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(Futuramen)   The season is upon us again: this is your annual Fark Scary Story Thread. Link goes to links for previous years' scary story threads. You submitted this with an Ebola and/or political headline   ( divider line
    More: Cool  
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2030 clicks; posted to Main » and FarkUs » on 31 Oct 2014 at 9:00 AM (8 years ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook

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2014-10-30 11:41:46 PM  
I look forward to this thread every year.
2014-10-30 11:43:11 PM  
This post is coming FROM INSIDE YOUR HOUSE!!
2014-10-30 11:46:31 PM  
c===::::::[ + ]::::::::::::)
2014-10-30 11:49:18 PM  
Once on a road trip I stopped at a rest area to use the bathroom. The only other vehicle in the lot was a beat up grey van. When I came out of the bathroom I noticed the side door to the van was open and there was a $20 bill on the ground between it and my car. The moment I saw the money I heard a hoarse voice from inside the van say "Pick it up".

Needless to say I made Shaggy and Scooby time getting the fark out of there.
2014-10-30 11:58:10 PM  
The Russian Sleep Experiment

Russian researchers in the late 1940s kept five people awake for fifteen days using an experimental gas based stimulant. They were kept in a sealed environment to carefully monitor their oxygen intake so the gas didn't kill them, since it was toxic in high concentrations. This was before closed circuit cameras so they had only microphones and 5 inch thick glass porthole sized windows into the chamber to monitor them. The chamber was stocked with books, cots to sleep on but no bedding, running water and toilet, and enough dried food to last all five for over a month.

The test subjects were political prisoners deemed enemies of the state during World War II.

Everything was fine for the first five days; the subjects hardly complained having been promised (falsely) that they would be freed if they submitted to the test and did not sleep for 30 days. Their conversations and activities were monitored and it was noted that they continued to talk about increasingly traumatic incidents in their past, and the general tone of their conversations took on a darker aspect after the 4 day mark.

After five days they started to complain about the circumstances and events that lead them to where they were and started to demonstrate severe paranoia. They stopped talking to each other and began alternately whispering to the microphones and one way mirrored portholes. Oddly they all seemed to think they could win the trust of the experimenters by turning over their comrades, the other subjects in captivity with them. At first the researchers suspected this was an effect of the gas itself...

After nine days the first of them started screaming. He ran the length of the chamber repeatedly yelling at the top of his lungs for 3 hours straight, he continued attempting to scream but was only able to produce occasional squeaks. The researchers postulated that he had physically torn his vocal cords. The most surprising thing about this behavior is how the other captives reacted to it... or rather didn't react to it. They continued whispering to the microphones until the second of the captives started to scream. The 2 non-screaming captives took the books apart, smeared page after page with their own feces and pasted them calmly over the glass portholes. The screaming promptly stopped.

So did the whispering to the microphones.

After 3 more days passed. The researchers checked the microphones hourly to make sure they were working, since they thought it impossible that no sound could be coming with 5 people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated that all 5 must still be alive. In fact it was the amount of oxygen 5 people would consume at a very heavy level of strenuous exercise. On the morning of the 14th day the researchers did something they said they would not do to get a reaction from the captives, they used the intercom inside the chamber, hoping to provoke any response from the captives they were afraid were either dead or vegetables.

They announced: "We are opening the chamber to test the microphones; step away from the door and lie flat on the floor or you will be shot. Compliance will earn one of you your immediate freedom."

To their surprise they heard a single phrase in a calm voice response: "We no longer want to be freed."

Debate broke out among the researchers and the military forces funding the research. Unable to provoke any more response using the intercom it was finally decided to open the chamber at midnight on the fifteenth day.

The chamber was flushed of the stimulant gas and filled with fresh air and immediately voices from the microphones began to object. 3 different voices began begging, as if pleading for the life of loved ones to turn the gas back on. The chamber was opened and soldiers sent in to retrieve the test subjects. They began to scream louder than ever, and so did the soldiers when they saw what was inside. Four of the five subjects were still alive, although no one could rightly call the state that any of them in 'life.'

The food rations past day 5 had not been so much as touched. There were chunks of meat from the dead test subject's thighs and chest stuffed into the drain in the center of the chamber, blocking the drain and allowing 4 inches of water to accumulate on the floor. Precisely how much of the water on the floor was actually blood was never determined. All four 'surviving' test subjects also had large portions of muscle and skin torn away from their bodies. The destruction of flesh and exposed bone on their finger tips indicated that the wounds were inflicted by hand, not with teeth as the researchers initially thought. Closer examination of the position and angles of the wounds indicated that most if not all of them were self-inflicted.

The abdominal organs below the ribcage of all four test subjects had been removed. While the heart, lungs and diaphragm remained in place, the skin and most of the muscles attached to the ribs had been ripped off, exposing the lungs through the ribcage. All the blood vessels and organs remained intact, they had just been taken out and laid on the floor, fanning out around the eviscerated but still living bodies of the subjects. The digestive tract of all four could be seen to be working, digesting food. It quickly became apparent that what they were digesting was their own flesh that they had ripped off and eaten over the course of days.

Most of the soldiers were Russian special operatives at the facility, but still many refused to return to the chamber to remove the test subjects. They continued to scream to be left in the chamber and alternately begged and demanded that the gas be turned back on, lest they fall asleep...

To everyone's surprise the test subjects put up a fierce fight in the process of being removed from the chamber. One of the Russian soldiers died from having his throat ripped out, another was gravely injured by having his testicles ripped off and an artery in his leg severed by one of the subject's teeth. Another 5 of the soldiers lost their lives if you count ones that committed suicide in the weeks following the incident.

In the struggle one of the four living subjects had his spleen ruptured and he bled out almost immediately. The medical researchers attempted to sedate him but this proved impossible. He was injected with more than ten times the human dose of a morphine derivative and still fought like a cornered animal, breaking the ribs and arm of one doctor. When heart was seen to beat for a full two minutes after he had bled out to the point there was more air in his vascular system than blood. Even after it stopped he continued to scream and flail for another 3 minutes, struggling to attack anyone in reach and just repeating the word "MORE" over and over, weaker and weaker, until he finally fell silent.

