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Oh hey I've been looking for this thread! Sorry about the It Is A Mystery link being crappy, my dropbox account decided to delete the file. I'll try to move it to a more permanent spot but for now here's what should be a functional link: https://www.dropbox.com/s/0ewg1vr4xl8i7l6/It%20Is%20A%20Mystery.pdf?dl=0
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Apr 23, 2015 03:49
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I noticed a podcast was recommended in the OP and I wanted to add 2 more to the list that I think are pretty good: The NoSleep Podcast reads stories from reddit's /r/nosleep board, primarily the stories that have been voted best of the week. It has a good variety of readers and nice background music. They've also done a reading of the entire Penpals series that's worth a listen. Since Season 3 started you have to pay to hear the full podcast but they graciously left all the earlier ones (that run like an hour or more) free. Updates on Saturdays. They also release special podcasts for free at Halloween and Christmas. Real Ghost Stories Online is run by a husband and wife team to whom you can write or call in with your personal experiences. The husband has a background in radio so he's great at keeping the show lively and entertaining. They recently did a retrospective on one of their most famous callers, "Richard from Chattanooga," whose story is absolutely crazy to hear and I highly recommend it, they play back his calls from start to finish and it just gets weirder. It's free and updates 5 days a week. You can also sign up and pay more to hear their special Saturday broadcasts and view their documentary "Spirits in the Air," about a haunted airport. Hope that's kosher for the thread. No new ghost stories from here because I have the paranormal sensitivity of a wooden spoon. e: I did think my apartment was haunted for a few days but it turns out one of my cats learned how to open cabinets. coronatae has a new favorite as of 06:53 on May 4, 2015 |
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May 4, 2015 06:47
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Summer always makes me think of sitting out on hot nights, covered in bugspray and telling scary stories. I thought I'd share one of my favorites from the 2011 SA ghost stories thread: The Snoopy Dog by One White Whisker. It's hosed up and weird, more of a long unsettling jumble of childhood memories than straight-up horror but as much as I still don't know what the hell is going on in this story I still love it. If anyone has an explanation for what's going on that'd be cool, but anyways I thought I'd share a story.
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Jul 4, 2015 19:54
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After posting the link I started rereading it and I didn't remember just how hosed up it got  Glad someone pulled up that djinn story because I've never heard it before. I'll post something similar from the archives when I get off work
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Jul 6, 2015 18:47
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Found the desert story I was thinking of! As relayed to us by Tewbrainer: Creature in the Desert (from Tewbrainer's uncle) I got stuck out in the middle of loving nowhere in Iraq, in a tank we called poo poo House. Yes, it had a real name and a real call sign, but we called it poo poo House. Deal with it. Anyways all they had us provide fire support and run patrols during the day so that people see us and think, "Oh poo poo, a tank, I better not stir poo poo up tonight". Mostly it seemed like they looked at us and thought, "drat, That is one loud and annoying piece of machinery". We finally got a chance to see some combat, or at least a break from running circles around broke-rear end farms. Soldiers on the ground north of us were getting fired on every night, and when morning finally came, there were no enemy bodies to be found. So brass sent us a little south, along a river bed that they thought the enemy was using as a highway, and we were to sit way off and watch this dried-up river bed through the thermal and cauterize any movement. So we're moving along near sunset in a 3 tank V when the first position tank hits the breaks, tells us there's a civilian in the road ahead. Ricky, poo poo Houses loving commander, looks out the top, along with the other two, and see what's up. Nothing out there. We pull back in and start moving. This was a fairly common occurrence, the heat out there can literally mirror ground ahead of you. Really neat actually, when it happens. We hit spots the next night and pull tight, checking the scopes for anything hot out there in the river bed. It was about this time that the feeling started. I would describe it as static. In a tank you get used to it being hot and stuffy, but this was more like an abundance of energy that made the muscles in your chest pull up and your heart beat too fast. I leaned back from the thermal and made a little small talk with Rick, when we started to here little clinking noises on the outside of the metal. We immediately shot into action, as little clinks typically mean some stupid rear end is shooting at us with small arms. I look through the thermal and am completely confused by what I see. Solid white. Well that can't be right, I kept looking through it. Then, a circle came into view, less hot than its surroundings, and pulled back, forming a silhouette of a head. Someone was on the tank. It seemed to hear something, as it straightened up like an alert animal and looked off in the distance, then vanished in a blur. Well, everything in thermal leaves a blur, I guess. I told Rick and he got on the radio and asked the tank nearest to us to come and scratch our back [shoot whatever was on us off], the other tank started moving. That's when tank number three came on the line and said that something had tried to pull their commander out of the hatch, and the only reason it didn't succeeded is because the gunner and loader grabbed onto him in time, but he got "clawed up" bad. There was absolute terror in the voice of tank 3's commander, whatever he saw "wasn't right." I watched the other two tanks form up on IVIS, when our driver said could see someone on the ground in front of us. I checked my scope, sure enough there was a white object on the ground