM  

Keeve: a particular individual: granolasteak: a particular individual: I keep wanting to write another one. "Danny Doesn't Live Here Anymore...

You wrote that??

I've had dreams about that story.

Wow. I'm flattered. It went through a lot of rewrites. You could throw Strunk & White at that story, and it'd bounce off.

Keep in mind that it's all true... up to a point. That's the point where it's obviously not true.

I want to write a fictionalization of my childhood in Oklahoma City. I won a CSB thread with my story about the psycho bomber that almost blew up my friend in my back yard.

I would read it.


https://www.fark.com/comments/1023719​4​/118467464#c118467464
 
2019-10-31 1:29:01 AM  
Can I be thrown in the dungeon and not mention politics?

That might be fun.

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2019-10-31 1:45:31 AM  

RogermcAllen: I read in the early thread that a lot of ghost events are caused by infrasound (low frequencies you feel more than hear).  I looked it up an youtube and sure enough it worked.  I don't ever get anxious, but I could feel myself getting anxious almost immediately after listening.  Even after I turned off the sound shadows would dance at the corners of my vision as I walked through the dark house to bed and every creak was something behind me ready to jump out.  It was a really trippy experience.  I suggest you load this up, and listen while you read the thread.


I've heard about this too. The theory is that this sound resonates with the brain in a way that triggers the "fight or flight" response.

Or it could be that this sound frequency attracts demonic spirits which attach themselves to the closest living spirit (usually the person listening to the sound), thus haunting and tormenting them forever.

But that's probably not true...
 
2019-10-31 2:22:06 AM  
My house is haunted.  I'm not trolling or writing fiction... It really is haunted, as far as I'm concerned.

My wife and I moved in about three years ago.  A nice 3 bed, 2 bath in the suburbs of Chicago.  Big 1/2 acre yard.  Quiet street.  The house was sold by the previous owner's estate...a sweet old lady who died.  I met her two of her children (probably around fifty years old if I had to guess at the closing).  The guy even gave me cell number to call if we had any problems.

Nice family.  Nice house.

Everything was great until the first night.  There was something wrong with the master bedroom.  It's hard to explain, but I just felt...bad... In that room.  If you were ever a bad student and you knew your report card was mailed home, but you didn't know when it would show up... That feeling of dread in the back of your mind.  It was like that.

I couldn't sleep.  I would wake up in the middle of the night.  I had bad dreams.  Sometimes I thought I heard noises, and I would get up and look out the windows, but there was never anything there.

I'm not religious. I don't believe in aliens.  I didn't believe in ghosts... But I wondered... Did the lady die in this room?  Was her spirit keeping me up?  It was just so weird.

Sometimes I would sleep in the couch.  No problems in the living room.  Just the master bedroom.  As silly as it sounds, I hated living in the house.

Here is the thing I forgot to mention, my backyard has a 10 foot easement, followed by another 10 feet on the other side of the property.  That twenty feet is all trees and bushes, like a tiny forest... the entire length of the property.

After those 20 feet of trees, there is a parking lot.  It's actually a local energy company.  You can't see it at all, you can't hear it... Or can you?

As it turns out, I have much better hearing than my wife.  She did not feel the presence of the old lady, and the master bedroom is the room nearest this building... And it had the worst windows.

Barely audible sounds were f***ing with my mind.

Got new windows last year, never had a problem since.  Or... Maybe... The old lady's soul was put to rest because she finally got new windows for her bedroom......

You be the judge.
 
2019-10-31 2:23:26 AM  
There is no afterlife but there is something that I can touch with my mind.  It may actually be where that special "spark" - that brings consciousness to what might otherwise be the mere complex of biological automatons - goes when we die.  Or it might be a thin-spread pool of energy that waits to flood and fill a new person's latent mind.  Probably both, I think.

I used to totally disbelieve in reincarnation, but now I'm not so sure.  Consciousness seems to inhabit all living things but in wildly divergent ways.  Trees simply don't have the same, I don't know, template?  Network? The scale of complexity which is nothing without the special something energy inlaid.  But even living trees *do* have the some of the something. I can feel it now.  It laughs in thin leaves, skips in the phloem, saunters in the sapwood and slumbers in the heart.  But I don't think it thinks, not like we do.  Giggles often, sometimes weeps.  It's not always easy being a tree.

Whew, I digress.  I came to all this through depression.  I'd heard people talk about "dark clouds" of depression but my early adolescent bouts of angst and morbid thoughts never seemed like that.  I didn't know real depression until much later in life, when I had reached the final desperate place in my chemical addiction.  Now I not only could see the dark cloud, but if I touched it in my mind, and I couldn't not touch it, it was sticky and enveloping and would settle onto my mind and crush at my very being.  Smothering at that something, quenching its happy tingle of living.  It brought to me a paradoxical mortal dread of continuing to live.

Then I was forced into treatment for alcoholism.  I say "forced" because I didn't want to be cured, I wanted everything to stop.  But I'm weak and people would hurt if I "stopped" and that would be my fault, so in my weakness it was easier to do what they said.  So I did it.

I was given lessons for many things and asked to become "spiritual" which to me was tantamount to being "religious" which is worse than dying, I thought.  I was told to pray and meditate.  I couldn't pray, so I meditated even though their lessons for meditation were prayer.  I found my own ways to meditate and as my physical addiction eased and my health improved, I found that I could look at the dark cloud again and I had to touch it.

I would poke slowly and gently to it, even though I had cautiously applied mental Vaseline to make me slippery.  This was scary but exhilarating too.  It would catch at me and almost have me but I thrilled at this nearness to annihilation - like a parachute-drop ride at the amusement park, the body says "we're dead" but the mind says "weee!"

Then I got a little bored, frightened and then I got serious.  I knew I couldn't keep it with me forever because eventually it must be my end.  So one night in my special meditation, I pushed at it.  I pushed HARD all at once but it tried to flow around me and I suddenly realized I had an unprotected flank and no plan for this.  And somehow I knew it was too late for plans.  I had to finish this if I could.  I opened my mental wings to my sides and to the back and tried to sweep it forward, back in front where I could see it.  My right wing was strong but my left was hurting madly so I curled my right into a giant knife-edged fist and punched through it with the full momentum of my psyche.  A full third it slithered free and I bum-rushed that part, heedless of what was behind me.

I pushed and I tucked my chin down and to the left and cupped the loose bit of it between there and my right... appendage, pushing with my middle.  As I lost touch with my left-hind mind I could only see the smaller part of it in my half embrace and it was stopped at a boundary, a barrier.  Desperate and slippery but getting sticky I heaved and the barrier split.  I gasped and pulled the barrier to me with it between. I pulled at the barrier and the rift widened grudgingly as it pushed inside.

And then it was gone.  No, not all of it, just the third I had cornered.  The rest of it seemed to still be with me, but less coherent, dispersed.  And something else... I think something else came in to replace the missing part.  No, I'm sure of it.  Call it conservation of energy, conservation of "it" but apparently I couldn't just push a part of me - yes it was me I tore apart and tried to banish - behind the barrier.  I am required to be complete until my template is gone.

