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(Fark)   Like a floating red balloon, the 2017 "Fark Scary Stories" thread is waiting for you. Top 10 voted Smart or Funny stories get a sponsored month of TotalFark. We all float down here   (fark.com) divider line
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5145 clicks; posted to Main » and Discussion » on 31 Oct 2017 at 11:57 PM (3 years ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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db2
2017-10-31 6:30:32 PM  

Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?


It definitely peaked around 2007 or 2008.
 
2017-10-31 7:16:57 PM  
I used to work at a building that had two long hallways at 90 degrees to each other with offices on either side, kind of like a big crucifix.  It was white cinder block walls, nice tile floors, and acoustic tile ceilings with fluorescent lighting down the middle.  You know the place.

If you were alone in the building - and ONLY if you were alone - a ghost would often appear.  Not appear so much, as make its presence known.  You would be sitting in this perfectly secure building, all by yourself, and you would hear a person walking down the hallway.  The person would stop just outside your door, out of view.  When you get up to go look, there's no one there.

I bet it's still there.
 
2017-10-31 8:00:43 PM  
I started this tradition in 03 or 04 i think. I remember the job I was slacking off at the time.

Now i'm a respectable member of society with a giant mortgage, notes on 2 cars, I married a broad with a student loan that is like 4x her annual income, and I have a kid.

You want scary? look at my balance sheet each month.
 
2017-10-31 8:03:30 PM  

Dheiner: TheLastFrontiersman: I posted the story ofmy friend Steve and the radioactive liquid speed before in these threads, and I think the time has come to add a bit to that story.Not about Steve, but about something odd that happened to me during my time serving Uncle Sugar as a submariner back in the Cold War.  I'm sure that I won't be able to do it justice.

I left INEL (Idaho National Engineering Laboratory) in August of 1980, and headed to the east coast to meet my boat, the USS Finback (SSN-670), where I was assigned to Reactor Controls division.I spent four years on the ol' Finlips (long story, basically due to the command's enthusiastic embracing of the BOHICA principle: Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.As nukes, we got screwed. A lot.After all, our shaft never stops), and we did a bunch of interesting stuff that I can't talk about, even now.There's a reason they call the submarine force the Silent Service: they have the mother of all non-disclosure agreements which never expires.

Sometimes boats will come back to port damaged in some way. Sometimes one of ours and one of theirs turned out to have been in the same operational area, and in the enthusiasm of the hunt and evasion, they bumped into each other. Hell, I remember a time when one of our boats came home with an exercise torpedo sticking out of its sail. The term "Crazy Ivan" (a sudden reversal of course) exists for a reason; Russian sonar wasn't as good as ours back then, and it was a way for them to say "back off, Yank" in no uncertain terms.We learned to maintain both horizontal and vertical separation, just to be on the safe side. (I highly recommend the book "Blind Man's Bluff," by Sherry Sontag, Christopher Drew and Annette Lawrence Drew for more on these shenanigans).Sometimes though, there were no other submarines operating in the area and boats came back banged up anyway.

It turns out that we and the Russians (Soviets back then) have lost some nuclear submarines at sea with no declared hostilities. The Russians lost sev ...

Three words:Major Steam Leak.

/Death
//No time to be scared, I guess.
///But still, DEATH.


That and a Cold Water Accident are about the only casualties we didn't suffer at one time or another.
 
2017-10-31 8:05:43 PM  

ecmoRandomNumbers: TheLastFrontiersman: I posted the story ofmy friend Steve and the radioactive liquid speed before in these threads, and I think the time has come to add a bit to that story.Not about Steve, but about something odd that happened to me during my time serving Uncle Sugar as a submariner back in the Cold War.  I'm sure that I won't be able to do it justice...

I could seriously spend days reading your stories. That was a great read.


Thanks.  It might interest you to know that literally everything in this story is true.. just tweeked a little.  Almost everything in the Steve story is true too.

Sleep tight.
 
2017-10-31 8:09:45 PM  
All righty then! This is my last submission. The idea came to be


All Writers Go To Heaven


Have you ever thought about what people do in Heaven? There's lots of talk about Hell

and what goes on there, but (except for the idea that people might just sit around singing

praises to God for all eternity) no one ever mentions Heaven. Regardless, it sounds boring.


Harold Modde saw the exact cause and moment of his death. He saw it unfold in blazing, flaming, indeed exploding color right in front of his eyes. He had a ringside seat to the spectacle of his own obliteration. The view, he just had time to think, was rather magnificent in a horrible sort of way.

It was like a climactic scene, in an overly dramatic chapter, in a bad novel.

The general setting was the 5/22/57 freeway interchange in Orange County, California. This multilevel pile of concrete spaghetti sorted out the movements of a half-million cars a day between three major freeways and 34 collector/distributor roads. Almost a million people cursed it daily. It was known, without any affection whatsoever, as the Orange Crush.

The precise scene was the feeder from the eastbound 22 to the northbound 5/57. This was a two-lane bridge that arched on slender concrete pylons, 100 feet over the two feeder lanes that snaked along, at the bottom of the spaghetti pile, from the northbound 5 to the westbound 22. These lower lanes were now an exhaust-fumed, sweltering parking lot of idling traffic, where a bored Harold, along with 10,000 other commuters, waited for an accident somewhere ahead to be cleared.

The specific actions that led to Harold's death were a confused soccer mom, nearing the end of the bridge, who could not decide whether she wanted to be on the 5 or the 57. She decided to brake hard while she figured it out. This caused traffic on the bridge to come to a screeching halt. The methed-up driver of a semi-trailer gas truck, charging up in the rear, was busy adjusting his radio. His tanker plowed into the rear car of the jam. The rear trailer's front-connector broke from the impact. It speared up into the front trailer, where it knifed a gaping rip in the half-empty tank. Liquid and fumes gushed out. A random spark ignited it all, and the truck was instantly enveloped by a blue corona of flashing flame. An explosion bounced against the concrete of the overpass and launched the truck into the air. It flew over the abutment and flamed down onto the stopped traffic.

Harold was bored. The radio deck in the ancient Porsche convertible he was driving was broken, so he couldn't listen to drive-time radio. He had a horrible case of writer's block, so he was avoiding thinking about his current science fiction novel (Harold subscribed to the theory that not thinking about the book helped his subconscious figure out the problem). So he was looking at the cars that surrounded him. When he got bored with looking at them, he looked up at the vehicles on the overpass, which he could see perfectly, because the Porsche's top had been slashed by some psychopath with a knife a week before, so he had taken it down. From this perfect vantage point, he saw every microsecond of the gripping drama. Sonofabiatch, he thought. It's true. Perception really does go into overdrive when you know you are about to die.

As a child, Harold had been raised in a fundamentalist religious cult. Since escaping, he had been an avowed atheist. He had decided years before that he was at ease with the idea of death simply being cessation. When your body died, your mind just ceased to be. There would, of course, be no regret, since there would be no "him" to feel regret.

Harold had time to think, well, me, I guess it's been a good life. But this is the end. Goodbye. And then 9 tons of burning, exploding tractor crashed directly down onto his head, and there was suddenly nothing at all.

#

And then there wasn't. Without conscious transition, Harold found he was lying naked, under a thick comforter, head propped on a plump pillow, in an antique four-poster canopy bed. The bed was in a room adorned with white walls, two red-draped multi-paned windows, a white, paneled, wooden door, and several high-backed, well-stuffed red chairs. A carpet of dark green and red squares covered the floor. Against the far wall sat an antique armoire. Dominating the room was a marble fireplace, complete with marble mantle and hearthstone, and a quarter-height, antique cast iron fender. The grate was loaded with a small stack of cheerfully burning logs. The room looked like a Federal Era upper class bedroom from the early 1800s.

He became aware of the susurration of the well-behaved fire. All else was silent, a marked contrast from the background of mechanical growls he had just been hearing... No wait, what the...? Without thinking, Harold sat up in bed and craned his head to see out the window. He saw the green, leafy branches of an American chestnut limned against a soft, baby blue sky that was dotted with fluffy white clouds. A red-breasted bird, a robin, he thought, sat on one of the branches, softly chirping. Peaceful. So very peaceful. Harold sat up further. He was on an upper floor and could not see the ground from where he lay. But in the distance, he could see hills covered with lush, green, virginal forest.

