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(Fark)   Welcome to the 2020 "Who The Hell Needs To Be More Scared?" Fark Halloween Scary Story thread. In the spirit of the moment, the top vote getter will get a full YEAR of TF. After that, the top nine runners-up will get a month of TF. Reminder: No politics!   (fark.com) divider line
    More: Scary  
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1317 clicks; posted to Main » and Discussion » on 31 Oct 2020 at 12:03 PM (11 weeks ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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2020-10-31 11:33:22 PM  
From the time that I was a small child, I've always had some weird mental quirks that have forced me to see and interact with things that most people don't notice. While many small children have the ability to see spirits, I was able to physically interact with them. If I was overtired and distracted, I would have other people's thoughts and conversations pop into my head. Since my parents were obviously less than pleased with these claims, I never told them about the real source of my constant night terrors which was the fact that sometimes, when I was staring at my ceiling, the surface would bubble and crack and begin to grow transparent to where I could see the horrible things that dwelt beyond. Since these beings with fangs and claws and glowing eyes were less frightening than my mother, I kept my mouth shut and gradually learned to put up walls in my mind.

Even now, as an adult, things slip through the barriers that I constructed in an attempt to pass for a normal, sane person. Sometimes I will be driving through a small town and stop at a crosswalk to wait for the pedestrian who disappears once he reaches the middle of the street. Other times, I'll be driving down a country road when my vision will shift to sepia tones and all traces of modernity will disappear allowing a glimpse of the pre-industrial past. Most recently, I'll be doing something mundane like dishes or laundry only to find myself wandering down a road made of bones through a land of mist and shadows with my pair of calico cats on either side of me as we follow the guiding light of the glowing red orb in the distance.

My family always ridiculed me for having an overactive imagination. My therapist shrugs and says that I'm too logical and functional to be crazy. Personally, I feel like I'm always fighting against completely unraveling but I've learned to ignore most of the tricks of my screwed-up mind. Up until tonight, I didn't think that I could see or hallucinate anything that would really shock or upset me.

While I usually avoid leaving the house on night when the barriers are pretty thin, I was out of cat food and didn't feel like getting chewed out by the passive-aggressive calicoes on our next stroll down the Road of Bones. It was only around 7:30pm so I figured it should've been pretty safe to run to WalMart. Since I didn't know if my town had trick-or-treat going on, I decided to take the backs roads to come in from the north side of town where WalMart was. As I driving along on a curvy country road lined with signs regarding the topic that we shall not mention in this thread, I noticed a particularly large species of this sign up ahead, right on the edge of the left side of the road. As I reached this sign, it sprouted a mouthful of fangs and lunged at my truck before parking itself on the other side of the pavement.

My first reaction was obviously to scream. I followed that up with hysterical laughter because WTAF? Either I am hallucinating the kind of crap that you would see in a kids' Halloween movie or there is a demonically possessed p*******l sign terrorizing the backroads of Warren County, Ohio. F**k 2020, I need a drink.
 
2020-10-31 11:39:49 PM  
Late to the party, but wrote this tonight for shiats and giggles.

It's been two weeks since I lost my beloved husband Daniel. The dreams are so vivid I can still see his green eyes, curly reddish blond hair, and long thin body when I wake up. I talk to him like he is still there, that's because I haven't called the coroner yet.
 
2020-11-01 12:03:53 AM  
An old (and public domain) story I read as a kid, and which still has me scared of windows at night...