It's wrong. I'm wrong. The template is meant to be filled, *imbued* slowly, not patched with randomness.  It's been three years and I'm changing.  I may be going mad, but how can I tell?  I'm not hurting.  I feel strange and good.  And I can see you.  I can't touch you, yet, but I can see your spark and I'd like to play with it.
 
2019-10-31 2:40:22 AM  
I asked where son #2 was (probably 12 at the time), I was told he was in the small pool that we had.
I walked to the side door that overseas the pool and looked out. And saw him. Face down in the pool. Not moving.
And as a parent, you ask yourself...Do I wait? Do I run out and jump into the pool clothes and all? Do I yell for someone?
 
2019-10-31 2:45:05 AM  

mikaloyd: Pass.
Too many wet blanket atheists in here to share my ghost or UFO tales again


Nah, the wet blankets are the ones that move immediately to post about sleep paralysis instead of sharing that one time their flesh goosepimpled and they can't explain it and don't want to say how often they think back on it.

if you like this thread check out some of the early ones. we're still waiting to hear about the turkey feathers in snow, the updates on fishy, and if the road to Twentynine Palms is safe yet. This is probably not a bookmark, but call a priest if you feel the bookmark form shaping just over your shoulder
 
2019-10-31 3:05:09 AM  
I live in a 90 year old house with my two sons. They've lived here all their lives and it's always had a little bit of a haunted house feel to it.

There's a cabinet in the hallway that looks like it used to be the whole house breaker. A big copper switch with bare copper wires running through it. Obviously not working anymore, so all the previous tenants have left a little note, a book the guy who lived here just before we moved in - "Warm Bodies", a zombie love story that was turned into a movie, some weird bones, medicine bottles with droppers, a wooden statue thing, roses made out of leather and barbed wire, a wax astronaut, and some kind of pamphlet from Burning Man 1996.

On October First we found out that the house has been sold to developers who are going to kick us out and tear it down. My kids start crying every time we talk about it. Came home yesterday to a water shutoff notice on the door because the new owners haven't paid the bill. Haven't even paid October rent because I have no idea who owns my house now.

It's the scariest story I have right now.

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2019-10-31 3:10:27 AM  
I'm sure that you all have heard tales of the charming roadside manifestations known as "white ladies". While some people posit that these beings are simply tragic remnants who are searching for a way "home", my personal experience is that they are otherworldly horrors who want to lure unsuspecting motorists to their doom. White women abound everywhere in Iowa and many are generally frightening under most circumstances but the pale vision that I encountered on the side of I-35 north of Des Moines was absolutely terrifying.

Several years ago, I was picking up a load of alpacas from western Minnesota in the middle of winter. I usually would cut southeast from Mason City to Cedar Rapids to get down to I-80 heading for Ohio, but the weather was so crappy that my co-driver and I decided to stick to the better-maintained interstate. Since my friend was unfamiliar with Iowa, I agreed to let him sleep until we hit Illinois. It was around 2 AM when we left a Mason City fuel stop and headed out into the snowy darkness.

Due the heavy snow, I pretty much was the only driver on the highway that morning. I was just cruising along at a steady 55 mph, drinking coffee and listening to the radio while trying to ignore my friend's snores. Everything was going as well as anything in Iowa could go until I came over a slight hill and saw what appeared to be a horrible accident scene. There was a flipped-over semi and several smashed cars on fire in the median. The smoke was so thick that it was hard to see clearly. There were several bodies laying in the snow and a bloody figure of a girl standing at the edge of the median trying to flag down help.

I started to carefully slow down, preparing to pull over on the opposite shoulder to see if I could help. Please keep in mind that this appeared to be a massive, multiple vehicle crash complete with the sound of screams and the smell of smoke. It would have never occurred to me to question the reality of what I "saw" if it wasn't for the fact that the girl approaching my truck was wearing shorts and a tank-top. In January. In Iowa.

Anyways, some instinct told me to take my foot off the brake and keep rolling forward. As I passed the slight, chestnut-haired girl covered in blood, my glance out of my window saw her change from a helpless crash victim into a twisted parody of humanity complete with horns, fangs, and glowing green eyes. As I sped off down the snow-covered highway as fast as the crappy weather would allow, I heard a piercing scream of rage (which drowned out my friend's snoring but still didn't wake his ass up). A further glance in my side-view mirror showed an undisturbed, snow-covered median which was empty except for a solitary figure watching me disappear down the road.

I have no idea how much of what I witnessed that morning was real or just due to some sort of fugue-like road-hypnosis. When you're driving long-distance with very little sleep, especially when it's snowing, your mind can play tricks on you. It's fairly common to see things that might not really be there. It's less common to also hear and smell things that aren't there. Maybe I was seeing an "echo" of a past tragedy, or maybe some demonic being was trying to lure an unsuspecting traveler to her demise. I don't know what would have happened if I had stopped but I've seen enough weird, scary shiat to know that I'm glad I didn't find out.

/it's a good thing that alpacas lay down when they travel
//yes, I stopped to check on them as soon as I reached the safety beacon of the nearest Flying J
///friend woke up when I pulled up to the diesel pump and asked "did I miss anything exciting?"
 
2019-10-31 3:12:12 AM  
Well, after lurking in this thread since the first one dropped sixteen years ago, I suppose it's time to share my creepy experience. Or, more accurately, my wife's creepy experience.

It's 2009. We're in Portland, OR for my wife's college roommate's wedding. Neither of us had been to Portland, so we go up a couple of days early to explore the city. I had talked my wife into doing a ghost tour as one of our activities. I like doing ghost tours because it usually ends up being a cool history lesson peppered with spooky stories. My wife, on the other hand, doesn't really do spooky, so it took some convincing. Oddly enough, she agreed to do this tour because we found out they handed out EMF meters for the tour, and she found the notion kind of charming if not goofy.

Our first stop on the tour is a 19th century saloon hotel that was home to a few ladies of the night back in the day. After we climb the main stairwell and arrive on the second floor, the host tells us about one particular lady named Rose, and how she met a violent death at the hands of a john named Sam. He then tells us to wander the floor's narrow corridors and encourages us to call out for Rose, EMF meters in hand. He also tells us not to call out for Sam ("He doesn't like to be disturbed," our guide informs us). We're the only ones in the group that goes down the corridor to the right of the stairwell. The rest of the group follows the guide down the left-side corridor.

We play along and start saying stuff like "Hi, Rose. We're sorry about what happened, we'd like to see you." We're feeling pretty silly while doing so...until we get to the corridor's fifth set of doors. Suddenly, my wife's EMF meter lights up like a slot machine and its needle to register activity moves as far right as it can go without flying off the device. I'm standing right next to her, and my machine isn't doing a thing. My wife, eyes locked on her lit up machine, says, "Honey, can you get the tour guide?"