And then, belatedly, Harold remembered the mass of burning metal that he was damned sure had instantly crushed him to death. He thought hard. Somewhere in his returning memory, he thought he felt the ghost of a sensation: a flash of heat, a press of weight, a phantom instant of piercing pain that was almost gone before it was felt. He jerked upright, and felt himself all over. His body seemed to be just fine. Perhaps I should get up....

BANG!
Harold was swinging his legs onto the floor when the door slammed open and a fireball of a man strode into the room. He was short, maybe an inch or so taller than five feet, and slender-built. He had sweptback, bright red hair, gray at the temples, receding from the forehead. A scraggly gray-streaked reddish beard unsuccessfully hid a belligerent axe of a chin. Above the mouth, a tobacco-browned reddish gray stubble of a moustache, scribbled below the red-flecked aquiline nose of a chronic drinker, completed a sad display of singularly unfinished personal grooming. Blade-like lips, an unhealthy, pasty complexion, glaring blue eyes, and a pair of metal-rimmed narrow pince-nez spectacles attached to a cord around his neck completed the impression of a thoroughly unpleasant hard-ass fanatic. The apparition wore period clothing that was consistent with the bedroom: a brown wool tailcoat, white cotton twill trousers, a cut-velvet patterned maroon vest, a red bow tie with white polka-dots, and brown leather calf-length leather boots. It spoke, "All right, all right, all right! No more dawdling and lying around sir! There are great things to be accomplished! It is time to get busy!"

The entrance galvanized Harold. He had jerked erect and grabbed the comforter off the bed. He crouched next to the bed, comforter held defensively in front of him, quivering in shock. And then, suddenly, he was flooded with the righteous red anger of the terminally put-upon. He threw the comforter down onto the floor and stood tall, pissed, and naked, fists clenched in fury and desperation, "Who the flying fark are you? And where the Hell am I?"

The apparition stopped in the middle of the bedroom, looked around with what seemed deep satisfaction, and then looked at Harold and grinned unpleasantly. It laughed. It was a thoroughly maniacal laugh, and deeply nasal. It was the kind of supercilious, nasty laugh that Harold had always associated with over-the-top vaudeville villains. "Well, my boy, as far as you're concerned, I am God. And you are in Heaven."

That was a showstopper. Harold thought again of that last instant of time in his Porsche. Yep, there is no way that I am alive, so I must be dead. But there is no way that this is Heaven; I'm an atheist, for Heaven's sake! And then he realized what he had just thought and laughed hysterically. "I'm in Heaven? Really? How the Hell can that be? I don't believe in Heaven!"

God looked at Harold like he was retarded. "You're a writer, right?"

Harold mutely nodded.

"Well, son, you're in luck, because whether you do or don't believe in Heaven, Hell, and Me, it is a singular fact that all writers, regardless of their beliefs or actions, automatically go to Heaven. Those are the rules. I should know; I wrote 'em!"

"Wha...?"

"Ok, I can see that you are confused. Say, my boy, you look truly ridiculous like that, standing around in your birthday suit. In that armoire over them...." God waved His hand in the direction of the furniture. "Clothes. I think I've got your size right. Get something decent on, and then I will explain everything." The double doors of the armoire gently swung open from ghostly hands, and several complete sets of early 1800 American men's high fashion clothing wafted from the depths of the furniture, through the air, and onto the bed.

Harold looked at them as if they were piles of snakes. The levitation act had freaked him out, and he was a sandals, jeans, and short sleeve sports shirt kind of guy anyway. Attire from a bygone age was....

God saw his expression. "Oh yes, I forgot, barbaric twentieth century attire. It is so sad that people don't know how to dress well anymore." He waved his hand again, and the piles of clothes shimmered and suddenly became twill cargo shorts, blue jeans, and several stylish Big Dog Hawaiian shirts.

"I'll leave for a bit and pop over and see another new arrival. I'll be back in ten or fifteen minutes. Hurry up and get dressed, and then we'll talk about what you are going do here." God swiveled smartly on one boot heel and strode back out the door, which slammed shut behind him without being touched.

#

In a state of mind he later analyzed as shock, Harold, dial tone in head, calmly selected an outfit. In the piles of outerwear, he found tees, boxers, and tighty-whiteys. Everything was in his size. He dressed in a tee, comfortable briefs, some no-name but really slick looking jeans, and a lightweight, colorful Hawaiian shirt adorned with large dogs driving antique cars. He also found a pair of white socks and a pair of hook-and-loop sandals. And then he sat on the bed and waited for God to return. And he thought.

The familiar acts of selecting his clothing, and dressing had helped Harold's state of mind. There were legions of questions, in no particular order of importance, which the worrier part of his brain insisted all needed answering immediately. He forced himself to ordered thought and was amazed as something "clicked" inside his head. The speed, focus, and clarity of his thoughts seemed to be somehow augmented, almost as if performance governors had been taken off a race car. And suddenly the science fiction writer in him was having a blast, as his brain logically and dispassionately analyzed the possibilities.

Was this whole sequence since waking in this strange bed just a dream? Had he somehow survived getting crushed and burned by tons of flaming truck? Was he now in a coma in a hospital?

He thought about the strangely sped up perception he had undergone. Were the events since "waking" here just more of the same quickening, except a weird hallucination from inside his brain rather than real life gleaned from his senses? Was the fraction of a second to personal extinction ticking down to zero, and soon everything would... stop?

Or had the hallucinations started earlier? Was the entire set of events since he "woke" this morning in his West LA studio bachelor apartment all just a fantastic dream? Was he still asleep? He pinched himself, and laughed at his idiocy: if he was in a dream with this much realism, then the pain proved nothing.

Maybe he had been abducted by aliens? At just the moment of the crash they had beamed him up? Was the tale that he was dead and in Heaven to protect him from the trauma of knowing he had been kidnapped by little green men? No, that was just stupid....

Or had the accident really happened and truly killed him? If that was the case, well.... He had never thought that the Christian version (or any other version, for that matter) of Heaven was plausible, so trying to compare what he had so far experienced with what irrational fables said was in itself irrational.

He couldn't do anything about any of the other possibilities, and Harold did not even want to think of the only other option: that he was really in Hell, and that the ugly little man was Satan, and messing with him. The best course of action was to assume that what was happening was, indeed, real. If this was Heaven, and the strange little man was God, then Harold should "go with the flow" and see what was going on. That meant, of course, giving Him more than a bit of respect; getting on the bad side of God was probably not a great idea.

So when the door again slammed open, and the ugly little loud asshole who said he was God once again strode into the room like he was, well, God, Harold quickly stood up next to the bed, ready to listen. God strolled up to him, put his hands on his hips, and grinned. The two of them stood looking at each other.

#

"So!" God said, "Are you ready to learn a few things?"

Harold had worked out his approach. "Yes, Sir, I am. There are a couple of things that trouble me a bit, and I would deeply appreciate it if you could explain them. First, however, please accept my sincere apologies for my initial attitude and outburst. I'm sure you know all about adrenaline and such, since you created it... and me...." He petered out, staring warily at the little man.

God gave a sardonic grin, and shrugged his shoulders in a what-fresh-hell-is-this gesture. He clapped his hands together and sat down in one of the chairs, elbows on the arms and fingers comfortably steepled in front of him. "Now don't you worry about that, son. shiat-damn-howdy, what are a few farks and hells between colleagues? And that is exactly what you and I are going to be. With your fresh creativity and my Divine guidance, you and I are going accomplish some great things together! I fully expect that there will be many more curse words flying between us. What we do here is not easy, and cursing helps relieve the pressure!"

This was the last thing that Harold had expected to hear, and he blankly stared, mouth open. God snorted out another nasally laugh. "Close your mouth, son, you look like you've been pole-axed with a rutabaga. Now go ahead and ask those questions. Shoot!"