about 100 feet infront of us. A crouching, seemingly naked object. "Run that fucker over" was Rick's response to this, and as soon as the driver touched the gas the thing started running at us on all fours. I just caught site of it as it ran over the top of the tank, silently hoping to myself that whatever it was got toasted by the exhaust as it ran off the back of the tank. "He's still on you poo poo House, want me to clear him?" We heard over the radio, to which Rick replied "Toast him. We'll inspect the pieces." Which was quickly followed by nice, satisfying little clinking noises against our thick, bad rear end hide. Three bursts, then silence, followed by "Looks like you're cleared." Rick cocked his side arm and popped out of the hatch, turning left and right, filling the tank with glorious fresh air. He seemed to hear something, as he leaned over the side of the tank. Then, panic. Four shots off from his sidearm, and a scream, and started to fall back in the hatch. Something had him by the collar. It looked like a human hand, only black and leathery, with long, sharp nails. Both I and the loader started trying to unwrap it, God was its skin hot. Somewhere in the struggle I remember looking up and seeing the reflection off of two black eyes, silhouetted against the Iraq stars, and could hear the sound of labored breathing. This whole even lasted less than maybe a second, when Rick got himself together and lunged forward, breaking the things arm backwards on the hatch opening with a sickening crunch. I mean sickening. That was the first time I've ever heard a bone break, and the first time I heard a scream anything like that thing. Think dying rabbit multiplied by 10. A high pitch scream that you could only hear where your spine attatches to your neck. Whatever it was decided it had enough of that and ran off, and we sealed up the tank until sunrise. Tank 2 had watched it all happen on their thermal, but still couldn't believe Rick's or tank 3's commander. It guess it's understandable, because those thermal's make the world look like a giant blob. When they were finally able to see each other in person though, everyone believed. Rick showed his torn shirt, but tank 3's commander took the cake. He had scratches all over his face, neck, and left arm. I don't know if it was some sort of desert wild man or what, but poo poo aint right over there anyways. That's the tamest of most of the other ghost stories that get passed around. I'll see if I can get any of the infantries and forward them to you. Liku posted:I loved this story; does your uncle have anything else? I have the rest of that story, which takes place over the next two or three years. If you want to hear really scary stuff, just ask someone on the front lines. The scariest thing in the world can be a child walking up to you with a covered basket over there. Rick was pretty popular for a while after that event, but since he absolutely hated telling the story, things died out pretty quick and nothing really happened for a few months, and pretty soon it was winter. We were in a house doing one of the many impromptu briefings, when a feeble old man walked in and sat down. He was the father of the village elder, too old to actually rule, but still a prominent figure in the communities. He was well respected by us too, unlike his son, but thats getting too far into personal stories. Lets just say that the Elder liked to kick rear end and his son was a coward. So the briefing cleared up and Rick grabbed me and an interpreter and caught up with the elder, and asked if he had the time for a few questions. The old man threw up his hands and smiled, motioning us to the shade, speaking Arabic laughingly through worn out teeth and a sharp grey beard, "If only you Americans spent as much time letting us ask questions!" Rick told the story of that day. The translators eyes got bigger, the Elder gradually closed his eyes and relaxed, looking like he fell asleep, but drumming his fingers together to let us know he was still awake. When Rick was finished, the Elder spoke in slow sentences, repeating things a few times to the interpreter. I only heard one word I recognized; Al-Mawt -- death. "He says 'It is the wild man, the thorn finger, the many deaths. He comes in the nights and takes the weak, the alone.'" The old man tapped his finger, "He has a long claw on his left finger, he pokes a hole in your neck while you sleep, and takes your blood." Rick said he broke the fuckers arm, and the Elder seemed delighted. "Pain it caused him, and it will be time before he is well again, but he will be. But a sinister enemy you've made, one that five of us would give our lives to see dead. Have you seen him again?" Rick shook his head, "Always watch over your shoulder. Never be alone, never be in the deep sands. A man in our village once shot Thorn Finger, and we rejoiced, but we found him dried like a raisin in his bed the next season" During that last part, the elder sucked his cheeks in and crossed his arms across his chest. Rick asked a few more questions about other experiences, but there weren't too many. Apparently Old Thorny was pretty good at his job. Later that night, the Elder found us and pulled a lightly wrapped cloth out of his tunic, an action that would have got him killed if he wasn't known to us. I can't tell you how high strung you have to be over there. It was a knife, with a bone handle, and a yellowish-reddish-silver blade. Very old. "My Seenahash, my right arm. Before the cowards came, the peace-speakers, this was what ruled. In my arm it was war, but in yours, it will be salvation from revenge. Keep it close, keep it warm." Rick started rummaging around for something to trade, "Blood will be enough. Black blood is worth its weight." And he left. Even though this doesn't relate to the story, I'm going to go a little off topic of how in awe I personally was of the Elder. He was probably 40 years older than me, and I still think he could have killed me in a fight. He had survived through countless raids and attacks, puckers and stitch scars covered his arms and chest. He was missing his ring finger on his left hand, "A good trade," he once told me, "He took my finger, I took his head, and his wife." But he was a double edged sword. He was ruthless and vigilant at the same time. If he was on your side you would call him a hero, but if you were against him you would call him a