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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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5144 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



Voting Results (Funniest)
View Voting Results: Smartest and Funniest

 
2017-10-30 8:26:16 PM  
56 votes:

NotThatGuyAgain: These came out of my peener.
[img.fark.net image 422x750]
The end.


I bet that nickel hurt like fire
 
2017-10-24 9:53:11 PM  
51 votes:
SEX ZOMBIES ON WHEELS


"That's the stupidest story I've ever read!"

And with that, another door slammed in my face - POW! - so hard, it made the tip of my nose tingle. Despondent, I turned around and trudged back down the hallway. How many publishers had I been to now? Ten? Eleven? It felt like a dozen.

And all of them, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

I stopped. I counted. How many "no's" was that? I tried to count again, but decided it was no use. I was never going to sell my novel.

I checked my watch. Uh oh! If I didn't hurry, I was going to be late for my date!

I tucked my manuscript under my arm and proceeded to march down the crowded city sidewalk.

An hour later, I arrived at the diner. I immediately grabbed a seat, and the woman turned around and slapped me. I then found my way to a booth and waited for Lucy.

Ah, Lucy. My first date with a lady in over a year. She was cute as a button and twice as smart. Her good looks actually helped earn her a living. She worked in the button store on the east side of town. She fit in well. So well, in fact, it was often hard to find her when she was standing among the merchandise. But, whenever I did happen to spot her, I always asked her out.

And she always told me no, for reasons I didn't quite understand at the time, and still don't quite understand today. But yesterday, for some equally inexplicable reason, she said yes. So, we arranged to meet at the south side diner for lunch.

I slid into the booth and looked out the window expectantly.

I took the manuscript out from under my arm and held it in my hands as I gazed through the foggy, streaked window at the bustling street outside.

Then, it struck me. WHAP!

The manuscript! This was a first date! If she asks me what I do, I might have to tell her! If she sees me with my book, she might want to read it!

Panic filled my chest, and I felt tiny beads of sweat pop out of my pores.

I can't let her read this! That would be too much, too soon! No way, no how! Nuh-uh, buddy!

I squirmed around in the booth, and slid the manuscript down my pants.

Just then, Lucy appeared on the horizon. She looked as radiant as a light bulb on fire, with bright rosy cheeks under sparkling brown eyes. She walked into the diner, just as pretty as you please, and caught my eye.

"Hi, Eddie!" she squealed with delight. I waved at her, and she hurried over.

Sliding into the seat next to me, Lucy looked me right in the mouth.

"How ya doin'?" she said in a voice so low and sultry it sounded like a 45 RPM record being played at 33 1/3 speed then chained to the back of a truck and dragged over a gravel road.

"P-p-pretty good," I stammered. "How has your day been?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe," she moaned, flipping her hand in the air dismissively. "I could tell you, but you wouldn't believe."

The waitress came over and handed us a pair of menus. "Something to drink?" she asked.

"Wa-wa-water!" I said, raising my finger in the air, and then immediately lowering it as I realized that I should have let the lady order first. It was only polite.

I gestured in Lucy's direction.

"Milkshake," she said.

The waitress nodded.

"Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Chocolate," Lucy replied.

The waitress made a note on her notepad.

"Vanilla," Lucy said.

The waitress looked at her.

"Half and half," Lucy said, as she slowly turned her head toward me and licked her lips.

"That's... the way I like it."

I gulped, looked at the waitress, and let out a nervous laugh.

"Ha ha ha, w-w-water for me! Thanks! Thank you!" I said with a shaky voice.

The waitress nodded and walked away. I let out another nervous laugh. I didn't know what to say.

"My boss at the button store? Get this," Lucy whispered conspiratorially, "He's thinking of expanding into fabric. Fabric! Can you believe that?"

"Well, it seems kind of a natural, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"Fabric... buttons. They kind of go together, you know?"

"Oh, I know," she said. "But do you know how much room fabric takes up? They come in these really big rolls. Huge. They take up a lot of room, let me tell you. More room than we've got, that's for sure. We have ten thousand square feet in the store, and we still have barely enough room to hold all the buttons that we already have in stock. I told him, 'Mr. Lemberer, sir. Fabric is all well and good. I like it. You like it. Everybody likes it. But, don't you think that maybe we should offer things like needles and thread first? Y'know? Before we go jumping straight to fabric?' And, of course, he's all like..."

Lucy bowed up her arms, stuck out her lower lip and grunted several times, mimicking her boss.

"Ruh ruh ruh. Ruh ruh ruh."

The waitress returned to our table with my water and Lucy's half-vanilla, half-chocolate milkshake.

"Ready to order?"

Lucy ordered a hamburger, extra rare with double mustard. I ordered the cod casserole, extra well done with double ketchup.

As the waitress walked away, Lucy finished her story.

"You wanna know what I think?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I think that my boss thinks that if we offer needles and thread in our store, we're going to end up hurting the business of all the needle stores and all of the thread stores on our block, and they might get mad at us."

"Really?" I asked.

"Sure. A small businessman in the button industry doesn't dare go up against Big Needle. Are you kiddin'? Going against Big Needle AND Big Thread? At the same time? Phew!" She shook her head, rolled her eyes, and laughed derisively. "That would be a recipe for economic disaster. Or, so he thinks," Lucy said as she unwrapped her straw and dunked it into the whipped cream that topped her biracial shake.

I took a napkin and used it to dab the moisture off my upper lip. Then, I took a big swig from my water glass. The icy liquid felt absolutely exquisite splashing around the inside of my hot throat.

"Mmmaaannngahhh..." I said, smacking my lips and setting my glass down. Why was I so nervous?

"Look at me, talking about myself, on and on, blah blah blah," Lucy laughed. "Enough about me. I want to know what you've been up to today."

"Oh, you know, the usual thing," I said, exhaling a large breath that I hadn't realized I had been holding up until that moment. "Visiting publishers. Looking for work."

"Publishers?"

"Yeah, I'm a, I'm a..."

I let out another nervous laugh that sounded half-phony and half-crazy. I then thought of my laugh as the verbal equivalent of Lucy's milkshake, and the idea made me blurt out another loud laugh, this one sounding 100% maniacal through and through.

"I'm a writer," I said guiltily, as if I were confessing to defecating into mailboxes. I felt shame and guilt engulf me, surrounding and enveloping me like a big, wet catcher's mitt made of despair. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to grab my manuscript and beat myself to death with it.

"A writer! That's interesting!"

I looked at her in stunned surprise.

"You, you think that's... that's interesting?"

"Is sure is. What do you write?"

"Well, a book, I suppose you might call it," I said slowly, my quivering hands reaching out toward my water glass again.

"What's it about?"

I sipped my water as I considered my answer. I set the glass back down on the table carefully, tracing the drops of condensation on my fingertip in a slow circle around the edge of the rim as I pondered her question.

I smacked my lips and made a decision. I was going to tell her the truth, damn it!

"Honestly?" I looked her in the eyes. "It's the story of a relationship. A man and a woman who are deeply in love."

Her eyes lit up.

"Oh, yes?"

"They want to be married. But then," I swallowed hard. "Then the man finds out that she's been unfaithful."

"Oh, no! That's terrible."

"Yes. Yes, it is. It starts with him confronting her, and ends with him finally standing up to her and her lover."

My voice trailed off, and I gazed out the window absently.

"What happens then?"

I pulled the manuscript out of my pants.

"You can read it if you want to," I said. "Every publisher that's seen it so far has turned it down." I shrugged. "It's probably not the type of thing that one should bring up on a first date, anyway."

"Why not?" She seemed genuinely curious about what seemed painfully obvious.

"A first date, I suppose, is about the beginning of a relationship, right?"

"I guess," she said, in an uncertain tone.

"This particular story is about a relationship ending. Badly. Wallowing in that negativity on a first date is a bit of a... downer, don't you think?"

Lucy looked at the manuscript.

"Well, it's fiction, isn't it?"

I didn't reply. Luckily, she kept on talking.

"I think it's amazing that you've written a novel at all. That's pretty special."

The food arrived. After the waitress walked away, Lucy asked me if she could read my book.

Now.

I agreed. What the hell?

As she sat and ate and drank and read, I sat and ate and drank, and watched her sit and eat and drink and read.

-


MY SUMMER AT A NEW ENGLAND PREP SCHOOL



A Novel By


Eddie Dartson


Vincent stood in the doorway, his eyes brimming with tears.

"What is it?" cried Rebecca. "What's wrong with you? Why won't you talk to me?"

Vincent threw a rotting penis onto the kitchen table.

The penis squirmed. Rebecca gasped.

"Where - where did you find that?"

"In our bedroom!"

Rebecca clenched her teeth and held her breath. Her eyes were wide as saucers.

"W-w-where?"

Vincent could barely bring himself to say. When he did, it was as if the words were being torn from his very soul.

"In our bed!"

The shockwave of emotion reverberated through the room. With a quick motion, Rebecca slapped Vince across the cheek. Vincent, in a rage, picked up the penis and hit Rebecca on the side of the head with it.

Rebecca collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

"Tell me the truth!" Vincent shouted, his face red and sweaty. He shook the writhing penis at Rebecca. "Are you sleeping with a zombie?! Yes or no?!"

Rebecca looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with fury.

"Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!" she screamed.

Vincent couldn't believe it. He was utterly stunned. He dropped the penis to the floor and sank to his knees.

"How... how could you do this to me, Rebecca?" Vincent said through anguished sobs. "I loved you! We were to be married in June!"

In a flash, Rebecca reached out and snatched the penis off the floor. She stood up quickly and brandished it at Vincent.

"Because he's not what you think!" Rebecca hissed. "He's not just a zombie!"

"What is he, then?!" shouted Vincent.

"He's a... he's a..."

"SAY IT!!!"

"He's a sex zombie!!!"

Thunderstruck, Vincent fell over backwards onto the ground. He twitched on the floor, whimpering. He could feel his heart breaking in his chest. Thud, thud, crack. Thud, thud, crack. Thud, thud, crack. He only regained his senses at the sound of the kitchen door slamming shut.

"Rebecca! Wait!"

Vincent scrambled to his feet, tore through the back door, and ran out into the yard. Darting across the lawn, he caught up to Rebecca. Vincent seized her by the shoulders, spun her around quickly, and grabbed her roughly by the wrists.

"You have to tell me! You must! You must!"

Rebecca struggled to pull herself free from Vincent's iron grip. "Let me go!" she cried.

Vincent held firm and shook her wrists harder. The rotten penis clutched in Rebecca's hands flopped back and forth between them as they struggled.

"Do you love him?!" Vincent asked, fresh tears welling in his eyes. "Do you?!"

Rebecca turned her head away, and Vincent shook her harder.

"Do you?!" he yelled. "Tell me!"

"I love his motorcycle, okay? I LOVE HIS MOTORCYCLE!" Rebecca screamed. She finally pulled herself away from Vincent and ran down the road, weeping.


-

A few hours later the waitress brought us dessert and coffee as Lucy neared the end of my manuscript.

She was one hell of a fast reader. Maybe the fastest I'd ever seen.

-

"I want to speak to him," Vincent demanded.

"You can't!" Rebecca replied, fear in her eyes. "What good would it do us now?!"

"I want to see him now! Where is he?"

Before Rebecca could reply, a cold voice came out of the darkness.

"Right here."

Vincent spun around. Out of the shadows stepped Samuel, the sex zombie.

Samuel crossed his arms. There was a long silence. The only sound was the steady drip drip drip of maggots falling out of Samuel's ass.

"I didn't think you'd have the guts to come back, Sam," Vincent said.

Samuel sneered, his green, moldy teeth glinting in the moonlight.

"Is that supposed to be a joke? If so, bravo, old man, bra-vo."

Samuel began clapping his hands sarcastically. It sounded like two wet steaks slapping against each other.

Vincent gestured toward Samuel's crotch.

"I see you have your penis back."

Samuel glanced down.

"Oh. Yeah. That. Sorry I have to leave it out like this. I just had it re-attached, and my zombie doctor told me I shouldn't wear anything below the waist for at least forty-eight hours."

"It wouldn't fit in your pants, anyway," Rebecca spat, her voice filled with vitriol.

Samuel raised his hands up in a supplicating gesture. He looked bewildered and hurt.

"Hey, hey, hey. What is this? Both of you are ganging up on me now? That's fair."

"You're one to talk about fairness!" Vincent cried as he jabbed an angry finger at Samuel. "Why don't you take those maggots, shove them back up your ass, and leave us in peace?!"

Silence filled the air.

Suddenly, Samuel hunched over. His face was hidden from view, but judging by the slight trembling of his shoulders and the gentle wavering of the tip of his penis, it appeared as if he were crying.

He turned around and began to walk away.

The anger inside Vincent subsided like a deflating balloon. What had, moments before, been volcanic feelings of betrayal and jealousy, swiftly morphed into a desolate spiritual desperation.

"Sam... wait!"

Vincent and Rebecca looked at each other in surprise. Both had spoken the very same words at the very same time.

Samuel turned and looked at them sadly.

"I know the both of you think that you want me to stay. But, you really don't."

"We do!" Rebecca sobbed.

"No, you don't. That's not the point."

"Then what IS the point?!" Vincent pleaded.

Samuel shook his head and gave them a woeful smile. "Poor, sweet Vincent. This isn't about the maggots in my ass, or even the penis in your bed," he said softly. "This is really about the maggots and the penises in your hearts."

Vincent and Rebecca began to cry. Soon, Samuel was crying too. But, despite the dusty tears spilling down his hollowed cheeks, Samuel kept on speaking. He spoke faster and faster, his voice rising in intensity.

"If you two can honestly look at me and say that I haven't touched your hearts, or your genitals, and that the time we've spent together wasn't important to you, then... then..." He struggled to speak. "Then, that's it, man. I'll just go out there, I'll get on my chopper, and I'll ride, baby. I'll ride far, far away, and I won't ever come back."

Vincent and Rebecca listened intently as Samuel spoke his final words to them, each syllable that passed his lips a dagger driven deep into their souls.

"But, if you could say, truthfully, that while I was in your lives I made one person laugh, one person think, one person come, then... then I'll know that it wasn't all in vain. I'll know, in my heart of hearts, that somehow, somewhere, in some small way, I helped someone learn how... to love... again!"

With a final, hitching sob, Samuel turned on his heel and walked off into the darkness, never to return.

Vincent and Rebecca clutched to each other and crumpled to their knees, crying silent tears for what might have been. They couldn't live without Samuel, and Samuel couldn't live. The light that had once illuminated their lives had been suddenly and irrevocably extinguished.

And now, nothing would ever be the same.



THE END


-

Lucy folded over the final page of the manuscript. It was clear that it had evoked powerful emotions in her. I sat my empty coffee cup down as the waitress cleared the final dishes from our table.

Lucy wiped the tears from her face. She was silent for a long, long time.

Finally, she spoke.

"That's the stupidest story I've ever read!"
 
2017-10-24 9:08:55 PM  
44 votes:
President Trump and a GOP-controlled House and Senate. Boo.
 
2017-10-30 7:11:23 PM  
38 votes:

farkingismybusiness: The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...


One of the many remaining women on Earth pleaded through the door "please, we have to save the species! You have your choice!"

The last man on Earth replied "your knees are too pointy."
 
2017-10-30 9:11:59 PM  
32 votes:
i.imgur.comView Full Size
 
2017-10-25 2:20:44 PM  
32 votes:
I tell this one every year.

Beer 'fridge.


img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-25 7:51:35 AM  
29 votes:
Windows is updating....
Your files are exactly where you left them....
 
2017-10-24 9:49:52 PM  
25 votes:
I once saw my dad and mom doing it
 
2017-10-28 11:41:53 AM  
23 votes:
One tax season I had income from three different states.
 
2017-10-25 3:09:30 AM  
20 votes:
It was a dark and stormy night in November, a Tuesday, and the started to count the votes. ...
 
2017-10-31 12:40:12 AM  
19 votes:
It's better to tell me weird story in person than typing it but here goes.

About a year ago, me and this girl i was dating went out to this real nice sushi place.

The food was great, drinks were great and we were having this conversation about reincarnation.

I told her that I had never told anyone this before, but wanted to get her thoughts on it.

All my life, I have always had dreams that in some past life I was this stray dog. A stray dog that got hit by a truck on a farm road somewhere in Texas. It's always the same dream. It's not really scary just strange. I'm "running" down this farm road and an old truck is passing me and clips my "shoulder" and I fall over injured.

And then I always wake up from the dream.

The strange thing is I've always had this pain in my left shoulder since I was child and till this day. It feels like a knotted muscle. I've always been able to physically feel this knot as well. I had it examined a few times in the past but the doctors could never solve the problem.

After telling her this story, I told my girlfriend, "look just rub on my back left shoulder and you can feel the knot. I swear."

So she leans over and starts to rub and feel the spot.

And then all at once, I growled and tried to bite her hand.

She broke up with me that night :(
 
2017-10-30 9:32:12 PM  
18 votes:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-31 12:44:07 AM  
17 votes:
I only saw her once, in Vegas, on a business trip. We'd had a number of drinks and I remember a night of decent sex. I didn't see her when she left. She, too, was in town for a corporate meeting, same hotel.

You can imagine my shock when she showed up at my house unannounced. I quizzically, but politely said "Hi" and and she put it in my hand.

A plastic stick with a "+" symbol on it.

That's when my wife sweetly said from behind me, "Who is it, dear?
The End

 
2017-10-25 12:04:40 PM  
16 votes:
Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will eat you." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...
 
2017-10-31 2:34:55 PM  
15 votes:

double_derp: A couple years ago i was in Salzburg, Austria, for business.  I was asleep in the hotel...it was a new hotel in almost the city center, of a very old city...meaning, it had been built on top of something else, probably many times over.  Nights would come and go with nothing to speak of...but one night towards the end of my stay...I was touched on the side two or three times...enough to startle me awake because i knew i was alone in the room..so no one could have touched my side.  My side was touched though...seconds after i could feel the spot on my side where i felt the waking contact...there was...and is no doubt in my mind that something touched me on the side that night.  It didnt scare me, though i feel like i should have been.  It never happened again.  Some may say it was just a dream...but i do know the difference between dream sensations and actual contact.  true story.  Ima go look up that hotel and see what was there previously....


Probably just a koala, they like to hide under beds and hang from the box spring.
 
2017-10-30 7:30:16 PM  
14 votes:
Got nothin', and I am on call so no booze for inspiration this year.  *sad face*

=====

I was driving in the desert through a region known to be a hotspot for satanic group activity.  Up ahead I see a red Pontiac Fiero stopped sideways across both lanes, a suitcase open with clothes scattered everywhere and two bodies laying face down in the road, a man and a woman.

The hair on the back of my neck is standing up. Something seemed very wrong, it looked too perfect as if it were staged. An ambush? Was I being paranoid? Something was just wrong. Getting out of the car seemed unthinkable, it was the horror movie move.

I swerved around the bodies and the Fiero. I continued forward a couple hundred feet and slowed down so I could breathe and let my heart slow down. As I looked up into the rearview mirror I saw that the two bodies had gotten up to their knees and twenty or so people emerged from the tall grass on either side of the road by the car and bodies.

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

"Shee-it man, that was close," I said to the yellow, four-foot tall, bulgy-eyed humanoid standing on the windshield.

"Shoulda stopped," said Fishy, as it shuffled on the ceiling back to the rear seat, where it resumed staring at me in the rearview mirror.
=====

echo5juliet's desert drive:  http://www.fark.com/comments/​3985541/4​5887207#c45887207
BONUS:  follow-up!  http://www.dynamitemonkey​.com/?p=170  (apologies to echo5juliet, if you don't want that off-site content posted here)

Quex's fishy story: http://www.fark.com/comments/2​385211/2​5185959#c25185959
 
2017-10-30 3:35:30 PM  
14 votes:

AlwaysRightBoy: AlwaysRightBoy: [img.fark.net image 425x267]
What's so scary about floating red balloons?

Actually the scariest  Halloween story I have is many years I dressed up as a clown for a party and my wife and her best friend said that it looked just silly. They ripped everything off me and remade me as an awesome beautiful woman in high heels. I looked so damn good it was scary when I looked in the mirror before the party.


Go on ...
 
2017-10-25 8:52:23 AM  
14 votes:

cman: I once saw my dad and mom doing it


so they have a clown fetish do they?

images-na.ssl-images-amazon.comView Full Size
 
2017-10-31 3:32:31 PM  
13 votes:
Many years ago, I went to Florida to help a friend pack up his Mother's house after she passed away.

I didn't realize until I arrived that he'd planned to take the guest room of the house, which left me with the bedroom of the deceased.  Which was still, obviously, full of all of her things.  She'd woken up in that bed a few days ago, and fully and reasonably expected go back to it at day's end.

Hell, for all I knew she'd died in it.  I hadn't actually asked.  Had the sheets even been changed?  Jesus.

But it was my friend, and that was his Mom, and he was going through a hard enough time so Fine.  I'll sleep in the bed of the dead.  For one night.

So anyhow, after travel and the funeral and such, he went off to sleep in the guest room, and I retired to the creepy death room.  Turned off the light, sat down on the bed and...

There was a shape.  Right in front of me, there was a shape.  Maybe four, five feet tall, looked like a person shape.  I'd never met my friend's mother - but I'd seen pictures - and she was a short little woman.  Maybe about the same size as this shape.  As this shape in the room of a woman who'd just died, who's house I was basically invading holy shiat.

Right in front of me.  I mean, it was dark as hell - but there was a shape right in front of me!  I could just make it out because there was the faintest glowing outline around it.  All my 'fear' instincts kicked in and I froze, manfully, in the darkness.

No idea how long I sat there.  My medulla telling me that I needed to hold very very still and maybe the predator wouldn't notice me.

Some amount of time later I slid, infinitely slowly, back from where the shape was just sitting there, and very, very carefully felt along the wall for the light switch.  I mean.  I didn't want to.  I didn't really want to see what that shape was, not really.  But you don't have a choice, right?

So on come the lights - and the shape is still there.

The shape which was the reflection of my torso, sitting on the bed, face to face with the full length mirror attached to the closet door.  The closet door which was shut, but with the closet light still on - thus the 'faint ghostly terrifying outline' around my reflection in the dark.

I was enormously relieved.  At least until I saw my reflection blink, but that's a whole other story.
 
2017-10-31 2:06:06 PM  
13 votes:
Here is mine:

img.fark.netView Full Size


Boo.
 
2017-10-31 1:30:23 AM  
13 votes:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-29 12:59:20 PM  
13 votes:
It was a dark and stormy night when Sterrit finally pulled into his  semicircle parkway.  As he stepped inside and shook off the cold and rain he noticed a plate on the custom mill work.

