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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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1319 clicks; posted to Main » and Discussion » on 31 Oct 2020 at 12:03 PM (12 weeks ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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2020-10-30 1:12:35 PM  
50 votes:
Okay, here goes. This has the added bonus of being absolutely true.

Back in my younger days (in my early 20's in the early '90's), I started a band. I was really into experimental music, and I was doing everything I could think of to try and get something different in songwriting and recording. I had owned a Ouija board when I was a kid, but never did a whole lot with it. I decided to dig it out of my closer, try it again, and see if it was possible to get it to write song lyrics.

So, I got my best friend to come over to my house. We put the Ouija board on our knees as we sat cross-legged on the floor facing each other. I had a pen and a notebook full of blank paper at my side. We both put our fingers on the planchette and concentrated on asking if a spirit if it would write us song lyrics that we could use.

Now, I have to say, I do not believe in ghosts or the afterlife. I'm one of those people that thinks ghost stories are not scary, since they assume some sort of life after death. That's much more reassuring to me than the thought of simply not existing! But for the purposes of experimental music, we gave it a try.

Anyway, we asked for the lyrics, and after a few short moments, the planchette started to move from letter to letter. I wrote it down, one letter at a time. There was no way to indicate space between the words, so it basically came out in a very long string of letters, which I wrote down in the notebook one by one. They were not legible as words as I wrote them down. It looked like gibberish at the time.

Anyway, here is the lyrics it came up with:

Die all you nuts all you unbelievers
I wish you freaks could live in my head
I wish for once you would stay away
And not bother me every day
You bother me every day
Never ask if what I say be true
Questions should not be asked by you
How come you gotta spread them silly lies
Why go gotta try and hurt me
You aint nothing special you
You aint no damn prize
Dream on little dreamer
Your nightmares just about through
Look there goes the hatred
And now its all you


We were pretty astounded. I had no clue that the lyrics were rhyming until I broke it down later. We asked the "spirit" it's name, and it said it wanted to be credited as "Larry Kitpho; Deceased". He said he was born and died in the same year my friend and I were born - 1970.

I know I didn't write those lyrics. I'm pretty sure my friend didn't write them either, but it's a possibility. I should point out that if my friend did write it and was putting me on, he basically had to improvise rhyming lyrics letter by letter, and the way he was facing the board - he also had to do it upside down.

So, what happened? Again, I don't believe in ghosts. The notebook that I wrote the original long string of letters in is long gone, but I really wish I had kept it. I habitually misspelled "believe" back then, and it would have been very interesting to me to see if the original string of letters had spelled it right or not. I have a hard time thinking my friend had the patience and spontaneous creativity to write it himself, and I didn't write it, and I don't believe in ghosts. Maybe there's some sort of untapped subconscious thing we have?

I know a lot of people won't believe this, and I don't blame them. If it hadn't happened to me, I wouldn't have believed it myself.
 
2020-10-30 1:04:59 PM  
50 votes:
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."
 
2020-10-30 1:23:47 PM  
44 votes:
When I was in college I got married.
We rented a house in the next town over.
Life was good.

I took a several day long road trip with some friends.  I told my wife I would probably be back later in the day on Sunday.

It was a good road trip, but on the way back my friends decided to drive all night to get back earlier, so we all took turns driving.

I arrived back home about 8am. From the car I could see my wife sitting at the kitchen table in her bathrobe drinking coffee.  Like she always did.  They dropped me off and I went inside through the kitchen door as I always did.

I hung up my jacket on the hook behind the door.  As I always did.

I turned around to look at my wife but something was not right.

She was sitting in her chair, holding a cup of coffee.
Across from her was someone wearing my bathrobe and also holding a cup of coffee.
It looked like me.  Same height, same build, same color hair.

I felt dizzy as if the blood was draining from my body.
I said nothing as I walked by the table where my doppelganger sat wearing my bathrobe and drinking from my coffee cup.
My wife said nothing as I walked by the table where my doppelganger sat wearing my bathrobe and drinking from my coffee cup.

I walked into the bedroom and curled up on the bed with a pillow.  I must be dreaming.  This is a dream.  A bad dream and I will wake up soon and I put on my bathrobe and I will make myself a cup of coffee and I will sit at the kitchen table with my wife, as we always do.  I will tell her the story of my bad dream and she will reassure me that it was just a bad dream.

I heard the kitchen door close.
I heard footsteps.  They got closer. Then I heard my wife's voice: "YOU CAME HOME EARLY!  THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"

My eyes were still closed.  Perhaps now would be a good time to wake up?
I could put on my bathrobe.  I could make a cup of coffee.
Or I could just continue to pretend this was just a bad dream.
 
2020-10-30 1:31:15 PM  
41 votes:
"Sin Aesthetic"

Dorpa answered the phone in response to its special ring that indicated someone was calling her from the lobby of her apartment building. "Hello?"
"Uh, hi," said the reverberating, attenuated voice on the other end. "I'm here about the couches?"
"Come on up! Apartment 304."

She pressed 6 on the receiver to unlock the lobby door and waited patiently for the gentleman to come up. She looked around the living room again. The walls were a deceptively flat maroon, but the rainbow legs of her coffee table peeked out from under the tie-died tablecloth, atop which was a crystal vase containing an artful arrangement of crocuses, posies, daisies, orchids, violets, honeysuckle, and baby's breath.

Accompanying them, and bracketing the coffee table on two sides were the couches she had posted for sale online. Their flower pattern wasn't quite as colourful, being predominantly brown and orange with splashes of green and yellow, but they were a symphony all their own -- and she meant that quite literally. Dorpa was a synesthete, which meant that the part of her brain responsible for processing sensory input had a few crossed wires. There are numerous different kinds of synesthesia; some people associated colours with numbers and letters; for others, numbers and letters occupied different positions in space. Dorpa was a colour-sound synesthete, which meant that she associated certain colours with certain musical notes and instruments.

The sensation was quite strong, and as such everything she saw made sound. Much of the time, particularly walking around in public, it was just a jumble of random notes, like an orchestra warming up, all tuning their instruments at the same time. Art galleries were always a mixed bag. She liked the most of the sounds of Renoir, Monet, and da Vinci, but Picasso, Van Gough, Munch, and Dali all evoked various levels of cacophony that she couldn't stand to be around.

It was with this aural aesthetic that she chose her surroundings. It mattered not so much that her paints, furnishings and decorative notions looked good to the average eye, but that it sounded good to the synesthetic ear, and especially that it sounded good with the rest of the room. Her choice of wall paint, for example, provided a nice, constant, low-pitched drone of a cello that served as a foundation for the rest of the things in the room to build their symphony upon.

It was her couches that bothered her, though. They sounded lovely at the thrift store, and their colour scheme and flowery pattern were in a key that matched her wall paint. To most people however, they were hideous, and so they were marked cheaply, which suited Dorpa just fine. She had them delivered to her home, and once they were brought in and put in place, they did sound rather nice, but after a while she realized that they fell flat somewhere, like an orchestra that was missing a crucial section. They unbalanced the room -- like too many strings and not enough piano. Over time, that began to bother her quite seriously. That was why she decided she had to do something with them, hence her post online inviting someone to come and take them.

There was a knock at the door. The man had finally made it up the elevator. She went over, unlatched the chain lock, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door to invite him in.

"Come in, please. The couches are right over there," Dorpa waved a hand toward the living room where the couches awaited.

The man politely removed his shoes and headed into the living room. Dorpa followed behind after closing the door behind him.

"Wow," the man said as he regarded the couches. "That is some serious 70s kitsch. It's great! I have a thing for 60s and 70s styles, you know. Lava lamps, bean bag chairs, disco balls -- you ought to see my place, it's like stepping back in time."

"I'll bet," Dorpa replied. Clearly he was stuck in the past and almost certainly lived alone, but otherwise he seemed perfectly harmless and utterly mesmerized by the couch. That's why he didn't even notice Dorpa's knife slicing his throat open.

She worked quickly. She made sure to cut deep enough to sever the vocal cords so he couldn't scream, but not all the way through. She needed some control. She quickly supported him from behind with one arm under his and around the barrel of his chest, while the other held his head back, allowing her to aim the twin jets of arterial spray.

In as measured a manner as she could, she directed him this way and that until his heart finally stopped beating. She then stepped back to regard her work. Now that was perfect. The swaths of blood red across the couches provided just the right note to complete the symphony. Now the couches sang harmoniously with the rest of the room. Dorpa was rather pleasantly surprised to note that the man's lifeless corpse, now slumped on the floor, added a couple of bass notes and a C-major chord that played a fascinating and unexpected counterpoint. She was rather disappointed now that she'd have to get rid of the body.
 
2020-10-30 2:01:58 PM  
38 votes:
My very large, military brother has a bunch. Spirits love him.  He rented a place in Petersburg, Va that all his buddies were afraid of.  One guy stayed with them for a training weekend and woke up with someone picking up the corner of his air mattress and dropping it, repeatedly.  It was 3am, no one in the house was awake. My brother would wake up to someone pulling his blankets up and tucking him in, once they laid a hand on his face.

After he moved, he went back to get his motorcycle and ran into the guy who rented it after him. They chatted for a bit, then the guy's kid came out. The guy said "Hey, this is Captain (last name), he lived here before us."

And the kid said "I know, the lady told me."
 
2020-10-30 2:13:07 PM  
34 votes:
A true story from around 1994 or so...  I had a couple of friends (Rob and Paul) I hung out with most of the time.  We would do experimental Ouija sessions fairly regularly at Paul's house.  The results were fairly spotty but more often than not we would have some coherent Q&A sessions via the board.  2 of us would operate the planchette while the other would write down the results in a notebook.  We would rotate in and out of the note taker role several times per session.

Rob had taken up an interest in high magick around this time and showed up to one of these sessions with a protection candle that he picked up at some occult book shop downtown.  Paul and I agreed it couldn't hurt so the candle was lit and the session began.  We got nothing but gibberish for a good 30 minutes.  The planchette moved but nothing coherent was coming though.  I was sitting on Paul's bed taking notes and Rob and Paul were on the floor with the board.

We surmised that maybe the candle was working TOO well since these were the worst results we ever had before.  It was decided to snuff the protection candle out and proceed.  The planchette began to move again and it spelled out H-E-L-L-O.  At that moment, a deep, guttural growl came from just outside the window next to the bed I was sitting on.  It was loud enough that it vibrated the glass.

I came scrambling off the bed, completely freaked out.  The window was on the second floor of the house and this inhuman growling noise was literally coming from right outside of it!  Rob and Paul scrambled backwards on the carpet and planted their back against the far wall.  We all looked at each other wide eyed and stunned.  Rob finally yelled, "Light the f*cking candle"!

I grabbed the lighter off the floor, lit the candle then I joined them on the far wall.  We just sat in silence staring at the window and listening for several minutes before we regained our composure.  We stayed extra late that night and kept the candle burning the whole time.  Even then we were still freaked out heading to our cars after we left.

That was also the end of 'Oujia Fun Night' for us all.
 
2020-10-30 1:22:03 PM  
34 votes:
My son's grandfather still hangs around, but he's not scary.  The most recent thing that happened was I got home one day and an old book of kid's stories had been knocked on the floor, with a piece of paper next to it.

When I first saw it, I didn't think anything of it. Just went on with things, putting my stuff down and letting the dogs out. Then I went to pick it up and realized it really could not have fallen the way it did, from where it was, on its own. Then I picked up the paper.
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It says "my name is special because it is after my grandfather".

That sheet is from when my son was in first or second grade. He's in 5th now. The only place I keep old artwork like that is in a box way at the top of my closet. I'm 100% sure it was nowhere near the living room, where I found it, and no one could have gotten it down without me knowing.
 
2020-10-30 2:24:52 PM  
33 votes:
I was in my early twenties I had just finished my morning paper route.  I saw a hitch-hiker on the side of the road and started to pull over to the side of the road as I was considering giving him a lift.  I rolled down the window and was reaching to turn down the radio when I bumped the wrong button.  Instead of turning down the radio, I simultaneously increased the volume and switched it to the cassette deck.  The tape just happened to be a recording I had made a few months prior of a local morning radio show. The group was named the Rug Burns and they were playing one of their songs. Suddenly, the following lyrics come blaring through my speakers even as I tried to lower the volume
"Don't pick up,
Hitch-hiker Joe
He'll slit your throat
Cut off your big toe
He'll make you smile
From ear to ear
Gonna lock you in a trunk
For 99 years."

I felt a huge shiver and I felt like death had warmed over.  A thousand thoughts sped through my head at the coincidence(?) of those lyrics and that instant.  I mouthed the words "Sorry, Dude..." and pulled away from the curb at what could in no way be considered an unmanly pace.

I will always wonder if I actually dodged a bullet on that one or not.
 
2020-10-30 1:59:37 PM  
29 votes:
This is the same story I told last year and possibly the year before that. Not sure if it counts as spooky, but it is damned creepy. It is completely true.

The chairman of the department where I started grad school for my doctorate lived in a pretty nice neighborhood (for that crappy town) in a fairly nice, big house. It had a pool, a huge room with a bar, pool table and some pinball machines. The only bad thing about the house was that immediately behind the backyard was an interstate highway. It was a couple of hundred feet from the property with lots of trees between them and the highway, but the noise was non-stop. He hosted parties for students there regularly. He seemed very satisfied that he had purchased the house for a steal because several members of a family had been murdered there. He even joked that there was still blood on the carpets the first time he saw the house. I heard him tell the story several times. He's a scientist and not likely to believe in ghosts or haunted houses.

A couple of years after I learned about the murders in the house there was a large car crash on the highway immediately behind the house. There were at least two fatalities in one vehicle. The fatalities were surviving members of the family who had been murdered in the house. The newspaper even mentioned that in the story.
 
2020-10-30 1:56:39 PM  
27 votes:
I hope we get more 1st person stories that at least have the premise of being real. The 3rd person ones make my eyes glaze over.
 
2020-10-30 1:33:51 PM  
27 votes:
And just for the hell of it, a funny-creepy one.

"Grams"

"Grams," said Crete gingerly. This wasn't the sort of thing you just mentioned casually.
Grams was either ignoring him, or couldn't hear him in her advancing age.
"Grams," Crete tried again.
Grams sat perfectly still, staring at nothing specific.
"Grammy," Crete said, a little louder, changing his tack a little.
No response.
"Grams!" he called, this time much louder.
That got her attention. "What?" she replied irritably.
"Your arm's off." He hadn't meant to just blurt it straight out; she didn't just drop a cookie, but
his patience was wearing a little thin.
"Excuse me?" she said with an incredulous tone.
"Your arm," Crete repeated, pointing at the floor. "It fell off."
"No it didn't." Grams said simply, refusing to follow his finger.
"It's right there," Crete insisted, motioning more urgently toward the fallen limb.
"My arm is just fine. See?" Her shoulder moved sightly under her flower-print dress, but the vacant
sleeve just swayed slightly. Grams seemed to notice that something wasn't quite right. She furrowed
her brow, looked over at her shoulder, and followed it down to where the rest of her arm should have
been. She waggled her shoulder experimentally, as if that would shake her arm loose from wherever it
had gotten stuck. The sleeve swayed piteously. She peered over her lap to the floor where Crete was
still pointing. "Bugger," Grams lamented.

Crete noted the sad look on her face. "I'll get it," he said, getting up out of his chair. He bent
over and grabbed the limb. It was cold, and the skin hung alarmingly loose on the bones. It flopped
in his hand as the elbow straightened out. Crete was creeped out beyond measure, and he handed it
back to his grandmother, unable to completely keep the look of mixed disgust and horror off his face.

Grams took the limb with her remaining hand, worked it into the hanging sleeve and mashed it back
into its socket. Despite having seen it before, he was still surprised not only because it stayed
put, but continued to work, too. It only further reaffirmed the fact that when Grams had died, she
really should have stayed dead. Sure, at first, it was incredible. Grams had come back to life half
an hour after being declared legally dead, and everyone in the family was ecstatic to have her back
when they thought they'd all lost her.

But it didn't take long before everyone started realizing that something was very wrong. She spent a
day completely unable to move because of what everyone later realized was rigor mortis. After the
rigor broke, she was quite sprightly, moreso than her usual self. That only lasted a few days though.
Gradually, her skin began to sag and her movements started slowing down. She didn't seem to be in any
pain - indeed, she didn't seem to feel any pain at all, as was evidenced by the time she bent over to
pick up her stockings and smacked her head on a table. She didn't even notice. Everyone else noticed,
however - nobody had witnessed the event, nor did she tell anyone, but the persistent dent in the
skin of her forehead coupled with the absence of any bruising made everyone to start suspecting she
hadn't quite come back to the same sort of life she had before she died.

The final proof came when Crete's brother, Orfis, during an argument over the "resurrection" came
straight out and told her that she should have stayed dead. Grams slapped him, and because his head
recoiled in the direction of the slap, he was able to follow her hand as it tumbled across the room
and landed in the dog's water dish. The dog, ever curious, went over to the water dish to take a
sniff, yelped, then ran and hid under the couch. Grams was so angry that she went and snatched the
hand and shoved it back onto her wrist. It took her a minute to realize what had just transpired. She
looked at her hand and wiggled her fingers. She spent only a moment in stunned disbelief before she
realized it meant she could slap him again. So she did. That was two weeks ago.

"Grams, we need to talk about this," Crete said gently.
"There's nothing to talk about," Grams replied in a flat but firm tone.
"Grams, don't you see what's happening?"
"I said there's nothing to ta-" That was as far as she got before the pressure in her mouth from the
forceful consonant shot her tongue across the room to land with a plop on an end table. The dog
reflexively crawled under the couch.

Grams stared regretfully at the damp organ lying on the end table. "Ma haom," she said sadly, a
single tear rolling down her cheek, followed by her eye.

Crete sighed. She was getting worse. He got up from his chair once again and headed to the kitchen to
grab some tongs. Upon returning, he saw that she had grabbed her fallen eye and appeared to be
looking at herself with it. "Grams," he started.
She pointed the eye in her hand at him. "Ma haom!" she said loudly.
Crete rolled his eyes in the normal way the living are wont to do and walked over to the end table.
He grabbed the tongue gingerly between the tongs and carried it over to Grams, dropping it in her
other outstretched palm before sitting down again. He decided to keep the tongs handy.

Grams shoved the tongue back in her mouth and worked her jaw for several moments, then popped her eye
back in.
"Grams," Crete tried again.
"I don't want to hear it," Grams said softly.
"You know I'm right."
"I know no such thing!" Grams snapped.
"You're falling apart - literally! And it's only getting worse." Crete pleaded.

Grams stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Her left eye slowly drifted to one side of its
own accord. "When I died in that hospital and my soul left my body, I could see all of my loving
family gathered around and weeping for my loss. It made me sad, so, so sad. I didn't want to pass
into eternity being sad, and I certainly didn't want to make all of you sad. I don't know what
happened, but next thing I know I woke up and was back with all of you, and all I knew was that I
never wanted to leave any of you ever again. And I won't. I won't, do you hear me?"

Crete sighed and studied his shoes. It was an effective guilt trip. How could he respond to that
without seeming insensitive? He loved his grandmother, he really did, and everyone was sad to see her
go, but it was just her time. She had had a long and fulfilling life, and just as everyone must at
some point, it was her time to pass on and let the living go on doing so. But he couldn't say that
without it coming off sounding like he wanted her to die. Again. Or whatever it was zombies did when
they ceased to function.

It was clear that the only thing that could be done now was to wait for her become so decomposed that
she couldn't do anything without something falling off. That couldn't possibly be much longer.
"Alright," Crete resigned. "As you wish. Can I get you anything?"
Grams thought a moment. "Well, I am feeling a bit peckish."
"Sure," Crete said. "What would you like?"
Grams stared at him. Her demeanour seemed to shift slightly. She raised an eyebrow and gave a slight,
droopy smile as her eyes narrowed. She licked her lips.
All at once, Crete understood the look. "Oh crap."

Grams leaped.
 
2020-10-30 3:15:33 PM  
24 votes:
Okay, true story time (no really).

About ten years ago when I was still living in the 'wild hood' in Jaxsuckvile, Florida, I was in a declining apartment complex that was in a more desperate part of town. It wasn't the worst neighborhood, that was two blocks over at Caravan, but ours was quickly declining into a close second. The two buildings behind us going further back to the fence line with an adjacent abandoned property were deserted and boarded up, looking like something out of late 1970s New York City. The closest dumpster to our apartment was usually full and overflowing so sometimes I would bite the bullet and risk walking in the dark down to the only other one on our side of the 'plex. Did I mention that most of the street lights and building lights were dead? Yeah. On a moonless night it was creeptastic and unnerving in a city with a shooting a nigh guaranteed or your money back.

So late one night I was hauling out the trash when I could see that the usual dumpster was top loaded and useless so I made the left hand turn and headed out towards the darker side of the block. Getting close to the empty dumpster I could see shadows stirring about and I was on my guard. It could be anything: a ghettoling looking to jump me for kicks, scræling cats looking to explode out upon receipt of the garbage (not unusual), or even fat raccoons or the rare odd possum from the vacant lot.

Almost to the dumpster a cat-looking creature stepped out from behind and just stood there, upright and slightly swaying from side to side but definitely remaining upright and on two legs, waiting. It didn't run. Well, not at first anyway, the damned thing just stood there when all the other cats had scattered. Then it started walking towards me. Damn thing was maybe three feet tall and started walking fast, "arms" stationary at its side and it was just strolling down the sidewalk right at me. I looked around at the surrounding scene and it was just empty parking lot, abandoned buildings, and this fresk of nature now gaining speed and running right at me! I dropped the trash and started backing up, looking to see if the still-upright beast was headed anywhere in particular and the only direction I could see was directly for me!

So yeah even in flip-flops I turned around and hauled ass back towards the apartment and while trying to be careful while running in flip-flops (not safe, I don't recommend it!) I looked over my shoulder and between partial moonlight and finally the one working security light I could now tell that I was being pursued by a gorram raccoon, STILL fully upright and matching my speed, running in a beeline directly for me on the sidewalk, "arms" still at its side and barely moving. I made it to my staircase and made the sharp right turn and ran up the steps only looking back when I was safely at my door and about to slam it shut behind me. That freaking raccoon just blew on by on the sidewalk, STILL running upright and in a perfectly straight line, it kept right on hauling ass away from me and off to where I know not.

I have seen many repeat visitor raccoons at dumpsters over the decades but I had never seen that one before or since. I can only assume that it was rabid or had some other kind of brain parasite which would make it behave in such an odd manner, but I sure as hell didn't want to find out from close contact.

Maybe it was their king. Maybe it was a harbinger. A year later I was on the back porch at the same apartment complex and saw a man-like figure leaping from rooftop to rooftop between buildings in a rather exaggerated manner. The spacing between the buildings is more than any human can jump. I don't do drugs and was stone-cold sober. I will be the first to admit that I probably needed new glasses, but I am rational enough to know that 1) there had to be a logical explanation, and 2) I had no idea what on earth could explain what I was seeing. I had attempted to get my wife to come outside and see what I was seeing but by the time she made it the thing was long gone. I told her about my "mothman" sighting and she had a hard time taking me serious but I swore that everything I had just described had actually happened. It kept me up most of the night thinking about it and periodically looking and checking for a reappearance.

Later the next day I was out & about riding my bike in what used to be more vacant lots nearby, slowly being reclaimed by nature, when out of nowhere this giant woodland stork came semi-silently shooting up from out of the deep drainage ditch next to me and the road and landed uncomfortably close by. It was in that moment when I saw that nearly 6 feet tall monstrosity 'walking' around that I knew it had been the same exact creature I had seen the previous night, the exaggerated manner of its ambulation being identical.

To this day I have no idea what the hell a woodland stork was doing hopping from rooftop to rooftop at night, but it does make me seriously wonder how old tales of storks delivering babies came about.
 
2020-10-30 1:39:13 PM  
24 votes:
I came home for Thanksgiving my freshman year of college. A friend dropped me off shortly after sunset, and I came in through the garage.

I was greeted by a woman's voice saying "Hello?"

"It's me!" I replied, thinking maybe a friend of my parent's or siblings' was there.

My mom shouted from inside, "We're in the kitchen!"

I go there and see my parents. Mom asks, "Who's your friend?"

"What?"

"The girl who said hello when you came inside."

"I... thought that was someone in the house."

"No... your brother and sister went to the store, and nobody else is here."

Dad and I looked around the house, and found nobody. The house was small and old enough that we would have heard anyone exiting through one of the three squeaky doors with creaky floors. The house was on a four acre lot, surrounded by woods with a single access road, so nobody could have made a getaway in a car unnoticed.

Aaaand... that's all there is. No sinister backstory on the house that we know of, and whatever ghostly presence we heard didn't wake up or disturb our dog.

The turkey was dry and stringy and we forgot one of the side dishes we'd left to keep warm in the oven, though. The horror, the horror...
 
2020-10-30 4:23:47 PM  
23 votes:
My wife collects dolls. There used to be this joke bumper sticker that said "Pray for me--my wife collects dolls". Well, I wish someone had prayed for me. It wasn't too bad at first, a few in special boxes with glass on them, but she started getting into the really old and expensive stuff, Edwardian and Victorian, some older. She made me put a curio display case for them at the end of the hallway. Then later on, a larger glass case in the living room where a bookshelf had been. Sometimes in the heat of the summer I could smell something off-putting come from them, more than just the stink of old dust, aged fabric, and sawdust stuffing... something dead, like a week-old rotting bluejay carcass left on the lawn by the neighbor's cat.

It got bad when she started kissing them individually goodnight and talking to them. I left the day I could hear them whisper back while she was still talking.
 
2020-10-30 4:20:25 PM  
22 votes:
Growing up in rural Florida in the 70s, there were plenty of dirt roads in the woods out in the middle of nowhere, that you'd never see another soul on. A group of us from the neighborhood would go hiking & exploring, which is how we found a different road, in what we called the Grey Place.

Most dirt roads in our area were white sugar sand & you couldn't even ride a bike on them, or you'd get bogged down & end up pushing it.  We found an area near the St John's River though, where the roads were harder with bits of shells & other debris in them & the sand was grey.  There was a crossroads near an old rusted out truck that we liked to hang out at because a couple of live oak trees provided shade and always made the area cooler, even in the summer.  We started going there every day and exploring the area, and besides the normal garbage people dumped, we found old bricks, rusted out machinery, and just miscellaneous junk that was interesting to play with.

After a couple of days exploring we decided to build a fort & start using some of the junk we were finding.  We picked a spot near an artesian well, that wasn't too far from the road & the old truck, but back far enough to be hidden.  There was also an old chimney nearby where we planned to camp & have a fire if we could convince our parents to let us spend the night there. After a couple of weeks we had a fort built & started stocking it with supplies from our houses & whatever interesting things we could pull from the woods.  Life was good & it was turning out to be one of the best summers ever.  All that changed the day the old man walked down the road.