Rutabaga? Harold shook his head, blinked, and focused. He cleared his throat, "Well, Sir," he said, "First of all, based on what I've heard about religion, none of this makes any sense to me. This is certainly not the Heaven I expected to see when I died. I don't see any angels or harps, and I don't see people floating on clouds anywhere, and this all is..." his arms spread to encompass the room, "...well, it looks like it has all been taken out of some historical novel. And second, how in the world did you do those tricks with the clothes, you know, the levitation and the transformation?"

God grinned. "That thing about angels and harps? Well I have angels here, and some of them are very sweet and desirable girls indeed, but I just don't like the sound of harps and don't allow any here. People floating on clouds?" God tilted his head and the wall of the house puffed into twinkling vapor. He gazed out at the clouds in the distance. He tilted his head back straight and the wall re-formed. "Nope," He laughed, "I don't have any of them, either."

He gazed around the room with evident fondness. "This is a recreation of the room and bed that I died in, in my world-line, in 1820 Massachusetts."

That makes no sense at all, thought Harold.

As if reading his mind, God snorted and added, "Well, that was on my world-line. After I died and became a God, I created your world-line. To speed up the process, I cribbed the creation command set I used for your Universe from the one my God had used when He brought forth my Universe. The only commands I actually changed were ones that made your Universe a whole lot more dramatic.

"Drama! That's where it's at, my boy! In my Universe, I was an author and a crackerjack book and anthology editor. I had a stable of a dozen eager young writers, and I worked my ass off with them to whip their writing up to a fever pitch of drama, pathos, and cliff-hanger endings that kept the reader coming back for more, week after week. The result, in no small way due to my efforts, was that we produced one of the hottest adventure serials in the world! I brought..." God raised his arms, hands forming fiery letters that floated in the air. "...The Quest for the Dramatic to the nation, and the public ate it up!

"Oh, yes, I did it up right! My home Universe was actually very boring, and I never liked it one bit. My God had designed a reality where Creation was a Steady State affair, energy and matter and stars and such being continuously and quietly created in a process that, frankly, was predictable, wearisome, and just plain dull. I decided to go with something much more vibrant and gripping: a Big Bang, where everything started with a tremendous explosion of energy and matter. That one small tweak set the stage for all of the drama and suffering and pathos that is absolutely essential for the creation of great stories. Your Universe is..." Once again, God traced out flaming letters in the air, "...The Greatest Story Ever Told!"

Harold was horrified. "Wait wait wait, you deliberately created all the suffering in the world?"

God's piercing eyes glared up at Harold. Though he remained in the chair, his slight body seemed to fill the room, dominating it. His voice rang with the certainty of a fanatic, "Son, in the long run, the only thing that matters is Story. And Story is crap without drama! Suffering is an essential part of drama. Quod Erat Demonstrandum, suffering is the Story. So I cranked up the drama to epic levels in the Universe I created. The characters come and go, but the story, the drama, the suffering, is eternal!

"That's why religion on your world is so farked up: beliefs that revolve around quiet talk, rational debate, and loving and helping each other are just plain boring! Beliefs that orbit around stupid ideas and pogroms against unbelievers are grist for great stories. So I made sure that all religion in your Universe is the province of grifters, grafters, and psychotics. The results speak for themselves! Your Stories are a glorious mosaic of madness run amuck. Drama!"

Harold collapsed onto the bed. He felt faint. He felt as though he had been popping crazy pills. He felt enraged. He wanted to throttle someone. Visions of fiery pits and laughing demons filled his head. He wanted to scream. He had trouble forming the words, but he managed to croak out, "You've created a reality of horror, and terror, and never-ending suffering, and when people die they go to the eternal torments of Hell, just so you can write a farking story?"

God laughed again. "Oh, there's quite a bit more involved than that. This is getting a bit ahead of the tale, but I made a singular discovery: dramatic universes are important for a whole other reason, which I will get to shortly. As for Hell? Few people end up in Hell. All the souls who don't end up in Heaven get recycled. It's a matter of efficiency, you see. It's much quicker and easier to reincarnate them into new Stories, either in their old world-line, or in brand new ones. Much better than going through the hassle of creating brand new souls. That's what all the Gods do. And eventually, if a soul creates good yarns, it ends up in a Heaven.

"And now to address your second question!" God said. "The world-line you lived and died in has fewer dimensions than Heaven does. That means you are limited to simple cause and effect. You know, physical causes, physical effects. Wishing? Doesn't work there. But here in Heaven, all the extra dimensions mean that physical things respond to Will. Things and forces can be created simply by wishing then into existence.

"How that works I don't know in detail, since I'm an artist, not a physicist. But I'm told that it has to do with the higher dimensional matrix allowing for the flow of thought energy, in addition to the energy forms that exist in your reality. Directed flows of thought energy disturb certain natural structures that underlie the meta-reality. If the thoughts are precise and detailed enough, those structures use them to create the thing that the thoughts imagine. This somehow relieves the stress on them. I've been told that this process is actually quite scientific and that there are logical and rational physical laws that govern every bit of it. But I really don't care about the details, just so long as it works.

"I created and transformed the clothes by wishing them to be. Levitation? Not really. I repeatedly created and destroyed the clothes at each point in space between the armoire and the bed. It's an art, but quite easy to do after you've been doing it for a few thousand years. I can teach you how to do baby steps of the same thing in five minutes."

Harold still sat, huddled, on the bed. He was beyond outrage. He felt as if the marrow of his soul had been sucked out and that passive listening was the only course of action left. Aside from the sheer amorality of it all, God's story actually made a weird kind of sense. Harold was, after all, a science junkie and a fairly "hard science" science fiction writer. Rational extensions of and alternatives to currently known physics were far more acceptable than causeless sorcery. A higher dimension meta-reality with attached 4D spaces? It reminded him of an idea he had heard in a podcast on string theory.

But from what God here was saying, it seemed to Harold that He was neither all-knowing nor all-powerful. God was sounding less like Divine Being and more like Sufficiently Advanced Alien. Perhaps his alien kidnapper option had some merit after all. Harold kept this whole train of thought very close to his chest, his face expressionless, and simply stared at the moral monster who was comfortably sitting in the chair across from him.

There was an extended silence in the bedroom. God sat back in the comfy chair, watching Harold, grinning, exuding confidence and self-satisfaction. "I understand your feelings, my boy, I really do. Right now you're horrified, repelled, disgusted, sickened. You are thinking that this is really Hell and not Heaven, and given your druthers you would just like to be written out of the story and become non-existent. You'll get over it. When you hear and understand what I tell you next, I think that your attitude will go through a sea-change. Let me tell you a story.

#

"Once upon a time there was an Entity. It was a child of Chaos, a creation of the formless Void in which it existed. It lived in the Chaos, but it did not thrive. The Chaos constantly tried to submerge the Entity back into the formless non-identity from which, in a timeless moment out of time, the Entity had been randomly created.

"The Entity conceived a plan. It would fashion a habitation for itself from the Void. It would create a Universe, a meta-reality of many fixed dimensions and predictable rules. Within such a meta-reality it would be safe and thrive.

"It did all this, a Herculean task, And it thrived, safe from dissolution. But the Entity, in the fullness of time, found that the Chaos was eating away at the foundations of the meta-reality it had created.

To protect its Universe, it was necessary to (as it were) shore up those foundations. The Entity discovered it could create limited, "out-lying" versions of its meta-reality, building them each with one dimension less than its own meta-reality. These lesser realities would support its meta-reality in the same manner that the flying buttresses of a medieval cathedral supported the too-massive building core, distributing the forces that wanted to tear it down over a wider area, attenuating them at any given point.

"But the Entity quickly found that those buttressing Universes, in turn, needed support. And so an unending slog began: the constant creation of new, slightly lesser, realities to shore up the old parent ones. It was an exponential task, and the Entity toiled unendingly and it did not thrive.

"At some point it occurred to the Entity that it could create partial copies of itself. It experimented with the energies and particles of its Universes and found a way to organize some of those elements into self-aware entities that were similar to, though lesser than, itself. It found that these lesser entities were not immortal, and that when they ceased to exist in their subsidiary realities, their energizing elements, their souls, could be brought into the parent Heaven of their world-line. The Entity then instructed them in its methods of Universe-building, and put them to work building new realities to support the old ones. Those entities, in turn, became the Gods of their own universes and did the same.