tyrant. Luckily we were on his side. But, as you walked with him through the streets, you would see men lower their heads and step back, women pull their children close. "Americans are too kind." he once told me. "If I were in your position, I would have ruined this country. I would have killed everyone who had ever stood against me." He said clenching his fists. "Only the strong would be left, whether allies or enemies, they would be strong, and the weak would be rooted out." He reminded me alot of John [Steve's grandfather, my great grandfater], in some warped, twisted way. Sorry for that digression. Spring came, and with it a mix of fog, rain, and light dust storms. In other words, tank hell. Missions kept coming in, people kept saying we were going to get withdrawn, then more missions would come in. Moral was not well. We were eventually placed on the outskirts of a city, and tilted high to offer fire support for a push that was happening later the next day. As noon came, we watched a light dust storm on the horizon move close, and locked everything up. This wasn't going to be a big one, just an inconvenience. The inside of a tank is a strange place during a dust storm. It's ungodly hot, and quiet, and somehow you feel like you just got teleported back to training, and as long as you didn't look through the para-scope, you were back in the states. Then we heard the clicking. It was a nice, clear, tik-tik-tik on the roof of the hatch. Rick looked at me and shook his head. It went like that for a few hours. Tik-tik-tik, silence, Tik-tik-tik. I kept checking the scopes, waiting for the storm to die down, and each time I did I expected to see a small, black eye peering back at me. Finally the storm ended, and Rick pulled the knife out of his belt and drew his M9, telling the loader and I to do the same with a nod. I grabbed the M4. I don't know why Rick always went with the pistol. He went out of the hatch first, us right behind him. Now, there isn't a whole lot large game in Iraq. Mostly some goats, or scrawny rear end cows, but its not like they are walking around out in the middle of the desert or something. But, there we were. The tank that was splattered with goats blood, with the puckered corpses lined up in a neat row by our right tread. "gently caress me" Said Rick. I declined. There were maybe 8 or 9 goats there. I hadn't seen more than 5 up till then. We walked around the tank a few times, but there wasn't much to see other than sand and blood. We packed it up and got back in the tank, got an order over IVIS to move North a ways. Sitting in the cabin, the loader and I made small talk, while Rick was getting real friendly with that knife of his, looking up from time to time at wisps of sand coming in the hatch. The tank lurched to a stop with "gently caress gently caress gently caress" shouts from the driver. We flew into action, I hit the scope, catching the loader slide open the shell door as I turned around (at this point we thought we were under fire), jumping out of my skin as Rick yelled behind me. I turned around just in time to see his boots get pulled up through the hatch. I followed after, but didn't see anything. Not a god drat thing. My pulse was pounding in my ears, heart jumping in my chest. I heard Rick shout somewhere, and as I turned around to look at where his voice was coming from, I slipped on that drat goats blood and fell face first in the sand. I felt a knee land in the center of my back, and a hand wrap around my throat, another hand pushing my face into the sand. Then the scream, followed by hot liquid on the back of my neck that smelled like raw sewage. Immediately the weight on my back jumped off. I rolled over and saw Rick running up the tank, hopping in the gunner hatch and cocking the M240 while spinning it around 180 and firing it off in the distance. I pulled myself up and dusted off while I ran over to the tank. Thus we survived our second encounter. Rick wouldn't say much else other than "I kicked its rear end, then it saw you", but he was visibly shaken by the event. He wouldn't tell anyone what it looked like, the only thing I had to go off of was that black, leathery arm and a crouched Thermal image. "Its black paste now, its not going to survive a cut like that." He wrapped up the knife, with the blood still on it, and gave it to the elder the next time we were there (much, much later). Later, Tewbrainer's uncle finished his story: I'm glad to hear you guys liked Rick [he has been reading the thread now], I might have a picture laying around to send John. I haven't really described what he looks like, so hopefully it won't ruin any mental images of him. Also, we thought Chupicabra when we first messed with this thing, as it seamed to be a 'real' thing with a body, instead of ghost-alien creature. Our deployment took a rough turn, and Old poo poo House went to hell in back in northern Iraq where there are 'no terrorists, and peace is taking over' apparently, quoting a Fox News briefing we watched on a mini black and white TV in the evening while eating whatever we could find. Iraq has a way of burning your rear end off during the day, then freezing it back on you at night, and we were just starting to feel the chill of night leak in under the door of our make-shift mini-barracks. One by one we fell asleep, but were woken up shortly by a yelp from one of the soldiers near the door. Yelps were common out there, as the native spiders have a love for human faces. "Something was touching my face!" He yelled, Rick was up now and started lighting up a pipe. Looked like Rick was enforcing his own personal watch tonight. "I woke up and heard something breathing over me, I thought it was one of you guys trying to prank me or something, so I just layed there still. Then it touched my face..." a shiver went through him and he pulled his uniform tight. Rick was at his feet now, looking at the clay floor. Little black dots were sprinkled sparsely around, just five or six, but enough that you could see that something had walked too and from the door. Something leaking black, smelly fluids. That poor guy got teased bad, most of the men in there probably did think that it was a prank, and the pranker had gotten away un-noticed. Rick and the rest of poo poo House knew better. "Get some shut eye, I'm staying up a while" said Rick. I did. We woke up the next morning, I noticed Rick was gone. I walked outside into the