The surviving three test subjects were heavily restrained and moved to a medical facility, the two with intact vocal cords continuously begging for the gas demanding to be kept awake...

The most injured of the three was taken to the only surgical operating room that the facility had. In the process of preparing the subject to have his organs placed back within his body it was found that he was effectively immune to the sedative they had given him to prepare him for the surgery. He fought furiously against his restraints when the anesthetic gas was brought out to put him under. He managed to tear most of the way through a 4 inch wide leather strap on one wrist, even through the weight of a 200 pound soldier holding that wrist as well. It took only a little more anesthetic than normal to put him under, and the instant his eyelids fluttered and closed, his heart stopped. In the autopsy of the test subject that died on the operating table it was found that his blood had triple the normal level of oxygen. His muscles that were still attached to his skeleton were badly torn and he had broken 9 bones in his struggle to not be subdued. Most of them were from the force his own muscles had exerted on them.

The second survivor had been the first of the group of five to start screaming. His vocal cords destroyed he was unable to beg or object to surgery, and he only reacted by shaking his head violently in disapproval when the anesthetic gas was brought near him. He shook his head yes when someone suggested, reluctantly, they try the surgery without anesthetic, and did not react for the entire 6 hour procedure of replacing his abdominal organs and attempting to cover them with what remained of his skin. The surgeon presiding stated repeatedly that it should be medically possible for the patient to still be alive. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery stated that she had seen the patients mouth curl into a smile several times, whenever his eyes met hers.

When the surgery ended the subject looked at the surgeon and began to wheeze loudly, attempting to talk while struggling. Assuming this must be something of drastic importance the surgeon had a pen and pad fetched so the patient could write his message. It was simple. "Keep cutting."

The other two test subjects were given the same surgery, both without anesthetic as well. Although they had to be injected with a paralytic for the duration of the operation. The surgeon found it impossible to perform the operation while the patients laughed continuously. Once paralyzed the subjects could only follow the attending researchers with their eyes. The paralytic cleared their system in an abnormally short period of time and they were soon trying to escape their bonds. The moment they could speak they were again asking for the stimulant gas. The researchers tried asking why they had injured themselves, why they had ripped out their own guts and why they wanted to be given the gas again.

Only one response was given: "I must remain awake."

All three subject's restraints were reinforced and they were placed back into the chamber awaiting determination as to what should be done with them. The researchers, facing the wrath of their military 'benefactors' for having failed the stated goals of their project considered euthanizing the surviving subjects. The commanding officer, an ex-KGB instead saw potential, and wanted to see what would happen if they were put back on the gas. The researchers strongly objected, but were overruled.

In preparation for being sealed in the chamber again the subjects were connected to an EEG monitor and had their restraints padded for long term confinement. To everyone's surprise all three stopped struggling the moment it was let slip that they were going back on the gas. It was obvious that at this point all three were putting up a great struggle to stay awake. One of subjects that could speak was humming loudly and continuously; the mute subject was straining his legs against the leather bonds with all his might, first left, then right, then left again for something to focus on. The remaining subject was holding his head off his pillow and blinking rapidly. Having been the first to be wired for EEG most of the researchers were monitoring his brain waves in surprise. They were normal most of the time but sometimes flat lined inexplicably. It looked as if he were repeatedly suffering brain death, before returning to normal. As they focused on paper scrolling out of the brainwave monitor only one nurse saw his eyes slip shut at the same moment his head hit the pillow. His brainwaves immediately changed to that of deep sleep, then flatlined for the last time as his heart simultaneously stopped.

The only remaining subject that could speak started screaming to be sealed in now. His brainwaves showed the same flatlines as one who had just died from falling asleep. The commander gave the order to seal the chamber with both subjects inside, as well as 3 researchers. One of the named three immediately drew his gun and shot the commander point blank between the eyes, then turned the gun on the mute subject and blew his brains out as well.

He pointed his gun at the remaining subject, still restrained to a bed as the remaining members of the medical and research team fled the room. "I won't be locked in here with these things! Not with you!" he screamed at the man strapped to the table. "WHAT ARE YOU?" he demanded. "I must know!"

The subject smiled.

"Have you forgotten so easily?" The subject asked. "We are you. We are the madness that lurks within you all, begging to be free at every moment in your deepest animal mind. We are what you hide from in your beds every night. We are what you sedate into silence and paralysis when you go to the nocturnal haven where we cannot tread."

The researcher paused. Then aimed at the subject's heart and fired. The EEG flatlined as the subject weakly choked out, "So... nearly... free..."
2014-10-31 12:00:30 AM  
Yay! I was waiting for this.
2014-10-31 12:04:32 AM  

Bathia_Mapes: I look forward to this thread every year.

Me, too!  spoooooooky!
2014-10-31 12:06:37 AM  

Dallymo: Bathia_Mapes: I look forward to this thread every year.

Me, too!  spoooooooky!

Add me to that list.  Bring on Fishy!

/love Fishy
//munches popcorn
2014-10-31 12:07:58 AM  
One time my ex and I were talking about religion in the kitchen and didn't notice that the sink was running. No idea how the faucet got turned on, but it was running full blast, and neither of us had done that. No one else had been in the kitchen either.

I have no explanation, but these days I figure there must be some detail we both missed and I'm satisfied with that.

Cool story bro.
2014-10-31 12:16:24 AM  
Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore

    Danny Nero shot my brother in the belly. I was 9 or 10, so my brother, Mark, was about 11, and Danny was maybe 13. Danny was crazy, but not in the way people like; and though his weapon was a Daisy air rifle, I'm sure if he'd had a real rifle he would have used it. Even before he shot Mark, I knew what he was: I had a dream that he blinded and killed a midget just for fun. When I woke up, I wasn't sure if it was a dream or a memory. I don't know where Danny is now, but if I had to wager, I'd put my money on prison. If I had to hedge my bet, I'd put a few bucks on dead.