He looked like a typical old Florida redneck, scraggly white beard, missing teeth, skin like cracked brown leather, beat up back pack & old clothes.  The one thing he had that set him apart though, was a new metal detector.  We watched him from behind the trees & scrub until he started digging in the road not too far away from the old truck.  He bent down & we couldn't see what he found so we decided to creep up behind the truck for a better look.  We heard him muttering & talking to himself & couldn't really make anything out that he was saying but saw him put something in his pack.  My friend Tim, who always ran his mouth, called out to him & asked what he found.  The old man whirled around and glared at us with a definitely unfriendly look. He started grilling us about what we were doing out there, who we were with, what we wanted, etc.

When we told him we were just exploring & lived nearby his attitude changed.  He asked us if we had found anything interesting & if we knew anything about the area.  We told him about some of the junk we'd found & that we had a chimney, built a fort, just stuff that was important to us.  He asked if we had found the cemetery or had dug up any bones or treasure.  No better way to get a bunch of pre teen boys attention really then that.  He then went on to tell us that the area actually used to be a small town called St Francis, but the Indians who used to live here had cursed it & everyone who stayed had died.  He said the settlers had dug up the Indians shell & burial mounds to build the roads and make foundations for their houses, which was why all of the roads were grey.  The settlers had also used the bones they dug up in charms & rituals to make crops grow, water to come from the ground & all kind of other spells.

When we asked him what happened to the town & the people he said the indians sent plagues like out of the bible.  Whole families would be found dead in their beds from mosquito bites, which they blamed on malaria, or snakes would come into the fields & kill everyone with their venom.  He said the people who stayed and survived were some of the ones who were using the charms made of bone to protect themselves from the curses, so a group of indians got together to send a hurricane to wipe out the remaining settlers.

At this point we asked him what he was looking for and he told us his family had lived here & was one of the original families, but had left when a few of them had been killed & saw what was happening.  He said his grandfather had been a steamboat captain and had buried gold & coins around his property, because there wasn't a bank & he was worried about getting robbed.  He had got pulled from the dock by a gator & disappeared, so the family left without all of the money their grandfather had buried.  He asked us if we wanted to help him find it & said he'd pay us for any of his family's treasure or anything interesting that we found. It was getting late at that point, so we told him we'd come back tomorrow with shovels & not to mess with our fort.  He said he was camping nearby & would see us tomorrow.

The next week was spent digging for treasure, we ended up with blisters, a few old bottles & buttons, as well as pieces of pottery the old man had shown us to look for, but nothing else.  We started claiming areas to search as our own & every time one of us would find something, the others would get angry.  The old man fueled the competition & started paying us in quarters, even for piles of broken pottery.  He said he thought the treasure was near the cemetery, so if we found any bones we'd be rewarded even more.  After a week he didn't show up every day, as he was sure we were doing his work for him.  We started hiding what we found until we could show it to him & get paid & were more & more suspicious of each other.

What started out as an idyllic summer in the woods, had turned into a war camp.  When we weren't digging or combing through brush, we were building our defenses.  We put out trip wires, dug small pits & put broken bottles & rusted metal in them.  We all knew that any day we'd find the treasure & we'd be rich, it was an all consuming thought.  Jason, one of our group figured he'd get a jump on the competition & went out by himself one night.  He told us the next day the old man was out there with another guy who looked like had had money & was all dressed up.  We started worrying he was bringing someone else in & spent the whole day digging like madmen.  That's the day Jason found the skull.

It was an old brown skull & when he dug it up he held it aloft & screamed like it was a trophy.  We all came to see it but he ran back to the fort & said we just wanted to steal it from him.  He said he was going to wait there until the old man came so we couldn't take it from him.  We left him there that afternoon & that was the last time anyone saw him alive.  The next day the old man was there & told us he had given Jason his reward & that he was rich now, so didn't need to come back.  We went by his place that afternoon, but the whole family was gone, so we figured they were off on vacation somewhere spending the reward money.

Mike was the next one to find something, some piece of bone jewelry or something we couldn't see, but instead of waiting there he ran home with it.  We didn't see him for a few days until we stopped by his house, no one answered the front door so we went around the side & his bike was still there.  The side door was open & as soon as we walked in we could smell death, no other way to describe it.  Mike was there, hanging from the garage rafters with twine around his neck.  Since it was Florida in the summer he had already started to decay & looked like something from a horror movie.  The police were called & it turns out that his family was away & thought he was staying with his aunt nearby.  She said he had told her he was staying with friends so had actually been home alone all week.

We didn't go back to the woods for a few days & when we did the old man had gifts for all of us, packs, folding shovels, machetes, all things that distracted us from what happened & made us get back to work for him. I started having nightmares though, about finding Mike & started questioning what we were doing.  I told my friends that we were getting cursed by the indians or that the area was cursed & we should stop.  They didn't listen though & my greed got the better of me.

I expanded my search closer to the river thinking a steamboat captain would probably hide something there & I was right.  I found a jar, but instead of coins it was filled with small bones.  I hid it in my pack & acted like nothing happened & went over to where the old man was sitting.  He said he didn't have my reward on him but to come back that night, & to keep the bones until then.  I met him at the crossroads after dark & the rich guy was there too.  They had lit torches around the area & had a table with bones & other artifacts on it & told me to put the jar of bones there too. as I was walking to the table the old man came up behind me & hit me in the back of the head.

When I woke up Mike & Jason were there & we watched the old man & the rich guy sacrifice me to something dark & bloody, I still don't know what.  We're ok, but are trapped here along with the original settlers and even the Native Americans that first lived here.  Turns out it wasn't an Indian curse but something darker that is still here waiting, waiting for the next sacrifice.
 
2020-10-30 1:29:20 PM  
21 votes:
...and then I looked at my phone. The time said, 1:01 a.m. Dec. 32, 2020 - it wasn't over!!!

THE END
 
2020-10-30 1:09:27 PM  
20 votes:
I used to work in a one story building that had a long tiled hallway running the length of it in both directions.  If you were in the building alone, sometimes you would hear someone walking down the hallway, and they would stop outside your door.  This would be unusual, because it was a fairly secure facility, and you can hear people enter the building.  The weird part is when you went to look, there was no one there.

Nobody liked working in that part of the facility when they were alone.
 
2020-10-31 10:32:35 AM  
19 votes:

Honest Geologist: Resident Muslim: Turing_Machine: Halloween is coming up, and it's time to start scaring the hell out of yourself. We'd like to help. Every year, Fark has a Halloween thread where Farkers share their own spooky stories. These are always fun threads, and a great way to kill some time at work. Here are the first 15 Fark scary story threads - now go creep yourself out.

2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019

Yay! Finally!
Thanks TM.

I can't remember if it was in one of these threads or another, but I think you posted one of the most unsettling stories I've read on here. About the burial of a guy who wasn't particularly well-liked?


I hate you for reminding me.
(Not really, but my jaw clenched and is still clenched from that memory.)
Here I was reading this thread and thinking I don't have any really scary stories to share, but that's mostly because I consider this story a religious story, a lesson, rather than a horror story per se, even though how much it freaked me out.
Anyhoo...this is a rewriting, not a copy and paste, to put me into the right state of mind.

In Muslim/ Middle Eastern cultures it's very common when someone who has passed away is mentioned, that a "God have mercy on him" follows directly after the mention.
I HAVE heard some people refrain from saying it when there was really, really  bad blood between them.
However, this guy was the only guy I ever heard someone say, after asking me if I knew that he had passed and I said yes, "May God NOT have mercy on him."
I had a working relationship with the guy, and on several projects I'd feel like the numbers weren't adding up, financially or that whatever day rate he was quoting me for the workers wasn't correct. Even projects that seemed lucrative ended up breaking even on the long run.
He invited me up to his apartment for coffee once and I was actually surprised at how well furnished his apartment was. I didn't say anything but he did; that his cousin who workEd in Saudi Arabia and had a lucrative job helped him out or lent him the money or something. I had met this cousin, and after this guy passed away the same cousin called me up saying how things are difficult for him in Saudi Arabia and if I could lend him money.
I ignored a lot of signs dealing with this guy and holding to my value of that I will only deal with people based on what I have witnessed and can confirm myself.
After he passed away I met a mutual acquaintance who brought him up and then asked if I had..."noticed anything" while working with this guy, in regards to his character. I just gave a frank no, but couldn't stop my gaze from dropping because I knew what he was asking.
The short of it, is that this guy, as amicable (and skilled!) as he was, apparently had dealt with a lot of people who ended up coming up financially short, some more than others, some much more.

This is the set up so that you understand what kind of character this guy was.

When he died, I got a call from his other cousin who at the time also lived in the same country. He had a heart attack, late 30s if I recall correctly from a two-pack a day smoking habit.

I figured that them not being from the country, that there might not be a lot of people for the burial, so out of courtesy and personal obligation, I went.

This was beyond "not a lot of people". Out of all of those years of him living in that country you'd figure friends or work acquaintances would show up.
None did.
I arrived there to find the cousin and the two very young sons. The cemetery caretaker(s?) and that's it. I have never witnessed in my life such a sparse number.
Recalling the story, I don't even recall us performing the Muslim prayer that is done as last rites, I think they did it before I got there.
Whatever.
We get to the grave site and as bodies are usually put into the graves by hand, and the two kids were just too young, I jumped in myself (I was much younger) and received the shroud-covered body.
This is what a shroud covered body looks like:
npr.brightspotcdn.comView Full Size

I would like to bring to your attention two points that will be relevant 1) you can see the string holding the two pieces of cloth in place 2) you can tell which way the body is facing from the arm placements.

So I lower the body into the grave, and start placing the cross pieces over the body that close off the "slot" where the body is placed on its right side, with the grave perpendicular to the direction of Mecca so that the body faces Mecca.
This is how a body in the grave is placed:
i.ytimg.comView Full Size

Again, notice the arms.
After placing the body, I loosened up the strings as per procedure, and after the first few cross pieces were put in place the cousin reminded me to uncover the face, again, as per procedure. Mind you, the first few cross pieces already cover the top of the grave, to give privacy to the face and shield the people there from seeing a dead face.
So I lean over and start loosening up the cloths at the face, they start separating...and I see a bald head. The guy was bald, so I figure that his chin is tucked in low and I need to uncover lower...still more bald head..."Did we lower him backwards into the grave??" I ask myself in panic, I look down and I can clearly see where the arms are, in the correct location, but all I keep uncovering as I go lower is baldness...like his head was twisted the other way around, like God didn't want him facing Mecca. The cousin senses me being distraught and asks if everything is OK, he can't see what I'm seeing because he was standing outside of the grave...and I reply with "I can't uncover his face" in as much a level voice as I can, so he says to let him try, him probably thinking that I couldn't loosen up the strings or cloth or something. I climb out of the grave and he goes in, he fumbles around for a bit, and comes out and I ask him, in as level a voice as I can muster "were you able to uncover the face?" While I tried my best to keep my voice level I'm sure there was a bit of panic in my voice.
Yes, was his simple reply, and I left it at that.

I felt so unclean. I don't ever recall actually feeling so unclean. I didn't/couldn't wait until I got home.
I stopped at the first mosque I could find, feeling sick to my stomach, walked into the bathrooms that had floor level toilets, stripped my clothes and hung them on the door and just frantically washed myself with the handheld bidet/hose.

To this day, and probably to the end of my life, I fear God's punishment more for what I might do to other people than what sins I might do to myself.
 
2020-10-30 12:34:15 PM  
19 votes:
Oh, and sorry for being MIA last year.  2020 hit us a bit early, but I'm back.
 
2020-10-30 1:11:42 PM  
17 votes:
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.
 
FNG [TotalFark]
2020-10-31 12:20:33 AM  
16 votes:

Wenchmaster: Not sure if this will fit:


No one read that, or is going to buy your book.  This is the wrong thread for whoring it.

Keep things to personal stories.
 
2020-10-30 6:45:17 PM  
16 votes:
Both of my parents come from a very small town in central Brazil. It is mostly a farming and mining region. The house where my mother grew-up was built in the 1600's. It was the master's house of a large slave-run farm, with a little old church in front of it from the same period.

Maybe to make-up for all the slaves who must have suffered terribly in the house at the hands of my ancestors, my grandmother decided to use the house's kitchen, the main room in the house, as a place to take care of sick and poor people. My mom personally saw many people die in the house during her childhood.

Fast-forward to the early 1980s. Both of my parents had moved to Rio de Janeiro some decades prior, and I was now a 16/17 year-old painfully shy boy with undiagnosed autism, born and raised in a place where machismo ruled. Didn't have many friends growing-up, didn't even begin to talk until my teenage years. And living in a house with 4 older sisters, I longed for some solitude anytime I could get any. When I heard my grandmother had moved in with one of her daughters, I asked her if I could spend my 3-month summer vacation on my own in the old house. She welcomed it.

At first, one of my sisters, the shy one, came with me. The old church was under renovations, and all of the statues and paintings from it were in the room where she was staying. The statues were a bit spooky looking, with glass eyes that seemed to shine in the dark.

The first few nights we had a few spooky moments, but nothing too bad. The space between the walls and the roof wasn't particularly well sealed, so owls, cats, opossum and bats would get in and run/fly around over our heads. We mostly laughed at it.

Then on the 3rd or 4th night, I woke-up to the sound of my sister screaming. I ran to her room, opened the door, and saw her bed in the middle of the room, with all the spooky statues turned around facing it. She was on the first bus back to Rio the next morning. I was very scared as well, but decided to stay. This was my first chance to be on my own. And as a horny 16/17 year old boy, I loved the attention I got from the local girls intrigued to spend time with the boy from the big city. Besides I figured if I left that bedroom's door locked and didn't approach it, everything would be fine. And for the most part it was.

During the next couple of months, a few small things happened here and there. One night while walking past the church, a dead cat fell from the roof right in front of me. It was badly mutilated, apparently from a cat fight, but I didn't hear anything. Cat fights are usually quite loud. I buried the little guy next to the church. On another night an owl landed at the foot of my bed, and it stood there for several minutes staring at me. I couldn't scare it away, but eventually it flew off.

About a week before my departure, is when it all happened.

A distant cousin of mine who was a huge guy with a bad temper, found out his younger brother was dealing drugs, and went batshiat. As I walked past their house, their mom ran out screaming for help. She had blood on her hands. I ran in, and the younger brother was on the floor with his face all smashed in, while the big brother stood over him with a big knife. I managed to talk him into dropping the knife, and going for a walk with me. We stopped at a local grocery store, bought a few sandwiches and beers, then sat on a park bench to chat. We chatted for hours. Somehow I overcame my extreme shyness and desire to be alone, and actually listened, while bringing in a few observations here and there to hopefully help him to think clearer.

While we were chatting, a stray dog came and sat next to us, obviously eyeing some of our left over sandwiches. We gave him what he wanted, and he stayed with us. At one point we decided to head back, and the dog came with us. Dropped my friend off by his house first, then walked home with the dog in tow. It felt good to have some company on my walk home anyway. I saw a goat jump over a wall and onto the street. I never heard of wild goats walking the streets, but there it was. The dog and I just ignored it, and kept on going on our way. As we approached the clearing in front of the church, the dog stopped and started to growl and step backwards. Something I couldn't see scared the hell out of him. I backed-up, then went the longer way around toward the back of the house. As we walked out of the woods and onto the backyard area, the dog went fully berserk. It started to bark aggressively while pacing back and forth, keeping his eyes on the back door. Then it grabbed a stone on the ground and started to chew on it while still growling, with pieces of stone, teeth, and blood coming out of its mouth. Dog ran back into the woods in obvious distress, while I stood there pondering my next move. It was a very cold night, so I went in.

Once back in the house my heart was racing, but nothing seemed unusual. I managed to calm down, and went to bed. Left the window next to me unlocked in case I needed to bail. A while later I heard some extremely heavy footsteps, and the old wooden floor creaking under whatever it was. I opened the bedroom door, and saw a horse walking past the living room towards the kitchen. Bats, cats and owls? That I had no problem with. But how in the world did a horse get in? Opened the back door, and the horse walked out. I couldn't go back to bed.

There was an old black & white TV in the living room, with an antenna attached to the top of a mango tree outside, and at night we could get signal from a small city not too far away. They were showing the 1973 movie "The Horror at 37,000 Feet". It is about a plane carrying some religious artifacts, and it becomes haunted. Too close to home for me! I stood up to turn off the TV, and that's when all hell broke loose. It felt like an earthquake. The house was shaking, all lights flickering, and all the critters running and flying around apparently freaking-out as much as me. Ran into the bedroom, closed the door, got under the covers, and things went quiet. That's when I started to hear some very heavy breathing next to me. Popped my head out to look, and saw the wall inflating and deflating like the belly of a breathing animal. I remembered about the window, and jumped out. Badly sprained my foot, and nearly froze to death spending the rest of the night on a park bench.

Next morning a couple of truckers helped me get back up through the unlocked window some 10 feet above the sidewalk. The wall still looked inflated, but there was no further activity. Spent another week or so in the house, and nothing unusual happened. Went back to the same house many times thereafter over the years, and again, nothing. Sometime in the early 90s I decided to ask my grandmother if she ever witnessed anything unusual in the house. She looked at me, smiled, then offered to cook me lunch. She died a few years after that, and the house got demolished soon after.

I never saw that dog again.
 
2020-10-31 9:43:03 AM  
14 votes:
I started my first real job at the City of Dallas, at the I.M. Pei building you have likely seen, in RoboCop, as the Omni Consumer Corp. headquarters. (side note: I got to see Peter Weller blow up the ED-209 on the plaza, as they were filming the movie)

What most people don't know is that there is not just L1, and L2 below, that serve as parking garages and storage areas. There is an L3, and I got to know it well.
Terry C, one of the electricians with Building Services, had let me know that the cable going from our place to the Convention Center, just across the street was no longer functioning. I met up with him, and we went down to L2, and, using a tone generator and a probe, went looking for the break in the cable. He went ahead of me, and placed the tone generator while I used the probe, to ascertain that there was a signal coming back.

We had traced it all through the L2 basement area, with no loss. He came back to me, and told me that we were going to have to go downstairs, to L3. "What the hell is L3? It's not listed in the schematics of the building", I told him. "It's there, and that is where the cable was routed through when they first connected City Hall and the Convention Center", he replied.

He led me to a door I had never seen, and we went down a set of rusty, creaking iron stairs lower than I thought the building went. Then Terry opened the door at the bottom, and we were in a far different place from the Brutalist concrete world of City Hall.

L3 was not a garage, but a natural cavern, and had one of the many tributaries of the Trinity River flowing through it. "We have to be careful here", he whispered. We found the cable again, and I attached the tone generator, and we went to the next place where it was spliced. We heard the tone, and I went back to get the tg, and we proceeded from that point.

We followed the cable, testing every 200 ft. or so, and then things went south. The cable went into the water. We had no waders or anything other than the clothes on our backs and our testing equipment and tools.
Terry said, "I'm not going in that. They can suck it and run a new cable". "Yeah, I'm with you", I replied. Just about then, we heard splashing coming from the water. Something poked its head up from the water. I'm not sure what I saw, but it wasn't human. Terry and I ran back the way we had come, running like two fools in a hurry, and beat land-speed records getting back to the access door.

We made our way back up to L2, and then did our best imitation of people who had not seen a God-damned thing. In our reports, which we compared notes on, no mention of anything in the water, just that the cable was a total loss.

And that is why there was a trench, dug at ground level, to connect the Convention Center to City Hall via fiber optic cable. Best money the City of Dallas spent, even if it did take out a portion of Akard Street for a couple of months.

I don't know what was down there, and I don't want to know. Terry and I have done our 25 years with the City, and we both have our pensions. His hair is grey now, and mine is receding faster than I'd like. We have never spoken of what we saw, and just went about our jobs.

I just know that what I saw, I hope that it never makes it up into our world.
 
2020-10-30 1:00:47 PM  
14 votes:
I love this thread so much.  That's why I sponsor it when I can.

Update/Clarification of sponsorship of TF:

Just because I'm too lazy to hop on at some arbitrary midnight, I'll be counting the votes around 6:30am Eastern on Sunday Nov 1st, All Saints Day.  I'm old, and I get up anyway, so might as well.

The top vote getter across both funny and smart gets a year of TF.  Other top 5 vote getters within each get a month.  Those who have won in the past know that if you already have TF, you can bank it for later (ping me when your TF expires and I'll sponsor you then), donate it to someone specific, or just pass it on to the next vote getter in line.

So lets have some fun!
 
2020-10-31 9:33:18 AM  
13 votes:
What is a true ghost story? It has to be one that a person has experienced. There is no other way to be sure about what someone said, or saw, or felt. That eerie electricity that shakes your heart and makes your eyes tear up. The hair on the back of your neck does the same thing that you see on boars and birds and deer. Anything that feels primal fear knows that feeling, and it is unforgettable.

About 35 years ago, I was just out of college and having a good time in Southern California. My brother had some friends, and they were all right. Just down the highway and fun for movies. Yes they drank and yes they did other things, but I stayed out of it. My brother and I were both living at our parents' house, but we were old enough to have a good time and be out all night, just as long as we called so nobody would be worried.

You have probably seen Poltergeist. Well, this was the community that the movie was based loosely upon. Kind of an upper middle class suburb in Orange County. Built in the early 70s on land that had been used for god knows what for centuries before that. Boring in every sense of the word, until houses start sinking into the ground or a serial killer makes the rounds.

I arrived late to the party. I was the fifth one there, but not necessarily the fifth wheel because some of us were gay. The party was up in a bedroom. There was some wrestling around, some music, and they were drinking. When I got there they were talking about a movie. It was Eraserhead or something artsy for its time. Koyannisquattsi maybe, but that doesn't matter. I just want to give you a feeling for who these people were. Normal OC kids.

They told me the party was going to go all night. I told them I needed to call if I was going to stay. My brother had forgotten that we needed to do that. As usual, I was the responsible one.

So I walked on down the hall and went downstairs. The house was open plan with no doors, but with archways downstairs. Orange County suburban of the mid-80s. Nice place. You had a kitchen roughly in a half circle with a window looking out to the backyard, and a counter separating the kitchen from the expansive living room behind you as you looked into the kitchen. The phone was on the counter, so you would look into the kitchen while you talked on the phone, and your back would be to the TV and sofa. The important point was that once you entered from the hallway leading from the stairs, you could turn left into the kitchen, or you could go right and walk between the sofa and the television to get to another exit far at the other end of the room.

I bellied up to the counter, picked up the phone and dialed home. My dad picked up. And just as he did, a woman with an odd hairstyle from about the 50s came into the kitchen from my left. She was an attractive white blondish woman, I guess. It was odd because my friends were hispanic. I suppose she was in her mid 40s or so, and wearing a nice dress, but pastel and pink. This weird shade of pink. Kind of Jackie Kennedy style.  I smiled and she smiled back, politely. "So Dad, I will probably be watching a movie tonight with these guys and..." She walked through the kitchen, but opening some cabinets and looking inside very quietly. How polite of her. And kind of gracefully. Not bouncing with a gait, but kind of smoothly. My friends came down the stairs making a lot of noise. They hustled into the room behind me and got settled into the sofa to watch the movie. The tape went into the video deck and they waited for the movie to start.

She opened nearly every cabinet and one or two drawers. She made no noise at all.  I was finishing up with my dad. "... and it went ok. I am not sure what they have in mind, but..." She smiled at me again and moved back to the left to the refrigerator and opened it. Then it closed. I finished up the call. "OK. I will see you tomorrow."  Just out of the corner of my eye, I saw her walk into the living room behind me to my left as I turned to my right to hang up the phone.

I hung up the phone, spun around from the counter and said to my friends sitting there, "Done! All set! The parental units have been informed and I am good til tomorrow AM!"

"Yay! Mission accomplished. Have a beer 2far!"

I knew I would not be driving so... "Don't mind if I do!"  Slurp. "By the way guys, you said we had the house all to ourselves, right?"

"Yeah. Parents are out of town."

They HAD said that, but now it made no sense. "So who was that woman?"

"What woman?"

"The one in pink who walked through here."

"There is nobody here but us,  you kook." They started laughing at me until they could see I was horrified.

That feeling never really leaves you. Before you have it, the whole world makes sense. There is no monster in the closet. Everything is cause and effect. But then you get religion, or get insanity, and you run it over and over in your mind trying to figure out who she was and why she floated and why she smiled and why nobody saw her. That woman was there with me in that room, and she never scared me a bit before I knew she was not real.

But she has scared me ever since. I see my old friends from time to time. We don't talk about it.
 
2020-10-30 3:48:47 PM  
13 votes:
now that the weed story is done, 100% real story from when I was a kid.

We lived in a house in Michigan where the oldest son had a mental break and killed his mother and father. He claimed that they were "alien pod people" and his real parents lived in their cottage. My parents didnt tell me about this for a while (we moved in during begining of summer, I didnt meet any classmates for a couple months).

After we moved in, my parents learned that they shared the same first and last names as the parents that were murdered (very common names, but none the less, creepy AF). they had a legitimate concern that if the kid was ever released, he would find out people with the same name live there and murder us.

Anyways, lots of shiat happened there, and since both murders happened in my room, I feel like I got the brunt of it. I didnt learn about the murders for months, finding out about it from school, being told I lived in the "murder house"

-right from day 1, i didnt like sleeping in the room. I would always wait until they went to bed, and go sleep on the couch in the living room.
-my door sometimes wouldnt open. the knob wouldnt turn at all. it was like it was jammed, then it would suddenly release fine
-I would hear footsteps on our deck (my window looked outside onto the deck)
-I would often sense that "being watched" feeling.
-I would sometimes hear a "shhhhh" sound. I attributed it to the furnace, but it was an unmistakable hushing noise.

So, when I told my parents about this, dismissed it and said it was just my imagination, but I attributed it to the parents spirits "reliving their last moments" .. ie, trying to hold the door closed, trying to get out the window onto the deck, hushing each other so they could try to hide from their son...

either way, I hated that house and never felt comfortable there. Ever... After I left for college, I went back maybe twice. Always hated it. My parents eventually sold it and moved. About a year later, it burned down, killing the entire family. It was very sad, and I feel just awful about it quite often...

I dont know if/what I believe about the spirit world, but I would like to think that the fire had absolutely nothing to do with any of that, and that they succumbed to smoke, and not flames.
 
2020-10-30 2:32:12 PM  
13 votes:
A weird crunch is the only way I can describe the hollow sound when the spade went through the concrete easier than I would have expected. This was a very old Northern house, prewar, but at least one of the previous owners had done somewhat modern renovations. We strongly suspected that the basement wetness was more likely a slab leak than just frost heave so here I was breaking up the mismatched concrete looking for the culprit pipe(s). I had thought it was unusual for PVC to be in such old work (a child had left hand prints and a year: 1964) but instead it was an ulna or a radius. Then ribs and a shattered spine. Eventually we pulled out the femurs and skulls too. So many skulls. I keep digging down and I just keep finding more and more skulls, some of them so... small. Oh God, this one had a Raggedy Ann doll with it.
 