The Vampire of Croglin Grange
by
Augustus Hare

An intriguing account of vampirism was related by a certain Captain Fisher, to Augustus Hare, who who wrote of it in the Story of My Life.
"Fisher," said the Captain, "may sound a very plebeian name, but this family is of a very ancient lineage, and for many hundreds of years they have possessed a very curious old place in Cumberland, which bears the weird name of Croglin Grange. The great characteristic of the house is that never at any period of its very long existence has it been more than one story high, but it has a terrace from which large grounds sweep away towards the church in the hollow, and a fine distant view.
"When, in lapse of years, the Fishers outgrew Croglin Grange in family and fortune, they were wise enough not to destroy the long-standing characteristic of the place by adding another story to the house, but they went away to the south, to reside at Thorncombe near Guildford, and they let Croglin Grange.
"They were extremely fortunate in their tenants, two brothers and a sister. They heard their praises from all quarters. To their poorer neighbours they were all that is most kind and beneficent, and their neighbours of a higher class spoke of them as a most welcome addition to the little society of the neighbourhood. On their part, the tenants were greatly delighted with their new residence. The arrangement of the house, which would have been a trial to many, was not so to them. In every respect Croglin Grange was exactly suited to them.
"The winter was spent most happily by the new inmates of Croglin Grange, who shared in all the little social pleasures of the district, and made themselves very popular. In the following summer there was one day which was dreadfully, annihilatingly hot. The brothers lay under the trees with their books, for it was too hot for any active occupation. The sister sat in the veranda and worked, or tried to work, for in the intense sultriness of that summer day, work was next to impossible. They dined early, and after dinner they still sat out on the veranda, enjoying the cool air which came with the evening, and they watched the sun set, and the moon rise over the belt of trees which separated the grounds from the churchyard, seeing it mount the heavens till the whole lawn was bathed in silver light, across which the long shadows from the shrubbery fell as if embossed, so vivid and distinct were they.
"When they separated for the night, all retiring to their rooms on the ground floor (for, as I said, there was no upstairs in that house), the sister felt that the heat was still so great that she could not sleep, and having fastened her window, she did not close the shutters--in that very quiet place it was not necessary--and, propped against the pillows, she still watched the wonderful, the marvellous beauty of that summer night. Gradually she became aware of two lights, two lights which flickered in and out in the belt of trees which separated the lawn from the churchyard, and, as her gaze became fixed upon them, she saw them emerge, fixed in a dark substance, a definite ghastly something, which seemed every moment to become nearer, increasing in size and substance as it approached. Every now and then it was lost for a moment in the long shadows which stretched across the lawn from the trees, and then it emerged larger than ever, and still coming on. As she watched it, the most uncontrollable horror seized her. She longed to get away, but the door was close to the window, and the door was locked on the inside, and while she was unlocking it she must be for an instant nearer to it. She longed to scream, but her voice seemed paralysed, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth.
"Suddenly--she could never explain why afterwards--the terrible object seemed to turn to one side, seemed to be going round the house, not to be coming to her at all, and immediately she jumped out of bed and rushed to the door, but as she was unlocking it she heard scratch, scratch, scratch upon the window, and saw a hideous brown face with flaming eyes glaring in at her. She rushed back to the bed, but the creature continued to scratch, scratch, scratch upon the window.
She felt a sort of mental comfort in the knowledge that the window was securely fastened on the inside. Suddenly the scratching sound ceased, and a kind of pecking sound took its place. Then, in her agony, she became aware that the creature was unpicking the lead! The noise continued, and a diamond pane of glass fell into the room. Then a long bony finger of the creature came in and turned the handle of the window, and the window opened, and the creature came in; and it came across the room, and her terror was so great that she could not scream, and it came up to the bed, and it twisted its long, bony fingers into her hair, and it dragged her head over the side of the bed, and--it bit her violently in the throat.
"As it bit her, her voice was released, and she screamed with all her might and main. Her brothers rushed out of their rooms, but the door was locked on the inside. A moment was lost while they got a poker and broke it open. Then the creature had already escaped through the window, and the sister, bleeding violently from a wound in the throat, was lying unconscious over the side of the bed. One brother pursued the creature, which fled before him through the moonlight with gigantic strides, and eventually seemed to disappear over the wall into the churchyard. Then he rejoined his brother by the sister's bedside. She was dreadfully hurt, and her wound was a very definite one, but she was of strong disposition, not even given to romance or superstition, and when she came to herself she said, 'What has happened is most extraordinary and I am very much hurt. It seems inexplicable, but of course there is an explanation, and we must wait for it. It will turn out that a lunatic has escaped from some asylum and found his way here.' The wound healed, and she appeared to get well, but the doctor who was sent for to her would not believe that she could bear so terrible a shock so easily, and insisted that she must have change, mental and physical; so her brothers took her to Switzerland.
"Being a sensible girl, when she went abroad she threw herself at once into the interests of the country she was in. She dried plants, she made sketches, she went up mountains, and as autumn came on, she was the person who urged that they should return to Croglin Grange. 'We have taken it,' she said, 'for seven years, and we have only been there one; and we shall always find it difficult to let a house which is only one story high, so we had better return there; lunatics do not escape every day.' As she urged it, her brothers wished nothing better, and the family returned to Cumberland. From there being no upstairs in the house it was impossible to make any great change in their arrangements. The sister occupied the same room, but it is unnecessary to say she always closed the shutters, which, however, as in many old houses, always left one top pane of the window uncovered. The brothers moved, and occupied a room together, exactly opposite that of their sister, and they always kept loaded pistols in their room.
"The winter passed most peacefully and happily. In the following March, the sister was suddenly awakened by a sound she remembered only too well--scratch, scratch, scratch upon the window, and, looking up, she saw, climbed up to the topmost pane of the window, the same hideous brown shrivelled face, with glaring eyes, looking in at her. This time she screamed as loud as she could. Her brothers rushed out of their room with pistols, and out of the front door.
The creature was already scudding away across the lawn. One of the brothers fired and hit it in the leg, but still with the other leg it continued to make way, scrambled over the wall into the churchyard, and seemed to disappear into a vault which belonged to a family long extinct.
"The next day the brothers summoned all the tenants of Croglin Grange, and in their presence the vault was opened. A horrible scene revealed itself. The vault was full of coffins; they had been broken open, and their contents, horribly mangled and distorted, were scattered over the floor. One coffin alone remained intact. Of that the lid had been lifted, but still lay loose upon the coffin. They raised it, and there, brown, withered, shrivelled, mummified, but quite entire, was the same hideous figure which had looked in at the windows of Croglin Grange, with the marks of a recent pistol-shot in the leg: and they did the only thing that can lay a vampire--they burnt it."
THE END
 
