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(Fark)   Don't move. Don't even breathe. It's right behind you... it's the Fark Halloween Stories thread. THE STORIES ARE COMING FROM INSIDE THE COMMUNITY   (fark.com) divider line
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3258 clicks; posted to Main » on 01 Nov 2016 at 2:29 AM (4 years ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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2016-10-29 6:43:10 PM  
But who was phone?
 
2016-10-29 6:45:18 PM  
Actually, I think it's then who was phone.
 
2016-10-29 6:54:05 PM  
Once upon a time a TFette sent me BIE. I'm still suffering.
 
2016-10-29 7:10:38 PM  
This isn't scary. It's kind of a ghost story, though. It's a poem about an empty lot where a house used to stand. The memories of the people who had lived there remain in the few artifacts that litter the lot. Not the ghosts of people, but their combined memories, as if they had soaked into the house and become a spirit unto itself.

The Lot

Once lain in running bond, these scattered
bricks now lie in crumbling disarray,
their mortar gone.
This is my home.
And though its roof is on 
                the ground, and though its walls
are cobblestones
though it is gone,
enough remains.
This is my home.
I make it as I can.
I leave it as it lies.

Because I have chosen to live in facture,
and not off the land,
but what has been made of the land,
and because this land has been unmade,
I inhabit that most important facture:
that of the mind
and not of the hands.
I reclaim these mortal bricks, unmortared
and lain in random bond
and I let them lie in state
as they once were lain.

And I let them stand.

For it is the hands that make a thing
and the mind that makes use of it.
When the hands are gone but the mind remains,
decay cannot unmake its usefulness.

Regard this brick
                 (now all four walls where
                   the Christmas dinners and the arguments
                            and complacent days that passed
                                                like pastel wallpaper still-lifes
                                     and the birthday parties and the sound-
                      asleep nights comfortable
             with outgrown fears of groans
   of the settling house
                                     were and are contained), regard
its cracks and chinks and fissures.
Regard the face those features make, 
and the features of that face:
The stolid mouth, the solid gaze,
the stoic brow of knowledge
of an unglazed immortality.

The mortgagor knew it too. He saw the face
as he descended the front porch steps 
to fetch the mail, six days a week,
except for holidays,
       or when he was out of town,
                  or the blizzard of  '68 which
                  stayed those couriers
           from the swift completion
of their appointed rounds.
He wondered whose face it might have been
if the brick had been the world.
He pondered the world that greeted the face
       of that man in that where and that when
who descended his front porch steps
to fetch his mail.
The face was his.
The face was his
mind.

That world was his and was not his. He was free to ignore that world;
the face was not.
It was confined 
to the brick, condemned
to gaze out at the world beyond the brick,
from that of the mind,
and not comprehend.
The face is mine.
This is my home.

Regard this shingle, its knots,
the grain of wood, the stain of rust
where rain met roofing nails.
It lay
on the southwest corner of
the southwest corner of the roof:
third from the south, fourth from the west.

Now the shingle is the roof,
a shelter to the end.
It lies
in the center of the lot
and catches every drop
of rain
and keeps me dry.
This is my home.

The roofer
who repaired the roof
when it succumbed
                    to rain,
                       to the blizzard of '68,
                                  the hail of '69,
                     the frailty of wood,
                  indifferent time,
had particular affection for this shingle;
the two-hundredth lain that day:
time for a break
and smoke a cigarette
and rest beneath this tree;
this stump.

A child,
the mortgagor's son,
five years old and feeling brave,
crawled beneath the house one day
and found on every joist
that bore the floor above his head
my other home:
the emblem of the lumber mill that made the boards:
a stand of trees beneath a banner
borne by rampant unicorns, and
bearing the legend of my principality:
"Stanford Lumber--The Stamp Of Quality."
He knew that it was not a symbol,
but a picture of a place,
and of the things in that place.

The land about the stand of trees extended out in all directions.
People would come and go,
inspect the banner and
appreciate its quality and 
honor the unicorns,
and rest beneath the trees:
a storybook setting in a stamp of green ink.
This is my land. 
This is the most important facture.

                                   Once lain in running bond, these scattered

The merest artifact will suffice
to portray the mind as artifice
and as artificer both.

                                         and not of the hands

No juice remains in this bagasse.
I drink of shards of glass. This shattered
bottle is what it once contained.

                                   decay cannot unmake its usefulness

There are minds,
and there are minds.

                                     and I let them stand.

This is my home.

                           the hands

                                                what has been made

                           the mind

                                                      This is my home.


This is my home.
 
2016-10-29 7:11:03 PM  
Once upon a time, a sentient and evil orange cheeto with a blonde toupee ran for president, and actually won the nomination.

How did it end?

YOU ARE STILL IN THE STORY!
 
2016-10-29 7:14:32 PM  
I was probably 11 or 12. A group of about 10 of us were playing with a friend's ouija board, and we grew up in Louisiana so like the majority of people in that part of the country, we were really stupid. I think we all actually believed it could work. One friend swore he wasn't moving it, but we definitely were "communicating" with someone. We took turn asking questions. I asked, "What was the hair color of the person who killed me in one of my nightmares." I hadn't told my friends. The "spirit" said, "red." Yep, that was correct. Other people also had some strange answers.

