This contest has ended. Thanks to everyone who made it our biggest contest yet! You can still read every bone-chilling entry in the comments below! To see the winners, click here.

A year has come an gone since we first kicked off our Scary Story Contest and we’ve been itching to hear the scariest stories on earth. Last year we had some awesome entries (we’re still talking about how we want to live in the haunted farm house in South Carolina.) and we expect that this year is not going to be any different.
We’re not looking for R.L. Stine-esque, elementary-school-level Goosebumps rip-offs. We want terrifying stories, fiction or non-fiction, (the non-fiction ones are the best) that will make our skin crawl away from fear. Horrify us (and our readers) and you’ll find yourself the owner of the brand new Amazon Kindle, that you can fill with terrifying reads from all the great authors, from Mary Shelly to Stephen King (and thousands of titles are available for free).
Put your stories in the comments below and the story with the most votes at Midnight PST, October 31st (that’s Halloween, FYI) will be given an Amazon Kindle. And just to make things extra awesome, one lucky, random entrant will win a $50 gift certificate to

Go ahead, scare the crap out of us.

(To vote, click the thumbs up underneath a comment. Cool.)

51 comments on “The Scariest Freaking Story Ever Contest 2010

  • It all started out so normal and ended up anything but normal. It was a typical Friday and school was out for the weekend, chores were done, and it was time to get ready for my double date. The boys came and we went out to eat and dancing afterward decided to end the date and start dropping everyone off at home. So we went to drop off one of the boys first because he lived the furthest away. We lived in a rural area where farming was the primary occupation and there were about four different communities at least ten minutes apart. This means that very few of the roads had lights and it was a two lane road. But before we dropped this boy off at his house we stopped in the foothills and just talked for a while before going onto his house.
    But as we were sitting there talking we started to see this bright light in the sky. We continued to talk but the light continued to get brighter and it kept coming toward us. At first we thought it was a satellite or a plane but it moved much faster than a satellite and it moved differently than planes and it was circular in shape. Even the lights were a strange color and shape on it. At this point we expected it to turn but it kept coming straight and right toward us and it didn’t move up, instead it moved down towards our car like it was going to hit us. At this point we couldn’t even scream, we all just ducked and tried to get as low as we could because we were sure it was going to hit us. But luckily it didn’t hit us and even though our car had shook, we had survived whatever it was.
    We slowly moved so that we could see out the front windows to see if it was gone and we thought it was but the stupid thing had circled around and came back and did the same exact thing. It swooped down and went over our car again. At this point we were screaming and basically on each others laps. And after the second time we pretty much stayed ducked down but our curiosity was still there so instead of keeping our heads ducked and our eyes closed we kept our heads low but would peak over the dashboard and the stupid thing came back a third time and it couldn’t have been more than a few feet above our car. It was so scary I’m surprised my heart continued to beat.
    After that we stayed still waiting for it to come again but fortunately it didn’t. We sat there for a few minutes catching our breath and trying to get our nerve up so that we could leave. The roads were so dark and I think we tripled the speed limit cause we were so scared and just wanted to go home. We dropped off the one guy at his house and drove to the other town where my date dropped both my friend and I off. We didn’t say a word to each other, it’s like we were struck dumb. But we did talk about it after that and we’re all in agreement that it wasn’t a plane, satellite or anything else that we had ever seen before or since.

  • Roy Daley took another drink of his scalding coffee, sighed deeply and tried to focus. He was driving on an unfamiliar road and it was raining. How tedious these out of town meetings were becoming. He wished – not for the first time – that these trainings were far enough away that he could rack up some frequent flier miles. Waiting in airports wasn’t exactly the best, but at least he could sleep while someone else was at the wheel. And yes, he could even go for a pack of those silly peanuts right now. The crunching would help him stay awake.
    He shook himself again. Had he just dozed off? Maybe he’d better pull over before he ended up in a ditch. Brenda would be waiting up for him, but it would be better to arrive late than not make it home at all he sleepily reasoned. Driving on, looking for a pull-out to get a quick nap, he became aware that his radio had suddenly clicked on. It was crackly, and the static made the voice hard to hear. Gosh, I hate talk shows he thought to himself as he reached down to fiddle with the dial and find some music. Loud music – that would keep him alert. But the station wouldn’t budge. Something was overriding the signal. Why? Who would pull a prank like that?
    He sat up sharply, nearly cutting off his breath as the seat belt cinched tighter from this abrupt movement. O.K., this had to be a joke. He could not possibly have just heard his own name spoken by the radio announcer. There it was again. “Found at 2:13 a.m. Longfellow Turnpike. Car located by local police after report of power outage. Roy Daley crashed into an electrical tower and presumably died upon impact. “
    It was 2:24, and he may be on Longfellow Turnpike, but he was clearly safe and sound, and more important, alive. Stan was the office joker, had he rigged this up? Roy checked to see if a cd had been put in to make a false radio announcement. Nope. All clear. Then what on earth was going on tonight? He’d never been superstitious, but he remembered someone at the meeting commenting on it being a dark and stormy night, and Friday the 13th at that. Oh brother, he thought to himself. Surely he must be sleeping at the wheel. He had to have dreamed all this stuff up. Pretty elaborate dream, he thought to himself. I’d better stay away from those late night nachos.
    He gasped as a voice in the seat next to him told him to stop the car. Looking over he saw a man who was there and yet not there. He shook himself, hoping to dispel the vision, but the man sat there serene and composed and looking at him authoritatively. He couldn’t believe it, but he found himself answering the shadowy man, “What did you say?”
    “I said stop the car,” the man said.
    Roy noticed he could see the car cushions right through him. The stranger’s voice was firm through his raspy whisper. Roy stepped on the brake.
    “Now turn around,” the man who was not quite a man commanded.
    Roy turned the car around to head back over ground he had just covered. He told himself this was a dream, it had to be a dream. You have no control in a dream until you wake up. He willed himself to wake up, but nothing happened except the steady flow of white lines on asphalt as he drove back toward Lynchfield.
    They rode on in silence. No more radio. No more unwelcome directions from this stranger in the front seat. And then Roy saw the accident. A car all crumpled after hitting a large metal tower. The whole area seemed charged with electrical currents and sparks still emitted from the point of impact.
    “That is where you belong,” the shadow announced firmly. Roy did not even look at the apparition in his front seat, he just stared at the currents vaulting from pole to car. The car! It was a blue SUV, just like the one he was driving. And it had his plates!
    Okay, this joke had gone on long enough. He had to get out of here. He pushed on the gas pedal, but nothing happened. The car was still running, but it did not respond. He tried to turn around, but the wheel wouldn’t budge. This just wasn’t possible. It simply was NOT possible he repeated to himself.
    Well, he’d been a good sport about this ridiculous hoax, but this was just not funny. He was not going near that car. One touch to the handle and he’d be fried. No way.
    He jumped when the raspy voice repeated itself then added, “You shouldn’t be here, you know. You’re dead.”
    The police never could figure out how the victim from the crash got out of the vehicle, apparently unscathed. What had he turned around for? Why had he returned to the vehicle and not just run off to safety? What could have been so important? The two police officers shook their heads. No matter what other folks said, Friday the 13th was one unpredictable day.

  • The wind blew a cold whistle through the night. It was a wicked chill that runs up and down your spine, making the hair on the back of your neck rise ever so slightly. The darkness that surrounded us was bitter cold and frightening. The dark, low clouds above our heads kept any kind of light from the moon away. You could almost hear the whisper of the wind when it blew by your ears. We were alone, but we knew it was more than just the two of us. We wanted to see if it was true. You know what I am talking about: the eyes that watch you as you start to read the tomb stones of each person that laid in the ground below us. As we walk from stone to stone, it felt like we could feel hearts beating below us. We psyched ourselves into being scared. We walked as quietly as we could across the grass looking to find her name. It was legend that if you found it and read her tomb stone out loud, she would come to you. We wanted to prove to everyone that it wasn’t true. Even though we couldn’t find one person who had ever tried, we were going to prove that it wasn’t possible for that to happen.

    We walked and read stone by stone: Jacob Perrone, William George, Elizabeth George, Thomas Bosley, Tabitha Boehler, Abigail McGillicuddy. That was her. I never thought we would actually find it.

    Abigail McGillicuddy
    1807 – 1854
    Beloved wife and true companion
    Always have the strength and mind to come back to us.

    We read it to ourselves, not understanding what it could have meant. We dare not read it outloud. If we did, she might just come for us – like the legend says. We read it over and over, at least five times. The wind seemed to be picking up. The cold chill was starting to feel damp in the air. The sounds of children’s cries spoke through the gusty wind. Faint sounds of help cried out to us. “Go away” it said, every so slightly, over and over. Our minds were deceiving us. Our imaginations started running wild. Behind us came the crack of tree branches falling to the ground. Leaves rustled around us faster, almost in a swirling pattern. The voices in the wind became clear, “Go away.” The voices that sounded like children had become women and men, warning us to leave.

    I read the tomb stone out loud. A cry of “NO” came from the wind. The sound of a woman weeping began to start. Footsteps began to sound in the distance. We turned to look and found nothing, just the leaves blowing on the gound and the tree limbs swaying back and forth. The wind blowing cold air in the night raced through my veins like ice-cold water. My heart began pounding as I heard distant steps walking our way. We both looked in the direction of the footsteps as they approached.

    A slight shadow of a person was barely visible in the distance. It was slowly walking our way, pointing at us. Our legs froze in place, our hearts pouding deep in our chests. My hands trembled. I couldn’t run, I had to see her. Was it her? Could it be her? No, it couldn’t be. She was dead, years dead.

    The slow moving figure kept coming toward us, knowing we couldn’t run. Then I heard her start to laugh, chuckle. We should have never come here. We began to see her eyes; the icy cold blue eyes gazing upon us. The laughter became louder. Her hair was long, dark and thick. Her presence was evil. She laughed louder as she stepped toward us. We wanted to run and get away, never to return and never to remember this but we could only stand there and wait for her, her and the cynical laughter that became louder as the wind blew harder.