2020-10-30 2:16:00 PM  
13 votes:
No matter how much Drano I pour down the tub drain, I can still see eyes staring back at me. Some days it's one big one, other days there are many. I even tried jabbing a knife down there a few times out of desperation but nothing stops them from coming back. The plumbers won't return my calls anymore, none of them. My friends stopped answering too. Today the knife came back bloody and three eyes laughed at me.
 
2020-10-30 2:11:43 PM  
13 votes:
Way back when I was in high school in the early 1990s a group of us decided to have a party down at a secluded part of the local river. We had a short lived keg that was bought by the older brother of one of my classmates. I say short lived because a couple of the girls decided to stop by the local grocery store before heading to the river (less than a mile away) and beg people to buy them beer. Now not being the brightest in our class this led them to having the cops called on them. Apparently they saw the cops pull into the parking lot and they decided that it would be a good idea to run from the cops. Where did they go you ask? Straight to the party, with the cops in hot pursuit. They got off with a stern warning and the cops got an almost full keg. We were given the option of getting cited for alcohol possession and have everyone taken to jail since we were underage or we could just give them the keg and keep quiet. We chose the latter.

The spooky stuff started happening soon after the cops left. We had about 50 kids with only a six pack to split between us about an hour after sunset. We were brainstorming as to how to get more beer when we saw a couple of flashes of light to the South of us that looked like it was just behind the nearest mountain about two miles away. These flashes were bright as lightning, flashed like a strobe but had no sound. It should be mentioned that thunderstorms are extremely rare here and there was no chance that this was lightning due to the weather at the time. A couple of us saw it but most didn't. A minute or two later it happened again and almost everyone saw it. A few minutes went by and it happened a third time. Suddenly someone yelled "Let's go get it" and all aspirations of getting drunk were pushed aside to discover what was making the flashes of light.

We piled into about ten cars and started tearing up a mountain road watching the flashes that seemed to come at a fairly regular interval. We crested the first mountain only to see that the flashes seemed to be just behind the next one a few miles down the road. We crested that mountain only to discover that the flashes were no closer. We kept going for about 10-15 miles but we just couldn't get to where the flashes were coming from, they always seemed to be just over the next ridge. We were way out in the middle of nowhere when the flashes finally stopped. The moon was coming up and we could see some cows up on a hill above us when someone shouted "Let's go cow tipping".

None of us had ever gone cow tipping before but we were teenagers that just had all their beer stolen by the cops to what else were we going to do? We jumped out of the cars, got through the fence and ran up to a cow on the top of the hill about 100 yards from the fence. You may be asking why I mentioned that the fence was 100 yards away. The answer is simple, the cow we ran up to wasn't a cow but was a bull and wasn't very happy about 20 kids running up to it in the middle of the night. We turned and ran in terror as fast as we could. It was every man for himself and I wasn't about to look back. A couple kids tripped and fell but we all made it back OK, except for one who tripped and fell into a bunch of cow shiat and got pretty covered in it. He had to sit all alone in the back of a pickup as we drove back. We never got the keg back and to this day I have no idea what made those flashes.

TLDR: A bunch of kids got their beer stolen by the cops, chased a weird flashing light in the sky and went cow tipping only to be chased by a bull. 10\10 would do it again in a heartbeat because it's a great memory from my teen years.
 
2020-10-30 5:18:10 PM  
12 votes:
Timmy invited us over for a sleepover weekend in the 4th grade. Our parents were somewhat close with each other so it was all good and arrangements were made. Special notice had been handed down that Timmy's grandfather was living with the family in his old age and that we should leave him be. For the most part we just goofed off, played Atari 2600, ate pizza and cheese balls, rode our bikes, and stayed up late watching dirty "forbidden" movies on HBO when no one was looking. At one point I had asked Timmy about the 3rd floor attic that no one ever went near and he said it was forbidden to enter.  Mike and I dared him to go up and in. We double dared him. We triple dirty dog dared him and almost got into a fight over it but it was on. When we were certain that Timmy's family was out cold, he led the way up the stairs for Mike and myself to follow, trying our very best to seek out and avoid the squeaky, creaky steps. We stopped a lot and waited to see if anyone stirred, but no one ever did, not even Timmy's invisible grandfather that we had never even seen or heard once the entire weekend.

There was a lot of cool stuff in that attic and much of the usual garbage that people stash away to be ignored to death until long after they themselves are gone and forgotten, but the old leather and wood steamer trunk really stood out near the middle of the back of the floor, close to the round attic vent/window. Like a magic magnet the trunk slowly drew us towards it and away from the other treasures of imagination, seemingly inviting us to come and seek out the secret interred inside. At first all three of us crept down and knelt in front of the case with its crackled yet supple exterior, the mostly tarnished brass hinges swinging open silently when Mike had gotten up the courage to be first to act, apparently being well oiled. Timmy began rifling through the rags and scrap papers in the top part, nothing significant standing out as the moonlight glow reflected off his blond head, making it look white in the washout. We worked together to dislodge the insert and that is when the perfectly folded and clean black uniform revealed itself, seemingly seamless and flowing but for the pair of perfectly straight Runic S bars on the shirt collar, and nearby the sharp, stiff cap with the matching silver skull and bones centered between the peak and the bill. As I reached out to touch the skull emblem, the attic door thudded closed, and interrupted by the cross latte shadow patten from the window glare was a hunched old man holding one bony finger over his lips but making no sound. With a dark clarity in his deep set eye sockets, Timmy's grandfather ambled closer and whispered, finger still in place: "Some day this will be yours! It can be ALL OF YOURS!" and the clouds covered the moon until all we could see was his eyes and the Swastika button on his cardigan.
 
2020-10-30 5:05:39 PM  
12 votes:
This was on a pop culture blog called Dinosaur Dracula posted two years ago, not my personal story:

Yay! Free for all thread. I've been waiting for one of these so I can post this!
Who's ready for a really scary story!?!
Gather around everyone, I promise you this is going to be a good one!
Ready? Ok, here we go!
There's something called Anesthesia Awareness Syndrome. Some people say it's an urban legend. There was even a handful of horror movies about it. One of them staring Mannequin Skywalker himself Hayden Christiansen!
But I assure you good readers that no, it's NOT an urban legend. I know this for a fact very well!
I was 5 years old when it happened. This was back in 1982. My surgery was on my eyes.
Due to a congenital birth defect the ocular muscles were paralyzed, atrophied and useless, also they had pulled my eyes crosseyed. So the surgery was to go in, cut out and surgically removed my ocular muscles and set my eyes straight .
So the surgery starts off like routine. they have me count backwards and everything, then I went paralyzed and couldn't move. But I was still awake! Something was wrong! I wanted desperately to tell the doctors "wait hold on! I'm not asleep yet!" But try as I did I could not make myself form the words! The doctors thought I was out like I was supposed to be! They didn't know what was about to happen! But I knew. God help me I knew and I was terrified!
I remember the doctors began slicing into the flesh around my eyes, and then using some sort of tool slipping into the cuts and pulling my eyes out of their sockets! I can still hear the sound of made! Ever squeeze a particularly large pimple near your ear and you can hear the faint juicy pop? It sounded like that.
That's when my memory gets a little hazy as I'm pretty sure for my sanity my mind has blocked out the majority of those memories. But I do remember the doctor having a conversation with one of the nurses because after I was in recovery i repeated the conversation back to the doctor when he came in to check up on me. Needless to say he and my parents were absolutely terrified when the realized the significance of that!
Eventually I was able to retreat into my own mind and basically disassociate myself from my body completely, it's the only way I was able to get through it!
After the surgery. While my eyes were healing i was completely 100% blind for a period of a few months and because of this incident i sank into a severe depression deeper than any 5 year child has any right to go. (It didn't help that on top of this i was still also bound in a wheelchair and had yet to learn how to walk because of all the surgeries on my feet) and had convinced myself that I would be blind and in a wheelchair forever!
To this day I still have major PTSD because of it and will go into panic attacks of anything gets near my eyes. I can never wear contact lenses and even putting eye drops in my eyes is an adventure!
So why am I sharing this with you all?
Because frankly just sharing my story when I can is an incredibly cathartic means of therapy!
 
2020-10-30 3:36:09 PM  
12 votes:
I don't know if this qualifies, it's not as good as some of these stories but it did happen to me, or at least, in my mind, and it was probably the most scared I've ever been.

It was about 5 years ago, probably about this time of year, and my girlfriend at the time (now wife) had met after work at a sushi/Thai place nearby where we lived for dinner.  We drove separately because we were both getting off work.  Anyway, we ate, and headed home, which was only a couple miles away.  She was driving ahead of me.

If you know South Minneapolis, if you're driving east from Chicago on 46th, there's a Catholic cemetery on one side and the children's home on the other.  As I was driving up the slight rise, I suddenly had a huge chill run up my spine.  I looked in the rearview mirror but couldn't see anything in the dark. But then, not in the mirror, but in my mind, I could see a... thing.  Kind of humanoid but with very long arms, and loping on all fours.  And black, darker than the blackness around it, but with eyes that glittered.  Its head was sort of an inverted triangle; maybe it had horns. I don't know, it was all imprecise and only really perceivable as a blackness that existed in the surrounding dark.  It ran sort of crab like, like a long-legged hound dog.  And the long forelimbs didn't seem to end in hands or claws, they came to a point, sort of like a hermit crab's.  And it was MAD! So much anger and malevolence, and all directed at me!  I could feel it getting closer, so I blew through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill.  In my mind, I could see the thing stop, in frustration, like a dog who chased the car to the end of the property line but then gave up because he couldn't catch it.

I drove as fast as I could, cursing the stoplights and checking the mirror constantly, even though I knew I wouldn't actually see it there if it somehow followed me.  When we got home, I was shaking from head to toe.  In fact I was shaking so badly that I couldn't even pour myself a stiff drink, and when my girlfriend handed it to me I spilled about half of it as I tried to drink it.

A couple years later, I saw the fake trail cam pic of the zombie looking thing and it brought the memory flooding back. It looked a lot like that.  But blacker.  And angrier.
 
2020-10-30 1:58:30 PM  
12 votes:
"Mommy, mommy, get me some of that candy, please!"

"Hush, child. I'll lay some on your gravestone the next time we visit."
 
2020-10-31 9:59:39 PM  
11 votes:
OK, my turn. This is a true story that I haven't thought about for years. Creeps me out every time I do, though, so now y'all get to be creeped out too.

When I was a kid, my best friend at the time was my next-door neighbor. We were around the same age and did almost everything together. The house next door to his was occupied by an ordinary enough family; mother, father, mother-in-law, and a single daughter. The daughter was in her twenties, I believe.

To cut a long story short, the daughter had a history of mental illness in her twenties. She would hear 'voices,' was paranoid, felt 'watched,' and all that. Typical schizophrenic symptoms as she was diagnosed if I remember correctly. When my neighbor and I were preteens, she used to babysit us at different times, and neither of us ever remember any issues. The only real memory I have of her is that since her name was 'Anna,' we used to call her 'Anna Banana.' But only behind her back, never to her face. Our little secret. Real original stuff, right? Anyway, the summer of my 15th birthday, she apparently got off her medication (that was what her parents said) and had an episode that ended badly. She went to the local Catholic Church and killed herself in the parking lot. Shot herself in the head with her father's gun. It was a tragedy that affected the entire neighborhood as nothing like this had ever happened before.

Around six months later, her parents divorced, and the husband moved out. Another six months passed, and my friend and I were asked to help the mother clear out her (Anna's) room. We didn't think much of it and were happy to help.

Here's where it gets rather weird...
We were clearing out stuff from her room's closet, putting clothes and random belongings into boxes. I was clearing out the right side of the closet when I found her phone. It was not connected, the cord was wrapped around the base of the phone, or at least that's how I remember it. Anyway, I picked it up, and as I was moving it to put it into the box, the damn thing started to ring.

It rang three times, and it was all that I could do just to stand there and not run for the door. My friend actually started laughing at me because I must have been pretty wide-eyed. I snapped out of it and gave the phone to him. It had stopped ringing, and we were just about to have a good laugh about when he put the receiver up to his ear.

"Hellooooooo..?" he said in a somewhat sarcastic tone. It was actually pretty funny. Kids being kids. He squinted like he heard something, but it must have been faint as I didn't hear a thing. I thought he was pulling my chain and was about to punch him in the arm when he turned and looked at me.
His eyes grew wide, and his mouth started to gape, slowly, really slowly like he heard something he couldn't turn away from. I'll never forget it. At first, I thought he was screwing with me, but the look on his face betrayed the thought. He looked terrified. I stood there staring at him for what felt like minutes (was probably more like a second and a half) and wanted to bolt. I didn't, though, until I saw a single tear well up and roll down his left cheek. At the sight of that, I ran. I left him on the phone and ran like a coward away from that damned house. I didn't look back. I ran to my room, dove on the bed, pulled up the covers, and friggin' shook for the good part of an hour.

Eventually, I snapped out of it, and the next day I went to check on him. He was OK, but neither of us talked about the incident for weeks. I finally brought it up to him, and he wouldn't talk about it. I accused him of pulling my leg over the whole thing, and he wouldn't deny or confirm it. He would not say a damned thing about it. He would change the subject or just flat out tell me to shut up.

Flash forward 15 years.
I caught up with him at his father's funeral. We hadn't seen each other in many years and had a lot of catching up to do so we decided to go to the local bar and have a few beers. We talked about old girlfriends, our families, yadda, yadda, yadda. Towards the end of the night, after more than enough beers, I remembered the phone call...

I brought it up to him; "So you remember the time we cleared out Anna's room?" His face went relatively blank. He knew what was coming next. "Yeah," he says. I seized the opening; "Dude, I gotta know, were you messing with me that day or did you really hear something?" He didn't respond but instead stared into space, seemingly remembering the incident. "C-mon, man, I gotta know. It has freaked me out for years. So fess up, you played the greatest prank ever on me, right?" "No.," he said in the most serious voice I've ever heard him use. "You wanna know what she said to me? Are you sure because I haven't told anyone this, not my Mom, not my Dad, not my f*cking wife!" "Holy shiat!" I said, "you're serious!" "Dude, tell what the hell happened that day! I need to know!" His voice got deadly serious, and he finally told me.

"It was Anna on the line and she told me."

"I'm in my mom's room, inside the closet. Come see me and bring your friend."

He then said that she started screaming two words over and over at him; "ANNNA BANANA! ANNA BANANA! ANNA BANANA!"
To this day, I don't know if he really heard that or just continues to pull my leg. All I do know is that the damned phone rang. I heard it ring and I'll never forget his face when he answered it.
 
FNG [TotalFark]
2020-10-30 4:50:52 PM  
11 votes:
When I was in college, we would get all boozed up and go to the American Military Academy in central Virginia late at night. It was an abandoned academy that was said to be haunted, and had caretakers who were satanists. We knew this because several rooms on the bottom floor were filled with occult and satanist propaganda materials, including business cards and handbooks with occult sayings, spells and the like.

There were trivia pursuit-style questions involving satanism in plastic trash bags, and monopoly-style board games that also revolved around devil worship.

The caretakers were known to shoot at anyone they caught in the academy, which was basically a prison, with celled-barracks with bars, and four turrets on the top floor.  We had never actually heard of anyone being shot, but we had seen all the devil worship stuff before (this wasn't our first trip).

One night when we went, there were four of us, and we went through the cells and corridors, looking at all the weird shiat as we made our way up the five floors to the top.  From there was a nice view of the mountains in the moonlight and a middle-of-nowhere star-filled sky.

I wasn't concerned about ghosts.  I was concerned about angry, shoot-y satanists, but before we went in, we had checked their house on the property and there were no lights on but the porch light.

As we made our way to the top floor, there was only a rickety wooden staircase left.  My friend went up first, followed by our girlfriends, and I brought up the rear.

Since I'm last to go up the staircase, no one is behind me, right?

I get to the top of the stairs and someone is stomping up the stairs behind me. No kidding. I know everyone is in front of me. I look behind me and the climbing footsteps keep getting louder and louder as they get closer to the top where I was. Like some heavy, invisible person was coming up behind me, and they weren't stopping.

Everyone heard it, no one could explain it, and we were freaking the fark out.  Everyone darted to hide behind something, and then we all tore down the stairs (the air in the staircase was freezing despite the warm summer air). We bolted down the other staircases and got the hell out of there.

Getting back to the car was probably the fastest half mile I've ever run.

Never went back.
 
2020-10-30 3:16:33 PM  
11 votes:
Not mine, but a favorite creepypasta:

I don't know why I looked up, but when I did I saw him there. He stood against my window. His forehead rested against the glass, and his eyes were still and light and he smiled a lipstick-red, cartoonish grin. And he just stood there in the window. My wife was upstairs sleeping, my son was in his crib and I couldn't move I froze and watched him looking past me through the glass.

Oh, please no. His smile never moved but he put a hand up and slid it down the glass, watching me. With matted hair and yellow skin and face through the window.

I couldn't do anything. I just stayed there, frozen, feet still in the bushes I was pruning, looking into my home. He stood against my window.
 
2020-10-30 2:09:24 PM  
11 votes:
I need you to understand how much this hurts. I can feel the wall behind me, it hurts so bad! Mommy said I couldn't play with the cap gun in her purse. Mommy lied to me. Mommy said it was her little toy and I could have one some day but I wanted one now and she said it didn't have any caps anyway and the shiny bit clicked and mommy lied to me MOMMY WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME IT HURTS SO BAD YOU LIED YOU SAID IT DIDN'T HAVE CAPS AND IT WAS SO LOUD MOMMY WHY?!?!?
 
2020-10-30 1:49:58 PM  
11 votes:
The house I grew up in was built at the turn of the century.  Apparently there were spirits in there.  I never noticed much but all my family members did.  There were even instances of multiple people witnessing the same thing.

The only thing that personally happened to me was I was standing in the doorway of my brothers room and was talking to him and his friend.  Someone put their hand on my shoulder as if they wanted to get in the door.  I turned around, nobody there.  Freaked me out a little.

My sister was visited one night by a "faceless boy in a tuxedo".
 
2020-10-30 1:46:59 PM  
11 votes:
My aunt and uncle had an old fisherman's house as a summer home in Sweden that they claimed was haunted by his ghost. Apparently the old fisherman used to hang his nets up in the attic. They would warn all their friends who went to the house about it.

A couple of them said they heard some noises but nothing that couldn't be explained by the place settling as the temperature changed at night, that was until one couple stayed there. Now this couple had been there several times before and visited during the day. Apparently they were hearing noises coming from upstairs and were starting to get annoyed about it. They decided to turn on the TV and the louder they turned up the volume the louder the noise was from upstairs.

They started getting really frightened because the staircase to go upstairs was right outside the door to their bedroom. Eventually they said they heard the noises move towards those stairs and they bailed out the bedroom window and drove home (which was a couple of hours away) in the middle of the night. They have refused to even come back to the town (Karlskrona) ever since.

On a side note I stayed in that old house many times (I even slept upstairs) and never saw or heard anything that scared me or led me to believe that ghosts existed.
 
2020-10-31 9:07:04 AM  
10 votes:

FNG: Wenchmaster: Not sure if this will fit:

No one read that, or is going to buy your book.  This is the wrong thread for whoring it.

Keep things to personal stories.


Since you object to reading long texts, I'll keep this short in an itemized list:

1- I've seen several obvious fiction stories posted above mine. You do not appear to have any objection to those.
2- Nowhere does the thread originator say personal stories only. It just specifies "your spooky stories". This is MY spooky story for this year.
3- Anyone who doesn't wish to read it is free to skip it. I do note that at least two people appear to have read it (based on the "SMART" button clicks), so you're obviously and demonstrably wrong. Quelle surprise.
4- I cranked this out in a couple of hours after work, right before posting it. I don't have a book. Nice of you to think I do.
5- If you're not the thread originator, you have no business setting rules for this thread. If Turing Machine objects, I'll ask the mods to remove my story. Your opinion on this subject is worth exactly jack.
6- Many Farkers (including me) have posted fiction stories in several past "Spooky Story" threads. There's usually at least one person who isn't the thread originator whinging about other people's content in these threads. Congratulations! You're the one for this thread.
 
2020-10-30 6:03:35 PM  
10 votes:
I'll C&P my annual submission from the last 10 years or so.....all a true story. No, I still don't believe in gosts but honest to god true story......


Whatever happened to flying bible guy? I don't recall a followup on that one.....

Anyway, I'm not a believer in ghosts or anything like that, and pretty skeptical to the whole thing, but my story (sorry for the tolstoy):

My first summer after highschool, I worked for my neighbor. He had a contracting business that mainly did light remodels on houses. Painting\general caprentry\basic landscaping\building decks, stuff like that. The usual crew was this guy, his partner, myself and one or two of my friends, and a general laborer or two, depending on the size of the job.

About halfway through the summer we got a job to do some cleanup on a house a few towns over which had been neglected for a while. Repaint inside and out, fix some squeaky floors and water damage, clean up the yard, etc. It was a decent sized house, and needed a ton of work, and the estimate was that it would take about a month to do it right. The homeowners had no problem, as they were not living there, and were planning on selling the place. Everything inside had already been cleared out (for the most part).

The first few days we spent just clearing brush and stuff out of the yards, so we could get equipment in to work on the exterior. Once that was done, we split off into two crews, one scraping the outside of the house, and one doing work on the inside. It was the summer, and the place did not have a/c, so the easier job was the work outside, and we would rotate who was in and who was out.

To give you an idea of the layout of the house. When you walked in the front door, you had large room off to your immediate right and left. Straight ahead of you and to your left you had a staircase that went up to the second floor, to the right a small bathroom, and then straight back to the kitchen and another large room. Upstairs you had 4 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. There was only one staircase to the second floor.

We started in the front rooms, and within an hour or so our radio started acting up. It was an older boom box type thing, with a manual casette player, and the knob with the slide for tuning the stations. In other words, it was all mechanical, not digital. At least 3 times, the station changed on its own, from 102.7 which we were listening to, to other random stations (sorry, no creepy oldies music or anything). What is interesting is when it changed stations, the station it would end up on would be perfectly tuned in, and the jump between stations was very quick, much quicker than a person could turn the knob and tune in the station so well, and then get away from the radio without being noticed, like, a seconds time, just enough time for the slide to traverse the distance to the other station. No, the radio didn't have the mechanical station presets.

At least twice when this happened I was in the room, and while my back was turned to it, the radio was in a location where it would have been damned near impossible for someone to get to it, turn the station and then get out of there. It was not by a window either. On a few occasions the volume would go WAY up, up beyond a point that I thought this thing was capable of producing. We then moved the radio to a different room, blaming it on bad power, and the problems let up.

Other strange things: Lights would go on or off while you were working, including our own portable floodlights. It wasn't power was cut or anything, but the actual switch was thrown. You could also hear footsteps above you when you were sure nobody was upstairs.

The final kicker, as we were wrapping up the work on the place, I was replacing some molding in a second floor bedroom. I had a large heavy steel toolbox, with a bunch of tools in it, that must have weighed 30 or 40 pounds. One of those big craftsman jobs. I had finished off most of what I was doing, and had most of my stuff put away when our lunch showed up. It was raining outside, so were all sitting in the main entrance way by the stairs, in fact, myself and another guy were sitting on the stairs. EVERYONE was accounted for. By this point we were all always joking around how we were working in a haunted house, due to all the strange stuff that was going on, but noone was taking it real seriously. Everyone was pretty much convinced that it was the combination of an old house, our imagination, and probably a few of us screwing around with eachother causing the stuff. Mid conversation about this, there was a giant crash from upstairs. One of the dudes freaked and just ran for the door. Myself and the dude sitting on the stairs next turned and went up the stairs. At the top of the stairs you had a clear view of the entrance way to all of the rooms, so in the 3 seconds it took for us to climb them, nobody would be able to get out of a room without being spotted.

Inside the room I had been working, my heavy metal toolbox had been tossed across the room, its contents scattered. The time from when it happened to when I got there was so short that stuff was still rolling around. Again, this was a 30-40 pound toolbox, which was sitting on the floor, and had been clearly tossed a good 10 feet. We checked the other rooms and of course found nothing. To go out the window (which was closed as it was raining) would have been a 15 foot drop into some nasty bushes. No ladders were up on the house, or even off the truck for that matter that day, due to the rain. Everyone working there was sitting with us while we ate, and nobody could have gotten past us and down the stairs while we checked the rooms, as there were people watching the stairs.

It was pretty damn scary, and the final couple of days of us working there everyone was really on edge. Nobody would go into rooms alone, and you could tell everyone was pretty much scared shiatless.

The boss mentioned the goings on to the homeowner who was just kind of like "ehh whatever". A few years later, the place burned to the ground, and one of the guys I worked with that summer, who now lived in the town, sent me a story from the local paper. It turns out that the previous owner who lived there was a shut-in type person after his wife died a decade or so prior, Didn't ever really come out much/do much, which explained the neglect. He had died about a year prior to us working on the house, but nobody found his body for at least 6 months. The people who had hired us was his estranged sons family, who had inherited the house and were trying to sell it.

The house had changed hands a couple of times in the several years after we had worked on it, nobody ever staying very long, and it growing a "haunted" legend in the town.

In the intrest of brevity, I left out some of the smaller parts of the story that were strange, or could have been explained away easier, but suffice to say, some weird stuff was going on while we were there. I'm not one that really believes in ghosts or anything, but I have no way of explaining some of the stuff that happened there in any rational way. Thinking about it still gives me the chills. Nobody was aware of the story behind the house when we were working there, and you could tell after the toolbox incident everyone was truly on edge.
 
2020-10-30 3:41:13 PM  
10 votes:
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2020-10-30 1:15:05 PM  
10 votes:

Turing_Machine: I love this thread so much.  That's why I sponsor it when I can.


Thank you for your generosity. It is greatly aprpeciated.
 
2020-10-31 12:22:50 PM  
9 votes:
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This is a music box. I've had it since I was too young for school. Recently, even though it is wound down and disengaged, the wooden pin will slide out and it will begin to play.
It was a gift from my uncle, who was a test pilot (P-47) during WWII. He was a daredevil, a prankster, and a delightful man who was buried three years ago with full honors.
He chose this one because I loved Danny Kaye as a wee child and it plays the song "Wonderful Copenhagen." A very cheerful tune...at speed.

But when I hear the pin slide by itself and the mechanisms creak, and that song playing at quarter-speed...it's the creepiest, most melancholy thing I've ever heard.

But I think Uncle Dave knows that and is laughing his ass off somewhere on the other side.
 
2020-10-30 10:05:29 PM  
9 votes:
Not sure if this will fit:

"Greetings, meddler."

The voice was more felt than heard, leaving a mental aftertaste of rancid butter and rotting meat. The effect was more-or-less familiar to Stone, but the particular flavor of the speaker was new.

"Who speaks?" Stone demanded harshly as he leapt to his feet, his voice echoing from the bare concrete walls.