We were really spooked at this point. It started getting aggressive. Some "f*ck you" responses, some "die" or "murder" responses. Friend one time said he had a headache. Lights were out, and it was turning dark outside so it set the mood there. Friend's parents weren't home.

Finally, someone bothered to ask who we were communicating with.  When we got the answer, everyone bolted out the door. Again, Louisiana, no one was all that literate. One friend and I did give a quizzical look to each other, but we bolted with everyone else.

Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)
 
2016-10-29 7:20:17 PM  

meow said the dog: I was probably 11 or 12. A group of about 10 of us were playing with a friend's ouija board, and we grew up in Louisiana so like the majority of people in that part of the country, we were really stupid. I think we all actually believed it could work. One friend swore he wasn't moving it, but we definitely were "communicating" with someone. We took turn asking questions. I asked, "What was the hair color of the person who killed me in one of my nightmares." I hadn't told my friends. The "spirit" said, "red." Yep, that was correct. Other people also had some strange answers.

We were really spooked at this point. It started getting aggressive. Some "f*ck you" responses, some "die" or "murder" responses. Friend one time said he had a headache. Lights were out, and it was turning dark outside so it set the mood there. Friend's parents weren't home.

Finally, someone bothered to ask who we were communicating with.  When we got the answer, everyone bolted out the door. Again, Louisiana, no one was all that literate. One friend and I did give a quizzical look to each other, but we bolted with everyone else.

Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


I was going to guess it was Bill Murray.

"No one will ever believe you."
 
2016-10-29 7:28:49 PM  
This story has run for the last couple of years. It appears in Heart of Farkness, the Fark Fiction Anthology book available at Amazon.

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

Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore


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


img.fark.netView 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, 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."
 
2016-10-29 7:55:28 PM  

meow said the dog: I was probably 11 or 12. A group of about 10 of us were playing with a friend's ouija board, and we grew up in Louisiana so like the majority of people in that part of the country, we were really stupid. I think we all actually believed it could work. One friend swore he wasn't moving it, but we definitely were "communicating" with someone. We took turn asking questions. I asked, "What was the hair color of the person who killed me in one of my nightmares." I hadn't told my friends. The "spirit" said, "red." Yep, that was correct. Other people also had some strange answers.

We were really spooked at this point. It started getting aggressive. Some "f*ck you" responses, some "die" or "murder" responses. Friend one time said he had a headache. Lights were out, and it was turning dark outside so it set the mood there. Friend's parents weren't home.

Finally, someone bothered to ask who we were communicating with.  When we got the answer, everyone bolted out the door. Again, Louisiana, no one was all that literate. One friend and I did give a quizzical look to each other, but we bolted with everyone else.

Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


My brother and I had a run-in via ouija board with Satin too... man that Satin likes to f*ck with kids...
 
2016-10-29 8:03:30 PM  
I've mentioned this on Fark before, but it seems like a good Halloween story...

I'd been having a weird day already--my brain just wouldn't turn off--and I went into the bathroom. Standing at the sink was a tall, monochrome, glowing humanoid. Being religious, I assumed it was one of the Fair Folk, nodded politely, and went to wash my hands in the sink.

Apparently it was puppy-guarding the sink. It slipped behind me, dipped its head, and sank fangs into my throat.

/Then I realized it wasn't actually real, finished washing my hands, and called my psychiatrist
//AKA The Day I Discovered Bipolar Includes Pyschotic Symptoms, Such As Hallucinations
///that was a fun little adventure.
/V I'm okay now, just learned to pay more attention to triggers around me
 
2016-10-29 8:08:10 PM  

meow said the dog: Who were we talking to, mind you? I mean, besides my friend who was definitely controlling the thing?

"Satin" (sic)


See, this is why I taught the kidlet how to deal with ghosts and demons on her own. Imagine how much cooler it would have been if one of you had gotten up, doused it with salt, and started cursing creatively at 'Satin'.

Or sat down and tried to outsmart it, but I encourage killing it with fire. :p

/Neo-Paganism: We want YOU to fight the boogieman!
//So much healthier for kids than just being scared
 
2016-10-29 8:59:52 PM  

a particular individual: This story has run for the last couple of years. It appears in Heart of Farkness, the Fark Fiction Anthology book available at Amazon.

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

Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore


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


[img.fark.net image 617x781]


###

    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 ...


That story makes my blood turn cold every time I read it.
 
2016-10-29 9:21:55 PM  

Bathia_Mapes: That story makes my blood turn cold every time I read it.


Thank you. I'm so glad you like it. It's the only ghost story I have in me. There's really only one ghost story, anyway.
 
2016-10-29 9:22:36 PM  
imgs.xkcd.comView Full Size
 
2016-10-29 9:28:02 PM  
I had my candy bag get jacked by some unknown jerk while trick or treating once as a kid. I expected sympathy from my mother but only got chewed out for losing the flashlight that was in the bag with the candy.
 
2016-10-29 10:10:38 PM  

fusillade762: I had my candy bag get jacked by some unknown jerk while trick or treating once as a kid. I expected sympathy from my mother but only got chewed out for losing the flashlight that was in the bag with the candy.