"Now like I told you before, this job is not just wishing shiat up without restrictions. There are immutable laws of nature involved. Understand that there are different kinds of reality. The parent reality is a Heaven. It has, say, X dimensions." God raised one hand and a finger traced a fiery diagram in the air. It was a long oval, and it looked for all the world like an org-chart box. It had an "X Heaven" neatly scribed into it.

"The parent reality's God creates a "scaffold" reality of X-1 dimensions. These are more "Heavens." They exist to be frameworks for the levels of realities just below them." The finger moved again, and three ovals appeared just below the first one, linked to it by threads of golden flame. Each of them had "X-1 Heaven" inscribed inside.

"Now it gets interesting. The God of X makes more realities "below" the X-1 Heavens.There are two types of these realities: Heaven "frameworks" of X-2 dimensions, and as many evolving, inhabited X-3 realities as that God wishes to create and "hang" onto the X-2 framework." The finger flicked back and forth, and a dozen more ovals appeared. Three of them were labeled "X-2 Heaven" and were linked to the X-1 Heavens; nine were labeled "X-3 world-Line" and were linked to their respective X-2 frameworks.

"The natural laws are simple. Any subsidiary universe must have one less dimension than the universe that is a scaffold for it. And subsidiary universes act as buttresses for the universe directly above them."

#

There was again silence in the room. Harold's mind was reeling. The diagram God had drawn in the air, though diminished, still faintly gleamed To Harold, it looked like a demented multi-level marketing scheme.
"And so here we are, kid. I am your God, son, and don't you ever forget it. But I work my ass off for my God, and He works his ass off for His God. And so forth. This is a battle. We are constantly striving to create new realities to stay ahead of the Chaos. Because if we fall behind it all ends. Forever."

Harold just sat and stared.

God continued, "You remember I said that the Entity originally built a meta-reality with many dimensions? I'm told there are more digits to that number than there are grains of sand on all the planets of all the realities that have ever been created. And you remember that I said that each subsidiary universe must have fewer dimensions than the universe for which it serves as buttress? The original Entity and the meta-reality it made are uncounted trillions of years old. I have no idea how many levels there actually are in this grand edifice now, but I know that it is a gigantic number.

"And that is the Problem: your reality, the one where you lived and died, has only nine physical dimensions. And there simply cannot be less than three. Stuff just will not work. So, my boy, we are looking at The End, coming up very shortly. There are only six levels of reality left to create, and then the Chaos wins and everything disappears into the eternal Void.

"But I have discovered a stopgap! This is another reason why there is so much drama in the Universes that I create: dramatic universes are stronger, bigger, and more aggressive. They resist the Chaos better; they last longer, much, much longer.

"And that, son, is your new job." God stood up and began to orate, raising an arm into a balled fist with which he pummeled the air. "Together, you and I (and the other writers stashed away in other parts of this and other Heavens) are going to create another layer of realities, dozens of them, hundreds of them, thousands of them. And we will crank up the drama to fever pitch! I figure that we can build buttresses that will last a hundred trillion years!"

God lowered his fist and grinned again. The braying laugh again echoed off the walls. "I can see that I've given you a few things to think about, my boy. You should probably rest up a bit. Get some sleep. And downstairs you will find a well-equipped kitchen, and a whole bunch of very well-equipped angels, if you catch my meaning. The fringe benefits and perks of this job are not to be despised, my boy! Rest up and have some fun for a century or two, and then we will start in on the training to turn you into a full-fledged God." He turned and strode to the door, which suddenly opened of its own accord.

This was Hell, it had to be. But Harold had to know for sure. "Wait! So what you said before was the truth about Hell? No one goes there, its all religious bullshiat? And you weren't lying when you said that this wasn't Hell, right here?"

"Hell?" God stopped, and turned around to gaze back at Harold. He had a big grin on his face. He laughed heartily, another vaudeville-like cackle. "Absolute truth, Harold. And after you learn the techniques and become a God in your own right, you can check it out for yourself. No, son, there are not that many people in Hell and when they go there it's certainly not for eternity. Those people are much too valuable for that. They're writers, after all. And Hell is where I send you guys to get motivated when you get writer's block!"

# #

 
2017-10-31 8:28:15 PM  

TheLastFrontiersman: ecmoRandomNumbers: TheLastFrontiersman: I posted the story ofmy friend Steve and the radioactive liquid speed before in these threads, and I think the time has come to add a bit to that story.Not about Steve, but about something odd that happened to me during my time serving Uncle Sugar as a submariner back in the Cold War.  I'm sure that I won't be able to do it justice...

I could seriously spend days reading your stories. That was a great read.

Thanks.  It might interest you to know that literally everything in this story is true.. just tweeked a little.  Almost everything in the Steve story is true too.

Sleep tight.


Love this. Dude... Moar STORIES!
 
2017-10-31 8:29:51 PM  
Don't have much this year, just a dream from last night where I was staring outside with back window of my grandparents' old house when I see four girls, half-faded in the distant fog walking away from the house. I feel excited, like I'm seeing things that I shouldn't be able to normally see. Of course, I've learned from dreams that any time you can see something, they can see you. The girls fade into the mist as the eldest one with dark hair and dressed in blue, appears next to me in the room, sitting in a sturdy wooden chair. I don't feel scared, we just have conversation that I don't fully recall, though she ends it by telling me that death is actually pretty nice, you get to choose what you want to do... that is, if you don't happen to get stuck.
 
2017-10-31 8:41:05 PM  

LineNoise: You want scary? look at my balance sheet each month.


Cash flow is king.  I highly recommend more income.
 
2017-10-31 8:44:20 PM  

Harlee: The concept of this came to me last Wednesday, from a casual remark I saw in an online comment, that nobody actually knows what the hell goes on in Heaven


The Methodists say everyone stands around all day singing praises to God.  Which sounds awful.  Which is why, at the age of 10, when I was scammed into thinking I was going to hell by my older brother, it was oddly liberating.  If I had to go to Heaven®, I would no doubt spend every day in Hell regardless, just out of sheer boredom.  That's much more interesting than singing hymns.
 
2017-10-31 8:50:56 PM  
Here's a scary one. There was once a wonderful state.  It had beautiful scenery, low crime and an intelligent,  educated citizenry. Then an evil monster showed its face. The state was called Colorado and the monster was called legalized dope. The monster tricked the less moral and less intelligent with promises of cures for all sorts of ailments and an endless state of euphoria.  But what it ended up bringing was skyrocketing crime, addiction and homelessness.  It slowly started to destroy the formerly great state and nobody was able to stop it since most of the population had been rendered brainless and morally bankrupt.  The End.

Not a very uplifting story I guess but I thought it my duty to share it since I have seen it firsthand.  I have been in Denver the last couple days for a conference and the number of drug dens was shocking. In the poor sections between the airport and downtown there was a "dispensary" every block or so and there were homless drug fiends everywhere.
 
2017-10-31 9:17:07 PM  
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-31 9:30:10 PM  

Xai: He woke up, "It was just a bad dream" he thought; he turned on the TV, the headline scrolled past TRUMP RE-ELECTED!!!!

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-31 9:32:53 PM  

Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?


Mine was real. I'm definitely no writer.

/tried
//sad
///sugar crashing now
 
2017-10-31 9:48:13 PM  
My name is William Matthew Stromberg. Or it was, anyway. To be honest, I'm not sure I really exist anymore. I did exist though. I owned a business. Got married and had three children. But all that changed just after midnight on October 28, 1914. I'm going to do my best to tell just what happened. The facts are real, but I'm not sure if my thoughts and feelings are. After so many years, it's hard to tell what's real and what's not sometimes.

I begin at the beginning, when I was born in 1866. My parents were Swedish immigrants, Mr. and Mrs. Nels O. Stromberg. My father was a cabinetmaker and an early settler in Galesburg. I was one of eight children, and I resided in this town my entire life. My parents died only a month apart from each other, in 1907. They are buried in Linwood Cemetery.