"Softly, meddler. Softly." the voice remonstrated mildly. "No need for audible speech at all, you know. You can sub-vocalize your thoughts, and I promise I will understand. Wouldn't do to have the neighbors think you're mad, would it?"

Stone rolled his eyes, but said, "Very humorous." as loudly as he could without actually speaking.

"Much better, meddler. You're a good little monkey- you learn quickly."

Another eyeroll, followed by sub-vocalized demand, "Who speaks? Reveal yourself!"

"That would be telling, meddler," the voice replied easily. "Suffice it to say I was once a God in a land located where now exists only desert, in the general area you now call 'sahara'- which means 'desert' in the local language these days."

Stone sighed deeply in exasperation and sank backwards onto the rude cot behind him. "I'm not in the mood for silly games," he didn't quite snarl. "If you won't tell me who you are, go away and leave me in peace."

The laughter echoing in Stone's mind tasted like well-rotted celery. Even with his long experience dealing with the paranormal, the sense of detached amusement combined with the mental stench nearly made Stone gag. He breathed deeply, fiercely forcing his mind to resume its customary cool analysis of the situation. After what felt like several minutes, the contemptuous laughter stopped abruptly.

"You are so content with your predicament, then?" the voice taunted quietly. "You are unwilling to speak to one who can easily disembarrass you of your current problems if he so chose?"

With an effort, Stone answered silently. "I am unwilling to speak to nameless entities from Outside my normal set of dimensions. Name yourself, or begone!"

"As you wish, meddler," the voice replied with a chuckle. "What shall I call myself this time? There have been so many names over the ages since you monkeys arrived to disturb the universe. I cannot use the name you monkeys first gave me, of course. None survive who remember even the name of the language those monkeys used when they first encountered me."

There was a brief pause, then, "I suppose you may call me Kehlom," the voice spoke the syllables harshly, making it sound like 'keh' and 'loam', with an odd catch to the word between the sounds. "This is not dissimilar to one of my names given by a different group of monkeys."

Stone shook his head. The name was not even vaguely familiar, but he was sure it was somehow significant. "What is it you want?" he demanded silently.

"The question is more properly, 'what are you willing to do in exchange for my assistance', meddler. You are in dire need of my assistance, are you not?"

"Not happening," Stone snapped in reply. "I may be in dire straits at the moment, but that does not mean I'll agree to needing your help." He shook his head again. "Why would you even consider helping me, of all people? I've spent my adult life trying to rid the universe of your sort."

"Are you willing to bargain, meddler? You have very little to offer, and you are not over-burdened with options."

Stone lay back on the cot and thought it over. He had little time remaining, and was unwilling to submit to his fate peacefully. But there were very few ways he could possibly exert any control over his circumstances. Kehlom helpfully remained silent while Stone mulled over his few assets.

"What do you want from me?" Stone asked again.

"Nothing more than what you do best, meddler," Kehlom replied instantly. "If you will use your best efforts to eliminate one of my rivals, I will remove you from your present predicament."

Stone didn't allow himself to smile, even internally, but worked hard to keep amusement out of his subvocalized answer. "That brings up a couple of interesting questions," he said. "You said you used to be a God in what is now the Sahara, and no one remains who remembers you. I happen to know creatures like you gain power from human attention. If your original worshippers no longer exist, how can you possibly have any power over my circumstances?"

More nausea-inducing laughter echoed in Stone's mind. "The monkeys who originally named me and knew me are long gone. They all died out so long ago even the name of their language has been forgotten. But I have been worshipped as a God in many lands, in many ages, under many names. Many of those names are still known to you modern monkeys, giving me far more power than might otherwise be available to one such as me. I assure you I am more than capable of removing you from your current situation, after which you can return the favor to me by eliminating an entity with whom I compete for resources."

"Resources?" Stone snorted audibly. "You extradimensional creatures feed upon the attention we grant you. How can there be competition for that sort of 'resource'?" He paused for a moment. "Wait! Are you talking about some servitor of one of the current major deities?"

This time, the mental flavor of laughter made Stone double over and empty his stomach onto the concrete floor. "Oh, meddler! You have such an exaggerated idea of how much you understand about us. I faithfully promise you will not ever be asked or forced to act against any entity connected with the Gods you monkeys currently venerate." Kehlom laughed again, sending Stone into spasms of nausea.

Despite his physical distress, Stone was intrigued. Entities such as Kehlom seldom made promises of any sort, as such promises were permanently binding in ways humans could not understand. Even the few remaining Gods of the modern world appeared to be bound by this unshakeable rule.

Kehlom stopped laughing. "Meddler, the entity with whom I contend is one such as I- one who was once a God to local groups of monkeys, but is now vastly reduced in power and influence. This entity continues to exist solely because some among you monkeys still remember some of this entity's names."

Stone recovered from his nausea and nodded. "The gods of past centuries become the demons of later ages."

"Just so, meddler," Kehlom replied sardonically. "Do we have a bargain, then? You slay my rival in exchange for me removing you from the dire circumstances in which you find yourself."

"No." Stone's voice was harsh, even though inaudible to mortal ears. "When dealing with you creatures, word choice is critically important. I prefer the terms you first used to describe what you want of me. I exert my best efforts to remove your rival in exchange for removing me from my present predicament."

Amusement colored Kehlom's reply. "I see there is little chance of pulling the figurative wool over your eyes, meddler," the voice rumbled. "I will even agree to remove you from your present circumstances immediately, transport you to the shrine where you have secured the tools of your craft, and then leave you to use your best efforts locate and destroy my rival. Is this not fair and unequivocal?"

"It's actually a bit too fair and straightforward," Stone muttered. "That is itself suspicious. I suspect your circumstances might be as dire as mine in ways I cannot appreciate." He inhaled deeply as he paused before taking the plunge. "But my circumstances are excessively dire ... and immediate ... and my options seem to be either agree to your terms or suffer personal extinction at the hands of my fellow humans. I agree to the terms as discussed."

Kehlom's voice was silent, but Stone felt the entity's immense satisfaction in his mind. "So be it, meddler," Kehlom said at last. "I will take you close to the hidden shrine so you may retrieve your tools. Once you depart the shrine, merely speak my name aloud. I will help you get close to my rival without revealing any sign of my presence, and you can then locate and eliminate my rival."

Stone instantly grew more suspicious. "Get close to your rival? Who is this rival, and where ..."

Kehlom interrupted him. "Shrewdly guessed. I will transport you across dimensions to get near my rival where 'he' will be vulnerable to you and you will be unaffected by alien environmental conditions. I promise my rival's location will pose you no threat- other than my rival's not-inconsiderable power and the possible presence of some of my rival's adherents. I strongly suggest avoiding causing any harm to any worshippers, lest you fall victim to similar circumstances as your current plight."

Stone snorted. "Yeah. Taking out worshippers is definitely not a good plan." He stood carefully, avoiding the mess on the floor near the cot. "You still haven't told me your rival's name."

"I think it best you not know my rival's name, meddler," Kehlom said smugly. "If you are curious, I promise you can learn the name with little effort as you carry out my task."

"Right. What happens after I've done the deed? Do you leave me in some foreign set of dimensions?"

"Technically, I could do just that, based on our agreement. It occurs to me you might prefer I do so. You might find you will be well-suited to the target dimension's conditions."

"I don't think so," Stone answered shortly. "I like this set of dimensions."

"Are you sure? I'm fairly certain you would find the target dimensions salubrious."

"I'm sure."

Kehlom gave the mental equivalent of a shrug. "If you wish, I can bring you back. To avoid any appearance of unfairness, I will ask you once again after you have experienced the target dimensions."

Stone remained suspicious, but said nothing. Kehlom spoke, but the string of sounds which resulted made Stone resume retching until the sound abruptly stopped and Stone could feel a cool breeze. He straightened and looked around in surprise as he recognized where he now stood.

His feet rested on the faint trail leading down a ridge to the sand-covered ruins of ancient Irem. Several broken pillars were visible above the concealing sands which filled the valley, and Stone's vantage point let him see far into the empty Quarter to the east as night began to descend.

He shivered, the lightweight prison jumpsuit offering no protection from the breeze. From bitter experience, Stone knew the night would be dangerously cold, so he turned his steps up the trail leading out of the valley, eager to reach the hidden Ismaili shrine on the far side of the ridge from the ruined city of pillars.

Night was growing rapidly around him as Stone found the cave entrance concealing the entrance to the outlaw sect's shrine. He gratefully slipped through the hidden door and shut out the cold of the desert night, and set his hand on the small lamp left in a rough-cut niche in the rock wall adjacent to the door. It was only the matter of a few moments before the tiny lamp's feeble flame drove back the darkness within the shrine and revealed the Arabic inscriptions covering every vertical surface, painfully carved by hermit Ismaili adherents over a thousand years as their Sunni hunters drove the sect to near-extinction. Stone sighed and quickly recited a brief prayer in honor of those dedicated men before turning to the stone shelf across the tiny shrine where he'd left his pack before his last, disastrous foray against the outer-dimensional entities men often called 'demons' or 'devils'.

Stone found the extra clothes he'd left in the pack, along with a strangely-curved knife laboriously shaped from solid obsidian. He held the weapon by the hilt for a moment, breathing deeply with a slight smile before setting the blade aside and donning the much sturdier and more desert-appropriate spare clothing and boots from the pack. A thick leather belt was wrapped around his waist, but Stone discarded the empty holster, briefly lamenting the loss of the special pistol he'd lost during his last mission. The blade in its sheath was strapped securely to his thigh, after which Stone returned the lamp to its niche by the door and extinguished it before opening the hidden door by feel.

The night was quite cold, and Stone shivered despite the Bedouin cloak he wore over his clothes. He turned left and hurried back to the trail, then climbed the ridge until the crescent moon shone on the sand-covered ruins. Guessing he was close to where Kehlom had left him, Stone quickly checked for unseen dangers as best he could in the weak light before saying the former God's name aloud- barely above a whisper.

The blazing sunlight blinded him. There was no transition at all. One moment he spoke Kehlom's name in the darkness near Irem, and the next instant he was standing on a road made of clay bricks under a sun not far from directly overhead. Stone shaded his eyes and glanced around before stepping quickly into the shade of a carved stone gate to his left.

He had no idea where he was. The gate opening was perhaps twice his two-meter height and about the same width. The wall surrounding the gate was less than a quarter of a meter thick, and was therefore probably ornamental rather than a serious defense. There were several clay-brick buildings across from the gate, none of which had any windows Stone could see. Two of the three buildings rose a modest two stories above the road surface, but the center building was twice as broad as the others and stood at least four stories high.

The nearly-midday heat was just short of stifling, and Stone guessed that might be the reason none of the locals were visible. After his eyes adjusted to the daylight, Stone stepped across the road and examined the brick wall of the massive building across from the gate. It had been cunningly constructed, but the locals hadn't properly maintained the bricks, and there were lots of small gaps and crevices. The wall sloped away from him as it rose, and Stone reckoned he could climb to the roof without much trouble. Wrapping the Bedouin cloak tightly around himself and tucking it beneath his belt, Stone began to climb.

The heat proved to be more of a hindrance than the wall was. Stone quickly found himself on a large platform covered by a tiled roof. A low parapet surrounded the platform, and a small square structure stood in the exact center of the platform. Stone took a few moments to look out across the landscape from his new vantage point, and caught his breath in wonder.

A massive, mud-brick city spread out in all directions. Crooked lanes ran in all directions between small structures with platforms beneath clay-tiled roofs. Few structures were more than one story high- plus the covered platform- and there were only a few broad avenues imposing any sense of order to the chaotic sprawl of houses and shops. One such road led directly to the gate where Stone had sheltered on arrival, and the far end of the road seemed to be lost in a faint haze which might signify a harbor. Few residents were visible, and none were near enough to determine more than they were more-or-less human shape and wearing loose clothing in mostly drab hues.

Turning away from the city, Stone walked carefully toward the square structure. Walking around the little square revealed it was about three and a half meters on a side, and about the same height. The only openings were single half-meter windows in each wall set a half-meter below the roof. After listening carefully for dangers, Stone decided to take a chance looking through one of the windows. He jumped and managed to get a grip on the lower sill, which proved enogh purchase to pull himself up until he could see inside.

He waited several minutes until his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness within. A steady breeze rose from within the structure and out the window. Stone could smell many disagreeable odors vaguely covered by some familiar-smelling incense, but his attention was fixed on a sharp smell similar to burning gunpowder mixed with decomposing flesh- one of the characteristic  signatures for extradimensional entities laboring to exist in a spacetime for which they were not well-suited.

Stone smiled grimly and pulled himself up until he could rest his upper body on the broad windowsill and look inside. The square room was dressed in worked stone which resembled marble. There was no furniture, but he was surprised to see what looked like a wooden ladder in the left corner, rising to a closed hatch in the roof. A small square opening in the floor in the right corner showed the top of yet another wooden ladder, obviously allowing access to the lower floors.

With a barely-audible grunt, Stone slid to the floor inside and waited to see if he'd raised an alarm. After a brief wait, he crept to the ladder going down and peered carefully into the space below. Several small lamps unevenly lit the room, which was larger than the little room above it. The rising air from the room was strongly scented with the stench of otherworldly life, but Stone couldn't see into the shadows well enough to see if anyone waited for him. Murmuring a brief prayer, he gingerly descended the wooden ladder to the tiled floor below.

A buzzing rasp assaulted his ears, and a foul blast of air from within the room nearly brought Stone to his knees with nausea. As he fought to keep himself from retching, he slipped to a low crouch just as the ladder suddenly snapped in half and fell to the floor.

Choking back vomit, Stone wrenched the curved obsidian knife from its sheath and scuttled to put his back against the nearest wall. A large, dark shape loomed out of a pool of shadow, becoming a caricature of a man nearly three meters tall and broad to match, wearing nothing but a silk loincloth and bearing a massive bronze mace. The figure's eyes burned green in the gloom, and it spoke in the same buzzing rasp heard earlier.

The figure stepped closer, heaving the mace high above its head and shouting like thunder. Stone ducked beneath the powerful blow and stepped closer to the figure behind a violent slash of the obsidian knife. The figure screamed in agony as the obsidian blade tore through unearthly flesh where a man's ribs would be. The figure staggered backward, dropping the great mace and making a strange gesture toward Stone.

Stone immediately rushed forward, slashing wildly with his knife. The figure screamed again each time the obsidian blade found its mark, finally turning and trying to run toward the shadows in a corner nearby. Gasping with effort, Stone stepped quickly forward and made an aimed cut across the figure's right leg.

The figure screamed again and collapsed, dark blood pouring from the figure's many wounds. Beyond the screams, Stone thought he could hear shouts from below, and the slap of sandaled feet on tile floors. Regaining his breath, Stone used his blade one last time, driving the point through the center of the figure's back and abruptly cutting off the screaming. The figure immediately began to liquify, leaving a foul-smelling pool which discolored the tiles before it sent puffs of smoke into the air and then burst into bright yellow flames.

Stone staggered away from the sudden glare and flash of heat, noting in the brief flash of light a familiar set of sigils carved into the walls on either side. Loud shouting rose from a large opening in the nearest corner, sounding vaguely familiar. Stone sheathed his knife and breathed deeply for a moment before running back toward the shattered ladder and leaping to catch the edge of the upper platform. With a spasm of effort and what felt like a torn muscle in his shoulder, he pulled himself up into the small square room. He paused to catch his breath before taking the ladder to the roof hatch and used it to reach one of the windows. As he began to climb onto the windowsill, a familiar voice sounded in his head.

"Done, and well done, meddler. Have you satisfied your curiosity?"

Stone dropped to the platform surface and drew the obsidian knife. "Khelom? Really? That's not particularly clever."

Laughter erupted in his mind, but Stone was somehow not sickened this time. Perhaps the shock of killing a God with a knife had inured him to the effects of communicating with the laughing entity.

"It was sufficient for the purpose, meddler. That name needed only keep you guessing until the deed was done. And now you know the name of my rival."

"I recognized the symbols carved into the walls below. Moloch, right?"

"Well done, meddler! Have you any questions for me?"

"Several, but let me make a couple of guesses first."

The unearthly voice chuckled. "Be my guest, meddler."

"Kehlom is just 'Molek' spelled backward," Stone scowled at his foolishness in accepting the entity's name at face value. "Molek and Moloch were two different creatures, but the centuries passing and garbled accounts from near-contemporaries got them mixed up to the point the names were being used interchangeably in the 21st century."

"Just so. As you noted, my power is based on the attention paid me by you monkeys, I found myself increasingly forced to share that power with the dead being below."

"Let me guess. You sent one of your extradimensional flunkies to cause problems to attract my attention and lure me into a trap. You sacrificed a minion so you could set me up for the murder of those acolytes in Tehran. I was conveniently condemned to death and you just happened to pop into my head and make me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"A bit complicated, I admit. But it worked very well indeed."

"Why am I no longer suffering ill effects from speaking with you?"

"You and I have made a bargain," Molek replied. "Such agreements change the nature of the relationship between God and monkey, which means you suffer fewer ill effects from communicating with me."

"That's why interacting with Moloch was still causing me trouble?" Stone asked.

"Of course," Molek answered. "But even then, you suffered less than you might have otherwise, simply through your previous contact with me."

"Lovely. What now?"

"Now, you decide which set of dimensions you wish to remain in. I am certain you would find this set of dimensions both challenging and rewarding- in many ways far more agreeable to you than the one you left."

Stone laughed harshly. "Not sure if you noticed, but we're on the top level of a temple dedicated to a God I've just killed, and there are presumably many armed and angry people eager to have me join their fallen deity."

"You could easily escape them now," Molek answered reasonably. "Once through the gate, you'd quickly get lost among the throngs in the city. You'd have little trouble learning the local languages, and you'll doubtless soon learn this set of dimensions is teeming with undesirable extradimensional creatures such as myself. That should keep you usefully annoyed for the rest of your life."

"And any of those undesirables I eliminated would doubtless increase your power, I gather," Stone laughed wearily. "I'm not keen on remaining your puppet, Molek."

"And what is your choice, then, meddler?" Molek's voice was calm and uninflected. "Shall you remain in this set of dimensions, or shall I send you back to your own set of dimensions?"

Stone sighed heavily. "I'm tired of these games, Molek. You've won. Send me back."

"So be it. I must admit I will miss you, meddler. You are not the least intelligent monkey I have met. I should like to speak with you again. I return you now to your original set of dimensions."

Once again, there was no transition. Stone was standing atop a temple one moment, and the next moment he was standing in a puddle of vomit next to his cot in a bare concrete cell, wearing a tattered prison jumpsuit and slippers. He barely had time to express his surprise when the cell door flew open and four guards rushed in and tackled him. He was quickly subdued and handcuffed before being dragged out of his cell. As the guards dragged him numbly down a long set of steps, a familiar voice appeared in Stone's head.

"Greetings, meddler." The voice was stronger and clearer, and not accompanied by any of the usual nausea.

"You bastard!" Stone raged silently in his head. "You cheating bastard!"

"Calm yourself, meddler. You chose this, remember? I strongly suggested staying at the other set of dimensions."

Stone was struck by a sudden realization. "Oh, shiat. 'Set of dimensions'. Time is a dimension, isn't it?"

"You're only just now figuring it out? That's disappointing."

"What 'set of dimensions' did you send me to?"

Laughter echoed in Stone's mind. "Almost twenty thousand years into your past, after a brief stop a few weeks into your past in order to retrieve your weapon." Molek's laughter died abruptly. "If you had stayed in the past like a good monkey, you would have found me to be a most agreeable patron. In those times, I was a noble and cheerful God, and generous to my servants. It is only the passage of time and the beliefs of modern monkeys which make me less than beneficent to you monkeys."

Stone cursed aloud, only to be beaten into silence by the guards. As the guards dropped his limp form onto a wooden chair and put a strap around his chest to keep him upright, Molek resumed speaking.

"One last facet about our relationship you might have failed to realize, meddler: making agreements with creatures such as myself utterly removes you from the protections of your modern Gods. None of your precious beliefs will come to pass for you because you chose- of your own free will- to make a bargain with Molek."

The God's laughter was still echoing in Stone's mind when the bullets ended his life and began his torment.
 
2020-10-31 11:33:22 PM  
8 votes:
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 5:45:53 PM  
8 votes:
When I was 17 I lived in a small town that had railroad tracks that curved around behind the high school playfield and ran straight south through town.  There was a long-standing rumor that if you stood on the tracks at night and looked south along the straight track you could see a mysterious silent glowing object float toward you over the tracks.  It seemed to happen randomly, no particular time of night.  I thought it was bullshiat made up for gullible idiots, or maybe some kind of visual illusion.

One night my friend Tom said he wanted to go to the tracks and look for the light.  I was bored so I went along.  I stood to the side while Tom climbed the roadbed and stood on the tracks peering south into the gloom.  I was even more bored, so I told him let's go do something more fun like get a burger at the all-night diner.

Just then Tom started yelling "I see it!  It's some kind of orange ball coming toward me!"  I didn't see anything.  I was about to climb up the roadbed for a better look when I realized there was a fast-moving train coming around the bend from the north.  Tom was looking south, so excited by the glowing orange ball he didn't notice.  I tried to yell to warn him when suddenly I felt a strong hand clamp over my mouth.

The train hit Tom, and it was as horrible as you could imagine.  I screamed, and looked to see who had silenced me an instant before but no one was there.  I was hospitalized for a while due to the trauma.

When I was discharged from the hospital I was racked with guilt (and extremely unpopular in town) because of my inability to warn Tom.  I went back to the tracks looking for an answer.  At night.  I climbed up the roadbed, watching very carefully for trains, and looked south where Tom had looked.  Complete blackness.  Then I saw a faint glimmer in the distance, and it grew brighter, moving toward me.  It was a glowing orange ball hovering over the tracks.  No.  Not an orange ball.  Now there were two orange balls, floating toward me in the silent darkness.
 
2020-10-31 5:32:19 PM  
8 votes:
Leftbehindandgladofit:

Thank you.

Moving onto family.
Grandma on my mother's side had two of my cousins living with her to keep her company. Their mother didn't mind as she were just two houses down from her mother's place and the eldest was still with her.
These cousins' room had a lot of weird stuff happening, TV turning on, radio coming on on full volume.
Once one of those cousins and myself were walking into that room and something scurried along the wall and behind the bed.
It was about the size of a cat. But all it was was blackness, blackness with an undefined edge. Think horror movie style blackness when a shadow would break away from a dark area and move on its own.
Our reaction wasn't "what was that?!" it was, both of us turning to the other and exclaiming "did you see that?!"
I went around the bed to peer into that small wall space between the bed and the wall, to see what was that that just moved so quickly.
There was nothing there. The side table was against the wall and the bed against the side table. The bed itself had a frame that went all the way down to the carpet, so nothing could have climbed under it.
So weird.

Moving onto gramma from my father's side. While first gramma was religious, this gramma was more spiritual. Tough.
Think Granny Weatherwax.

Two stories from lore and two told to me by those close.
1) Paternal grandma's brother was walking back home on the beach when he saw his sister sitting there, at an odd time.
He reached out to gently place his hand on her head and ask her what she was doing at such an odd time when his fingers just sank into her head.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
When he reopened them, the apparition was gone.
2) my grandma had a lady that did work for them that had her toddler kid with her. Grandma is sitting around when she see the toddler moving about and she calls to him and sits him on one knee. As she was playing with the kid, she looks up and sees the mother walking towards her...with her child by her side. My gramma does a double take and whomever/whatever was on her knee was gone.

Told to me by my aunt-in-law, when I was a youngster that my grandma had a certain relationship with "the other people", and gave me some details, but all I could recall was that every once in a while some of her jewelry would go missing and she's say "fine, just make sure you return it"...and ol and behold, it would be returned, to where she looked.

When this grandma passed away, my uncle was asking my aunt to where should he greet the mourners and she points to one of the rooms.
He enters and exits quickly, and hisses at my aunt "why didn't you tell me there were women inside?!"
She replied that there aren't any.
They reopened the door and the crying women he had seen inside were no longer there.

When horror movies or fantasy movies talk about how there is a veil between our world and another/others and that sometimes things go through, I feel like I know what they are talking about.
 
2020-10-31 1:35:30 PM  
8 votes:
-The Monster Under The Bed

I look under the bed ever night. It's almost always the same thing. A dust bunny on the verge of evolving into a dust jackrabbit. A quarter and some nickels that rolled away from my pocket in ages past. A half broken mechanical pencil, no doubt the remains of a fervent writing spree abandoned like some many other things I once thought I could leverage to fill the vacant hours. A tab for an energy drink mindlessly picked off and discarded, flung on a whim for a personal and ersatz demonstration of aerodynamics.

And a monster.

Oh, it doesn't look like there's a monster under there. Just because you can't see it or reach it doesn't mean it doesn't exist. I've made my peace with it. It's actually quite powerful, really. It lives off fear, drinks it, gains nourishment from it.
I imagine that it staked out its territory and protects it fiercely. These days, I only have a nightmare once a year or so; I rightly can't remember the last time I had one. I...It sounds so crazy, but I think it eats nightmares. Despite all the weird foods I eat, despite all the strange thoughts dancing in my head throughout the day. Despite all the gory horror films I watch on repeat.
No nightmares. Been about two years since the last one.

So, I have not disturbed its home. I'm pretty organized, and I would hate for someone to come in and mess with my treasured possessions on a whim. My weird pillows. My warm blanket.

I don't mess with it, and it doesn't mess with me. I'm sure it likes it that way.

-The Monster Above the Bed

I look above the bed every morning, around 4:39, not to put too fine a point on it. It's almost always the same thing. A pillow that says "Life's a Beach" and a pillow with a stylized pineapple. Greenish blue sheets that have an improbable amount of cat fur. A heavy blanket with a beach scene.
And a monster.

Oh, it doesn't look like there's a monster up there. Just because you can't see it or reach it doesn't mean it doesn't exist. I've made my peace with it. It's actually quite powerful, really. Despite having me, ME, taking up residence here, among the forgotten pencil and spare change, it has been sleeping so soundly.

I try to be so quiet, so invisible. You don't want one of those things to see you, do you? What would it do if it saw me, just trying to live in the safe dark corners of this world, scrounging on teeny tiny crumbs of fear while defending this patch of land from my feral kin? Some arcane ritual? Maybe bring in sage and copal? Bring the fires that brought my kind to the brink of destruction? No, I am happy with our current "arrangement".

So I have not disturbed its home. I'm pretty organized, and I would hate for someone to come in and mess with my treasured possessions on a whim. My growing dust bunny. My writing implement. My life savings of 40 cents. And this metal piece that says "MONSTER" on it. Why yes. I suppose I am.

I don't mess with it, and it doesn't mess with me. I'm sure it likes it that way.
 
2020-10-31 1:16:45 PM  
8 votes:
Background; my dad was from the U.K., and when I was three he took me to his home town for a few weeks to visit his side of the family.