sun to look for him, no sign. Maybe he took a walk? Not like him. I did a short stroll around the building, and found a set of his boot prints. They headed off into the desert. I followed them with my eyes up to the horizon, then yelled out. There was a single, line of black smoke rising up over the horizon, a neat little line. Not the big plumes of acrid black smoke we were used to seeing. Withing minutes I and the crew were in a Humvee, zipping along the sand, with two others tailing. I sat in the passenger seat. Part of me remembered the previous night, the look on Rick's face as he sucked on that pipe he had bribed off of a farmer, a look of calm. Not the expression you would expect from someone who survived two attempted maulings from some desert wild man. But I knew that look well, it was what he looked like before he kicked rear end. A figure formed on the horizon, which was rising fast as we sped along. I tensed up a little, but relaxed as I saw that it was standing upright. We could hear static over the radios, "What the hell is he doing out here?". We got closer. Rick was standing with his back to us, a small fire infront of him. His head, which was standard military bald, had scrapes and cuts along it. Part of his left sleeve was torn. In his right hand he held his bone-handle knife, in his left a gas can. We pulled up and spun around him. He was watching over a fire, burning lightly in the middle of black stained sand. Most of the soldiers around us had their hands over their face, and cussing to themselves. The smell was terrible. Their cussing increased as they got closer to the burn. What looked like wood from a distance was actually a skeleton, charred and black, with small bits of burning flesh still clinging from the bones. It was a small skeleton, you wouldn't put it over a child, but it was all wrong. Its back legs were bent double-backwards like a dogs, with feet that ended in toes with long, curled nails. The skull had a small face on it, a jaw filled with rows of small, sharp teeth, like a piranha. Its right hand was missing its pointer finger, and seamed to be reaching up at Rick's neck, trying one last time for revenge. No one really asked questions about that event. No one was reported missing, no one with sharp teeth anyways, so the idea of Rick kidnapping and murdering someone was quickly forgotten. A group of brass drove over the next day to check it out, but the skeleton was gone. Only the black stained sand remained. *** Not long after that, on our tour back through Iraq, we stopped at the Elder's house. We sat and waited a long time in his "lobby", I guess you could call it, until him and his son emerged from a back room. His son was terribly beaten, bleeding badly out of the nose and left ear. Senior (which I'll call the elder for clarity) was breathing heavily, and wiping his hands with cloth. Junior started to leave, but his father pushed him down in a seat across from us "Sit [sons name] and listen for once you damned idiot." He said to us, translated via our interpreter. Both Rick and I noticed him (interpreter) readying himself for combat (tensing shoulders, moving his rifle forward ever so slightly). drat newbies. I sort of feel sorry for him in retrospect, he came with us with absolutely no previous knowledge of these events. "I've come to return your gift," said Rick, "It was well used." As Rick talked he pulled the wrapped knife out of cloth and handed it to Senior. Senior grinned and slid his finger around the hilt of the knife, showing the black residue on his finger to his son, who seemed to be playing in and out of consciousness. "I also brought a gift of my own." Rick pulled out a little wooden box, I'd seen him use it for tobacco before. Great, I thought, he gave the Senior tobacco. The Senior looked curious and opened the box, then gasped and dropped it to the floor, sending the finger in it bouncing along the tile. The finger's skin was black and leathery, and it had a single, long claw, almost a talon, erupting from the end. Both the son and our interpreter jumped at the sight of it. "What did you do to it? He will come to reclaim..." Senior started. "He's not coming to reclaim poo poo. I burnt his rear end out in the desert. I stood out there and called him out, and he lost." "Burnt..." mumbled Senior as he picked up the finger and turned it slowly. "You see, [sons name] this is what you should have been. This man seeks evil, and destroys it. If you sought anything, imagine where you would be now." Our interpreter started to relay this to us, but Senior held up his hand and motioned for him to leave. Rick waved him off. Senior jabbered at junior, who was starting to slump forward. I wasn't really in the mood for a family argument, and neither was Rick, but we sat there out of politeness until he gave us motion to leave. The son jumped up suddenly and grabbed his father by the throat, Rick and I stood up on reflex. You are always ready for someone to grab someone else by the throat. My instinct was to raise my hand to calm him down. Rick's instinct was to lunge over to Junior and smash his face in with the back of his Beretta. Junior toppled backwards onto the floor, and started bleeding heavily from a wound in his side. Senior was still holding the knife, now dripping with his sons blood. *** We were on the flight back to the States, crammed like sardines into a plane. Rick stared forward, not much for small talk, and I chattered back and forth with some other soldiers. "Steve, what did you hope to get out of all this? Why did you join up in the first place." Asked Rick, surprising me enough to have me completely abandon my other conversation. "I don't know. College I guess, for the good of America, that sort of thing. Why did you join up?" "I joined up in hopes that I wouldn't have to come back." He said, and I saw his thoughts wander to a bone handled knife that was hidden away in his personal sack, and a small tobacco box sealed shut with a bead of wax. "drat that thing, and drat that place to hell." "What happened that night?" "I went out there with the gas can to burn it, to kill it. It followed me a long time, teasing me by tapping its drat finger on rocks. Finally it jumped, and I got the best of it after a while." He didn't grin or smile while he told me this, and I heard the undertones in what he was trying to say to me. When he left that night, he didn't want to come back.