When I was 27 years old, in 1893, I married Marcia Tate. She was the daughter of a Civil War veteran, and long-time Knoxville blacksmith/grocer/politician Thomas Tate. I owned a candy store at 215 E. Main St in Galesburg. I'm told there is now a wine tasting business there. Marcia and I would go on to have three children, a girl and two boys. We had a mostly good marriage, and we were raising our family in our home at 1276 E. Main St., near the East Main Congregational Church, which we attended. Sometimes we fought, but it usually wasn't too major. I was known to have a temper, but I was never violent. At least not until October 28, 1914.

You see, in 1914 I was diagnosed as diabetic and given six months to live. Nowadays there are ways to treat diabetes, but insulin wasn't used until 1922, so there wasn't much that could have been done. I was frustrated and had taken to drinking to help numb the worry and fear. While not the best decision, I didn't know what else to do. In bed on the night of October 27th, I could not fall asleep. I was cold and did not feel I had enough covers. I grew frustrated and argued with Marcia. I stormed out and rode my bicycle to my shop downtown. I liked to hunt, and I kept a Winchester automatic shotgun there. I rode my bicycle home with the gun. Several people saw me with it, but thought nothing of it. They knew I owned a gun and liked to hunt.

I arrived home just after midnight. I went upstairs with my gun. Marcia ViewScan_0005met me at the door to our room, so I pointed the gun to her chest. She grabbed the barrel and jerked it to the side. I pulled the trigger and wounded her hand and blasted the door frame. She ran downstairs and outside, screaming and panicking for help. Our children were in their beds in the sleeping porch on the east side of the house.

Joyce was our oldest. She had just turned 19 that week and was attending Lombard College. She was described as "a beautiful girl, just budding into womanhood and a singer of rare promise." I blew off the top of her head.

Ralph was a month short of turning 14. He went to Weston School. The building is still there on Mulberry Street. He played on the church football team and sometimes he helped me out at the store. I shot him in the face.

Lowell, our 10-year-old, also went to the Weston School. He was bright and popular, and loved going to church. He never missed a Sunday. I put the shell in the base of his skull.

They were are killed without a struggle in quick succession in their beds. I then did the only thing I could do at this point, and turned the gun on myself. I fell facedown dead with the gun beside me.

No one could understand how this could happen. I do not even understand it. All I know is that it happened. Many headlines say I was drunk, but no one was sure if I was or not. The public did not know about my diabetes. How could I go insane like that? Why take my children out? I wish I could remember and say why. They did not deserve it. Marcia did not deserve to have her children taken from her.

A private funeral service was held for me and my children. They were buried in white caskets. We were all put in the family plot on the east side of Linwood Cemetery.

Marcia would go on to recover from her wound, and spent the rest of her life in the same home I murdered her children, which was another 41 years. She died in a nursing home in 1956, and she was cremated and buried beside me, with the children she lost.

I wish I knew why I did this.
 
2017-10-31 9:58:48 PM  

cman: I once saw my dad and mom doing it


only once?
 
2017-10-31 10:06:17 PM  

Ima4nic8or: Here's {blah blah blah blah] everywhere.



Well, gee, I was wrong.I do have the capacity for one more scary story, and this one is absolutely and demonstrably true. It is terrifying and disgusting - vomit and pee-inducing for sure - and I am sure that it will be one of the winners.

It will also be short - very short. 35 characters, 10 words, and one sentence shorter, in fact, than the classic "The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door."
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Are you ready?
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Are you sure? Seriously, this is a vomit-inducing tale from the darkest Stygian depths of the convoluted, razor-stropped mind of a madman, an intellectual Zombie that lusts for brains, any brains at all, to suck out the precious bodily fluids.
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Last chance! Proceed at your own risk!
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.Seriously, proceed at your own risk!
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Don't come to me whining that you weren't warned!
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OK, for reals, this is your last warning! Its bad. Its very bad..
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Ima4nic8or posted to a thread on Fark.
 
2017-10-31 10:09:11 PM  
My last job out of nowhere told me that the Adderall prescription that had been keeping me normal for years was "illegal" to take offshore. They even cited that it was from the Coast Guard and while they could never give me the paperwork to back it up, it was clear as day that if I wanted to go out and make money I needed to be off it.
So I started working with my Nurse (she was a PA and able to prescribe) and we came up with Straterra. Straterra is a non stimulant or a stimulant that can't be abused, I forget. What I do remember is that when you start on it you get 6 or 7 small bottles with weekly doses in it that slowly steps you up to therapeutic levels of dosing.
I started taking it while I was at home because I was reluctant to start a new med while on a boat in the middle of nowhere.
About two weeks in it I started hearing screaming from different parts of the house.  Like parts where nobody was, sometimes even from the attic. The screaming was plain as day in my mind and so real that I could pinpoint where the noise came from. My old house has always had a haunted feel (we have both seen a small boy out of the corner of our eyes in the past) but it was largely harmless and so what. The screaming was something only I could hear.
The next week I started seeing things along with hearing things.  I've never taken a hallucinogen in my life, and aside from the small and happy things I've seen on weed I've never put much thought into it. The first one was when my wife was in school and I was alone in the house.  I was walking down the narrow hallway when from around the corner what I can only describe as a "floating bacteria cell" appeared and started moving towards me. Picture a 6' tall e-coli cell with small root-like tentacles and an overall mottled brown and black color, that moves with a purpose. By this time I was already a bit freaked out by the screaming so seeing some kind of hellish demon in my house was a bit wild.  I ran into the bedroom and presumably to get my gun when I realized that chances are I was seeing something.  Remember hallucinations were new to me and I felt like I had been hit with one of those darts in Young Sherlock Holmes. I got my shiat together and went out to face this thing but it was no longer there.
Over the next three days I saw it many more times. Once it was floating over my bed in front of me when I woke up for no reason in the early morning, another time I turned around from using the fridge to find myself face to face with it, literally inches away, while hearing screaming.
Instead of losing my mind I brought it up with my wife (a nursing student at the time and someone super into pharmacology) and she said it may be a side effect from this Straterra garbage.
I stopped taking it right away and have not heard or seen anything since.

While not a ghost story I can assure you that it is truly horrifying to hear screams from inside your house and then see what I saw. I still have nightmares about it today over three years later.

Be careful with the meds you take, and always pay attention to what you see and hear and feel once you start one, you never know if your brain chemistry is gonna fark you.
 
2017-10-31 10:18:25 PM  
There once was a scary ghost.
He scared the crap out of everybody.
And, he STILL IS......

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2017-10-31 10:26:08 PM  
Well, hell, let's go with one more.


The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a lock on the door.
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The door was unlocked by the the detail of female prison guards, once again come to take him to his nightly fate of servicing the 120 beautiful, young, lonely, horny concubines of the late Sultan's harem.
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The last man on Earth was as Gay as a tree-full of parrots.

#

 
2017-10-31 10:27:04 PM  
You want terror? I'll give you terror.

I was the winner last year
 
2017-10-31 10:43:07 PM  
Trump is elected president.  Appoints Neil Gorsuch to the Supreme Court.  Trump gets impeached.  Mike Pence is sworn in as president.  Anthony Kennedy retires and Ruth Bader Ginsburg dies letting Mike Pence appoint 2 Supreme Court Justices.

Pleasant Dreams.....
 
2017-10-31 10:46:14 PM  
My mom once had a very detailed dream one night. There was this guy who made rude comments and acted really creepy, in a stalker kind of way. She dreamed that he hung himself out of shame at what he did and left a note behind. Before he hung himself, he called his minister and told him what he was about to do. She could see him hang himself with a rope. In her dream, the phone rings and she wakes up. It's the creepy man's minister. He's over at creepy guy's house and he's calling her to let her know that creepy guy killed himself by hanging himself in the living room. He left a note behind explaining why and that creepy guy called him before he died.
And at that moment, the phone rings. It's creepy guy's minister. He's calling from creepy guy's house. Creepy guy committed suicide by hanging himself in the living room. He left a note explaining why. And he called the minister right before he hung himself.