When I was eight I was asleep in my bed and gradually woke up with the feeling of weight on the end of my bed. I opened my eyes and saw that at the end of my bed there was an old man, sitting there with a faint smile on his face. He patted my leg and I went back to sleep. In the morning we learned that my English granddad had passed away a few hours previously.

That's it.
 
2020-10-31 12:29:00 PM  
8 votes:
I don't know how to tell this story even though it is true. The setting is a very small town in western Washington, the kind where there is one store, one restaurant and one gas station.
Kelly used to hang out at that restaurant I worked at. She had been married to someone I knew pretty well from a previous job. Hauled rocks in her own dump truck. Well liked, pretty petite blonde.
One day my bestie was at dinner with one of her friends from work. Right down the street from where the now single Kelly lived. Hubby of friend was creeping friend out, friend has some history of psychic flashes. Knew her dad was dead at age 7. Creepy hubby was bragging about his hunting prowess. Claimed he could dismember a deer faster than anyone around. Showed off his brand new bone saw. Sharp and fast.
A month or so later this is hard to type never put it on paper before. A month or so later Kelly didn't come in to work. A welfare check by the police only made more questions - they found an ashtray with a very long ash in it- the kind you get when you lay down the smoke intending to come right back. They found her dogs, unharmed. They looked around the property and then they started to find pieces of Kelly.
She had been dismembered and body parts strewn about. Some of her was in the river that bordered her property. Not all of her was recovered. I only know this because bestie was friends with a local popo's wife.
They investigated everyone; they creepy guy with the new bonesaw? Yeah, that had mysteriously been sold a few days before. Even more creepy, Creepy guy carved a memorial sign for Kelly.
It's been 16 years and telling this has been harder than I thought it would be. RIP beautiful girl, I still weep for you.

The murder is still unsolved, she is the Ace of Diamonds in the cold case card pack the local sheriffs keep around the jail.
 
2020-10-30 2:01:43 PM  
8 votes:
Danielle accidentally knocked a refrigerator magnet off the door as she slapped it shut in a rush, sloshing the half gallon of milk as she spun around to deliver nutrition to her daughter's otherwise raw sugar breakfast cereal. Dani froze in step at one glance at her daughter Jennifer, who was likewise locked in terror, face flushed. Jennifer had clearly pissed herself which was absolutely unacceptable for a 9 year old but she was getting a pass today, what with that shriveled, rotting hand sliding off of Jennifer's leg and back out of view under the kitchen table. As Danielle dropped the milk and dove at her daughter, something yanked her backwards by the hair, hard, and Dani screeched out some kind of garbled noise as three more rotting hands clamped around her eyes, mouth and throat, slamming her to the floor. Now Jennifer was also screaming at the top of her lungs, but Dani could not tell her to run with the hard fingers probing at her tongue and teeth. Spiraling into darkness, screaming was the last thing Danielle ever heard until the coroner's saw cut open her sternum.
 
2020-10-31 1:24:56 PM  
7 votes:
I saw that this one was already been asked about, above..

(..I've been away from FARK the better part of a year so I don't know who's still around or not and, considering how scant this is, I'm gunna post a couple things I might not, otherwise, in trying to cover the Halloween classics..  Credit will be given to the original poster where possible..)

===   ===   ===

"Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore" - by a particular individual


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


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###


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


###


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


###


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


###

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


###


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


###

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


###


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


###

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


###

It was Rick, laughing.
"What did you see, a ghost?" I could only open my mouth and gasp. Rick looked up toward the front door and his smile faded. He kept the grip on my wrist, turned a little too fast, and pulled me after him, down the hill, past the Welches', toward my house. Before we got to the corner, he stopped us and sat us down.
"Jesus Christ, did you..." He couldn't finish.
"I TOLD YOU!" I shouted, and punched him in the chest. He didn't object.
"Jesus Christ," he said again. We crossed the street and went to my house. My folks were in the back yard; Rick and I went to the kitchen and got some Kool-Aid.
"What did you see?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said.
"Bullshiat. You saw it, too."
"No, I mean I saw nothing. Inside the house, inside the door, the house went black. Pitch black. Then it faded to nothing. No black, no white, just nothing. And then it faded back to normal."
"Did you see the kid in there?" I asked.
"Do you know what nothing looks like?" he asked. I didn't care.
"Did you see him?" I asked again.
"I saw a woman, I think."
"What else do you think?" I asked.
"Look, I'm sorry, OK? I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what? What did you do?"
"I didn't know. I didn't know, OK?"
"What?"
"The toys... when I was there before... They were in boxes. Someone came and dumped them after I was there."
"Yeah, well, someone did. It was Danny."
"Danny Nero?"
"No, Danny been-dead-for-twenty-five-years. Danny whose mom killed him and his sister. And herself. You knew, didn't you?"
Silence.
More silence.
"Adam." said Rick, staring at the wallpaper.
"What?"
"I think I remember something," he said. He was almost mumbling.
"What?"
"I think I might have dumped the toys out."
"You think you might have?" I said. "How can you not know?"
"I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"I bet." That was the one time I felt superior to Rick. He knew it, and he let me feel however I wanted. We sipped our Kool-Aid in silence, not looking at each other. A couple of minutes later my mom walked in from the back yard.
"Oh, hi, Rick. How are you?" Rick took a long drink of Kool-Aid and said
"Great. How are you?"
"Much better, thank you. And thank you for the cake. It was beautiful."
"You're welcome."
"A very nice cake."
 
2020-10-31 1:03:34 PM  
7 votes:
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
 
2020-10-31 11:34:11 AM  
7 votes:
This was a creepy trip for my aunt, but luckily we can all laugh about it now.

My sweet aunt had recently been widowed and we were trying to think of a way to distract her and maybe cheer her up.    Turns out that week we were all going to be near enough to Prague to make a day trip there.  Since my aunt loves sculpture we knew that art tour there could be the perfect.  On we go.

Tour guide assured us he had a unique list our aunt would love.   So we naively signed up.
And ended up taking our recently widowed aunt to see:
s3.crackedcdn.comView Full Size

-
parenthoodandpassports.comView Full Size

- hanged horse
parenthoodandpassports.comView Full Size

- many faceless babies
s3.crackedcdn.comView Full Size

and the lost man
parenthoodandpassports.comView Full Size

Well - the tour guide was right - they were well made and unique...
Just a shade too macabre for that week.
But like I said earlier - its lucky we can all laugh about it now.  Happy Halloween!
 
FNG [TotalFark]
2020-10-31 1:07:20 AM  
7 votes:
Wow, a few years ago this thread had 608 comments, even the fake "timmy doesn't live here anymore" hasn't shown up.
 
2020-10-30 7:52:21 PM  
7 votes:
My Grandparents house was haunted, and no one ever talked about it. I wish they had, would have kept me from thinking I was nuts. The house had been remodeled, so that there was a very elongated livingroom, that then gave into a dining room. From the dining room there was a bath, and off that a single bedroom.  The Kitchen lived behind a closed door. From another door, you could access the tack room, feed room and on into the stalls and barn.

From the living room, you went through a door and then up to the second floor. It was a big wide wooden staircase. When you topped the stairs there was a huuuge bathroom, claw tub included, a large "Master Bedroom" that had an attic door, then a smaller room to the front of the house, and then a wee tiny room, only big enough for a twin bed, that had an octagonal window in it..

I remember as a child, hearing foot steps on the stairs. They would come up only far enough to see if you were in your bed, and doing your best to fall asleep. I always felt comforted by that. And I always thought it was my folks or my Grand parents...

Fast forward a.few years. I am talking to my Mom, and mentioned the nightly stair climbing. She looked at me and said, "Oh, that's the Native American lady". She'd been seeing her for years as she was growing up. She knew of the sounds, but didn't know I'd heard them. (Turns out my Brother did too, and of course he never said anthing. He is so uptight it amazes me he doesn't shiat diamonds!)

I didn't find the stair climbing scary at all, just had a sense of being watched over and kept safe.

After my Grandmother passed, and my Grandfather was in a nursing home, my Mom and I went up to "Clean out the house"..this was the summer before I was to be married, so we were really thinking about what we would take, and culling out the things that we would sell..so major disruption in the house. And we were up at all hours sorting and opening trunks that had been closed for 50 yrs...fun, but stressful. Much beer was had, as it was really hot! No A/c in the house. Not even a fan!! And you know it's bad when my Mom drinks beer!!

Anyway, I was sleeping in the tiny room. And one night, not long after we had been working, there was a ruckus downstairs. Now, I knew the doors were locked. And it didn't seem to be any human agency involved. I don't know what prompted me. I whispered into the dark, "It's ok. You can leave now. We are selling the home. Thank you for protecting us." Or something to that effect..it was very late. That night the Native American woman took her rest, and we never heard from her again.
 
2020-10-30 7:11:26 PM  
7 votes:
Way back when I was a very young girl, we used to visit my Grandparents Up North. Now, their house had once been owned by the local Indian nation. In time a barn, stable, feed room and tack room were added adjacent to the house, with connecting corridors. As a kid it was fascinating, and I can remember shimmying under the barn door to look into the gloom..nothing exciting, but off limits for us kids, so definitely a place you haad to go and sneak into.

Frequently while we were up there, the Parents and Grands would go off and do something that was not "kid friendly" and so we would have an early dinner and then be left in the house to enterain ourselves.

I've always been a fairly precociouse reader, so I had grabbed a copy of "The Burnished Blade" from the book shelf in my Mom's old room. Not a 12 yr old book..I was reading and we had some nice light rain..couple of thunder claps, but nothing all that worrisome.

This bedroom had a door to the "attic" which was really just the eaves, which had boards layed across the joists so that you could store things up there and it was way wild creepy..very bad vibe..anyway, while I was reading in the bedroom, there was a ruckus in the attic. Think heavy objects dropped, bangs etc. It was scary, but I really wanted to get back to my very inappropriate book..so I said out loud, "Will you knock it off? I'm not afraid of you." And probably something about wanting to finish the book. Well, the attic was instantly silent. And it remained silent for me..not so much for my brother and his fiance..there was so much noise that they could not sleep in that bedroom.
 
2020-10-30 12:33:37 PM  
7 votes:
Halloween is coming up, and it's time to start scaring the hell out of yourself. We'd like to help. Every year, Fark has a Halloween thread where Farkers share their own spooky stories. These are always fun threads, and a great way to kill some time at work. Here are the first 15 Fark scary story threads - now go creep yourself out.

2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019
 
2020-10-31 9:58:15 PM  
6 votes:
I've got one to add. Happened less than an hour ago.

I remember a few years ago I posted in here about how creepy baby monitors have the potential to be. You know, you're downstairs with the baby and you hear the baby on the monitor upstairs or something like that.

We never had that. Bleed-in from the couple with a baby next door, sure, faint crying when we knew our own child was fast asleep. And strange crackles late at night sometimes, interference from who knows what.

Tonight, the creaky sound of a door opening.

We figured the oldest had gone for a pee. I went up and checked. Nope, fast asleep. Heart rate went up. Checked all the doors, nothing out of place. Went and had a look outside anyway. Nothing out there but the moon. Haven't heard it again. Hope I don't. A little unsettling on Halloween after reading this thread.
 
2020-10-31 2:23:38 PM  
6 votes:
Well, that's all the top-of-the-head classics I've got for now so I guess it's time to post my (..since 2014..) yearly Halloween contribution.

For what it's worth, I'll just hope to make clear that this is an actual, personal experience.  The events described happened, the people and places are real and what names are mentioned have not been changed to protect the innocent..    =P

===   ===   ===

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

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

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

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

Bear with me here...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trick or Treat..? For me, I somehow think it ended up being both..
 
2020-10-31 2:04:52 PM  
6 votes:

CAT-LIKE TYPING DETECTED: Short but sweet..always a Fan-favorite..!

===   ===   ===

"Fishy" - by Quexy

Psychosis or ghost story, I don't know.

When I was little, probably about four or five years old, I had an imaginary "friend" (I think.) It was yellow and about four feet tall (taller than me at the time), bipedal, and had oversized eyes that always looked straight ahead otherwise, relatively human and naked. I called the thing "Fishy." The wierdest thing, though, was it scared the hell out of me. I didn't want anything to do with it, and I couldn't imagine, as a child, that it was coming from inside my head.

It "walked" (more like skated along) on the walls in the rooms of our house, and apparently could not leave those surfaces. I knew that if I played outside, it could only follow me to the limits of the garage. It always followed me, too, even though I often told it not to. I had difficulty concentrating on drawing things or reading because Fishy was always standing somewhere on the wall, looking over my shoulder. It did not ever sit down, it didn't have facial expressions, and it never made any noise.

The only times I ever interacted with Fishy were when I was sick in the middle of the night or when I woke up panicked from nightmares. Those times, if I looked at it intently, Fishy would methodically start drifting along the wall towards my parents' bedroom; around the corner, out the door, and down the hall. As soon as he was out of sight, I'd start calling for Mom (as in: "Mooooom, I'm gonna barrrrrf...") and she'd show up quickly (god bless ya, mom) to help me through it. Fishy would come back, though, as soon as I'd recovered. Then it would stare for the rest of the night, two days, or longer, in the direction of my parents' room.

It finally vanished when my sister was born in 1992. I was almost 8 years old by then, and I'd been ignoring Fishy for about a year, but not so much that I didn't notice it had learned to fly off the wall and visit the floor from time to time.

Ther ...


When I would stop drinking for a day or so, I was far enough along for Delirium Tremens to kick in. The ghost of my cat, Weasel, would appear to me, and walk the walls and the dresser. Between that and the auditory hallucinations, it convinced me to stop drinking for a bit. The momentary eye spiders are bad enough, but when your dead cat comes back and starts climbing the walls, and the BBC World Service all of a sudden starts playing 1960's Soul music, you start re-evaluating your life choices.
 
2020-10-31 2:04:21 PM  
6 votes:
A drive-by favorite..no title, no attribution but one to remember..

===   ===   ===

"Daddy, I had a bad dream."
You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness - it is 3:32 AM.
"Do you want to climb into bed and tell me about it?"
"No, Daddy."
The oddness of the situation wakes you up more fully. You can barely make out your daughter's pale form in the darkness of your room.
"Why not, sweetie?"
"Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy's skin sat up."
For a moment, you feel paralyzed; you cannot take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.
 
2020-10-31 1:35:45 PM  
6 votes:
A popular classic from way back in 2012..always asked for.

Was a mystery as to what happened to the author for some time after, but he finally posted an unpdate a year or two back..not having any luck finding it, at the moment..if someone else remembers where this might be, please post it..!

===   ===   ===

"Turkey Feathers" - by Tharkin

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

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

Some context:

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

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

Anyway:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So. I got inside, ate dinner with the wife and kids, cleaned the gun, etc. Nothing else the slightest bit out of the ordinary happened. If any of these things had happened in isolation I probably wouldn't have thought anything of it. But the fact that they all happened in just a few hours out in the woods during a storm while it was getting dark--yeah. Creepy. Creepy as hell. I'll be going back into that area this weekend early in the day. I can't say I'm not slightly apprehensive about it, but I did see lots of deer sign last night. It's too good a spot to stay away from. Plus I'm kind of curious--I'm going to try to find those feathers again, and go down the hill where I saw the animals come up to see if I can find anything unusual.
 
2020-10-31 12:07:35 PM  
6 votes:
I have no stories but the tuxedos wish to say Happy Halloween.
Fark user imageView Full Size

/scary bookmark
 
2020-10-30 5:26:57 PM  
6 votes:
Okay, two stories. Both true.

My great grandma was a solid presence when I was a kid. Would stay with her sometimes after school waiting for parents to pick me up after work. She had a distinct smell (not bad, just a certain perfume that she always wore).

Fast forward to adulthood, grandma had passed away many years prior. We live in a city, and my afternoon commute seemed to be at that certain time of day, driving into the sun... I was always so sleepy. Anyway, one day I'm driving home and I believe I fell asleep. The next thing I know, I smelled this overwhelming smell of grandma. Woke me right up. Not a bad or scary story, but eerie.

And on the topic of eerie, this is the second story...

Fast forward again to just a few years ago. We have an aunt who is elderly and has undiagnosed dementia (undiagnosed because she refused to cooperate with doctors). We had been battling with her about everyday living for a couple years by then, but had settled her into a house that we felt would give her better access to care. But this move had been a final straw in many ways. We visited her every day, but one day I walked in and she was napping. Not uncommon. So I was sing songing her name to wake her up. She slowly opened her eyes, and they were colorless. She is looking at me with eyes that look like she was dead. She blinked a couple of times, and the color was back. Freaked me out. She passed away a couple weeks later.
 
2020-10-30 5:07:29 PM  
6 votes:
While on Covid lockdown we spent about a month at our cabin. The Mrs. had quit smoking and I was using a vape because I was laid off and nervous about the future. One afternoon I was standing at the toilet peeing and I wasn't holding on to the vape pen. It's one of those that has a cartridge that is held together with a magnet. So I'm standing there and all of a sudden the battery part of the pen drops into the toilet. I'm like that's weird. The very next second the cartridge part that was in my mouth flew into the toilet too. I reached into the toilet quickly to get them out, since that's the only nicotine delivery device I had. I rinsed it off and washed my hands.

I was just stunned. Thought I might have stroked out or something. A few minutes later the neighbors came over and we had a beer on the deck while distancing. The neighbor asked my why I had 2 scratch marks on the left side of my face?? And I was like what? I went in to look in the mirror and sure enough, I had 2 scratch marks on the left side of my face! I told them what happened and he said, he has seen the ghost of a kid in our house on a previous time out of the corner of his eye. Nothing happened since, but It kinda creeps me out re-telling this story. My Dad had died in November of last year, and her Mother died a few years ago. We kinda joke now that it was one of them trying to get me to quit smoking.
 
2020-11-01 2:14:02 PM  
5 votes:
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.
 
2020-10-31 8:50:46 PM  
5 votes:

Raoul Eaton: a particular individual: FNG: Wow, a few years ago this thread had 608 comments, even the fake "timmy doesn't live here anymore" hasn't shown up.

"Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore" is all true, up to the part where it isn't. Danny Nero shot my brother. Rick showed me the house. The attic was full of toys and clothes. Rick wouldn't stick around so I could rummage through the toys. We went back to his house, where he did his homework. He told me if I wanted to go back, then I should. "Keep telling yourself "there's no such thing as ghosts."" But I never went back. So, yeah, it's fake because it's fiction. But that experience stuck with me. A few years ago, I had a dream that I discovered a cave high up on a cliff, and it was filled with old treasures, but I knew the Devil lived there, and I had better not investigate. It was much later that I connected it to Danny's house.

That is the best disturbing creepy story I have ever read, and I've been an avid reader for 58 years.  It creeps me out more than H.P. Lovecraft, even after reading it multiple times over the years.  Damn is it well written.  I hope you register the copyright and see if someone will buy the film rights.


Wow. Thanks. That is high praise.

I wrote it just for the Fark thread, weeks before Halloween. After Halloween, I kept tinkering with it. Every night, I'd read it in bed with a pencil and make corrections. Strunk and White taught me a lot.

I started another one last February or so. Never finished it, partly because it was getting too long. It's also all true, up to a point. Here's the first half. The second half, if I ever write it, will be much scarier. And the whole thing will be less wordy. This is a first draft of half a story. Yes, it's already too long.

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Triton's Trumpet, Charon's Eye

I can see two tiny pictures of myself
And there's one in each of your eyes. 
And they're doin' everything I do.
Every time I light a cigarette, they light up theirs.
I take a drink and I look in and they're drinkin' too.
It's drivin' me crazy. It's drivin' me nuts.

--Laurie Anderson, "Sharkey's Night"

They flutter behind you, your possible pasts
Some bright-eyed and crazy, some frightened and lost
A warning to anyone still in command
Of their possible future to take care

--Pink Floyd, "Your Possible Pasts"

I see the shell, and know it's in my future. This causes me to contain the smallest of laughs, because owning such a frivolous curio is out of the question. $65 is an absurd sum to pay for a mere ornament. Anyway, I'm shopping for Dad, not myself. Christmas is three days away and I still haven't found what I'm looking for: a silver coffee scoop to replace the one that went missing this summer. Focus, Adam. 'Tis the season.

The shell should be mine, that much is indisputable. I must have it. But I won't. I can't have everything, and some things are better to want than to have. The laugh is how I know that somehow, I will own it. I laughed the same way when I learned that Pink Floyd was releasing a trove of deep tracks in an absurdly priced box set. I couldn't justify paying $435 for such an extravagance, but by the end of that summer, it was mine. Sure, I had to sell my collection of bootleg Pink Floyd vinyl, an enviable collection in itself, but almost everything in my collection was in that box, with Floyd's imprimatur and studio-quality sound. I laughed when I imagined owning it, and then I owned it. Somehow, I would own this shell. Hell, when I sold my vinyl I wound up not only with the box set, but also another box set (Wish You Were Here) and a check for $500. Maybe the shell will bring good fortune, too.

I put it out of my mind, but I could see it when I closed my eyes. Forget it. Not mine.
I never did find the coffee scoop. In the end, I settled on a stainless steel scoop from a shop that sells high-end kitchen supplies. Tasteful, but not fancy. It would have to do.

My brother, Mark, flew in from Chicago the next day. He comes every Christmas, heads home before the new year. This year he's staying till the second of January.

Let's get this on the table: I'm a cliche. I'm 55 years old, unemployed, and I live in my parents' basement. Again, not still. A few years ago, my graphic design business tanked and the best option at the time was to bite the bullet and accept Mom & Dad's offer of my old room back. It wasn't the first time I moved back home for financial reasons. It's probably the last, though. It looks like I'm here to stay. I haven't held a job since 2015, unless you count helping out around the house as a job, and Dad's credit card as a wage. I'm a recovering alcoholic, I have a mild case of Asperger's, and a personality that can charitably be described as challenging. At my age, my employment opportunities are limited to jobs I don't want and probably couldn't keep anyway. I used to be good at getting jobs. Keeping them was always the problem, but that's how I got good at getting them. Bear with me. This is relevant to the story, or I wouldn't waste your time with it.

In my basement domain, I have a bedroom where I do most of my sleeping, and a living area where I keep my computer and entertainment system, which is all the same thing. The 40-inch TV doubles as computer monitor. When I'm not walking Larry the hound or watching a movie, I'm probably sitting in my recliner surfing the internet, most likely at Fark.com or one of the news sites it links to. This is my "command center," though I don't really call it that. I stole that from Kevin Smith's character in Live Free Or Die Hard. It is a nice setup, though. And when I quit drinking, I finally saw what a wreck I had made of the rest of the basement, so I threw out loads of crap I no longer gave a single shiat for. Things that used to be important had turned to clutter. I dragged my records and turntable to the command center and started working in earnest on my Wall.

My Wall is my museum of mostly naturalist knick-knacks, like exotic seed pods and seashells. I love seashells. I love the sea, too, and spending my life land-locked has probably contributed to this. I couldn't care less about ships or beach scenes, but the creatures the oceans have concocted fascinate me. As a child I had a fixation on rubber monsters, and bugs, and bones, and anything natural that made me go "wow." I taught myself to read with the help of an insect book when I was 5. When I was 21 I gave away the rubber monsters--an ice-chest full--to the kids on the special-ed school bus where I was The Enforcer for the driver. But I still collect bones and feathers and pine cones and seashells. Until this Christmas, my favorite was my chambered nautilus, which holds a prominent spot right above my TV. The wall also holds a couple of starfish, an urchin, a coral, and various other specimens of marine life. It's almost a coincidence that I have so many shells. I never set out to make them a theme. I never bothered to look up their names. I just like their shapes, their implausible elegance, their other-ness.

I just realized I have only one skull in my menagerie, which used to include a dog skull, a beaver skull, a fox skull, a gopher skull, giant snapping turtle skull, even a rhesus monkey skull. I had a frog skeleton, now long-gone. (I wanted a human skull, still do, but alas...*) Today all I have is a partial dog or wolf skull that a friend found in the mud many years ago when Lake Helena was drained for a summer. The cranium is gone along with the bridge of the nose; the missing parts have been replaced with seashells: a cowry in the brainpan, a trio of long, conical snails for the snout, a fossil nautilus for the nose, mussel-shell ears, and a pair of whelks (one left-handed!) to give it wild, spiral eyes. I call it "Nautical Dog." Maybe some day I'll build the rest of the skeleton from coral and other seashells.

Fun Fact: The words "shell" and "skull" are related etymologically, but not to "skeleton." I have a thing for word origins. If you know me, you know that. But I digress.

My Wall: I had been working on it, arranging and rearranging things on it, finding long-lost shells and whatnot as I cleaned up a decade of alcoholic squalor. As boxes in the back of the basement emptied, my Wall filled. It was becoming a minor hobby. My interest in seashells was rekindling. Mark came on the 23rd, and we went Christmas-shopping for Mom and Dad on Christmas Eve. We were walking to the antiques store where I had found the shell a couple of days prior.

"So, I found something that I want, but can't have," I told Mark.
"What's that?"
"A seashell. You'll see it. It's huge." I held my hands about 16 inches apart to show him. "But it's too expensive. I've decided to just make it something I want. Sometimes wanting something is better than having it."
"How much?"
I paused. "65 bucks." I knew damned well 65 bucks is pocket change to him, especially around Christmas.
"Well, we'll have to get it for you." I knew he would say this. That's why I told him. It was true, what I said. I really had decided to relegate the shell to desire. I was comfortable wanting something unattainable. But I also knew that if I said I want it, Mark would say I could have it. Mark is a good brother. Mark has money. Mark lives in a condo in downtown Chicago where he owns a lucrative market-research company, and he's feeling generous. "I had a bad year," he told me. "I only took home 350 thousand." He made sure I knew he was humble-bragging. I didn't mind. He's entitled.

And that's how I got the shell. The day before Christmas, I already had the best gift of what would turn out to be my best haul of Christmas loot since I was a kid. We did our shopping, went home, and as soon as I was inside, I said

"Look what Mark got me." I eagerly ripped off the wrapping to show Mom & Dad the shell. They reacted as I expected: "Wow!" I held it out to them, turning it in my hands. A cone the size of a cartoon turkey drumstick, its gaping mouth bright coral-pink, on the outside cream with chocolate horseshoe hashmarks spiralling in parallel tracks around its circumference. Above the mouth an elegant "fin" with scalloped edge. The shell is beautiful by itself, but its size magnifies its beauty, making it almost comically eye-catching. To demonstrate its dimensions I inserted my left hand well past the wrist. Later I would measure it. It's 15-1/2 inches from tip to tip, and 19 inches around.

"You certainly needed that," said Mom.
"Right? I don't even know what I'll do with it. It's too big to fit on the wall. It's gonna need its own place"
"You'll find a place for it," Dad said, grinning. Mark stood there looking pleased. 
We went about the Christmas routine, putting up the tree, noshing on the cornucopia of our holiday kitchen. I kept the shell in sight, admiring its brobdingnagian proportions. Mine!