    Danny's dad came home from work that day and smashed the pellet gun against a tree. I never met his dad, but other kids said Danny was his father's son, so I'm guessing his dad smashed the gun not because what Danny did was wrong, but because it was dumb, and they both could have got into trouble. I feared for Danny's little brother, David, who was about my age, and his little sister, Danielle, who was maybe six. Normal kids. Some of the scariest people start out as normal kids.
    A few weeks after the air rifle incident, the Neros moved away. It was such a relief, I couldn't adapt to it at first. Their house had been a hazard to avoid when I visited that block. Now I wouldn't have to walk on the other side of the street. I kept telling myself: "It's just a house. It's just a house. Danny doesn't live there anymore." Let's say it was out of habit that I kept walking on the other side, anyway.

Fark user imageView Full Size


    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, Mr. Potato Head, boxes stacked against the walls, and children's clothes scattered everywhere. Brightly colored plastic blocks and balls and rings for little kids, and plastic models of 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.
    "I'm going. You can stay if you want." I didn't. 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.
    "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 pushed 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?"
    "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?"
    More silence.
    "Adam." said Rick, staring at the wallpaper.
    "I think I remember something," he said. He was almost mumbling.
    "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."
2014-10-31 12:16:30 AM  

Bathia_Mapes: The Russian Sleep Experiment

Not reading that right before bed. Nope.

I have no original creepy stories, so I'll just chime in with creepy short stories I can find links to.

Here's one of my favorites: Born of Man and Woman (pdf) by Richard Matheson
2014-10-31 12:39:20 AM  

nmrsnr: Bathia_Mapes: The Russian Sleep Experiment

Not reading that right before bed. Nope.

I have no original creepy stories, so I'll just chime in with creepy short stories I can find links to.

Here's one of my favorites: Born of Man and Woman (pdf) by Richard Matheson

Thanks! Love Richard Matheson
2014-10-31 12:41:29 AM  
send help
2014-10-31 12:48:32 AM  
I'll just leave this oldie right here.

Daddy ate my eyes.
2014-10-31 1:26:00 AM  

Skyd1v: I'll just leave this oldie right here.

Daddy ate my eyes.

2014-10-31 1:34:28 AM  

Bathia_Mapes: I look forward to this thread every year.

Me too, I just wish it came a few days before Halloween to help get in the mood.
2014-10-31 1:42:13 AM  

GreatGlavinsGhost: Bathia_Mapes: I look forward to this thread every year.

Me too, I just wish it came a few days before Halloween to help get in the mood.

Once a year isn't enough for me so I also visit a few times a week to get my scary story fix.  You don't need an account if you just want to read the scary stories, but if you want to comment or vote on them you do.
2014-10-31 2:10:58 AM  

Bathia_Mapes: GreatGlavinsGhost: Bathia_Mapes: I look forward to this thread every year.

Me too, I just wish it came a few days before Halloween to help get in the mood.

Once a year isn't enough for me so I also visit a few times a week to get my scary story fix.  You don't need an account if you just want to read the scary stories, but if you want to comment or vote on them you do.

Once a year is fine, just give me a few days to get really riled up. Posting the night before doesn't give me enough time to read anything. Thank you for the link.
2014-10-31 3:41:15 AM  
Good prep for election day.
2014-10-31 3:48:36 AM  
There was a story by Prof. Buddy Lovecraft written in 1926 called "Gwar-Gwar's Model" about a painter who creates images so disturbing that they cause him to be banned from the galleries. At one point the protagonist visits the painter's abandoned studio and sees a nausea-inducing painting of a horse. Lovecraft wrote,

"It was a colossal and nameless blasphemy with glaring black eyes, and it held in bony hooves a thing that had been a man, gnawing at the head as a child nibbles at a stick of candy. Its position was a kind of crouch, and as one looked one felt that at any moment it might drop its present prey and seek a juicier morsel. But damn it all, it wasn't even the fiendish subject that made it such an immortal fountain-head of all panic- not that, nor the horse face with its pointed ears, bloodshot eyes, flat nose, and drooling lips. It wasn't the scaly hooves nor the mould-caked body nor the half-cloven feet - none of these, though any one of them might well have driven an excitable man to madness.

It was the technique, Julius - the cursed, the impious, the unnatural technique! As I am a living being, I never elsewhere saw the actual breath of life so fused into a canvas. The monster was there - it glared and gnawed and gnawed and glared - and I knew that only a suspension of Nature's laws could ever let a man paint a thing like that without a model - without some glimpse of the nether world which no mortal unsold to the Fiend has ever had."

The protagonist later finds a reference photograph that the artist used, writing, "Well - that paper wasn't a photograph of any background, after all. What it showed was simply the monstrous being he was painting on that awful canvas. It was the model he was using- and its background was merely the wall of the cellar studio in minute detail. But by God, Julius, it was a photograph from life!"

Lovecraft claimed the story was fiction, but I have been struck by the curious recent explosion of similar images on the Internet, often referred to as "smile_pone" or simply "smile" (the name probably doesn't matter), that evoke a frightful response from the viewer (and are even rumored to drive some insane) and that can haunt its subject until they "spread the word" of the image around. What would cause such a phenomenon? I think the answer lies in the nature of images.

There was a study performed a few years ago by Professor Jonathan Frink where a monkey was injected with dye, subjected to images, and sacrificed so that we could view what was occurring in its brain. Sure enough, what the monkey had been looking at could actually be seen using the dye in distorted form upon the brain's visual cortex in grids, showing that images do not simply imprint themselves upon the mind: through neuronal activity, they can become part of the brain itself.

Of course, certain images impress themselves longer and more deeply upon the brain than others. We might say that they are better able to 'haunt' us. If I were to show you a simple picture of Tim Curry, it probably would not remain upon your brain for long. Other images, perhaps especially certain more disturbing ones, are going to remain there longer, maybe even indefinitely.

And this is where my crucial point is. Your brain is constantly updating itself through neuronal plasticity to keep yourself grounded in your environment. But it is now clear that certain images are able to update themselves as well in our brains. They are seen, impress themselves upon the brain, and haunt the brain so intensely (sometimes through dreams and even sleep paralysis) as to create a new, more powerful version. With the advent of the Internet, these pictures are able to update and transfer themselves from one person to another through imagery and imagination to reach new, more powerful heights of haunting.