    We knew what she wanted. We knew everything about her now. She told us as she approached us but never spoke a word. We knew everything, through her laughter. She wanted revenge. She wanted us dead, like all the others that tried to warn us. She wanted revenge on the world for making her the way she was. For killing her, taking her life. She wanted to show no mercy. She wanted our souls. We tried to run, but our legs stayed frozen in place. The closer she got to us, the colder we felt. I tried to scream, but nothing came out of my mouth. I heard her voice in my head, “Yes, you. I know why you are here. Now you belong to me.”
    A thousand voices screamed from around us, begging for us to be free.

    Now, as I see you gaze upon her grave, I beg of you, “Go away.”

  • Hello everyone, just wanted to share this truly freaky event that happened to me. This is NOT a story, it’s real!

    My 2 bestfriends and I were having a sleepover one night. There were two beds in my room, each were up against the wall, and there was a small space between it where my closet was. My friends slept on the two beds while I slept on the floor on that small space between them with a makeshift bed.

    In the middle of the night, I suddenly woke up because I felt suffocated. It felt like something was on top of me and I couldn’t move even when I struggled. I looked sideways and saw my friends sound asleep. I tried to move my arms, my hands, even my fingers but it was useless. When I gave up, I felt my body get heavier. That was when I heard two voices. One voice was a man’s voice, a normal one, while the other voice sounded demonic-like, almost gutteral sounding. I heard the man’s quiet whisper to my right ear, “I can’t believe you surviiived…” what followed was the demon-like whisper that was incomprehensive, but it scared me nonetheless. I was so scared that I was able to regain control of my body. I got up and woke up my friends but they quickly drifted back to sleep. Having no choice, I grabbed a rosary from my closet and prayed for protection. I fell asleep while holding onto it.

    To this day, I still have no idea what the man meant when he said I survived from something but after watching exorcism of emily rose, I realize that they might’ve tried to enter me.

    I thank my savior and guardian for protecting me against them..

  • I vote for the story by Margo. Good details, good plot. Much better stuff than what I usually find on your site. The other one isn’t bad either, but the Margo one is better.

  • I vote for the story about Abigail McGillicuddy. Imaginative, classic creepy good campfire scary! I could almost hear the sticks cracking and leaves rustling. A fun read-good tension and resolution!

  • Waking dizzy from sleep, the armpit of all hours, I stagger as a boxer fighting gravity; my entire body atremble with an over-anxious vibe. The simple act of sitting up, sending the room into a wild spin. My head smarting, I brave a look at the clock, the view of the bright neon green glow of the numerals, piercing as a lethal injection.
    Legs urged off the side of the bed, I struggle against the sway, and the taint of a new threat stinging the back of my throat. Upright, propelling with the precision of a blind man, I find the object of my quest. My hands connecting to the smoothly cool, porcelain, in a grateful embrace, I hover above the contour of the commode, mouth agape. The spurt of vomit, its syrupy consistency, revolting as it spreads across my tongue, finally hitting the mark I wobble weakly, maintaining a balance that at best is questionable.
    Dots and dashes, darting before my eyes, I fumble, with my semi-turgid member, a sigh of relief, escaping my mouth, as a frothy stream swirls inside the slimy residue, settling in the commode. The amber fluid, sickening, as the nearly identical color of the beer, ingested, during the prior night’s revelry. The reminder begins another chain of slow deliberate swallows and shallow panting breaths to prevent the painful retching of dry heaves.
    I smirk, watching, my reflection dissolve inside the swirl of muck, with a sucking pull, realizing my last clear thought, before falling into bed, was closing my door, gently maneuvering the joint I had scored from a slightly built quivering teenager in the alley, at the rear of the pub, pressed between my lips. The bar, LAST CALL, a favorite of mine, my girl friend and the group of friends we shared, frequented, mostly because it was within easy walking distance to my place.
    “What the hell?” I had shrugged off Jenn’s earlier admonition, at my exchange of money, for product “…If not me, someone shadier might score and the kid not get a dime out of the deal” I reasoned brightly.

    Thinking that it must have been pretty high end stuff since I didn’t remember advancing more than a few steps into the apartment, and only vaguely the feeling of falling face forward into bed. With a short back stretch I look back, toward the bed, now empty. It occurs to me that I haven’t heard Jennifer rattling around the kitchen, a habit she adopts whenever I am foolish enough to… as she puts it, “overindulge…” I slowly shake my head wondering how we, as such an unlikely a match, had managed to stay together since first hooking up, a year ago.
    Strangely alert, I question my unease, my odd struggle from sleep; sweat drenched skin prickling with the deployment of goose-bumps beneath the barely visible sheen awash with shivery sensation. The drumming sounds of pounding surf, effervescing as the sound through a sea-shell, magnified ten times, rolling inside my ears, causing me to wince, bringing one hand up as if to ward off the clamor. Nothing preparing me for the onslaught of thoughts and images digging toward the surface.
    As a hand might grasp for a throat, I choke as the queasy feeling reaches for my gut. The upsurge, as the rush of wind shirring its brisk path, through limbs, sounding tight and shrill, as a scream, descending into a thin grating whine. I call her name, a wide-eyed, brittle anticipation, building, Images, springing up without provocation, with the blink-eyed shock of white, as the frenetic flash-flicker of old news-reel, suddenly run amok. I envision bodies running about with comic pathos, swift and silent, facial expressions exaggerated, with a cascade of emotions. Eyes bugging as those of a silent film, actor heavily lined, spider-black lashes that wink and stare, mouths moving, soundlessly, convulsively, attempting to relay a message.
    That’s when I see her, sitting naked on the couch, her face, a bruised mask, her wrists and ankles tied with telephone cord, the blade of a dagger huge and sacrificial, quaking ominously, the tilt of the blade directing me to find a seat beside her, held by the hand of the teenager, from the pub. The face seeming somehow, suddenly aged as ageless, eyes maddened by more than a need for drugs and I feel my stomach lurching up into my chest!

  • The Manson Triangle
    Written by: John Morris

    My journey began almost one year ago today. It started innocently enough with the plan to check out The Manson Triangle and track down every clue; to verify every claim. My name is Luc and the following is my story of the events of that day.

    October 30th, 2009 at apx. 10:15pm.
    Mike and I were sitting in our living room doing nothing as usual. He was watching TV and I was online. It was the day before Halloween. We were too old to trick-or-treat, and not popular enough to be invited to any parties. And then I stumbled upon something that piqued my interest.
    “Mike, turn that down and listen to this… The Manson Triangle; located near Manson, Iowa exactly 1,666 miles parallel from the Bermuda Triangle is nearing 10 years from the day a number of paranormal occurrences took place. Last year a young woman died an unexplained death, which has been attributed to paranormal activity. There’s been one death a year since 1989.
    “Are you shitting me? I said, looking up from the computer. “Manson is right here in our backyard! They have a website with pictures of the dead bodies. Look at their faces. Their eyes are wide open!”
    Mike came over and grabbed the mouse scrolling down looking at the pictures of the victims. He stopped on an old black and white photo of a family. “Look at that!” Mike said, “The kid in that picture looks like you!”
    “Let me see that”, I said. Above the picture read the name of the family who were the original land owners where the phenomenon occurred. “The family’s name is Eifer. What a bunch of psychos! That kid doesn’t look like me. He looks like a freak… someone you’d see in a circus!”
    “Or in prison.” Mike said. “He looks like a rapist!”
    “A rapist of sheep!” I said, laughing. “According to this article tomorrow will be the 100 year anniversary since this all started. Should be good!”
    “The Manson Triangle?” I paused for effect. “I’ve never heard of it. I thought Charles Manson was still alive and locked up? Are they saying he’s some kind of ghost, killing people on Halloween?”
    “Manson, Iowa you moron.” Mike said. “They’re talking about the town. And yes, I’ve heard about it. It was on the morning news.”
    “So do you want to do something fun or spend another Halloween sitting around watching movies like a couple of losers complaining that we can’t get girls. Let’s do something that will get us on TV!”
    “What are you thinking?” Mike said.
    “A road trip.” I answered. “We have cameras… let’s set one up in the backseat of our car, and one in between us shooting through the windshield. We can record everything like they did in that movie ‘The Blair Witch Project’.
    I say we drive down to Manson, Iowa tomorrow night and try and catch some of the freaky stuff on video! If we’re lucky maybe we’ll see something and get on the news or at least have something to put on You Tube!”

    October 31, 2009 at 11:05pm
    “Do you know where you’re going?” I said a little frustrated at Mike’s driving. “First of all, the speed limit is 70, and you’re driving like an old lady and I’m pretty sure we just passed our exit.”
    “Look, its pitch black out here! Mike said irritated. “And I can barely see 20 feet in front of me. Do you want to drive? Besides, aren’t you the navigator? You’re supposed to tell me when we need to exit.”
    “I think our exit is coming up. According to this map Manson should be in about 10 more miles. Watch for County Rd 66.” I looked at the dash and noticed we were out of gas. “Dude, have you looked at the gas gage lately? Holy shit, we’re on empty! We need to pull over and find a gas station or we’ll be screwed!”
    “We filled up an hour ago”, Mike said. “We shouldn’t be on empty already. I hope there’s not a gas leak or something. I don’t have the money to pay for another car repair.”
    “Well pull over as soon as you can”, I said. “I don’t want to take any chances in these corn fields. It’s scary as crap out here and dark as Hell!”
    “Maybe we shouldn’t have watched all five ‘Children of the Corn’ movies yesterday.” Mike said his voice a little shaky.
    We took the next exit. The sign said ‘gas and food one mile ahead’. As soon as we got on the exit ramp the engine stalled. Mike put the car in neutral and used its forward momentum to get it started again. However this little maneuver caused us to coast through a stop sign. As we ran the sign, the car hit something hard and jolted us both.
    “Watch out!” I said looking up from the map. “Holy crap, what did you hit? It felt like we just ran over a huge rock!”
    “I don’t know”, Mike said. “I can’t see a thing out here. Should we stop and look?”
    We slowed down and I looked through the back windshield. There was nothing on the road. It was completely clear. We were driving about 35 mph. I looked ahead and all I could see was corn on both sides of us. I checked the cameras to make sure they were rolling.