I found that photo from your childhood:

balettie.comView Full Size
 
2016-10-30 1:28:14 AM  
in before someone posts that stupid Russian sleep experiment story.

tl;dr... it's not very good
 
2016-10-30 2:13:51 AM  
One time your wife said: We need to talk.
 
2016-10-30 2:14:20 AM  

Sid_6.7: fusillade762: I had my candy bag get jacked by some unknown jerk while trick or treating once as a kid. I expected sympathy from my mother but only got chewed out for losing the flashlight that was in the bag with the candy.

I found that photo from your childhood:

[www.balettie.com image 800x450]


Why was he dresses like Hitler?
 
2016-10-30 7:11:46 AM  
A true spooky experience from my childhood.

I was about 8 when I woke up during the night. My bedroom door was open, and from my bed I could see my mum stood at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown. I head my Dad's voice coming from downstairs say "(name), the police are here". I promptly fell back asleep.
The next day I was curious about what had happened, so over breakfast I asked my Dad why the police had come to our house in the middle of the night. He looked confused and told me that the police hadn't been to the house. I described what I'd seen and he told me it must of been a dream. It was really odd as I've never confused a dream for reality before or since.
That night, after I went to bed, there was a knock at the door (for real this time). My Dad who was already downstairs answered the door. My Mum, who was upstairs, went to the top of the staircase in her dressing down. My Dad shouted up to her "(name) the police are here..."
 
2016-10-30 8:26:47 AM  
img.fark.netView Full Size
DSC04434 by jambayalajo, on Flickr




As part of my job I photograph house interiors. I can't have people or personal items in the photos so I review them to remove or blur those items. In this case I had photographed an old,1920's tudor. As I was reviewing this photo, I could not shake the feeling there was a person in the photo, I zoomed in and found nothing, but then I noticed the mirror.

There was no one in the room but me for the photographs, and I had angled myself so I would not be reflected in the mirror. There was no one else in the room.
/posted this in the farktography contest last week
 
2016-10-30 9:25:12 AM  
Here are some posts I made in a TFD thread a couple of weeks ago...off the top of my head.  The thread was riffing on the idea of monsters, etc.... in your house.  I'm trying to find a way to record me reading these, and to play them on a loop outside for Halloween.

Chris Ween: Have you ever suffered from sleep paralysis where the "Dark Man" is at the foot of the bed?  I have.  He's real and he doesn't care if you are an adult or a child.

He is there to steal your soul.  And there is nothing you can do.  You can't move.  You can't fight.  You can't even scream.  At best you make a muffled "ungh" type of sound.  Maybe someone will hear that and wake you so that you are safe.  Maybe not.

Walls, doors and locks, mean nothing to him. And if someone comes to "wake" you and save you, they can't see him.  You see, he isn't really in the room.   He's actually in your head.

But you know something else?  He doesn't appear if there is a light on.  Night lights.  Not just for finding the bathroom.



Chris Ween: Monsters are multi-dimensional beings.  So, to say they hide in the closet or under the bed is a misstatement.  That might be where you first spot them.  But they actually are entering your room by an inter-dimensional portal.  Think about it.  If monsters were from our world, we'd have found some bodies.  Maybe monster scat.  That's poop.  But we haven't.  They come, they hunt, they go home.

What this means is that your room isn't safe just because you checked under the bed or in the closet.  They aren't there yet.  They will be. But not yet.  Again, the best way to handle such a situation is to think outside the box.  Have you ever heard of the bogey man stealing a dog?  No.  Ergo, the bogeyman is afraid of dogs.

Tell mom and dad you need a puppy.  Trust me.  You will thank me later.



Chris Ween: That sound you hear from mom and dad's room is not a monster attack.  Yes, it sounds like maybe there is some smacking going on.  Maybe some taunting to "take me, you monster".  But its not a real attack.  Do not disturb them.

Trust me.  They are adults.  They know how to handle monsters.  Sure, in their case it might be something labelled "Monster" on the cylindrical box it was shipped in, but they have this.  Don't disturb them.  This is something they have to do themselves.  Besides, if it is a real monster then who will tell the story if you wander into the bedroom and get eaten too?



Chris Ween: When the lights go out...you can't see.  Your other senses take over.  Your hearing picks up.  you feel more.  Its amazing what your hearing can pick up...or what your other senses can feel.

Tonight, as you lay down, you hear the creaks of the house.  You can hear mom and dad getting ready for bed.  You can even hear the dog walking around downstairs...click of nails on the floor.  You catalog each sound.   Catalog and forget it.  These are the normal sounds of night.

When you are calm, and your senses are heightened, you can feel the air moving from the registers, and even a slight vibration from the fan that pushes the air.   Its a bit uneven with the old bearings going.  You can even feel your heart beat.  Fast at first, but with more control as you relax more.

Your mind knows all this and relaxes.  No danger tonight.  You can't see, but you can hear and feel.   And everything sounds right.  Time to sleep.

Wait...do you smell that?



Chris Ween: As for the mirror...well, what can I say?  Its a piece of glass over foil.  Its a reflection.  That's all.  A reflection.  But not a perfect one.  I mean, if you study it you will see that it doesn't perfectly match your room.  Maybe the colors are off.  Or there is a shadow that shouldn't be there but is.  Or worse, there is a shadow missing in the mirror image...which of course means something extra is in your room.  With you.  Right now.