Walking into the kitchen he sees a shadow pass over the plate, a chill runs up his spine into the ol factory part of his brain.  He takes a step forward, and another and another.  Suddenly he is frozen, standing above the plate, with the flecked abyss staring into him from multiple holes.  It was not actually a plate of chocolate chip cookies but instead it was... OATMEAL RAISIN
 
2017-10-25 8:41:47 PM  
13 votes:
I think a good way to get over a fear is to laugh at it. That's why I make the clown in my closet eat spiders. It doesn't help the clown with his arachnophobia, but I laugh myself to sleep at night thinking how much he's paying me for this "therapy"
 
2017-10-25 9:26:11 AM  
13 votes:
The Trump is coming from inside the White House!
 
2017-10-25 8:32:09 AM  
13 votes:

ObscureNameHere: Why the hell is this thread 6 days early?

Got the jump on you didn't it?  Didn't see it coming, right?
 
2017-10-31 11:00:09 AM  
12 votes:
I'm a very level-headed, skeptical person who always seems to be able to come up with an reasonable explanation of whatever weird phenomenon that others, or myself has experienced.  That is why this night really scared the crap out of me.

Now, I have always had sleep issues...and several times I have experienced sleep paralysis and all of the terrifying "symptoms" that accompany it: Paranoia, paralysis, trouble breathing, hallucinations etc...  Those experiences, although I know are not real, have all stayed with me.  It truly can be horrifying.

Rewind to about 4 years ago:

Something startles me awake.  I know something is wrong.  Was it a loud noise?  Is someone breaking in?  Perhaps it's just one of those 'feel like you are falling the moment you fall asleep' things, where you seem to still be bouncing in the bed when you are startled back into consciousness?

I don't think much of it, probably just one of my many sleep issues I think. I'm sleeping well (for once) so I start to drift back to sleep....

WHAM!!

There it was again, I was only half asleep this time....but still unsure what woke me.  Still feels like the falling thing but, no, something is much more tangible here.  My heart is racing, I stay quiet....Someone is breaking in!?!  My girlfriend hasn't reacted so maybe it's nothing.  The dog too....she would normally be going crazy at any abnormal noise at night.  Still, I'm on edge.  Something is wrong and adrenaline is coursing through me.

"This is silly" I tell myself, and close my eyes.

WHAM!

Whoa!  WTF!!??!! I felt it this time.  I fell!  I actually farking fell and was still bouncing on the mattress!  The girlfriend didn't wake...not a peep out of the dog.  "this has got to be another sleep paralysis" I tell myself... so I do a little test; I try to move.

Now, in this moment, the little boy in my head is telling me not to move too much, ya know, so as to not alert the monsters in the room that I'm awake...but I'm a grown @ss man! 30 years old dammit!..."Pshht, I got this...what are you afraid of 2kanzam?" I say to myself.

...I wiggle a finger...

Ok, then...My finger moved.  Wait? so does my head.  I can breath, there is no lurking figure...this is no sleep paralysis I start to realize...

...then it dawns on me: "Wait...if this isn't sleep paralysis, then WTF?  I just fell from the air. This is REAL!?!?!?"

Right then I feel it.  The whole bed moves.  I'm watching it...With me and my girlfriend in it, the whole farking bed is lifting into the air!  I see it, I feel it...holy FARKING shiat I'm in a levitating, bed; totally awake and sober and this IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO HAPPEN!!!!!

WHAM!!

The bed slams to the ground again.

I'm horrified, shocked...shaking and trying to rationalize what is happening.  Trying to rationalize away the fact that I just saw my bed- with me in it- levitate and then come crashing to the ground.

My GF wakes up..."What was that?" She uttered.  I don't know what to say: "Ummm...so you felt that?  I don't know...but we were just farking floating and....and I dunno!!"  She kinda jumps to attention saying..."What?".  All I can do is basically repeat myself.  "The farking bed lifted in the air and fell down...I saw it..."  "What do you mean??" she says, she can tell I'm serious and that I'm a little freaked.

This is it folks.  I know I have a duty.  I have to investigate, I need to find out what is happening no matter how terrifying the answer might be.  "This will change my life, change everything I know to be real and will cause me to question all absolutes I've known to be true up until this point." I think to myself as I muster up the courage to see what this is....if anything.

I have to man up and face the beast.

I slowly get out of the covers.  I pull myself to the foot of the bed.  I feel like I'm 4 years old again, fretting over the existence of the boogie man my sisters warned me of who lives in the closet. I can hear nothing but the pounding of my heart in my ears as a peek over the edge...

...there it is. Slobbery, Writhing, squirming, hairy and breathing heavy with a huge tongue unrolling from its gaping maw...it is protruding from underneath the end of the bedframe...It goes to stand, lifting the bed over two feet in the air as I watch it!!

WHAM!!

The bed makes one final descent and slams the floor like a judges gavel signaling the final verdict...

...It was.....My Great Dane, Daisy Duke, who was in the early stages of bone cancer had accidentally wedged herself under the edge of the bed and couldn't drag herself out due to her lame right front paw.  She still had the power in her back legs to lift that queen sized bed with wooden frame...me and my girlfriend along for the ride.  But just couldn't quite release herself from it's grip.

I have never been so relieved in my life.  ...and never felt so silly.
 
2017-10-31 6:48:27 AM  
12 votes:

farkingismybusiness: The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...


It was his ex-wife and mother-in-law!!!

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2017-10-31 12:20:01 PM  
11 votes:
Went with the wife and a couple friends to see "IT" the weekend it opened. One of the friends was on call and couldn't make it (wife's best friend).

So, they went later in the next week.

I couldn't pass the opportunity up, so i waited 30 minutes after they left, and headed out... hit Party City, and got one red balloon.

took the wife's spare key and headed to the theater. then went home and waited patiently. She's got one of those proximity keys... so when she approached the car, the dome lights came on and this was what she saw. apparently, the scream was startling to quite a few folks exiting the theater.
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wife calls "Honey, have you been busy tonight?"
with a tremendous amount of effort, i played innocent... but wound up cracking up on the phone.
 
2017-10-30 9:17:54 PM  
10 votes:
After about 6 shots of Jack Daniels a man gets little loopy. It was Halloween evening & Frank had no plans except to go on Netflix & thumbs-up his favorite shows & thumbs-down the ones that he thought sucked. He only got a couple trick-or-treaters every year & he was real nice to the kids & parents but really just wanted to be left alone.

As he sat back on his couch after another trick-or-treater walked away with a hand full of candy he thought he'd go on Fark & check the news. He liked to stay informed with what was going on but was too lazy to sift through all the credible news sources & figure out how much truth & accuracy was involved in each article. He could read between the lines.

Looking down he noticed the pile of candy wrappers on the couch & chocolate crumbs mounting up so he swept them into his hand & walked towards the trash. Walking past the mirror he stopped to flex & realize "Yup, still got it." Tossing the trash he felt the urge to pee, so he walked over to the bathroom made most of it in the toilet & pulled a punch directed at the mirror with an intimidating "What b!t€#!?" On his way back to the TV. As boredom set in again, he logged back into his Fark account to see if anyone had deemed his latest posts funny or smart. Not much on smart, but a few funnies. "I'll take it." He thought. He re-read his last post & checked for grammatical errors again. Probably some errors, oh well, f*€k it. After turning his attention back to the TV he saw that the original Halloween was on & thought to himself, "Nothing beats the classics," & got it started.

He cracked another Natty Light & turned out the lights. His mind wandered about the thought of how the go-to X-Mas classic must be A Christmas Story, or maybe Home Alone, or Bad Santa depending on what generation you belonged to. Then he wondered what the Millenials go-to Halloween-horror must be. Maybe a YouTube Vine-person? He didn't know. Frank pulled out his phone & logged in to Fark again to make a comment referencing his new comedic revelation, but first, to find a thread that what slightly relevant... Ahh ha! "Florida man gets appendage shaped like the state, stuck in manhole cover." Close enough.

As he begins reading the comments posted he comes across one stating, "The guy in the mugshot looks like a retarded Michael Myers." Strange coincidence.
Next comment, "I wonder if Corey Feldman & Maculy Culkin ever got their manholes inspected by Kevin Spacey."
Ok, what the fudge is going on here.
Next comment, "Hello Frank, it's me Drew." Frank shakes his head rubs his eyes, hesitates for a minute & types back, "Hello." Refreshes. Drew responds, "Really dude, f@€k!ng Natty Light?"
Frank feels a squishy warm turd slowly crawl out of his butt cheeks & into his pants."

He throws his phone down & runs out the door. Crying & sprinting half a block Frank is winded. He collapses on the lawn of one of his neighbors under a tree. He looks up, petrified, speechless, jaw dropped. On a low hanging branch a squirrel drops his tennis-ball-sized nuts into Frank's mouth & says in a high pitched voice, "Happy Halloween Mother Farker!"
 
2017-10-25 5:57:56 PM  
10 votes:
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2017-10-25 7:43:38 AM  
10 votes:
This one time, at bandcamp, I ate candy corn. Sleep tight.
 
2017-10-31 12:25:06 PM  
9 votes:
Had a delicious pizza for lunch. Ate the whole thing.
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2017-10-30 11:25:12 PM  
9 votes:
A cry from the kitchen down below.  "Dinner", my mother said, "Come get it while it's still warm."  I left my bedroom and went to the stairs.  "Don't go down there", my mother said from the closet.  "I heard it, too."
 
2017-10-25 7:04:31 PM  
9 votes:
Shiat, I thought I had a few more days to work on this...

==========

The Things In Your Bedroom: A Child's Survival Guide

NOTE: This is an excerpt of a work in progress. One day I might actually finish it.
If I do this right, it will scare the Hell out of children. It will also help them get over their fears. I'm not going to tell kids there's nothing in their closet. I'm going to tell them there probably is something in their closet, but there's something they can do about it.

My target audience is kids aged 8-12, and their parents. I intend it to be educational and entertaining. I want to help kids overcome their fears of Things In Their Rooms At Night, but also encourage them to learn.
Everyone who's read this draft suggests the vocabulary is beyond what kids that age normally read. I agree. That's why there will be a glossary and lots of footnotes. If I do it right, I'll make kids feel smart for learning new words. It will also frighten them.

Every Thing in the book can be defeated by learning about various related subjects: spiders, Latin, biology, history, literature, and so on. In a way, I want to turn kids into little Van Helsings. They should feel well armed against the Things that scare them.

The final product will be amply illustrated. I've included a few sketches here, but the final product will be formatted as a survival guide, with bullet points and diagrams.

======================================​======

The Things In Your Bedroom: A Child's Survival Guide

Introduction
    As you probably know, your bedroom--especially at night--is infested with malevolent entities. Most kids know this instinctively. You know not to hang your hand or foot over the edge of the bed; you know that if you don't move they can't see you. Your blanket is an effective defense against many threats. You might even know that you should never walk backwards in the dark. These instincts have kept you alive so far, but you also know that one of those Things will get you some dark night if you don't learn to defend yourself.
    This manual was compiled from dozens of interviews with survivors, and the diaries of those who did not survive. It will teach you advanced survival skills. You will learn what attracts Bedroom Things, and you will learn to repel them. You will learn their weaknesses. You will learn to recognize them, how to deceive them, and how to know when they're gone.
    None of these entities can be destroyed, but if you follow these lessons, they will lose interest in you and go bother someone else.

======================
Chapter 1

The Thing Under Your Bed

    This is by far the most common Bedroom Thing. It is thought to dwell under 95% of children's beds, and also the other 5%. Fortunately, it's the easiest to avoid. It's also one of the easiest to defeat.
Most people are surprised to learn that the Thing Under Your Bed is made almost entirely of Dust Bunnies.1
    Dust Bunnies [fig. i] are harmless little tumbleweeds of dust and hair and lint that accumulate under your bed. They're harmless--that is, until they become haunted by the ghosts of dead spiders. [fig. ii] The spider ghosts think the dust bunnies are their webs, because spider ghosts aren't very smart. They're in kind of a dream state, like most ghosts. (See Ch. 3.) As the spider ghosts haunt the dust bunnies, and as they try to make sense of their dream-webs, they weave themselves together like a web that's made of spider ghosts and dog hair and your hair and lint and bad dreams.

When you have that many ghost spiders together, they can form a neural network. [see]
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A schematic of a portion of a neural network made of spider ghosts (dust bunnies not shown)


Much as ant colonies behave as a single super-organism, the spider ghosts behave as a single, shape-shifting brain. The spider ghosts weave themselves and the dust bunnies into whatever shapes cross their nascent web-mind. The most common shape they take is that of a spider. However--and this is important--spiders are psychic. That's how their ghosts make their web-mind: by reading each others' thoughts. That web-mind can read your thoughts, too. And it can take any shape you imagine. If you imagine a giant spider, guess what? A giant spider will be lurking under your bed, waiting for you to let your guard down.
POP QUIZ:

Q: Why did you imagine a giant spider?

A: Because spiders are psychic. They made you imagine the shape they prefer.


If you imagine a misshapen person under your bed, with empty eye sockets and impossibly long fingers, flesh falling from its skeleton; the spider ghosts will take that shape.

If you imagine a giant centipede whose legs are made of big centipedes, and the big centipedes' legs are made of medium-size centipedes... the spider ghosts will take that shape.

If you imagine a brick... they'll take the shape of a spider. You can't make them take the shape of non-living things (except zombies and vampires).

Imagining something cute and cuddly won't work. That adorable hamster you imagine will stuff you into its cheek pouches.

Imagining a plant will just make it turn into a killer plant-thing. Did you know there are killer plant-things?

[Illustration: Venus Flytrap, Sundew, Pitcher Plant, etc.]

So what can you do?

DEFENSIVE MEASURES

As with any Thing in your bedroom, the best way to defeat it is to make sure it never finds you. Obviously, the best way to keep The Thing Under Your Bed away is to be sure there are no dust bunnies under your bed. One device in particular can ensure you never encounter this particular Thing.
.

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pictured above: The best defense against The Thing Under Your Bed


If, for some reason, you let dust bunnies accumulate under your bed, there are other measures you can take to overcome The Thing Under Your Bed.

Here's the trick: You can make them take the shape of imaginary living things.
There is at least one living thing you can imagine that will neutralize the Thing Under Your Bed: an Ouroboros.

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Ouroboros


An Ouroboros is a snake that's swallowing its own tail. When you imagine an Ouroboros, the Thing Under Your Bed will begin to devour itself. It won't actually swallow itself down to nothing--it will just be a convulsing, clenching knot of dust and spider ghosts, attempting to get inside itself--and it will be confused enough to leave you alone for the rest of the night.

If for some reason your imagination fails, and the Thing Under Your Bed takes its natural spider shape, it will stay away if it thinks you're a spider. If you learn to admire spiders, they'll leave you alone. Learn everything you can about spiders: spider anatomy, how many species there are, spider habitats, and so on. If you know enough about spiders, The Thing Under Your Bed will respect you and stay under there. Therefore, the best long-term solution is to learn everything you can about spiders.

This presents a distinct danger, however: If you think about spiders eating you, that's what the Thing Under Your Bed will do. Do not think about your sheets as a giant web tightening around you, because that is what they will become. Instead, imagine that you're a spider, and the sheets are your web. Anything that trespasses will be trapped. This works every time it's done correctly.

How to detect:
1) You suddenly start thinking about spiders
2) You hear something moving under your bed
3) You were thinking about X, and now X is under the covers with you.
UNFUN FACT

When a light bulb burns out, the ghosts of moths and flies buzz around it.

Spiders aren't the only arthropods to have ghosts.


1 Also known as dust kitties, dust kittens, dust chinchillas, dust wombats, etc.

=====================================​=​===

Chapter 2:

The Thing in Your Closet


If the Thing Under Your Bed is the most common bedroom entity, the Thing in Your Closet is the most dangerous. No one really knows what it is, which makes it that much harder to combat. General consensus is that it is the same Thing as the Bogeyman1, based on similarities in behavior and appearance. One survivor described it as "a man-shaped heap of shadows and old clothes and teeth." Another said it looked like "someone stuck a bunch of roadkill on a hobo with a bear's mouth." Accoding to some survivors, it laughs or chuckles right before it strikes. Others have heard it panting "like it couldn't wait "

A diary recovered from a non-surviving victim gives one of the most detailed descriptions from a single witness:

"It stands in the back of my closet in the shadows. I think it comes out of the shadows. It just stands there and watches me. It is wide. It is tall. It has eyes. I can't tell if it has a head."
[...]
"I can barely see it. It hides in the shadows. When it moves, I can see it better. It might have big ears like a wolf or a bat."
[...]
"Big hands with long nails. It reached for me and a car drove by and I saw its hands in the headlights. I think it wears a long coat with a high collar pulled up. collar looks like ears. eyes=nostrils? head in chest? I don't know if it has eyes."
[...]
"It has eyes and fingernails and teeth. Can't tell if it has a head. I think its clothes are part of its body."
For the full diary entry, see Appendix A.

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This much is known: it wants to drag you from your bed into the closet, which is a portal to its lair. Once you're there, it will try to chain you to the floor or wall, torture you, and eat you. Survivors who escaped the lair reported bones strewn about the floor, and skeletons in chains everywhere. One survivor described a filthy medical laboratory with bone saws and rusty scalpels on the floor, and bloody basins where severed hearts still beat hopelessly.
Its lair has thousands of halls lined with doors, each of which leads to a different closet.
The lair is a vast shambles resembling a castle, a factory, and a Victorian house. It surrounds a courtyard filled with the skeletons of old machinery and torture devices.

DEFENSIVE MEASURES

The Thing In Your Closet cannot tolerate poetry. Reciting poetry will drive it away for awhile. The most consistently effective poem is this classic:

I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,
The reason why - I cannot tell;
But this I know, and know full well,
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.

Memorize this poem and recite it whenever you detect the Thing in Your Closet. It's an effective repellant for at least two weeks. After that, its efficacy will diminish.
.
The Thing In Your Closet especially detests poetry in Latin. If the poem above starts to fail, this version will work for awhile longer:

Non amo te, doctore Fell,
nec possum dicere quare;
Hoc tantum possum dicere,
non amo te, doctore Fell.


It will be even more effective if you understand each word. If you just repeat the sounds of the words, it won't work as well as if you actually understand it. To get the most of it, you should get a book about Latin and learn what it really means.
.
However, any poem will eventually lose its efficacy. If you are to drive away The Thing In Your Closet, you must memorize new poems from time to time. They don't have to be fancy. As long as you like a poem, it will work against The Thing In Your Closet. Just don't use it too often. Always have a new poem on hand.
UNFUN FACT: The word "fell" has two different meanings. One, of course, means "did fall." The other meaning is found only in the phrase "one fell swoop.2" This is a completely different word. It is related to the word "felony." A felony is an especially terrible crime. One "fell" swoop is vicious, cruel, fierce. This leads us to:
THEORY: The Bogeyman is Doctor Fell, whoever that is.

1Or Boogie Man, Boogey Man, Butzemann, etc.

2MacBeth, Act 4, Scene 3: MacDuff: He doesn't have children. All my pretty little children? Did you say all? Oh, that bird from hell! All of them? What, all my children and their mother dead in one fell swoop?
 
2017-10-31 11:43:30 AM  
8 votes:

jjwars1: Donald Trump. What more needs to be said?


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2017-10-30 11:15:36 PM  
8 votes:
Once there was a girl who had, not just once, but twice(!) seen behind the curtain. It wasn't her own doing, of course. Complete strangers--one's voice unknown, one's voice only heard distantly over the radio--were to blame. But having seen the totality behind the curtain, the plebian sights of normal life were muted and dim.
One day, the frustration became too much. A dollar saved here, a dollar earned there. One by one, they gathered together in the tight press of a paperclip's grip in her backpack. One became three, and then there was five. Five could purchase another brief glimpse, but she wanted it all. Scrimping, hoarding, abstaining, denial. Surely it would be worth it?
Then with a false suddenness, there were thirty! Thirty dollar bills! That was enough. That would do.
How to make the transaction though? How does a girl make a deal with the devil?  How does she appeal to the Duke? It wasn't enough to have the dollars in her hand, they had to become digital.
In a small town, one doesn't just walk into the grocery to buy an anonymous Visa. One must wait until one can leave town, get to the city, and make the transaction. Alas, winter was settling in, and there was no hope for immediate travel. Yes, winter's chill hit her hard.
I'm farked, she said. Just not Totally Farked.
 
2017-10-30 10:15:15 PM  
8 votes:
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Source: https://tapas.io/series/Behin​d-You

Bonus: when you see it, you'll crap yourself

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2017-10-25 10:55:27 AM  
8 votes:

70Ford: I once passed a beat up '79 Ford pickup on the highway with a white refrigerator on the back of it.
A few miles down the highway,  I passed the same beat up truck with the same white fridge on the back of it.


We named the dog Indiana.
 
2017-10-25 9:42:07 AM  
8 votes:
This one is a little bit silly, but still in the appropriate vein.

"Murder is Meat"

Apart from the bonfire lapping at the sky a dozen feet in front of him, it was dark. Oppressively so. Paolo stood shivering in the chill night air, made to wear only a pair of skimpy plum smugglers. He was of the age where, per tradition, he was to undergo El Rito de la Carne -- The Rite of Meat. It was a ritual where, upon turning 18, the first-born male of the family must pay his penance to the animals he has eaten as a way to apologize to them and thank them for providing them nourishment and life. Paolo had no idea what the ritual involved and nobody would tell him, which was supposedly part of the ritual.

He felt alone. He could see nothing beyond the ring of light cast by the fire, and he stood just on its edge so he could see nothing beyond his own backside. Above the crackling of wood, a distant, indiscernible sound wafted by on the breeze, too faint to resolve. Probably a coyote off in the hills, or perhaps just the wind through the treetops. Paolo wished they'd just start the ritual already. He was already cold, being just a little too far away from the fire to properly benefit from its warmth, and the mounting tension coupled with his growing sense of unease were making him shiver. Or was that the point? Maybe the nervousness and uncertainty themselves were meant to build to a fever pitch, eating away at him like a guilty conscience in anticipation of something that would never come. Could they be so sneaky?

Another sound came drifting by, louder this time but still indistinct. It was probably nothing -- probably something he heard all the time but which his mind, in its present state, was making hazy, fearful shapes out of. Was he supposed to be scared? Was that it? Or was he supposed to battle the fear like some manly rite of passage? If this was really a psychological game, then he supposed his first test was to figure out how he was supposed to react. As a passage into manhood it made more sense that he fight back the fear to prove his strength of will. But then, if this wasn't a test of his manliness, then he could be wrong and fail the test when he was supposed to let the fear consume him in penance as he was told.