    “Stop the car” I yelled! Out of nowhere stood a hooded figure on the side of the road facing the corn stalks. We both saw the person and Mike slammed on his brakes.
    “Who the Hell?” I said. “Mike pull-over. Who is that?? We must be close to the gas station or something. We need to talk to this guy.”
    We stopped the car. Up ahead about 50 feet away our headlights shone on a hooded figure that stood completely still staring at the corn.
    It was then I noticed the radio was just playing static. I turned it off and we sat silently in the car looking at the person that was ahead. Mike’s hands were still gripping the wheel.
    “We need to find out where in the Hell we are and how to find the gas station”, I said.
    “You go.” Mike said, “I’ll watch the car.”
    “Get the camera. You’re coming with me! I’m not going to get dragged into the corn while you sit here and watch! Come on, he’s probably trashed out of his mind and trying to get back to the Halloween party.”
    Mike left the engine running. He grabbed the camera and we both stepped out of the car.
    “Damn! It’s freezing out here! I can see my breath!” Mike said as a blast of cold air hit us in the face. “It’s dropped like 50 degrees since we left!”
    The night air was still, but brisk. We walked quickly towards the stranger.
    “Hey buddy, we need your help”, I said raising my voice. “Kind of took a wrong turn back there. Do you know where we can get gas? The sign said a mile, but I don’t know if we were supposed to go left or right.”
    As we approached, the man in the hood didn’t move. He stood looking towards the corn. We walked up to him, and I tapped his shoulder. He turned around sharply. He was completely bald with no facial hair anywhere. He looked like one of those albino guys, except that his eyes were black and his teeth looked like they had been filed into sharp points.
    Mike and I backed up staring at the man. I started to repeat my question when he opened his mouth and spoke. His words were not English, or any language we had heard before. The man’s voice was deep and gravelly, and he spoke in almost a mumble. He eyes looked straight ahead like he was talking to someone else. I can’t explain the sounds that came from his mouth.
    Mike began apologizing. “Sorry to bother you. We took a wrong turn or something… I think we’re good… We’re fine in fact. Obviously you have no idea what I’m saying.” He turned to me and said, “Let’s get out of here. This guy is on drugs or something. He’s freaking me out!”
    As we began to walk away the man stepped into the corn field, completely disappearing from our sight.
    “Where’d he go??” I said. “Who was that guy? I’m freezing… let’s get back in the car!”
    At that moment the headlights on our car suddenly shut off and we were standing in complete darkness. The engine was still running and I could barely make out the smoke coming from the exhaust.
    “Damn it! The car battery! It must be the cold! Use the light on the camera so we can see.”
    The camera light shone straight ahead on the car and we started to walk quickly towards it.
    “It doesn’t make sense!” Mike said. “Why would the battery be dead? The engine is still running! I can’t see a thing! We should never have stopped!”
    We got to the car and I put my hands on the door to open it. The moment I touched the car the doors locked and the engine turned off.
    “What the Hell! You’ve GOT to be kidding me! Mike, open the damn door! Give me your keys! We need to get out of here NOW!!”

    The light from Mike’s camera was shining right in my eyes. It was the only thing I could see coming from his direction. He answered in a panicked voice, “Luc, the keys are locked in the car! They’re my only keys! We need to get out of here! We need help or we’re going to freeze to death!”
    Mike and I both pulled out our cell phones. I couldn’t feel the tips of my fingers as I dialed 911. “Thank God, it’s ringing”, I said.
    A voice answered the phone “We’re sorry, the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service.” I dialed again and got the same message.
    “Are you getting through?” Mike said.
    “No. It says the number is disconnected.”
    “Same with my phone.” Mike said. “Try someone else… Anyone!”
    I used speed dial and tried to call my girlfriend. To my relief it rang. The phone connected, but a deep, gravelly voice answered. It was the same voice from the hooded guy; mumbling, cutting in and out. I dropped the phone as though an electric current ran through it. I was standing in complete darkness with the only light coming from my cell phone which was now on the ground.
    “Mike! What was that! What the Hell is going on? Mike!”
    I looked around but I couldn’t see a thing. “Where are you?” I yelled, whipping my head around and staring into the blackness. I picked up my phone and pointed the light in the direction where Mike was standing. “Mike! Where did you go? Seriously dude! This isn’t funny! Quit playing around! WHERE are you!!!”
    I looked out into the corn and could see the light from Mike’s camera. It was moving quickly, flashing on and off between stalks of corn. It looked as though he was running. And then suddenly the light stopped in the middle of the corn field and pointed straight up.
    I ran towards the light calling Mike’s name, and pushed myself between the stalks of corn using the light from my cell phone to guide me. I could see the camera light about 50 yards ahead slowly fading.
    “Mike! Are you all right? Say something! What’s going on?”

    The following narrative is from Mike’s perspective and a description of the events that followed.

    Mike opened his eyes, and found himself on the ground surrounded by corn. The last thing he remembered was trying to make a phone call before blacking out. His legs and chest felt like they were on fire, scraped as though he had been dragged over the hard ground. He could see the light from his camera a few feet ahead pointing straight up. His head throbbed with pain.
    Mike got to his knees and crawled towards the camera. He felt dizzy and didn’t have the strength to stand up. He could see steam rising from the beam of light. He grabbed the camera and pointed it towards an object hanging from the corn. It was a small animal covered in blood. Mike opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He could see a baby goat hanging from its neck and steam coming from the fresh blood. Its body was still warm.
    Every horror movie Mike had ever seen flooded into his mind. He thought about Satan worship and human sacrifice; the guy with the hood; the corn… “Where the Hell am I?” Mike thought to himself.
    Then he felt a cold, icy grip grab him firmly by the ankle.

    “Mike! Mike! MIKE!” I was shouting and pushing through the stalks of corn towards the fading camera light. I tripped, and as my body hit the cold ground my phone flew out of my hand into the night. Then the light from Mike’s camera turned off and I was in complete darkness.
    I lay perfectly still. It seemed like ten minutes passed by when my phone rang.
    I could hear the phone connect, but couldn’t see where it was. There was a short pause and then I heard Mike’s voice. It was hard to make out but he was whimpering. “No, no, please…” Then I heard the hooded voice. It was more pronounced, speaking loudly, in some sort of chant.
    There was static and then silence. I spotted the light from my phone and I reached for it. At that very moment the light of the phone shut off and it began powering down.
    I slowly stood to my feet. No idea where I was or how to get back. And then from my dead phone came the most blood curdling scream I had ever heard. It was Mike.
    November 1st, 2009
    Officer Jim and Officer Tom were the first on the scene. They stood next to the Ford Mustang stalled in the middle of the corn field. There was a man hunched over the steering wheel with his eyes wide open.
    “It doesn’t look like there was any foul play,” Jim said standing next to the open door. He was checking the inside of the car looking for any signs of a break-in.
    “There’s no ID on this guy and it looks like he was traveling alone. The time of death must have been early this morning; his body is still warm.”
    Jim closed the man’s eyes. “It looks like the guy died of natural causes.” Jim reached in and started the engine. “I wonder why he stopped out here in the middle of nowhere. The car seems to be running fine. Doesn’t look like there was an accident or anything.”
    “Poor guy”, Tom answered. “There’s nothing more we can do. Call it in.”

    One year later: October 30th, 2010.
    I was online while my friend David sat in the living room watching TV. David and I recently became friends. I looked up from my laptop, “Can you believe this shit?” I said to David.
    “Every year someone disappears on Halloween night from a small town in Manson, Iowa. They call it The Manson Triangle; The same kind of stuff that happens in the Bermuda Triangle. Have you ever heard of this? That’s practically in our backyard!”
    David came over to look at the website. “Look at the victims! They all died with their eyes wide open. That’s awesome!”
    “Well I don’t want to stay home tomorrow night like a couple of losers. We should go check this out! Maybe we’ll get on the news and become famous!” I said as a smile slowly spread over my face.
    My name is Luc. Luc Eifer. And this is my story.

  • A single street lamp glitters as a lighthouse beacon
    beckons a wisp of hope, for the traveler in the night’s dank darkness. Tonight, doing its best to fillet the heavy fog, weighing heavily, above the narrow street, gray as smoke, a soupy wetness, growing thick as anxiety, as the shadowy figures, making the most of little. The rustling shift as heart beats growing restive as that of an animal in a trap. The vulgarity of a city more noticable in the wee hours, anticipating the indecency, that ekes of odors, sounds and sights expected to shock, or at least make uneasy; all senses enhanced.

    As the hapless, desperate women, walking the streets, of Olde London, may or may not have perceived, before hand, learned too late and felt, entirely too deeply, as they peddled themselves, despite warnings and fears, in pitiable acts of survival; their safety taking less precedence, than rising from their misery, even temporarily.
    They worked, clinging, to their skirts, their spiritlessness, their threadbare backs, scraping down alley walls,as they shrunk from view, robbed of life, their entrails, strewn about as garbage, or arranged decorously, near the mutilation, of their bloodied corpses.
    I wonder,as I listen to the sharpness of my stillettos richocheting around me, of any one of those monstrous encounters, if they sought
    a tiny glow,of light or hope, snatching at any breath, as pressure settled at theit throats,
    nothing more than fleeting as he attacked and slashed
    with surgical precision. Their pathetic lives drained into the haze of their own dying,
    their hearts emptying, choking on their own breath,
    unable to scream thenselves awake from the very real nightmare.

    The glow of the lamp-post is picked-up in the reflected sheen of the car window,as it glides
    in slow motion, into the sleeve of the passenger door, as if the whisper of silk or nylon,
    smooth as a shiv, the grin of the driver
    a slow show of teeth receives my greeting,
    “Hey baby, looking for company?” and as the door swings open, like a mouth, I hear, the words, sliding
    from my lips, a mantra of sorts, “What’ll it be, Jack?”

  • Remember to vote in the ratings tool, not in a separate comment, in order for your favorite scary story to get credit.

    – Admin

  • I do have a creepy non-fiction story…

    My Ex-boyfriend is really into the battle of the Alamo. So much so that he goes to San Antonio every year for the anniversary. One year I went with him for vacation.

    We arrived the night before so we didn’t get to visit the mission until the next morning.

    As I walked into the chapel – that iconic building that everyone knows – for the first time ever, I felt someone much taller than I am walk up suddenly blocking my way. They felt as though they were standing six inches or less in front of me and that they were at least a head taller. The man sternly said to me, “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.”

    I knew it couldn’t be my boyfriend as he we’re the same height. I figured that it was one of his friends pulling a trick and looked up to tell him to knock it off.