Chris Ween: Did you hear that?  Old houses creak.  And groan.  Not like a piece of wood under pressure.  More like a living thing...an old thing...a malevolent thing.  Its just readjusting itself.  Like a troll or ogre rolling over in its sleep.  But a house is not a troll or ogre.

Do you think the house likes to be lived in?  Maybe it does.  Maybe it doesn't.  Maybe like the old people at the rest home it just finds it easier to not get mad about it.  But not all old people are the same.  Some go after kids with their cane.  Others scream at the people.

What if the house is like one of the cranky old people?  What if it could act on it?  And what if its creaking wasn't it readjusting itself or going back to sleep.  No.  What if the noises you hear are the house getting ready to pounce...to attack you.  It could do it, and shuffle you off underneath the foundation and no one would ever know.

Remember the family that used to live down the street and don't anymore?  Hmmm...

I mean, who would suspect a house?
 
2016-10-30 9:30:28 AM  

MorningBreath: [Link][img.fark.net image 504x662]DSC04434 by jambayalajo, on Flickr


As part of my job I photograph house interiors. I can't have people or personal items in the photos so I review them to remove or blur those items. In this case I had photographed an old,1920's tudor. As I was reviewing this photo, I could not shake the feeling there was a person in the photo, I zoomed in and found nothing, but then I noticed the mirror.

There was no one in the room but me for the photographs, and I had angled myself so I would not be reflected in the mirror. There was no one else in the room.
/posted this in the farktography contest last week


So... You took a picture where there was a reflection of something on a far wall in another room that slightly resembles the shape of a head if you really squint and are on 'shrooms?

img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2016-10-30 10:46:14 AM  

Vesta: A true spooky experience from my childhood.

I was about 8 when I woke up during the night. My bedroom door was open, and from my bed I could see my mum stood at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown. I head my Dad's voice coming from downstairs say "(name), the police are here". I promptly fell back asleep.
The next day I was curious about what had happened, so over breakfast I asked my Dad why the police had come to our house in the middle of the night. He looked confused and told me that the police hadn't been to the house. I described what I'd seen and he told me it must of been a dream. It was really odd as I've never confused a dream for reality before or since.
That night, after I went to bed, there was a knock at the door (for real this time). My Dad who was already downstairs answered the door. My Mum, who was upstairs, went to the top of the staircase in her dressing down. My Dad shouted up to her "(name) the police are here..."


This would be a good story if you edit it a bit.

First off, your mother needs a name. Any name will do, but (name) is just not working. Second, don't put they before or since in the middle. Derails everything.
 
2016-10-30 1:03:31 PM  
The Scratching in the Dark


Moving to a small town from a big city is like stepping into a whole new country.  You're the interloper; everyone here has known each other for generations, and you're the unknown quality.  They're polite and pleasant enough, but you can't call them friendly.  This was perfectly fine with when I moved in a couple of years ago; I wanted to get away from people.

Of course, that's not really possible in this day and age.  Unless you're a reclusive billionaire or are willing to give up on society altogether and live in a hut in the woods, you have to have some kind of living.  That requires a job.  In this sense, I was lucky; a thick resume and a long list of IT qualifications meant I could swing contract jobs over the internet without even leaving my house.  Even if I only managed to pick up a few hours of work a week, what would have been meagre pay anywhere else was enough to keep the mortgage covered and bills paid here in the middle of nowhere.

My psychiatrist says this is a terrible idea; I need to get out more, connect with people, try to build up a life again.  For what I pay her, I'd have expected some practical advice, but from the looks of her she's not much past her late twenties and hasn't really seen much of how terrible the world can be to people.  It's a ninety minute drive to see her once every two weeks, and yet I get the feeling she's the one who thinks she's wasting her time.  She writes prescriptions, at least.  There's that.

This is the point in the story where I have to admit to being an unreliable narrator.  Not that I'm hiding anything, or have any intention of lying to you, but let's just say I spend most of my days fortified with anti-anxiety pills, anti-depressants, liquor.  They tell you never to mix those.  They tell you lots of things.

The house I bought was a two-story American Craftsman fixer-upper, at least in theory; someone else might have been able to summon the will to rehang the sagging gutters and rewire the ancient electrical system and fix whatever the hell was wrong with the drainage in the yard.  I didn't much care.  No one had lived there for years.  When I moved in, I assumed the neighborhood was avoiding me due to being an outsider, or maybe they sensed my desire for solitude.  Either way, the result was fine with me.   I spent a full two years without speaking to any of my neighbors, what few there were; the lot rear-ended on thick forest stretching up into the mountains, and the only people who could have intruded on my solitude were the elderly couple across the street, and the working-class types on either side of me.

Sometimes, when the storms were moving in over the mountains, I went out into my weed-overgrown backyard to watch the thunderclouds roll in.  There's something rejuvenating, something revitalizing, about seeing Mother Nature in her fury; when the sky opens up and all shiat goes to hell, some kind of harmony exists in the universe.  At times like this, I always think: we are not in control of this world, we're just passengers tied to its fate.  Usually I take another couple of swigs from the bottle and crawl in bet to fall asleep to the sound of the world trying as hard as it can to tear itself apart.