2020-11-01 12:32:26 AM  
Short story: I spent a month of this year trapped in a single room with cold to lukewarm food.
 
2020-11-01 1:21:31 AM  

TheManofPA: Short story: I spent a month of this year trapped in a single room with cold to lukewarm food.


Lukewarm food is probably the scariest thing I can think of, if I'm hungry.
 
FNG [TotalFark]
2020-11-01 1:36:52 AM  

TheManofPA: Short story: I spent a month of this year trapped in a single room with cold to lukewarm food.


Prison, or quarantine?
 
2020-11-01 4:03:47 AM  
The following is probably fiction...

I have no idea why I felt so compelled to write that story for that darn website. Peer pressure? Halloween spirit? Wanting to impress?
I don't know.
I just know that I wrote the following story.

I never meant to kill him. I never meant to hide it. He was my best friend growing up. I never intended to hide the body in the unused well. My mind was hijacked. Fear of my abusive father. Fear of the look in his parents eyes when they found out. Fear of facing what I had done.
And why did he jump from behind the bush such a distance from his house?? He knew I speed on that mile stretch between our homes. I had just hung up the phone and told him I'll pick him up.
Screw Halloween and Halloween pranks. That bedsheet clung to him as he folded like a puppet over the front of my car, only to slip off almost in slow motion as he was flung backwards, arms outstretched when I belatedly slammed the brakes, the look on his face already dulled and emotionless. I could see his face, dulled yellow by the headlights of the old car.
I was so scared. I screamed his name. I ran up to his motionless body. I don't know why the well was the first thing I saw when I lifted my head to yell to someone, anyone, for help.
I...I...should have at least checked to make sure that he was actually dead.
I never meant to kill him. He was my best friend.
I should have told his parents.
I couldn't face them.
I couldn't face my guilt.