Later that evening I had an idea. I went to the basement and returned with a small battery-powered, goose-neck, LED desk lamp I had picked up at the dollar store. The goose-neck fit neatly into the fold above the mouth, the lamp well into the second turn of the spiral. The base hung off the corner of the mouth. I pressed the button on the base and the shell lit up in  a golden glow, pink light spilling from the mouth.

"Well, this needs to be a thing," I said. "I can take off the base and wire it to a USB cord. You won't even be able to see it." Everyone agreed it had to be done.

I don't consider myself a sculptor, but I do make what I call sculptures. Most recently I had made "Lantern," three cubes of different size, each with an LED-illuminated center. The largest, a 6-inch angle-iron cube, contains a paper Japanese lantern that glows blue. The next, a 4-inch photo cube, contains a tonn shell, paper-thin and the size of a golf ball, ridged like the lantern, with a red LED inside. The smallest is only a couple of inches, black plastic, with a triangular bivalve shell hiding a yellow LED. It sits on the bureau in my bedroom, where I admire its angular simplicity. When the lights are off, the things the cubes are all white. When it's turned on, the primary colors appear. It's a so-called triptych like some of my other arrangements. I like to arrange similar things in sets of three in ways that complement each other.

I have another sculpture, called "Thing 1." It's made of three fragments of broken, eroded seashells, smooth as river stones, glued together to form a creature that resembles a snail becoming a rosebud rearing up from the table. An inch of a starfish arm protrudes from the tip of the "rose," completing the arc of its body, like an antenna or proboscis. I like this piece quite a bit, but I mention it only because it's made of seashells, and I was telling you about my sculptures. I'll get back to the story now.

Fun Fact: the words sculpture and scalpel are related etymologically. Sorry. The story.

I arrange things and think of these arrangements as sculptures. Nautical Dog is one. My Wall contains several groups of three. Now I'm experimenting with lights. Putting the LED lamp into the shell was not just a logical progression; it was inevitable. I had bought the lamp for an as-yet-unknown sculpture. I had been going to the dollar store scavenging for parts, especially LEDs for Lantern. This shell would be not just an ornament, but a sculpture. I was going to do something with it. That night, when the family were all in bed, I showed it off on Total Fark. People admired it, called it a neat thing. Then it got too late even for Total Fark. I sat there gazing at the glowing shell. Its pink maw needed something in it. Nothing seemed like a good idea. You need to be able to see inside. Whatever goes in there needs to be simple. My mind kept returning to the same bad idea: the Fushigi ball I had unearthed when I was cleaning up the basement. A Fushigi ball is about the size of a baseball, a quarter-inch of clear acrylic around a reflective core the color of hematite. It's for contact juggling, which is fun to watch, but I had no interest in learning. Mom had given it to me 20 years ago for Christmas, for some reason, and it had remained in its box since. I planned to get rid of it this spring with a lot of other crap. Have a garage sale and make a few bucks to clear out the basement. My mind kept returning to it, and kept rejecting it. It would look tacky. It would serve no purpose. It would look like someone had stuck a plastic ball into a seashell.
I tried other things: a smaller seashell, Thing 1, the seashell rose-snail sculpture. That actually looked pretty cool, the Thing slithering out. It looked cool, but I wanted to keep them separate. Finally, having tried everything else, I fetched the Fushigi ball and placed it into the mouth.

Ho. Lee. shiat. It's not a mouth. It's an eye. It's a huge, glowing eye with a cornea and an iris and a pupil. The pink behind it added a feverish quality to its unblinking gaze. Not only was the Fushigi ball a good thing to put in there, as far as I was concerned it was the only thing that belonged in there. Nothing in the house could be as appropriate or look as cool as this. The lines above it look exactly like eyelashes. Oh my God, it's perfect. I emitted a small laugh, as I had when I lied to myself that I wouldn't own the shell. This was going to actually be something significant, as far as these things go. Something I could display, that would make others go "wow." The Fushigi ball was the best bad idea I had ever had.

I heard Mom get up, as she does late at night. She made her way down the hall and down the stairs to the basement. Sometimes she has restless legs and needs to walk it off. When she reached the landing I said "Check this out" and directed her to the eye shell thing.
"Wow." She ooohed like she does when she sees something both interesting and scary, like a video of a tornado or a ball of sea snakes. "Creeeepy."

"Creepy but beautiful," I said. "Take a look up close." She stooped over it and studied the detail. "See how it reflects the inside of the shell, and the lip? It's like you're inside looking out. The pupil is what's outside the shell; the iris is the opening. The way the light refracts through the outside makes it look like the cornea. Look how there's a second reflection on the surface of the plastic. So much is going on in there."

"It's really very convincing," she said. "And the opening of the shell is a perfect eye shape. Amazing."
We commented on it some more and she agreed it was worth pursuing. She went back to bed, I stared at my new sculpture-in-progress, and finally had to turn in. It was 2:00 on Christmas morning. I slept well and awoke around 9:00. Before we even started opening the presents I brought up the shell-eye thing and showed Mark and Dad. Yep, they had to admit, it's pretty cool.

"I need a stand for it. Something elegant. It can't just lie there; something needs to prop up the end. Something natural, something I can put on the floor, that'll elevate the shell. But it can't compete with the shell."
"Like what?" Dad asked.
"Deer antlers, maybe." I thought I knew where to get some for free. Where to buy some, if not. But it's Christmas; let's do the Christmas thing and I'll think about it. That evening, when the family were watching TV, I sat at the kitchen table with my soldering iron and wire cutters and attached a USB cable to the lamp, eliminating the base with the batteries. A wedge of eraser jammed into the fold at the corner of the eye kept the lamp firmly in place. I could adjust its position, and it would hold. Perfect.

At some point, I decided to learn about the shell. I always do this when I get a new frog or carnivorous plant or whatever. I like to know what I'm dealing with. Google quickly turned up pictures of Charonia tritonis. Triton's trumpet. Common around the southern Indo-Pacific oceans. One of the largest gastropods on Earth. The shells are used as actual trumpets in many cultures. They're highly collectible. Ones like mine were available on Ebay for around $300. I WAS NOT looking up the value of my Christmas gift. OK? That information came with the information I was really after. Still: What a steal for $65. That made me like it even more. It was valuable--Mark never would have bought it for me at $300--but also a great deal. Mark would appreciate this fact, and did.

Fun Fact: The genus of the snail, Charonia, is named after Charon, the mythological ferryman on the river Styx. According to Wikipedia, "The name Charon is most often explained as a proper noun from χάρων (charon), a poetic form of χαρωπός (charopós), "of keen gaze", referring either to fierce, flashing, or feverish eyes, or to eyes of a bluish-gray color. The word may be a euphemism for death."

So there's that.

The more I thought about it, the more antlers seemed like the best option for the stand. Next day I went on an errand. The free antlers weren't there anymore. Dammit. Plan B. Pacific Steel & Recycling, formerly Pacific Hide & Fur. It turned out they still had a few antlers left from the old days. Guy said I was the first one he'd seen come in for antlers in the seven years he'd been there. We chatted while I rummaged through the three shopping carts full of them, and when I had selected three antlers I thought I could use, I paid a pittance for two pounds and headed home.

The stand almost flew together. Once I found the most stable position for the large antler, it was easy to arrange the other two, using hose clamps to hold them in place as I situated the shell on them. Within 15 minutes, I had epoxy putty in place. I walked Larry the hound and came back an hour later and took the hose clamps off; the epoxy had cured enough that they weren't necessary. And while the stand did support the eye shell thing, I didn't like it. The antlers looked too much like the legs of some alien crustacean. Instead of gracefully elevating the shell, they gave it repose. I had wanted the shell to be its own separate thing; now it was half of something else. The eye peered up like it was clocking whoever approached it. I mean, I wanted creepy, but elegant creepy. This was just creepy-creepy.

Do something else. I wanted to see if I could get more light farther back in the cone of the shell. Toward this end, I bought some transparent plastic beads at the Good Samaritan and poured them into the shell so they fell into the pointy end. Indeed, they refracted some more light into the shell's depths, illumimating another turn of the spiral. That was worth the trip to the store. I still had my doubts about the stand, though. What do Mark and Dad think?

"Did-a-check?" said Mark. Dad and I laughed. 
"Dud-a-chum?" said Dad. They were referring to the lobstrosities in Stephen King's The Drawing of the Three. The crustacean monsters that come out at sunset and scuttle over the beach, imploring "Did-a-chick? Dad-a-chack? Dud-a-chum?" The things that took off two of Roland's fingers right at the beginning of the book. And while those things were clearly described as resembling lobsters, and this looked like nothing more than a hermit crab gone terribly wrong, close enough. The comparison was apt.
"Dad-a-chick?" I said. 
Mark and Dad went back upstairs. I stood there staring at it for awhile, trying to decide what do do. I gazed deeply into its eye. Dud-a-chum? 
"I don't like it," I told Mom. It's not at all what I was going for. It wasn't supposed to look like a crab."
"What are you going to do?" asked Mom.
"I guess I tear it apart and rebuild it. Maybe get a couple more antlers." I put it off, decided instead to play with the plaster casting kit I got for Christmas. Maybe I can make a cast of my hand, and use that as a stand. Like that M. C. Escher drawing of the artist holding a reflective sphere. That might look cool. It might look trite. One way to find out. I went to the shell and lifted it from the stand and held it just so. Memorizing that position, I mixed up the alginate mold-making stuff, and stuck my hand into it, holding it as I had before. In about 10 minutes I worked my hand out of the mold and mixed up the plaster and poured it in. Directions said to take it out of the mold in an hour. I took Larry the hound for a walk and came back in less than an hour. In that time, I had gotten excited about the hand-stand. I could see it in my mind. When I get excited, I get impatient. I wanted to see my hand holding that shell. The plaster was hard, but still damp. I scratched it with my fingernail. It should be hard enough. I tapped it. Sounded solid. Screw it, I can do this. Most of the mold came off easily. Looking good. This is going to be really cool. But as I tried to extract the last two fingers, the index and middle, they snapped off. shiat. I removed the rest of the alginate and sized up the results: A good cast, fine detail. Not bad for a first try. Maybe I can glue back the fingers. Then I realized they were the same ones the lobstrosities had taken from Roland on the beach.

Dud-a-chum?

I set the damaged hand aside, cleaned up the mess, and returned to the matter of the antler stand. How easy will it be to tear it apart from the epoxy putty? That stuff is pretty strong. And how many more antlers would it take to make the stand I imagined? Is it even possible with antlers? Maybe I just write it off and go with the hand.
That problem fixed itself. After some time away, I kind of liked the mutant hermit crab look. Whatever my previous feelings, the pieces fit together well. The antler prongs followed the shell's contours without interfering with it. The legs were pleasingly spaced and sized. And it creates a context. It's no longer abstract; it's downright representational. Fine, let the stand be part of the sculpture. My intuition when I assembled it had been good; it was my original premise that was flawed. Yes, this will do nicely. I stared at it, looking deeper and deeper into the hematite pupil, past the reflections on the surface and into the spherical world inside. Ded-a-check. I'd do something else with the hand. I went to the work room, opened the drawer below the counter and took out a bottle of Super Glue and attached the fingers to the hand. The glue held without a seam. Dad-a-chack. It looked like my hand would fare better than Roland's. I had a moment of deja-vu. I could have sworn I had just done this. Weird. I went back to look at the sculpture some more. To look into its eye, past the reflections on the surface and into the spherical world it contained. As I stared into it, my eyes played a trick on me; the curvature seemed to reconcile, to straighten and gain color. My vision swam and I felt a sensation of flipping, as if I were trading places with my reflection, looking out from the shell into the basement at myself looking into the shell. I blinked and my vision was steady. I was outside looking in again. I turned to go upstairs and let my mind clear. On the way, I glanced into the workroom where the plaster cast of my hand lay, minus the index and middle fingers, which were lying beside it on the counter.

What the what now?

I approached the hand. Picked up a finger. Examined the base. No glue. Nor on the other finger. I opened the drawer below the counter and took out the bottle of Super Glue and attached the fingers to the hand. The glue held without a seam. I convinced myself that I had pictured the act so vividly in my mind that it seemed real. A little reverie brought on by too much creativity. Sure. Whatever makes you feel good. Let's get a cup of coffee.
The thing about obsession is it doesn't seem like an obsession to the one who contracts it. It just seems like an interest, a strong interest for sure, but one anyone would share if they only took the time to appreciate its vector. I've had my periodic obsessions: Pink Floyd, the book S. by Doug Dorst (there should be a warning label: "Persons on the spectrum should not read this book."), a poem about clouds but not really, that I wrote back in June. All fine obsessions. The poem hit me especially hard. When I was done, I went through a sort of post-partum depression. I felt like I needed to cry, but had no reason to. Then a good friend died, and I was able to cry and release the accumulated emotional waste that had built up in my system. And now I was becoming obsessed with the shell eye thing sculpture. I can see that now. My eyes are open.

That evening, the day after Christmas, I took some photos of it and posted a thread on Total Fark Discussion, titled "Lookit what I made." It went over well. In fact, the thread got so many thumbs-up votes that it was mentioned in the end-of-the-year Fark NotNewsletter.

"A particular individual made a new friend," it said. And, because I am a shameless, self-promoting attention whore, I posted photos of it every chance I got. Total Farkers reading this are nodding right now. They saw me do the same thing when I got Larry the hound, and when I wrote that cloud poem, and now with that damned eye shell thing.

Fun Fact: I installed a word-substitution plug-in on my Web browser. When I view Fark, "Submit a Link" has been replaced with "Embarrass Yourself." This is supposed to make me think twice before I post something. It rarely does. Total Farkers are nodding their heads again.

It needed a name. Driving home one day, thinking about how it's a trumpet and it's an eye, I remembered a French term for a kind of 3D art that's so convincing it "deceives the eye." Trompe l'oeil. What's French for trumpet? Turns out, it's trompette. I tried on "Trompette L'oeil," and didn't really dig it. Too many syllables. But isn't "trompe" also just a word for trumpet? Yes, it is. And so it is that the official title for this particular work of art is Trompe L'oeil (Trumpet Eye).

Fun Fact: The French word "trompe," "to deceive," comes from the word "trompe," meaning "trumpet." According to some etymologies, snake-oil salesmen (or the French variant of  them) would set up their wagons and blow a trumpet to get the attention of the rubes they were about to con. And this is where we get the English words "trump" and "trumpery." I'm just throwing that out there. Make of it what you will.

*Poor Yorick
 
FNG [TotalFark]
2020-10-31 3:12:06 PM  
5 votes:
Thanks for keeping the thread alive CAT-LIKE :)
 
2020-10-31 2:02:52 PM  
5 votes:
I don't know how spooky this is but...

When we bought out first house, it was in the city (Chicago) It was a two flat with a garden "apartment". We lived on the first floor and rented out the garden apartment and the upstairs apartment. When we moved in there were tenants in both. They mentioned hearing noises and stuff but I wrote it off. The house at the time was 106 years old, everyone had dogs and/or cats, and it was the city where everyone is living on top of each other so ...

The first thing I noticed was in the room we had set up as the office in out unit. We had one of those fake trees/plants in there. It was about 6 feet tall or so. And every once in a while I would hear it rustle like some had walked by and brushed against it. I would look back and see some of the leaves moving. Problem was it was in the back corner of the room and not in walking path. Plus I was usually alone. The house also had radiator heat and no window so it wasn't caused by HVAC or a breeze or anything like that.

We also had a security system and I kept getting calls at work that the alarm was going off from a tripped motion detector. I assumed the dogs were setting them off despite ADTs assurances they wouldn't. I still think it was the dogs but who knows. We eventually just got rid of the motion detectors.

At one point both rental units were empty. We did some minor renovations on the upstairs until like refinishing the hardwood floors and updating some appliances and the fixing up the bathroom and stuff like that. I would work on it on nights and weekends when I wasn't working. That's when the noises caught my attention. I would still hear people coming and going on the back and front stairs, soap bottles and tools and stuff I left laying around would tumble into the sink or tub or onto the floor. My wife didn't hear anything which isn't surprising. She's one of those oblivious people that could get hit by a train she didn't hear coming.

Then one night we were sitting watching TV and she finally heard it from the unit above us. It sounded like a child running across the floor. You know, like a toddler running around with those little hard soled shoes they wear. I looked over at her and she was looking at me with eyes as wide as saucers. I said "SEE!"

Things happened the whole time we lived there but most of it was meh so we were never afraid to live there.

Weird noises, lights being on that I was sure I turned off, stuff falling off of ledges or shelves etc. A lot of it I could rationalize as being just an old, crooked house. Whether or not that was the case i don't know. There were definitely some things that happened that I couldn't rationalize.

/csb
 
2020-10-31 12:40:30 PM  
5 votes:
Another thing.

I don't really believe in ghosts or anything.  I'm an atheist.  But, I will admit sometimes things happen that seem odd.  The rational part of me knows its all likely coincidence.  I posted above about my purportedly haunted house, but really I never saw anything, except for the tap on my shoulder.  Could have been nerves etc.

One time we went to massachusetts to visit my wife's childhood friend.  We were staying at their house they had recently bought and renovated.

We were sleeping in the guest room, and just before I dozed off, I realized something.  The room was eerily still.  At first I shrugged it off as being from nyc and trying to sleep in suburban mass.  But something else seemed off.  Kirk the room was bright and new and renovated.  But I could "feel" that was not the real nature of that room.  As if the renovations were just wall hangings or something, and could not mask the heavy stillness.  Before I dozed off I almost said to my wife "it feels like someone died in this room".


At breakfast the next day we were discussing the house with her friend and how they came to buy the house.  They got it a for a good price, because it had previously been owned by a guy who was a bit of a loner and the neighborhood crank who would tell at kids for riding their bikes in front of his house. Apparently he was also a bit of a hoarder.  They also informed us he had died in the house.  In the room we slept in.
 
2020-10-31 12:18:05 PM  
5 votes:
Not ghost related but....

#1 Growing up in the 80's there was this house across the street from us that was always empty. One day a family moved in and we were excited to have some new kids in the neighborhood to play with. There was a boy about 10 and a girl about 8. After getting the courage to go over there we find out that they were from Chile and spoke no English. They were nice enough and we would still ride bikes in the neighborhood and do general kid stuff even though we did not understand each other. Then one day we go over to their house and they were gone. Like moved out in the middle of the night gone. We had just seen them the day before and then poof gone. To a little kid this was so odd but later I realized that they were probably illegals that were trying to stay one step ahead of the law. Chile in the 80's was run by a pretty bad dude name Pinochet so getting sent back would have been bad news. I often wonder what happened to them. My parents still live in the same house and they never came back.
#2 In the early 90's I went to SMSU (MO State) for a time. I had a buddy who invited me to a party at his friends house which was a few miles away from the dorm I was living in. I decided to go but I would have to walk since I did not have a car at the time. Even though Springfield is a pretty big town, if you walk for 20 minutes in any direction you may find yourself out in the sticks. So i start walking by myself on a freezing clear winter night. After about 15 minutes of walking down this empty street in the cold I happen to look up at the sky which was crystal clear without a cloud and I see this brown oval shaped thing floating across the sky ahead of me from my right to left. It had no lights and it made no sound. I would say it was about 100 feet up and travelling at a pretty high rate of speed. Again, this was a crystal clear night and there were no clouds out. It was travelling to fast to be a cloud anyway. I finally lost sight of it behind some trees and then ran the rest of the way to the party. I think I begged everyone there for a ride home after so I did not have to walk down that street again. There is probably not a week that goes by that I don't think of that night.
 
2020-10-30 1:03:41 PM  
5 votes:

Turing_Machine: Oh, and sorry for being MIA last year.  2020 hit us a bit early, but I'm back.


I was worried when you didn't submit a thread last year, but I'm glad to see you back!
 
2020-10-31 2:36:49 PM  
4 votes:
I'm off t'do CAT-LIKE things, for now..  Everyone have a great Halloween Day and Eve..I'll pop back in here and there, definitely for the wrap-up long after the candy-seeking (is anyone still doing that this year?) ghouls and gremlins have quit the dark for the safety of their homes..
 
2020-10-31 2:03:12 PM  
4 votes:

echo5juliet: 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 stuff in the middle of the road. As I approach I slow down to see a red Pontiac Fiero stopped sideways across both lanes, a suitcase open with clothes scattered everywhere and two bodies laying face down in the road, a man and a woman.

I stop a hundred feet or so away and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. Being a Marine, I reach under the seat and pull out a 9mm pistol and chamber a round. Something seemed very wrong, it looked too perfect as if it were staged. An ambush? Was I being paranoid? Something was just wrong. Getting out of the car seemed unthinkable, it was the horror movie move.

As I scanned the road I saw a line I could drive. Pass the guy in the road on his left, swerve to the right side of the woman, behind the Fiero and I'd be on the other side. I dropped it into first gear, punched it and drove the line I planned.

I passed the back of the Fierro without hitting it or either of the bodies in the road. I continued forward a couple hundred feet and slowed down so I could breathe and let my heart slow down. As I looked up into the rearview mirror I saw that the two bodies had gotten up to their knees and twenty or so people emerged from the tall grass on either side of the road by the car and bodies. One of them, presumably the leader of the group, walked out a few feet ahead of the others and glared at me. It was Bill Murray. He said, "no one will ever believe you".

At that moment my right foot smashed the gas pedal to the floor and did not let up until I had to slowdown for the I-40 east onramp.

I will never know what would have happened to me had I gotten out of the car to check on the bodies or stopped my car closer to them. Somehow I do not think it would have been good. Sometimes real life can be scarier than a movie.

Did somebody mumble my name?


Hey, there you are!

I hope you can forgive my small embellishment. I couldn't resist.
 
2020-10-31 2:01:49 PM  
4 votes:

CAT-LIKE TYPING DETECTED: echo5juliet: Did somebody mumble my name?

Happy Pumpkin Day..!

Haven't seen you in..well, at least as long as I've been gone..    =P


Still lurking. 16 year later, a few gray hairs, a little more scotch damage to the liver. Don't get much Fark time anymore, real life is an evil taskmaster.
 
2020-10-31 1:11:52 PM  
4 votes:

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 stuff in the middle of the road. As I approach I slow down to see a red Pontiac Fiero stopped sideways across both lanes, a suitcase open with clothes scattered everywhere and two bodies laying face down in the road, a man and a woman.

I stop a hundred feet or so away and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. Being a Marine, I reach under the seat and pull out a 9mm pistol and chamber a round. Something seemed very wrong, it looked too perfect as if it were staged. An ambush? Was I being paranoid? Something was just wrong. Getting out of the car seemed unthinkable, it was the horror movie move.

As I scanned the road I saw a line I could drive. Pass the guy in the road on his left, swerve to the right side of the woman, behind the Fiero and I'd be on the other side. I dropped it into first gear, punched it and drove the line I planned.

I passed the back of the Fierro without hitting it or either of the bodies in the road. I continued forward a couple hundred feet and slowed down so I could breathe and let my heart slow down. As I looked up into the rearview mirror I saw that the two bodies had gotten up to their knees and twenty or so people emerged from the tall grass on either side of the road by the car and bodies. One of them, presumably the leader of the group, walked out a few feet ahead of the others and glared at me. It was Bill Murray. He said, "no one will ever believe you".

At that moment my right foot smashed the gas pedal to the floor and did not let up until I had to slowdown for the I-40 east onramp.

I will never know what would have happened to me had I gotten out of the car to check on the bodies or stopped my car closer to them. Somehow I do not think it would have been good. Sometimes real life can be scarier than a movie.
 
2020-10-31 11:06:37 AM  
4 votes:
One of the creepiest movies of the 1980s was one called THE HITCHER, with Rutger Hauer. If you have seen it, you know the movie I am talking about, and if you live in the US Southwest, you really know what I am talking about.

The US Southwest has been a playground for serial killers long before Route 66 opened and closed. It can be a creepy place for outlaws of all kinds, and that did not really change when caravans of covered wagons gave way to endless lines of stationwagons full of kids on summer vacation.

I have some stories. I have driven from Denver to different destinations in California 20 times or more. Once I drove from Denver to Santa Ana in 13 hours in a very nondescript vehicle. I achieved that magic by taking no pee breaks. But I have some spooky stories. The fatigue of the trips always lends a patina to the memory that might not color my retelling of it. But weird stuff happens out in the desert that just does not seem to follow me when I get out of it.

On one of the trips, I was in a line of 7 or 8 cars all moving south into Las Vegas through the Valley of Fire. LV was still way over an hour away, but I had made that little passage out of Utah through Arizona and was now getting anxious to get checked into a hotel and play some blackjack at Binions.

Apparently so was everyone else. Once I had passed one or two cars and eased back on the accelerator a little, someone from behind would push the pedal down and pass a few cars to get to the head of the line. After a couple of rounds, everyone was picking up speed. I was in a crapped out Oldsmobile, but there was a Trans Am that was half gray-primer color with headers. Bwaaaaaah.... it would pass. There was the usual prick in a Corvette, and a Pinto and some others. All jockeying and moving down the road.

As they passed, you could get a look at the other guys in the cars. Pretty well everyone was driving alone. But the way the shadows worked in the late morning sun, you could kind of get a silhouette. Big deal. No babes. Nothing interesting. Crank up the stereo and roll on down the line.

Bwaaaaah. There went the Trans Am again. This time he was moving way way out in front. Four car lengths, 10 car lengths, 20 car lengths. Goodbye Trans Am. Leaving the slowpokes behind to limp along at 80 or  so. He was gone. But as I came over a hill, way up in the distance, I saw some white smoke, and moving up fast, I saw huge chunks of rubber shoot up and land on the highway. The Trans Am started to spin but he got control of it and moved it over to the right.

As the cars moved up, I and the Pinto guy stopped to make sure he was ok. I stopped a little in front and the Pinto a little behind. I could see that the guy was kind of shaken. There was no problem with his car other than the tire though. He rolled down his window and we talked a bit.

Then he opened the car door and got out. The guy from the Pinto had a weird reaction and kind of moved away from him. What? Was there a gun? What was going on? The Trans Am guy was wearing a cowboy hat and took it off as he turned to face the highway.

The right side of his face looked as though it had been melted, and the hair on half his head was gone. He had obviously been in some kind of horrible fire or accident at some time in his life. It was shocking. I am not the kind of guy to judge people by appearances, but it was just too weird at that time on that day. All of a sudden I felt really alone and figured that this guy could probably take care of himself well enough without my help.

After I made sure he was ok, I had to get out of there. I left him to the PInto guy. I had had too much caffeine and had driven too long.  I decided I needed to get some sleep and forget about Binions until I had gotten some.
 
2020-10-31 9:59:31 AM  
4 votes:
The United States held a presidential election on November 3, 2020. Incumbent President Donald Trump won in an absolute landslide with 538 electoral votes.
 