But there were other sounds, as well.

I sat on my back porch, countless times, watching the rain come down and heard the sound of what could have been a . . . I don't want to call it a dog, because it didn't sound anything at all like that, but it was a barking, howling, yelping call of some kind that came down from the mountains when the storms rolled in.  The first time it was terrifying; the second, recognizable.  After a dozen or so, it was predictable.  Whatever creature leered or capered in the hills above my house, it was a fixture.  It answered the constant rain.  It was too loud and too impossible to ignore.  After a while, it was welcome; some other thing, whatever it was, seemed to feel the same joy or pain that I felt when the clouds rolled in and the lighting crashed.

For two years, I watched the rain come down.  When I found work I buried myself in it.  When the skies darkened and the evergreens shook in the night, I listened to the cries of whatever was in the mountains.  I drove the long miles into town every two weeks to pick up supplies and tell my psychiatrist that nothing had changed.  One cold January night I thought I heard something scratching at the back door; in the morning, I could see no prints in the wet grass.  If I'd had a visitor in the night, it had left no sign.

I heard nothing more from the dog in the hills for two weeks.

I was awakened in the dead of night by an unearthly howl and shrieking crash.  I can't really remember when dream faded into reality; at some point I standing on the balls of my feet in the darkness, feeling the cold of the hardwood floor sink into me.  I had imagined some kind of unearthly feral dog, smashing its way into the house, but now I was able to remember the sound of twisting metal, as well.  I looked out the bedroom window; a car had apparently gone off the road, struck a tree on the neighbor's front yard and ended up wrapped around it.

I went out to help as best as I could.  The noise had raised the entire neighborhood; I don't know who called 911, but paramedics and State Police were on site in minutes.  Not that they could have done much of anything, or that any of us were any help; the kid inside hadn't been wearing his seatbelt.  They found most of him in the ditch.  According to what I read in the news afterwards, he'd been three times over the legal limit and prior arrests for DUI so I guess the good news was that he hadn't managed to kill anyone else.

Disaster brings people together.  I remember huddling on the side of the road, watching the police lights strobe across the front of my house, as my neighbors slowly realized I was the guy who had moved into that house.  "You seem like a nice enough guy," a middle-aged woman said, as if surprised.

"Thanks," I said.

Once they'd identified me, they couldn't stop talking.  For me, it was torture; all I wanted to do was slink back inside and be left alone.  To them, however, I was a mystery that needed to be unraveled: didn't I know about the house?  Old Man Morgan?  His dogs?  Why would anyone move into that damned house if they knew what had happened there?

There's a simple answer, of course; I didn't know anything and I didn't care.  My wife had died in childbirth and I wanted nothing more of the city we had lived in.  I told a real estate agent to find me the most secluded place in the world.  She came through for me with flying colors and Old Man Morgan's house, and I didn't ask any questions because I didn't think the universe could have any answers.  I wasn't worried about haunted houses.  I have enough ghosts of my own.

"He ran a dogfighting ring," and old man was telling me.  "Least, that's what everyone said.  He was the meanest, angriest bastard there was, raised the meanest, angriest dogs there were.  Used to hear 'em barkin, snarlin, all day and all night."

"Kept 'em right in the house with him, he did," someone else said, in the gloom.

"Oh, ayuh," the old man agreed.  "He'd sic 'em on anyone coming to his door, sometimes he'd let em loose, and everyone'd stay inside fearin they might be rabid."

"Musta been part wolf, some of em," someone else said.  "That's prolly how we got that pack of 'em up in the hills."

"What happened to him?" I asked, mostly as way to try to get the conversation to end.

"Old Man Morgan?  Either his dogs finally kilt him, or he died some other way in that house.  Heart attack, maybe.  He was angry enough all the time his ticker coulda just quit, him up in there with his dogs locked in with him.  By the time anyone wanted to check on him, find out what was up, his dogs had gotten to 'em and you coulda buried what was left in a shoebox."

"Oh, that's just hearsay," an older woman said.  To me: "Don't let these yokels fill your head up with these old stories, you got a nice house in a nice place, and you don't have to worry about whatever is in the past.  Let the past stay dead."  There was general agreement to this.

I saw this as my chance and made an escape, nodding a good night to everyone who still wanted to stand around in the cold and watch the grisly scene.  I made it back inside, the darkness of the house lit redly by the flickering lights of the emergency vehicles on the road.  I couldn't smell anything that smelled like a dog had ever been inside the house.

The seed had been planted, though.  I've always be imaginative.  In the weeks that followed I prowled the house, looking for any sign that anything close to the story I'd been told had happened, but found nothing; the flooring had been replaced in the ground floor rooms, the walls had been painted years before I moved in.  I suppose I could have asked around, but I really didn't want to know anything.  I landed a contract for building a database for an online pet supply store and dove into the work with a feverish energy that could have only been born from irony.

Even so, in the dead of night, when the wind blows and the dog in the hills yowls at the lightning in the sky, it was easy to imagine the sound of claws ticking on the hardwood floor and the smell of blood and wet fur.