I...couldn't...can't...understand why after all of these years he chose today to stand outside my glass balcony door, flesh oozing off of his face, his clothes showing the passage of time in that closed off well.
Why is he smiling at me like when we were teenagers, beckoning me to join outside. Making abrupt gestures as if I need to sneak out lest my parents hear. My parents are long gone.
That smile.
I never meant to kill him.
He was my best friend.

I never meant to kill him...I...I never killed him. This is just a story I wrote for that stupid website.

So just WHY is he still standing outside the the balcony door there with his rotten smile??
 
2020-11-01 6:10:14 AM  

CAT-LIKE TYPING DETECTED: hiredgoonz: https://www.fark.com/comments/10605004​/124003900

??

You posted a link to your 2019 post of a link to the original 2012 post of what I reposted this year..?

I'm confuzzled..


That was the start of the Tharkin stuff last year, was on mobile.
 
2020-11-01 9:49:25 AM  
I have to add a postscript to my story. I've never put it down on paper and I didn't realize how much it had affected me. I spent almost 3 years in the county jail lobby checking bags, the cold case cards were mounted in a display there. I said hello to Kelly every time I passed.

I don't think they're ever going to catch her killer.
I am never swimming in the Pilchuck again.
 
2020-11-01 12:05:22 PM  

FNG: TheManofPA: Short story: I spent a month of this year trapped in a single room with cold to lukewarm food.

Prison, or quarantine?


Overseas quarantine twice.
 
2020-11-01 12:22:49 PM  
Lovely work, everyone! I always love this thread but sadly have nothing to contribute this year. My boys and I hung some bells over my bedroom door and the ghost stuff has gone. I even took the bells down last night hoping for some of that, but no luck. Maybe my new kitty is keeping it away now.
 
2020-11-01 12:38:15 PM  

carkiller: Duck_of_Doom: Scary thing to see: transverse view, poorly attached fresh thrombus bobbing in the common femoral vein, moving with the bloodflow, and watch as a bit breaks off and disappears from view.

Translation: blood clot now headed to heart, and possibly lung.

As a pulmonary embolism survivor, can confirm; very scary.  Bonus: mine wasn't discovered right away, so by the time treatment began, part of the lower lobe of my right lung had gone without a blood supply for almost two weeks, and died.  So I'm just a little bit revenant now.


Very glad you survived, and hope you're doing well now. Please stay safe in these crazy times.
 
2020-11-01 12:42:45 PM  

Duck_of_Doom: carkiller: Duck_of_Doom: Scary thing to see: transverse view, poorly attached fresh thrombus bobbing in the common femoral vein, moving with the bloodflow, and watch as a bit breaks off and disappears from view.

Translation: blood clot now headed to heart, and possibly lung.

As a pulmonary embolism survivor, can confirm; very scary.  Bonus: mine wasn't discovered right away, so by the time treatment began, part of the lower lobe of my right lung had gone without a blood supply for almost two weeks, and died.  So I'm just a little bit revenant now.

Very glad you survived, and hope you're doing well now. Please stay safe in these crazy times.


And you as well, fellow Nutmegger.
 
2020-11-01 1:37:10 PM  
Would it be OK to share a story of mine that was published a couple of years ago in the FARK anthology?  It's based on a part of the Cthulhu mythos.
 
2020-11-01 1:41:08 PM  

Mayhem_2006: Would it be OK to share a story of mine that was published a couple of years ago in the FARK anthology?  It's based on a part of the Cthulhu mythos.


I say go for it. I'll read it.
 
2020-11-01 1:55:19 PM  
Didn't realize there'd be a mix of fiction stories amongst the true ones.   Should I have labelled my travelogue differently?
 