I quickly flag the guide over to us and explain what had happened. He asks for my wife's EMF meter, explaining that the devices have been known to malfunction on occasion. She hands it to him, and he hits its button to activate the device...nothing. No lights, no needle movement, not a single thing. He hands it back to my wife, and she hits the button. It immediately lights up and the needle maxes out again. The host, in a calm voice that lets you know that he's seen some stuff go down in this one-time property of ill repute, informs us that Rose usually only presents herself to women. At that moment, the hairs on my wife's neck stand up and she starts getting light-headed. We get the hell out of the corridor.

We gather with the rest of the group by the stairwell and my wife shares her experience. It's at that time that the host tells us that we were standing in front of the room where Rose got murdered. Good times.

I'd like to think that we experienced something freaky and unexplained. (Well, my wife directly and me by proxy). With that being said, I wouldn't be disappointed if it was revealed to be a trick. If it was a deception, it was one hell of a cunning ruse.
 
2019-10-31 3:44:06 AM  
If you like ghost stories I highly recommend a book called Obake Files by Glen Grant.

He was an incredibly gifted storyteller and my all time best Halloween memory was back in college, listening to him tell Ghost Stories down in Waikiki on Halloween night.
 
2019-10-31 4:10:31 AM  
I'm a bit of a skeptic, but I do have one creepy, possibly supernatural story.

The house I grew up in had a loud knocking sound for as long as I can remember. It was usually late at night, but sometimes it happened in the middle of the day when I was home alone. I was a night owl, and sick a lot as a kid so I was up late or home sick pretty often. I heard the knocking all the time, and was used to it. I never regarded it as supernatural. I just figured it was pipes, or the house settling. It was an old house.

The only strange thing about the knocking is that it always came in pairs. It was loud and clear, and sounded like two distinct knocks on my bedroom wall. It was always the same place on the wall, and always the wall that had the stairs to our unfinished basement on the other side.

Two other details of my parents' house might be relevant. My bed was pushed up against the wall in question so I slept against it, and at the foot of my bed was a closet. It used to be a door to another room, but my dad converted it to an extra closet because there had been a weirdly small hallway between the rooms.

In my late teens I began experiencing sleep paralysis, which is creepy, but not necessarily supernatural, depending on what you believe. Being a nerd, I had researched it, and thought it was just a medical condition.

One night I woke up unable to move, but on that night I saw a figure standing at the foot of my bed. My room was completely black, but I could see a deeper black shape in the darkness. It looked like a tall, skinny woman with a huge mass of hair. I felt like she was staring at me. While I watched, she raised her left arm to the wall, and knocked twice. I heard the familiar sound, and let out a breath as I was suddenly able to move again. I blinked, and she was gone.

I've gone back over that night in my head a million times, and I still don't know if what I experienced was supernatural, or just some weird combination of sleep paralysis, and the knocking. I could write it off as a typical case of sleep paralysis hallucination, except how did my mind known when the knock was going to come?

I never saw the figure again. I still get sleep paralysis on rare occasions, but nothing like the regularity it had back then. The knocking never stopped. My parents still live in that house, but converted my bedroom into a laundry room. Nobody sleeps there anymore.
 
2019-10-31 4:38:41 AM  

Keeve: hiredgoonz: This is all true, happened before the 2017 scary story thread, decided to write it down, oh, about 30 minutes ago, so forgive the quality...

And if anyone has any better explanations, I'd love to hear them.


So, two summers ago, it's hot as balls, but my then wife wants to walk the dog and we need stuff at the grocery store. Since I was not at all thrilled at the concept of walking the dog for a third time that day (did I mention that it was hot as balls?), she suggests I drop her off at the end of a street that looks like it should be the beginning of a trail (there are a LOT of trails here) but is closed to vehicle traffic, hit the grocery store, then pick her up where I dropped her off.

Worst case scenario, this road, or trail, or whatever, ends in something impassable and she walks 100 yards to a trail we know. It's not the Dark Ages, we have cell phones, we'll figure it out.

Now, we've been down this road a million times, but, well, it ends with a large gate and some rather excessive, in my opinion, signage. "Do not enter, dead end, road closed," etc.

Cool, I get to hang out in the AC'ed environment of the grocery store for about 30 minutes, then get back into the AC'ed environment of the car to pick her up.

The look on her face when she gets in the car is hard to describe...wonder, confusion, sense of mystery? Maybe all of that, plus something I couldn't put my finger on at the time. Long story made short, she insists I walk this trail with her.

Since it's hot as balls here until nearly Halloween, it's some time before I make good on my "promise." But I do, eventually, keep my word, and we take the dog for a stroll.

Just past the crazy signage is a freshly paved road. Fire hydrants with fresh, glistening orange paint line both sides of what appeared to be a nature trail, but is actually a road in better condition than the ones I'm forced to drive on every day, even just outside my driveway.

It was farking weird. Why is this road, out of all the roads ...

Have you tried looking it up on maps.google.com and go into satellite mode?


I have, but the tree cover makes it impossible to see anything useful. The regular map view displays an accurate representation of the roads on both sides of the river and even includes the "island" in the middle of the river that has ancient footings in place for the long-gone bridge.

Have gone on numerous hikes along the river and well, it also seems strange to run across fiber trunks run under this river, in the middle of the woods.
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2019-10-31 4:42:08 AM  

Keeve: hiredgoonz: This is all true, happened before the 2017 scary story thread, decided to write it down, oh, about 30 minutes ago, so forgive the quality...

And if anyone has any better explanations, I'd love to hear them.


So, two summers ago, it's hot as balls, but my then wife wants to walk the dog and we need stuff at the grocery store. Since I was not at all thrilled at the concept of walking the dog for a third time that day (did I mention that it was hot as balls?), she suggests I drop her off at the end of a street that looks like it should be the beginning of a trail (there are a LOT of trails here) but is closed to vehicle traffic, hit the grocery store, then pick her up where I dropped her off.

Worst case scenario, this road, or trail, or whatever, ends in something impassable and she walks 100 yards to a trail we know. It's not the Dark Ages, we have cell phones, we'll figure it out.

Now, we've been down this road a million times, but, well, it ends with a large gate and some rather excessive, in my opinion, signage. "Do not enter, dead end, road closed," etc.

Cool, I get to hang out in the AC'ed environment of the grocery store for about 30 minutes, then get back into the AC'ed environment of the car to pick her up.

The look on her face when she gets in the car is hard to describe...wonder, confusion, sense of mystery? Maybe all of that, plus something I couldn't put my finger on at the time. Long story made short, she insists I walk this trail with her.

Since it's hot as balls here until nearly Halloween, it's some time before I make good on my "promise." But I do, eventually, keep my word, and we take the dog for a stroll.

Just past the crazy signage is a freshly paved road. Fire hydrants with fresh, glistening orange paint line both sides of what appeared to be a nature trail, but is actually a road in better condition than the ones I'm forced to drive on every day, even just outside my driveway.

It was farking weird. Why is this road, out of all the roads ...

Have you tried looking it up on maps.google.com and go into satellite mode?