Nearly a month went by.  I heard scratching at the back door again, and then again only a week later.  Whatever dog or wolf or thing from the darkness that was coming down to investigate my house was becoming bolder.  The next time a storm rolled in over the mountain, I could hear it howl, and it sounded like it was coming from my back yard.

On my next trip into town, I bought a shotgun.

There are fears, vague and supernatural, that are nothing more than fantasy; we imagine ghosts and the smell of death, we believe in the echoes of the dead lingering in the places they died.  We fear the dark because as creatures of the day, in it we are as out of our element as a deep-sea diver surrounded by sharks.  There are fears, though, that are rational and reasonable.  The idea that a pack of feral dogs bred from bloodstained mongrels that escaped from this house might have some kind of instinctual memory of the place, some kind of slumbering rage against whoever lived here.  The idea that my presence might draw them, somehow, seems mad in the light of day but coldly reasonable the longer the shadows grow in the evening.

The storm finally broke in early April.

I had finished the pet store contract, not particularly to the satisfaction of the owners.  In my defense, I was distracted.  The scratching and sniffing and the doors at night had become almost constant.  I had no idea how many of them there were; I could never find any sign of their passage.  They seemed to stalk through wet grass and dirt without leaving prints.  In the day, all was calm and clear, but as night fell the sniffling, scratching madness would descend.

I remember it was a Friday night.  The weather channel had predicted a stronger than normal thunderstorm for the weekend and I battened down the hatches like a soldier preparing for an artillery barrage: I checked the locks on all the doors and all the windows, latched the storm shutters closed after taking a final look at the gathering darkness.  I had the shotgun close to hand at the head of the bed and a chair under the doorknob of the bedroom door just in case.  I didn't know what I was preparing for.  I still don't, really; I guess it was just in case.

The storm rolled in schedule.  Thunder crashed hard enough to rattle the windows.  The howling, yelping, dog-thing in the hills snarled in the darkness as usual, sometimes closer, sometimes far away, as if it were pacing back and forth waiting for something or someone.  The one thing I remember most clearly: staring at the ceiling in the darkness, thinking hours had passed only to turn towards the clock to find it had only been minutes since I'd last looked at it.

As the hours crept by and the storm shrieked outside, I heard scratching downstairs at the back door.

This is it, I thought, I'm going to send that farker to hell, whatever it is.  I jumped out of bed grabbed the shotgun and started for the door, and that's when the dog, or whatever it was, howled directly below my window.

You hear people talking about blood-curdling sounds, or how a sound can freeze your blood?  I had always thought that was bullshiat, a bad throwaway line from a bad story, but whatever the sound was it froze me where I stood.  I could not move.  I was rooted to the spot.

Maybe driven by the howl, the scratching at the door stopped.  Instead, I heard a heavy thud as is something heavy had struck the house.  The house itself shuddered; then it struck again and the thought came to me that it was trying to break in, whatever it was; it was no longer interested in asking to be let in and was going to come inside whether I wanted it to or not.  I heard glass breaking.

I was in the corner, huddled as far away from the bedroom door as I could get, pointing the shotgun towards it with no memory of how I'd gotten there.  Struck dumb by panic all I could do was shiver as I heard the dog-thing howl again and the door creak as it was struck again.  I could hear the wooden door crack and then break open as the scratching thing in the darkness came through.

Then, very clearly over the wind, I heard a voice, saying simply and clearly:

"Good boy."

I was in the corner of the room until dawn.  I couldn't move.  The storm died in the early hours and petered out to blustery winds; somewhere around six, I guess, the sun started to rise.  It was only when the full light of day was streaming in through bedroom windows that I was able to shakily stand up and open the door.

Downstairs was a mess.  Wet leaves had blown in from the storm and were plastered to the walls.  Rainwater had soaked the carpet.  The back door, overlooking the overgrown yard, had been smashed by some kind of furious force, with the hinges hanging freely from the doorjamb and pieces of wood strewn about the yard.

Did I say yard?  Yes, because that's where the door ended up, broken and blown outwards.  Whatever had done this wasn't scratching at the door to get in; it had been inside and wanted out.  Maybe the howling from hills wasn't directed at me; it was calling to whatever echo was left in this place, and now it was free to cavort in the lighting and thunder of the night, howling and snarling at the storm clouds above.

Whatever happened next with that house, I couldn't tell you.  I was out of there within five minutes and never went back.  It's up for sale, now; maybe some other lucky buyer will see it as a good deal, a good place to go to get away from it all.  Me, I moved back into the city, and I've even found someone to spend my days and nights with.  I've even cut back on the drinking and the pills.

My psychiatrist is overjoyed, of course.  She thinks she's finally accomplished something.  I don't have the heart to tell her about the house in the middle of nowhere and the scratching at the door in the night.
 
2016-10-30 1:05:23 PM  
Also, here's a link to last year's thread:

https://www.fark.com/comments/8909908/
 
2016-10-30 2:01:52 PM  
Trump 2020.

Booga, booga!
 
2016-10-30 2:04:18 PM  

gopher321: Trump 2020.

Booga, booga!


Worst. Bookmark. Ever.

/besides this one
 
2016-10-30 2:59:59 PM  

SecretAgentWoman: Once upon a time, a sentient and evil orange cheeto with a blonde toupee ran for president, and actually won the nomination.

How did it end?