2020-11-01 2:03:48 PM  
Eaten Away
Shaun Lewis
Horror
1199 words


John Sanderson entered the office, and I looked up from the desk.
"Ah, John.  Punctual as always," I said.  Indeed, one of Sanderson's defining characteristics was his almost obsessive punctuality.  This minor piece of compulsive behavior wasn't why he was here, of course, but it did make my job easier.
"Uhm, thanks, Doctor Jacobs," responded Sanderson.  He was a twitchy, nervous man.  He hadn't always been so, but something he had seen in the last six months had changed him.  From a confident investigative journalist, he had turned into a man afraid of shadows, always glancing over his shoulder.  Something had eaten away at his sanity, leaving a skeleton barely holding itself together with shreds of determination.
As he seated himself, my tongue worked at extracting a fragment of something that was caught between my teeth.  It was proving quite distracting, and I couldn't afford distraction at the moment.
"Would you like a drink?" I asked, indicating the carafe of iced water on the corner of the desk.  He nodded his thanks, and poured himself a glass.  Getting Mr. Sanderson to the point where he would trust a drink not specifically prepared by his own hands had taken patient application of the psychiatric arts, over a number of sessions.  He did not drink, however, until I had also filled a glass and swallowed a large mouthful of the cold water.
He appeared to be suffering from one of the worst cases of paranoia that one could have without being forced into an institution.  But whilst he feared every shadow, he feared being locked away even more, and so struggled to keep a check on his more blatant shows of fear.
"John, I have to say, you are making remarkable progress.  I think you should continue with your story.  I sense you have not yet told me the entire truth, and I fear this may prove to be a barrier to your full recovery."
"I don't have anything to recover from," he mumbled half-heartedly.  Even the casual observer could tell he was trying to convince himself as much as anybody else.  "I'm only here because you are the only one who will even listen to me.  I don't care if you think I'm crazy, at least this way there will be somebody who knows the truth if they find me and..." . . ."
He stuttered into silence, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence.  "Kill me" was what he would have said if he hadn't been so unsure of himself.  It sounded melodramatic, even to me.  He also sounded a little tired.
With a little more coaxing, he once more launched into his tale.  He had been following up a missing persons case, and stumbled upon what he described as a 'cult,', behind not only this missing person, but almost certainly of many more disappearances.  Quite a typical piece of paranoid delusion, but with a supernatural twist.  Only my professional nature allowed me to keep the grin off me face.
After a while, I interrupted him.
"You use the word 'cult,', so I suppose I must use the word 'cultist.'.  You say the 'cultists' all deferred to their 'cult leader' during the ritual?  How could you tell he was the 'leader'?"
It was an important question.  I had played the tapes of his previous sessions before he arrived, and he had let slip that all the 'cultists' wore the same.  But he was adamant that the leader had been obvious.  It was clear he had not been willing to share his whole story, even with his psychiatrist.  Perhaps this time, he would be.
Again, that damn sliver of flesh jammed between my teeth was distracting me.  I tried to dislodge it with a fingernail whilst Sanderson looked down into his hands, screwing up his courage.
"I, well, I..."  . . ." he stammered briefly, his eye slightly glazed, then shouted, "Because he wasn't human, damn it!"
I blinked.  There it was, his big secret out in the open.
"That's quite a remarkable statement," I responded blandly, trying to keep him calm.  We were making real progress.  "What makes you say such a thing?"
"Don't patronize me, doctor," he replied,. "I know damn well what I saw.  That thing wasn't human.  It was some kind of damn lizard."
"Could it have been a mask, or make-up?" I asked.  "I understand such things are now very advanced."
"It wasn't a goddamn mask!" he yelled.  "Damn it Doc, do you think I would be this scared of a goddamn mask?  That was a real goddamn creature.  And I can prove it!"
He fumbled under his jacket, and pulled out an ancient looking book.  "I stole this when I escaped.  They've been trying to get it back, but I've been too smart for them."  He opened the book at a makeshift bookmark, and passed it to me.  "See?  I've done some research, and those marks are not any kind of language that history knows about.  And look at that picture!"
He pointed with a slightly trembling hand, and I looked.  It was remarkably good ink drawing of some kind, a scaled humanoid leading some primitive tribesmen in some kind of ritual.  If the book were genuinely as old as it looked, this could well be taken as proof of the existence of something that had remained hidden for a very long time.
"That's almost exactly what I saw in that basement.  I don't know what they were doing but I..." . . ."
He tailed off, a strange look on his face.
"Are you alright, John?"  I asked.
"Dizzy," he responded, now visibly swaying in his seat.  He looked at  the carafe of water, as if realizing something.  "The water...   . . .  You..." . . ."
He tried to stand, to run, but instead fell heavily onto the floor.
"The water?"  I said, taking another sip from my own glass.  "Oh, yes.  Drugged.  We call it - well, you don't have a word for it in your language.  It acts as a powerful muscle relaxant on mammals, but has almost no effect at all on reptiles.  That's rather important, by the way, and not just so that I could drink the water to show you it was safe...   . . .  No, the ritual that allows me to pose as others requires that I dispose of the body in a rather specific way..." . . ."
I took out a toothpick, and at last managed to get that annoying piece of Dr. Jacobs from between my teeth.
"Thank you for returning my book.  And don't worry.  Tomorrow you'll be right as rain, and back in the office.  You'll hand in your notice, and announce that you have decided to try travel writing."
I grinned.
"It could be months, even years before you will be expected back, by which time everyone will have forgotten what story you were working on, and won't connect it with your failure to return from your travels.  Perhaps they'll assume you got into trouble abroad, that investigative instinct of yours leading you to stick your nose something you shouldn't have."
My grin widened.
"Which is true, of course.  Never mind, Mr. Sanderson, you are not be the first journalist to be consumed by curiosity..." . . ."
 