Fortunately -- or unfortunately, given the circumstances -- he was saved from having to puzzle it out by way of a heavy, wet smack against his bare chest which jolted him out of his thoughts. He looked down at his chest. A sizable area was splattered with crimson. At his feet was what looked to be a bloody, raw steak. Paolo looked around, though he could still see nothing but the fire. The sound came again -- louder still, and this time he could just about identify it: It sounded like the lowing of a cow. Not the normal sort of lowing, but a deeper, more angry sound that dropped significantly in pitch at the end, like the punctuation at the end of an assertive statement. He'd never heard a cow make a sound like that before.

Another wet smack, this time on his back. He couldn't see the spot where it hit, but turning around he saw, through the shadow cast by his body, another piece of meat on the ground. It looked like a pork chop, which he then confirmed by the grunt of a pig some distance away. He spun again as he heard the cow lowing again -- very close this time. Slowly, almost menacingly, he saw first the cow's head, then its forequarters step into the dancing firelight. It lowed again as it looked down its snout at him. He'd never seen a cow look like that before, either. It was a cold, murderous glare. Or maybe it was his mind, blooming with panic, that put that look in its eyes, ascribing to an otherwise docile creature a murderous intent that it shouldn't be capable of.

Impossibly, the cow began to stand upright on its hind legs. Paolo's mind recoiled in fear as it stood, and then screeched in white hot panic as he watched it shove a cloven hoof straight into its chest, tear out another hunk of bloody meat, and throw it at him. The flesh hit him square in the chest once again, leaving another splotch of bright red. The squeal of a pig behind him followed by another wet smack on his back told him that the pig was doing the same thing. He didn't even have to look. He couldn't look anyway, as he was paralyzed with abject terror. Another cow stepped into the ring of light, and then another. More grunting pigs appeared behind him, to the side, joining the cows as each one in turn reached inside themselves and tore off more chunks of their flesh to throw at him. He began to stagger from the rapid pelting on all sides, but he couldn't let himself fall.

No. No, this wasn't real. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be real. Animals couldn't do that. His mind was playing tricks. Awful, horrible, terrifying tricks. This was a mind game, the psychological experiment he thought about. His mind began to calm itself as realization dawned. This was the fear. This was his battle. He understood now.

Paolo released a primal scream, a battle cry, an insane howl like the wolf they wanted him to be.

---

"I don't know," Miguel responded. "It was going fine, but then he just..." He couldn't continue as he broke down in tears again.
"Did you know the victims?" the police officer asked.
"No," Miguel said between sobs. "We hired them for the festivities. It was supposed to be a joke! Just a joke!"
"Okay, just wait here and rest," the officer told him. "We may have more questions later."

With that the officer left to speak with a superior. Miguel looked around him. Seven of the eight they had hired were dead, their throats ripped clean out. Only one had survived, and then only because he had managed to run far enough away in the commotion that Paolo hadn't noticed, where he was able to call the authorities. He sat out the back of one of the ambulances now, his cow head removed and lying by his feet. Paolo was detained in another ambulance on the other side of the yard, strapped tightly to a gurney. His face was caked with blood, and he still struggled against his bonds, making vicious growling sounds. The rest in attendance were being separately questioned by police.

This was an unmitigated disaster. Miguel had no idea how this could possibly have gone so wrong, so tragically wrong. He was sure -- as absolutely sure as he was about anything in life -- that Paolo would get all eight.
 
2017-10-25 9:26:18 AM  
8 votes:
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/too bad it didn't get a sequel.
 
2017-10-24 7:51:31 PM  
8 votes:
Donovan is four.  Well, four and a half. He'd want me to make that distinction.  When the 'big kids' are six years old, that distinction is important.  When he was just four, he came to live with me for a couple of months.  He also brought his father, who is my brother, his mother and his sister as well, but they don't factor into the story.  They were moving from California back to the east coast and were staying with me while their old house sold and their new house was vacated.  That doesn't factor into the story either.
Donovan is smart.  Precocious is the normal word for it.  He has been reading for a year and doing math for almost as long.  He's not a savant or anything, but he's well ahead of the normal curve.  Most people don't realize he's only four, as he's not only very well spoken for his age, he's larger than normal.  He is the physical size of most of those 'big kids' who are six.  He's also smarter than most of them.  He is, however, emotionally just a four year old.  That tends to cause problems.  He's too immature to get on well with the 'big kids' and to advanced to have any patience with his peers.  He tends to get frustrated and 'act out'.

Thus, he tends to look inward for company.  His imagination is probably his best friend.

We were playing together, a few weeks after he'd moved in.  Long enough time that he was comfortable with the new sights, surroundings and people.  He'd become acclimated enough to me to be able to request that we play, rather than wait for my invitation.

Like many four year old boys, he loves cars - especially trucks.  We were playing with his cars one evening, racing across the floor, when I 'crashed' and rolled my car.
"Oh no!" he cried with playful severity, "You crashed!"
I nodded, "Can you help me, sir?"  
He thought for a moment, "Yes sir, I can.  I have a mechanic truck that can fix you."
"Whew!  Good!  Thanks!"
He looked up a me, suddenly serious.
"The mechanic truck is downstairs."
I needed to get something to drink anyway, so I took advantage of the situation.
"You go get the truck and I'll get us some juice!"
He nodded and stood. He looked solemn.  I didn't understand.  I wondered if maybe he was taking my car crash a little more seriously than the play warranted.
"It'll be OK," I said, referring to my crashed car.
He nodded again and began walking toward the basement door.  I followed along behind and walked into the kitchen, which was next to the basement door.  I heard Donovan muttering something as he went down the stairs, so I went over and poked my head into the opening.

As he went down each step he kept whispering.
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
He reached the bottom of the stairway and made his way toward the area of the basement where his mechanic's truck waited.
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
I realized that he was afraid.  It reminded me of being his age, being afraid of the dark corner and the dark windows made opaque from the interior lights; possibly hiding anything just on the other side of the glass.  I remembered being that afraid at night.

I remembered having to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.  Staying underneath my covers, trying in vain to hold my pee all night long.  I could picture making my way down the dark hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom; trying to be as quiet as possible.  Trying to avoid the attention of - whatever.  I peed as quickly as possible, the closeness of the bathroom window hovering above me drawing my complete attention.  Having finished, more or less, I sprinted, breath held, back down the hallway to leap into my bed and dive underneath the covers.

I remembered my toy farm set, specifically the cardboard silo.  It was a simple cardboard tube, maybe five inches in diameter, with a metallic plate at the base and a plastic, removable dome top. I came to use that as my night-time toilet. I can still remember worrying that my mother would discover the urine filled silo as I emptied it each morning after the demon banishing light had returned for the day.
Like Donovan, I had to look to myself for companionship.  In my case, it was because my family - at that time, just myself, my mother and my father - lived on a farm deep in the Virginia mountains.  It was remote, but the price was right.  My father was attending college at the time and the farm belonged to my uncle, my father's brother in law.  We stayed there for no cost.  I'm sure that was a huge help to my parents, but for me, at four years old, it was lonely.

That was about the time that lifelong memories began to form for myself, and I remember much about being at the farm.  I remember 'my' pony.  I remember learning how to feed it carrots, making sure my fingers were stretched as far as possible when I had the carrot on my palm so I wouldn't get bit.  I remember riding it, with my Irish setter, Penny, running along side.  I recalled how the field past the horse pasture had a large tree, underneath which lived an old bull.  I remembered how much fun it was to run to tag the tree and try to run back and roll underneath the fence before the bull could charge me.  I remember Penny nipping the bull's flank if it got too close to me.

I remember Timmy.

Timmy was my best friend.  He and I played together every day.  Timmy lived at 1606 Buddingbrook lane. Timmy was four years old too.  He liked my toys.  He told me he was afraid of the dark, too, and didn't like it when he had to get up in the night to pee either.  Timmy and I spent a lot of time talking to each other.
I couldn't tell you, however, what Timmy looked like.  Timmy was my imaginary friend.  He wasn't secretive or anything like that.  Mom would dutifully set a place for Timmy at dinner and remind me to say goodnight to him before bed..  She always made a point to remind me to include Timmy in my prayers, every night.

Being a lonely four year old, Timmy was a big part of my life.

A few years back, I asked my parents about that time.  About Penny. We had to give her away after dad graduated and we moved to the city in an apartment too small to keep a large dog.  I still remember looking at her and her adoptive owners as we drove away.  I wasn't crying, just waving.  I didn't understand that was the last time I'd see her.

It turned out that Mom knew about the silo.  She laughed, recalling the rusted metal bottom and the repeatedly wet cardboard that started to fall apart.  She never worried too much about it since I was pretty good about emptying it most mornings.

Mom told me about Timmy.

Timmy was four years old.  Timmy lived at 1606 Buddingbrook lane.  Timmy died in a fire.
She'd been concerned when I first told her about Timmy.  That he was my friend. That I talked to him and that he talked to me.

She worried that I'd seen the news reports about Timmy when he had died in that fire.  He died in his sleep, his parents unable to save him when 1606 Buddingbrook lane caught fire in the middle of the night.  She made sure that I didn't pay too much attention to the news when that kind of story came on.  You never know what kids will pick up.

All of that came back to me as I listened to Donovan run to get his truck.
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
I was overcome with pride.   My memories had brought back just how overwhelmingly terrifying the unknown terrors of the lonely basement or midnight bathroom were.  But Donovan was pushing through it, scared though he was.  I wouldn't have had the guts to do that when I was four.
"No spooky stuff."
"No spooky stuff."
Donovan got to the top of the stairs, mechanic's truck clutched in his little hands.  He looked up and me and started, unaware that I had been at the top of the stairs.
I looked down at the little brave guy, unsure of what to say.
"I'm sorry," I began, "I should have gone down there with you.  It must have been scary."
"That's ok," he smiled.  "I wasn't really alone."
I smiled back, "No.  I was here the whole time."
"I didn't mean you," he shook his head, "I meant my friend.  Timmy.  He's four years old.  He lives at 1606 Buddingbrook lane."
 
2017-10-31 9:17:07 PM  
7 votes:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-28 7:04:17 PM  
7 votes:
Some mornings they come to me, reeking of pain and regret and decay,

Never order extra jalapeños
 
2017-10-25 9:22:16 AM  
7 votes:
im.ezgif.comView Full Size
 
2017-10-31 11:27:03 AM  
6 votes:
A true story. The house was built in 1880. We'd kept it as original as possible with antiques, even down to an old cast iron stove (then a new one beside it).  One evening, as a child, I had heard the most soulful moan of a 'ghost'... it was a textbook moan, right out of a horror movie; my parents did not believe me, naturally.
One evening as we returned from the store, we walking in with bags and the moaning starts; we all freeze.  I tell them I told you so and they tell me to shut up.
My father thinks the sound it coming from upstairs, my mother believes it is coming from 'the library' (what it was called when we bought it, but we took out the old bookshelves that needed refinished and made it into a TV room), and I honestly had no idea where it was coming from.
When it started in again, I thought the sound was coming from upstairs with my parents each saying it came from a new direction.
I started up the stairs to see if the sound grew louder.
As I climbed the stairs, ever so slowly, the moaning hit again and it was the loudest yet, and it was definitely coming from the kitchen; the doorway was right beside the stairway!
My father went into the kitchen and stood there, waiting...  finally the moaning started in and he headed towards the corner and looked down in amazement.  My mother and I could tell he could see something, but what the hell could it be?!
It was a demonically possessed coffee pot going bad that someone had left on, again, and was trying to pump water when there was no water to be pumped up!
My mother tossed the damned thing in the trash that night and went back out to buy a new one before the stores closed lol

(been 30 years since this happened and it has never happened with another coffee pot.  My mother checks that coffee pots are off like she has OCD and literally has 3 more new ones, in bags, in case one goes bad)
 
2017-10-31 12:35:26 AM  
6 votes:
For FSM's sake, FARK cut off three FARKING words! Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

Satisfyingly dense sources of power.
 
2017-10-30 9:32:22 PM  
6 votes:
Once I was young and foolish. My friend had one of those old Broncos with a tire on the back. I used to hold onto the tire while he drove.

Well one day when I was 16 i jumped on to the tire as he was about to drive away down my street. I figured he would stop at my house and I could jump off. Well the jackass kept driving. So bring young and stupid.
 I jumped off. He was only going about 15 or 20 kph (Google the conversion yanks)... But that is a lot faster than my legs can run. So off I went tumbling, knocked the wind out of me and farked my knee but good.

I didn't do a thing about it. I didn't put ice on it, or go see a doc. Suffered for days and it was a few years before I could crouch without pain again.

So why, you may ask, if this is a spooky story?

I DON'T EVEN HAVE LEGS!!!
 
2017-10-30 8:44:40 PM  
6 votes:
The Haunted Couch
Not my video - but my cousin's dog Buddy climbs *into* his sofa just like this:
Dog Goes Couch Diving
Youtube Z1FVOmTdhUo
And since this story took place on Halloween, you can guess where this is going...
Its Oct 31st 2014 (Friday) and so my cousin invited people to come to his place to watch the game (on his big tv) if/when they were done handing out treats for the night.   After 8pm his neighbors start rolling in.   Thing is, of course the best spot to view the game is on the big couch, not the love seats or chairs.  So just like clockwork each new guy would grab a beer and head for the big couch which was surprisingly empty... Sit down... and then leap up because the couch started to move!   Five new guys... four new leaps off the couch (one pair sat & jumped at the same time)  - hilarious.
And all because Buddy just wanted his cozy place after a night of kids at the door.

/ all the relatives knew it was Buddy's spot (insert evil laugh here)
// I can't even remember the game - I think it was basketball? - spent too much time laughing in the kitchen
/// of course my cousin took video, remind me to ask him if a copy is online :-O
 
2017-10-30 8:01:09 PM  
6 votes:
These came out of my peener.
img.fark.netView Full Size

The end.
 
2017-10-25 8:18:26 PM  
6 votes:
img.fark.netView Full Size

What's so scary about floating red balloons?
 
2017-10-25 5:04:55 PM  
6 votes:

MOPAR BLUE: I saw my Mom's RED bush when I was a kid. YUCK! Never did like Gingers anyway....


media.giphy.comView Full Size
 
2017-10-30 8:18:22 PM  
5 votes:
Now this is a story all about how
My life got flipped turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became mad from dismay and despair

To West Antarctica's where we sailed
Found a plateau in mountains that no man had scaled
Chillin' out, explorin', recordin' all cool
Diggin' up relics for Arkham (that's our school)
When a couple of *things* that we thought were interred
Started makin' trouble in our neighborhood
We got in one little fight and were forced to flee
And now I'm haunted by the shoggoth's wail of "Tekeli-li!"

http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/t​e​xts/fiction/mm.aspx
 
2017-10-25 11:02:21 AM  
5 votes:
Oops double posted, someone slap me.
 
2017-10-25 9:44:36 AM  
5 votes:
One more.  A bit unusual, but fun in a gory sort of way.

"Sin Aesthetic"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come in, please. The couches are right over there," Dorpa waved a hand toward the living room where the couches awaited.
The man politely removed his shoes and headed into the living room. Dorpa followed behind after closing the door behind him.
"Wow," the man said as he regarded the couches. "That is some serious 70s kitsch. It's great! I have a thing for 60s and 70s styles, you know. Lava lamps, bean bag chairs, disco balls -- you ought to see my place, it's like stepping back in time."
"I'll bet," Dorpa replied. Clearly he was stuck in the past and almost certainly lived alone, but otherwise he seemed perfectly harmless and utterly mesmerized by the couch. That's why he didn't even notice Dorpa's knife slicing his throat open.

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

In as measured a manner as she could, she directed him this way and that until his heart finally stopped beating. She then stepped back to regard her work. Now that was perfect. The swaths of blood red across the couches provided just the right note to complete the symphony. Now the couches sang harmoniously with the rest of the room. Dorpa was rather pleasantly surprised to note that the man's lifeless corpse, now slumped on the floor, added a couple of bass notes and a C-major chord that played a fascinating and unexpected counterpoint. She was rather disappointed now that she'd have to get rid of the body.
 
2017-10-25 8:20:49 AM  
5 votes:
I once passed a beat up '79 Ford pickup on the highway with a white refrigerator on the back of it.
A few miles down the highway,  I passed the same beat up truck with the same white fridge on the back of it.
 
2017-10-25 7:35:08 AM  
5 votes:
Neither of these are mine, but this thread will soon be replete with creepypasta.

He Stood Against My Window

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

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

I couldn't do anything. I just stayed there, frozen, feet still in the bushes I was pruning, looking into my home. He stood against my window.

Annoying Neighbour

I used to live in a small building downtown. One of the reasons I moved out was the bad neighbourhood, including this guy in the apartment right over mine. It was a weird looking fella who mostly kept to himself. Around midnight though, there was frequently a strange noise that got on my nerves. It wasn't loud, to be fair, but I sleep really lightly so it was hard to get my eyes shut with those little bumping sounds going on and on. It reminded me of high heels walking about, but not as loud, as if the person causing the noise was actually trying to be silent. After a few days, i realised the pattern was always the same, like a recording played over and over with random intervals in between. And that went on for the best part of an year, always the same sequence of bumps, slowly tattooed into my mind, sometimes for hours straight during the night.

It was only several years later, helping my daughter with her homework, that I learned a little bit of Morse code. She knocked on the table with her knuckles and a shiver immediately went through my spine as I recognised that exact pattern. When I asked her what it meant, she laughed.

"It's the easiest one, Daddy" she said. "It's the one to call for help.".
 
2017-10-25 2:24:11 AM  
5 votes:
When I was 12 the town I grew up in had what were called "near-riots", so that was the last year I got free candy from strangers.

It was awful until I was 13 and had a job mowing lawns.  Then I realized that I could make cash for doing work and exchange that for all the candy I wanted.

Once I realized I could buy my own candy Halloween seemed kind of stupid.

Sorry.  That's my story.
 
2017-10-31 10:06:17 PM  
4 votes:

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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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 1:16:58 PM  
4 votes:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-31 11:57:41 AM  
4 votes:
I was reading the Fark scary stories...

...and then I ran out of vodak...
 
2017-10-30 9:43:04 PM  
4 votes:

Parthenogenetic: [img.fark.net image 257x1500]


This is a must-see. A few years old, but still hilarious.
The Hitchhiker's Guide To Murder
Youtube pNeToSBKcSA
 
2017-10-25 8:31:47 AM  
4 votes:

ObscureNameHere: Why the hell is this thread 6 days early?


...the better to scare you with?
 
2017-10-25 8:28:30 AM  
4 votes:

Parthenogenetic: Oh shoot, already? On a Wednesday?
But I can't do quality work unless I'm drunk, dammit!
Welp, guess I'll check back later.
[i.imgur.com image 500x830]

I am Groot?
 
2017-10-25 7:27:51 AM  
4 votes:
Oh shoot, already? On a Wednesday?

But I can't do quality work unless I'm drunk, dammit!

Welp, guess I'll check back later.

i.imgur.comView Full Size
 
2017-10-24 9:34:32 PM  
4 votes:
Couldn't find my keys this morning. I blame ghosts.
 
2017-10-31 10:26:08 PM  
3 votes:
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 8:50:56 PM  
3 votes:
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 6:28:49 PM  
3 votes:

stir22: my mom is so suck


That's the scuttlebut.
 
2017-10-31 4:56:15 PM  
3 votes:

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? :)


Hey guys, what's going on in this thread?
img.fark.netView Full Size


https://tapas.io/episode/255885
 
2017-10-31 2:20:12 PM  
3 votes:
I went to the politics thread...

/Happy Halloween
 
2017-10-31 1:57:02 PM  
3 votes:
Sweet jumpin' Jeebus in a one-wheeled rickshaw you Farkers are long-winded today!

Here's my scary story:

I was 6 and wearing my Casper Halloween costume. Without warning, my cat decided to attack the cheap plastic mask....while it was on my face.

Ende.
 
2017-10-31 1:20:58 PM  
3 votes:
I hadn't read any of the comments... I was just wondering if there's a story in here about a man going on a date with a girl just to find out that... she has a PENIS!!
 
2017-10-31 1:01:27 AM  
3 votes:
The Hilldabeast was almost elected.
Nanny nanny boo boo libtards.
 
2017-10-30 11:17:52 PM  
3 votes:
...and when we got home, there was a bloody hook hanging off the car door!!!!
 
2017-10-30 10:21:03 PM  
3 votes:
Really, you started the thread six days in advance? Couldn't even submit my index to previous years threads, and I see that's already been done as well.

Baby, why you got to play me like that?
 
2017-10-30 7:11:35 PM  
3 votes:
For Sale: Baby Zombie shoes, never worn
 
2017-10-30 7:03:32 PM  
3 votes:
I didnt vote and Trump won
*spooky bone chilling noises*
 
2017-10-26 9:05:47 AM  
3 votes:
I found my six year old covered in blood when I went to wake him this morning, it wasn't his.
 
2017-10-25 4:25:49 PM  
3 votes:
I saw my Mom's RED bush when I was a kid. YUCK! Never did like Gingers anyway....
 
2017-10-25 12:50:20 PM  
3 votes:
Back in the mid-nineties I went through a vampire and "vampire poetry" phase, inspired by a vampire poetry reading by The Undead Poet's Society at Ipso Facto in Fullerton, and a weirdo who insisted that he was a real vampire. The leader of the UPS was somewhat of a jerk, and the two of us formed the nucleus of a group, The League of Vampiric Bards, which rapidly swelled to about 12 people, We performed for several years at coffee houses throughout Orange County. My contributions included six poems - Nightrunner, Roberto's Song, The Rebirth of Leah Jean Baxter, The Scrolls of Night and Day, two love sonnets, and a lengthy short story: Take a Second Look. And then I went on to other things.

The poems are not terribly scary. They are more epic origin stories for the Nightrunnertm universe I've been working on a decade or so. The short story is a bit subtle, built around a stream-of-consciousness monologue, but I think qualifies as scary... and a bit erotic. At nearly 7,300 words it is kinda long, but I hope it holds your attention.

I will gladly accept constructive criticisms.

I will also post one of the poems, haven't decided as to which one, yet.

A Selection From The Nightruntm

Take a Second Look


You live too fast. You really do. You movers and shakers and daily drudges, you luminous-eyed high achievers and clock-faced nine-to-fivers, you smugly sedated workhorses and self-righteously frantic thoroughbreds, you harriers and hurriers and driven workaholics, you hamstrung hamsters lurching along in spiraling circles to alpha-numerically marked crypts in a mausoleum wall: you never slow down long enough to take a second look at the world. You should. Move your mind in a straight line for once. If you do, I guarantee that what you learn will fill you with wonder. It will also scare the living hell out of you.