YOU ARE STILL IN THE STORY!


"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2016-10-30 3:35:25 PM  
You know, I've never seen a ghost or had any type of supernatural experience, but I love this thread every year.

/what's this "bookmark" of which you speak
 
2016-10-30 4:37:52 PM  

gopher321: Trump 2020.

Booga, booga!


3 spooky 5 me!
 
2016-10-30 5:22:13 PM  

toraque: Also, here's a link to last year's thread:

https://www.fark.com/comments/8909908/


And with great thanks to
img.fark.netView Full Size
LawrencePerson

Here's a link to a page with links for all the previous scary story threads by year.
 
2016-10-30 5:38:32 PM  
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 impossible 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..."
 
2016-10-30 6:11:26 PM  
Not really scary, but definitely the strangest thing that ever happened to me.

A few years back I was home from college for the summer and went out for an afternoon hike with a good friend of mine.  We went to a local conservation area that long ago was farmland, but is now forest filled with stone walls, old roads to nowhere, and cellar holes.  We parked in the empty lot at the trail head and walked in.  After about ten minutes we both heard the sound of a little girl laughing, coming from just out of sight behind us.  Not wanting our hike to be spoiled by the sounds of a noisy family following us, we picked up the pace to put some distance between us.  After half an hour of walking at a very brisk pace we stopped to explore a cellar hole that was just off the path.  I had no sooner climbed down into it when again, the sound of a little girl laughing came from just behind us.  I said "There's no way a girl that young could have kept up with us" and we stayed put for a good 15 minutes waiting for the laughing girl and her family to come around the bend in the trail, but nobody ever came.  We both heard the laughter a few more times on the hike, always close behind us but never in sight. When we got back to the parking lot my car was still the only car there.
 
2016-10-30 10:13:30 PM  
How did this thread get put on the back burner so long this year?  Should have been opened on Friday posted Sunday morning.
 
2016-10-30 10:16:37 PM  

meow said the dog: MorningBreath: [Link][img.fark.net image 504x662]DSC04434 by jambayalajo, on Flickr


As part of my job I photograph house interiors. I can't have people or personal items in the photos so I review them to remove or blur those items. In this case I had photographed an old,1920's tudor. As I was reviewing this photo, I could not shake the feeling there was a person in the photo, I zoomed in and found nothing, but then I noticed the mirror.

There was no one in the room but me for the photographs, and I had angled myself so I would not be reflected in the mirror. There was no one else in the room.
/posted this in the farktography contest last week

So... You took a picture where there was a reflection of something on a far wall in another room that slightly resembles the shape of a head if you really squint and are on 'shrooms?

[img.fark.net image 212x238]


I have a spooky 'shroom story.

A buddy and me are camping on mushrooms late one night and the fire looks like it's burned out. Nothing but a huge cloud of billowing white smoke and no flames. My buddy starts waving a glo-stick through the smoke and I'm reminded of a cauldron so out comes some Shakespeare "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble"* The words are barely out of my mouth when FOOM the fire bursts back to life.

We spent the next several minutes convinced the Devil was going to appear and take us away.

*yes, I'm aware I got the line wrong
 
2016-10-30 10:52:40 PM  

Old Man Winter: How did this thread get put on the back burner so long this year?  Should have been opened on Friday posted Sunday morning.


I asked the admins to run it today, but this is what we got. Maybe if we get enough signatures they can make it run retroactively.
 
2016-10-30 11:07:31 PM  

a particular individual: Old Man Winter: How did this thread get put on the back burner so long this year?  Should have been opened on Friday posted Sunday morning.

I asked the admins to run it today, but this is what we got. Maybe if we get enough signatures they can make it run retroactively.


Oh, you were involved, I should have known.
Yeah this was serious bs.
Nothing better going on and it was a popular once a year thing, so WTF MODERATOR ADMIN DREW.
Why ruin it for us?
 
2016-10-30 11:09:06 PM  
A yearly thread, one time, getting at least 300 each year.
Shame.
 
2016-10-30 11:16:23 PM  
Guess aforementioned forgot they purchased TFD for winners.
You all suck so hard, you ruined Halloween for single people.
Thanks
 
2016-10-30 11:19:00 PM  
This is also one of my favorite threads. I remember years ago some really terrifying stories. And while I know I could find some really spooky stories just around the internet there is really something special about reading them here.
 
2016-10-30 11:22:50 PM  

miss jinxed: This is also one of my favorite threads. I remember years ago some really terrifying stories. And while I know I could find some really spooky stories just around the internet there is really something special about reading them here.


I'm sterile, I got no kids, ever.  Yay!  But the mix of scary, dumb, and people was a comfort.
I'd genuinely like to know why this thread got push so far up Fark's ass it just coming out now.
 
2016-10-30 11:27:40 PM  
Also API, I get everything until you go to the tits again, then you lose me.
 
2016-10-30 11:28:16 PM  

Old Man Winter: Also API, I get everything until you go to the tits again, then you lose me.


*toys
 
2016-10-30 11:31:13 PM  

Old Man Winter: Old Man Winter: Also API, I get everything until you go to the tits again, then you lose me.

*toys


API, has this been you all along?
 