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Jul 7, 2015 02:37
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I need some time to go spelunking in the old threads to find the original story and any other context, but in the meantime have a little story from the uncle's friend Michael: 'God, there was all sorts of weird poo poo over there, but only one thing that happened to me personally. One of the big things that the people talk about over there, especially out from the major cities, are these "Well Tricksters", which is what we called them. They were described to me as a 'big rear end lizard thing' that crawls backwards into wells at night, so that most of their body is underwater and only their head is above water. The tip of its nose has a pattern like a human face on it. The next day, when people drop the buckets in, they come up dry because they landed on the lizards nose. The lizard also has a more sinister side. When it is hungry, it will start calling out in a voice that you know. Soldiers, trained soldiers, would say they heard their wife or kids calling out to them from inside of the wells. I would like to say that I wasn't a believer in the supernatural, but I was nuts at that time about ghosts and what not, so I took every opportunity to walk around wells. Nothing happened for a long time, until... I think I was just on the Iraq southern border, either that or we were still in Kuwait, I don't really remember where it was. I remember the event well though, we were walking along when AK fire started up, sending us scattering against walls and corners and whatever we could get behind. I got behind a well. We began returning fire. For some reason I started thinking of my sisters, there in that fire fight, especially the youngest one. For some reason I thought I could hear her calling my name. My body was on autopilot, popping and shooting, then covering up again. But deep in my brain, I could here her calling me, telling me she was in trouble. The fight stopped as soon as it started, like most did over there, and I found myself leaning over the well. I could almost see an outline of a face in the water far, far below. I dug through my jacket and pulled out a glow stick, popped it, and threw it in. The face disappeared, and the glow stick floated there for a few seconds, then vanished with a splash. The face reappeared. I decided I didn't want have much to do with Arabic superstition after that.' Also I am down for cryptid chat.
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Jul 8, 2015 01:31
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Re: stalked goon with poo poo in backyard. There was also Canned Ham Radio who had some kind of ghost in his house that pitched fits and threw poo poo. I think he took pictures, too. Dude was also being stalked, maybe? I did look at the context for the original Tewbrainer desert story and there's not much else surrounding the story, though others also speculated that it was a cryptid. It was the 2010 summer ghost story thread in the OP for those who have archives.
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Jul 8, 2015 21:51
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When it was first being written it was great to read, since the series of installments gave a little psychological space between all the events. Reading it as a single compilation the crazy amps up real intensely, real quick. It has some great moments of horror in it, though. Write more please.
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Jul 15, 2015 03:09
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Traditionally these threads have an unspoken agreement about not questioning the validity of a story. Some are explicitly said to be fiction by the author, some are obviously fiction by the sheer scope of their content, that's fine. But part of the fun has always been the feeling of uncertainty a good ghost story gives you. Also the thread is pretty anemic even with fiction included. I can start posting some other stuff from the goon archives if you'd like.