2020-11-01 2:14:02 PM  
The following is a true story.

I moved across the country a little over a year ago for work.  I work as an ER nurse practitioner at the local hospital.

About a month after I got here, we got an ambulance call.  An old guy in his mid-nineties was coming in with an altered level of consciousness.  After doing a full workup, it turned out he was septic (a really bad infection which gets into the bloodstream and makes you really sick), which can decrease your mentation and make you confused.

What was odd is that he was only speaking German, and wasn't responding to questions in English.  One of our nurses grew up in Germany on a military base, so she was able to communicate with him.  She said that he was speaking fluently, but with an odd accent, using antiquated language, and not alot of it made sense.  Interesting, to be sure, but not wild.  Maybe he just came from the old country or something.

The wife comes in to see him.  She's equally as old.  No German accent, no German last name.  Before I got into the room with her, I explain that he's confused and septic, going to have to be in the hospital.  We talked about code status - if it comes to it, do we do CPR or not, do we intubate or not, and so on.  After we iron out all potentialities, we go into the room.  And she's almost as confused as he is.  The conversation went something like this:

*open door, walk in together.  He's speaking German in a feverish and whispered tone.  I explain the tubes and the vitals and our plan again in broad strokes.*
*she looks at me, confused.*  "Is that normal?"
"What, the confusion?  It can happen when you get sick like this."
"No... I mean what he's saying."
"One of our nurses speaks German, and she thinks that's what he's saying.  She says it's not making alot of sense.  Is he from Germany originally, maybe he spoke it when he was younger?"
"No.  He grew up in Iowa.  He served in the war, but he never spoke German around the house.  Never."

In talking some more, it turns out that he and his wife met in '46 after World War 2, bought some land in the local area and built a house, raised four kids together.  He became a banker, she a housewife.  Pretty routine life, really.  They didn't know each other before the war.  He was not of German ancestry, had an unusual but definitely not German last name.  In all their years of marriage, he had never spoken German before, never took a class, never read a German book.  Neither of us had an explanation for it.

Oh well.  Chalk it up to an interesting thing.  Admitted him to the hospital, didn't give it much thought afterwards.

Saw her in the ER a few months later.  She had fallen and hit her head.  She remembered me, we got to talking.  I guess he didn't make it during that hospital admission, and he died shortly thereafter.  She it turned out had a bleed inside the brain.  She declined intervention, we made her comfort care, and she died on the inpatient side in the next few days.