2016-10-31 12:48:38 AM  
Michaela was a smart little girl who didn't want to go to bed. Mommy put her down far too early for her pleasing. Reading bedtime stories about green eggs and ham was for little babies, not a big girl like Michaela. She got up, slipped out of her bed and stepped across her room. As theirs was an older wooden house, the floor creaked, even with her light weight. She walked first in a circle, then another, ending near her bedroom door. Michaela quietly opened her door. stepping lightly into the dark hallway, then closed the door. Her naked feet made no sound as she crossed over to the closet to hide where Mommy kept towels and bed sheets.

Mommy climbed up the stairs in answer to Michaela's footsteps. Her breathing sounded winded, as if from making this trip too too many times. Mommy opened the bedroom door and entered Michaela's dark room, walking toward the empty bed. "Michaela," said Mommy, "Are you up again? I only put your to sleep 10 minutes ago. I'm really tired of these games each night." Mommy saw in the dim moonlight that Michaela was not in bed, then Mommy heard giggles coming from the closet. "What are you doing in there, little girl? You should be in bed now," Mommy exclaimed in an exasperated fashion. Mommy walked over to the closet, opened its door and walked in.

Michaela slipped across the hallway and poked her head into her room. She just caught her bedroom closet door swing shut quickly, slamming behind Mommy. Michaela turned and ran down the hallway to the stairs. She was halfway down to the ground floor when Mommy's screams started. But they stopped by the time Michaela got the kitchen to raid the cookie jar.
 
2016-10-31 12:48:50 AM  

Old Man Winter: Old Man Winter: Old Man Winter: Also API, I get everything until you go to the tits again, then you lose me.

*toys

API, has this been you all along?


I submitted the thread this year. When I did, I asked the admins to main-page it today (Sunday.) They didn't. Oh, well.

I ran "Danny" last year and the year before. Last year, I think it was toraque. I don't know if anyone has spearheaded it before, or if it's just a matter of whoever takes the initiative.

=====

Re-read "Danny." Note how I have to do everything for him. Why do toys keep disappearing and getting "replaced" with older versions? The kitchen is important, too: strawberries and tobacco. The big question: Did Rick know what he was doing when he showed me the toys, or did he only remember afterward?
 
2016-10-31 12:52:15 AM  

a particular individual: I ran "Danny" last year and the year before. Last year, I think it was toraque


I mean, I think toraque started the thread last year. I wrote "Danny."

/proofreading...
 
2016-10-31 9:10:55 AM  
Freakazoid's Scary Story
Youtube gBSlrbZy4-U
 
2016-10-31 9:10:59 AM  
I see one ghost all the time. I work in a 40 story building, on the 30th floor. My firm has 6 floors of the building. Our mail-room/central services and copy center is located on the 5th of our 6 floors. There was a distinctive woman that worked in our copy room. I didn't know her well, or at all really. She was distinctive because she was older (50s) and a bit of hippy free spirit looking woman. Anyway, she died about five years ago. An announcement went out in the intra-company e-mail with instructions on how to send condolences and information on a memorial service. I also saw her obituary in the paper, with her picture. Clear as day. She definitely died.

But, I still see her all the time; and not in a spooky lights-flickering ghostly way. I just see her coming in the morning. I see her walking down the hall. I see her most frequently getting in and out of the elevator. She looks like everyone else.

I can't tell if other people see her or not. I assume they do, but I'm not sure. I've never seen her interact with anyone else. I watch really closely when I see her, to see if other people notice her; to see if she talks to anyone or touches them. She never does. I've never seen her talk to anyone or interact with anyone in any way. But I think everyone sees her because she's right there.

Where I work people aren't tight-knit. This is a big firm in a big building and we all go about our business like people downtown do. I have never seen her when I'm with one of my "friends," but I have seen her plenty of times around people I sort of know. However, I feel like it would be really weird to ask them if they see the dead lady. If they don't, they'll think I'm bonkers and spread rumors. If they do, they might not know she's dead, and will wonder if I'm making some sick and stupid joke. So, I just don't say anything. Maybe some of them see her too and feel the same way. I wonder how many other ghosts I walk right past every day without knowing it.

I was in the elevator alone with her once, and asked her very politely if she knew she was dead (it was an awkward sort of "so, you know you're dead right...."). She turned and looked at me, and she looked furious. Like she absolutely hated me. It scared the hell out of me. I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the elevator. She didn't say a thing, but I understood that whatever we are under all this mess of gristle and sinew that makes us anxious, and fret, and march through a litany of miseries every day out of fear of what will happen if we don't, ... that doesn't go away after the end. There's no sweet release and peace. It just gets worse, and so she keeps coming in everyday out of fear of the void and I would be well advised not to raise the damn issue with her again.

I won't talk to her again. I still see her and leave her alone. I have to work at night a lot. I'm up here late at night on the 30th floor alone in this big empty deserted building at least once a week, and it sucks now. I think she's still pissed and skulks right outside my office door. I can't concentrate sometimes because I get the sense that if I turn around she'll be standing behind me looking at me, and looking furious at me for putting a dent in the spell and marching her one step closer to true oblivion. It feels like I have a knob on my heel attached to every nerve in my skin, and someone's cranking on it. I may need to get out of this building and get a new job.
 
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