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Jul 23, 2015 23:38
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 do tellAnyways here's one from the vaults, Camp Hell by Onic! Camp Hell is a boyscout camp in Iowa (Not the Real Name) It is located in a forest area near Des Moines. Being a good christian child, I was initiated into the cub scouts at a young age, and then eventually the boy scouts. I eventually made Eagle, but that has nothing to do with this particular story. Our troop had decided that our summer trip that year would be to head to Camp Hell. There we could do our lifeguard training, C.O.P.E. which is basically rock climbing, and other random fun things. I think I was 15 or 16 at the time. We get all packed up and start the long drive down there. 6 hours later, and we reach our destination. We get all our gear out of the vehicles and start to walk down to our designated site. The camp is god drat enormous though. The walk from the parking lot to our site took 45 minutes. Talk about being hard on the arms and legs. We finally get there though, and get to see what our lodgings will be. Our camp site was about the 50 yards around. The tents we would be sleeping in were those world war 2, olive green pitch tents. Throw a couple of pallets in the bottom of them, and you're out of the mud for the most part. I opened up my tent and was greeted with an ungodly amount of spiders. The majority were daddy long legs, and wolf spiders. Back then I still had my sense of smell, and let me tell you. That tent smelled like loving spiders. It took me a good half hour to brush all of them out of it, and get my cot set up. I opened the back of the tent, and look down. It's on the edge of a ravine. There was a good 30 foot sharp drop off right there. Down in the bottom was a small stream and some rocky outcroppings. I walked out of the tent and saw everyone gathered around the tent next to mine. I walk over to see what the fuss is about, and take a look inside. Sitting on the ceiling of this tent is the biggest wolf spider I have ever seen. The drat thing looked like a large tarantula. It was about as big as your hand spread out, and boy was it hairy. Someone jabbed it with a stick, and the thing plopped down with a thud onto the pallet. It then ran towards the back, and leaped out into the ravine. We actually watched it glide down into the woods. So already we have an infestation of the oogly booglies in the camp. What I didn't mention was the noise. God drat cicadas were going off like crazy. It was one of their big years. There was an estimated 25,000 per acre I think they said. It was so bad, that when I later walked over to a small cabin, I saw that the entire side of it was cicada shells. You couldn't see a piece of wood on that thing because of all of them. The huge snails were cool though, they were all over the damp woods. Anyway, after we got all set up, we headed to the main hall for the welcoming to the week of hell. There was some stupid poo poo speeches and other boring stuff that kids don't want to hear. We then dined on the finest baked beans and hot dogs. Later that night we all gathered around this huge fire, in a semi-circle. There was about 1000 of us, so it was a big fire. Behind it was this huge totem pole with a platform at the top. I'd say about 50 feet up. Standing on the platform was some fruit cake in body paint screaming. Then shirtless weirdo's ran around us screaming with torches. I swear, the boy scouts organization is one of the weirdest in the world. After all the batshit insane stuff had died down, we were treated to stories of the camps history. The main guy told us of all the people who had died at this camp, and of the weird creatures that lurked in the woods and lakes. The way he told the stories though was so funny, due to his crackly, whinny voice. I think the stories ended at around midnight, and we were sent back to get some sleep. So, we get back to our campsite, and I'm pretty bushed, so I decide to head to bed. I crack open that tent, and flip a flashlight on, only to see that all the god drat spiders were back! Let me tell you, a week in that place will cure you of all your arachnophobia. I didn't even bother with the spiders, I just got undressed, hopped in my sleeping bag, and conked out. 5 a.m. rolls around and I hear the blaring sound of reveille playing a few feet from my tent. Since when did I join the army!? I got dressed and headed out for my first day of fun and festivities. The first thing on my agenda was C.O.P.E. So, I headed down to the designated area, which was a 2 mile walk through the woods. By the time I get there I'm soaked from all the dew. About 15 of us had signed up for cope this year. The first thing we do is go to climb the 100 foot tower, then repel down the back side. No big deal really, we had all done it before. So, we get our swiss seats tied up, and start going up in one by one...eh, it's nothing really to talk about. Nothing interesting happened on it my first day. So, I'll skip ahead. My first day was pretty normal for the most part. Cope, followed by canoe safety, then some other stuff that I can't remember. That night was once again filled with spiders and 100 degrees plus humidity. We had to get up the next day at the same time. This day though I had to go to the mess hall and prepare the table for breakfast. Queue me trudging through the woods at 5 in the morning. I noticed that the woods were dead quite for the most part, besides the common sound of rabbits or squirrels. The cicadas hadn't come out yet, so it was less annoying. It was still dark out, so I had a flashlight with me to guide my way through the trees. I don't know what made me look up, but when I shined my light up at the tops of the trees I saw something. A large black image was leaping through the tree tops at a fast pace. It went directly over me, then off in the direction I had just came from. My light didn't carry on it for too long, but long enough for me to confirm that I had seen something strange. It didn't make a sound, which was pretty weird. I had already seen some strange stuff in my life at this point, so I wasn't really scared at all. I just kept moving onward towards the mess hall. It took