    But when I looked up to ask this guy to move please, I saw that I was looking at the ceiling of the chapel only. I looked around and not only was there no one near me, there was no one as tall as the man who had stepped in front of me had seemed to be.

    Just then, my boyfriend must have noticed me standing still by the door and came up to ask me what was wrong. I told him that someone had been standing in front of me just a minute ago. He assured me that there had been no one there or he would have seen them.

    There’s a lot of stories of ghosts connected to the Alamo…and I’m not saying that I know for sure what happened that morning…and, if something really DID happen, why this man would want to come to me and warn me or why it would happen just the once…

    But it’s always been a creepy memory.

  • The mansion had first been constructed in 1764 by Jonah Hadasler, an immigrant that had made his way to the colonies and had worked hard to forge a successful business for himself. Before he passed away he had built this magnificent structure as a testament to what a man could do if he applied himself and worked hard. Ever the shrewd man he made it very clear in his will that the house was never to be sold as long as a decedent was alive to occupy the house. This turned out to be a very wise move on Jonah’s part as throughout the years the Hadasler family proved to be much less successful than their patriarch and often died with nothing more to their name than the very house they could not sell. Living in squalor, the mansion turned out to be a mocking curse to many of its residents.

    Riding in a rickety carriage as it rolled down the dirt path, Sebastian looked out the window and saw the glowing eyes of the nocturnal creatures that passed and felt sadness. It was as if they wanted to be part of his world but were delegated to the shadows. It was a feeling he was far too familiar with, for he had grown up next to the Hadasler house but he was not a family member himself. His father had been a laborer for Cyril Hadasler. He took care of the beautiful landscape and any other duties that needed to be tended to. His father was a large, strong man and extremely proud. While they lived in the small servant’s quarters, his father dreamed of someday owning a mansion of his own. A dream that would sadly be cut short when Sebastian was fourteen years old and witnessed his father fall to his death before a team of horses. Sebastian shortly took over his father’s duties.

    It was during this time that Cyril Hadasler discovered that Sebastian had been reading a book that his son, Percival, had left carelessly thrown on the ground to go play. Cyril was impressed that Sebastian was not only able to read difficult books but had a great understanding of the material. He decided to take young Sebastian under his wing and while Sebastian was never considered part of the family he was allowed to study along with Percival. This was of great offense to Percival as he considered Sebastian to be in a lower class and his presence alone was a great insult. To add insult Sebastian was much smarter than Percival. He was able to easily comprehend the readings while Percival had great difficulty. This was largely due to Percival’s disinterest in education. After his father had worked to regain the family fortune Percival had little interest in anything but his inheritance and a life of leisure. Formal education had no place in his plan. Sebastian always considered it shameful the way that Percival squandered his education and took his fortune for granted. Shortly before the boys were to finish their education Cyril Hadasler passed away. This was a day Percival had dreamed of and he quickly abandoned his studies for a life of travels and debauchery. Thanks to his education Sebastian had been able to study Pharmaceutical Chemistry and become an apothecary. He was not rich but held a respectable position.

    Percival had summoned Sebastian out to the mansion that evening for reasons unknown to Sebastian. A light cracked through the tree branches and Sebastian could see the mansion up ahead and behind it the small servants’ quarters in which he used to live. Arriving at the door to the mansion Sebastian was greeted by Percival. Sebastian found this odd as most wealthy people employed an individual for that purpose. “Sebastian! I’m so glad you were able to make it on such short notice,” exclaimed Percival. There was something off about Percival. He seemed agitated and nervous. Sebastian noted this as odd. Walking into the mansion Sebastian was shocked to see that the place was nearly empty and what little there was seemed to be in disarray. He heard the door slam behind him.

    “It’s all gone,” stated Percival and he went to the counter to pour a drink. Sebastian looked at him and knew immediately what had happened. Predictably, Percival had gone out into the world with the mission to spend his inheritance but had been successful far earlier than he had planned. Looking around, Sebastian could see that Percival had resorted to selling nearly all the furnishing in the home. He felt anger towards Percival for wasting something that he himself could never obtain and at the same time felt a great pity for Percival. Curious as to why he had been summoned Sebastian asked, “Why is it that you have called me here?”

    “As you can see, all of the money is nearly gone. I am left with little more than my drinks and a bed,” said Percival.

    Sebastian looked at him and said, “You still have this home. What more could you need?”

    “Money, Sebastian! I need money!” exclaimed Percival. “I have nothing to my name. I have this building, this curse which is of no good to me now. What am I going to do? Invite guests to my empty house and overgrown lawns? I would be the joke of the community.”

    “Sell the house, then,” suggested Sebastian.

    “I would if I could,” said Percival, “but my great grandfather made sure that would never happen. No, as long as a Hadasler is living the mansion is not to be sold. But that’s where you come in.” Sebastian got uncomfortable and feared Percival was going to kill him. Perhaps he had planned on switching their bodies. “Relax,” said Percival, “I have a plan that should greatly benefit the both of us.” Sebastian looked at him cautiously. “I’m quite aware of your profession, Sebastian, and as it was my very father than made your life possible I feel that you owe it to me to do me a favor.” Sebastian did not like where this conversation was heading. Percival said, “Listen, I cannot sell this mansion while I am living but should I die it can be sold to anybody. Of course, I can’t sell it while I am dead, either.” Percival went over to a cabinet and pulled out a document. “This is my will, Sebastian. I am leaving you everything when I pass.”

    Sebastian jumped to his feet, “You cannot seriously be contemplating suicide. This is madness.”

    “Calm down, Sebastian,” said Percival. I have something far cleverer. You and I are going to fake my death. I know you have the training to be able to make me appear dead. We just need to be able to fool the doctor that examines me and then we are set. You sell the house you inherit and I will give you a percentage of the money. We both win. I get back on my feet and you make a lot of money for doing nothing.”

    “Percival, this is highly unethical and I won’t be part of it. Your father would be ashamed!”

    Percival stood up and gravely said to Sebastian, “I am doing this whether you are a part of it or not. I will find somebody else to agree so why not make the money yourself?”

    Sebastian had known Percival well enough to know that he was not bluffing. Reluctantly, he agreed to the plan. He knew the exact mixture to do the trick and make Sebastian appear dead. He warned Percival that he would be unconscious for nearly three days and when he did wake up he would probably not be able to use his arms or legs. His mind would be awake but the body would not awaken until much later. Percival said he understood and reclined on the couch ready for his extended sleep. Sebastian administered the dosage and Percival slipped comfortably to sleep.

    Percival awoke to darkness. At first he thought that perhaps his eyes were unable to open then he realized they were open and he could not make out what was an inch in front of him. Clearly, he was in a very dark room. He faintly heard a cracking noise and odor that seemed familiar but he couldn’t place his finger on it. Not that he could move his fingers anyways as his body was still very much immobile. The cracking noise got louder and he felt like he was moving. What is going on? He thought to himself. Then the smell got much stronger and it was then that he was able to identify the smell. It was the smell of burning pine and the sound of flames crackling over the wood. He was being cremated. Try as he might he tried to scream and movie his body but was only able lay in silence.

    Two days later Sebastian was finally able to fulfill his father’s dream of having a mansion of his own.

  • Growing up in a haunted house I did not discover until later. Earlier incidents were typically when I came home from school leaving my shoes in one room ended up in another room. One night I heard terrible moanings in my closet. My dads girlfriend told me it could be a wounded soldier. I would hear footsteps walking at night. Once while sitting at the dinner table the window fan in the other room turned on by itself. One night my fiance before we were married discovered the moanings. He would never stay there alone again while I made a run to the store. My father was a alcoholic and one night during his parties. One of his alcoholic friends told me they had heard that the house we lived in a man killed his family. My dad only told me the house was moved there from somewhere that he did not know. All I know is all of those happenings really happened. This is as real as I can explain it. It was horrible the moanings I was petrafied. My dad told me once while sitting at the kitchen table the chair moved itself up to the table. That house was truly haunted.
    Years later my father sold the farm and the house went with the sale. The tenants who bought the farm burned the house down. I believe that house was haunted by something evil. One thing is for certain now although. That house will never haunt anyone again.

  • Shadows climb the flocking, the velvety filigree pattern, on the wall out-dated, when I was young; merges with moonlight. At the edge of a dresser, as if on a precipice, the blades of the louvered shade, casting darkly hewn guillotine blades a miniature appears about to jump from a precipice, spill into the void, of the darkness below. The tap-tapping, of the bell pull of the shade, from the partially open window, rhythmically thumping the casement, mildly distracting, to my overtired psyche.
    I returned to this place of my childhood, just today, for no other reason, than the bequest, of my maternal grandmother, who invited me to make her home my own. My thirty-ninth year, a climatic time, headstrong, and driven, the journey, as if through time dragging me from the city to this pleasant valley, the rose garden, the winding creek, the smells drifting from moss and woodland, familiar to me. The dizzy whirr of honey bees as they circled amid the long grass and wild flowers, met with my teary-eyed gaze. The prodigal coming home, touching, except for the absence of the open-armed welcome, of the grand-mother who had raised me.
    I sigh, my body fatigued, surveying the few boxes that remain most already emptied of belongings transferred to their proper place. The light cotton of my night dress tangled with the toss of sheets, aired on the line just this afternoon. It had been an impulsive choice, as if, a whirlwind had suddenly snatched me up and dropped me off in Kansas. My eyes close again, the one glass of plum wine, sipped a little too quickly with the cheesecake, my two decadent treats that I had taken with me on my drive, gradually beginning to take effect, having had too little to eat, since early morning.
    The house alive with whispers, I feel myself drifting, slipping into the night, unsure where I begin and leave off. I think I am dreaming, when I feel more than hear the delicate tinkle crash of crystal, almost simultaneous to the jerking awake, rough intake of my own breath, suddenly picturing, and the antique bud vase, positioned near the sink, where I had placed it holding a single rose. Perhaps there had been a stronger breeze that had caused it to tilt, the image disheartening, a tiny shiver accosts me. My grandmother had treasured that piece.
    I have the sensation of my skin peeling back, suddenly alert, ripped from the quiescence or my drowse, as I know, something is amiss, when the crackle sound, like cellophane being crumpled comes to me in the thread of footsteps, one and then another, a full stop between. I strain, to hear, the stars descending like comets in my brain, the shock of it raising the hairs at the back of my neck and goose-bumps to hatch on my arms. My chest hurts and I realize I’ve been holding my breath, small explosive sparks, going off behind my eyes, my own pulse pounding in my ears, as the knowledge that someone is in my home, my grandmothers gift to me, is patently and abhorrently clear, to me.
    The smell of lilacs, tucked inside the weave, of the linen, hypnotic, as the perfume of the blooms, in the vase on the bedside table, seem incongruous, to the tread I hear nearing the base of the stairs, as I taste the trickle of sweat, that had etched a path from my forehead to meet the parting of my lips, and I am aware almost immediately that I am not alone. I feel the steady weight of my grandmothers hand on my shoulder, and the transfer of thought, as the scent of overpowering male sweat, stings my nose, Sweat…
    the sour pungent smell, as one of the moving men, as he raised his heavily muscled arm, across the doorway from the dining room to the kitchen, blocking my path, his persistent flirtatiousness, for the most part ignored, his comment, coming out of nowhere, that I was too good a looker, to go hiding’ myself
    in the country, all alone, flip and shut-down with my sharp retort that it need not be of any concern to him. The half-chortle harrumph at that response, followed by his half sneer, “Oh yeah, missy, hidden way out here, all alone, all 100 lbs. of you…” as he brushed suggestively past me, his mouth open, his tongue extending from between his lips. The clearer recollection of his weight on the step sounding like a kitten mewing throughout the day, mewling now…as I feel the pat and squeeze, of my grandmothers hand, once again.