On the other side of the river, same fiber line, actually called AT&T about this to try and figure out what was up...they didn't know, but were very concerned about why I wanted to know...

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2019-10-31 5:01:24 AM  
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 mother's 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 couldn't 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 car's 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. She's 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 couldn't 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 Ed's farmhouse and pick up Ed. Ed wasn't very much, my father explained, but at least he was something.

Well, the neighbor drove over to Ed's 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. Ed's last name was Gein. He later became Robert Bloch's 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 family's 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 Plainfield's 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, it's 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.
 
2019-10-31 5:01:52 AM  
I certainly thought the house was haunted at the time. I was thirteen, and I was unreasonably afraid to go up the stairs to my room after dark, unless the light in the bathroom at the top of the stairs was turned on first.

It was a big old blue Victorian, the first house we lived in after moving to Illinois. It was built in the late 1890s, and it had a large, old cold storage room in the basement, plus a long narrow room down there with hooks in the ceiling for hanging meat. The furnace was a sprawling 'spider-duct' thing that fascinated my dad because it seemed almost as old as the house. There were pigeons nesting in the attic, an ancient and roughly built china cabinet in the kitchen (that we took with us and still have), a clawfoot iron tub without any kind of shower fixture in the upstairs bathroom, no closets in any of the upstairs bedrooms, and no ceiling light fixtures up there either. They had just run wiring up through the old gas wall lamps instead. The dining room on the main floor was used instead as my dad's office. The paint on three of the walls was a weird pink. The interior wall was covered in mirrored tiles.

It was an odd place. And, like I said, we all thought it was haunted. One night there was a pale, humanoid shape against my bedroom wall and door, that I never saw again. It -could- have been from the restaurants and streetlights lining the road behind the house, coming through my window and formed by the trees and leaves that were in the way, but that shape never reappeared. We each of us were freaked out by that wall of mirrors at least once or twice, after seeing something that wasn't any of us move in the reflections. And, of course, I really hated that staircase when it was dark.

Whether it was actually haunted or not I don't know, now. None of us saw anything completely inexplicable. A weird vibe, noises from the pigeons, possibly imagined movement in the mirrors, and the oldness of it all, that's all I remember for sure. That and the hidden crawlspace we found in my parents' bedroom when we were moving out, that had some old toys in it - not antiques, just stuff that might have been left by the previous tenant. However!

A year or two after we moved out and the place was demolished, I started attending the high school that was right across the street from that property. The high school was built on the site of the old city cemetery. I think the house had been built well after the city started moving that cemetery to a site outside the city limits, but I'm not sure how long that process took after it started in the mid 1870s.

Either way, the high school was built after 1917 on the old cemetery grounds, and while attending there I heard all sorts of ghost stories, most involving the largely unoccupied 4th floor (only accessible from narrow stairways) and in particular the elevator shaft. The story is, when the elevator was under construction in the 1980s, workers found a broken tombstone at the bottom of the shaft they were digging. The date on the stone was worn away, but there was an incription on one side that read "Cut down but not destroyed". There is no name on the stone, but ever since it was found the person it belonged to has been called Rachel. No one knows who first decided her name was Rachel, but supposedly one group of historians who looked for the origins of the stone discovered that a plot next to the location of the elevator shaft did belong to a girl named Rachel.

Apparently they've since kept the stone in the school's basement, in the maintenance room. No bits of bone were ever found so the theory is just this stone was missed when the cemetery was moved.

I don't recall anything overtly scary about the school, either. The main part of the building, the oldest section, can be creepy - the auditorium, old gym, and the 4th floor especially - and while I never ventured into the basement, the photos and video i found of that area look dangerous and uninviting as all crap. But the history of that property, and the fact that our old house was right next to a disturbed cemetery, just has me thinking it would be odd if that area WASN'T haunted in some way...

I'll try to link a YouTube video I found last year about it. It came up while my mom and I were looking through haunted school videos, and damn I was surprised to see it.
 
2019-10-31 5:03:11 AM  
https://youtu.be/njI5Qo0WAqc

The embed thingie no workie
 
2019-10-31 5:12:27 AM  

OneFretAway: mikaloyd: Pass.
Too many wet blanket atheists in here to share my ghost or UFO tales again

Dang.  I bet you've got some good ones.

My sister swears the house my parents lived in when she was in high school (after I left for college) was haunted.  She used to hear footsteps and doors opening on the second floor routinely when nobody else was home.  I didn't year any of it, and never heard this from her until a couple of decades after we moved out.

My kids swear that my 100+ year old house is haunted.  I'm not saying that it is, but some of the things they point to have been on the weird side, like a light that switched itself off when nobody was in the room, strange noices, and once my younger daughter swears they say me walk past a window when I wasn't home.  They came in expecting to find me there, and I showed up a minute or two later coming home from an errand.

The closest thing to an experience I've had was sitting up late at night and hearing someone audibly whisper my name in my ear.  It's easy enough to pass it off as an auditory hallucination from a tired brain, but it sounded real enough for me to turn my head expecting to see someone there.  I've been very happy in the house for 6+ years, so if there are ghosts we seem to get along very well.

My ex-wife had an experience with a Oija board that spelled out "Richie's dead."  Minutes later, the phone rang and her parents learned that her uncle Richie had passed away that same day.


You don't have ghosts. You have deeply inbred people living in your walls, attic, under stairs.
 
2019-10-31 5:47:31 AM  
Almost forgot about this one..  Manga/comic..obvious fiction, but good..

The Enigma of Amigara Fault
 
2019-10-31 5:53:46 AM  

CAT-LIKE TYPING DETECTED: Almost forgot about this one..  Manga/comic..obvious fiction, but good..

The Enigma of Amigara Fault


Remember to read right to left..     =P
 
2019-10-31 6:05:50 AM  

The Irrelevant Gamer: I'm a bit of a skeptic, but I do have one creepy, possibly supernatural story.

The house I grew up in had a loud knocking sound for as long as I can remember. It was usually late at night, but sometimes it happened in the middle of the day when I was home alone. I was a night owl, and sick a lot as a kid so I was up late or home sick pretty often. I heard the knocking all the time, and was used to it. I never regarded it as supernatural. I just figured it was pipes, or the house settling. It was an old house.

The only strange thing about the knocking is that it always came in pairs. It was loud and clear, and sounded like two distinct knocks on my bedroom wall. It was always the same place on the wall, and always the wall that had the stairs to our unfinished basement on the other side.

Two other details of my parents' house might be relevant. My bed was pushed up against the wall in question so I slept against it, and at the foot of my bed was a closet. It used to be a door to another room, but my dad converted it to an extra closet because there had been a weirdly small hallway between the rooms.

In my late teens I began experiencing sleep paralysis, which is creepy, but not necessarily supernatural, depending on what you believe. Being a nerd, I had researched it, and thought it was just a medical condition.