But for what purpose do these images spread their infection, and what happens when all of these images are assembled in one place? I believe that at one point there was an original image, perhaps even known by Lovecraft himself, that somehow got lost to time. This original image was so terrible that echoes of it carry forward to today, ricocheting from person to person in new and more terrible forms. Some have experienced the fear that even the lowliest of these images can evoke and the resulting nightly hauntings that follow. I pray that we never reach the collective remembrance of the lost, original image itself and I pity any person who allows too many of these pictures to become a part of their brain.

But my story is not helpful in this regard. In my foolish boredom and procrastination, I have seen the images myself, and I am finally giving in to my own nightly experiences (I am too weary and shaken to repeat them now) for the hope that I can reclaim at least some of my previously ignorant peace. Look at the images, heed the visions, assemble them all in one place, and let the progress continue. Like Lovecraft, I am no artist, so I can only spread the word.

/and apologize to the original author whose work I've butchered
2014-10-31 4:23:55 AM  
"...and then Texas elected Gregg Abbott for Governor..."
2014-10-31 4:54:14 AM  
Once there was an ugly barnacle. He was so ugly that everyone died. The end.
2014-10-31 5:52:53 AM  
Somehow, after being on Fark for a little over a decade, I've never encountered this thread.  I'm not sure what the rules are, though I see people posting some classics.

Anyway, that being said, I don't see the need to dig up a story off the web, but I did get good traction with this CSB a few weeks ago:

When I was a kid growing up in southeast Texas my parents would kick us out of the house early in the morning with the admonition to not return unless we planned on staying inside.  "We can't afford to air condition the entire neighborhood," they would tell us.

One fine spring day when I was about six years old, I was out in the yard and started to get thirsty.  Usually this meant drinking from the hose, since we were banished to the outer world until at least lunch.  However, my father hadn't hooked up the hoses yet that year, you don't really need to water much during springtime in the bayou.

This wasn't a problem, of course, I just stuck my head under the faucet on the side of the house, turned my face up, opened wide and twisted the handle.  I felt some crud go into my mouth and immediately spit it out into my hand only to find, to my horror, that it was a spider.  It quickly scurried off my hand, but left behind the egg sac it had been nesting with.

Dislodging the sac had caused it to break open and I stared in fascination as a multitude of baby spiders erupted across my palm.  My calm observation was brief, though, as I began to feel their brethren crawling around inside my mouth.
2014-10-31 7:37:28 AM  
My scariest story happens to be true. Yes, I'mma repeat myself, because this is the scariest story I got.

'Round abouts 1996 or so, I went to the movies with two of my best buddies. Got our tickets, and went to the arcade to futz around. Took on my boy Tony in a round of Virtua Fighter 3, and as I was preparing to serve up a dose of Lau Chan whoop ass on Aoi, when a mule kicked me in the chest. At least that's what it felt like.

Next thing I know, I'm on the ground. EMTs are there when I come to, and I try to get up, and they quickly nix that idea. One has a pressure cuff on me, and is looking worried. Next thing I know, I'm whisked into the ambulance, and as I was being wheeled out, I realize that it's starting to snow. The ride to Cooley Dick Medical Center in Northampton was not a long trip, and from my vantage, I can see the lights outside the back window, and I realize, we are moving. And that the snow is really starting to come down. Ambulance is swerving a bit, can feel through the gurney that we're not exactly slowing down. The EMTs are telling me to stay with them, and to be honest, I was a bit worried that we'd crack up on the side of the road, and wouldn't that be some ironic sh*t? We get to the hospital, and by this time, I was feeling more than a little woozy, and since the snow was coming down harder, and they were wheeling me into the hospital, I figure, heck, these folks got this, so maybe a nap is order.

Next thing I know, I'm back outside. Or rather, I'm on a gurney and being loaded into ANOTHER ambulance, and that was likewise I bit worrisome. EMTs are continuing to tell me to stay with them, to focus on their voices, by now, I realize, I have a few extra holes in my arm, and very quick trip from the hospital door to the ambulance confirms, that it IS snowing like a motherf*cker. And the ambulance takes off. I mean hauls ass. Sirens blaring, and a LOT of talk among the crew, and all the while, telling me to HOLD ON. All in all, more than a bit confusing. Beginning to wonder how my boys are going to get word to my fiance to go the right hospital, and this seems a bit much for getting woozy and passing out.

A not so long ride, with some skids, some slides, and a LOT of very earnest talk by the EMTs, and I arrive at Bay State Medical Center in Springfield. At this point, again, I figure, it's been a long, somewhat trying day--what with missing the movie, the mule that somehow snuck into the arcade and sucker kicked me out of nowhere, and two quick ambulance rides, and the snowstorm--so when I get into Bay State into the building proper, I decide that a nap is DEFINITELY in order, because they got this.

When I come to, things are definitely wrong. For one, I hurt, a LOT. Chest. Arms. Legs. My hair even hurt--yes, Virginia, Hubie once wore his locks long and flowing. The second thing is my breathing is wrong. There's a tube down my throat, it's doing all the work apparently, and the rhythm is just too damn slow, and with the tube in the way, I can't seem to breathe around the damn thing. Plus, I can't move. Can't open my eyes. Can't move a finger. I can hear, and yes, there is the machine that goes "ping" and a few more. After a bit, I realize that my fiance is there, and I can hear her, but I can't move. She is telling me to keep my heart rate up, and to do it NOW. I'm just glad that she's there, so I concentrate a bit on trying to do exactly that. Biofeedback lessons, are a GO. Not just a hippy class when I was taking jujitsu in college, I guess. There's not a lot else I can, other than try to find a way to move, and after what seems like days I finally got my eyes to flutter open a bit. Took a LOT of effort. Once I got the eyes to sort of open a bit, I realized, that if you are apparently OUT for a long, long, long time, they get really gummy. Hard to see, but there's lights, and everything is a bit out of focus, but since I'm nearsighted, that's not a real surprise. Not being able to move anything other than my eyes, that's a bit more worrisome. At this point, I realize, "Damn, dude, you are f*cked up." I still don't know what happened, but by now, I'm terrified that I'm paralyzed. And from what I have no idea. Just in a lot of pain, with a tube breathing wrong for me, and my bride to be telling me to keep my heart rate up, for hours on end. Since, yeah, I love her, and I have some vague recollections of some very dark places while I was apparently under, I decide, I'mma listen to her. She's the reason, I'm back really. And after some HUGE effort, I realize that I have a tiny modicum of control over my fingertips. Progress, I guess. Luckily, the wife to be catches on that I'm listening, more than just by the heart rate going up on command, but she catches the eye flutters, and the tiny finger pulses, and it about then, that I am REALLY glad that we were enormously cutesy when we were first going out, and had a sort of squeeze code to talk during long, very boring lectures. It takes forever to spell out anything that way, but since the tube is breathing for me, and I'm not really going anywhere, I figure what the heck, I can take the time to squeeze out One-Two-Three, which was our enormously cutesy and somewhat nauseating way of saying "I Love You" without having to say the words out loud.