    How dare he trespass, this place, the peace beauty and innocence that was mine, when I grew up here, shattered as the delicate beauty of my grandmother’s favorite vase, the virgin bloom lying broken in the sink, or crushed beneath his boot? Dimly, yet sufficient to see the glimmer of the moon winks at me, as the cut glass door knob begins to twirl counter-clockwise. A second before the barely audible click, sounds like an explosion…

    I imagine his cocky smirk, his leer, his sour breath in my face, how he must have sat and planned, preparing to catch me unaware, his heavy-lidded porcine gaze, hungry and piercing. I test the weight
    of the cool steel, steady in my palm, the pearl grip, my grandmother’s admonition that, a girl had to know how to take care of herself. My grandmother whose spirit helped me then and now, had taught me to handle a gun, and as the door creaked open I leveled the barrel, all 100 pound, ten ounces of me!

  • Except for some grammatical glitches and a need of better punctuation, the barbara stories are very suspenseful and interesting to read.

  • On one cold, dark Friday the 13th, a group of friends and I drove into upstate New York, to seek out what we believed to be an urban legend. To our surprise, the stories we had all heard growing up, were true!

    In the midst of a happy tourist attraction lay an age old family secret, one not many are told about, or maybe they just don’t live to tell the story. The Allens are inbred, and keep mostly to themselves.

    As we drove up to the mountains, into the thick brush and past any sign of normal life, we entered the Town of Day. The headlights on my truck began to flicker as the result of unhappy residents pelting rocks at my friends and I. You see, the Allen’s do not like company!

    Driving at full speed now we hear the sound of gun shots, and snarling teeth. We attempt to leave, but there are a group of blond haired boys with glaring eyes and bare teeth blocking the exit. With nowhere to turn we decided to call for help on our cell phones, but this town was very outdated and there was no signal!

    There was one pay phone in sight, but it was going to be dangerous to get to. After deliberating, we decided it was worth a shot! A friend quietly exited the vehicle, tiptoed toward a vacant pay phone, and was snatched by an inbred woman!

    Just like that, the town lit up, and we were able to leave.

  • “Terror at Tecum Creek Ridge”

    “We have to leave… now!” Trevor Cavender didn’t mean to be so stern with his younger brother, but it was getting dark and they had a two-mile hike ahead of them. Walking into town for trick-or-treat had seemed exciting to the ten year old, but now he had second thoughts. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him and his brother, Sean.
    “Aw, Trevor, don’t be a big baby,” moaned Sean. “We haven’t even been to the Halloween party.”
    “You know the plan. Walk to town, do trick-or-treating then get back home by 8:30. We’ll barely make it in time.” Trevor scanned the neighborhood as the nagging feeling returned. He couldn’t understand why he felt uneasy; he’d walked the Tecum Creek Ridge Road plenty of times before. Aside from the stray dog or skunk, there was little to be wary of. Sean pretended to slice his brother in half with his lightsaber, then grudgingly headed home.
    “Light your glowstick before it gets any darker, I don’t want to lose you in some ditch,” said Trevor. Their mother was raising the boys alone and had given them the glowsticks as extra protection.
    “I was saving mine for our cookout this weekend.”
    “If mom doesn’t see you carrying that glowstick, there won’t be any cookout.” As he watched his brother activate the bright orange rod, frantic barks and whines erupted from the surrounding homes. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in response to the sudden din and even Sean seemed unnerved by the animal’s unusual actions.
    “Old man Reevers says there’s rabies up on the ridge. Maybe those dogs got rabies and are going crazy.”
    “The only thing crazy is old man Reevers,” said Trevor in the calmest voice he could muster. Something had set those dogs off and he doubted it was them. He pulled a small flashlight from the waistband of his Spiderman costume, flicked it on, and nudged his brother to quicken his pace.
    The barking subsided and Trevor let out a sigh. He let the beam stray along the woods leading towards the top of the ridge. He noticed they were almost halfway up the ridge road when his spine turned to ice. The beam from the flashlight flickered as Trevor’s hand trembled. Sean nearly walked into his brother before realizing Trevor was standing stone still. He followed the flickering beam and gasped at the sight. Two burning red eyes stared back at them from the dark. As they watched in shock and terror, the two red orbs turned away, disappearing into the woods. The sound of branches snapping and heavy brush being disturbed made Sean drop his sack of treats and throw both arms around his brother.
    “You OK?” asked Trevor, who finally realized what his brother was doing. He’d seen many different animals illuminated by headlights before, but this was the first time he’d felt such a presence of hatred and anger. The height of the eyes from the ground led him to believe it must be a large animal, perhaps even a bear.
    “Let’s go back to town, T…trevor.” Sean’s voice quivered and broke on the t’s.
    “We can’t. If it sees us headed back for town it’ll rush in and stop us.” Old Man Reevers had mentioned more than rabies, and Trevor remembered the stories about Reevers hunting bears in his youth.
    “What’ll we do then, start running?”
    “No, that’s the worst. We’ll never make it home from here, too much open ground. We’ll have to try for Mamma Bear.”
    “The caves, why not Poppa Bear, it’s bigger.”
    “Mamma Bear is deeper and a bear might not be able to follow us.
    An unnatural silence draped the countryside as the boys scrambled towards the top of the ridge. Once there, they headed towards the caves. Trevor’s heart was a trip-hammer. His breathing was hard and a painful stitch stabbed at his side.
    He fearfully switched on the light to locate the caves. It was the worst mistake he could have made, short of breaking into a panicked run.
    Whatever they’d seen alongside the woods had indeed been tracking them, and the instant Trevor flicked on the light; it let out a horrid, ear-shattering howl that sent both boys ducking for cover. It lasted for several long seconds then trailed into silence. New sounds of something crashing through heavy brush accompanied by heavy thudding footsteps pushed the boys up the rocky hillside. Trevor silently recited a prayer that they be spared.
    “I see Baby Bear!” shouted Sean. He scrambled over the rocky terrain and disappeared into the tiny cave.
    “No, Sean! It’s too small! We have to find Mamma Bear!” He could hear Sean’s frightened whimpers coming from the cave, but he didn’t have time to coax him out. The thudding footsteps were almost upon him and he raced for the next cave. In his frightened state, he covered the thirty feet to Mamma Bear in a few seconds. Glancing back towards the first cave, he could dimly see an immense, looming form.
    Sean’s whimpers turned to wails of terror as the figure moved closer. Something bright orange flew from the mouth of the cave and the figure lunged upon it. The crackling sound of plastic being chewed turned Trevor’s stomach. The glowstick’s orange liquid revealed a horrid sight. It illuminated the animal’s mouth exposing two rows of monstrous teeth. The glowjuice dribbled down the animal’s jaws and onto its massive chest. The beast swiped at it, smearing it across its body.
    “That’s no bear,” thought Trevor, his mind reeling. “It’s a Sasquach!” The creature jerked its head and glared at Trevor. The ground ripped and heaved beneath its massive feet as it bolted after him.
    Trevor stood terror stricken, his feet like lead.
    “Run, Trevor!”
    The frantic words came from inside the tiny cave and jolted Trevor into action. He darted into Mamma Bear scant seconds ahead of the frenzied beast. He desperately tossed his glow stick, but the Sasquach ignored it and followed him inside.
    The cave was pitch black, but Trevor was familiar with Mamma Bear. It was a deep cave, which grew lower and narrower. He silently prayed that he could reach the back before the beast reached him. The sound of heavy breathing echoed throughout the cave, and the rancid stench like Limburger on a hot muffler was unbearable. Trevor took his facemask and tried to block the foul odor of the creature to no avail. Time and again, Trevor heard the creature collide with low hanging rocks and each time its anger escalated, ending with a menacing growl. Trevor inched his way deeper into the back of the cave. He closed his eyes and awaited his fate.
    The creature’s heavy breathing was everywhere. Opening one eye, Trevor saw the glowstick stains as the Sasquach approached. It was having difficulty due to the narrowing walls, but it could still use its arms. Trevor flattened himself against the wall in hopes of eluding its probing hands.
    The sounds of fur rubbing against stone caught Trevor’s attention. He clamped his mouth shut, but his pounding heart and ragged breathing were uncontrollable. As Trevor stood motionless, something hard with sharp nails raked across his stomach. A dull burning began where the skin had been scraped away.
    The cave abruptly lit up as thick, fur-covered fingers flipped on the flashlight. The Sasquach must have gotten Trevor’s light when it scratched him. The beam shown directly into the beast’s face, revealing wild, red-rimmed eyes, matted fur and a ring of foamy saliva around its mouth. Trevor suddenly realized why the normally elusive beast was acting with such rage. Rabies. Old Man Reevers was right.
    The light was quickly tossed aside, and the Sasquach began pounding and clawing at the rock and stone, its diseased mind driving its aberrant behavior. Trevor’s body shook at the vibrations from the pounding. Rocks and dirt began falling from the ceiling of the cave. The Sasquach never slowed and kept pounding.
    Trevor’s left leg slipped backwards as the wall of rock began to give away. With the creature’s fingers mere inches from his waist, Trevor shoved against the back of the cave and stumbled as a ragged opening appeared. He spun around and began squeezing himself through the hole when a huge fist grasped his right ankle. Knowing he’d never escape, Trevor screamed in panic. The pain increased as the creature pulled him back. Then the fingers relaxed. Trevor jerked free and scrambled through the opening. Anguished moans and grunts followed him. Trevor suspected what was happening and peered inside. In the flashlight beam, Trevor watched as the rabies took its final assault on the creature, causing convulsions so powerful that rocks were being flung about. A painful silence marked the tortured beast’s end.
    Trevor limped over the rocky ridge and found Sean.
    “You can come out now, it’s all over,” said Trevor weakly. “It’s dead.”
    Sean’s head cautiously emerged. “ How… do you know… it’s dead?” asked Sean between bouts of sobbing.
    “Cause we’re still alive.” As he carried Sean home, Trevor thought about rabies and the burning scratches on his stomach.