I once went to sleep one winter night with a red shirt. I wake up because I feel my legs cramp up. Then I noticed things were all wrong.
My watch is on my right wrist and not on my left wrist. I'm on top of the blankets and not underneath them. My head is at the bottom of the bed and not at the headboard. And my shirt is wet, like I sweated through it, despite it being below freezing outside. I'm the only person in the house.
It's 2 AM according to my watch.
Next thing I know, I'm sitting on my bed and the light is on. My shirt is dry, but it's a blue shirt. And it's on backwards and inside out. The red shirt is handing neatly on the dirty clothes hamper and it's dry as well.
I check the time and it's 2:15 AM. I don't remember turning on the light or changing my shirt.
I still don't know what happened.
 
2017-10-31 10:47:59 PM  
Nothing scary, just sweet.

We had the family dog Sandy since I was 5 years-old.  She was a little 9 pound cocker spaniel- poodle mix that never liked anyone but mom, but she stayed with us for 16 years.  For some odd reason, she loved to sleep on my bed.  For a couple months after we had to put her down, her spot on my bed would be warm when tucked in.  It was very comforting.
 
2017-10-31 10:48:06 PM  
Bookmark
 
2017-10-31 11:06:12 PM  

Ima4nic8or: I have been in Denver the last couple days for a conference and the number of drug dens was shocking. In the poor sections between the airport and downtown there was a "dispensary" every block or so and there were homless drug fiends everywhere.


*chills*

Why not tell the story you were afraid to tell, though?

You know the one.

Cheesman Park. Or should we say, Prospect Hill Cemetery?

Riverside Cemetary may be the most historic of Denver's burial grounds, but Prospect Hill was the busiest, it's "boot hill", though it enclosed hallowed ground for the region's diverse, intrepid settlers - Catholics, Jews, Chinese, and others laid out their departed in their various plots.

To this day, construction projects in the Denver Botanic Gardens turn up the bones of the forgotten.

Which is nothing to compare to the bones unceremoniously disturbed in the infamous desecration that still haunts Denver:

Land speculators eyed the high ground on which the dead rested, and through political coercion and corruption obtained rights to the cemetery in which thousands had been laid to rest.

They gave only 90 days notice - in the days of handwritten letters delivered by post, in a time without backhoes or trucks - for families to arrange reinterment at some other location.

The land speculators hired a contractor to - ostensibly - relocate the remains of the departed: a contractor who promised a fresh coffin for every corpse for their relocation to the historic Riverside Cemetery.

The contractor of course pocketed the pay and then made his workers cut the corners: tearing up corpses and stacking remains like cordwood, cramming the bones of many adults into cheaper child coffins, strewing remains like wood chips in a lumberyard, stripping the dead of clothing and jewelry.

"The line of desecrated graves at the southern boundary of the cemetery sickened and horrified everybody by the appearance they presented. Around their edges were piled broken coffins, rent and tattered shrouds and fragments of clothing that had been torn from the dead bodies...All were trampled into the ground by the footsteps of the gravediggers like rejected junk."


It is known that the bones of thousands still rest below this popular city park.

Oh - and on moonlit nights, they say, you can still see the outlines of the graves of the desecrated, and the cemetery as it once was and there's a spider on your face Ima4nic8or stab it stab it now!
 
2017-10-31 11:34:21 PM  

ObscureNameHere: OK So Amuse Me: ObscureNameHere: Also, don't get me started on my strange relationship to the common streetlight.    No rhyme or reason and it is likely confirmation bias, but, I really wish when I walking down a street if a streetlight would not choose to go out JUST as I walk under it.

No every light (obviously), but it is an odd thing I've had my whole life.   However, it is not recreate-able at will and therefore it will forever remain one of those odd life amusements / terrors that some of us have.

I have the same thing happen to me with a streetlight less than half a block from where I turn when going home. It blinks off every time I drive or walk past/under it. I have ten people that can vouch for this and I've experimented with it. had my Hubs and other people drive my auto by it thinking it might be something in the car, nothing, never goes out unless I'm in the car.

Um.
Huh.
Well this  creepy and weird.   Nice to meet you. :)

I'm almost afraid to Google this to see if this is a 'thing'.   At least yours sounds like it is consistent and you have witnesses.  Want to split James Randi's $1,000,000 if we can prove something? :)


If you were to Google it what words would you use? I can't figure out which words would turn something up.
 
2017-10-31 11:43:05 PM  
Once upon a time, a crazy orange man ruled the land, and everybody always woke up screaming. The End.
 
2017-10-31 11:44:45 PM  
Sunday night, I took out the tests that needed to be graded.  The morning class' tests were there.  The afternoon class' tests were in the wrong folder.  But where were the evening class' tests?
 
2017-10-31 11:57:23 PM  
This is COMPLETELY 100% true and just happened to me not three hours ago.

After dropping my kids off my kids in the area they were going to loot for their annual candy raid, I came home. Satisfied that they and their friends were safe (my 17 year old son was reluctantly voluntold to accompany them) I settled down in front of the TV with some beers to handle my duties of answering the door for trick or treaters and consuming an admittedly unhealthy amount of alcohol for a Tuesday.

Quick description of my street: it's an average suburban neighborhood. The houses at the beginning of my approximately 200 yard street are fairly "halloweeny" but once you get towards my end the lights are perennially dark. On my end, the residents are aging and generally in the "get off my lawn" stage of their lives. We are the lone exception. That being said, even though we decorate, we rarely get more than a handful of kids coming to our door. Probably because on All Hallows Eve our end of the street is pitch dark.

About two beers in and veering towards 8pm we've gotten no hits. Not a single child has graced our home with their adorable countenances masked in something either fiendish or Strawberry Shortcake, almost cloying sweetness. Sigh, such is our lot at the end of Dacono Drive.

I'm about 3 beers in. It's going down quick. I know it's not an official holiday but something about Halloween always brings a joy to my steadily darkening, aging heart. Perhaps a last tendril of my joyous youth desperately grasping at bygone times. Perhaps I'm not the curmudgeon I like to pose as. As Mike Myers pops out from behind a neatly shorn, suburban bush to stare at Jamie Lee Curtis menacingly on my flat screen, I hear a knock! Oh joy, I think to myself, some pioneering group of thrill seekers has decided to brave my end of the street. Happily, I grab the bag of Dum Dums and the bag of Reese's minis, ready to pretty much dump the whole thing into their plastic pumpkin baskets. What follows affected me enough to write this clumsy entry.

As I open the door (I kept the porch lights off and my foyer lights off as well in a futile attempt at seeming "spooky") I encounter a lone teen. A black girl of approximately 15 years of age. She's not wearing a costume and is alone. "Trick or treat" she says in an almost resigned way. Acknowledging the ritual but realizing it's tired cliche as well I suppose. Taken aback I look past her....looking for others. Surely this isn't it right? Where is the cluster of happy, chubby, greedy faces awaiting their tribute. No. Just her. Just me. At the end of Dacono Drive. Darkly.

Instantly I sense a sadness. I don't know if it's no e or hers. Do I care? I don't know. Does it matter? Yes it does. I spatter back, "happy Halloween hon!" Without really seeing her yet. As my eyes adjust, I see an awkward girl. A nerdy girl. Glasses. Wearing what I can see as some sort of semi-uncool track suit. Her face is unremarkable. She's lanky and carries about her the air of someone that is not one of the "in crowd" at school. It hits me immediately. She had no friends to go with. No one that cared to carry on this annual ritual of enjoying a spooktastic time with your friends, laughing and ribbing as you go from house to house pretending you aren't cold. She was alone both figuratively and literally. And polite.....so polite. I struggle to hold back tears as I think of it. In her refusal (strength?) to let her own loneliness ruin the fun of Halloween, she ventured out on her own as if to say "fark you, you my unpopular life, I'm having a halloween!" in a resolute, yet still wounded way. It was written all over her face. I gave her a heaping handful of candy and proclaimed awkwardly "wow! Its dark honey, do you have a flashlight? Be careful!"

"Yes sir, I use my phone, it has a light" in a mellifluous mid-teen voice that was soft and used to being ignored.

"Alright buddy, Happy Halloween"

"Yes sir, thanks, you too". Shyness, neglect, and yet strength in her answer. I watched her walk off into the Halloween oddity that was my half dark, half festive Dacono Drive. On to the next house. Alone but fake enjoying herself as she raged against a life that so far, handed her a life where a costume, friends, looks, coolness, evaded her. But damn it, she came to my door and other's doors for some candy. Because she wasn't going to have that withheld from her as well. She had decided that.
 