Smell the air. Go ahead, I bathed just last week. Smell that tang? Wood smoke! Wood smoke in the middle of the city! Illegal? Sure it is, illegal as all hell, but it's also easily available! I know you've never taken the time to notice, but lots of smart and desperate people around here are welding old car parts into Franklin stoves and switching to black market wood to keep warm.

I'll bet you've never studied - really looked at! - the gritty gray fingerprints that Jack Frost leaves on a vehicle's windows in the pre-dawn winter air. You're too busy scraping 'em off and cursing the time you've lost in the mad rush to join the tollway traffic jam.

Have you ever listened to the little "popping" sounds that a concrete underpass makes when it cools down in the twilight of a summer day? You'll never hear them if you're busy jogging off those three extra pounds that make your high-fashion exercise suit too snug.

Have you even noticed that the junk they now use to patch the old concrete sidewalks starts to crumble almost as soon as it dries? I think that they still use the good stuff on the more important boondoggles: all those new prisons, repairing the bridges and the dams, things like that. That way, you won't ever know about the payoffs and the bribes and kickbacks, unless you take the time to slow down and compare old and new.

I bet you don't even know that aluminum cans these days are only half the weight of the old ones. Know why? Thinner gauge metal! I observed this fact almost six years ago; that's how long I've been collecting for the recycling centers. Yes, that is a long time, and it doesn't bring in that much, particularly after they withhold income taxes, but it has kept me in beer. But it can also be a royal pain in the butt sometimes, especially in the summer, what with all the damned flies.

Ever noticed that flies take off backwards when you try to swat 'em? Humans have been swatting at flies for three million years, and natural selection has culled the genes that once dictated forward flight. You will never see this if you let an electronic genocide machine do all your killing for you.

Killing. Killing... Huh. Ever wondered where all the missing people go? There are a lot of them: several hundred thousand a year. Most of the missing fall into three broad statistical clumps. The first clump consists of our society's outcasts, the economic losers, the abject poor, the homeless. Like me. The second bunch are society's trash: the junkies, the alkies, the wireheads, the petty crooks, the crazies. And last, are the social predators, the psychos and sickos and child molesters, the sociopaths, the serial killers, and the kill-crazy, two-bit punks. The thing all these people have in common is that no one important gives a damn if they vanish. And when they vanish no one ever seems to see 'em disappear. But I have. Heh heh heh... I know why. Because I'm not too busy to take that second look.

* * *

In fact, I'm not busy at all. I've had a lot of time on my hands for the last few years, since I got laid off from Nuclear Consulting. I was one of those sacrifices to the Public Good. I'd been a big shot Safety Administrator, a top-drawer Suit, but when the San Onofre reactor choked on red tape and went critical, the Washington boys covered their asses by blaming us. After that, it was sort of tough to get work.

I did a lot of scurrying around at first, frantic to find identity and security in a job... any job! But after ten positions and ten layoffs, and twenty-six months of food stamps and government medical coverage; and after coping for two years with the weightless smirks that Human Resource Managers carefully arrange on their faces when they tell you there are no present openings (but always, always omitting that self-righteous Luddite reproach "for your kind"); and after the kids were taken away by Social Services and the wife left; and after losing the house and the mountain cabin and the BMW and the Porshe and the RV and the credit rating and the charge cards and the mortgages; and after living under a highway overpass for six months... Well, I finally realized that I was not going to die from starvation. So I decided to do myself a favor and relax.

That's when I started taking those second looks at the world, when I began seeing, and sorting out, the subtle things that add up to something obvious - when you take the time to observe.

I guess I really don't blame you for not seeing what I do. What with the economy the way it is, it's hard to stop keeping that old nose to the grindstone. I know. I remember how scary it was, wondering if this would be my last week with this, or that, or the next company. I can remember how, just when I thought that the feelings were under control, a new Friday would roll around and my breathing would get jerky and my stomach would tighten up in small bruised knots and I could literally feel that succinct extra squirt of stomach acid bathing and soaking the ulcer that I knew was gradually taking over my belly. I had time for little else than putting in twelve hour days to make myself a little more valuable than the next white collar slave, and working the ever-shrinking online Classifieds with the dregs of energy I had left.

Energy! That's what it's all about! We're running out of energy around here! All the initiative and brilliance have disappeared from the world, and the forward momentum from the past is being fouled by all the slippery political bullshiat being thrown into the gears. The motor of progress has slid into neutral because of all the rules and regulations, orders and edicts, and all the other crap that bureaucrats, in and out of the government, feed on and excrete with such relish. You know what? It's like a damned battery! The human battery's life energy is slowly being siphoned off by all of the anal retentive corporate and government regulators, and it doesn't look like it's going to get recharged any time real soon.

Human batteries. Heh heh heh. That's a good analogy, because that siphoning of life can be literally true. I've seen it! I've experienced it.... Heh heh heh. Do I sound nervous? Never mind, you'd never believe it. You won't take the time to take that second look! What's that? You want me to tell you? Why? So you can go uptown to your glass tower office and joke with your sleek, paper-shuffling associates about the crazy old man in the frayed and greasy three piece suit, the unkempt, homeless has-been, the former fast-track, six-figure executive with a Stanford MBA and PhDs in nuclear and quantum physics, who babbles on about... monsters?

* * *


Monsters.... That does them a dis-service. Aside from what they do, most of them are not monstrous at all. Some are actually pleasant to be around... when they aren't feeding. Indeed, they are often very much like you and I at our best. (But we can also be monsters; certain of the human saints and sinners would put their excesses to shame. Saints? They can be the very worst of fiends; it depends on the extent of their zeal. A True Believer can be monstrous, indeed.)

What's that? You don't know the term? Why am I not surprised? A True Believer is a fanatic, a human robot whose soul is submerged in some kind of mass movement. A True Believer thinks that the End justifies the Means (and what that translates to is that his ends justify the use of your means), and that folks who don't embrace the Holy Purpose, whatever it is, secular or religious, are enemies to be destroyed. Most of the really interesting chunks of history, or at least the reddish raw oozing slices, are due to the various and determined activities of True Believers.

No, I'm not Neoliberal or Neocon or Dominionist-baiting, and I'm not being intolerant about anyone's radical political or religious agendas... though what I'm saying applies to damn near every one of them these days. The so-called crony capitalists, those well-connected business people, are the same; sometimes I think they're the worst of the whole lot - and the most hypocritical! Christ on a crutch! If he were an honest one, I'd take a totalitarian-minded Statist thug over a two-faced trough-feeding tycoon any day! At least you know where you stand (or kneel) with the would-be dictator!

Hell, most of the larger firms (and all of the new megacorps) behave like mass movements these days. They're more like states than companies; some of them even control their own private armies. They've mutated into psychotic group-think organisms that eagerly sacrifice the integrity, the dreams, even the lives of employees (and anyone else in their reach) to the god/whore/demon trinity of cancerous growth, extorted and unearned profit, and endless bureaucratic expansion.

          The psychosis is contagious, and it seems like most people end up being both glutton and main course. I remember attending day-long staff meetings that accomplished absolutely nothing except to decide on that fiscal month's sacrifice to the Profit Gods, and to confirm the opinion of each briefcase-clad spear carrier regarding the essentially, fundamentally reptilian nature of each of the other participants. These people were monstrous: they would ruin careers, lives, and entire industries over a tenth of a percent change in operating profit, a junior executive office next to the corporate alpha male, that little extra bonus package of cocaine or illegal tobacco, or a night with a company whore.

There are other monsters. I've met more than a few at government aid offices. I'm talking about the ghouls with the pursed lips and the prissy frowns, the damp eyes and the greasy souls, the ones with cords attached to their eye-glasses so they always know exactly where they are; the fiends who walk slowly, who speak in impatient staccato tones, who taste the flavor of your fear, and who weigh the worth of permitting you to interview for that temporary minimum wage job for which they have been unable to find just that right person; the ones who get erect or warmly wet when they thoughtfully consider how they control you; the Power Junkies, who mainline on distilled despair, who decide whether you will work today, or eat next week, or live next month; the soul-farkers who, with lazy-eyed anticipation and slight catch of breath, slowly - oh! so carefully and cautiously - examine, stamp, and verify and, perhaps, approve your appeal for just one more extension of medical or food benefits....

          No, the monsters I refer to are quite a different sort. They, for the most part, do monstrous things because they have to, not because they like it. They do not, for the most part, seem to be particularly malevolent fiends. They seek neither to destroy nor to enslave us. They merely hunt us. We are their food.

And sometimes more... I know of one... I'll call her... Jean. She wanted to bed with me, to trade sex for... nourishment. She said I was attractive, but I imagine that her desire was originally based on the generic promise of an erotic midnight snack, rather than any special charms I had. I refused her at first. I had just finished putting together all the clues, had just learned the big secret, and had not yet managed to graduate from fearful revulsion to my present state of wary watchfulness....

* * *

They dwell in darkness, and hunt the night. They forage among us in the hours between sunset and dawn, unseen by all except their prey. They, too, have certain things hidden from them: they can never gaze upon the sun; its harsh light would destroy them in an instant. That is one price they pay for being immortal.

Immortal? In a sense. Barring accident or violence or a drifting, deadly ennui that may overtake them after centuries of survival, they will endure forever. This is curse as well as boon. After mortal lifetimes of repetition, existence can become a mindless habit that requires no cunning, intelligence, or effort. And unconditional immortality is often seen by them as being somehow less vital, less varied, less valid... than mere mortal life. Human mortality, with its incessant cycles of peril and potential and terror and triumph, is often envied by them. And though they may indeed long for it, the Undead cannot truly sleep the centuries away; they merely cease to function for (what is to them) a brief while.

Undead. It is the only word that describes, the only concept that works. Life is change, self-motivated, self-directed change. When change is no longer present, the organism is no longer alive. It becomes a mere lump of organic debris, like ancient driftwood. All the ingredients of life are present... except for that single secret spark that makes itself known by the fact that the organism, its parts, the very cells of the thing, are in a constant state of change.

I've been told that, seen through a microscope, their cells are static, perfect, unchanging: they do not grow, or replicate, or die. If damaged, they revert by some agency I cannot imagine, to a state that is precisely that of the way they were prior to the injury! Yet these petrified, these "frozen" cells somehow continue to perform all their separate and communal functions within the Undead body.

The Undead have no heartbeat; nutrients flow to the cells via a kind of osmosis. When at rest they do not need to breathe; except for conditions of stress or exertion, oxygen seems to be supplied completely by the nutrient. Their bodies do not generate heat; they have no natural energy state, and they assume the ambient temperature of their environment. Unlike reptiles, however, they are not affected by the external temperature, and can function as easily and as effortlessly in the Arctic or Sahara as in Los Angeles or New York.

Their bodies function perfectly, and with enhanced performance. Eyes see, ears hear, nostrils smell, and mouths speak (and do other things) in ways that we cannot equal. Their hands can caress a face like a lover's whisper, or bludgeon a body into trembling submission like a sledge hammer. They move with cat-like speed and robotic precision. Their brains possess an elevated level of electrical activity that is evidenced by, among other things, complex intrigues and masquerades, and at times outright warfare that are much more subtle than the crass plots and posturings that are carried out by mere humans.

The mingling of schemes, games, and gossip deflects their boredom and fulfills a human-like need to meet and interact. The Undead, accordingly, have their places, their hangouts -- coffeehouses and bars mostly. They can ingest limited amounts of coffee, certain herbal teas, and some of the less complex alcohols - vodka, gin, stuff like that - though these things, by themselves, have little effect on them. They often, therefore, mix these refreshments with more... unpleasant liquids.

Blood. They feed on it. It is their only food, and they crave it with a driving need which I find impossible to imagine. They can, and most do, exist mainly on the blood of animals. Now and then, however, they must feed on humans. There is an unknown vital factor, perhaps an RNA segment that less intelligent animals lack. Something that is essential if they are to remain as thinking, rational beings. Without regular access to it, they will not long survive.

Survival. Aside from the endless blood lust, survival is the other primal drive that defines their existence. Even those that hate what they have become find self-destruction impossible; the internal command to continue what they often regard as a damned existence must be obeyed. Yet they must control that imperative, or risk exposure and destruction by humans or by their own kind. Indiscriminate slaughter is frowned upon; a social faux pas. Those who prey on humans in excessive and careless ways are deemed outlaws, and are destroyed as soon as they are discovered. The cardinal rule which all must follow, even at risk of personal survival is: "Leave no sign that men can find that you were ever there."

They cloak their existence and activities with magical ease, but they are not supernatural. They cannot change into mist, or rats, or wolves, and their reflections can be seen in mirrors when you catch them unawares. The legends that you know are wrong, perhaps deliberately so. Our sophisticated rejection of the few golden kernels of truth that are carefully hidden by the absurdities of Hollywood fantasy is one of their best defenses against discovery.

It isn't their own physical form they control, but our minds: they can actually understand and adjust our thoughts and emotions in a variety of subtle ways. They merely need to touch us with a delicate desire, to lightly caress our thoughts in the entangling gossamer webs of mental powers that mere Humans lack, and our senses and judgment become fogged and distorted and what we term objective reality becomes pliable and obscured. Their world is more real than ours; we live in an illusion created by them.

That is how I detected them, by noting disparities between the world as I knew it was and had to be, and the reality that I sometimes perceived. It took weeks of introspective thought to conceptualize the astonishing truth, and then many days longer to accept the appalling reality of it. Then, thinking that they would sense my knowledge and destroy me, I lived in terror, an existential dread which over the next several months abated into a watchful apprehension.

Then, late one night, I blundered into an entire den of them, in one of their bars. Once you know their tricks and traits they are not difficult to spot, but, at first, all I saw was Humans. I learned that night that they have mortal friends, servants, lovers... groupies. These companions, these possessors of deadly knowledge are those who hunger for second-hand power, or risky eroticism, or arcane and ancient wisdom, or craven submission and fealty, and (ultimately) a chance for immortality or total oblivion. I think that, to the recipients of these passions, it appeals to a still-human residue within them to be thusly seen, recognized, acknowledged, made real by those who are still human.

...that is what happened to me...

* * *

I'd had a run-in with the police in my regular neighborhood, so I'd been working one of the nastier parts of the city. It was getting late and I was tired and cold. My nerves were on edge from the contemplative stares I was getting from some of the local Homeboys. I was more presentable than usual (courtesy of a shower and shave from my previous night's stay in the county jail for vagrancy) and I had pan-handled enough money to afford the luxury of a couple of cold beers in a warm room. I took refuge in a nearby backstreet tavern.

I had seated myself with a brew at a back table in a darkened corner, feeling unknown, inconspicuous, and safe. I sat alone, quietly savoring the yeasty bitterness, inhaling the illicit tang of black market tobacco, and listening to the strangely subdued music and slurred hum of conversation. I was being ignored by patrons and servers alike, which suited me fine. It was warm there, and I was having trouble staying awake.

My permanent state of low-grade apprehension had actually been soothed into a superficial calm, when one of the barmaids brought me an unordered drink. Dormant uneasiness transformed into sudden, paralyzing terror, and I stared at the alien beer as if it were about to spring up and pierce my throat with fangs of razor-slivered glass. I felt frozen in time, like some small animal transfixed by the ruthless glare of an on-rushing headlight. My vision became narrowed down to perceiving, with an extraordinary clarity, only the few square inches of tabletop occupied by that terrifying, fascinating mug.

I cannot say how long I was in this state. It could have been seconds or minutes - it seemed like neither or both. My judgment in all things, even to the marking of passing time, was suspended. When I could again see-think-move, I found that I was no longer alone. Seated across from me, quietly observing me, was what seemed to be a rather attractive young woman, but what my lethal knowledge and now-unhindered senses told me was one of them.

She was attractive. She appeared to be in her early twenties. Her face was the color of pale, clear ivory - not totally white like a fine marble, but having a hint of color. Her face was framed by shoulder length chestnut hair, which she wore like an afterthought in a softly shining wash-and-wear style. Her elegant body was a flawless counterfeit of perfectly proportioned womanhood, set within a stylishly snug flat-black jumpsuit that was just the thing to wear on a midnight urban safari. Her demeanor was that of a groomed, resting cat: relaxed, yet attentive. She sat quietly straight, ankles casually crossed. One arm dangled limply across her leg; the other was upright on the table, and terminated in long, aristocratic fingers holding an illegal cigarette which she was smoking with obvious, impish relish. Shockingly light blue eyes gazed coquettishly from beneath quizzically tilted brows, and her full red lips were set in a quiet, closed grin which, even through my fear, I could see was devilish, rather than demonic.

This was Jean. She introduced herself by another name, but I won't tell you what it was, not now. It has been some months since that meeting, you see, and I've developed an attachment to her and feel rather protective. You must understand that, in a very real sense, her kind are actually more vulnerable than are we Humans. We, after all, can fight or flee at any hour of the clock; they (though supreme in the darkness) are utterly helpless during the day, and must rely on human associates, retainers, and friends for protection.

It was soon plain that Jean was aware of my knowledge. She treated it as a joke (indeed, what Human would have believed me?) and yet applauded the astuteness and rigor of my observations. I believe that my singular ability to discern the simple truth amidst the glut of artful superstition was as fascinating to her as the reality of her existence was to me.

We talked. She knew I had been a scientist, and comfortably steered the conversation onto that path. We talked about existence, about quantum physics and string theory (my love), and about computer programming (her latest passion). We talked about the Secret, and the conceivable theories that could explain it. My God, I wanted to die. For the first time in years, I was faced with that most politically incorrect of creatures, that most malevolent of monsters: an intelligent, inquiring, and skeptical mind. She truly wanted to hear new ideas! She actually enjoyed listening to concepts and opinions that she did not already embrace, and she was neither afraid nor resentful of a mind that, at least in certain areas, was fuller and more thoroughly trained than hers.

We talked for hours, until my beer was warm and flat and the bar had long since closed. By then, it was obvious that she was privileged. The hired help left us alone in the quiet and darkened room, our table lit only by the bar's dim green exit signs and the reflected orange flicker of the semi-functional sodium vapor street lamps, seen darkly through the small and sun-shaded windows.

Gradually, in careful tiptoe steps, we found ourselves wandering away from the safely dry abstractions of theory and the more personal yet still "safe" domains of our professional interests. Guardedly, yet almost with gratitude, we began offering up for scrutiny and evaluation the more private things that we loved and despised. There was no question of pretense; we accepted the fact that nothing but our personal realities, the inner truths that each of us held, could satisfy the mutual need of shared loneliness. We exchanged our secrets: the triumphs and the tragedies, the goals won and held, the desires gained and lost, the impossible dreams we had longed for, but had never attained... and the purposes we had considered, but had never dared to desire.

As we had talked, my desperately controlled fear had quietly evaporated into a subdued... watchfulness. Make no mistake: I was very much aware of what she was and that, in the normal course of events, I might simply have been her prey for the night. But I found myself accepting the necessity of those facets of her existence for which I felt dread and repugnance, and I became aware that this supremely capable killing machine was also a lovely and lonely being (no, woman) who - for longer than I had been alive - had despaired of finding an understanding, sympathetic consciousness, someone to whom she could confide the yearnings and secret dreams which she had always thought to be hopeless fantasies. I believe she regarded my informed ability to understand and accept her as an individual person to be a rare prize to be protected and cherished.

I then perceived that the root of all fear is the Unknown; that once one understands the nature of a thing, no matter how terrible or deadly it is, fear vanishes like midnight dew. I felt that I understood Jean, and I found that my dread had been replaced by the same type of respectful (and perhaps more than somewhat deferential) emotional bond that one might feel for a domesticated Bengal tiger.

We talked until, with a shared quiet astonishment, we saw the first glow of dawn begin to compete with man's artificial glare. She paused in the middle of a sentence and (like a climber reluctant to forsake the conquered heights) hesitated..... then plunged back down to the flatland reality of the world, saying that it was now necessary for her, and safe for me, to leave.

We walked out together, not bothering to set any alarm. (I guessed that that particular business would not be invaded or looted by the local barbarians). She asked me to return the next evening. I did not answer, but turned for a moment to consider the luminous east. When I looked back, she had vanished like a darkened dream.

* * *

Insane though it sounds, I did go back - not the next night, or the next, but after three days and two nights, spent in indecisive gloom. The staid, timid part of me was aghast at meeting with a monster; but a more reckless and, it seemed, emerging part of me cherished that midnight tryst. This dangerous part eventually won out: I returned to the bar on the third night.

She wasn't there. And, though I stayed until closing, she did not appear. I could not bear it. My final decision to return had taken all the willpower and courage I had; I felt I could never again summon the strength to repeat it.

Nevertheless, I resolved to, and did, go back to that bar each night for the rest of the week. I began to think, however, that my boldness and purpose were to no avail: it was as though I had imagined the entire experience.

I noticed one interesting fact, though, something that proved to the skeptic in me that the extraordinary meeting had indeed happened: word had apparently been spread, and I no longer received interested inspections from the indigenous toughs. I was, in fact, pointedly ignored. I learned later that Jean had declared me "protected." Though I am uncertain as to what the mechanism of this aegis was, the local gangsters (and others of Jean's kind, I found out) were made to understand that unpleasant things would happen to anyone who molested me.

During that entire week I felt I was going insane. Perhaps I was already mad, or perhaps she had hypnotized me. It became an intolerable obsession. It was as if I was possessed. I haunted that bar, like a willing sacrifice embracing the alter stone of some ghastly yet fascinating religion, impatiently waiting for the arrival of the priestess who would rip out my beating heart.

And when, at last she did appear, seeking me, beguiling me, persuading me with silver tongued entreaties and the perfect movements of her perfect body, I succumbed in a sort of appalling rapture to the coaxing and craving words which flowed from that terrible and attractive mouth.

She took me to her lair. I resignedly took this, at the time, as a sign that I would never be seen alive again. I later realized that it was a demonstration of her trust in me, of her belief in and reliance on my discretion and integrity. (I tell you this: after years of suffering the contempt and indifference of my fellow human beings, that was the one thing that I most desperately needed.)

It was a simple studio apartment, like any other you have ever seen in the projects: one of innumerable assembly-line burrows hidden deep within the heaped mounds of the blandly anonymous warrens that pass for much of human lodging these days. Like most, it was an interior apartment without windows or skylights, and could be approached only by wary passage through decaying and gang-infested halls and stairwells, all painted in standard anesthetized shades of grays and greens. She ignored both the gangsters and the ruined security cameras, which - dangling from their wall perches like throttled birds - gave mute evidence as to who had won control of the corridors.