  • “Treasure”

    “I’ve been robbed!”
    The old man shuffled down the street looking for someone, anyone who would help him retrieve what had been stolen from him. He didn’t care that it was Halloween, or that he’d left his apartment wearing only a dingy, white tank-top, faded brown cords and his slippers. All Wilford Bishop cared about was recovering… his treasure.

    * * * *

    The temperature had tumbled ten degrees since sundown and was headed for the upper twenties. Short puffs of breath could be seen as Wilford continued down Pace Street; shivering, arms held closely to his body for warmth, but with a look of determination in his steel-gray eyes.
    Soon, the sky darkened and the streetlamps began flickering to life. Patrick Adler and his fiancé, Marcy, were passing out candy and apples to the neighborhood children. However, the sight of a seventy-nine year old man in slippers was more shocking than any costume they’d seen that evening.
    “Get a blanket!” shouted Patrick as he jumped up and went to help the old man. Clearly he was disoriented and needed to get back to wherever he’d wandered from.
    “Hey there,” called Patrick as he rushed up and tried to steer Wilford towards his porch. “You look a little lost.”
    “I’ve been robbed,” replied Wilford and refused to change course. Patrick was surprised at how forcefully the old man had fended off any attempts to turn him and looked for Marcy for assistance. She quickly burst out the front door, carrying a heavy wool blanket
    “Who is he, what’s going on?” she asked.
    “Haven’t gotten that far, but he won’t come inside.” Patrick carefully draped the blanket over the old man’s shoulders and was relieved to see it accepted with a quick nod and a grunt of “thanks.” A moment later, Wilford suddenly realized that someone was finally paying attention to him and he stopped dead in his tracks.
    “I’ve been robbed,” he croaked out as forcefully as he could. “Someone’s stolen my treasure.” Then, more softly, he said, “Please, help me get it back.”
    “We’ll help you, Mr.…?” questioned Patrick searching for an answer to the man’s identity.
    “Bishop, Wilford Bishop.” The old man’s gaze never left the road before him. “He went down this street, I can feel it.”
    “Why don’t we call the police?” suggested Marcy. She too wanted to get Wilford out of the chill night air and into their house.
    “No! No police, I can find him, I can feel it.” Wilford pulled away from Patrick and resumed his trek down Pace street. The couple exchanged nervous glances, then Patrick said, “Get the car, I’ll stay with him.”
    The moment Wilford saw the shiny SUV pull alongside, he wasted no time in crawling into the back seat. To Patrick and Marcy, it was one step closer to getting him home. To Wilford, it was a faster way to recover his treasure.
    “Turn left up here,” urged Wilford. He waved a wrinkled hand at the upcoming intersection.
    To his surprise, Marcy continued straight. The local police station was only three miles away and she was sure they could take care of this poor confused man better than she and Patrick could.
    Wilford’s eyes grew wide at the deception and he swung his head around to keep sight of the turnoff. “No,” he moaned and pointed out the rear window, “that way.”
    Patrick noticed how pale the old man had suddenly become. His breath started coming in short gasps and he had difficulty holding his head up. Wilford slouched forward and Patrick struggled to hold the old man up off of the floor. His skin felt cold and clammy, like something half-dead.
    “Turn back,” cried Wilford. “Turn back or I’ll die!”
    Several agonizing seconds passed as Marcy struggled with what to do. Clearly the old man believed that he would die if they didn’t return to the intersection and resume the pursuit of the thief. Another anguished cry was all it took; she whipped the SUV around the next corner and began backtracking.
    Wildford’s cries of pain subsided. He straightened and brushed a wisp of gray hair out of his eyes. Patrick was relieved to see some of his color return and his breathing smoothed out. Within seconds, the old man’s eyes were scanning the streets and intersections for the thief and his treasure.
    “Do you need a doctor Mr. Bishop?” asked Patrick timidly. The memory of how the old man had appeared just a few moments earlier still burned before his eyes.
    Wilford jerked his head towards the younger man, clearly startled at the question. “What are you asking me that for? Keep your eyes out there!” Again the wrinkled hand pointed towards the upcoming intersection.
    Wilford’s attention to the passing houses and scenery grew more intent as they turned down the street he’d pointed to earlier. There were many more trick-or-treaters here and Marcy slowed the SUV as a precaution. Surprisingly, Wilford didn’t complain. He leaned closer towards the window glass and keenly looked over each passerby.
    “Did the thief wear a costume?”
    “No,” answered Wilford curtly. His features wrinkled sourly at the question, then he said. “…but he’s close, I can feel it!”
    Block after block the trio slowly cruised down the street. After a few minutes, the children thinned out and the houses began to look shabbier, more run-down.
    “I don’t think we want to go any further,” said Marcy. She feared the sight of a shiny new SUV in this neighborhood might attract the wrong kind of attention. She slowed the car and began looking for a place to turn around.
    “Keep going!” shouted Wilford shrilly. “We’re close… I can FEEL it!” He began rubbing his chest as if it were itching or tingling; “Just a little further.”
    Marcy’s fears grew as she saw a small yellow sign with bold black letters. “DEAD END.” A sickening knot of fear began to tighten in her stomach. “I can’t go any further,” she said in a nervous whisper. The SUV came to a stop; Patrick and Marcy both turned and looked to the old man for their next move.
    Wilford was ghostly pale, his eyes were clenched tight and his mouth gaped open as if he were experiencing pure horror.
    “He’s opened it! He’s opened my treasure.”
    A high-pitch scream ripped through the cool night air. A teen-aged boy in ripped jeans and a faded orange sweatshirt suddenly exploded from a nearby alley and raced past the SUV. Patrick couldn’t see much in the pale-yellow glow from the streetlamps, but boy’s expression was near hysterics. In a matter of seconds he was out of sight.
    “I can… feel it…,” moaned Wilford as he clutched at his chest and fell forward. Patrick slid across the seat and lifted the old man back into the seat. The wane light played across his features and revealed a corpse. A thin trickle of blood snaked down his cheek.
    Marcy took one look and began sobbing uncontrollably. Her nerves were at the breaking point and she could bear no more.
    Patrick gently lifted the blanket and covered the old man’s face. His problems were over, but the mystery remained. He saw the alley where the teen had emerged and knew he had to find Wilford’s treasure. There would be no peace in his mind till he knew.
    He slipped out of the SUV and scrambled towards the alleyway. There were few lights on in any of the houses and he doubted the residents would care anyway – especially after the horrible screams the teen had made with no response. He picked his way closer, then paused as he heard a strange sound coming from the alley. It sounded slightly familiar. As he rounded the corner, several furry creatures fled into the shadows. One larger animal remained. It was busily working with whatever it had on the ground before it. Patrick inched his way closer and noticed a small metal case – bent and dented – lying open near the animal. Clearly, the teen had forced it open and had gone screaming into the night at the sight of its contents.
    The long-tailed animal finally sensed Patrick’s approach. It raised its blood-smeared head, hissed evilly – revealing curved yellow teeth – then also scurried into the darkness. Patrick forced himself closer and bent over to see what lay on the ground near the case. A sickening odor of something rotten filled the air. As he bent closer still, he thought he saw something move.
    A second blood-curdling scream filled the night as Patrick discovered the old man’s treasure. There, in the dim half-light of the alley, lay the remains of Wilford Bishop’s heart. Almost unrecognizable, it pulsed weakly, then quivered and finally lay still.
    He staggered out of the alley, mind reeling at the impossibility of what he’d seen. Marcy, her head now resting against the steering wheel, was still sobbing as Patrick slid in to the back seat. The blanket had slipped off of the old man. As Patrick reached up to replace it, he saw something strange near the collar of the old man’s tank top. With trembling fingers he pulled open the shirt and revealed a long, half-healed, surgical scar. He replaced the blanket with a flip of his hand and fell back against the seat. Through clenched eyes he remembered the blood-smeared rats, the ravaged heart and Wilford Bishop clenching at his chest and swearing…he could feel it!

  • The blizzard had brought many injured kids into the emergency room during the last 48 hours. The pediatric intern had not slept and now it was morning rounds. Born on that cold dark night a healthy 8 pound boy. His resident was also exhausted from the last 2 days of emergencies that seemed to all include injured children. He was in no mood to do a newborns routine circumcision. Maybe he would give the intern the assignment. After all that is what he was there for. To do the routine tasks and let him get some much need rest. He turned to his exhausted intern and ordered him to do the procedure.
    The intern nodded in his gray fog of sleep deprivation. Afraid to admit that although he had observed this procedure before he never actually cut into an infants delicate flesh. The resident left the nursery headed for his quarters although he knew he should observe his intern just in case. Oh well he surely will page me if he has any problems he thought as his head hit the pillow. The intern told the nurse to gather up the materials needed and prepare the sleeping infant for circumcision.
    She did as instructed and asked him if he needed any help. He nodded no and she left him to go on with her charting at the nurses station. After she was finished she returned to the nursery. There was the infant back in his crib. He looked kind of pale but that was normal after all the crying he must have done. Well little guy I guess I better change you and check your wee-wee she said. Then I can bring you in to your mom. I know you must be hungry and she has just what you need. She removed his diaper and let out a blood curdling scream as she passed out cold on to tile floor. Her supervisor hearing the commotion raced into the nursery. There was the nurse laying lifelessly on the floor blood streaming from her head. She felt for a pulse and found none.
    She paged for help and although they tried CPR she was gone. Why had a healthy 25 year old nurse pass out, hit her head, and die? Did she have some underlying condition? The supervisor heard the cry of the baby in the crib. She looked in the crib and then knew why the nurse had fainted. She began to feel the bile in her throat as she vomited. She paged the administrator and told him to prepared for a major law suit. The poor little guy did not deserve this. The penis was peeled like a ripe banana. How could he have removed the entire foreskin? She had never seen such gross mutilation.
    Some one would have to speak to his mother before she discovered this. That is what administrators are for.