2020-10-30 8:28:10 PM  
4 votes:
I'm glad this thread is open now.  Seems earlier than some years which I appreciate.
I have always been a believer.  I can remember when I was young how distraught I was about the basement when I was growing up. I am the only person in a family of six children who is not an atheist. The basement in the home I grew up in has always been a dark place for me.  Hard to explain, but always there.  I've had many dreams about the "thing" in the basement.
I have experienced various phenomenon over my life.  Some of it has been wonderful (my dead mother coming into a dream) and some other wild experiences....I moved to Montreal in '85 and I was "pulled" here by the city.
The most recent experience involved the S/O who is Latino.  A complete different realm of belief.
The old apartment had many issues.  The building went from having such wonderful energy to being such a negative place as the residents changed. So many incidents that cannot be explained near the end. So we moved.
The new place has been quite neutral for 6 years.  There are places with energy and those that don't show any.  Until this year.
4 months ago he pointed out that something was keeping him awake.
It would poke him and grab his arm....preventing him from sleeping.
He would sleep with his rosary around his wrist and would then complain that "it" would pull at the rosary.
I kept saying it might be one of his medications.
This lasted for a few months.  I listened but did not understand. My first instinct is to try and prove the experience from a provable realm.
Then one early morning I went to go pee.  The bathroom isn't small.  The toilet is next to the shower.  The bathroom has no window.  As I was peeing I heard a growl coming from the shower stall to my right.  I froze.  I looked in that direction.   I was wide awake.
I freaked out and kept it hidden from him for a few days.  Finally I told him that I heard the growl. He had also heard it prior during some nights.
He had a priest bless our apartment.  I try to believe in all things but I felt a change after the blessing.
Since then no further events.
 
2020-10-30 2:45:49 PM  
4 votes:
I usually have one or two creepy things happen per year that I post about here. Some make better stories than others. I'm sure I'm missing a few, but the only thing that comes to mind right now is Jr. Geologist 2, not quite two years old, toddling around the front yard as we're putting up our Halloween decorations, saying "Hi, baby! Hi baby! Hi baby!" to all the ghosts.

So happy it's time for this thread again!
 
2020-10-30 1:45:46 PM  
4 votes:
Malik Abdullah met Cathal Ó Coileáin on the stony shoreline, the few occupants on the foggy shore and Malik's longboat looking around nervously. "Take your time moving the cargo, it is very heavy, we shielded it well." He continued in his heavy Lybian accent: "... We didn't want it easily seen by neutron detectors in town or from the new satellites". The crowd crossed themselves and went to work loading the large olive drab case into the lorry. Payment had already been exchanged and instructions were passed over. "I strongly recommend that you get someone who can read Rus to double-check the instructions, our original source in Turkmenistan didn't speak it as a first language."

The deal now concluded, Catal watched the skiff head back out into the grey and vanish. Soon and very soon, the accursed English and their lapdog would also likewise vanish into the ashes of history: Ireland is one island, and if the Reformed IRA couldn't free that last colonized corner from the damned Crown, then no onecould have that soil ever again.

"Pogue mo hoin ya fookin' bastards!" he cried out as the truck lurched forward, lumbering off towards Belfast. One way or another, this would be a Samhain bonefire that the world would never forget.
 
2020-11-01 2:49:53 PM  
3 votes:

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 9:49:25 AM  
3 votes:
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.
 
2020-10-31 10:13:16 PM  
3 votes:

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..



Oh, i get it now..you were trying to link to Tharkin's follow-up, but linked too high in the thread..  KK..

Here's the reply (replies) from last year's Halloween thread:

===   ===   ===

Today at work I got a Facebook message from a name I didn't recognize. It read simply " Were you Tharkin on Fark?" Well yes, I was, and still am I guess though I probably haven't posted in most of a decade. That feeling of "oh no, what did I do?" was probably the spookiest thing that's happened to me today (so far!)

Turns out she was following up on a story I posted in this very thread like 7 or 8 years ago. Pretty cool!  I'm about to take the kids out for trick or treat, but I'll check in later to read up on everyone's spooky stories this year.

----     ----     ----

a particular individual:  Hey! I actually got worried about you after your Halloween story. You said you were going back the next day, and that was it. I even posted a thread asking after you.

Your story reminded me a lot of Stephen King, especially Dream Catcher. Which was a terrible book. But your story creeped me the fark out.


Sorry for the worry!  I did go back shortly afterward.  In fact by now I've spent quite a bit of time in the general area.  I shot a deer some years ago not too far from where I saw the guy looking up at the trees and I've spent a night in a tent with my wife and kids in a clearing nearby.  I wish I had some cool follow-up story to tell, but the truth is I've never experienced anything weird there again.  That night was definitely bizarre though.  I'll pretty much chalk the animal behavior up to the storm.  Weird weather does weird things to animals, although I've never seen that particular behavior since.  The feathers?  I dunno.  It'd be easy enough to believe that someone out for a walk in the woods was just messing around if that area hadn't been such a dense thicket.  Not many people really go up there anyway outside of snowmobiling later in the winter.  It really seems like something that had to be done with intent by a person, but who knows?  Maybe it wasn't so thick in the springtime, or something.  It's weird but I guess it's not unfathomable. The guy though...I do wish I knew what was up with that guy.

hiredgoonz:

So you unintentionally created a fark Halloween thread legend...

/much respect


Hah, I was genuinely surprised to hear that anyone but me still remembered that story at all.  It's really been a thing all this time?  That's pretty cool.
 
2020-10-31 4:31:45 PM  
3 votes:

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.
 
2020-10-31 4:24:59 PM  
3 votes:
Many, many years ago I was riding a hare scrambles race: the Virginia City GP. I was on my fourth lap and dog-tired, yet determined to finish that lap. My brother had already crashed out and I was the only one in our crew still riding.

Weather was coming in. It had stated to rain a bit, with thunder and lightning making an appearance in the surrounding mountains. Quite spectacular. I was looking at this as I was flying down a fire road as fast as my KDX200 could take me - about 65mph tapped out.

What I *wasn't* looking at was a softball-sized rock dead-center in the road. Which I tagged at full clip. This rock sent me and the KDX into a wild tank-slapper wobble that rocketed me up the hillside - right into the waiting lava rocks much bigger than the one that had sent flying.

Somehow I managed to thread the needle, missing the rocks and kept it upright until I came to a stop. At that point I reflected on how ugly it could have gone, but by the grace of the unexplainable, didn't. It certainly wasn't due to skill on my part.

The kid on the Yamaha behind me couldn't believe it. He had bore witness to the almost-carnage, eyes as big as saucers. He rode up to me to make sure I was ok. All he could manage was 'awesome save!'

And it was.
 
2020-10-31 2:53:02 PM  
3 votes:
True story.
Back in the day when I was a young college age man, i worked at a Chicken Delight joint. Did food prep and delivery in a Nash Rambler with a giant chicken head on top and a sterno stove where the back seat should have been.
I got a delivery order for a house a bit out of our delivery area. It was a rainy night as I recall. The house was an old Victorian style house. I rang the doorbell. It was opened by an elderly woman in a long black dress. Not fancy....more like something Mrs. Danvers wore in "Rebecca". Of course her hair was in a bun. She asked me to wait in the living room while she fetched her purse. I entered the living room and to my astonishment saw 9 washing machines in a semi circle, equally spaced. The were unplugged and not running. The rest of the furnishings were quite nice....oriental rugs, great curtains and lamps, etc.
The lady came back into the room with her purse and I noticed she seemed to glide along the floor. The long dress came down to the floor. She gave me a handsome tip and I left as quickly as I could.
 
2020-10-31 2:22:48 PM  
3 votes:
My son is 4 and is in the phase where he says creepy weird stuff, like telling his daddy about the people who have triangle heads and no mouths. Or he'll say that sometimes people eat humans, a bull shark's favorite food is old people, etc. A couple of things he has said were true that he would have no way of knowing.

May 2018: I had a positive pregnancy test, we were going to have baby #2. My son was not yet 2 at this time. A few weeks later I miscarried. My husband is the only other person to know about the miscarriage, didn't really say anything to anyone about it because I hadn't been that far along. We did eventually (and recently) have baby #2; she is 9 weeks old. About a month ago, my son tells Daddy that he loves his baby sister and he's glad we get to keep her because his baby brother died and we didn't get to keep him.

A few months ago my son told his Daddy that food lady's husband died (she cooks the food at his daycare). My husband asked me about it since I work at the daycare part-time and thought that I would know something about it. I didn't know and asked one of the teachers at the daycare about it. Food lady's husband died six years ago. A few weeks later I saw food lady and she mentioned my son; it weirded her out that he had said her husband had died because she never mentioned the man in front of my son's group. It's possible that he overheard some kids say that the lady's husband was in heaven but she hadn't talked about him at work in several months.
 
2020-10-31 1:49:40 PM  
3 votes:
Short but sweet..always a Fan-favorite..!

===   ===   ===

"Fishy" - by Quexy

Psychosis or ghost story, I don't know.

When I was little, probably about four or five years old, I had an imaginary "friend" (I think.) It was yellow and about four feet tall (taller than me at the time), bipedal, and had oversized eyes that always looked straight ahead otherwise, relatively human and naked. I called the thing "Fishy." The wierdest thing, though, was it scared the hell out of me. I didn't want anything to do with it, and I couldn't imagine, as a child, that it was coming from inside my head.

It "walked" (more like skated along) on the walls in the rooms of our house, and apparently could not leave those surfaces. I knew that if I played outside, it could only follow me to the limits of the garage. It always followed me, too, even though I often told it not to. I had difficulty concentrating on drawing things or reading because Fishy was always standing somewhere on the wall, looking over my shoulder. It did not ever sit down, it didn't have facial expressions, and it never made any noise.

The only times I ever interacted with Fishy were when I was sick in the middle of the night or when I woke up panicked from nightmares. Those times, if I looked at it intently, Fishy would methodically start drifting along the wall towards my parents' bedroom; around the corner, out the door, and down the hall. As soon as he was out of sight, I'd start calling for Mom (as in: "Mooooom, I'm gonna barrrrrf...") and she'd show up quickly (god bless ya, mom) to help me through it. Fishy would come back, though, as soon as I'd recovered. Then it would stare for the rest of the night, two days, or longer, in the direction of my parents' room.

It finally vanished when my sister was born in 1992. I was almost 8 years old by then, and I'd been ignoring Fishy for about a year, but not so much that I didn't notice it had learned to fly off the wall and visit the floor from time to time.

There was one instance, in the last two months of Fishy-ness when I saw it at someone else's house; a new home that friends of mine, two sisters, were moving into. Their father walked into the room where we were playing with the moving boxes to give us another one, and in the darkened laundry room behind him, filling the entire doorway at many times it's normal size, was Fishy, staring down the father's back. It wasn't scary, so much as irritating.

We moved away from there less than a year later.
 
2020-10-31 1:40:43 PM  
3 votes:

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 stuff in the middle of the road. As I approach I slow down to see a red Pontiac Fiero stopped sideways across both lanes, a suitcase open with clothes scattered everywhere and two bodies laying face down in the road, a man and a woman.

I stop a hundred feet or so away and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. Being a Marine, I reach under the seat and pull out a 9mm pistol and chamber a round. Something seemed very wrong, it looked too perfect as if it were staged. An ambush? Was I being paranoid? Something was just wrong. Getting out of the car seemed unthinkable, it was the horror movie move.

As I scanned the road I saw a line I could drive. Pass the guy in the road on his left, swerve to the right side of the woman, behind the Fiero and I'd be on the other side. I dropped it into first gear, punched it and drove the line I planned.

I passed the back of the Fierro without hitting it or either of the bodies in the road. I continued forward a couple hundred feet and slowed down so I could breathe and let my heart slow down. As I looked up into the rearview mirror I saw that the two bodies had gotten up to their knees and twenty or so people emerged from the tall grass on either side of the road by the car and bodies. One of them, presumably the leader of the group, walked out a few feet ahead of the others and glared at me. It was Bill Murray. He said, "no one will ever believe you".

At that moment my right foot smashed the gas pedal to the floor and did not let up until I had to slowdown for the I-40 east onramp.

I will never know what would have happened to me had I gotten out of the car to check on the bodies or stopped my car closer to them. Somehow I do not think it would have been good. Sometimes real life can be scarier than a movie.


Did somebody mumble my name?
 
2020-10-31 12:56:12 PM  
3 votes:
I would have been about eight or nine when this happened. It wasn't Halloween quite yet, but it was at least a day or so before. It was Saturday night and my parents were invited to a party. Each thinking that the other had taken care of it, they only realized about thirty minutes before they were out the door that neither of them had hired a babysitter.  They were about to cancel their plans but I remember insisting that they go out, telling them that I would be fine by myself and they should go have fun with their friends. Really, I just wanted them out so I could finally watch R-rated movies on HBO. My mother was hesitant but my father talked her into it. So she made a tuna fish sandwich and said she will trust me but under no circumstances was I supposed to leave the house or let anybody else in ("and there better not be any R movies on HBO!"), and I told her that was no problem whatsoever.

They left, and after about a half hour until I felt confident that they weren't coming right back, I put on HBO. Being near the end of October, it was naturally horror movie night. First was Alien, then came The Shining. I was only about a half hour into that second movie when the phone rang. Thinking it was my Mom checking in on me, I answered the phone. I heard some strange unknown voice. First there was laughter, then he finally said, "I know you're all alone, little boy." I slammed the phone down, heart racing. It took me about ten minutes to realize that it had to be my Dad farking with me. My whole life, even close to the day he died of cancer in 2016, he was always farking with me. So I tried to relax and blow it off as a joke. But I was creeped out. At least enough that I couldn't continue watching The Shining so I put on something else in the VHS player. Probably Superman. (Yeah, I'm really showing my age here.)

Thirty minutes later, the phone rang again. I answered it again, this time prepared for Dad's "joke". It was the same voice, this time cackling, "whatsamatter, little boy? Too scared to finished The Shining?" I slammed the phone down again, this time even more scared. I was still convincing myself it was my Dad, but even then, that meant my parents came back to secretly spy on me and the busted me watching R-rated movies.

Then there was a pounding on the door. Not just a regular knock, but heavy relentless pounding that went for about a minute before it stopped.  At this point I knew, this was not one of Dad's jokes. He would not take it this far. So I started going from room to room and turning off all the lights and closing all the blinds. I didn't know about dialing 911 back then, and despite all my mother's precautions, she forgot to give me a number to reach her in case there was a problem. It was at this point that there was a gentle rapping at one of the windows. Somebody was tapping Shave and a Haircut. I hid under the coffee table started crying. Whoever it was, he was going from window to window. One living room window: tap tap tap tap tap shave and a haircut tap tap two bits. Then he did it at the other living room window. Then I could hear him tapping on the kitchen windows next. Shave and a haircut, two bits.

After a few minutes of this, the window rapping stopped. It was quiet for about twenty minutes but I didn't budge from my hiding spot. I was going to stay there until Mom and Dad got home. And that's when it got even worse. There was a loud crash upstairs, which was followed by heavy footsteps. I could hear from which part of the house the noises were coming from. It started from my room, then down the hall, then back again. Running from room to room, laughing "I know you're here somewhere". Yeah, I can come out and admit that I was literally pissing myself at this moment. But despite that, I was able to summon at least a little bit of courage. As long as this creep was upstairs, I could make a break for it and run to the neighbor's house. So I quietly crawled out from underneath the coffee table. There was still noise coming from upstairs, so I felt safe enough to tip toe to the front door, unlock it, and leave. Once out, I started running. I didn't get far.

I heard voice shout, "where do you think you're going?" Then I heard a thud on the ground. This creep had actually leapt from the second floor of my house, landed on the ground below, and started chasing after me without losing a beat. My legs started quivering and became so overcome with fear that I collapsed. I huddled up in a ball, too scared to scream out loud. All I could do was cry. He started taunting, "awwww, you're not gonna cry on me, are you?" I flinched as I felt his hand on my shoulder. "There's no reason to cry," he said as he was laughing, "there's no reason to cry." He flipped me over on my back and I looked straight up at him.

So there I was, a helpless child wearing pee-soaked pajamas and tears pouring down my cheeks, looking up, face to face with Bill Murray. He smiled and said, "no one will ever believe you". He kissed me on the cheek and ran off into the night. I haven't been able to watch Stripes without breaking into a cold sweat since.
 
2020-10-31 10:09:26 AM  
3 votes:
I apologize, this may not have been a ghost or "scary story" in the traditional sense. It happened and I really hope that what Terry (who is a great electrician and a good man) saw was just an illusion. I cannot say that though.

I see that thing in my dreams at times, when vodak has not obliterated my ability to dream. It was there, and I still hope that there is a divine power in this universe to keep it where it lives.
 
2020-10-31 6:34:22 AM  
3 votes:

Turing_Machine: Halloween is coming up, and it's time to start scaring the hell out of yourself. We'd like to help. Every year, Fark has a Halloween thread where Farkers share their own spooky stories. These are always fun threads, and a great way to kill some time at work. Here are the first 15 Fark scary story threads - now go creep yourself out.

2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019


Yay! Finally!
Thanks TM.
 
2020-10-30 1:50:04 PM  
3 votes:
It'd be pretty scary if I forgot to bookmark this thread.
 
2020-10-30 1:13:42 PM  
3 votes:
In the morning the surgeon surveyed his work: after years of painstakingly studying the Human Centipede, he had finally succeeded with his own blasphemous aberration! His magnum opus completed, the new creature slowly slithered out from under the gore-stained sheets and gasped in air, reeling under a raised arm from the glaring overhead theater lights...

Lungs full, the obscenity released the anticipated, moist noises: a voice of a demon, carefully crafted, began to roar like the Seventh Trumpet; Dr. Jive had successfully combined the vocal chords of Fran Drescher, Gilbert Gottfried, "Bobcat" Goldthwait, and Nancy Grace with the mouth of Stephen Tyler, and put them in Carrot Top's body.

"BE FREE MY CHILD!" the doctor squealed in delight as the meat mass meandered out towards Nashville, dreaming of recording a yodelling record with Fred Durst and Scott Stapp.
 
2020-10-30 12:52:36 PM  
3 votes:
COVID 20, transmitted by eye contact.
 
2020-10-30 12:41:51 PM  
3 votes:
A Hallowe'en Playlet For Your Enjoyment

[Interior: The "League of Scariness" Great Hall.  All are assembled to kick off the season.]
Dracula:  Meeting vill come to order...
[loud chatter from room]
Dracula:  I said ORDER!  Or would you rather I let all the Twilight kids into our club?
[instant silence and quiet apologies]
Imhotep [aside whisper, to Krampus]:  Drac uses that cudgel any time he wants attention.
Krampus [aside whisper, to Imhotep]:  I heard Stephenie Meyer has kompromat on Drac.
Dracula:  Now zat I haff your attention, velcome to ze 2020 Kickoff.  First order of business is to come up with [hold arms aloft] reeeeeally spoooooooky scaaaary things to invoke ze fear of ze world.  I open ze floor to ideas.
[protracted silence and hemming and hawing]
Dracula:  Seriously, you guys?  Nothing?  Ziss is open forum, we're brainstorming!
Zombie [in back row, momentarily aroused from napping]:  BRRRAAAIINNS???
Dracula:  Shut up, Carl.
Chupacabra:  Well, you see, old friend, we've been thinking about this very predicament for a while now.  What could possibly frighten people more than reality?
Dracula:  Nonsense!  You're just not thinking evil enough!  Here's a good one just off the top of my head:  Killer Asian Hornets invade Americ-
Chorus of responses from room:  It's been done!
Dracula:  What?  For real?  Sting, did you have anything to do with that?
Sting:  What?  Me?  No!  I'm a musician and poet!  I don't even know why I was invited to this meeting!  I would never harm the world just because I was given this stupid nickname when I went to primary school one day wearing a black-and-yellow striped jumper and they all made fun of me...  Okay, I admit it, that one's on me.  I got a really good deal on Asian Hornets at PlagueCo.  Couldn't help myself.
Dracula:  Well, it's not as evil as your "All For Love" trio, but it's a start.  What else?
Voldemort [tosses Dracula his iPhone]:  Here, Drac, read 'em and weep.
Dracula [starts reading news feed]:  ...Pandemic? What? When?
All [in unison]:  KEEP READING!
Dracula:  Okay, okay...  Widespread protests and riots?  Endemic social injustice?  Democracy teetering on the brink?  [pauses, slack-jawed]  Oh.  Oh no.
Dalek:  WHAT.  DOES.  IT.  SAY?
Dracula:  Due to Covid lockdown protocols, most traditional trick-or-treating is... CANCELLED!
Michael Myers:  Son of a-
Cthulhu:  Now THAT'S evil.
Dracula:  Well, it looks like 2020 has served up a truly horrifying platter of terror and chaos.  I don't think we can top it.  Motion to adjourn?
All:  AYE!
Dracula:  Okay, let'shiat Applebee's for lunch.
Imhotep [aside whisper, to Cthulhu]:  Now THAT'S evil.
[Exeunt.]
###
 
2020-11-01 1:41:08 PM  
2 votes:

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 4:03:47 AM  
2 votes:
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 12:03:53 AM  
2 votes:
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
 
2020-10-31 8:25:53 PM  
2 votes:

a particular individual: FNG: Wow, a few years ago this thread had 608 comments, even the fake "timmy doesn't live here anymore" hasn't shown up.

"Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore" is all true, up to the part where it isn't. Danny Nero shot my brother. Rick showed me the house. The attic was full of toys and clothes. Rick wouldn't stick around so I could rummage through the toys. We went back to his house, where he did his homework. He told me if I wanted to go back, then I should. "Keep telling yourself "there's no such thing as ghosts."" But I never went back. So, yeah, it's fake because it's fiction. But that experience stuck with me. A few years ago, I had a dream that I discovered a cave high up on a cliff, and it was filled with old treasures, but I knew the Devil lived there, and I had better not investigate. It was much later that I connected it to Danny's house.


That is the best disturbing creepy story I have ever read, and I've been an avid reader for 58 years.  It creeps me out more than H.P. Lovecraft, even after reading it multiple times over the years.  Damn is it well written.  I hope you register the copyright and see if someone will buy the film rights.
 
2020-10-31 7:16:26 PM  
2 votes:

FNG: Wow, a few years ago this thread had 608 comments, even the fake "timmy doesn't live here anymore" hasn't shown up.


"Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore" is all true, up to the part where it isn't. Danny Nero shot my brother. Rick showed me the house. The attic was full of toys and clothes. Rick wouldn't stick around so I could rummage through the toys. We went back to his house, where he did his homework. He told me if I wanted to go back, then I should. "Keep telling yourself "there's no such thing as ghosts."" But I never went back. So, yeah, it's fake because it's fiction. But that experience stuck with me. A few years ago, I had a dream that I discovered a cave high up on a cliff, and it was filled with old treasures, but I knew the Devil lived there, and I had better not investigate. It was much later that I connected it to Danny's house.
 
2020-10-31 7:12:48 PM  
2 votes:

Resident Muslim: Leftbehindandgladofit:

Thank you.

Moving onto family.
Grandma on my mother's side had two of my cousins living with her to keep her company. Their mother didn't mind as she were just two houses down from her mother's place and the eldest was still with her.
These cousins' room had a lot of weird stuff happening, TV turning on, radio coming on on full volume.
Once one of those cousins and myself were walking into that room and something scurried along the wall and behind the bed.
It was about the size of a cat. But all it was was blackness, blackness with an undefined edge. Think horror movie style blackness when a shadow would break away from a dark area and move on its own.
Our reaction wasn't "what was that?!" it was, both of us turning to the other and exclaiming "did you see that?!"
I went around the bed to peer into that small wall space between the bed and the wall, to see what was that that just moved so quickly.
There was nothing there. The side table was against the wall and the bed against the side table. The bed itself had a frame that went all the way down to the carpet, so nothing could have climbed under it.
So weird.

Moving onto gramma from my father's side. While first gramma was religious, this gramma was more spiritual. Tough.
Think Granny Weatherwax.

Two stories from lore and two told to me by those close.
1) Paternal grandma's brother was walking back home on the beach when he saw his sister sitting there, at an odd time.
He reached out to gently place his hand on her head and ask her what she was doing at such an odd time when his fingers just sank into her head.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
When he reopened them, the apparition was gone.
2) my grandma had a lady that did work for them that had her toddler kid with her. Grandma is sitting around when she see the toddler moving about and she calls to him and sits him on one knee. As she was playing with the kid, she looks up and sees the mother walking towards her...with her child by her side. ...


You are entirely welcome.
Upon my paternal grandmother's death this is how her two sons and daughter looked after the funeral.


Fark user imageView Full Size
 
2020-10-31 5:28:51 PM  
2 votes:

west.la.lawyer: COVID 20, transmitted by eye contact.


So 99.9% of Farkers don't have to worry about contracting COVID-20
 
2020-10-31 3:27:31 PM  
2 votes:
I love this annual thread and wish I had an actual scary story to contribute but here's the best I can come up with: the time I scared the hell out of myself and my best friend in middle school.

During sleepovers we often snuck out. We never did anything too bad and usually ended up walking to a gas station about a mile away to buy a bunch of candy, then stayed up all night playing Super Mario Bros. So, there was this new crappy tract home subdivision going up, the roads were completed and the houses were just being built. We cut through there rather than walk up the busy main road. It was very dark and a bit spooky because nobody was living there yet and as we passed by one of the houses, I asked her "what would you do if we saw a face in one of those windows?" She didn't reply and we walked in tense silence for a minute before she looked at me and asked "why did you have to say that?" We both took off running the rest of the way, and ran back home from the gas station. It wasn't really a scary situation but I just had to open my stupid mouth and psych both of us out.
 
2020-10-31 3:05:25 PM  
2 votes:
Here are some clips from Local 58.  Something seems a bit off out there.
 
2020-10-31 1:23:16 PM  
2 votes:

Definitely Not Someone's Alt: I hope we get more 1st person stories that at least have the premise of being real. The 3rd person ones make my eyes glaze over.


I was hoping to get through the day without having to relive the experience, but you had to ruin it.

When I was 7, Dad went insane.

We were getting ready for Thanksgiving, and the pressure was getting to him. Mom had all of the other dishes cooked, and all dad had to do was the ham. Nothing difficult, but he was in no mental state for it. We had a lot of guests coming and dad felt everything had to be perfect. Not just great - perfect.

So, trying to please him and be a good helper, I took the ham out of the oven when the timer went off. I dropped it. I looked up to the face of my dad, twisted in horror. He just stood there, holding a brush and a bowl of honey glaze.

As he held me down afterwards, he just kept muttering "this has to be done before the third person gets here" while slathering glaze over my eyes. Then he plucked them out and I can still hear the soft, wet 'pop' they made as dad ate them.

To this day, every Thanksgiving, dad talks about how delicious my glazed eyes were.
 
2020-10-31 1:14:20 PM  
2 votes:
Another 'oldie but spooky'..