The girl critter, luckily, caught it. And it takes a while to spell anything else out, but she can at least speak, and I can answer "Yes" and "No" to a lot of her questions, and that speeds things up a bit. And apparently, concentrating on all this stuff, has improved my motor control a bit, because I can start to open my eyes a bit, despite nurses telling her that there is no way in Hell that I am possibly conscious this close to being out of surgery.

The next few hours I get the skinny.

When that errant mule kicked me and disappeared to give my boy Tony a leg up with Aoi over Lau Chan, that wasn't really a mule. That was my aorta splitting like a bad seal. About four inches of tear, that took a part of the valve with it when it went. While I was trying to sit up, and talk with the EMTs, I was pretty much able to, because by that time, my chest cavity had pretty much filled up with as much blood as it could possibly fill with, and momentarily, I was sort of on a relatively even keel, as far as blood pressure went. That didn't really last long, as about the time I went down again, my left lung was filling with blood, and pretty much part of the down time while I was in surgery to replace the ascending aorta, and the valve that ripped, was suctioning my lung a bit from being filled to the tippy top with a fair portion of my blood supply.

267 units of blood, and 26 and a half hours of surgery, and my surgeon called it done. Dr Rousseau had apparently already done a 10 hour day when I showed up, and had his keys in his hands when his pager went off. He came back and did 16 hours of surgery on me, then took a break to get a nap--I don't really begrudge the guy, because he'd done more than a day's work on me already. The girl critter explained, "He came out and said, 'I have no idea how he's still alive, but he is. I'm going to take nap, and if he's still alive when I wake up, I'm going to finish things up, and we'll see how it goes.'" And he did. After four hours, he came back, with a pair of nurses who apparently spent those four hours lining up bags of blood products to pour into me, which they then reset, and poured more, reset, and then poured more in. For four hours. Rousseau came back, did another six and half hours of work, and called it a day.

I apparently work up about 10 hours after the surgery. I was fluttering my eyes at about 12 hours. And I was starting to get a handle on my fingers by 14. The whole, "Am I f*cking paralyzed?" thing was a spinal block, because Hubie is apparently fairly active, even when under anesthesia. So, I WAS paralyzed, but entirely on purpose. At 16 hours, I was croaking out some bare whispers, and that got the nurses to realize that maybe I wasn't entirely brain dead from lack of oxygen to the noggin during the whole, "aorta doing the splits" thing.

Not all of them were convinced. While I lay there, a few nurses did give the girl some advice, that I was probably NOT coming back, and if I did, I would be very different, and that was the heavily laden different that a lot of medical personnel adopt when they mean to say, "Boy is goin' be a vegetable so you'd best get used to it, and it might have been kinder if he'd just died." Of course, I was right there, and my hearing was just fine. Couldn't do more than sort of croak, since the spinal block was still keeping me still, and the tube down my throat for a few days apparently, that does a LOT to really mess up the voice and anything looking like breath control for vocal exercises.

I was lucky though. The girl and I could communicate with squeezes, and when I got too tired there, I could at least blink at her, and that got a lot of things answered. Not all the nurses believed that, but they humored her, and by 18 hours after surgery, I got the tube out of my throat, and could sort of croak a bit better. Not all of the nurses were convinced, and I got a few tubes taken out--including two really big drainage tubes out my chest, sans anything like a local anesthetic, because the nurses figured I was just a hunk of barely breathing donor tissue waiting for familial consent for harvest. At about 20 hours or so, post surgery, I asked one of those nurses for a glass of water--I'd been on ice chips, because apparently, when you shut down the body like that for surgery, and with as much trauma as I'd had done to save my life, the organs sometimes take a bit to come back to work. My pancreas was one of those organs, and it was then I realized that the pancreas is the b*tchy little girl of organs, and it pretty much took a two week break before it decided to join the rest of the party. The nurse I asked for a glass of water damn near jumped out of her skin. We both knew that she'd screwed up, but by that time, I was just glad to be able to breathe on my own, without the tube, and the whole, "You know, I'm getting the very strong sensation that I'm REALLY lucky to be alive, so maybe the pain is OK right now." Not great. Not by any means. Having drainage tubes in your side, flesh stitched up to make a seal on them doesn't feel comfy by any means, and having them ripped out of your side without a local REALLY sucks. It set the bar for pain for me, and when I passed a kidney stone about ten years later, it was not even a close second to the drainage tubes getting yoinked.

Fast forward a bit, and the spinal block is removed, I get motor control back, and oddly enough, I didn't get any infections, I do have some mild aphasia from the interruption of blood flow to the brain--not huge, but pathways have definitely been downed for finding some words, and the connections have to be bridged by looking for them in different ways. My family doctor at first gave me six months to live, if I was REALLY careful not to exert myself. Then he gave me a year. Then five. Then seven. It's closing in on 20 years now, and yeah, I'm doing fine. Got married, had a wonderful little girl, got divorced. Dated a bit. Bike about 20 miles a day. Still do martial arts in my spare time. Realized that my drawing style has changed a bit since I had my little "accident" but I still have fine motor control, I write, I sketch, I cook. I eat. I drink a bit. I do carry on at times, and I'm not averse to throwing folks over my shoulders and spinning them around like a top, as is sometimes my wont to do when I am in my cups.