2017-10-31 11:58:29 PM  

Fox10456: Oops double posted, someone slap me.


you should be slapped twice.
 
2017-11-01 12:41:45 AM  

mrshowrules: DoBeDoBeLurk: Here's mine.

That is disturbing.  I'm at the age where I find stories about real people more unsettling than ghosts.  Not to to be insensitive (as the story is supposed to be true) but it would make an excellent sub-theme in a horror movie.  Something the main character has to come to terms with in battling the main evil of the story line.


Eh. It's one of a few I've done about stuff I remember from childhood. They're all reasonably disturbing. It's basically me trying to come to terms with stuff, so if you want to go with a real life situation, the main evil is that my childhood was kinda horrible, but nothing that CPS would've done anything about even if I'd tried to get help with it. And I'm not a well-adjusted human being as a result of it. I figured this one was scarier than 'my dad clamped his hand over my mouth to shut me up when I was crying during a concert at the Hollywood Bowl and scared the hell out of me' or 'my mom used to yell at me and hurt my hair when she tried to get the tangles out or it and one time she just chopped out a big piece of it with the scissors.'

But, yeah, I don't know if my mother and grandmother tried to kill me. Probably not, but I'm never gonna know. Honestly, their being Deep Ones (like another poster suggested) would make about as much sense as anything else.

Except, if I'm half Deep One, why don't I like fish?
 
2017-11-01 12:41:58 AM  
So.  I don't know why I'm doing this.  Some of you know me, and know that I'm not much for small talk.  I'm a pretty straightforward guy that doesn't much believe in this sort of thing.  Maybe lately this memory keeps popping up in my conscious, or maybe it's the cat I heard a couple nights ago, yowling about something at 1 in the morning that triggered the memory.  Lord knows I haven't thought about it in years upon years.

I was 13 at the time, and I was lying in bed, half-asleep, eyes closed.  There were cats outside my house, and they were making a LOT of noise.  I didn't move or make a sound because I thought I could actually understand what they were saying, almost kinda like where you hear the sounds they're making but they formulate into words in your head.

It sounded like a council.  Or a trial.  One of the cats was telling the others that another cat (only referred to as "the invader") must die.  The "invader" was claiming that it was innocent, and there were a chorus of other cats agreeing by shouting "kill him" or "no, he can be useful" and weird things like that.  The arguing got louder, and I couldn't track all that was being said.  I just lay there, afraid to move, scared out of my wits.   In a way that's funny to say, that's when things got odd (though it wasn't until years later that my more adult brain put the oddness together into that, "huh" feeling of wtf?).  My mother got up.  I know this because as soon as she turned on the light in her room, and got up out of bed, the cats immediately stopped.  I heard, "she's awake!" and "flee!" (seriously) and I heard her walk to my room.  By that point things were absolutely silent outside.  She asked me if I was okay, and I said yes.  She told me it was just a couple of cats fighting, and it sounded like they were gone, and I should go back to sleep.  She told me she loved me, and that she'd wake me up for school in the morning.  She went back to bed, and that was that.

Only I couldn't sleep right away.  I don't know how long I lay there, but after a while there was a single, loud, long, drawn out unearthly cat... Shriek?  Yowl?  It sounded like it was right outside my window.  Scariest thing in real life I'd heard, and come to think of it, probably have ever heard.  I certainly have never heard anything like it before, nor have I since.  I remember being so much the classic child the next day seeing a cat on a neighbor's lawn, and I walked up to it.  It didn't have a collar so I was surprised it stayed there initially.  I told it I heard last night, and asked what happened.  It stared up at me, and literally SLOWLY looked left and right, then turned and bolted.  For a while after that, I noticed there would be at least one cat following me or in sight of me--even outside the school.  It went on for about 6 months.  The brain has amazing powers of self-delusion, especially at that age, and I told myself it was my imagination/coincidence.  That being said, I haven't looked at cats the same way again.  I get along with them, actually, and they seem to like me, but I just don't quite look at them the same way, even though I told myself it was bullshiat.

The weirder things I didn't put together until later.  For one thing, I never really noticed before then that cats mostly avoided my mother.  I also was like, wait, they said, "she's awake."  What did THAT mean?  The third odd bit was that she got up, and came to my room.  She didn't ask if I was awake (I was initially still lying there with my eyes closed, not having moved at all).  She also didn't walk down the hall to check on my brother.  What was up with that?

I was in my mid 20s when I was thinking about it and put those things together.  I asked her about it, and by that point my mother told me that she didn't remember the night.  She also said cats don't avoid her, she just prefers dogs.

I guess this isn't overly scary, but it's weird and in some ways creepy, and it's Halloween, and as above, it feels good to finally get this out.  I do feel like a lunatic writing it down though.  Not sure I'll hit "Add Comment."
 
2017-11-01 12:49:02 AM  
For all the sleep paralysis people, I've got an interesting anecdote. I used to have the same problem in high school and college. The waking up frozen and see crazy visions, terrorizing figures, etc. So I was getting stoned with a friend of mine, who happens to be a pretty devout Muslim guy (the weed is, apparently, totally cool with the prophet). Anyway, we started to talk about it. I told him what was going on and how weird it was. He explains to me the concept of "jin" from the Quran. Now my friend is a boxer, far from an intellectual or cleric of any kind, but I took his word for it (i.e., this may not be accurate theology). He said that the jin can taunt you in your sleep and the way to stop it is to fight each time to ball your fist and strike your chest. If you can manage to do this, it will banish the jin.

Now, I don't exactly buy this, being an atheist and skeptical of the whole supernatural thing, but I figure--why not try? So the times I had sleep paralysis, I'd will myself to ball my fist and with every ounce of try to strike my chest. Well, after a few episodes I managed to do it and jumped awake with my whole body, like out of a falling dream. I've never had an issue since.

I don't know if it's true, old-world medicine for sleep problems, age, psychological, or what, but it did work. That was well over ten years ago and it's never happened again.
 
2017-11-01 1:08:52 AM  
When I choose to attempt to regain myself, I must stay awake at least one night, sometimes two. Sleep does not come, only suffering.

I hallucinate. Visual, auditory, and physical. Most recently, I tried to sleep after being awake two days. Whispers filled my ears. Whispers of hidden conversation, about myself and about others that I knew. I both understood these whispers and knew nothing of them. Dancing spiders were my vision whenever I opened my eyes. Horrid creatures of splaying limbs, in my vision, coming towards me. I attempted bravery. I knew they were not real. Nevertheless, I could not maintain courage. I had to leave my bed to leave these things behind. But they were not real. I glanced at a cup I had brought home. Limbs splayed out, dark and terrible. Waving and dancing, like ten-limbed harvestmen from the cup. It was unsettling, even though I knew it not to be real, but the cup seemed alive, squirming and more alive than myself.

I feel the weight upon my bed. I tell myself that it is the cats that dwell here. But they are asleep comfortably. I feel the weight of paws upon my bed, though I am alone. I see the dancing limbs of insects, and feel the dread of an unknown. Still I tell myself - it is all in my mind. None of this is real.

None of my logic makes a wit of difference. Opening your eyes and seeing a squirming spider in the dark is impossible to ignore. I have tried it. Instinct is too strong.

What is real? What is a product of the mind? Does it matter? Do I not see the world for what it is?

Then I think of my own arrogance. As if I could understand. I only know that I am unequipped for this. Fear seizes my heart. Then knowing.

Of course I am afraid. Perhaps I know something that others do not. There is nothing. Only the abyss.

The thought comforts me, but then abandons that comfort. I am alone.

I am ready for the end. I do not know what waits beyond, but I am ready for something more, or perhaps something less. I do not know, but am content in knowing that I know not the future. And so a blade strikes me, a mortal wound. I look up, at a soldier. He does not know me, and I do not know him. He does not pay my dying any attention. I am unimportant to him, important to some, but not to him. My vision fades knowing that my death will only spark more, and I regret. Then it is gone.
 
2017-11-01 3:10:29 AM  

Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?


YES. At least they used to blend in better.
 
2017-11-01 3:18:01 AM  

farking_texan: Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?