Like the halls, her triple-locked and dead-bolted apartment was drably modern. She had paid little attention to decoration; this was not her real home, only one of several secure places to bury herself away from the sun's power in daily, death-like trance. The kitchen area was an immaculate stage: it was stocked with enough food and various cooking paraphernalia to sustain an illusion of activity for the benefit of the casually occasional management busybody, but was never used. The adjacent living area did not contain a coffin, only a twin bed covered by a frilly pink comforter. The sole concession to a Gothic mood was that the bed was of the four-poster canopied variety.

There was no coyness, no conversation, no highball-on-the-sofa stage. It seemed that all promises had been made and kept, all decisions agreed to, all purposes achieved, on that first night. As one, our hands fumbled at each other's clothing, seeking freedom, seeking access. She guided me to the shower where we washed each other; next, to the bed. The state of my mind and emotions were such that I serenely obeyed those gentle, irresistible arms. She was shaking with her special need, and as I searched the limitless depths of her eyes I could see something very old, older than her, far older than even the most ancient of her kind: primeval, nakedly eager desire, an all-encompassing hunger to completely consume the beloved prey.

The strain of curbing the acts that instinct and emotion were demanding of her had activated her breathing reflex. Her mouth was half open, as she labored for short, ragged gasps of air. Her eyes closed to narrow slits, and her head fell limply back. I could now see into her mouth, and observed with wonder the two delicate, needle-sharp, inch-long fangs which were slowly and rhythmically sliding out of and into, out of and into, their hiding places in her upper jaw.

Her head moved again, falling forward against my chest, chestnut hair flying up in a tangle into my face. Her hands - which had been like steel straps holding my arms - released me as she lowered her arms under mine. She rubbed fingers arched like delicate diamond talons slowly up and down my back, tracing the outline of my spine, pressing insistently into the meat of my shoulder blades, reaching up to caress the skin of my neck and to lightly linger at the places where - I was sure - she could feel the living tide of my blood.

Her arms tightened, and she abruptly pulled me closer, hands gripping my head and shoulder, keeping them firmly immobile, the expanse of skin between them taut and unprotected. Her head moved forward, and she buried her face there, lips slowly and softly tracing the upward path of the pulsing vein. I felt her lips part ever so slightly, and I knew with a completely unconditional clarity that Death was there. I began to shiver as those astonishing needles emerged and - barely touching my skin - gently retraced the vein's course back down the expanse of my neck. She paused... and then she shuddered and the moment passed. Her hands spasmed once into a vise-like grip and released me, and she pressed her now trembling body against mine. Her head moved again, rolling onto my shoulder, down onto my arm, her legs and body seeming to fold up like those of a crumpled paper doll. Her hair fell back away, and she gazed placidly up at me, defeated yet victorious, waiting, her softly glowing eyes devoid of everything but aching appetite.

She was so beautiful, so perfect, so... complete! I gazed down at this monster cradled in my arms and the clock of reality stopped for what seemed a long while. And while it was stopped, it seemed as if all the certainties and opinions, fact and fancy, gods and de

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2017-10-25 9:11:28 AM  
3 votes:
"Family Cries"

Huffert lay in his crib, frozen in abject fear. He saw it move this time, he knew it. He thought he'd seen it out of the corner of his eye before, but now he was absolutely sure. That dangling thing with the things hanging from it suspended above him threateningly, especially the dangling thing with the many arms and the big head that gave him nightmares. He cried himself to sleep every night ever since dad put it there. Really, what sort of thing needed that many limbs? He did just fine with four. All Huffert knew, other than that this thing moved, was that dad must hate him.

Huffert couldn't take his eyes off the many-limbed thing. He saw it move, and he was determined to see it do so again while he was watching it. Watching it like a - well, like a thing which had really sharp eyesight and a propensity for watching things with unwavering intensity. Whatever such a thing could be, that was Huffert. He really had no idea what he was going to do if he did see it move, but he figured he would deal with that if - no, when it happened.

And it did. The excessively belimbed thing slowly started descending toward him, bit by terrifying bit, and Huffert realized that his body had already decided for him what he was going to do next by the sudden expansion and increase in temperature in the seat of his diapers. Unfortunately, this didn't seem to help, and the thing was right above him now, slowly sinking down below his field of view, underneath his chin, sliding around his neck. Huffert figured this would probably be a good time to cry.
Within a few moments, Huffert heard the dull thump of feet tromping their way toward his room. The polypedal demon, now nearly coiled entirely around his neck, suddenly and rapidly recoiled back to its constellation of blackest evil above his crib.

-

Jep padded groggily toward his son's room, cracking a profound yawn and trying to clear his head. Who needed an alarm clock when you had a baby? At least this time he waited until it was almost time to get up for work anyway before he started crying. He opened the door to his son bawling away as infants did for just about any and every reason. Cooing and hushing quietly, he reached down into the crib and gently picked Huffert up in his arms, careful not to hit his head on the ocean-themed mobile. Huffert seemed to cry even louder the closer he got to it; maybe he didn't like fish.

Once he had the baby comfortably over his shoulder he realized the other reason for the tantrum. As a new father, he understood and was prepared for the fact that he would have to change diapers. What nobody did or could prepare him for was the degree of horror this act often involved. It gave him an appreciation for sewer workers.

Jep changed Huffert's diaper as quickly and efficiently as one is able to when one is dealing with it like the disposal of a roadkill skunk, and after getting him cleaned up and freshly diapered, brought him into the kitchen for breakfast.

-

So the demon thing was afraid of dad. Good to know. Once Huffert was removed from his crib and had the less effective of his defense mechanisms cleared away and fresh diapers applied, he felt a lot better. For now, anyway. He was hoisted over dad's shoulder, which he hung on to. Mom was up now, too, and as they entered the kichen he was handed over to her. Mom rubbed his back. It felt nice.

As his mother turned around, Huffert was able to see dad, who was bringing out a new chair for him to eat at. His other one had broken somehow, so dad had gotten him a new one, and this was apparently it. Dad set it down near the table where the grown-ups ate. The chair seemed to be grinning at him.

Grinning. It was grinning. Maliciously. He could feel the evil coming off of it. He thought he heard a low, quiet, rumbling sort of demonic chuckle. It wanted to eat him. It was going to eat him, and his parents were going to feed him to it; dad lifted the hinged table - its mouth - for him to sit in. They were going to place him right in its mouth! They were going to place him in its mouth and it was going to eat him! How could they do this to him?

Huffert began to bawl.

-

Jep took Huffert from Marble, his wife, and over to the chair. "Wow, he's really crying. I don't think he likes this chair."
"Oh, don't worry," his wife said. "He'll stop crying once he gets fed."
"I suppose," Jep replied, seating Huffert in the high chair and swinging the table back down over his head. Huffert seemed to be trying to keep him from doing that, but he moved his little hands out of the way and set it down, where it locked in place with a click.

Jep returned to his wife at the counter, who had retrieved a jar of strained peas from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer, handing them to him. "Your turn," she said, opening the jar.
Jep took the spoon and jar and turned back toward Huffert, whose crying had abruptly stopped.
Huffert wasn't there.
"Huffert?" Jep called.
Marble turned at Jep's call with a sudden look of concern on her face. "Huffert?" she echoed, noticing the empty chair.
"Huffert!" Jep called more loudly.
"He must have slipped out of his chair," Marble offered.
"But where? I only had my back turned for a second!"
"Huffert!" they called in unison, slowly looking around the kitchen for the wayward child, but finding no one.
"Check the guest room," Jep said to his wife. "I'll check the living room."
Jep entered the living room and began searching under the coffee table, behind the couch, and in any area where Huffert might have been hiding, but with no luck.
"He's not in here!" Jep called to Marble. "Any luck?"
There was no response.
"Honey?" Jep called again, but again was met with silence. He made his way to the guest room, but found it empty.
"Marble!" Jep called, now starting to panic. "Huffert!"

He started dashing around the house, checking rooms, overturning things, looking in places that weren't even large enough to contain a human of any size, just in case. He ran upstairs, dashed into the bedroom and flung open the walk-in closet, flipping through pants, blazers, dresses, just in case this was some sort of elaborate hide & seek prank, but nobody was there. He turned to leave.

The door slammed. A rumbling, gutteral chuckle came from behind him. Jep turned. He screamed.

-

Jep suddenly bolted awake with a scream to the sound of a baby crying. He had it again. The same nightmare he had been having for two weeks now. He could never fully remember it when he awoke, but he knew it involved his family disappearing, and it always left him with a profound feeling of dread.
His wife, Marble, stirred beside him. "That dream again?" she said, straining the words around the remnants of sleep.
"Yeah," Jep replied with a heavy sigh.

Jep got up, shoved his feet into his slippers, and padded groggily toward his son's room, cracking a profound yawn and trying to clear his head. Who needed an alarm clock when you had a baby?
 
2017-10-25 8:45:50 AM  
3 votes:
(Work in progress.  Needs more ghost splaining)

The 1st Iraqi Ghost Tank Battalion

2024 Saudi - Iraq border 2300hrs

The M1A1E glided quietly over the desert.Propelled by hydrogen oxygen fuel cells, it was almost deadly quiet.  Spread out behind it in a wing formation were 8 more tanks and four eBradleys.  Tank Commander looked through the periscope.The BattleNet Operator or Tank Nerd looked at the Tank Commander and spoke up over the intercom."Drones report ISN armor is still 40 clicks away, TC.  You aren't gonna see anything but sand and sky for a while yet.  Apaches and Commanches are inbound.  By the time we get there, it'll be scraps."

Tank Commander looked through the periscope.  Directly ahead was a soft green glow.  "Slow down," TC said."There's something out there."

Tank Nerd: "Drones were over this area 100 times.  Nothing out there but sand.  "TN looked through his site.  "Weird.  Maybe it's bad optics or the reflection of the lights of a nearby city or oilfield.   You see all kinds of weird stuff out here."

TC repeated "Slow down.  I'm not taken us in to an ambush.  Get a drone to do another flyover."

"You're the boss, boss."  TN tapped his screen and sent the request.   "One drone inbound.ETA 7 minutes.  But we'll get a good view when the Apaches flyover.  Their ETA is 3 minutes.  They'll go right over it and you'll see it's nothing."

TC cursed under his breath.  He wanted to warn the flyboys but they'd wouldn't stop to pee on a burning tank.  Maybe it's just the jitters, he thought to himself.  The Apaches will fly over in 3 and in 15 they'll be reducing ISN's armored force to scrap.  They should go back to full speed, TN thought.  Go through this mirage and get the remains of ISN.

Tank Driver spoke up."I see it too, TC.It's not just your drinking problem.  Keep on course?"

"Stay on course, TD.  But keep your eyes open."

"Apaches and Comanches overhead."TN said over the intercom.  He didn't need to.  The noisy gas turbine engines and even the laminated blades still made the helicopters louder than the tanks and APCs.  "They're going to fly right over the green.  We'll have some good video on the BattleNet in no time."

TC watched the helicopters fly ahead in to the darkness.  For a moment, they were nearly overhead and then they were gone.  No running lights.  Just black silhouettes against a starry sky.  They were too high to be backlighted by the low green glow still on the horizon.Maybe the nerd was right.  Just an illusion.

"The helicopters are gone!" yelled TN over the intercom.  He didn't need to use the IC, everyone in the tank heard him.  "They're gone.Off the screens.  Visual, heat, electronic.  Everything!"

"Maybe they went under the radar," TD said nervously."  Just swooped in."

"Naw," TN replied.  We have full sweeps and active satellite.  They flew over the site and just disappeared.  One moment they were.  Next, they weren't"

TC said "Change course.  Take us to the left and give us a wide margin.  Keep everyone behind us behind us.  I don't want the right flank getting close to that.   Whatever it is.  Let 2nd Brigade know that we're swinging their way.  Let's hope the Apaches pop out back up.  We've had glitches on BattleNet before.  If not, we're goin to meet ISN first.  Be ready."

Tank Nerd spoke up "Everyone's been updated.  Drone's got a long look at the place.  It doesn't see anything on heat, EM.   Too far for a good visual but I am seeing green.  This is coming from the east so what I know about optical illusions, they don't work from two different directions.

"This is close to where we went over in '91," TC said.  "My father was near here.   Further south.  He made contact with a lot of Iraqi T-72s.  He said the anti-tank round went right through them.  So fast, they just vaporized the people in the tank.  Little people chucks blown out the tank's exit wound.  Just imagine.  One moment you're doing tank stuff, the next you're ham salad all over the desert.  Do you think it might have registered that you're dead?  That you've ceased to be?  What about the soul of the tank?  We think this old bucket's got a heart and soul.  We've all said that.  Remember how she doesn't like starting on raining mornings back at Knox?  Always takes two tries to get the juice flowing.  Even if she was in the shed all night and bone dry.  Just she just doesn't like getting wet.  Maybe those are ghost tanks and ghost tankers out there."

"You are one creepy drunk, TC" TD replied.  "Could be the ISN just blew up some chemicals this afternoon and those idiot pilots flew through it without their masks.  We're 100 percent protected from Nuclear, Biological and Chemical attacks.  I over pressurized the compartment.  Whatever is out there will stay out there.  You'll see, TC.  Just war crap."

"It's off to our right," TN announced."  Track 7 will come to about two miles of it.  Johnson will be the closest.  He's pressurized and watching.  We're still getting his feed...  Aw... Seven just went dark!  They lost power!  Track 5 is turning around.  What do we do?"

"We don't leave them behind.  Have the Bradleys and the left wing attach themselves to second brigade.  Us and the right wing will swing back for 7.  One and three will move in behind 5.   Do we have a visual from the drone?  Anything.

TN:"I have a distant shot of 7.  It's just sitting there.  No EM.  Regular heat from the crew.  Whatever happened to it affected even the batteries.  I not even getting a blip on the drone's EM wavelength.  Aw geeze, TC.  5 just stopped.  Everything but heat is gone on them too.  Bout 50 yards this side of 7.  This is not good."

"Let everyone know to avoid this area.  Put everything you've got on the BattleNet with a priority flag.  Have three stay back.  We'll catch up to them and get a real visual.  Get a couple of recovery vehicles brought up for 5 and 7.  Most important, let's recover the crews and protect the tanks in case this is an attack."

"What kind of attack could this be?"TD asked nervously.

"Well, if it isn't ghosts, then it has to be some kind of electromagnetic jamming.  Chemical wouldn't stop all the electronics. ISN set up some kind of giant EM pulse weapon?  Dumb place to put it."

"Plus it would show up on our scans and all our vehicles are supposed to be protected against EM pulses.  Also, it wouldn't affect our batteries.  TC, your idea of Iraqi ghost tankers is making more sense.  Sad to say."

"Just a stupid, stupid thought."TC said.  "Anything from the drone?"

TN:"Drone is at 3 thousand meters.  Three times higher than when the Apaches flew over.  I'm keeping it away from the glow zone.  I got a thermal on 7.  Looks like the guys are bailing on it.  Got three separate signatures.  Now two.  They must be bunching up..."

"Have three wave a light at them.  Let them know we're here," TC said.  "But make sure it's directly at 7 and 5's area.  Everyone else stays in their tracks and stays back."

"Now two signatures.  Must be on top of each other...  Track 7 is completely cold.  Only showing up on visual.  Not even the electrical motors...  They're gone."

"Gone!?  What do you mean 'gone', Nerd?"

"They were on heat, moving towards 5.  Now they're gone.  No heat.  If they fell in a hole, it was a mighty deep one.   Now, three's crew is leaving the track.  Three good sigs.  Oh gawd."

"What?"

"All gone.  No heat.  They were nowhere near 7."

TD:"I vote we back up.  Maybe to Kentucky..."

TC:Good idea.  Nerd, tell 3 to reverse it too.  Don't turn around.   Just back it up.  Try and get the drone closer.  There has to be a reason..."

TD:"3 just stopped, TC.  This cannot be good.  They're just 50 feet that way," he said pointing right.

"Driver, back us up, full speed.  Look for the crew from 3."

Then everything went quiet and dark.

Three people cursed the exact same words.  Outside, there were screams.  Horrible screams and then silence.

TC:  "Time to bail.  Meet me 50 yards directly behind the track.  Run now!"

Because there was no power, Tank Nerd had to push the automatic loader out of the way.  Then he was up and out of the turret, his rifle in one hand and a portable satellite phone in the other.  He was standing on the turret when TC came up.  Down in the front, TD was coming out of the driver's port.  He reached in for his rifle and then started to jump off the track's left side.  His boots never hit the sand.  He screamed as something grabbed him and pulled him 10 feet up in the air.  He hovered there struggling and screaming until he just ceased to exist.  It looked like he was blown to bits.

"Drop your rifle, Nerd.  Put your hands up!"  TC yelled.  "Surrender!"

The nerd dropped his rifle and did as TC said.  They both started slowly moving off the turret.  Hands in the air.  Things were swirling around them.  There was a palpable taste of hatred everywhere.  TC jumped off the track with his hands up.  He started moving away from the tank.  Things moved around him.  Nerd was still on the track.  He had come down off the turret and was standing on the back.  Suddenly, there was a sound and Nerd went up.  Nerd's 9 mm pistol flew out of a NOMEX pocket and hovered briefly before his face.  Nerd screamed, went up and Nerd was blown to bits.

TC fell down to his knees in the sand.  Things continued to fly at him from all directions.  TC knew they were trying to get him to lower his hands.  Just for a moment.  But he wouldn't.  He shut his eyes and willed his arms to stay up.  The universal sign for surrender.

The recovery crew showed up at 0900.  Two tankers had gotten their big old toy stuck in the sand.  Made them miss the big battle.  The recovery crew figured they meet a couple of crews and their stuck tanks.  First one they came to was empty and clearly not buried in sand.  And it started right up.   All they had to do was a quick reset.  Well, maybe they wandered over to the second tank.  Nope.  Empty and it, too, started right up.

Further reconnaissance found two more tanks.  There was one tanker but he refused to move or say anything.  He even refused to lower his arms.  Medevac was called and he had to be sedated before his arms would come down.

Staff Sargent Justin Holloran, US Army, decorated Tank Commander has been a patient here for the last 6 months.  Unless he is sedated, he insists on keeping his arms held above his head.  He is non-verbal but will scream if his arms are forced down either by restraints or by two orderlies.  Scans show massive trauma to several parts of his brain and various treatments have not yielded any positive results.  The Army has investigated the site where he was found.  Miniscule tissue, which matches the DNA of several tankers were found after an exhaustive search.  There is no conclusive reason for the probable deaths of four tank crews save for Holloran.  The Army investigators are very interested in getting a statement from Holloran and are to be contacted if we achieve any breakthrough.
 
Xai [TotalFark]
2017-10-25 7:22:55 AM  
3 votes:
He woke up, "It was just a bad dream" he thought; he turned on the TV, the headline scrolled past TRUMP RE-ELECTED!!!!

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
 
2017-10-31 11:58:29 PM  
2 votes:

Fox10456: Oops double posted, someone slap me.


you should be slapped twice.
 
2017-10-31 11:06:12 PM  
2 votes:

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 8:00:43 PM  
2 votes:
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 4:49:45 PM  
2 votes:

chawco: namegoeshere: Baby,
Covered in blood.
Not his.

That's not a haiku
Structure in the form of this:
Five, seven, and five


Not mine to fix, but I can't resist

Non-Maury Povich version:
Horror in the crib
A baby, dripping with gore
That is not my child...

Maury Povich version:
She pushes and pants
Sodden baby emerges
...Does not look like me...

/It's snowing on Mt. Fuji
 
2017-10-31 1:52:02 PM  
2 votes:
My Archaeology Story

When I was a archaeology student at the University of Wyoming our second level antiquities class went on a dig near Walden, Colorado. The dig was in an area of what was believed to be an ancient gold mining/prospecting area. There was evidence of the Anasazi and rumors of Spanish relics being found in the area. The area of digging was a trench about 2 feet wide and seventy feet long, I and a cutie coed, Amy were put on the screens. We screened material as it was being pulled from the bottom of the trench. Besides finding assorted pottery shards I came upon a golf ball size chunk of clay. I was about to dump it when I got a case of the shivers. It was like I had been just been dumped in a ice bath. I knew it was against all ethics not to mention the rules but I put this thing in my pocket.

Just after that Amy gave me a strange smile. The day pretty much went the way all field trips went except that Amy had a real case of the "eyes" for me. Of this I had no problems, as I said before she was a cutie. Any way things progressed between Amy and myself until that evening we found each other in my apartment then my bedroom and then in my bed.

As things turned out it was a one night stand. I used my lunch money to buy Amy breakfast the next morning and that was about it for our relationship. I was back to my normal once a month date with assorted coeds and dreaming of getting laid again.

I had forgotten about the chunk of clay from the dig site. At least until summer break when I moved from my apartment to a near campus house which I shared with two other grad students. While gathering up my meager possessions I found the piece of clay and got to wondering about it. I remembered that the archaeology department had an x ray machine, for artifact investigation.

I decided to take it to the x-ray machine and see if there was any thing in it. What I found was there was indeed an artifact inside the clay ball. It was a rectangle of metal, with some inscriptions on it. This got me not only thinking but wondering what I had done. Well I had a few spare bucks and decided to drink on it. With the artifact still in my pocket I went to the local hang out- Joe's Bar and ordered up a draft beer. The next thing I know here is yet another cutie, a teaching major talking to me. Well guess what! We ended up in my room and then my bed. As with Amy the relationship was a short one, I think that was the last time I saw her.

This really got me thinking about the artifact, was it the equivalent of a love potion? After some experimentation I found that indeed it was! Whenever I get the urge to get laid I just take my little piece of clay into a public place and bingo women surround me. Sometimes I have problems avoiding the less attractive members of the opposite sex but this thing never fails. With it in my pocket the women would swarm.

It's been over thirty years since I found my little piece of clay and I have no regrets. Never been married, why pay for your milk when you can get it for free. However, at times I do have some remorse and wonder if this artifact should be on display maybe in the Love museum? Or is it the Louvre Museum?

In any case when I need a piece of ass I just find my piece of clay.
 
2017-10-31 12:01:43 PM  
2 votes:
It all started when women became sentient beings. First they demanded 'equal' treatment and to no longer be paid slave wages compared to men. Then they came for our alcohol. Before long they had all turned into ravenous raging Vegans and came for our meat. Now the alcohol is all gone. Now the bacon is but a beautiful memory, crisp and crumbling in the remnants of mankind's sanity.

/based on a true story
 
2017-10-31 11:38:14 AM  
2 votes:
Donald Trump. What more needs to be said?
 