The scary thing is still, those first few hours of consciousness though. Alone. In the dark. With only the pings and compressions from the machines, and the murmuring around me, and the bustling, feeling the machine breathe wrong. And that really is my biggest fear today: going back there. And not recovering. Not coming out of it, and being trapped there. In my body. Time dilates in a funny way, when it's down to breaths, and the wrong breaths.  Not being able to move. Not being able to communicate. Not having my bride to be be there to spur me on to keep my heart rate up. She saved my life. As much as my surgeon and his team. She is my ex-wife, and she and I don't get along for damn near anything any longer, but I will certainly be the first to admit, that I wouldn't be here today, if it weren't for her. She was my reason to come back from that dark. She was the only one who believed that I could be in there. That believed that I heard her. Who caught my flutters for communication. Who got that I was still in there. And when I'm alone, in the dark, late at night, yeah, THAT is my nightmare. Not just the usual "bad things happen and you get tore up!" but the real fear, the one that will bolt me straight out of bed and shaking in the bathroom, with the lights on and breathing hard, is that I'll wind up in that dark place, unable to move, unable to communicate, and there won't be someone there who believes and knows where I am, who I am. And I have that dream, I'm awake for the rest of the damn night and there is no way in Hells I'm going back asleep for fear that I'll slip right back down into that dream again, and that is one I just don't ever risk continuing...
2014-10-31 9:02:43 AM  
2014-10-31 9:07:06 AM  

Bathia_Mapes: The Russian Sleep Experiment

I heart you.
2014-10-31 9:07:48 AM  

Bathia_Mapes: I look forward to this thread every year.

I normally avoid this thread. This year I'm going to gird my loins and read it though.
2014-10-31 9:10:45 AM  
Let me tell you about my IRS audit.











No, wait, even I'm not that cruel.
2014-10-31 9:11:08 AM  
November 5th, 2014.

Republicans picked up a stunning victory last night, claiming a majority in the Senate by picking up 4 new seats...
2014-10-31 9:12:36 AM  
I've never seen this thread before, and already I'm giddy with anticipation at its potential epicness.

My story is, like a few others here, true.

I was 14 and babysitting for a couple who were friends of my parents who lived about a ten minute drive from my place. They had two girls, one was 7 and the other was 5. I had babysat the kids several times before and they were generally well behaved and not too troublesome.

That particular night it was late November, and it was a very windy and rainy night and the couple were off to some kind of work function and weren't planning to be back until very late. I was told that the basement was under construction and to avoid going down there as there was a hole where one of the basement doors would have been that was just covered in a tarp, as the new door was going to be delivered in a day or so.

Anyway, the evening progressed pretty well at first. I fed the kids dinner (Kraft dinner and microwaved hot dogs) and then we spent the rest of the time before their bedtime playing with Lego, Barbies and many, many games of snakes and ladders. Eventually, around 8:00pm, I put them to bed, (which of course took about 45 minutes of endless delays, requests and attempts to stay awake) and I finally settled onto the couch around 9:00pm. I made myself some popcorn and put on a movie (Dirty Dancing) and around the time when Patrick Swayze is looking after the girl who has an abortion, I fell asleep.

I was awoken at some point later by a an extremely loud CRASH. I woke up instantly, trying to get my bearings. The movie had ended, and the screen was showing that screen saver thing where the DVD logo swoops around the screen, alternating colours and directions. I remained perfectly still, trying to figure out what the noise was and where it had come from. Then I heard it again, a loud, metallic CRASH followed by a strange vibration/rattling that was definitely coming from the basement. I literally froze. My mind just stopped working. I held my breath, completely unsure of what to do next. A portion of my mind was telling me that I should call the police, or run and hide...but all my mind could focus on was a) how I was likely going to die in the next 2 minutes and b) that I REALLY had to go pee.

I heard a third CRASH, this one louder than before which actually vibrated the floorboards beneath my feet and on instinct I was up off the couch, covering my mouth with my hand so that my scream wouldn't alert the psychopathic serial killer, that my imagination told me was clearly the cause of the noise, of my presence. In a panic I raced on tiptoes down the hallway towards the washroom, my rattled brain thinking that I would lock myself in the bathroom and call the police while also peeing in safety. As I sped down the hallway, my eyes flew past the door where the girls were sleeping and it dawned on me that I should make sure they didn't run off and go investigating the cause of the noise (and subsequently get killed by that serial killer who had a thing for crashing around basement construction zones) so I opened their door and closed it behind me as quietly as I could. My bladder wasn't happy about this choice, but I basically crossed my legs and sat against the door and surveyed the room. The five year old sleeping closest to me was clearly still dead to the world, splayed out on the bed with her blond hair over her face. However, as I looked over to the second bed belonging to the seven year old, I saw to my horror that the covers were pulled down and the bed was empty. She was gone.

At this point, I basically stopped functioning. I alternated between absolute terror and full blown panic in about two second increments. Where was she? I tried whispering her name, "Madison", but all that came out was a muffled "maaadisssss..." that trailed off in a hiss. The I heard it again, another CRASH coming from the basement. This one wasn't as loud, probably because I was now in a different part of the house and not directly above it as I had been before in the living room. I had by now long forgotten my desperate need to pee, and I was basically starting to curl up in a ball behind the door, hoping that I could just cower there until their parents returned and somehow they'd forgive me for losing their daughter once they saw a skinny girl huddled in a corner, covered in her own piss.

Then, something came over me. Maybe it was the thought of having to tell them that their daughter was gone, the victim of a clumsy serial killer, and that I had done nothing to prevent it. Maybe it was the realization that at 14, this was my first real job and that I had a responsibility to protect these children, and that in joining the ranks of the countless babysitters that came before me, I had a duty to look out for these kids. Either way, I pulled myself off the ground, and shook myself like a dog would after a bath and decided that I HAD to find Madison. So I left the bedroom, tiptoeing gently, yet quickly, and made a sweep of the vicinity. I checked the bathroom (my bladder made a desperate ping to let me know that urinating should be my number 1 priority, not some smelly seven year old who regularly picked her nose and ate it), the master bedroom, the den, the kitchen and found nothing. By this time, I had decided to call the police, however I couldn't for the life of me remember where I had left my phone. My brain, still terrified and hardly functioning, simply couldn't remember where I had left it. Of course, in retrospect, I could have easily used the land line in the kitchen, but my teenage brain didn't even consider that an option at the time.