This one's a real rabbit-hole, easy to lose a couple'a three days if you really dig deep into it:

(..unfortunately, it looks like its gone from the web, per se..  It's still available on the 'Wayback Machine' but you'll have to forgive me for not diving right in to see if its all there..)

The Dionaea House
 
2020-10-31 11:43:21 AM  
2 votes:

Wenchmaster: FNG: Wenchmaster: Not sure if this will fit:

No one read that, or is going to buy your book.  This is the wrong thread for whoring it.

Keep things to personal stories.

Since you object to reading long texts, I'll keep this short in an itemized list:

1- I've seen several obvious fiction stories posted above mine. You do not appear to have any objection to those.
2- Nowhere does the thread originator say personal stories only. It just specifies "your spooky stories". This is MY spooky story for this year.
3- Anyone who doesn't wish to read it is free to skip it. I do note that at least two people appear to have read it (based on the "SMART" button clicks), so you're obviously and demonstrably wrong. Quelle surprise.
4- I cranked this out in a couple of hours after work, right before posting it. I don't have a book. Nice of you to think I do.
5- If you're not the thread originator, you have no business setting rules for this thread. If Turing Machine objects, I'll ask the mods to remove my story. Your opinion on this subject is worth exactly jack.
6- Many Farkers (including me) have posted fiction stories in several past "Spooky Story" threads. There's usually at least one person who isn't the thread originator whinging about other people's content in these threads. Congratulations! You're the one for this thread.


There's always at least one.  I stopped submitting stories to these threads because I didn't want to have to deal with it.  Happy Halloween, everyone.
 
2020-10-31 10:39:54 AM  
2 votes:
"Please Bobby."

How many times had he heard the voice?  Not that many.  A handful, maybe two. Just enough to make the other kids taunt him when he asked them if they heard it too, make him yell "Shut up!" in a crowded theater, ruin his first kiss, startle him into tripping and falling down the stairs hearing his leg crack like a stick wrapped in a wet blanket.

For some reason that's all his memories were any more. He thought there had been a time when his memory was sharp. But now he was close to retirement and the only real memories he could sort out from the fog of his past were those when the whisper from nowhere had embarrassed or hurt him.  So he knew it was coming but still he watched himself slide his hand forward into the table saw. Hey, some good luck for once, it was only his ring finger. It didn't even hurt this time. Just felt like somebody was sliding a ring down past the knuckles.  Heh, appropriate feeling for a ring finger.

Ah well, maybe this would mean early retirement. No more waking up in pain and falling asleep in pain book ending a day full of painful labor.  Maybe he would have the chance to rest and somewhat numb the pain like he did on the weekends.  Yeah, some life this was.  Always alone, always in pain. But it never farking ended.

.


And 50 years later it still hadn't ended. You would think that for your 110th birthday the news people would be there.  But no, that was for the spry oldsters who still got up at the crack of dawn to feed the birds. You don't want a human interest story about a fellow who lies in his own filth all day entertaining himself by listening to the distant traffic and waiting for somebody to come in and clean him up while biatching about it, then force flavorless gruel down his throat. Not enough to thrive. Just enough to keep him breathing.

Oh and here she was with the gruel, but no cart piled with bedding and sponges. So it was food time but not time to clean up the shiat that was oozing into his bed sores or the pus that was leaking from them.  The ice cold spoon forced its way into his mouth cutting his already raw gums and dropping a glob of blood flavored gruel at the back of his tongue where it slid into his throat forcing him to convulsively swallow. As the breath burbled in his gruel slicked throat he heard the whisper again and wondered if this would ever end.


                        *****

She heard the burbling in his throat and knew that it would stop in a few seconds, that no ambulance could reach them in time.  He was never going to see his baby. He was never even going to turn 20. She squeezed his one uninjured hand and the wedding ring she had forced onto his finger. The wedding ring that would never be used for real now. His eyes were open but glazed. His chest barely moving. "Please Bobby" she whispered. It was the only thing her frozen brain could force out through her numb lips.
 
2020-10-31 10:29:28 AM  
2 votes:
TRUMP WAS RE-ELECTED!
 
2020-10-31 9:04:59 AM  
2 votes:

FNG: Wow, a few years ago this thread had 608 comments, even the fake "timmy doesn't live here anymore" hasn't shown up.


Maybe it'll pick up today.
 
2020-10-30 4:42:39 PM  
2 votes:
2021 makes us nostalgic for the good old days of 2020.
 
2020-11-01 1:37:10 PM  
1 vote:
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 12:32:26 AM  
1 vote:
Short story: I spent a month of this year trapped in a single room with cold to lukewarm food.
 
2020-10-31 11:39:49 PM  
1 vote:
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.
 
2020-10-31 7:02:02 PM  
1 vote:

Resident Muslim: Honest Geologist: Resident Muslim: Turing_Machine: Halloween is coming up, and it's time to start scaring the hell out of yourself. We'd like to help. Every year, Fark has a Halloween thread where Farkers share their own spooky stories. These are always fun threads, and a great way to kill some time at work. Here are the first 15 Fark scary story threads - now go creep yourself out.

2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019

Yay! Finally!
Thanks TM.

I can't remember if it was in one of these threads or another, but I think you posted one of the most unsettling stories I've read on here. About the burial of a guy who wasn't particularly well-liked?

I hate you for reminding me.
(Not really, but my jaw clenched and is still clenched from that memory.)
Here I was reading this thread and thinking I don't have any really scary stories to share, but that's mostly because I consider this story a religious story, a lesson, rather than a horror story per se, even though how much it freaked me out.
Anyhoo...this is a rewriting, not a copy and paste, to put me into the right state of mind.

In Muslim/ Middle Eastern cultures it's very common when someone who has passed away is mentioned, that a "God have mercy on him" follows directly after the mention.
I HAVE heard some people refrain from saying it when there was really, really  bad blood between them.
However, this guy was the only guy I ever heard someone say, after asking me if I knew that he had passed and I said yes, "May God NOT have mercy on him."
I had a working relationship with the guy, and on several projects I'd feel like the numbers weren't adding up, financially or that whatever day rate he was quoting me for the workers wasn't correct. Even projects that seemed lucrative ended up breaking even on the long run.
He invited me up to his apartment for coffee once and I was actually surprised at how well furnished his apartment was. I didn't say anything but he did; that his cousin who workEd in Saudi Arabia and had a lucrative job helped him out or lent him the money or something. I had met this cousin, and after this guy passed away the same cousin called me up saying how things are difficult for him in Saudi Arabia and if I could lend him money.
I ignored a lot of signs dealing with this guy and holding to my value of that I will only deal with people based on what I have witnessed and can confirm myself.
After he passed away I met a mutual acquaintance who brought him up and then asked if I had..."noticed anything" while working with this guy, in regards to his character. I just gave a frank no, but couldn't stop my gaze from dropping because I knew what he was asking.
The short of it, is that this guy, as amicable (and skilled!) as he was, apparently had dealt with a lot of people who ended up coming up financially short, some more than others, some much more.

This is the set up so that you understand what kind of character this guy was.

When he died, I got a call from his other cousin who at the time also lived in the same country. He had a heart attack, late 30s if I recall correctly from a two-pack a day smoking habit.

I figured that them not being from the country, that there might not be a lot of people for the burial, so out of courtesy and personal obligation, I went.

This was beyond "not a lot of people". Out of all of those years of him living in that country you'd figure friends or work acquaintances would show up.
None did.
I arrived there to find the cousin and the two very young sons. The cemetery caretaker(s?) and that's it. I have never witnessed in my life such a sparse number.
Recalling the story, I don't even recall us performing the Muslim prayer that is done as last rites, I think they did it before I got there.
Whatever.
We get to the grave site and as bodies are usually put into the graves by hand, and the two kids were just too young, I jumped in myself (I was much younger) and received the shroud-covered body.
This is what a shroud covered body looks like:
[npr.brightspotcdn.com image 850x849]
I would like to bring to your attention two points that will be relevant 1) you can see the string holding the two pieces of cloth in place 2) you can tell which way the body is facing from the arm placements.

So I lower the body into the grave, and start placing the cross pieces over the body that close off the "slot" where the body is placed on its right side, with the grave perpendicular to the direction of Mecca so that the body faces Mecca.
This is how a body in the grave is placed:
[i.ytimg.com image 480x360]
Again, notice the arms.
After placing the body, I loosened up the strings as per procedure, and after the first few cross pieces were put in place the cousin reminded me to uncover the face, again, as per procedure. Mind you, the first few cross pieces already cover the top of the grave, to give privacy to the face and shield the people there from seeing a dead face.
So I lean over and start loosening up the cloths at the face, they start separating...and I see a bald head. The guy was bald, so I figure that his chin is tucked in low and I need to uncover lower...still more bald head..."Did we lower him backwards into the grave??" I ask myself in panic, I look down and I can clearly see where the arms are, in the correct location, but all I keep uncovering as I go lower is baldness...like his head was twisted the other way around, like God didn't want him facing Mecca. The cousin senses me being distraught and asks if everything is OK, he can't see what I'm seeing because he was standing outside of the grave...and I reply with "I can't uncover his face" in as much a level voice as I can, so he says to let him try, him probably thinking that I couldn't loosen up the strings or cloth or something. I climb out of the grave and he goes in, he fumbles around for a bit, and comes out and I ask him, in as level a voice as I can muster "were you able to uncover the face?" While I tried my best to keep my voice level I'm sure there was a bit of panic in my voice.
Yes, was his simple reply, and I left it at that.

I felt so unclean. I don't ever recall actually feeling so unclean. I didn't/couldn't wait until I got home.
I stopped at the first mosque I could find, feeling sick to my stomach, walked into the bathrooms that had floor level toilets, stripped my clothes and hung them on the door and just frantically washed myself with the handheld bidet/hose.

To this day, and probably to the end of my life, I fear God's punishment more for what I might do to other people than what sins I might do to myself.


I grew up hearing the expression "that guy's so crooked they'll have to screw him into the ground when he dies." Your story made me think of that.
 
2020-10-31 5:50:50 PM  
1 vote:
"Honey, we have to talk," she said, but all he could see was the two blue lines on the test.
 
2020-10-31 4:37:54 PM  
1 vote:
Not a specific scary story about something happening but more of a spooky and creepy place-
Masonic Temples.  The one in Spokane is creepy AF.  We used to go to church there sometimes, my friends and I used to explore around the place.  I still remember the old man smell in every room we discovered.  Word is there was a tunnel from the temple going 'somewhere'.
 
2020-10-31 2:01:04 PM  
1 vote:

toraque: Wenchmaster: FNG: Wenchmaster: Not sure if this will fit:

No one read that, or is going to buy your book.  This is the wrong thread for whoring it.

Keep things to personal stories.

Since you object to reading long texts, I'll keep this short in an itemized list:

1- I've seen several obvious fiction stories posted above mine. You do not appear to have any objection to those.
2- Nowhere does the thread originator say personal stories only. It just specifies "your spooky stories". This is MY spooky story for this year.
3- Anyone who doesn't wish to read it is free to skip it. I do note that at least two people appear to have read it (based on the "SMART" button clicks), so you're obviously and demonstrably wrong. Quelle surprise.
4- I cranked this out in a couple of hours after work, right before posting it. I don't have a book. Nice of you to think I do.
5- If you're not the thread originator, you have no business setting rules for this thread. If Turing Machine objects, I'll ask the mods to remove my story. Your opinion on this subject is worth exactly jack.
6- Many Farkers (including me) have posted fiction stories in several past "Spooky Story" threads. There's usually at least one person who isn't the thread originator whinging about other people's content in these threads. Congratulations! You're the one for this thread.

There's always at least one.  I stopped submitting stories to these threads because I didn't want to have to deal with it.  Happy Halloween, everyone.


Put whoever on ignore and join us.
If I recall correctly, toraque, you had some winning stories in past years.
 
2020-10-31 1:58:30 PM  
1 vote:

Resident Muslim: Honest Geologist: Resident Muslim: Turing_Machine: Halloween is coming up, and it's time to start scaring the hell out of yourself. We'd like to help. Every year, Fark has a Halloween thread where Farkers share their own spooky stories. These are always fun threads, and a great way to kill some time at work. Here are the first 15 Fark scary story threads - now go creep yourself out.

2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019

Yay! Finally!
Thanks TM.

I can't remember if it was in one of these threads or another, but I think you posted one of the most unsettling stories I've read on here. About the burial of a guy who wasn't particularly well-liked?

I hate you for reminding me.
(Not really, but my jaw clenched and is still clenched from that memory.)
Here I was reading this thread and thinking I don't have any really scary stories to share, but that's mostly because I consider this story a religious story, a lesson, rather than a horror story per se, even though how much it freaked me out.
Anyhoo...this is a rewriting, not a copy and paste, to put me into the right state of mind.

In Muslim/ Middle Eastern cultures it's very common when someone who has passed away is mentioned, that a "God have mercy on him" follows directly after the mention.
I HAVE heard some people refrain from saying it when there was really, really  bad blood between them.
However, this guy was the only guy I ever heard someone say, after asking me if I knew that he had passed and I said yes, "May God NOT have mercy on him."
I had a working relationship with the guy, and on several projects I'd feel like the numbers weren't adding up, financially or that whatever day rate he was quoting me for the workers wasn't correct. Even projects that seemed lucrative ended up breaking even on the long run.
He invited me up to his apartment for coffee once and I was actually surprised at how well furnished his apartment was. I didn't say anything but he did; that his ...


TIL, you can manage to kick my butt in what I know was a true story. Well done, sir.
 
2020-10-31 1:46:00 PM  
1 vote:

echo5juliet: Did somebody mumble my name?


Happy Pumpkin Day..!

Haven't seen you in..well, at least as long as I've been gone..    =P
 
2020-10-31 1:43:05 PM  
1 vote:
Here's an SCP entry that was popular on here some All Hallows back..  Feel free to add in just about any other SCP's just because..    =)

===   ===   ===

SCP-087 - The Stairwell
 
2020-10-31 1:35:21 PM  
1 vote:

Honest Geologist: Resident Muslim: Honest Geologist: Resident Muslim: Turing_Machine: Halloween is coming up, and it's time to start scaring the hell out of yourself. We'd like to help. Every year, Fark has a Halloween thread where Farkers share their own spooky stories. These are always fun threads, and a great way to kill some time at work. Here are the first 15 Fark scary story threads - now go creep yourself out.

2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019

Yay! Finally!
Thanks TM.

I can't remember if it was in one of these threads or another, but I think you posted one of the most unsettling stories I've read on here. About the burial of a guy who wasn't particularly well-liked?

I hate you for reminding me.
(Not really, but my jaw clenched and is still clenched from that memory.)
Here I was reading this thread and thinking I don't have any really scary stories to share, but that's mostly because I consider this story a religious story, a lesson, rather than a horror story per se, even though how much it freaked me out.
Anyhoo...this is a rewriting, not a copy and paste, to put me into the right state of mind.

In Muslim/ Middle Eastern cultures it's very common when someone who has passed away is mentioned, that a "God have mercy on him" follows directly after the mention.
I HAVE heard some people refrain from saying it when there was really, really  bad blood between them.
However, this guy was the only guy I ever heard someone say, after asking me if I knew that he had passed and I said yes, "May God NOT have mercy on him."
I had a working relationship with the guy, and on several projects I'd feel like the numbers weren't adding up, financially or that whatever day rate he was quoting me for the workers wasn't correct. Even projects that seemed lucrative ended up breaking even on the long run.
He invited me up to his apartment for coffee once and I was actually surprised at how well furnished his apartment was. I didn't say anything but he did; that his cousin who workEd in Saudi Arabia and had a lucrative job helped him out or lent him the money or something. I had met this cousin, and after this guy passed away the same cousin called me up saying how things are difficult for him in Saudi Arabia and if I could lend him money.
I ignored a lot of signs dealing with this guy and holding to my value of that I will only deal with people based on what I have witnessed and can confirm myself.
After he passed away I met a mutual acquaintance who brought him up and then asked if I had..."noticed anything" while working with this guy, in regards to his character. I just gave a frank no, but couldn't stop my gaze from dropping because I knew what he was asking.
The short of it, is that this guy, as amicable (and skilled!) as he was, apparently had dealt with a lot of people who ended up coming up financially short, some more than others, some much more.

This is the set up so that you understand what kind of character this guy was.

When he died, I got a call from his other cousin who at the time also lived in the same country. He had a heart attack, late 30s if I recall correctly from a two-pack a day smoking habit.

I figured that them not being from the country, that there might not be a lot of people for the burial, so out of courtesy and personal obligation, I went.

This was beyond "not a lot of people". Out of all of those years of him living in that country you'd figure friends or work acquaintances would show up.
None did.
I arrived there to find the cousin and the two very young sons. The cemetery caretaker(s?) and that's it. I have never witnessed in my life such a sparse number.
Recalling the story, I don't even recall us performing the Muslim prayer that is done as last rites, I think they did it before I got there.
Whatever.
We get to the grave site and as bodies are usually put into the graves by hand, and the two kids were just too young, I jumped in myself (I was much younger) and received the shroud-covered body.
This is what a shroud covered body looks like:
[npr.brightspotcdn.com image 850x849]
I would like to bring to your attention two points that will be relevant 1) you can see the string holding the two pieces of cloth in place 2) you can tell which way the body is facing from the arm placements.

So I lower the body into the grave, and start placing the cross pieces over the body that close off the "slot" where the body is placed on its right side, with the grave perpendicular to the direction of Mecca so that the body faces Mecca.
This is how a body in the grave is placed:
[i.ytimg.com image 480x360]
Again, notice the arms.
After placing the body, I loosened up the strings as per procedure, and after the first few cross pieces were put in place the cousin reminded me to uncover the face, again, as per procedure. Mind you, the first few cross pieces already cover the top of the grave, to give privacy to the face and shield the people there from seeing a dead face.
So I lean over and start loosening up the cloths at the face, they start separating...and I see a bald head. The guy was bald, so I figure that his chin is tucked in low and I need to uncover lower...still more bald head..."Did we lower him backwards into the grave??" I ask myself in panic, I look down and I can clearly see where the arms are, in the correct location, but all I keep uncovering as I go lower is baldness...like his head was twisted the other way around, like God didn't want him facing Mecca. The cousin senses me being distraught and asks if everything is OK, he can't see what I'm seeing because he was standing outside of the grave...and I reply with "I can't uncover his face" in as much a level voice as I can, so he says to let him try, him probably thinking that I couldn't loosen up the strings or cloth or something. I climb out of the grave and he goes in, he fumbles around for a bit, and comes out and I ask him, in as level a voice as I can muster "were you able to uncover the face?" While I tried my best to keep my voice level I'm sure there was a bit of panic in my voice.
Yes, was his simple reply, and I left it at that.

I felt so unclean. I don't ever recall actually feeling so unclean. I didn't/couldn't wait until I got home.
I stopped at the first mosque I could find, feeling sick to my stomach, walked into the bathrooms that had floor level toilets, stripped my clothes and hung them on the door and just frantically washed myself with the handheld bidet/hose.

To this day, and probably to the end of my life, I fear God's punishment more for what I might do to other people than what sins I might do to myself.

I don't think a lot of the heaviness of this hit me the first time I read it. I am sorry I brought it up. Wishing you peace.


It felt heavy revisiting it.
Please don't apologize, I am a man of words and to have them recalled is a gift.
I thank you for that gift.

In real life not a lot of people who know me, even those who know me really well know the story.
Mostly the ones that know me really well I don't tell it to for fear that they may recognize the person I was talking about because the guy and I worked together for a while and they might recognize some bits.
I don't like to speak ill of the living, let alone the dead.
 
2020-10-31 1:13:09 PM  
1 vote:

Resident Muslim: Honest Geologist: Resident Muslim: Turing_Machine: Halloween is coming up, and it's time to start scaring the hell out of yourself. We'd like to help. Every year, Fark has a Halloween thread where Farkers share their own spooky stories. These are always fun threads, and a great way to kill some time at work. Here are the first 15 Fark scary story threads - now go creep yourself out.

2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019

Yay! Finally!
Thanks TM.

I can't remember if it was in one of these threads or another, but I think you posted one of the most unsettling stories I've read on here. About the burial of a guy who wasn't particularly well-liked?

I hate you for reminding me.
(Not really, but my jaw clenched and is still clenched from that memory.)
Here I was reading this thread and thinking I don't have any really scary stories to share, but that's mostly because I consider this story a religious story, a lesson, rather than a horror story per se, even though how much it freaked me out.
Anyhoo...this is a rewriting, not a copy and paste, to put me into the right state of mind.

In Muslim/ Middle Eastern cultures it's very common when someone who has passed away is mentioned, that a "God have mercy on him" follows directly after the mention.
I HAVE heard some people refrain from saying it when there was really, really  bad blood between them.
However, this guy was the only guy I ever heard someone say, after asking me if I knew that he had passed and I said yes, "May God NOT have mercy on him."
I had a working relationship with the guy, and on several projects I'd feel like the numbers weren't adding up, financially or that whatever day rate he was quoting me for the workers wasn't correct. Even projects that seemed lucrative ended up breaking even on the long run.
He invited me up to his apartment for coffee once and I was actually surprised at how well furnished his apartment was. I didn't say anything but he did; that his cousin who workEd in Saudi Arabia and had a lucrative job helped him out or lent him the money or something. I had met this cousin, and after this guy passed away the same cousin called me up saying how things are difficult for him in Saudi Arabia and if I could lend him money.
I ignored a lot of signs dealing with this guy and holding to my value of that I will only deal with people based on what I have witnessed and can confirm myself.
After he passed away I met a mutual acquaintance who brought him up and then asked if I had..."noticed anything" while working with this guy, in regards to his character. I just gave a frank no, but couldn't stop my gaze from dropping because I knew what he was asking.
The short of it, is that this guy, as amicable (and skilled!) as he was, apparently had dealt with a lot of people who ended up coming up financially short, some more than others, some much more.

This is the set up so that you understand what kind of character this guy was.

When he died, I got a call from his other cousin who at the time also lived in the same country. He had a heart attack, late 30s if I recall correctly from a two-pack a day smoking habit.

I figured that them not being from the country, that there might not be a lot of people for the burial, so out of courtesy and personal obligation, I went.

This was beyond "not a lot of people". Out of all of those years of him living in that country you'd figure friends or work acquaintances would show up.
None did.
I arrived there to find the cousin and the two very young sons. The cemetery caretaker(s?) and that's it. I have never witnessed in my life such a sparse number.
Recalling the story, I don't even recall us performing the Muslim prayer that is done as last rites, I think they did it before I got there.
Whatever.
We get to the grave site and as bodies are usually put into the graves by hand, and the two kids were just too young, I jumped in myself (I was much younger) and received the shroud-covered body.
This is what a shroud covered body looks like:
[npr.brightspotcdn.com image 850x849]
I would like to bring to your attention two points that will be relevant 1) you can see the string holding the two pieces of cloth in place 2) you can tell which way the body is facing from the arm placements.

So I lower the body into the grave, and start placing the cross pieces over the body that close off the "slot" where the body is placed on its right side, with the grave perpendicular to the direction of Mecca so that the body faces Mecca.
This is how a body in the grave is placed:
[i.ytimg.com image 480x360]
Again, notice the arms.
After placing the body, I loosened up the strings as per procedure, and after the first few cross pieces were put in place the cousin reminded me to uncover the face, again, as per procedure. Mind you, the first few cross pieces already cover the top of the grave, to give privacy to the face and shield the people there from seeing a dead face.
So I lean over and start loosening up the cloths at the face, they start separating...and I see a bald head. The guy was bald, so I figure that his chin is tucked in low and I need to uncover lower...still more bald head..."Did we lower him backwards into the grave??" I ask myself in panic, I look down and I can clearly see where the arms are, in the correct location, but all I keep uncovering as I go lower is baldness...like his head was twisted the other way around, like God didn't want him facing Mecca. The cousin senses me being distraught and asks if everything is OK, he can't see what I'm seeing because he was standing outside of the grave...and I reply with "I can't uncover his face" in as much a level voice as I can, so he says to let him try, him probably thinking that I couldn't loosen up the strings or cloth or something. I climb out of the grave and he goes in, he fumbles around for a bit, and comes out and I ask him, in as level a voice as I can muster "were you able to uncover the face?" While I tried my best to keep my voice level I'm sure there was a bit of panic in my voice.
Yes, was his simple reply, and I left it at that.

I felt so unclean. I don't ever recall actually feeling so unclean. I didn't/couldn't wait until I got home.
I stopped at the first mosque I could find, feeling sick to my stomach, walked into the bathrooms that had floor level toilets, stripped my clothes and hung them on the door and just frantically washed myself with the handheld bidet/hose.

To this day, and probably to the end of my life, I fear God's punishment more for what I might do to other people than what sins I might do to myself.


I don't think a lot of the heaviness of this hit me the first time I read it. I am sorry I brought it up. Wishing you peace.
 
2020-10-31 12:16:37 PM  
1 vote:
Ok. So, basically, for some strange reason I get wake up in a cold sweat nightmares, so, I think I'll give one of those. It's the early 2000s or 1990s, but before the treaty that gave south Sudan independence was signed. There's this little boy. One day, he is living his little boy life, having fun, and then he hears a gunshot. Then he hears more gunshots then he sees a helicopter swooping in, guns blazing, rockets firing, he sees his mother get blown in two by a rocket from a mil-24. Then silence. The boy starts running, and than all of a sudden, he hears cars running. His grandfather gets run over by the car. Then the cars start firing their Soviet heavy machine guns at the group. A bullet hits the boy's father who was three feet away from him. It cuts him in two. The father's blood splashes all over the son. The boy is running and he reaches a river. He sees crocodiles in the river. They're looking right at the boy. Mouths open. He sees the cars speeding towards him guns firing. The bullets hit both of the people next to them in their heads and their heads explode brains splattering all over the boy. Even in the boy's mouth. He runs into the river. He sees three crocodiles swimming towards him. I then wake up in a cold sweat.
 
2020-10-31 12:09:43 PM  
1 vote:

Honest Geologist: FNG: Wow, a few years ago this thread had 608 comments, even the fake "timmy doesn't live here anymore" hasn't shown up.

Maybe it'll pick up today.


media0.giphy.comView Full Size
 
2020-10-30 3:44:14 PM  
1 vote:
A man and a young boy are walking deep into the woods, late at night.

The young boy grasps the man's hand ever tighter as he whispers, "I'm scared!"

The man looks down at the young man and says,

"You're scared? I gotta walk outta these woods alone!"
 
2020-10-30 1:21:57 PM  
1 vote:
In other news, this week the SyFyLys channel announced its long anticipated new lineup of macro-series: "Stargate: Caprica", "Quantum Leap Sliders", the Dr. Who Transgender Wrasslin' Hour", "The Bionic Dog II: Electric Kickapoo", "Firefly Season 2, the Crew Washes Out", and FarknadoTV.
 
2020-10-30 12:46:11 PM  
1 vote:
I find a girlfriend and no longer have time for fark, yet I somehow win this contest.
 
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