2017-10-31 11:01:32 AM  
2 votes:
Monster Defense


The last thing you do before going to sleep is check under the bed and in the closet, right?  I get it.  I was like you once too.  But I have some news for you.  That isn't good enough.

Monsters exist, okay?  But we never get proof of them because they 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.  We don't even have Bigfoot bones.  No one says "Hey, I found some monster poop."  We haven't found bodies or poop because 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.  So, kids, how do you make sure you are safe if these creatures, these monsters can just pop in through a hole in the fabric of reality?

You could wall off the closet.  Or put out traps on the floor to catch the monsters.   You could maybe keep a night light on...if you want to see them come for you.  No, the best way to handle this is to think outside the box.  Have you ever heard of the bogeyman stealing a dog?  No.  Of course not.  Dogs bark and cause a scene.  And no one ever blames a missing dog on monsters.  We can conclude that the bogeyman is afraid of dogs.

So, if you want to stay safe from the monsters, tell mom and dad you need a puppy.  Trust me.  You will thank me later.
 
2017-10-30 7:46:46 PM  
2 votes:
My scary story for halloween;

Checked my balance in my bank account. Discovered that I can't afford Total Fark!
"BOOOooo, WwHOOooo".
 
2017-10-30 7:08:05 PM  
2 votes:
The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...
 
2017-10-30 2:20:08 PM  
2 votes:

AlwaysRightBoy: [img.fark.net image 425x267]
What's so scary about floating red balloons?


Actually the scariest  Halloween story I have is many years I dressed up as a clown for a party and my wife and her best friend said that it looked just silly. They ripped everything off me and remade me as an awesome beautiful woman in high heels. I looked so damn good it was scary when I looked in the mirror before the party.
 
2017-10-25 6:18:02 PM  
2 votes:
Sometimes people lose their way.

That was something my grandmother said, years and years ago.  I don't remember the context.  It's a thought that's stuck with me, something that comes back whenever I hear about tragedy or misfortune or someone's carefully built life crashing down around them.  It came back to me a few years ago, when I watched a good friend of mine lose his mind.

We had graduated high school and college together in a circle of friends; we'd spent Beach Week down at Nags Head year after year, all eight or nine of us, or whoever of us could get out of work and responsibilities for a week of debauchery.  As the years went by, fewer and fewer of us could make the trip, but we still stayed in touch.  We went to each other's weddings, we celebrated everyone's promotions.  Friends to the end, we said.

When Dan got married to a woman none of us liked or trusted, we still went to the wedding.  Dan was always the guy who did stupid things and got out of them unscathed by sheer luck; any of us could tell you a story about him and a drunken bet involving a bottle of rum and a roman candle that should, by all rights, have ended with him in the emergency room.  She probably wasn't completely bad; no one really is, but Dan had just landed a high-dollar job as a program manager for an aerospace firm, making more money than anyone we knew, and we all assumed she was a gold digger.  Well, Dan would stumble through it one way or another, we thought; what we didn't realize, I guess, was how much he actually loved her.  When I looked at her, I could only see trouble.

In the deep winter of the next year they had a daughter.  There were complications; I don't really know the details.  They named the poor girl Laura after Dan's grandmother.  At least Dan's high-dollar insurance paid for the transplants needed to give his daughter a coin's toss chance at surviving until puberty.

It was four years later that I got the call.  Anne, one of our circle of friends, gave me the news; little Laura was in the hospital again, this time with an opportunistic infection in her lungs.  Some wandering pathogen, seeing the weakened state of her immune system, had settled in with a vengeance.  The anti-rejection drugs that had kept her alive this long had simply left the door open for another monster to steal in.

We met at the hospital; Dan was composed, but brittle.  His wife was nowhere to be seen.  I didn't want to bring it up; maybe she was at home, sedated; maybe the tragedy had overcome her.  I can't imagine what could have lent Dan, poor dumb lucky Dan, the ability to stay strong through this mess; either courage or fatalism, I'm not sure.  Either way, when the ICU surgeon came in to ask to talk to Dan alone, and he had that look, Dan stayed composed.

His wife was not at the funeral, either.

I'm not brave enough to ask some questions, but Anne will never back down from anything.  Before the service started, she asked him directly: "Where's Brandy?  How's she doing?"

"I don't know," he said, staring off into the distance.  "She's gone."

"What?" Anne said.

"She cleaned out the bank account and maxed out the cards and disappeared.  I don't know where she is." He said this with a matter-of-fact expression, as if discussing the time of day.  No, more mechanical than anything, I thought; it was as if something inside of him had died and his shell was being kept alive on life support.

The wake was . . . strained.  Anne had to be physically dragged into a back room to keep her quiet; she was trying to find some clue of where Brandy had gone, so she could track her down and kick her ass.  The pastor from Dan's church was there, seeming befuddled and lost.  Dan himself picked at his food, as if waiting for his luck to change back to normal.  After a few hours, I couldn't take it anymore and left.  I made it to the bar to take my own dose of anti-rejection drugs, in my case hoping to stave off a rejection of the nihilism that's the only rational response to meaningless tragedy.

We kept an eye on Dan in the months that followed.  He seemed to stabilize.  He made it back to work, started putting his life back together.  In the times I caught up with him, he never really seemed his old self; it was as if some part of him had been cut out and left to rot on the floor of the operating room.  His wife, Brandy, never reappeared.  I never heard him mention her again.

Months passed.  I managed to get caught up in a project of my own at work, which devoured my time; development on some system or other was far behind schedule and I had to step in to try to stem the bleeding.  Ten hour days gave way to twelve hour days and somewhere along the line fall turned into winter.  The snow was falling one weekend evening as I staggered home and my phone rang.

"Jesus Christ," Anne said.  "I've been trying to call you for hours.  Where the fark have you been?"

"Meetings," I said.  It was true; I'd had my phone off most of the day.  "Why? What's going on?"

"Dan," she said.  "He's lost his shiat.  You need to talk to him, you're the only one he talks to."

"Where is he?"

"His house.  He's been there for weeks, far as I can tell.  I think he quit his job."

"Oh, Jesus.  Did his wife show back up or something?"

"I don't know.  Get the hell over here, he needs you."

When a friend needs you, you go.  You don't make excuses, you don't worry about how exhausted you are, you go.  Anne had gone; I met her at the door to his house.  She looked pissed off, which wasn't unusual.

Dan was a mess.  The house was a mess; dirty dishes were piled in the sink.  Dirty laundry was everywhere else.  A few small patches of order showed where Anne had been trying to make a difference; they barely stood out against the rest of the trashed house.  Dan himself was disheveled, wearing a dirty bathrobe with a bandage on the side of his neck.  Anne, furious at what had happened to our friend, was no help; I pushed her out the door and told her to come back and check on him in the morning.

"Dan, what's going on?" I asked, once she was gone.

He shrugged lifelessly.  He looked weak and hungry.  I debated washing some dishes to cook something, assuming he even had any food left in the house, and ordered a pizza instead.  He liked those god-awful Hawaiian pizzas with pineapple, so I ordered one of those.  I said he was a friend; I didn't say he had any taste.

When he was distracted with food I checked the house.  I couldn't find any evidence of drugs or alcohol abuse; he had fewer empty bottles in the trash than I did at my place.  I didn't see any prescriptions.  Only . . . only in the baby room, little Laura's old bed room on the second floor, a window had been broken for what must have been some time.  Water had run down the wall from it; the wall was slick and dark with black mold or slime.

A scrapbook was open on Dan's bed.  It was filled with baby pictures of Laura.  I closed it and put it on the dresser.

"Jesus, man, you gotta tell me what's going on," I said.  "It's me.  Remember, you can talk to me about anything.  Anything."

He shook his head, still staring off into the distance.  As he moved, the bandage on his neck slipped slightly.  The skin underneath looked gray and dead.

"What the hell did you do to your neck?"  I asked.  "Have you gone to a doctor?  Wait, don't answer that.  Your ass is getting in my car right now, and we're going to the-"

He shook his head again.  "She . . ." he trailed off.

"She?" I repeated.

"She kissed me." was all he would say.

"Who?" I demanded.  My skin was crawling.  Something about the hollow way he looked at me sent shivers down my spine.  "Who?  Brandy?  Did Brandy-"

"Laura," he whispered.

What do you say to something like that?  Laura was dead.  She had been in the ground for months.  How do you tell someone that their child was dead, and wasn't coming back?  How do you tell your friend that he's losing his mind, that months of the grief he must have been covering or pretending to ignore had piled up, had come crashing down on him as an avalanche that had swept his feet out from under him, leaving him lost and confused and having no idea what was real anymore?

Sometimes people lose their way, I imagined my grandmother saying.

"Look," I said, groping for words.  "Listen.  You're exhausted.  You're not making sense. You need to get some sleep.  I'm gonna get you a sleeping pill.  I want you to take it, and I want you to relax.  We're gonna get all this sorted out, but I need you to be strong for me.  Can you do that?"

He nodded weakly.  "I don't know what's going on," he said.

I found a bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom and made him take two, washing them down with a glass of water I rinsed out in the sink.  They must have started taking effect almost immediately, as his eyes started to droop.

I dragged enough dirty laundry off of the bed to make a space for him and led him into it.  "Anne's going to be here in the morning," I said.  "She's going to take you to get someone to look at your neck.  Jeez, man, that looks almost as bad as the time Barry got drunk and burned his leg with the hibachi at beach week, remember that?"

For a moment, a ghost of a smile flickered across his face.  Then it was gone.  "Laura, she-"

I didn't want to hear whatever he might say.  At the same time, I couldn't think of any way to stop him.  He breathed deeply for a moment.

"She  . . . she kisses me.  I don't how to say no to her.  All she ever wanted was to be kissed."

I was having a hard time seeing.  "She was a good girl."

He looked at the wall for a moment.  "If something bad happens . . . I want you to . . . I want you to take the scrapbook.  Her pictures," he said. "I want someone to take care of them.  Someone who knows what they mean."

"I'll . . . I'll take care of them.  But you, you're going to get some sleep.  Okay?  Anne's going to be here in the morning."

He nodded, and closed his eyes.

I turned off the light and closed the door.  I felt awful; I don't know if it was a premonition or simple existential despair; either way I poured the bottle of sleeping pills into the toilet and collected every sharp object I could find from the house.  He didn't have any guns that I knew of or could find.  If something bad did happen to him, it wouldn't be by his own hand, whatever his mental state might be.

I pulled his house key from his keyring and hid it under a rock near the front door for Anne on the way out, texting her with its location and a 'get him to dr in am'.  Her 'kk' response was almost immediate.  She must have been waiting for something from me.

 For almost a full minute I simply stood there, watching the snow fall, savoring the cold; and then I remembered the black mold or slime on the wall under the broken window and shivered in a way that the cold couldn't explain.

When Anne called me in the morning she was crying.  I had never heard her cry before.  I couldn't make out any words, but it didn't matter; her voice told me everything I needed to know.

The police wanted to talk to me, of course.  I was the last one who'd seen Dan alive.  They wanted to know why I had taken all of the knives and sharp objects from his house, what we'd talked about.  I told them almost everything, for what it was worth.  I felt guilty, like I should have stayed with him or I should have called someone, or, I dunno, something.  I should have done something more.  I said all of this to the cops, while I wallowed in self-loathing.  They didn't seem to care.  I think their entire involvement was a perfunctory checking-off-all-the-boxes effort; the case had already been ruled a death-by-misadventure.  Sometime in the middle of the night he had crawled through the broken, slime-streaked window in Laura's room and fallen to the concrete sidewalk twenty feet below.  An autopsy would rule if his death had come from trauma or from freezing, they said, a question for which I had no interest in the answer.

The only thing I didn't tell them was Dan's last request for me to take Laura's pictures and take care of them.  I pictured Brandy coming back to the house, and in my mind's eye I saw her throwing them away.  I couldn't make the words form in my mouth.  I said nothing.  When they were done with me, I went back to his house.

The key was under the rock where I'd left it for Anne.  I half expected the place to be strung with police tape like some scene from a drama, but the only change I could see was a sheet of plastic someone had stretched over the broken window.  Inside, the air had a still, heavy quality; a sickly-sweet odor lingered I hadn't noticed the night before.  It smelled like decay.  Probably the garbage, which hadn't been taken out for who knows how long; maybe the black mold in the bedroom above.

I went to the master bedroom and found the scrapbook, on the dresser where I had left it.  For a moment, I debated opening it to see again the pictures of Laura that Dan had apparently valued over anything else, and instead held it firmly shut.  I don't know what I was feeling, or I can't put it into words.  My friend was dead, and in my uselessness I had done nothing to prevent it.  I felt dizzy; maybe I was coming down with the flu.  Maybe I had been spending too much time freezing in the winter air.  Maybe it was what I deserved.

After a moment I opened the scrapbook and looked at all that was left of Laura and Dan.  She had been a beautiful kid, I thought.  At least there was that.

I heard a sound from Laura's room.

Part of me pictured Brandy lurking in the bedroom of the dead child and I was instantly livid.  I pushed the door open, ready to demand answers, and was rooted to the spot when I saw what was inside.

Laura was standing in the black slime below the broken window.  She held her arms out, as if asking for a kiss.

"No," I said, stunned.

She held her arms out to me, again, palpably there and yet . . . my mind refused to work.  She wanted a kiss.  All she ever wanted was to be kissed, Dan had said.  In my stunned state I could see her clearly; warm, full of life.

And covered with thin black strands of the black mold or slime under the window.

"You're not Laura," I said.  It was as if my mouth were working on its own.  "I don't know what you are, but you're not Laura, Laura's dead."

I trailed off and all at once she wasn't there.  All that was left, or had ever been there, was a sickening growth of slime, some kind of opportunistic fungal growth slowly digesting the house itself.  I fled in panic and never looked back.

I don't know what it was that I saw.  Almost certainly it was nothing.  Almost certainly, it was a hallucination brought on by grief and guilt and stress.  The black mold Laura could not have been anything other than a figment of my overworked mind.  I know that much at least.  I never mentioned what I saw to Anne or anyone else; not that anyone ever asked.  When I made it home I poured a stiff drink that turned into three and then turned into more until it was enough that I could pretend to have forgotten the whole sorry hallucination.  It had to be nothing.

It had to be nothing, because if it was something, than it was nothing more than an opportunistic infection of a mind, of a spirit already broken by loss and pretending to be okay in front of his friends so they couldn't see his pain.  If that were true, then we would have failed him badly by not being there for him until it had taken everything from him that was left.  Perhaps Dan hadn't lost his way after all; perhaps he had simply been led astray in the darkness.

Perhaps I had been able to reject it, as my own immune system for madness had not yet been worn down by tragedy and despair.  Or, even worse; perhaps it, as a predator, had simply had its fill for the moment and only toyed with me out of instinct, letting me go when it had no desire to feed.

I still have Dan's scrapbook.  He'd asked me to keep it safe, after all.  Every so often I pull it down from the shelf and look at the cover, but I never open it.
 
2017-10-25 8:28:59 AM  
2 votes:

Flt209er: Sorry, not an actuaL story, but this thread is as good a place as any to mention that Harper&Row have finally pulled their heads out of their asses and rereleased the old "Scary stories to tell in the dark" books with all of the original artwork intact. Anyone with younger kids in the family might want to grab a set or two before someone at the publisher pusses out again.


So glad my kids were readers long before discovering the "Goosebumps" series of books, because those endings used to scare me.

/great books, though
 
2017-10-25 7:46:39 AM  
2 votes:

thatguyoverthere70: biracial shake


As an editor: change it to "miscegenated shake" instead.

/that is all
 
2017-10-25 7:39:53 AM  
2 votes:
Here's mine. It's true, but, yeah, it's probably nothing. "Small child does not like cold water, gets scared." But the thing is, I don't know, and there's no way to find out. My mother and grandmother are both dead now (died within a month of each other), but even when they were alive, it's not like I could've asked. Maybe that's the scary part. Or maybe it's not scary, just dumb. (Typos probably included, free of charge!)

---

The ocean fronting Oxnard, California is cold. Not New-England-cold. Not Alaska-cold. The sort of cold that is neither majestic nor threatening. Just cold enough to encourage one to dip in without taking any preparation or care. The sort of cold it is just possible to put your head down and take. Sissy-cold? Maybe. It never snows in Oxnard, but the fog rolls over the blue sky like heavy cotton batting every evening at six, sometimes earlier, and it stays until the sun burns through as a pale, white circle, at ten o'clock the next morning, or sometimes not at all. Clouds do not signify rain in Oxnard, merely morning, evening, or nothing at all. Every morning the grass is wet, and the cars are covered with dew like shining, glass beads.

A friend once told me, on visiting, that there is a river of cold current running through the Pacific ocean that breaks directly on the shores of Oxnard, California. It is why the ocean in San Diego, or even Santa Barbara, is so much milder. I know this now, but I didn't used to know it. When I grew up the ocean was cold, and that was all.

I never swam. I used to wear swimsuits, or perhaps I should say that when I was quite small my parents would put me in swimsuits. When I was older and could shift for myself I did not bother. I knew I would not swim. I wore shorts, and often rolled and cuffed them to make them even shorter, because, though I did not swim, I dearly loved to chase the waves. The cold ocean was uncomfortable, then painful, then numbing. I suppose it made me a masochist, because if you got through the pain you could wade with impunity, feel the sand shift under your feet and the draw of the tide. Squish into the wet muck way down deep and when a wave washed over your ankles, your toe and heel, beneath the sand, were obliterated, nothing but two soft, elongated V's, etched in the sand by the water rushing around your legs. You could twist and wiggle and dig the mud into chunks, finally revealing cold toes and numb feet like strange pink pearls, and then, at the next wave, make them disappear again.

Daring the cold brought access to the best rocks for collecting, and the best shells. The smooth ones, the wet ones that still shimmered like jewels. And they were clean, the ocean made them so. From a young age I knew that anything past the scope of the tide was filthy. There was a line, a literal line of piled, brown seaweed and driftwood, that marked the clean places, the wet places. Beyond that there were cigarette filters, broken glass, pop tabs, bottle caps, and sharp, coarse sand that prickled. But the ocean, where it touched, made everything smooth and clean.

The ocean eats. The ocean obliterates. The ocean destroys.

So I learned, I guess. But I only remember thinking that it was cold, and it was nice that it was cold, but it would be nice to be warm again, too. At home there would be a shower, and a change of clothes, a shedding of sand and salt. Even before going into the car, you brushed off your legs and feet as best you could, and put on your shoes. And then, driving home, a delicious blossom of warmth when the heater kicked in. Perhaps we would purchase a drive-thru dinner, and a drive-thu dinner meant a meal and a toy.

I have good memories of the beach.

I have another memory, too. A confusing one, hazy and full of holes, like many of my earliest memories. More dream than memory. I have read and learned about the making of memories, and I know they are a distorted glass. Perhaps, by my age, the dream has eaten the memory, like the ocean eats the sand. But I do remember, and I was not dreaming then.

My mother and my grandmother (my mother's mother) took me by the hands, one on the left side, one on the right. They began to walk into the sea. The water was cold, and I was very small. I felt very small, and I do not remember them looking down at me, if they looked down at me, or speaking to me, if they spoke to me, and I do not remember any expression of intent. But I was small, and the world of adults was large and mysterious, and I'm sure many things explained went forgotten or misunderstood.

The water came over my feet, then to my waist. I do not remember if it ever came over my waist, because I became very afraid. I wanted to go back and they did not want to go back. I was afraid, I do not know of what, and I cried. They spoke to me, but I do not remember what they said. Perhaps they scolded, perhaps they only tried to reassure me, but I would not stop crying and we did not go any farther into the sea. I don't remember turning around, getting out and coming home, but we must have done, for I am here.

I thought, for a long time, that I was only afraid, like a little kid gets afraid, because I didn't understand what was happening or why. I thought I was probably stupid, for being afraid.

Now I am older, and I know more things. I know that my mother and grandmother both battled with depression. I know that at different times within my childhood, both of them became very sick. I know now that when my grandmother came to stay for a time and slept on the couch was because she was very sick, and would not eat, and my grandfather could not handle it alone. I know now that when my mother went away for a few days and I made a paper replica of her to kiss goodnight, that she had gone to a psychiatric facility to receive electro-convulsive therapy. I don't know if it helped any. There is much I don't know and will never know, but now I do know more.

I know that when people become suicidal, they sometimes decide to take others out with them. Maybe they are afraid to die alone, maybe they wish to spare their loved ones the pain of their death, or the pain of life itself. I cannot fathom the thoughts one must think, to make that decision and then to go through with it.

I know my mother and my grandmother held me by the hands and walked into the sea. The sea was cold, I was afraid, and I cried. This is all I know. I do not know what they intended. I do not know what would have happened if I hadn't cried.

Sometimes it is very hard to sleep.
 
2017-10-25 4:12:26 AM  
2 votes:

davidphogan: Once I realized I could buy my own candy Halloween seemed kind of stupid.


You can buy candy, but the screams of children and unwary parents from a good Boo! are priceless.
 
2017-11-02 9:03:28 AM  
1 vote:

CAT-LIKE TYPING DETECTED: a particular individual: Englebert Slaptyback: CAT-LIKE TYPING DETECTED

As to the bolded, I just figger it's due to time of exposure.. I never had a clue the thread could be available to TFers up to 6 days early..!


It wasn't just available to TF. I saw it on the main page at that time.

Maybe it wasn't *supposed* to be there six days early, but it was.

An admin pulled the wrong lever and accidentally posted it a week early. Last year I submitted the headline on 10/30, and it went green that night. It was just a clerical error this year that led to, like, 65 posts before I even saw it. Then it got yanked, so only TFers could see it in the Greenlit queue.

..okay, I like that..  I will henceforth always think of FARK as operating on Steampunk principles, behind the curtain..   ;)


Why do we even have that lever?
 
2017-11-02 12:10:59 AM  
1 vote:

CAT-LIKE TYPING DETECTED: 2004   -  196
2005   -  255
2006   -  422
2007   -  529
2008   -  609
2009   -  568
2010   -  380
2011   -  409
2012   -  553
2013   -  358
2014   -  310
2015   -  602
2016   -  338

Dropping 2004-5 as clear outliers (people were just learning the brand new 'tradition'), the average overall Halloween post count stands at ~462..

Now, as of time o'typing this, we're at 339 this year..but..its been 44 posts since the last actual (attempted, I think the post got chopped) post of any type o'scary story..soooo, this year's post count sits ~295 in-topic posts..  It's pretty clear that this year is well below average..barely above 2005 levels..


I don't give a damn if there weren't as many posts this year or last, I won and there'd damn well better not be an asterisk next to my Fark ID in the Fark Hall of Fame.