me about 30 minutes to get there, and once again I was soaked up to my knees in dew. Setting up the table only took about 15 minutes, and by 6 everyone had shown up and started eating. After breakfast they sang songs about using the pancakes as toilet paper, and coffee for cuts. Really, boy scouts=weird. After breakfast it was off to another uneventful day of cope. Then onward to canoe safety. Today during my canoe class, we had to go out into the middle of the murky lake, and sink my canoe. Then attempt to un-sink it. The only thing that worried me about that lake was the unusually high amount of large snapping turtles. Those things were mean too. I didn't want one of those taking a finger off or a chunk of flesh. Our instructor demonstrated how to do it properly. He would sink his, then 2 other canoes would pull up and you would work your canoe to the surface, then kind of stack it on the other two so it could drain out properly. It seemed pretty pointless to me. Since if you're by yourself, you're not going to get it out from under water. I waited until my turn, then I rowed out into the middle of the lake. I started rocking my canoe until it flipped and started to go under. The drat thing only sank about 5 feet down, so I was able to stand on it under water. The instructor sent out 2 guys with canoes as soon as mine was sunken. I had a good 10 minute wait though. So, I stood there on my sunken canoe waiting for those slow rear end people to work their way out. I felt the canoe start moving from under my feet, as if a current was pulling on it. I kick my heel over the edge of a support beam in it to hold on. That stopped the canoe dead in it's tracks. Suddenly I felt something wrap around my ankle and pull me down. It pulled hard enough to submerge me completely, even with my life jacket on. I open my eyes up under the water and see these pale rotting hands fly at my face and grab my ears. A screaming face is then thrust into mine. I could hear the screaming perfectly, even though I was underwater. I start frantically trying to get away. I'm kicking and waving my arms as hard as I can. It seemed like an eternity, but the thing let go of me, and I was able to make it to the surface. My life jacket bobs me up above the water line, where I proceed to cough and sputter. The guys in canoes show up just as I bob up to the surface, so I start trying to climb into one of their canoes as fast as I can. They won't let me though. "You have to get yours out before you can come back." God dammit! I told them something underwater had grabbed me, but they told me to stop making poo poo up and get my canoe out. So, I did just that while all the time wondering if something was going to grab me and drag me to my death. I get my canoe out, and floating again, then speed into shore. When I get there, the instructor asked me why I was underwater for so long. I told him of what had just happened, and he said "Oh yah, that happens." That happens!? What the hell kind of place is this. I went down to the showers to get cleaned up, but am greeted with a fat elderly man showering naked...so I waited. This place was giving me a serious case of the heeby jeebies. I eventually got showered up, and walked back to my campsite, where I planned on taking a nap. I layed down for a good hour, but couldn't get to sleep on account of all those drat cicadas going crazy. So, I decided to hang out with my buddies for a bit. They wanted to go explore the woods, so of course I went with. We all found some nice branches, and made them into walking sticks, and we were off. We found a path down the ravine behind our campsite and took it. We then followed the stream for a while. The stream turned into a small river with some fast current going down it. I was checking out the little fish that will swimming around in the nice clear water, while my friends walked off further down the path. I was waiting for a friend to catch up anyway. I glanced over at a huge pile of branches that were hung up on a bend in the river. I see something weird sticking out of them. I walk over that way, and finally see what it is. A nice mangled torso slung up in the branches. Intestines were floating out of the eviscerated stomach. And it wasn't fresh at all. The whole thing was a pale white, and looked like it had been there for a while. I start yelling for them to come look at it. Nobody was coming yet though. "Don't" That 's what I hear. I look at the torso again, and hear "Don't" A head then slowly cranes it's way out of the rushing waters, and stares at me. There is no lower jaw on the head, and the eyes are popped out of it. The lips are huge and purple. It says "Don't" Once again. I take off like a bat out of hell screaming my head off. I ran and ran, until I saw the friend that I was waiting for. He's yelling "what's the matter!" at me while I'm running up to him. I catch my breath and tell him that I had saw the torso caught up in the branches. We bust rear end back to the spot, and take a look at the branches. There's death there alright, but it wasn't what I had saw. It was a freshly killed deer this time. Still had all it's hair and color. He questions me as to why it was such a big deal. I explained to him the whole time, but he would just laugh and tell me to stop trying to scare him. He went on to catch up with the other guys. I just headed back to the camp at a very fast pace. Behind me I could hear the word "Don't" echoing through the ravine. What does it mean? I couldn't figure it out. No one else at the camp would believe me. They said it was either making up stories, or my imagination. gently caress, imagination. Last time I checked, people don't imagine ripped up torso's and talking severed heads. I already wanted to go home. This place was too hosed up for me, and apparently other people had poo poo happen to them here also. I still had 4 more days to look forward to though. That night there was a huge electrical storm. I'm talking big. There was so much lightning that it was brighter than daylight out. I was lucky enough to be in the tent 5 feet from the tall metal flagpole. Lucky me. The wind was howling at about 50 miles per hour. Everybody except a few of us had moved into the wooden shack that