Fast forward about six months.  My wife and I are looking for a house to buy.  We've been here for awhile, like the area.  A new house pops up on Zillow, for sale by owner, built in '46, decent price, great neighborhood.  Tour the house, love it, put in an offer, it gets accepted.  The guy we are buying it from was in his 70s.  He has the same unusual last name as my patient and his wife.  It turns out that I had talked to him on the phone when he mom had the brain bleed.  He is one of their sons, the children were looking to sell the house and split the profits.  This is the same house they built just after the war.  I asked about his dad's service just outta curiosity and in the course of conversation, apparently he was a cook in the US Army.

Buying their house is an interesting coincidence, but not unusual in a town of less than 40,000 people.  You get to know people.

So we move in and start to renovate, as you do.  First thing on the list, get rid of the horrible carpet in the master bedroom.  My wife is at work, so time to roll up my sleeves.  I remove the baseboards and start to rip up the carpet.  In a corner of the room, there's a hole in the pad beneath the carpet, about 4 inches in diameter, beneath where their bed used to be.  Huh.  So I roll up the carpet and remove it, get to assessing the floors.  Where the hole in the pad was, there's a squeaky board.  Not nailed down, no adhesive, hence the squeaking.

Double huh.

I get a prybar and ease the board up.  In a space between the joists, there is a collection of papers tied up with rough twine.  My what-the-fark meter is understandably showing readings off the charts.

I put on gloves and take it out.  Open it.

I'm no historian, but I recognize that these are old.  They're yellowed and crinkling.  All are written in German.  Again, I'm no historian, but I recognize a swastika when I see one.  One of those papers looks like some kinda passport or ID papers.  It has a picture on the left, which if you're imaginative looks like my confused German speaking septic patient when he was young and spry.  On the right, name and other demographics.  The name of the guy in the papers and the name of my patient do not match.  There is also some old money and a pair of medals.  A quick googling shows that these medals were an Iron Cross First Class and a German Cross in Gold.  The ID papers are consistent with German Military Identity Cards.

Well shiat.

This old man spoke German when he was confused and dying.  I found a little trove of documents and a pair of medals that certainly are Nazi in origin, in the floorboards of the master bedroom in the house that he built.

I have reached out to the local university to have these papers and items authenticated.  While I have the son's information, I haven't reached out to him yet.  What do I say?  "Hi there, remember me, I bought your house, took care of your mom and dad in their dying days.  Turns out your dad's a nazi or something, I dunno.  Anyways, good luck with that."

--

It's not a scary story, but a true mystery that is currently ongoing.  I found the papers and the medals about two months ago.  Going to take the stuff to the University of Oregon's history department next week.

Advice appreciated.
 
2020-11-01 2:49:53 PM  

Man_Without_A_Hat: The following is a true story.

I moved across the country a little over a year ago for work.  I work as an ER nurse practitioner at the local hospital.

About a month after I got here, we got an ambulance call.  An old guy in his mid-nineties was coming in with an altered level of consciousness.  After doing a full workup, it turned out he was septic (a really bad infection which gets into the bloodstream and makes you really sick), which can decrease your mentation and make you confused.

What was odd is that he was only speaking German, and wasn't responding to questions in English.  One of our nurses grew up in Germany on a military base, so she was able to communicate with him.  She said that he was speaking fluently, but with an odd accent, using antiquated language, and not alot of it made sense.  Interesting, to be sure, but not wild.  Maybe he just came from the old country or something.

The wife comes in to see him.  She's equally as old.  No German accent, no German last name.  Before I got into the room with her, I explain that he's confused and septic, going to have to be in the hospital.  We talked about code status - if it comes to it, do we do CPR or not, do we intubate or not, and so on.  After we iron out all potentialities, we go into the room.  And she's almost as confused as he is.  The conversation went something like this:

*open door, walk in together.  He's speaking German in a feverish and whispered tone.  I explain the tubes and the vitals and our plan again in broad strokes.*
*she looks at me, confused.*  "Is that normal?"
"What, the confusion?  It can happen when you get sick like this."
"No... I mean what he's saying."
"One of our nurses speaks German, and she thinks that's what he's saying.  She says it's not making alot of sense.  Is he from Germany originally, maybe he spoke it when he was younger?"
"No.  He grew up in Iowa.  He served in the war, but he never spoke German around the house.  Never."