YES. At least they used to blend in better.


probably not, mine was real and put me on the edge of a breakdown but it appears to not be very popular.

But if I wrote a story about the nightmare I had when a Polish gypsy woman cursed me with a Steamer Trunk full of Haunted Dicks it would probably be a slam dunk.
Fake stuff always goes over better, while the real stuff that has really traumatized us has no actual conclusion or reason (unlike stories or movies) so it leaves the reader unable to find that closure.
 
2017-11-01 3:18:29 AM  
Not done yet..need to sleep soon and wanna finish up, but wanted to note..

I see we got 'Ted the Caver', a 'Fishy' reference (don't recall iff'n it was a link), the 'Desert Accident' story..all classics..     =)      I don't see the story about 'Danny'..don't think there's a link and too long fer copypasta on a Chromebook, not my story t'do so with anyways..or 'The Dionaea House'..  That one I can link and it's one o'my faves..be warned, it's a rabbit-hole t'be sure..

Hope y'all had a great Halloween and thanks fer all the wonderful/scary tales..real and written..  Off to finish the thread..see you all back next year..!!
 
2017-11-01 3:29:51 AM  

omg bbq: farking_texan: Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?

YES. At least they used to blend in better.

probably not, mine was real and put me on the edge of a breakdown but it appears to not be very popular.

But if I wrote a story about the nightmare I had when a Polish gypsy woman cursed me with a Steamer Trunk full of Haunted Dicks it would probably be a slam dunk.
Fake stuff always goes over better, while the real stuff that has really traumatized us has no actual conclusion or reason (unlike stories or movies) so it leaves the reader unable to find that closure.


I JUST finished reading that when you posted this. YIKES! I enjoyed it and it creeped me out. I don't vote in these threads. I like the real stuff, it is usually compact and told without a lot of embellishment. I don't want to read some aspiring writer's 18 paragraphs.
 
2017-11-01 3:30:03 AM  

ObscureNameHere: OK So Amuse Me: ObscureNameHere: Also, don't get me started on my strange relationship to the common streetlight.    No rhyme or reason and it is likely confirmation bias, but, I really wish when I walking down a street if a streetlight would not choose to go out JUST as I walk under it.

No every light (obviously), but it is an odd thing I've had my whole life.   However, it is not recreate-able at will and therefore it will forever remain one of those odd life amusements / terrors that some of us have.

I have the same thing happen to me with a streetlight less than half a block from where I turn when going home. It blinks off every time I drive or walk past/under it. I have ten people that can vouch for this and I've experimented with it. had my Hubs and other people drive my auto by it thinking it might be something in the car, nothing, never goes out unless I'm in the car.

Um.
Huh.
Well this  creepy and weird.   Nice to meet you. :)

I'm almost afraid to Google this to see if this is a 'thing'.   At least yours sounds like it is consistent and you have witnesses.  Want to split James Randi's $1,000,000 if we can prove something? :)


SLIders
 
2017-11-01 6:33:10 AM  

KarmicDisaster: [adambager.files.wordpress.com image 525x700]


Ronald Searle was amazing...
 
2017-11-01 9:18:49 AM  

farking_texan: Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?

YES. At least they used to blend in better.


^THIS.   Sorry aspiring writers, but as a long time FARK'er, what made this thread work were short to  reasonable length, contained tales to chill, amuse or creep out.   Not long extended chapter arcs, and this is the first year that I've notice such a prevalence of such things.

You can, of course, post them if you want.  But, know that I (and I suspect many others), are simply rocking the 'Page Down / Page Down' until the walls of text are passed by.
 
2017-11-01 9:22:58 AM  

Harlee: All righty then! This is my last submission. The idea came to be


Oops. I was rushing so fast on getting this posted and proofing it (when the hell is the deadline?) that I forgot to finish the intro. So here goes:

The concept of this came to me last Wednesday, from a casual remark I saw in an online comment, that nobody actually knows what the hell goes on in Heaven. That seemed like an eminently reasonable concept, so I started thinking about what might be "reasonable" alternatives for doing stuff in Heaven.

I started writing Friday evening. I finished an hour ago. Call it about 30 hours, a good chunk of which was taken up with Internet research for background accuracy. The effort was fueled by copious and constant amounts of coffee and high quality weed. (Various Indicas for the weirdness; Sativas for the focus and powering out the writing.)

I was tempted to re-title it as Drama but my wife said that All Writers Go To Heaven is perfect. But now I've got ideas for at least four more stories and possibly a novel or two set in this "All Writers Go To Heaven" universe, so I feel this story should have both titles, with Drama as the subtitle. What say you, Farkers?

This comes in at 5,337 words, so, sorry, it is a little long. I've tried to pare down wherever possible, but the Art of it sometimes demands less sparse language. What say you, Farkers? Too wordy? What would you cut? Or have I missed something and need to add another 100 or 1,000 words?

Enjoy.
 
2017-11-01 9:24:48 AM  

goat012006: This is COMPLETELY 100% true and just happened to me not three hours ago.
..


Damn, that's... both sad an uplifting at the same time.   Sad that her life is that way right now, but uplifting in that that girl has some STEEL in her backbone and will not bend or break to what those around think.

Hope she has a good life.
 
2017-11-01 9:30:13 AM  

stir22: Nope, not a jerk at all.  I can't post this year cuz my mom is so suck. But I'm reading everything. ..a lot of the old standbys didn't show up this year.


That's brutal, good luck to both of you.
 
2017-11-01 9:34:48 AM  

omg bbq: farking_texan: Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?

YES. At least they used to blend in better.

probably not, mine was real and put me on the edge of a breakdown but it appears to not be very popular.

But if I wrote a story about the nightmare I had when a Polish gypsy woman cursed me with a Steamer Trunk full of Haunted Dicks it would probably be a slam dunk.
Fake stuff always goes over better, while the real stuff that has really traumatized us has no actual conclusion or reason (unlike stories or movies) so it leaves the reader unable to find that closure.


I just want to say my son had the same reaction to strattera that you did. most frightening time of his life. He did not find out about the (less than 2% of the population who have this) reaction for several years. I'm glad you came through OK.
 
db2
2017-11-01 10:59:24 AM  

Kirzania: Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?

Mine was real. I'm definitely no writer.

/tried
//sad
///sugar crashing now


The thread's not totally devoid of interesting reading, but there's no arguing that it isn't an awful lot thinner than it was ten years ago.
 
2017-11-01 11:04:54 AM  

ObscureNameHere: farking_texan: Fireproof: Even as a writer, I have to ask:

Anyone else like these threads better when every story was supposedly real, as opposed to being full of five-page long things that with fictional characters and drafts in the Writers Threads?

YES. At least they used to blend in better.

^THIS.   Sorry aspiring writers, but as a long time FARK'er, what made this thread work were short to  reasonable length, contained tales to chill, amuse or creep out.   Not long extended chapter arcs, and this is the first year that I've notice such a prevalence of such things.

You can, of course, post them if you want.  But, know that I (and I suspect many others), are simply rocking the 'Page Down / Page Down' until the walls of text are passed by.


A'yup..

Mayhaps next Halloween, the Admin/Mods could see fit to have both a "Scary (True) Stories" thread and a "Scary Story Writer's" thread (the latter as a new annual tradition)..  Just a thought..
 
2017-11-01 11:07:07 AM  
Top 10 voted Smart or Funny stories get a sponsored month of TotalFark.

I skimmed the "Smartest" and "Funniest" lists to read the cream of the crop of this thread, and I see I have a couple posts in the Top 10 on each list.

I respectfully pass on the month of TotalFark.  My stupid Desert Highway/Fishy mashup is original content, but is recycled from last year, and I don't think I deserve *another* month of TF for a rehash.  My other entries in this thread were creepypasta and gifs borrowed from elsewhere.

The TF sponsorship should go to somebody who created fresh, original content.
 
2017-11-01 11:46:29 AM  

Skyd1v: Here is mine:

[img.fark.net image 800x640]

Boo.


I now officially hate you: At 7.15 EST this morning, I saw my first 'holiday' themed Target advert on the television.

My second -also Target but a different one, on a different channel- was at 7.22 AM.

::le sigh::
 
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