  • Once Upon a Time…So True

    I don’t know exactly when I learned that the home we lived in, had been used as a school decades earlier. Looking back it was just some information overheard and of no immediate consequence, just a historical fact taken in and as easily dismissed; only to be recalled time and time again, over the years, as now…

    As children, my sister and I shared almost everything, not always willingly, one of those things the double bed, in the bedroom opposite my parent’s room. At the prepubescent ages of twelve and ten years old; it was no hardship, often a comfort and at times even fun, until the typical whispers and laughter eked to the ears of the parents, prompting a rebuke through their door and rarely an actual visit.

    I do not know; the cause of my waking this particular night, of HALLOW’s EVE, I do know that as I opened my eyes, I saw my sister dancing daintily in the dimness of the hallway. She seemed to be admiring her reflection in the sliding glass doors of the bookcase at the end of the hall

    I watched as she swayed in the silence, as if to a slow lilting waltz, pinching tiny pleats in the sides of the skirt lifting the edges as if about to curtsy, as she twirled an infinitely graceful spin. Stunned, I stared, wondering at the strange behavior for a bit longer before rousing to act, demanding in a hushed whisper that she return to bed. Oblivious, she continued to sway and spin, as if hypnotized. I hissed her name, twice more, accenting each syllable, totally exasperated.

    “Whaaa-aaat..?” I heard her answer, the word mildly whiny though soft with sleep. I immediately felt the skin on my back begin to tingle, the rushing of goose-bumpy sensation, travelling all the way up to the nape of my neck. The response generated because the reply itself, came from behind me. Lying on my left side, my upper body supported on my elbow, I felt my head turn to focus my eyes on the sleeping figure of my sister.

    My mouth dangling open, my eyes wide, I returned my gaze more quickly toward the hall, to find the little girl, standing still facing me, her hands touching fingers, resting in front. In the next blink of my eyes, she was gone, but not before I realized, that, from where she stood I was able to see the door of my parent’s room, right through her…and I was certain she had no face…

  • Grandma had taken Suzie into her home after her parents had disowned her. No one had treated Suzie nicely because she had a scar across her face. It had happened when someone had used a long sharp stick to catch her attention and it tore the flesh from the corner of her mouth across her nose ending just under her eye. She had to be locked away when little children came, so she wouldn’t scare them. It made Suzie feel very ashamed.
    Sometimes she hated the house and wanted to run away. The heat was always turned up because Grandma was always cold, cold, cold. She would wrap herself up because her skin was too thin. It made Suzie sweat and feel uncomfortable and stuffy.
    Also there were cats crawling on every inch of the house. Grandma was becoming lonely and perhaps even a bit crazy, for the number of cats had doubled since Suzie had arrived. There were 24 felines roaming her home.
    Suzie hated cats. Their eternal stares and silent padding feet aggravated Suzie. They always got more attention and they were constantly screeching for food or having new litters. They were useless and petty animals.
    On normal days she would ignore the cats as they padded about the house and curled around Suzie’s legs begging for food. Today, however, when a fat white fluffy cat pranced over, Suzie pinned it down on the floor. The cat screeched with surprise and Suzie pressed down on it’s neck harder and harder. The cat choked on it’s own tongue, and there was a crack as her neck snapped. Suzie stepped back horrified at what she had done.
    A wave of adrenaline washed over her and she backed away. “Grandma is going to be so upset with me,” Suzie thought. She stared at her feet with guilt. Suddenly she heard a meow and looked up to see another brown tabby cat staring at her. Suzie lunged at it and chased it around the house. She had no weapon to silence the cat, no long sharp stick. Instead she took the cat’s throat her mouth and bit down. Surprisingly, she soon felt blood seep down her throat and when she released the cat from her mouth, it hit the floor like a wet rag. She didn’t know that her teeth could pierce them that easily.
    Without cleaning the blood from her face, Suzie noticed a cat sniffing at the dead one. It must be silenced as well. They all must be silenced. For the next hour the overheated house was filled with the near human-like screams of cats. Suzie dragged some out to the pond in the backyard, clubbing them over the head if they tried to surface. The cats began to float as they went limp, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging slack. While the others died and their blood dried in their matted fur.
    It was only a matter of minutes until Grandma came back. Suzie’s hair was askew in every direction and her mouth and feet were soaked in blood, but she couldn’t bathe on her own. Suzie felt proud for eliminating the cats, and waited patiently at the door for Grandma.
    Suzie heard a car door slam and a jingling of keys. The door jiggled and it opened, cool autumn air swept in, cooling Suzie’s face for a moment. Suzie smiled and looked up at Grandma. Grandma smiled back, her wrinkles made it impossible to smile as wide as she used to. “Hey girl, ” Grandma said. She patted Suzie’s head.
    Then, without warning, Grandma let out a high pitched scream, and the groceries she had been holding fell to the floor with a crash. She fainted, her old skull hitting the tile floor harshly. She must have seen the five dead cats that littered the walkway.
    When Grandma awoke, she lost her mind. She took a knife and stabbed Suzie in the head repeatedly. She didn’t stop until Suzie’s body lay on the ground, lifeless. Neighbors, who had been hearing horrific noises all afternoon, called the authorities. The police barged into the house and dragged the screaming old woman away, almost vomiting from the sights and smell of the house.
    It was in the paper the next day. The headlines read “Old woman kills her 24 pet cats and loyal dog, Suzie.”

  • As I’m writing this I’m second guessing myself. Sometimes it’s better to just bury things and forget about them, than to dredge them up again. Sometimes you forget about things, events, in hopes that they forget about you as well. But the things that happened in that month have been weighing on my mind lately, begging to be told. So against my better judgment I have decided to tell them.

    Everyone talks about their misspent youth. More times than not it’s about drinking and doing other things you reminisce about at your high school reunion. I can’t say in all honesty that my high school years were that different, but there was a small group of us that were also fascinated by things we couldn’t see. Looking for the truth or a scare was something fun that gave us a rush like nothing else did. Soon it became an addiction to a few of us, with consequences we couldn’t see at the time.

    I grew up in the 90s. At that time there was no Ghost Hunters or any paranormal investigation outside of what you had seen on the movie Poltergeist, so I had no idea what was happening around me. At this point in time my room was upstairs. My parents would go away for the weekends camping and leave me at home because I hated it. Several times I would hear footsteps in my dark house while they were gone. I would get so frightened, I would shut my door so I wouldn’t have to see into the living room or that no one was in the house to make the noises I was hearing. At one point the noise was so loud, I would have sworn on a stack of bibles that my parents were home. I had heard the garage door open, I was so thankful because that night had been particularly nerve wrecking, I excitedly ran to my bedroom door, opened it and the smile died on my face. No one was home, the house was dark, the garage quiet. Now I had a tv in my room to keep me company on those weekends, I had heard the noise above tv. Not long after that my parents moved me downstairs, and got me a new dog to keep me company. I asked to be down there as I wanted more privacy.

    My dog refused to stay or visit me in the basement. It wasn’t a go downstairs and get bored go back upstairs, he never in the three years he was with us stepped foot downstairs. I tried to bring him down a few times, but he would leap out of my arms half way down the stairs and run backup them. I admit that this did scare me, but it was more of my imagination is running wild, than this can be true. Since no one would come downstairs I started to dabble in witchcraft. I ignored all the magical rules and warnings, which I think triggered what happened later on.

    One night after casting, my friends and I decided to go to the underground sewer pipes that were “open” in the hills outside of town. The rumor was that devil worshipers stayed there out of sight and could be found there on various nights. Well it was full moon, and we decided to check to see if the stories were true. Packing flashlights and bodies of believers and non believers in a several different cars we headed out to a place just past Manitou Springs. If you were ask me today where I was taken, I wouldn’t be able to tell you because I have no idea, I just remember the area being fenced off and warning against trespassers. We went down to the tunnel, of course calling out to any one there with no answers. Encouraged that it was just a bunch of stories we ventured further into the tunnels. About 500 feet in, it was completely black except for the light from the flashlights we had brought. It was about then we started noticing drawings on the walls, pictures mostly, but thought nothing of it. We continued on, and we heard crunching beneath our feet. Shining the lights down we noticed something that looked like bones. When checking on each others opinions we scoffed at the cliché B movie-ness of it all and continued on. That’s when we heard it, chanting. Not normal chanting like you hear in church, but it was somehow different. I can’t really explain it. It sounded….sinister. It was low, rhythmic and disturbing. Far down the corridor we saw a faint light. Maybe it was a fire? We weren’t sure. We called out again, and the chanting stopped. We waited, no one spoke. We were hardly breathing, instead focusing on the sounds around us. Everything seemed magnified, the silenced stretched out. The next sound we heard was footsteps, slow at first, then they started to gain speed. We didn’t wait. We didn’t hesitate. We ran like our lives depended on it. Some of us tripped, some of us fell, but all of us didn’t stop till we were back to the car.

    When I got home, I headed down the stairs to my room; I took a shower and went to bed. The room was creepy as usual, but seemed a little more sinister now due to the previous events of the night. Laying down and turning off the light, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. The first thing I noticed was something brushing my hair. I swatted at it assuming it was a spider, and flipped on a light. Nothing was there. I assumed it was just one of those weird things that happened before you fell asleep. So I flipped the light back off, and tried to fall back asleep. I felt it again, but kept my eyes closed. It was a simple brushing of something light across my forehead, and it started to scare me. With my eyes closed I could feel something staring at me. I heard my name being whispered. I didn’t want to look; I couldn’t look, but I knew I needed to. Telling myself I was just being silly, I forced myself to look.