One night I woke up unable to move, but on that night I saw a figure standing at the foot of my bed. My room was completely black, but I could see a deeper black shape in the darkness. It looked like a tall, skinny woman with a huge mass of hair. I felt like she was staring at me. While I watched, she raised her left arm to the wall, and knocked twice. I heard the familiar sound, and let out a breath as I was suddenly able to move again. I blinked, and she was gone.

I've gone back over that night in my head a million times, and I still don't know if what I experienced was supernatural, or just some weird combination of sleep paralysis, and the knocking. I could write it off as a typical case of sleep paralysis hallucination, except how did my mind known when the knock was going to come?

I never saw the figure again. I still get sleep paralysis on rare occasions, but nothing like the regularity it had back then. The knocking never stopped. My parents still live in that house, but converted my bedroom into a laundry room. Nobody sleeps there anymore.


I am glad that you are fine and came out of that experience unscathed, because it is obvious that you broke the ritual.
The appropriate response to hearing those two knocks was to ask in a loud voice: "Who's there?"
 
2019-10-31 6:53:10 AM  

Resident Muslim: I am glad that you are fine and came out of that experience unscathed, because it is obvious that you broke the ritual. The appropriate response to hearing those two knocks was to ask in a loud voice: "Who's there?


Notsureifserious.jpeg
 
2019-10-31 7:04:18 AM  

The Irrelevant Gamer: Resident Muslim: I am glad that you are fine and came out of that experience unscathed, because it is obvious that you broke the ritual. The appropriate response to hearing those two knocks was to ask in a loud voice: "Who's there?

Notsureifserious.jpeg


Ok, it seems I wasn't clear.
Let me initiate the ritual and follow with me...
Knock, knock..
 
2019-10-31 7:15:14 AM  
There is a bond that develops between musicians and their favorite instruments.With me, it was a particular guitar.I don't like to talk brands, but I will say that it was a vintage hollow body electric that I found in pieces in the junk section of a music store in the late 1960's.I paid fifty bucks for it (which was a lot of money for me at the time) and took the parts home in a paper bag.I never even stopped to wonder at the time how or why it had come to be in the state it was in.

I had an uncle who was a carpenter, and I figured I could enlist his help in repairing my new guitar.I wouldn't go so far as to call him a luthier, but he had built a couple of guitars from scratch (I still own one of them), and he was a more than competent woodworker with a shop and tools.He taught me about hide glue, and binding, and refinishing with nitrocellulose lacquer.Together we figured out the wiring of the volume and tone circuits (all the pots, caps and knobs had to be replaced); we took the pickups out of their housings so that we could re-do the gold plating.We figured out the proper angle for the neck and replaced the tuners, recut the nut; and when we were finished it was the most beautiful instrument either of us had ever seen.The figures in the wood seemed to flow around the f-holes and external hardware like they had all grown together.Like a virgin boy with his first willing partner, when it was done I was almost afraid to touch it for fear of causing something so extraordinary to sound like crap.I named her Jezebel.

Let's face it, I'd never been that good of a guitarist.I could play chords and a bit of fingerstyle and sing at the same time (which put me ahead of a lot of casual players) but I'd never been able to solo to save my life.I had done the work practicing scales and arpeggios until long after the cows came home, but something about improvisation just never clicked in my head or fingers... until I plugged Jezebel into my dad's old Fender '57 Deluxe amp.Even with my clumsy fingers, she sang like an angel and my confidence soared right along, to the point that I didn't want to put her down.Sometimes I would lose myself so much that I would play for an hours, and my fingers would be as sore as a beginners.It was almost scary, realizing that at those times I couldn't tell what was coming from me and what was coming from her.

If you were an American male who could play guitar in 1968, you were in a band and I was no exception.Three friends and I had our own "rock band" and we got together on Saturday evenings to practice in my family's garage. Bob played drums, and kept pretty good time; Allan played bass, Rick was lead guitar and I was rhythm and vocals.My old guitar was a crappy Silvertone acoustic, so even though we considered ourselves a rock band we did quite a bit of folksy Peter, Paul and Mary stuff... until the night I brought out Jezebel.I took my first solo break that night on Buddy Holly's "Not Fade Away," and when we finished the guys were all staring at me."I think somebody's been holding out on us" was Rick's comment.He begged me to let him play her, and I found myself making excuses.The truth was, I was jealous.

The band changed direction that night, and we came up with a whole new list of songs to learn and play.Actual, honest to god rock and roll songs that everyone knew but we had never tried together, and we started practicing three times a week.Two weeks later Allan announced that we had a gig, a birthday party for a girl he was trying to impress; we would play for an hour and split twenty bucks.

We opened the show with the Stones "Paint it Black" and we almost knocked those girls out of their chairs; even the parents were gaping at us, and by the time the show was over you would have thought we were the goddam Beatles.Had it not been a sunny Saturday afternoon in a nice suburban backyard with parents present, I'm absolutely certain we would have ALL gotten lucky.

It was our break; a couple of the girls knew kids on the student council, and a week later our band was asked to play the local High School "back to school" sock-hop.The set list was ready-Stones, Jefferson Airplane, the Monkees, the Doors.We were ready to blow the roof off the school gym... and the afternoon of the big show, I sprained my left wrist in PE class.There was no way we could cancel the gig, and anyway I could still sing; but there was no way I could play.Rick had been drooling over Jezebel since the first time I brought her out to practice with the band, and now he was on his knees begging me to play her.The only thing I could say was yes.

We started the first set with "Happy Together," and built it up from there.Rick was on fire; he never missed a lick and was playing better than I'd thought humanly possible.At the first break though, I noticed he was really sweating, like drenched in sweat."Hey, you OK man?" I asked.He said he was fine, just needed a drink and some air, so we each grabbed a cup of spiked punch and headed outside for a smoke.I think that "punch" was more like red-colored Everclear.Rick seemed pale and not himself, but I hardly got another chance to talk to him; everybody was coming up, complimenting us on the show, telling us how awesome we were.In no time, we had to head back onstage for the second set, and Rick's cup got set on top of my dad's Fender amp.

Bob hit the opening drum riff for "Paint it Black" like a madman; we had this set down cold.Kids were dancing, girls were staring up at us with open lust in their eyes, and everything was perfect... except there was Rick, playing fantastically on my guitar with girls almost drooling on themselves as they gazed at him.A few songs later, I was quietly fuming as we swung into "Somebody to Love," the anger probably helping me hit Grace Slick's out-of-my-range notes, when I started to hear screaming from the girls down front.And not good "I want to bang you, Paul McCartney" screaming, but ugly "oh my farking god, what is happening?" screaming.I opened my eyes (you can't sing "Somebody" without closing your eyes) to see what was happening, and these girls are screaming, clutching-almost clawing-at their faces, staring at Rick.

I turned to my right to look and dropped the mic as Bob and Allan crashed to silence, Bob dropping his sticks as Allan and I both jumped back away from Rick on the small stage.Jezebel was still playing, angel voice pounding out of that '57 Deluxe amp, as Rick played on, transfixed.
He stood stiffly straight, blood streaming from this tightly closed eyes, his ears, his nose, and from his ruined fingertips.His white shirt and tie were drenched from it streaming off his chin, but he played on and on for what seemed like hours but could only have been moments.I was close enough to hear the grating sound of the bones of his fingertips against the guitar strings, and I swear I even heard the soft popping noise as his eyeballs collapsed behind his eyelids and then slid down his face, along with the louder crunch as his clenched jaw broke behind the rictus of his bloodstained teeth.