It dawned on me that there was only one place I hadn't yet looked for Madison.....the basement. There hadn't been a crash for several minutes now, so that clearly meant that either the serial killer had decided to leave or that he was just waiting in ambush for me to come down. I remember leaning against the wall of the living room, staring at the basement door for what seemed like an eternity, trying to decide what to do. By now the wind had picked up and the rain was coming down heavily, and leaves were flying against the big window, making strange shadows dance across the walls. I made up my mind. I would crawl to the door and open it a crack and call for Madison, if she was down there she would definitely call out, and then I could either decide to grab and book it to safety or run like hell to the neighbours and beg for help (and the use of their washroom).

I literally crawled, like an infant, to the basement door and placed my hand on the handle. I opened the door a crack and looked down into the darkness. My eyes could make out objects strewn on the floor and I could see the tarp fluttering around over the gaping hole where the door to the outside should have been. I called out quietly "Madissssssson!" but heard nothing. I gingerly stood up and reached for the light switch, and turned it on. The basement was suddenly illuminated and I saw cans, food, tools and sports equipment all over the floor. My peripheral vision caught the sight of movement in the corner of the basement, it was too small to be a full grown man (which clearly a serial killer would be) so I hoped against hope that it was Madison. I called her name again, louder this time and took a two steps down into the basement, the blinding fluorescent light giving me courage. "Madisssssssonnnn! Are youuuuu therrrrrrre!" I finally yelled in a panic and I saw more movement coming from a corner where clothes were piled haphazardly. I stepped down three more steppes and came face to face with a face, staring back at me from a shelf on the wall.

My brain didn't have time to process the image, because I basically flew backwards diagonally into the railing of the stairs and the impact caused my forgotten bladder to empty. I screamed like a banshee and flailed my limbs in some kind of pathetic self defense as I peed myself and a giant farking raccoon jumped down off the shelf and ran for cover. As I finally got my legs working, I ran back up the stairs and saw the raccoon heading for the tarp, two of its kin in tow.

It turns out that Madison had been asleep under her bed the whole time, cuddled up with her stuffed animals. It was something she did every so often, but her parents didn't think to tell me. My screams had woken up both girls and I spent the next hour trying to calm them down, assuring them that the smell of pee they were inquiring about was just their imagination.
2014-10-31 9:14:22 AM  
I wish we could go one year on this without political threadshiaters.
2014-10-31 9:14:33 AM  
...And Scott Walker was re-elected Wisconsin Governor and went on to be President....
2014-10-31 9:14:52 AM  
I hope don't post a bunch of those stupid creepy pasta stories. I always see those.
2014-10-31 9:17:35 AM  
I love this thread!

Here's mine, posted it before:

I was working in the medical records department for a network of hospitals, and often got asked to cover for people who were sick/on vacation or otherwise just not available. One weekend, the department head asked if I wouldn't mind covering the evening shift (4-midnight) all by myself at a site that wasn't my usual home-base. Since I was a student at the time, and later weekend shifts paid a few extra bucks an hour, I took it.
Now, this particular hospital is a special case, mostly because it looks like a great big hulking gothic castle perched on a hillside. I have friends from my department and who worked on the clinical side of things that all have creepy stories about this place. On top of that, it was the site of some less than savoury LSD and sensory deprivation experiments during the cold war. So, yeah, reputation.
The department I was working in had these rolling archival shelves built into tracks in the floor. You basically have to turn a wheel to shift the whole aisle over to get access to the dossier you're looking for. The room itself was a repurposed nursing ward, originally built sometime in the early 1900s and I'm sure they kept the original wood floors under the linoleum. The shelves basically dominated 3/4 of the entire wing, leaving only a narrow path in the middle and maybe 4"-5" of clearance between them and the outside wall on either side. This is important.
So I'm sitting there, checking paperwork and occasionally taking a trip into the filing area to grab a new chart, and the shelves would sometimes roll closed while I was in the aisle. No big deal, aside from the fact that it got to the point that I was wedging them open with a cart to keep from being crushed. Since this tended to happen while I was at one specific part of the room, I chalked it up to the old, creaky floor along with gravity just causing the shelves to close at that spot. Whatever, time goes by, I've got my earphones in, clerking away waiting for midnight.
Around 11, I'm at my desk and I can hear the shelves over my music. They're being slammed forcefully, as if someone was in a major hurry to get something. I go to look, thinking my jerry-rigged cart wedge has finally popped loose under the weight. These shelves are HEAVY, and when I worked there during the day most of the older ladies would ask me to open them for them. Even for me, a guy at about 5'10", 200lbs, it could be a workout to get more than 2-3 shelves rolled over at one time. This time, the shelves are opening and closing randomly, all over the place, not just by where I had propped them open. And they were doing it hard, slamming into each other with window-rattling force.
Now, I had heard some stories about the creepy stuff that happened to people working alone in this department, and I really didn't think much of it. And these shelves had been pissing me off all night at this point, so I just stood there watching for a few seconds and shouted "Knock it the fark off, I'm trying to work!" mostly just to settle my own nerves. Wouldn't you know it? Damned things gave one last rumbling SLAM harder than the others and stayed to where I had wedged them before, only this time sans wedge. With only an hour left to work, I took the decision that absolutely nothing short of an emergency call was getting me back into those aisles.
Finally, quitting time comes around and the shelves have been quiet, so I don't mention any of it to the person relieving me. Because of the sensitive and confidential nature of people health info, I couldn't just pop out the fire escape to head home (my usual escape route after a shift there) and had to go the long way around.
That put me on a road going parallel to the department itself, and, as I walked by I glanced up. There was my replacement, sitting at a desk by the windows in the office part of the department, headphones in, working away. And in the filing area? In the filing area I saw the shelves rolling along past one of the windows...and in the window was a silhouette of what I will always see as someone in a early 20th century nursing cap and gown. Standing in a place where there was absolutely not enough room for a human being to be. I stared at it for the 20 or so seconds it took to pass that window, and even turned a bit to keep it in sight when I did go by. The figure stayed there, either facing me or with its back to me the whole time, with the shelves slowly rolling along behind it.
Next week I told my boss that he could keep those shifts for anyone else in future. Never did a solo evening shift there again.
2014-10-31 9:19:35 AM  
I remember it being back when I was in the fifth grade, either ten or eleven. It was Halloween, and me and my friends all decided that we were past the age of dressing up and going trick or treating, but we still wanted to go out and do something fun. We went to the local mall where they had converted one of the vacant store lots into a haunted house attraction. We get in line and just after that, some guy who is by himself, gets in right behind us. He was wearing a clown mask. This was some time ago, before businesses started making you take your Halloween mask off when you enter. The line isn't too long so we only have to wait about twenty minutes until our group is next to go. And for some reason, when they let our group in, they included the clown guy.