/when does Drew send the sculptor to carve my bust?
 
2017-11-01 5:11:09 PM  
1 vote:

a particular individual: An admin pulled the wrong lever and accidentally posted it a week early. Last year I submitted the headline on 10/30, and it went green that night. It was just a clerical error this year that led to, like, 65 posts before I even saw it. Then it got yanked, so only TFers could see it in the Greenlit queue.


I think participation was really down this year. It had nothing to do with the time of the posting and everything to do with a tab to the right called "Politics" with much greater and more important Horrors.
 
2017-11-01 2:14:11 PM  
1 vote:
I give thanks to both Turing_Machine and toraque! My employer, on the other hand, most definitely does not.
 
2017-11-01 12:00:36 PM  
1 vote:
Fantastic job, everyone!!!

Tallying votes now.
 
2017-10-31 11:44:45 PM  
1 vote:
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 10:27:04 PM  
1 vote:
You want terror? I'll give you terror.

I was the winner last year
 
2017-10-31 8:09:45 PM  
1 vote:
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 4:33:27 PM  
1 vote:

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? :)
 
2017-10-31 4:16:24 PM  
1 vote:

Delta1212: Scary story? Uh, I can hear a bunch of sirens right now in Lower Manhattan from what is reported to be a shooting/car ramming incident with mass casualties...


Did your office building just have a firealarm at the same time you were looking out the window at the scene? Because ours did. Woman next to me nearly fainted.
 
2017-10-31 3:53:33 PM  
1 vote:
Scary story? Uh, I can hear a bunch of sirens right now in Lower Manhattan from what is reported to be a shooting/car ramming incident with mass casualties...
 
2017-10-31 3:50:37 PM  
1 vote:
Collusion. COoooollUUuusiOooonnnnn!
 
2017-10-31 3:42:49 PM  
1 vote:
The art...of good...storytelling....is in...the delivery.  {and the cowbells} Walken reads The Raven
 
2017-10-31 3:10:44 PM  
1 vote:
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-31 2:56:59 PM  
1 vote:
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.
 
2017-10-31 1:46:10 PM  
1 vote:

cowgirl toffee: I hadn't read any of the comments... I was just wondering if there's a story in here about a man going on a date with a girl just to find out that... she has a PENIS!!


There's a song sung by a charming old man about that.
Ray Jessel: 84-Year-Old Sings a Naughty Original Song - America's Got Talent 2014
Youtube _cyIxkFLjWI
 
2017-10-31 12:56:29 PM  
1 vote:

TheWriteGirl: This is my very favorite thread of the whole year, I've been excited for a month!  The only times I have ever posted in the Scary Story Thread have been to say how much I love it, except for the one time saw the scary Korean webcomic on a laptop rather than a phone (I was not aware that it moved) and described how I fled my house, scaring myself even more as my laptop cord dragged loudly behind me on the floor, and read the rest of the thread on my front porch in a rainstorm (2015?).
"



I first read this one at work. Had my headphones in with the volume up and everything.

While my reaction wasn't quite as severe as yours, I did get a few looks from my coworkers.
 
2017-10-31 12:35:34 PM  
1 vote:
True story.  Wish I was joking. Not even sure if it's scary, but hey it's Halloween and now is the time for the weird and unusual. Haven't told anyone except my closest friends and my mother. Pretty sure mom thinks I'm loopy and is just humoring me.

Beyond the fact that our house is haunted (but those are other stories for another time), I've always had random hits of 'second sight', I guess you could call it.  More often, it hits while I'm in a conversation, and I'll realize I know what the other person is about to say, inflections and everything, before they say it - because I heard it before.  I won't remember where I heard it, or when. But I'll KNOW the conversation before it even happens, it's already been played out.

Sometimes I'll meet someone I already 'know', too.

But that's beside the point.  The point is: second sight.  ESP.  Visions.  Whatever you want to call it.  And I can't control when it happens.

Cue to a decade or so ago. I'd fallen asleep right after work, exhausted from fighting off the flu.  And I dream while I'm napping.  I'm dreaming I'm on a plane and people are speaking ... well, I know Spanish well enough and it's not Spanish, but it SOUNDS like it.  And whoever I am, I'm speaking this language.  I know what's being said, even if I can't understand the words themselves. The flight is going smoothly, but a little girl near me turns and says 'that plane is coming toward us" and points out a window.  A few people look, but it's far enough away that no one really is paying much attention.  But a minute or so later, the whole plane shudders and bumps and there's a crunching sound.

And then the plane begins to fall.  And fall.  Out of one of the windows, I can see the other plane flying away, a tiny thing but still jet-looking - and it's damaged but fly-able.  We're not.

There's screaming everywhere.  The ground is rushing up, trees getting bigger and bigger.  I can feel the heat as we slam into the ground, the fire.... and I wake up.

I turn on the TV to calm down, and it's the news.  A short while into the news, this crash comes up on 'breaking news' http://www.greatdreams.com/planes/pla​n​e_crash_2006.htm

I'd dreamt the whole thing.  It was Portuguese I'd heard - the language that sounded like Spanish, but wasn't.  I'd been on the plane in my sleep, as it went down.

To this day, I can't shake the memory. It's the strongest vision I've ever had, and I think my subconscious has clamped down on it since, as even the deja vu feelings have gotten far less frequent. Scarred for life, I swear.
 
2017-10-31 11:55:51 AM  
1 vote:

Xcott: meg12279: what freaks me out about sleep paralysis is that some of what you're seeing is real, and the NOT real stuff is just as real.  Like if the TV is on, I can tell you what episode of what show was playing while I was paralyzed.  The people I see at the same time seem just as real.

When I was in grad school, I began a nightly project to attempt lucid dreaming.  I tried a bunch of different strategies people had tried to "wake themselves up" or create some reminder in a dream to wake themselves up.  None of these worked.

I also suffered from serious sleep paralysis at the time, something I haven't experienced for about a decade now.  It was always frightening no matter how many times it happened, because you can't turn to look around and it's so easy to psyche yourself out about a sound you maybe heard across the apartment.  Then you start listening for closer sounds in case the sound is someone getting closer, and you easily convince yourself that it could be someone creeping in.  That's on top of the hallucinations you can experience on account of being so near to sleep.

One night I woke up paralyzed, and I figured I'd just skip the freaky part and try to go right back to sleep.  Should be easy, right, since I'm already physically down?  So I'm trying to go back to sleep in my already sleeping body and I think, "wait.  This is as close to being asleep, and dreaming, as I ever am while awake.  Maybe I can try to start dreaming while remaining conscious, stepping into it gently."

So I tuned out, tried to be dreaming, and everything was just dark.  I tried to conjure up some kind of dream setting or picture, and nothing happened.  Finally I hit upon the idea of thinking of a road so I could be standing on something:  my brain could easily imagine a road, and there it was.  It was a dream!  I was incredibly stoked that I was able to make this simple scene and be conscious in it.

I didn't, however, go any further with the experiment because I got this really u ...


.....and that's why you never ever ever use the WILD method of lucid dreaming. Try reality testing. It's not as reliable but much less terrifying.
 
2017-10-31 10:02:47 AM  
1 vote:
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 hadn out butterscotch candies.  Some go after kids with their cane.  Others scream all the time.

What if the house is like one of the cranky old people?  What if it is in pain and can't stand it?  What if the house 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.  Maybe even trying to reach 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?
 
2017-10-31 1:49:42 AM  
1 vote:
I think I've told this one before, but it's the only strange thing that's ever happened to me, so:

My dad was diagnosed with cancer in March 2014, and died about two weeks later. He had wanted to die at home, but by the end, he had reached the point where my family simply wasn't equipped to keep him comfortable. He and my mom decided he should go to a hospice facility, and he died there a few days later.

My mother, sister and I were all with him when he died, and afterwards, we went home and started making funeral arrangements. My sister and I had to go get a cashier's check to finish purchasing the burial plot, so we left my mom sitting on the back porch while we went to the bank. When we came back, she told us something weird had happened: she had been sitting on the porch when she heard the doorbell ring. She went to the door, but no one was there. I didn't think much of it -- I don't believe in supernatural stuff, and my mom is prone to reading signs into ordinary occurrences -- so I agreed it was "weird" and forgot about it.

Later that afternoon, my parents' neighbor dropped by to give his condolences. We were standing there in front hallway (him, my sister, our dog, and I), when the doorbell rang again. Mind you -- we were standing right at the door, and there were windows on either side. No one was there.

We stayed in that house for another week and a half as we held the funeral and then settled my father's estate. The doorbell never malfunctioned again.

/My dad once nonchalantly told me there was a white lady who liked to hang out in that front hallway, so then again, maybe it was her.
//Regardless, maybe not so much spooky as sad.
///Bring on the Fishy and Turkey Feathers!
 
2017-10-31 1:14:12 AM  
1 vote:
If anyone knows of a missing girl who is about 5'5, 165 lbs. with long straight dark-brown hair, bangs, and dark eyes who drives a 1990's dark blue or black Ford splash pick-up with a sliding rear-window, please let me know. I think I "relived" her last moments in the back of a parking lot one autumn night at a Sunoco station by a river somewhere off a state route in the Midwest somewhere.  That one really haunts my dreams.
 
2017-10-31 12:40:27 AM  
1 vote:
When I was a young teen, I began having dreams where I would relive the final half-hour or so of the lives of young women who were murdered.  To this day, I don't know if these young women truly even exist, let alone if they were actually killed.  All I know for sure is what the killer in msixy dreams actually looks like.

Sometimes he's blond. Sometimes, he has dark hair. the one thing that is always consistent is the bright bottle-green eyes that seem to glow from within with an almost demonic light. I may not know if his "victims" exist, but I know that he is real. I've seen him in the flesh.

About six or seven years ago, I was at the counter of the local Speedway paying for my coffee and shooting the shiat with the manager.  I noticed a guy in a hoodie snaking his arm over the counter to snatch some Marlboros when he thought no one was watching.  I pointed this out to the manager, who said "Sir, can I help you with something?"

The hooded individual said "no" and as he walked out of the store, looked directly into my eyes.  His eyes were the same glowing green from my nightmares.  They were the same eyes of the hooded driver of the beat-up Jeep wrangler that followed me out of the parking lot ten minutes later.  They were the same eyes that glared into my rearview mirror for the forty-five minutes that it took for me to drive in circles until I lost him and felt safe going home to my farm which was only six miles from the local Speedway.

That was the most terrifying forty-five minutes of my life.
 
2017-10-30 9:11:42 PM  
1 vote:
I can't believe I'm just finding this now.. I'm not ready!!
 
2017-10-30 8:25:08 PM  
1 vote:

Parthenogenetic: Now this is a story all about how
My life got flipped turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became mad from dismay and despair

To West Antarctica's where we sailed
Found a plateau in mountains that no man had scaled
Chillin' out, explorin', recordin' all cool
Diggin' up relics for Miskatonic U.
When a couple of *things* that we thought were interred
Started makin' trouble in our neighborhood
We got in one little fight and were forced to flee
And now I'm haunted by the shoggoth's wail of "Tekeli-li!"

http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/te​xts/fiction/mm.aspx


Dammit, and now that I've actually gone and re-read the story, the expedition was from Miskatonic University, not Arkham.  I blame too much Batman.

Edited.
 
2017-10-30 7:40:19 PM  
1 vote:
This is an experience I had that I posted in last year's thread.

I've had a number of strange experiences here in Montreal.  One that really freaked me out happened in my prior apartment.  It was an old building built in 1927.
I used to have my computer desk in the dining room.  Next to the computer desk was a small glass-top side table.  Also in the dining room was a large glass-top dining table with a glass flower vase in the center.  At around 9:00 pm the night in question, I was on the computer when "something" smashed down onto the glass top of the small side table next to the computer desk.   The glass top was not heavy and there was nothing sitting on top of it.  The only way I could describe it was as if someone slammed their fist down on top of it.
I freaked out.  I sat there frozen staring at the table for about 10 minutes not knowing what to do.  During that time my eyes starting playing tricks on me.  I have no idea if my panicked state was causing it, but my eyes started to see things moving around the table.
Then it continued.
Just as I think I'm getting brave enough to even stand up from my chair, the flower vase on the dining-room table began to crack from the bottom up along the sides.  As water started to leak out of it, I ran to the kitchen to get a towel to try and stop the water from dripping onto the floor.  About a half-hour later my friend came home to me in my frantic state.
For the next week other strange things kept happening.  We would be in the living room and hear things moving around in the other rooms. I remember once hearing my work door pass being picked up and dropped back down on the computer desk.
It was at that point that my friend suggested I speak out to whatever was doing this and to ask it to leave as it was scaring us.  So I did.
The strange stuff stopped happening from that point forward.
 
2017-10-30 7:20:41 PM  
1 vote:

nmrsnr: sxacho: I moved into my dumpy old rental house a year ago today. It was built in 1925 and is settling and mostly all original. I fairly often hear the old doorknobs rattle and squeek at night when I'm trying to sleep. It freaked me out at first and I'd turn on all the lights and investigate every room. Now I can just fall  back asleep and ignore it.

You sure that's what it is, you sure it's not The Rats in the Walls?


img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-30 7:13:15 PM  
1 vote:
99 Luftballoons has haunted me for years.
 
2017-10-30 7:10:41 PM  
1 vote:
And then President Trump won his reelection and defeated his impeachment, thanks to the actions of Chief Justice Roy Moore...
 
2017-10-30 7:07:21 PM  
1 vote:
I was visiting someone at a nursing home. The lady in the next room was sitting in a wheelchair with her eyes closed. As I was leaving my friend's room, the lady in the next room opened her eyes when I looked at her. I stepped in and said hello. She asked me to kill her. I was shocked. I asked why. She said "You know why". Then shut her eyes again.
As I was leaving, I told the nurse. She said that it was impossible. The patient was near comatose and had been non communicative for a long time.
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2017-10-30 10:40:22 AM  
1 vote:
Psychopusher:

Ooh, nice. As a new-ish dad, I can relate to this one.

I've said to the Mrs. as we play with the little one in the basement, and hear the crackle of the baby monitor in her room upstairs, wouldn't it be creepy if we heard a baby cry over the monitor? Which one would be the real one?
 
2017-10-26 5:05:01 AM  
1 vote:
Our nuclear arsenal is commanded by someone who thinks nuclear weapons are no good if you don't use them.  He thinks that a great war will immortalize him.  Our diplomatic relations come from angry tweets.  Acceptable loss in a nuclear war is 50 million people.  Sweet dreams.
 
2017-10-25 12:54:08 PM  
1 vote:
Take a Second Look (continued):

          She was so beautiful, so perfect, so... complete! I gazed down at this monster cradled in my arms and the clock of reality stopped for what seemed a long while. And while it was stopped, it seemed as if all the certainties and opinions, fact and fancy, gods and devils, learning and superstition, and presumed good and evil of the world paraded in front of me and presented themselves in their confused splendor for my inspection and evaluation. I considered their worth, and then, finally, turned my gaze outward. She was very near. I kissed her.

Her lips were not ice cold, like the movies and books would have you believe, but were still somewhat cool to my lips. But it was not like kissing a corpse. I knew, with a pristine shining certainty, that this was, rather, a vibrantly alive woman who was needing and yearning, and who was responding to the growing passions that I - may God help me - was in turn feeling for her.

Somehow, I will never be sure just how or when, we joined together and I lost control. My perception of, and need for the world imploded into a monomaniacal, thrusting, awareness of the joining that we had created. She responded. Her back arched and she cried out. The sounds she made were inarticulate, but the thwarted meaning was clear: she needed something more. I knew what it was.

I gently pulled her head down next to mine, stroking her hair, her cheeks, her lips, and traced with a single finger, each in turn, the deadly ivory outlines of her need. We mouthed mindless and soundless words to each other, neither of us knowing or caring what was said, valuing only that they were said. Then - at last - I turned my head away, bared my neck to her desire, and said goodbye to the world.

          Her fangs slid in easily, almost without sensation, with just a faint whisper, a dim lost echo, of pain. I felt paralyzed; even if I had wanted to, I could not have moved in the least. But I didn't want to: her control over my will and desire was total, and I wished only to lie there, next to this beautiful, wonderful monster, and listen to the gentle sucking sound of life - my life! - filling and renewing her existence.

It was more than just a simple extraction of fluid; it was as if my very essence was being consumed. I could feel her need for the blood, but in the furious swirling of my soul I also felt something else. It almost seemed as though her ultimate thirst was not for the mere material qualities of the blood, but for the metaphysical things that made me human: the joys and sorrows and hopes and fears that defined and made real the vector sum of my existence as a being. It was as though she sought to steal my spirit, my battery's life force, to re-energize her own.

Her feeding stopped. The draining of my soul was suspended and there was a silence in the room, a serene and peaceful hush. I felt her lips and tongue kiss and lick the wound, and - incredibly - felt the punctures itch and move as my flesh and skin healed. She then lifted her head, and looked at my face. Hers was an open, trembling question mark.

I looked at her, and felt her body under my hands. She now had a muted flush to her cheeks, and a hint of warmth to her skin, and I knew, somehow, that I had not really sustained her, that what she had taken was not enough to survive. But I also knew that I had brought a small measure of life, albeit of a temporary sort, to someone who had none of her own to give, and that she was grateful for the fact that it was freely given.

And yet, in a sense, she did have life to give. She had given me back my life. I thought: some humans are Undead, more-so than Jean; their souls and minds are frozen, unchanging, trapped like ancient pine needles embedded in amber. Jean's body may be Undead, but her mind-soul-spirit is very much alive. She gave me some of that vitality, and brought me back, for a time, from the living death that I now endure.

I looked at her, and then pulled her head down again and kissed her red upon red lips. She put her head, once more, into the curve of my neck and snuggled close to me. I closed my eyes and slept.

* * *

I returned to her apartment many times, always just before dusk, to make sure she would be there. From the very first, there was no fear or aversion or doubt. I saw beyond the merely physical aspects of what I came to think of as her medical condition. She saw beyond the fact of my mere humanity, my natural status as prey, to regard me as her lover. The trust and passion was mutual and complete. I was consumed with her, and (in no small part) by her, relying on the strength of her willpower and love to hold instinct in check. And she, in turn, surrendered the safeguarding of her immortality into the hands and judgment of a mortal.

It was she who called an end to the relationship. I would have had it continue until my end. In spite of the blindness that is often caused by passion, she finally saw the weakness of my body and spirit that was being created by her constant tiny attentions. And, after nursing me back to health with orange juice, high protein liquids, and large portions of rare red meat, she insisted that the affair be terminated.

          I begged her to finish it and make me like her. She responded that two such as herself could never feel the same depth of passion as we had felt, that something else - some part of the soul? - seemed to die with the body. Her kind were solitary predators; though they could and did meet socially, there was always a layer of reservation that made each of them sufficient unto themselves. She offered the boon I asked, but insisted that it would mean the death of our love for each other.

She, rather, held out the possibility that one day after I had fully recovered we could again share together in the ways that brought us so much ecstasy. And she promised that, were I on death's doorstep, she would know it and come to me, and - should I still want it - give me the boon I asked.

* * *

That was some time ago. I have not seen Jean in several months. I've returned, many times, to the Nigh... to that bar..., but I think that she, and the others, are avoiding me. No, I haven't tried going back to her apartment. My rationalizations will work only so far and - even now - I still want to live.

Jean really did awaken a new sense of life in me: a fresh ability to seek, to care, a desire to once again reach out and grasp the world by its rumpled collar and shake something new and starched and shiny out of that stained and careworn cloth. But, as with her, I am now one of the world's living dead. The generator has had too much corruption thrown into its rusting windings, and the battery has been drained too many times and now cannot hold a charge.

I cannot seem to find within me the desire to self-perpetuate that sense of passionate living that Jean re-awakened in my soul. And if I go back to her, I'm afraid of what might happen, of what I might ask of her. It's like an addiction, you see. It must be adaptive evolution of a sort, a mutation: her kind must possess a pheromone that functions as a sexual attractant. That's how they feed, as well as create new generations, by attracting addicted humans to be - not only their willing converts - but their willing victims...

But things are coming to a head. This pathetic safety net of mine is going to unravel very soon now. They're banning aluminum cans and glass bottles next month, and there's no decent money any more in plastic. My identification papers were taken by the police last week, and now they can't seem to find them. Without papers, I can't get a work permit. My final emergency unemployment insurance expires next month. The food stamp allotment has already been taken away, and the soup kitchen lost its permit and closed down two days ago. The government medical insurance has been stopped, and the Siberian Flu season is coming soon. Someone stole my bedroll two days ago. I have no idea what I will do...

...Perhaps I will take Jean up on her kind offer...

..........................Yes.

...I'll be seeing you!

* * * * *

 
2017-10-25 11:52:57 AM  
1 vote:
This is my entry. I wrote this story for the October Ladies of Horror Flash Project. It's a monthly writing exercise using a picture prompt. Below are the link to the original, my picture for October, and the story. If you like it, please go to the site and "like" the post and comment. Thanks! :) Enjoy the story. :D

https://ninadarc.wordpress.com/2017/1​0​/24/ladies-of-horror-flash-project-hor​ror-author-e-a-black-elizabethablack-s​otet_angyal-loh-fiction-5/

img.fark.netView Full Size


The Blind Date
by E.A. Black

'Where are you?' Jeanette texted. It was the third time she asked. She hated it when men kept her waiting.

'Here.' Her phone pinged. It took him over a minute to return her text. What was he, some kind of Luddite?

She climbed the steep stairs past the wrought iron gate towards the abandoned Hasker mansion. The place had been in disrepair for decades. Didn't anyone own it? The brick monstrosity was a real fixer-upper, if you didn't mind lead paint peeling from the walls and poisoned water from bad pipes.

'Where is here? I'm on the stairs. Out of breath, if you may ask.'

'In the ballroom.' he texted after 45 seconds. At this rate, she'd be inside the house before she caught up with him.

The tall wooden door creaked as she used all her strength to push it open. She was surprised it was unlocked but people had been breaking into the Hasker mansion for as long as she knew it existed. The lock to the front door was broken. She walked into the yawning foyer and texted him again.

'You're in the ballroom?'

'The ballroom.' 30 seconds this time. His speed was improving.

Jeanette had been on blind dates several times but never before had she been on a blind date to a mansion haunted by demons. Both she and Steve discovered they had a taste for the macabre and chose the Hasker mansion as their first date. As long as they didn't get caught by the police, all was cool.
She walked to the ballroom but didn't see him anywhere.

'Where are you? I'm in the ballroom but I don't see you.' she texted.

Her phone rang. It was Steve.

"Jeanette, my car won't start. I'm stuck in my driveway. You want to do something else tonight or is it a rain check?"