    When I opened my eyes I froze. There was something the shape of a person crawling on the ceiling. I was petrified and shut my eyes again. I opened them again this time there walking towards me was a shape of a person. Not white, or gray, but black. The being was blacker than the darkness of my room, and it was walking towards me. The air froze in my lungs, and my body wasn’t capable of moving. It strode towards me, this perfect outline of a person. It was terrifying, menacing, and eerily fascinating. After what seemed like forever, but was probably less than 30 seconds, I flipped on the light. Of course there was nothing, no one there. I was too afraid to turn the light back out, so I slept with it on. In my mind I convinced myself that if I couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there, I blamed my overactive imagination. I was too scared to shut it back off. I still felt watched, but it was better than seeing it.

    Some may say it ‘It was just a trick of light’ or ‘there was shadows in the room’. No. I lived in the basement. There was no light; none that streamed through the windows. It wasn’t shadows playing tricks on me. My room was always pitch black, absolutely dark even during the day.

    I now know that it was known as a shadow person. Where did come from? I don’t know. Was it something I conjured by dabbling in the unknown? Maybe. Or was it something that followed me home from the tunnels? I may never know. I have never seen it since. It was the worst scare to this day of my life, it’s been years and I can still see it in mind with perfect recall. Whatever or whoever it was, I learned my lesson that night. It’s not a story that I share often, because inside you’re afraid that when you remember frightening things, those things think about you too. Like it’s said ‘if you stare into the Abyss long enough the Abyss stares back at you.’

  • “I hate Halloween.” I grumbled as I shoved my bed against the door. It scraped across the floor with an eerie screech. I stopped to cover my ears. I remembered that Halloween a little too vividly. The screams had been deafening. I shook off the memories and moved to the dresser. I put my back into it as I shoved it against the bed.
    The candy that had been sitting uneaten on my dresser fell to the floor. I glared at it in distaste. The only good thing about Halloween was the candy and I couldn’t even enjoy that this year. It had been drugged. The smell wasn’t quite right. I felt bad for all the kids who would eat this candy tonight. I glanced at the clock on my dresser. It was probably too late for them anyway.
    I pulled the sheets off my bed and covered the windows. Whatever was coming for me I didn’t want to see it. My hands started to shake making the task difficult, it took me longer than normal. I looked at the clock in panic. A few minutes to midnight. My heart felt as if it stopped beating. My eyes took in the whole room in a few skittish movements. There was nothing left. Nothing else could be used to keep the monsters out tonight. I would have to pray it would be enough.
    I slid under the bed and looked under the door. Silence. I waited. It was all I could do. Then I could hear it coming for me. The faint shuffling in the hallway. With my ear to the floor I could barely see the feet as they came into view. They tried the doorknob. It was locked…as always. They always got by that though. Sure enough I could hear the lock click. The door open minutely and hit the bed. The monster uttered an unearthly groan. The bed started to shake as it tried harder to get in. I covered my ears as past Halloweens came into my memory. Last year the witches had been bad. Their cackles were disturbing. I could still hear them “Drink this, Drink this, you’ll feel better.” My skin started to crawl. The aliens were bad too, but the poltergeists were the worst. Their screams were so loud that the glass in the windows had shattered.
    The thing behind the door started to make head way into the room. I stared under the door and saw two sets of feet. They groaned as they tried to get in. Zombies. I tried not to groan along with them. I mean it was bound to be Zombies sooner or later. The bed screeched as it was forced further out of the way.
    They were getting in!! I slid out from under the bed and shoved it back against the door with an almost inhuman strength. I glanced quickly at the candy. Nope still uneaten.
    “Go Away Zombies!” I screamed. “I didn’t eat the candy and I like my brains where they are!!”
    I glance at the clock again. A few minutes past midnight. It always happened at midnight.
    I shoved against the dresser forcing it more against the door. The moans on the other side of the door grew quiet. I sighed. Maybe they wouldn’t come back. Maybe. They always come back. I slid back under the bed to watch and wait.

    The orderly set the medicine on the counter and looked at the night watchman reading a magazine.
    “Room 105?” It was a question he already knew the answer to.
    “Isn’t it always? I thought if I slipped some antipsychotic into the candy she wouldn’t give us such a hard time this year.”
    The night watchman laughed, “She’s too smart for that. What were you this time.”
    “Zombies.” He said without humor.
    “Gotta love the classsics.” He replied.
    The doctor walked in and glanced down at the medicine “105?”
    “And you thought working in a Mental Institution would be boring.” The doctor smiled.
    “I’m pretty sure I never thought that.”
    “Try again in an hour.” The doctor replied making a note in his chart. “Let’s see if the Zombies are gone by then.”
    “I hate Halloween.” The orderly replied.

  • Everyone else has gone to bed and you’re the only one left in the living room.

    The TV is on and you’re lying back on the sofa, your arm dangling over the side with the remote loosely clasped in your hand. Your knuckles brush against the floor and its cool and hard against your skin but you don’t mind.

    Your eyes are half mast and you’re barely keeping yourself from falling asleep. The woman on the TV is crying into her hands and there’s someone trying to get into the room but you’ve lost track of the plot. You’ve probably dosed off once or twice you should just get to bed now. Except the sofa is moulded to your body and the blanket covering you feels just right. Maybe you should just sleep on the sofa tonight, is the thought that runs through your mind.

    You blink a few times. Each time your eyelids feel heavier and heavier. The woman isn’t crying anymore. She’s not there at all.

    You sigh and turn your face into the cushion propping your head up. The velvety material is soft and strokes your skin. You give a low hum of appreciation, the sound vibrating in your throat. You curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up until they’re almost touching your stomach and tuck the blanket in closer. You sigh, open your eyes again and squint at the TV.

    At first it seems that the TV screen is just immersed in white and your frown for a few seconds, not getting it. But then after a few seconds, the white separates itself and you recognise that it’s a room. You have a vague memory of a woman crying in that room. Hadn’t she been right there? Kneeling on the floor?

    Well whatever. You let your eyes close and think that you’re giving up on the idea of getting up and going to bed. The steady dialogue from the TV that had been murmuring in your ear here and there stops and is replaced by a quiet ‘shhhhhhhhh’. You’re not sure how long it takes you to notice, you’re definitely drifting in and out and you don’t know how long you’ve been doing it for. But you finally become aware of the white washed noise and you manage to get one eye open—just one, at this point you’re pretty far gone—to look at the TV.

    It’s funny how it happens. Your whole body locks right away and you’re alert. It’s the equivalent of having icy water thrown on you.

    Two eyes stare back at you from behind the TV screen. They’re taking up the entire space on the TV. They’re doe shaped, framed with long spiky lashes and a dark dark brown. And they’re staring out from all that whiteness.

    You feel that iciness spreading on over your body as you stare at the TV screen, both of your eyes open now. Except you can’t call it iciness because it feels hot and cold at the same time in the space just under your shoulder blades. Your pyjama top feels like it’s sticking to your skin now too, or it could just be your mind playing tricks on you.

    As you think about this the eyes blink, but when they focus again it’s like they’re staring right at you. It’s like you’re watching someone and that someone is watching you back. The eyes on TV blink and you realise that the noise which had woken you up to begin with isn’t there anymore. It’s silent. All there is just the eyes.

    You become aware of the remote still in your hand and your fingers tighten around it.

    And that’s when you feel that your heart almost stops. You feel the jerk in your stomach, and there’s a blooming feeling spreading from your chest, it feels restrictive and you swallow.

    Because when your fingers tightened on the remote, the eyes on the TV moved. They flickered quick and perceptive, to the remote in your hand before refocusing on you, wider now, the pupils growing bigger even as the eyeballs gleamed in whatever light was hitting it.

    Your breathing is the next thing you become aware of. You can’t hear it. You’re toning it down. You don’t want it to be noticed. You want to disappear so that you can be mistaken for not being there at all. The rubbery buttons on the remote press against your fingers and you want to move them. You want to find the power button with your thumb and click it off so that those eyes disappear but you’re afraid the eyes will move again.

    And then you see the shape of the eyes change. You see them narrow and the skin at their corners crinkling, becoming tiny folds of skin. The silence disappears as sound begins drifting from the TV, so low that at first you can’t tell what it is. And then you hear it.


    Low and curling around you, keeping you frozen in place. It changes and becomes laughter. And the eyes stop blinking.

    They stop blinking and they stare at you.

    The laughter becomes louder, as if you’d turned up the volume but you haven’t. Your fingers are nerveless on the remote and your body is still, feeling heavy and hot. Your hearts beats fast in your chest. You feel it rapping quickly against the walls around it. It reminds you of that time you held a baby rabbit and felt its panicked heart beat against your palm.

    You know that if you turn off the TV the living room will go black and you’ll have to struggle in the darkness—where something could be behind you—to find the light switch.

    Something snaps, you jerk upright on the sofa, holding the remote so tight it could be crushed in your grip.

    The laughter stops the minute you’re up straight and those eyes flare wide and watch you.

    Your breathing is coming out fast now and you can hear it.

    The eyes become wider and they come closer, as if they were pressing as close to the screen as they could.

    Your chest is heaving.

    As if they were trying to somehow pass through the screen—

    “Katie are you still down—”

    You don’t hear the rest. You’ve screamed so loud you’ve drowned it out. But your attention has been torn from the TV and you’re staring at your Mum. She’s standing in the doorway to the living room, the light in the hallway in all its pale yellow is lighting up part of the living room and you feel like sobbing you’re so relieved.

    Your Mum frowns at you. “Katie are you okay?”

    You swallow and open your mouth. You turn to look at the TV. The hand holding the remote is trembling so badly.

    The screen is empty.


  • I was at my friends house because her mom went to vegas for a day and she heard there was a guy that excapte from jail for killing people so i stood there with her i spilled the hot choclate so i was taking a shower and when i got out there was writting on the mirror with lip stick well thats wat i suspected suposebly from jessica sayne go home sorry i had to go some where so i called my mom to pick me up and she came and the next day i got a phone call from jessicas mom sayne that were was she at and i said she had said she went somewere iguess a couple weeks passed and they found her body in a ditch around the corner

  • bronwyn ross:) has the best story that i have ever heard/read its bone chilling

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