The haunted house was cheesy and stupid, even for a mall haunted house. When we got out and we were all ragging about how lame it was, I turned to the clown guy and asked "was that stupid or what?" He turned to stare at me, but didn't say a word. We just walked away, and as we were making our way across to food court, I turn around. He is still standing there. Staring at me. Later that night, we are walking down the street, thinking of something to do. It was about ten. And we wouldn't be able to be out for too much longer. It was a small town, and if you were our age and out after ten and a cop saw you. They'd stop and demand you tell them where you live and who your parents are. Anyway, we are walking and I get this creepy feeling I can't explain. I turned around and the clown guy is following us. He's way behind us, but it still creeps me out. So I point him out to our friends. We're all a little freaked out by this so we started running. We turn to duck into an alley. I glance back and he is running to catch up to us.

We run down the alley and jump a fence which puts us in the backyard of Paul's home, one of the guys in our group. We run inside and close and lock the door. We kept looking outside of all the windows, but nobody sees clown guy anywhere. Paul invited us to spend the night so we could watch some horror movies. All of us calls our parents to get permission, but my parents wanted me home. It's now after ten, so Paul's father offers to drive me home.

He drops me off in front of my home and drives away. I am walking up the sidewalk and as I am halfway to the front porch, I head a voice behind me shout, "hey!" I turn around and see clown guy. I start to run, but I'm so freaked out, my legs hardly move. He runs up to me and wrestles me to the ground. I'm only about ten, so I'm pissing myself and I mean literally. He flips me over so I am looking straight up at him, pinned to the ground and my pants soaked with piss. I'm so scared I can't even scream. All I could do was look up at that crazy clown mask and hope to God that my parents look out the front window to see what's happening. He pulled the mask off and I found myself face to face with Bill Murray. He said, "no one is ever going to believe you." He kissed me on the cheek and ran off into the night.
2014-10-31 9:20:23 AM  

Bathia_Mapes: The Russian Sleep Experiment

I always enjoy this one, although it kinds of breaks the story when you say there is 4 inches of blood/water covering the chamber and then in the next sentence say that the captives organs are laying on the floor
2014-10-31 9:20:53 AM  
Once, I almost clicked on the "Politics" tab. I was shaking for hours after that.
2014-10-31 9:21:12 AM  

Skyd1v: Bring on Fishy!

And Marine1
2014-10-31 9:25:19 AM  

hubiestubert: My scariest story happens to be true. Yes, I'mma repeat myself, because this is the scariest story I got.

Sort of like the Metallica song "One".  Yeah, that's a hell of a lot scarier than ghosts.
2014-10-31 9:27:15 AM  

fusillade762: Once on a road trip I stopped at a rest area to use the bathroom. The only other vehicle in the lot was a beat up grey van. When I came out of the bathroom I noticed the side door to the van was open and there was a $20 bill on the ground between it and my car. The moment I saw the money I heard a hoarse voice from inside the van say "Pick it up".

Needless to say I made Shaggy and Scooby time getting the fark out of there.

Oh sure, because every guy who drives a beat up van and tries to lure people over with money is some kind of creepy serial killer. How the hell do YOU get dates, Mr. Smart Guy?
2014-10-31 9:31:14 AM  
I love this thread every single year.  Let me guess, there'll be Fishy?  Also the highly-contested one about the highway with the "hotbed of Satanic activity" that someone swears definitely, absolutely happened to him?
2014-10-31 9:31:35 AM  
I'm trying to find a story about a taxidermist assistant who hates his boss, kills his boss. Wears his boss' face so no one will know his boss is missing. Eventually his boss' body gets found so instead of telling anyone the truth he goes to jail so that people will think his jerk boss is the murdered instead of him. I've been trying to find the full text of this story for ages.
2014-10-31 9:33:43 AM  
Still my fav
I love these threads
2014-10-31 9:40:14 AM  

gunga galunga: He flips me over so I am looking straight up at him, pinned to the ground and my pants soaked with piss. I'm so scared I can't even scream. All I could do was look up at that crazy clown mask and hope to God that my parents look out the front window to see what's happening. He pulled the mask off and I found myself face to face with Bill Murray. He said, "no one is ever going to believe you." He kissed me on the cheek and ran off into the night.

Oh, come on, everyone knows that Bill Murray is a myth.
2014-10-31 9:41:34 AM  
....and that's how much college will cost when your daughter turns 18.
2014-10-31 9:44:03 AM  
... and then I said "I do" ... but it wasn't a dream!
2014-10-31 9:48:06 AM  
The Jezebel stories this year are outstanding, no repeats either.
2014-10-31 9:48:49 AM  
Please please, I want to know the conclusion to a tale a guy was telling here in a previous year's thread!

It involved animals acting weird (in Maine I think) and him going out hunting and seeing this guys in the woods, just staring up at the trees.   It was creepy as hell, and I think he said 'he was going to go back out to investigate'.

Also wait for echo5juliet'ts tale of driving in the desert....
2014-10-31 9:49:49 AM  
I submit this story every year....

visualphotos.comView Full Size
2014-10-31 9:51:25 AM  

galactus5000: I wish we could go one year on this without political threadshiaters.

Boo! You're now in the Politics tab! MWAHAHAHA!
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