A chill descended upon her. "You're not at the mansion?"

"No. I'm home. Why? Are you there?"

"Have you been texting me?"

"No."

"If it wasn't you, then who was it?"

Her phone pinged again. She looked at her text message and her blood ran cold.

'Turn around.'
 
2017-10-25 11:19:18 AM  
1 vote:

FarkingReading: 70Ford: I once passed a beat up '79 Ford pickup on the highway with a white refrigerator on the back of it.
A few miles down the highway,  I passed the same beat up truck with the same white fridge on the back of it.

We named the dog Indiana.


I forgot to mention, I hadn't stopped anywhere, so the truck could not have passed me, yet, there it was again. It was a ghost truck, in broad daylight, hauling a refrigerator to Hell.
 
2017-10-25 11:09:53 AM  
1 vote:

hobbes0022: When me and my husband were about to have our first baby the house hunting began.  We had lived in a small 2 bedroom apartment for a few years, but thought a home with a nice yard was absolutely necessary when raising a kid, also i love to garden and the small potted plants outside the window wasn't cutting it.  The pre-approval process and house hunting with our idiot realtor could have been the scary story, but actually, we didn't end up buying a house at this time.  After a few months of house hunting and not finding anything within our budget we could both agree too we talked through it a little more, realistically an infant is not going to be playing in a yard, we have at least a few more years before it becomes a real concern, and i work full time anyway, so my gardening hobby it's all that important.  So we stuck around the apartment until Camden was 3 and i was pregnant again, this time we were much better prepared for finding a home, and instead of going with a traditional realtor we used RedFin.  After a few weeks we found what looked like the perfect house, it was quaint cottage type house in a good neighbor hood, 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, nice kitchen, good playroom in the basement.  The yard was fenced in, and bare soil neatly bordered the outside of the house, with a matching border bordering the inside of the fence.  Lush green grass sprawled between the two borders, in the spring this would be the perfect place for a garden.  We quickly contacted our agent and made a bid on the house, it was at the high end of the other houses in the neighborhood but still will within our budget. At closing we found out the previous owner had died in his late 50's, and his adult children were selling the house.  They told us their dad was a jack-of-all trades guy who would do all of his own house repairs, but also had a full-time job as an entomologist.  That was interesting, but also kind of boring, we just wanted to close on the house and start getting moved in.  At the end of closing, besides the key, they also gave us their dad's journal, telling us he insisted that whomever buys the house take the journal to get a history of everything he's done on the house.  Again, interesting, but we don't plan on making any major changes, so i throw the journal in my shoulder bag.  We move in early-fall, Halloween in the new neighborhood goes off without a hitch, everyone is very friendly.  During Christmas the whole family is very cheery around a nice fireplace.  As spring approaches my work tells me I will be making an off-site visit across the country in a month.  I look at my schedule, and plan day off before the trip, as those with an infant and toddler know, you don't really have time to do anything, unless you get a day off from everyone.  The day before the trip i drop the kids off at day-care, and begin working on the garden.  I probably won't have another real day to get this done so i go to town on everything, I go to an organic supermarket and ask them what grows best in the area, and then follow up buying all that organic fruit.  I always thought, why use one seed when you can use giant bunch of them.  I cut the fruit into slices and bury them in neat patch all around the border.  I do the same with the vegetables, i'm not exactly a gardening expert, but this seems like it should work.  After a long day the entire garden has been turned and planted.  I shower pick up the kids, and we all go out for dinner before my trip.  In the morning I give my kids a kiss on the forehead as the are still sleeping, and give my husband an affectionate goodbye before driving to the airport.  After the trip, and the meetings, i'm back in the hotel, i've Skyped the family and their having fun, but due to a 3 hr difference i'm still wide awake when they go to bed.  I watch TV for a few hours, then go through my shoulder bag to makes sure I have all my things before my trip back tomorrow.  I find the homeowners journal still in my bag and chuckle, what the heck do we need a journal for?  I toss it towards the garbage bin, but it misses and flops open to near the end of the journal, the top of the page is titled:

DO NOT GARDEN IN THIS YARD

I feel a pit in my stomach as i retrieve the journal, going back to the beginning it's all a boring account of normal housekeep, but towards the end every page is titled "DO NOT GARDEN IN THIS YARD".

I go back to the first page with this claim:

I'm not sure how it happened, but on my last trip to Australia, a Bulldog ant must have somehow came back with me.  I didn't realize this until I was working in the garden and felt an incredible pain in my hand.  I was shocked at what I saw, but what's more concerning is it didn't look exactly like a Bulldog Ant, it also looked a little like Argentine Ant.  I know these are invasive throughout the US, but I've never heard of these two ants mating.  The Argentine ants reproduce incredible quickly, so once i noticed what bit me i did a through search of the house and some had made it inside.  I immediately bought multiple containers of pesticide (sorry bugs), and sprayed the entire garden.  Know these bugs, i'm going to have to rip the gardens out to prevent them from expanding.

Next Page:

I think i've gotten rid of any of the ants that made it into the house, when i sprayed yesterday the fled either into the house or into the lawn.  Luckily, they hadn't expanded enough to make a significant impact on the house.  Knowing how fast they move, and how quickly they can kill, i still didn't sleep through the night, I need to be sure there are none in the house before i attempt to sleep again.

Next Page:

I'm fairly certain the house is clear, i'm spraying the gardens with pesticides every day to be sure they are not expanding, i'm going to rent a hotel room for the night so i can actually get some sleep.

Next Page:

I'm fairly certain the house is clear, i'm spraying the gardens with pesticides every day to be sure they are not expanding, i'm going to rent a hotel room for the night so i can actually get some sleep.

Next Page:

I'm officially saying the house is clear, I haven't seen them for two days, i think i'll leave some food out by the door to see if they come in.  I'm spraying everyday now, so i doubt it, I've also begun spraying the lawn.  I'm pretty sure it's been contained.

Next Page:

The food was completely clear, i'm officially going to sleep back in my house tonight.  Sprayed the yard and borders again, this time i put food out on the borders, and the lawn, hopefully this menace has been handled.

Next Page:

Well the food on the borders were clear, but the food on the lawn was completely devoured.  I'm continuing to spray and set up food, they appear to be in this for the long haul.

Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured

I think i'm going to vomit.  I call my husband, pick-up, pick-up, pick-up, pick-up, he answers groggy.  He says hello then "ewe", he tells me something was crawling on his phone.  He turns on the light and then goes into a panic, "they're everywhere", almost on queue i hear the children begin wailing in the background.


Just wanted to say, it's damn hard to come up with an original story.  I read a few good ones, and I might repeat them later on.  But I made this one up entirely, I guess it's kind of Arachnophobia-esque, but like I said, it's damn hard to come up with something original.
 
2017-10-25 11:00:08 AM  
1 vote:
This is a prologue to a novella I did a few years back.

          Nee-me-poo is what these people called themselves once. Now they don't have a name. They followed their loved ones up into the mountain. There they saw the great god in the small lake called Kamiah. Blessed with his calling they watched as child, elder, fox, and deer offered themselves to the drowned belly. Certain by the stories of the chiefs that all their people would be saved by Coyote they dug into the sides of the hills. Slowly they carved out their homes in rock. A great sorrow soon overcame them. The great god Kamiah grew hungry. His feast of animals and the people increased every year.

            A young village girl is prepared as a sacrifice. Blessed with lake-water the children of Kamiah grow on her skin. They burrow into her filling the child with the will of the god. She rises out of her bed and begins her dark steps. Her father is a Chief and out of his ignorance he stops her from leaving to the water. The child's eyes grow dark with the hunger of Kamiah. The great god bellows deep beneath the water and all the people cry in fear. Kamiah spits at the people with such a strength they cannot withstand. The water rises out of the ground and washes the people to the lake.

            The Chief is strong and brave. He lifts his beloved daughter up into his arms and carries her past the edge of the lake. The children of Kamiah grow on his skin as well. He cuts at them with his stone blade. He stands on the ground and lets out a terrible cry. His strength falters and his knees bend down into the water. His daughter becomes undone by the children of the god. Her face becomes dark and frayed like worn cloth. The Chief knows then it is his punishment for defying Kamiah. The last thing he sees in his life is his daughter's eyes. They fall away into the water like bubbles in a stream, and leave only a writhing mass of the god's children.

            His grief overcomes him. He takes his knife and cuts out his own eyes. He raises them to the god and blindly asks for his forgiveness. Kamiah growls louder and raises out of the water. The stomach of the god opens and swallows the Chief along with all his people. Before death finds him, the Chief calls out to Coyote and doesn't hear an answer. The god became sated by all he had eaten. He entered sleep beneath the water and waits.

-From Appendix M of Forgotten Stories of the Nez Perce
 
2017-10-25 10:57:53 AM  
1 vote:
This is a prologue to a novella I did a few years back.

          Nee-me-poo is what these people called themselves once. Now they don't have a name. They followed their loved ones up into the mountain. There they saw the great god in the small lake called Kamiah. Blessed with his calling they watched as child, elder, fox, and deer offered themselves to the drowned belly. Certain by the stories of the chiefs that all their people would be saved by Coyote they dug into the sides of the hills. Slowly they carved out their homes in rock. A great sorrow soon overcame them. The great god Kamiah grew hungry. His feast of animals and the people increased every year.
            A young village girl is prepared as a sacrifice. Blessed with lake-water the children of Kamiah grow on her skin. They burrow into her filling the child with the will of the god. She rises out of her bed and begins her dark steps. Her father is a Chief and out of his ignorance he stops her from leaving to the water. The child's eyes grow dark with the hunger of Kamiah. The great god bellows deep beneath the water and all the people cry in fear. Kamiah spits at the people with such a strength they cannot withstand. The water rises out of the ground and washes the people to the lake.
            The Chief is strong and brave. He lifts his beloved daughter up into his arms and carries her past the edge of the lake. The children of Kamiah grow on his skin as well. He cuts at them with his stone blade. He stands on the ground and lets out a terrible cry. His strength falters and his knees bend down into the water. His daughter becomes undone by the children of the god. Her face becomes dark and frayed like worn cloth. The Chief knows then it is his punishment for defying Kamiah. The last thing he sees in his life is his daughter's eyes. They fall away into the water like bubbles in a stream, and leave only a writhing mass of the god's children.
            His grief overcomes him. He takes his knife and cuts out his own eyes. He raises them to the god and blindly asks for his forgiveness. Kamiah growls louder and raises out of the water. The stomach of the god opens and swallows the Chief along with all his people. Before death finds him, the Chief calls out to Coyote and doesn't hear an answer. The god became sated by all he had eaten. He entered sleep beneath the water and waits.
-From Appendix M of Forgotten Stories of the Nez Perce
 
2017-10-25 10:48:05 AM  
1 vote:

mama2tnt: thatguyoverthere70: biracial shake

As an editor: change it to "miscegenated shake" instead.

/that is all


"miscegenated milkshake" for the alliteration.
 
2017-10-25 10:21:46 AM  
1 vote:
When me and my husband were about to have our first baby the house hunting began.  We had lived in a small 2 bedroom apartment for a few years, but thought a home with a nice yard was absolutely necessary when raising a kid, also i love to garden and the small potted plants outside the window wasn't cutting it.  The pre-approval process and house hunting with our idiot realtor could have been the scary story, but actually, we didn't end up buying a house at this time.  After a few months of house hunting and not finding anything within our budget we could both agree too we talked through it a little more, realistically an infant is not going to be playing in a yard, we have at least a few more years before it becomes a real concern, and i work full time anyway, so my gardening hobby it's all that important.  So we stuck around the apartment until Camden was 3 and i was pregnant again, this time we were much better prepared for finding a home, and instead of going with a traditional realtor we used RedFin.  After a few weeks we found what looked like the perfect house, it was quaint cottage type house in a good neighbor hood, 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, nice kitchen, good playroom in the basement.  The yard was fenced in, and bare soil neatly bordered the outside of the house, with a matching border bordering the inside of the fence.  Lush green grass sprawled between the two borders, in the spring this would be the perfect place for a garden.  We quickly contacted our agent and made a bid on the house, it was at the high end of the other houses in the neighborhood but still will within our budget. At closing we found out the previous owner had died in his late 50's, and his adult children were selling the house.  They told us their dad was a jack-of-all trades guy who would do all of his own house repairs, but also had a full-time job as an entomologist.  That was interesting, but also kind of boring, we just wanted to close on the house and start getting moved in.  At the end of closing, besides the key, they also gave us their dad's journal, telling us he insisted that whomever buys the house take the journal to get a history of everything he's done on the house.  Again, interesting, but we don't plan on making any major changes, so i throw the journal in my shoulder bag.  We move in early-fall, Halloween in the new neighborhood goes off without a hitch, everyone is very friendly.  During Christmas the whole family is very cheery around a nice fireplace.  As spring approaches my work tells me I will be making an off-site visit across the country in a month.  I look at my schedule, and plan day off before the trip, as those with an infant and toddler know, you don't really have time to do anything, unless you get a day off from everyone.  The day before the trip i drop the kids off at day-care, and begin working on the garden.  I probably won't have another real day to get this done so i go to town on everything, I go to an organic supermarket and ask them what grows best in the area, and then follow up buying all that organic fruit.  I always thought, why use one seed when you can use giant bunch of them.  I cut the fruit into slices and bury them in neat patch all around the border.  I do the same with the vegetables, i'm not exactly a gardening expert, but this seems like it should work.  After a long day the entire garden has been turned and planted.  I shower pick up the kids, and we all go out for dinner before my trip.  In the morning I give my kids a kiss on the forehead as the are still sleeping, and give my husband an affectionate goodbye before driving to the airport.  After the trip, and the meetings, i'm back in the hotel, i've Skyped the family and their having fun, but due to a 3 hr difference i'm still wide awake when they go to bed.  I watch TV for a few hours, then go through my shoulder bag to makes sure I have all my things before my trip back tomorrow.  I find the homeowners journal still in my bag and chuckle, what the heck do we need a journal for?  I toss it towards the garbage bin, but it misses and flops open to near the end of the journal, the top of the page is titled:

DO NOT GARDEN IN THIS YARD

I feel a pit in my stomach as i retrieve the journal, going back to the beginning it's all a boring account of normal housekeep, but towards the end every page is titled "DO NOT GARDEN IN THIS YARD".

I go back to the first page with this claim:

I'm not sure how it happened, but on my last trip to Australia, a Bulldog ant must have somehow came back with me.  I didn't realize this until I was working in the garden and felt an incredible pain in my hand.  I was shocked at what I saw, but what's more concerning is it didn't look exactly like a Bulldog Ant, it also looked a little like Argentine Ant.  I know these are invasive throughout the US, but I've never heard of these two ants mating.  The Argentine ants reproduce incredible quickly, so once i noticed what bit me i did a through search of the house and some had made it inside.  I immediately bought multiple containers of pesticide (sorry bugs), and sprayed the entire garden.  Know these bugs, i'm going to have to rip the gardens out to prevent them from expanding.

Next Page:

I think i've gotten rid of any of the ants that made it into the house, when i sprayed yesterday the fled either into the house or into the lawn.  Luckily, they hadn't expanded enough to make a significant impact on the house.  Knowing how fast they move, and how quickly they can kill, i still didn't sleep through the night, I need to be sure there are none in the house before i attempt to sleep again.

Next Page:

I'm fairly certain the house is clear, i'm spraying the gardens with pesticides every day to be sure they are not expanding, i'm going to rent a hotel room for the night so i can actually get some sleep.

Next Page:

I'm fairly certain the house is clear, i'm spraying the gardens with pesticides every day to be sure they are not expanding, i'm going to rent a hotel room for the night so i can actually get some sleep.

Next Page:

I'm officially saying the house is clear, I haven't seen them for two days, i think i'll leave some food out by the door to see if they come in.  I'm spraying everyday now, so i doubt it, I've also begun spraying the lawn.  I'm pretty sure it's been contained.

Next Page:

The food was completely clear, i'm officially going to sleep back in my house tonight.  Sprayed the yard and borders again, this time i put food out on the borders, and the lawn, hopefully this menace has been handled.

Next Page:

Well the food on the borders were clear, but the food on the lawn was completely devoured.  I'm continuing to spray and set up food, they appear to be in this for the long haul.

Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured
Next Page: Lawn food still devoured

I think i'm going to vomit.  I call my husband, pick-up, pick-up, pick-up, pick-up, he answers groggy.  He says hello then "ewe", he tells me something was crawling on his phone.  He turns on the light and then goes into a panic, "they're everywhere", almost on queue i hear the children begin wailing in the background.
 
2017-10-25 9:31:02 AM  
1 vote:
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 seven (five during the soviet era). We lost two, the Thresher (SSN-593) and the Scorpion (SSN-589). There are official explanations, at least on our side; the Scorpion was lost in 1968, and there are as many explanations as there are submariners; officially it was due to charge reversal and resultant explosion of the ship's battery. Just what might have caused that to happen is left unexplained. The Thresher was lost in 1963 off the Atlantic coast due to an unexpected loss of electrical power and subsequent reactor shutdown, loss of propulsion and depth control. Now, just what in the world could cause an "unexpected loss of electrical power?" I wish I knew, because the thought of such a thing keeps me up nights-mainly because it happened to us, too.

This was sometime during the early 1980's, somewhere in the North Atlantic. Watch conditions were "shiat in the tanks, air in the banks, ahead 2/3rds going THAT way," and there were no sonar contacts to speak of when I was headed back to take the watch; I used to like to drop by the control room to see what was up on the "spook board" before heading back to my watch station in the maneuvering room in engineering. I was standing watch as RO (Reactor Operator) in front of the Reactor Plant Control Panel (RPCP); to my left was the Throttleman at the Steam Plant Control Panel (the SPCP, the Navy is REALLY into acronyms), to my right the Electrical Operator (at the EPCP, of course), and behind him was the Engineering Officer of the Watch (the EOOW), the officer nominally in charge of the aft half of the ship.

Since we were in the North Atlantic, the sea water was pretty cold.No big deal, mainly it just meant that the steam plant was more efficient than usual, and the AC plant didn't have to work as hard. The bunk spaces got a little chilly, but that's why they issued us blankets, right? Wear your socks to bed if you must, you lightweight non-qual dink puke. We were due for a field day (all hands turn-to and clean the ship), and the CO had arranged with higher for a Norwegian diesel boat to take our station while we pulled farther out to sea where the bad guys were less likely to hear us if we made some noise, and no sooner had we started in earnest when all hell broke loose.

Understand, we were in international waters but we were also right in Ivan's back yard, and when Ivan gets angry he doesn't hold much back. This time, it looked like he was angry enough to be starting WWIII; EVERYTHING came out of the ports we were hanging outside of; there were whole squadrons of aircraft dropping active sonobouys ahead of literally everything that could float charging out of the harbors with active sonars pinging away like mad.They had that poor Norwegian boat surrounded before he had a chance to get away.He was in a box of Krivak ASW ships continuously pinging at him; it had to have been awful. And all the rest of that stuff was coming our way.

I'm not an expert in submarine warfare, but I've read a lot of Tom Clancy, so I kind of figured out some of what had to have happened later on; at the time I was stuck in Maneuvering and only had data from the power plant, the depth gauge repeater and the seat of my pants. I know we did a lot of fancy twisting and turning, porpoising up and down in depth; basically trying to stay ahead of them in the places where they weren't listening. I don't think anybody knows whether the reds knew we were out there and intentionally herded us where they did, or if they just knew about whatever it was and inadvertently herded us into it in their effort to stay away from it; I just know what happened, and what happened to us was absolutely terrifying.

We train for just about every possible casualty in the Navy, and the scariest ones are not necessarily what you might think. You might think that flooding would be the worst, and "water in the people tank" is up there; but we train for that until our fingers are pruny in a damage control trainer in Groton Connecticut.Fire is MUCH worse underway, and will generally kill you in a more painful fashion. But the absolute worst is the loss of all AC power.

Imagine that you are trapped in a steel tube thirty feet in diameter and about 300 feet long, travelling at nearly 20 miles an hour more than 400 feet underwater (maybe quite a lot more than 400 feet underwater) in which literally everything is dependent upon electricity, and suddenly everything goes picth black.All the fans that supply breathable air, whose hum you edit out of conscious hearing, suddenly quit. Everything just goes dead, but no alarms are ringing because there is no power to set them off; silence. There's no air conditioning and no circulation, so suddenly it's stifling hot, and if you're even a little claustrophobic (and who isn't?) the walls suddenly seem a LOT closer than they were a moment ago. As Reactor Operator, you KNOW that the plant is not in a safe condition because the pumps that cool the reactor have stopped.The control rods have dropped shutting the reactor down (loss of power will do that), but that thing is HOT and always needs cooling water or really bad things will start to happen soonish. There was total silence for a few seconds as we were all stunned, then there was a lot of yelling, maybe even some screaming.Hell, some of it might have come from me.

Submarines are designed with multiple redundancies so that this sort of thing is not possible underway; nevertheless, there are systems that will kick in and save your ass. We have what are called "battle lanterns," battery powered lights we switch on if we lose power; the ships battery and motor/generator sets which supply power to the main electrical system likewise.We are NOT supposed to be able to lose AC power while underway.

But we did.

Not only did we lose AC, we lost the battery too.How the hell does a battery that weighs several tons not push out electrons? Batteries in ALL the battle lanterns died too, the instant we tried to turn them on. That, my friends, is the definition of terror. You're in the dark, an eighth of a mile underwater with an overheating nuclear reactor a few yards away, and half the laws of physics seem to have been suspended... and then you hit something.

There was nothing on the navigation charts, we checked them later.The ocean where we were was more than a mile deep.No other subs around; we would have heard them (the Russians were LOUD back then).We were too far south for icebergs at that time of year (this was before global warming was really hitting its stride, remember)... but the boat shuddered and rang as something large and very hard scraped down our starboard side.

We still had hydraulics for a bit coontil the pressure dropped and the pumps failed to kick in), and we still had steam from the residual heat in the reactor plant. Thank god the Navy had changed safety procedures after the Thresher, and our Main Steam Stops stayed open; that meant the turbines kept turning, and the screw kept spinning, and we coasted out the other side. We spent two and a half minutes in the dark before the lights came back on; the turbine generators had been spinning all along at full load, they just weren't supplying any power. The batteries all stayed dead, though.

Once we had power back, our training kicked in and we were able to recover from the multiple casualties and save the ship. Nobody ever talked much about it, but I assume that the captain put it in the logbook; something like, "unknown underwater phenomenon nearly a mile in diameter with hard central area suppressed all non-biological electrical activity near coordinates..."
 
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