The b-string broke on the final bent note, as Rick's lifeless body fell backward onto the amp, spilling Everclear onto the hot tubes, which instantly burst into flames.There were no automatic sprinkler systems in those days, and the fire quickly licked up across Rick's body to Jezebel, where her nitrocellulose lacquer practically exploded.Screaming kids were running for the exits even before the fire alarm started its shrill, strident clanging.Bob and Allan had abandoned the stage, as I ran to the lighting panel and killed power to the amps and PA, but it was too late; the fire had spread to the stage curtains and the smoke was so thick I almost didn't make it out.
I no longer envied my friend for what he was able to play on "my" guitar, and I wonder to this day if it was only my lack of true talent that saved me from his fate.
 
2019-10-31 7:18:03 AM  
One night, I went to Dissemination Monkey's place and Drew was there, and they had a creepy Bo Burnham  doll and....

Oh god! Why am I still up?!?

Fark user imageView Full Size
 
2019-10-31 7:53:38 AM  
When I worked at the airplane company, we used to prank each other.  Tape over the mouthpiece of the phone so they can't hear you, that kind of stuff.  There was this device called the Annoyatron.  It's a little device and you can hide it anywhere.  It would make random beeps and little voice that would say "Hello" and "Can you hear me?"


Every couple of weeks the Annoyatron would come out and find itself under someone's desk.  Phil seemed to have short term memory issues because he would always fall for it.  They'd set it to beep mostly but once they used the voice and it freaked Phil out.


So, one day, I come back to my desk and I'm doing something when I hear "Can you hear me?"  Okay, I admit, it freaked me out a bit.  The voice actually comes out of no where.  So I look around.  There's a magnetic base so it has to be in the overhead or attached to the cabinets.  Nothing.  "You have to help me".  Back of the computer?  Nope.  "Please help!"  I look around to see if they're watching me.  Everyone is pretending to be busy.   Some crying.  Alright.  This is funny.  I decide that if I leave, they'll pull the Annoyatron out from where ever they hid it and we'll all have a nice laugh.  The voice says "Harry, you're my only hope!"  No.  No it doesn't.  I just misheard it, right?


So i walk over to another office, talk to a guy about work and go back.  Voices are gone.  No one is laughing or anything.  The weakest link is Bill.  I ask him out in the hall where they put the Annoyatron on my desk.  That way, if they do it to me again, I'll know where to look.  Bill is absolutely honest.  Cannot lie about anything.  He says "Mary told them to stop using the Annoyatron after Phil.  It was too disruptive."  This gets confirmed by another, less honest person.


So I chalk it up to my imagination.  At 3 pm, I walk out to the parking lot.  We used to have the best parking lot at the airplane factory.  Never full.  You could go to lunch and there would be a spot when you came back.  Then Virtual Warfare moved some jobs around and the parking lot would fill up by 7 am.  I recently stopped going out to lunch which was a shame because there is that Chicago hot dog place out on Lindbergh.  I jump in the car and drive home.


Next morning, it's just like any other at the the airplane factory.  I go through the email and there's a blast to everyone about making sure your kids are safe around automobiles.  A kid got run over in a driveway somewhere.  It seemed to be a recurring event. This is before backup cameras on cars. At lunch time, I go up to the cafeteria and a couple of women are talking about something. I catch a part about "a tragedy" and "what a horrible way to die"


Later in the office, one of the guys I used to go to lunch says something like "You know if we went to lunch like we used to, we probably would have heard her pounding on the trunk. The car was right next to where Harry always parks." I ask to be brought up to speed and they explain that a guy with an old Ford sedan, the same guy who I battle for the parking spot at the end of the row, didn't know that his daughter climbed in to his trunk before work yesterday. He was loading up his softball equipment for his game that evening. When he got to the ball park, well you can guess the rest
.
I don't mention the voice.
 
2019-10-31 8:00:42 AM  
i have loads of ghost stories, many of them auditory and olfactory both.
Maybe my autism makes me more sensitive, I dunno.

Story 1.Decades ago, I was in college working on an art project. It was in the fall, late at night. Nobody else was there. I was with a friend, and we went upstairs to pick up the project and take it home because you don't want to leave anything out in the open, people steal art and supplies all the time.

So we get in the car that's parked outside the building. I try to start the car up, it didn't turn over. Tried again. It wouldn't turn over. Then a very strong smell of antique lilac filled the car, travelling left to right, then disappearing.
The car starts up, right as rain.

Story 2: the same friend and I went to his family real estate office. We went there to use the copy machines, we were printing zines. Again, it was very dark out, late at night, nobody else was around. While we were printing them, we both noticed the bathroom light was on. Strange, said my friend,
We both went back there to investigate. Suddenly a strong smell of old spice filled the air. It travelled out the door and disappeared.

I asked my friend "who wears old spice?" He said "the previous owner of the building wore it. He lived behind this office in the attached house, but he died in 1973."

We picked up our zine stuff and got the hell out of there.

Story 3, just this year. I had a cockatiel named Freddy. She was my sweet companion for 22 years. She declined and died on June 4th of multiple organ failure. 22 years in cockatiel years is like 117 years for a human. As she was declining, she emitted a very pungent smell thst I can't describe,  but it seemed to come from her digestive tract, not a fart but pungent like a fart.

I mourned her deeply. There is another cockatiel that lives in the cage where she died. In September, I was changing the paper in the cage when that very pungent smell wanted again, near the spot where she died and disappeared. I think it was Freddy saying hi.

Dear old girl, I still miss you.
 
2019-10-31 8:08:22 AM  

mikaloyd: Pass.
Too many wet blanket atheists in here to share my ghost or UFO tales again


I've said it before and I'll say it again - Fark needs a UFO story thread just like the spooky story thread.

Let Farkers tell their stories and let us all decide for ourselves. Just like with the spooky story thread, whether the tales are real or not, they would still be intriguing and entertaining.
 
2019-10-31 8:14:03 AM  
Chalk me up to another person who wonders if people and animals re-incarnate.

We had a cockatiel named Robert, a recessive pearl who turned into standard grey, but he renamed himself Bobert. He had a very distinctive way of saying his name: Bob-BERT, Bob-BERT! He died in 2003 after eating drywall and destroying his kidneys. He was really good friends with another bird named Lydia, who turned out to be a male. Lydia pronounced his name Ly-DEE-a. And Bob-BERT picked up on that. Lydia died in 1999.

Fast forward to 2014. Both Lydia and Bobert are long dead and there are no other birds we had who knew them let alone pronounced their names.

I get a cockatiel, a grey pearl who turned into a standard grey. We decided to name him Ollie. Within a few months he started renaming himself Bob-BERT, Bob-BERT.