In talking some more, it turns o ...


Well, that sure is interesting. It is always possible that he was holding those papers for someone else. I don't think Imwould say anything until you get something back from the University. If you can, just give them photocopies of the documents. That way you retain ownership of the originals, in case they need more expert handling.
 
2020-11-01 4:10:46 PM  
Last one. I heard this story as a child, and it really creeped me out.

The house where my Momgrew up, served as a boarding house in the summer and at one time served briefly as a livery stable. So, very old, with a drive that went past the house and the barn down to a wide alley. The alley ran the entire length of the houses on that street.

My Mom said that one night, as she was coming into the house, it was dark, she saw the woman who lived several doors down, drive down the alley. She said there was a circle of light around her face. The next morning, my Mom found out that the gal had been killed in an automobile accident, several hours before my Mom " saw" her in the alley.
 
2020-11-01 10:11:47 PM  
You guys rock.  I'll tally the votes in the morning!
 
2020-11-01 10:31:55 PM  

gunga galunga: CAT-LIKE TYPING DETECTED: HAPPY HALLOWEEN, Everyone..!!

..seems a little anti-climactic after all the horror the year has already brought..

Alot of great stories/writing above, and a little kerfluffleing too..guess last year's proposal to have a separate thread for 'real,' personal stories and one for creative works never gained any traction..

Sad to see that contribution this year has been so anemic..under 100 posts and a mere 11 hours left in what should be the best holiday of the year..  Only to be understood, with everything we've all been dealing with and going through..    =P    Also sorry to note that the classics don't seem to have made any sort of a showing in this thread. I guess I'll step up to the plate and start with those..one per post, methinks..

(..if any were already posted and I missed it, my apologies..)

Here's the first, an absolute classic:

Ted the Caver

I'll be happy to help. I'm sure we all remember this classic from echo5juliet back in 2006 which became the stuff of legends in Fark Scary story threads for years to come.
______________________________________​_______________________________

I was driving a shortcut from Twentynine Palms, CA to Albuquerque, NM. Twentynine Palms is located in the desolate high desert east of LA. The shortcut was all two lane road through total nothingness, except for passing through Amboy, CA. Amboy is a nearly abandoned town nearly as far below sea level as Death Valley, with a dormant volcano and lava field on one side and a salt flat on the other. It was also, at the time, a hotspot for satanic group activity.

So I was driving by myself in the afternoon. I stopped in Amboy and snapped a picture of the city sign, just to prove I was there to friends who dared me to take that route to I-40. I got back in my car and proceeded to drive up into the mountain range between Amboy and I-40.

Once I reach the top I am driving north through a canyon with high grass on both sides of the road. Up ahead I see some ...



I experienced something very similar to this when I was a child. I never told the story as I am not interested in being accused of hijacking the original.
 
2020-11-02 12:18:01 AM  
Two spooky stories to end the night and holiday:

The first is that I had a fairly long post all typed up to say that I'd hoped to come back to alot more posts and how 2020 had dragged us all down and yadda, yadda..

..AND THEN FARK ATE THE WHOLE THING..!!

*urk*

The second, well, gather 'round the campfire all and listen closely to my tale of dread and fear:

This year'sFARK Halloween Thread is the shortest one since the tradition began, way back in the dark mists of 2004..!   Booo..!!

*shudder*

And, on that note, I wish all of you a wonderful rest of your night and all howeverlong the time is until I see you again..hopefully not another near-year..    =P

Cheers..!


[note:  to be fair, the thread is not yet closed and..perhaps..my tale of horror will be proven naught but a fiction come the light of day..!]
 
2020-11-02 12:21:35 AM  
..and i just remembered that FARK has no 'edit' post function..!!!!

WoooOOOOoooooOoOOOOOOooooOOOoo..!!!
 
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