We thought that was freaky, but Ollie is close to Bob-BERT. So we noted it an moved on.

Then one day he said Ly-DEE-a, Ly-DEE-a. In the exact name way as Lydia said his name.
 
2019-10-31 8:36:35 AM  
My Story, as told to me by my mother.

My mother left my father in the middle of the night, taking me with her. No money and no plan. Through a friend of a friend of a friend, she wound up renting a what was an old barn, converted into a single room apartment.

Having nothing, we slept on garbage bags of clothes, and eat what she could hunt or scavenge.

Knowing no one, we spent a lot of time in the barn, and I would always talk to the "Old Man". I eventually started calling him grandpa P. My last name begins with P, so my mom always assumed I had an imaginary friend. I would sit next to an old rocking chair (the barns only furnishing) and tell grandpa P about my day. At night, I would lay on the clothes and giggle and laugh myself to sleep.

We were there probably 5 or 6 months, and when we left, we stopped by the main house to tell the owner goodbye, and I apparently also told Grandpa P goodbye. When I said goodbye to Grandpa P, the woman turned to my mom and asked her more about grandpa P, and my mom told her about how I would talk and laugh next to that old chair.

The woman went into the other room and brought a photo out of her late husband, and according to my mom, I started shouting and pointing "Grandpa P!"

He had died a year or two previously, and the woman moved the rocking chair into the barn because she couldnt stand to see it empty. His name was Paul.

I dont know if I believe the story or not, I was too young to remember most of the details, I only vaguely remember the barn. Mostly, I remember how cold it would be at night, because there was only a single wood stove heating the entire thing, I remember my mom crying a lot, but I also remember how happy I was and was never lonely.

Maybe ghosts are real. Maybe they arent. But, my mom believes grandpa P was there, helping her through a difficult time, and I guess thats good enough for me.
 
2019-10-31 8:37:54 AM  
 
2019-10-31 8:53:41 AM  
Another weird reincarnation story. My ex sister in law, when she was a little girl, around 4, used to describe in detail houses and events that nobody else in the family ever heard.

Her mother asked her "when did you do (or hear this)

She said "when I was a boy."

They laughed and made fun of her until she closed her mind off to it.

I wonder if when we are little kids we know more but learn to close our minds off to it. Just a thought.
 
2019-10-31 9:53:57 AM  
Not an actual ghost story, but fits the theme.  I grew up religious, and through a series of events, lost any faith, whatsoever.  This is the story of how my faith found me...  (I'm sorry, it is organized poorly, but I don't have time to fix it up now.)


Over Christmas, 1997, Mom should have died.  Marge and I got her to the hospital where, in a moment of lucidity, she asked me what was happening and I told her.  I said 'you're in a very bad way, and you can live or die, the choice is yours.'  Local hospital eventually got her put back together and she went home.  Over the next four years, she was in the hospital as much as she was out.  When in, either Dad or I was with her every moment, him during the days, me at night.  The night she died was the ONLY night I wasn't with her, I just couldn't do it that night.
In the summer of 2010, Marge, fearing the empty-nest thing, wanted a pocket book dog.  We went to a breeder and bought Bruno, a long haired, miniature dachshund in May.  In  July, Marge convinced me to go see a psychic in Philly that her sister knew/had seen.  We took a few extra days on the way, to stop in Gettysburg.  Let me tell you, long hair mini dachshunds are chick magnets.  Any time Bruno was out in public, the girls just flock to him.  On our way out of Gettysburg, we had to stop so he could pee, and as happens, two girls were drawn like a magnet.  One was a Natl Park Service employee, the other an intern from New Zealand.  We were talking, they were loving him, when all of a sudden, from nowhere, was a stick with a piece of chewing gum on it was in his mouth.  Neither the girls nor I knew where it came from, it just appeared.  I quickly took it from him and threw it away.
We get to M's sister's house and go to the psychic reading - it was called a gallery reading, there were about ten people besides us there.  Alicia <redacted> - the psychic - said she only deals with spirits that have passed over to heaven, she will not deal with Earth-bound spirits or with dark spirits, then she sat down and started to read.  She started with ' a little woman, older, whose name is " M   A   R - but it's not Margaret"  I said "Marguerite?", which was Mom's name.  That's it!!  Alicia began pointing her fingers, pulling them apart saying "sticky     ...  sucker   ...  sticky  ..."  I asked about the chewing gum stick Bruno had that morning, Alicia said ' your mom is jumping up and down, clapping, said "I did that, I gave your puppy a treat."
Alicia began describing her - she passed first, very reserved, comfy dresses with floral prints (she made her own clothes into the 1990's, usually bright floral prints), very sick - in and out of hospital, VERY close to me, Marge was often bothered by the bond between mom and I, she was closest to me and everyone knew it.  At this point, I  had to ask about my brother Joe, who had committed suicide in March, 2000.  Mom said "Hold your horses!!", which was absolutely her expression to slow down.  Alicia continued, "I needed to be alone to die, I couldn't pass looking into your eyes."  The night she died was the ONLY night I was not there.  Oh, she likes me without the beard.
At this point, dad stepped forward - "Hi, I'm Harold."  In his 80's, beautiful thick white hair.   He spit out his dentures - 'I'm done with the damn things.'  "I understand your sense of humor now."  He never 'got it' while alive.  Wish Sam a happy birthday.  ((Back to my narration - during the spring of that year, I had nine trees cut down on the side of our house.  Big, BIG poplars that I was afraid would fall into the house.  I spent the next few months cutting them into firewood.  Saturdays and Sundays, all day with my chain saw.  During this time, we, especially me, were seeing humming birds everywhere.  At one point, I had just cut about a 36" log and stood to give my back a break.  As I straightened up, I was nose to nose with a humming bird.  My chain saw was still running, and this humming bird was maybe six inches from my nose.  We looked at each other for 20 - 30 seconds before the bird flew away.))  Your dad says he's the hummingbird.  (( I continue to see hummingbirds all summer long, often nose to nose with me.))  "  I love you"  " I kiss you every day."  "You're different - I never understood you."
My brother Joe.  Not as tall as you, with a different body/build.  Don't look alike (Joe was adopted.)  Weird relationship with him, died quickly (gunshot wound to head).  "Thanks goodness Henry was there for mom when he passed", he caused lots of problems - "everytime he left it was like a tornado,".  ((joe;s relationship with the family was very tempestuous.))  "Me Mom and dad are getting along fine together."  "I'm not farked up in the head anymore."  ((Narration:  for at least two years before this reading, I would wake up at exactly 2AM.  Never 1:59 or 2:01, exactly 2AM.  It was so regular that I would comment each morning to Marge))  Alicia remarked ' he wakes you up at 2AM - I'll never leave you alone."  I said that I would prefer he not wake me at 2AM any more, and it has not happened, since.  ((However, now I wake at 4:20 every morning, I'm sure it's him, he had that kind of sense of humor.))
Finally, one of our grandmothers showed up and said I have to watch my flat feet / ankles.  When she visits, we will smell lilacs.  I've often mentioned to Marge, smelling lilacs in the basement while doing laundry.  Usually, this is when lilacs are not in bloom - fall, winter.  The thing of note here is she was with our dog, Dudley.  Dogs do go to heaven.  "Marge isn't open, Henry picks up on her."
 
2019-10-31 10:03:23 AM  
I guess I should conclude.  The experience was incredibly accurate that I couldn't write if off.  I figure if that much is true, then probably the whole religion thing is real, too.
 
2019-10-31 10:07:00 AM  
A man went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. Especially no one should look inside the room, under any circumstances. So he followed the instructions of the woman at the front desk, going straight to his room, and going to bed.

The next night his curiosity would not leave him alone about the room with no number on the door. He walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye. What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while. He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity, but decided not to.

This disinclination saved his life. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn't make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red.

At this point he decided to consult the woman at the front desk for more information. She sighed and said, "Did you look through the keyhole?" The man told her that he had and she said, "Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red."
 
2019-10-31 10:08:17 AM  
What happened to the guy from Maine who went into the woods to investigate something weird? Is he still around? I forgot what year that story was from. 2012ish?
 
2019-10-31 10:12:09 AM  

Jerseysteve22: What happened to the guy from Maine who went into the woods to investigate something weird? Is he still around? I forgot what year that story was from. 2012ish?


Never posted a follow-up as far as I know. Also, don't think that login showed up ever again in a thread.
 
2019-10-31 10:12:26 AM  
Used to live in this old apartment building, like 1900's old.  The place had once been a luxury apartment building - all the nicest stuff for the era.  Windowless servants rooms (cum storage rooms) in the basements, there had apparently been a kitchen down there that served food for the weird, checker floored ballroom space as well as dumbwaiters in each and every apartment's kitchen.  The walls were made of like 2 feet of concrete.  Very few trees were injured in the making of this place. It was a great place to live, even if the whole place, particularly the basement, felt like the Shining. It had an old, shabby elegance - faded from it's days of glory, but well-kept and nice if no longer luxurious. I lived in 4 apartments in 2 separate stints.  The largest one - a 3 bedroom 2 bath monstrosity - I lived in with room mates on 2 separate occasions, and the 1 BR ones I lived in after moving out of the palatial digs.

The first time I lived in the 3BR place, nothing really happened.  Lived there for a year during great school, with monthly trips to Cleveland to visit my then-girlfriend.

But when I returned 5 years later with a different room mate....  The place had changed.  It felt fine, but there was a lot more "activity" that I have remembered from the 1st stint.  The toilets would spontaneously flush, for instance.  Now recall, this apartment has like 2' concrete walls, and was basically at the end of an 'X' all by itself.  This wasn't someone else's toilet flushing.  Weird things would happen all the time.  The ceiling light fixture in my room mate's room disappeared, only to be found at the back of my room mate's closet when we moved out.  I had an incident with a CD player refusing to play a song one afternoon.   Some friends and I witnessed my room mate's chair shaking violently as he snoozed in it one night (admittedly after we had returned from a night of drinking to have one more).  I would see small dark figures flitting through my periphery that I thought was 1 of the cats - until I realized they were both curled up next to me....

Many of these are probably explainable.  Old plumbing, dust on the CD, our general state if inebriation at this time....

But the incident I can't really explain....  I had settled in early for the night and was sitting in bed reading.  My cat, Gwynn, had jumped up on the bed with me and curled up.  Around 9pm or so, I heard keys fumbling in the old  hearlock.Gwynn  dit, too.  She looked up, and as she often did, jumped off the bed to greet us at the door, I assumed.  The door opened, and I distinctly heard my room mate say - "Why, hello, Gwynn!" I heard him go into his room, and in a few minutes, Gwynn came back in and jumped up on the bed.

15 minutes later, I heard the key in the lock, and the door open.  I don't remember if the cat reacted, but I was like WTF?  I got out of bed and went out to the entryway, where my room mate was standing, coat on, carrying some stuff.

I was puzzled.  "Did you...  Come in a few minutes ago, go out, and just come back in?"

"No," he said.  "First time I've been home all night."

"Because...." And I told him there whole story.

"I wish you hadn't told me that," he said.  And then he told me how his bed had woken up to his bed shaking the last few nights.
 
2019-10-31 10:18:48 AM  
It's the late 1990s. Imagine you're a sheltered, trying-to-be hippie girl out on a summer night with her teenage friends. They have some weed and a few hits of weak acid, but nowhere to go that is quiet, private, and dark.
Then one friend mentions that he knows of an old, old cemetery on a bluff above the river. The woods are thick and it's undeveloped except for some bike trails. It sounds scary, but you grab your tent and go. You have to hike an abandoned field and climb a hill to get there. And even in the sunset, it's spooky as hell: old gravestones are everywhere, at every angle, some only nubs of stone and most bearing the same two surnames. There has been no burial there for a century.
Your friends build a small fire while you pitch the tent. You start to feel better. No one will find you here: it's time to party. You take your dose and pass a joint as darkness falls. One guy starts a round of ghost stories, of course. You laugh, but with the first mild acid-tingle and the firelight flickering over the canted stones, that tingle becomes a chill.
Someone says he sees faces. You tell him it's the acid. He repeats himself, with urgency. You look, to humor him.
And you see them too.
Just beyond the stones and on the periphery of the firelight, two ghostly faces. They fade, then appear again. Your friend is freaked and now you are too. Hallucinations aren't shared. Someone else whispers: "What the fark...?" and just like that, terror.
One figure seems to be a woman: old-fashioned spectacles, dark hair parted in the center, long black dress. The other is a man with sideburns and a cravat. They seem to fade again.
Someone whispers that people who died in the Civil War are buried here. You want to leave, right now, and never come back.
But then the faces return, along with a voice:
"Uh, hi!"
And you realize, as you start laugh-crying in relief, that you've been staring at a goth girl (me) and her boyfriend who came to drink wine like pretentious assholes, found our spot occupied, and stood there awkwardly in the dark while we decided to advance or retreat.
 
2019-10-31 10:23:29 AM  

Wendigogo: God I miss that place.


Cool story. Any pics of this fabulous mansion?


Fark user imageView Full Size

I lived on the 3rd story - where the green dormers are. There was also a full attic and Silence of the Lambs style basement. I had access to the whole place. Being the only one there was creepy as hell.
 
2019-10-31 10:26:33 AM  
And my Halloween is Happy once again.
 
2019-10-31 10:26:37 AM  

ottebx: Wendigogo: God I miss that place.


Cool story. Any pics of this fabulous mansion?

[Fark user image 261x193]
I lived on the 3rd story - where the green dormers are. There was also a full attic and Silence of the Lambs style basement. I had access to the whole place. Being the only one there was creepy as hell.


(Sorry - hit add comment too soon)
Including the grounds and 5 car detached garage (which was originally the stables), it took (still takes) up 1/4 of the city block that it is on.
 
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