stored our fire wood. I was one of the lucky people that got to stay in the tents. The wind was so strong that it was untying the double knots that I had made to keep the tent flaps closed. It wasn't raining at all though thankfully. More and more spiders had decided to get out of the storm. By now my sleeping bag was covered in smooshed spiders from my rolling around at night. I tried to get to sleep but the thunder was so constant and loud that it was just impossible at first. Then the talking started. "Don't!" That thing was yelling at me from the river. Over and over it would yell "Don't" at me. I flung the sleeping bag over my head to stop the noise of the thunder, wind, and talking. It was pointless though, everything got through. I must have eventually fell asleep, because before I knew it, it was daytime again. Today, was the day I had been at first looking forward to, but now I dreaded it. It was the oh so fantastic "Survival Trial". We are given a tarp, a sleeping bag, a small shovel, a bucket, a book of matches, and our knife. Then we are supposed to go deep into the woods and make a campsite for the night. This was not a good thing for me, after all that I had went through. First thing to do was try go find a good spot to set up. I headed over to the huge bridge that went over the ravine, and tried to set up under it. But saw someone else there, and they were getting peed on by people on the bridge. So, that was a no-go. I tried a couple of other places. I was looking for a good, elevated flat spot, that was away from that river or stream or whatever it was. I found a good area that was about a mile into the woods. I to this day don't know how they got away with this stuff back then. Sending kids into the woods unattended, it's so unsafe. But oh well, what can you do. I'm sure they don't allow it anymore these days. The spot I found was on the top of a little hill, with a nice big tree. So, if there was rain, it would all go down, and not pool up around me. I dug a small ditch which resembled a shallow grave. I covered the dirt in it with pine needled and dry leaves. I set my sleeping bag in it. I used the tarp as a makeshift tent. I was proud of my campsite when I was done. It looked pretty drat good. I then went off and gathered a decent amount of firewood. I dug a tiny pit, and lined it with rocks. That was where I would have my fire. I found a nice flat rock that I could use for cooking and set it next to the fire. Then, I went down to the lake and pulled up the lines I had set earlier. The lines had 6 baited hooks on them, and I had thrown them into the water along the shore. Most of the hooks were full with mediocre sized rock bass, but I kept them. Part of the survival course was catching and eating your own food. Night rolled around and I had eaten my fish that were cooked on the flat rock in the fire. I sat there alone, smoking about a half a pack of ciggs that I couldn't touch until I was alone. At least that was one good thing about this survival crap. It was a calm night. The storm the night before had blown all the bad stuff away apparently. There was only the sound of crickets and the crackling fire. I sat there, enjoying my fire and nicotine for quite a while. Then I noticed that all the crickets had stopped chirping. Well, isn't that the best sound ever. When they do that, it means something is about to die. I had this happen later on in life, but that's part of another story. I looked around into the dark woods, but my small fire didn't light up much. I heard the crunching of dead leaves and sticks off in the direction behind me. I figured someone must be out checking on us survivalists. I called out "hello?" and waited for an answer, but got none. The crunching kept going on off into the distance, away from me, and soon faded into nothing. I thought it was someone just being a prick. I rolled my bag out into my shallow grave...man that sounds bad doesn't it. I hopped into the bag, and snuggled in. It was actually quite comfortable. I was pretty surprised with how well things were turning out. It didn't take me long to fall asleep. I woke up some time later. My eyes opened and I stared into the face of something. I was still very groggy so I just looked until my eyes adjusted. It was some sort of beast. It was just inches from me. The thing had stuck it's head under my tarp and was eyeballing me...kinda. It had no eyes. Imagine a deformed wolf, with no eyes, or eye sockets. It was huge, and white. It inched closer to my face till it was almost touching. I'm trying my hardest not to move or scream my head off. It starts to smell me. It's hot stagnant nose breath wafts over my face. The smell is terrible. It smelled like the essence of death. It sniffed for a few seconds then started to growl slightly. The growling got louder, and louder, until it whipped it's massive head around and looked over it's shoulder. I move my eyes over and see that it's looking at something. What it's looking at is...gently caress I don't know. It was like a tall skinny human being that was hunched over. By tall I mean about 9 feet tall. It was naked, and had no mouth or arms. It was looking right at me. The growling turned into snarling. I could see the wolf things mouth open. Inside were several sets of teeth, like a shark would have. The wolf type thing turn around roared at this humanoid thing off in the distance. The tall thing started backing up slowly, while the wolf thing was walking at it slowly. I'm laying here with the biggest amount of fear and what the gently caress rolling through my mind. In an instant the wolf thing leaps into the air and slams into the tall thing. The tall thing starts writhing around on the ground. I could hear muffled screams coming from it's non-existent mouth. The wolf was snapping and bitting at it. I could hear flesh being ripped from bones, followed by the crunching of bones. I loving black out at this point. I couldn't take that much poo poo in one sitting. I wake up and look at my wrist watch. It is 3 o'clock in the afternoon. gently caress! I had been sleeping for a very long time. I get up and remember what I had seen. Was it all a dream? Apparently not. There is black tar like stuff splattered all around my camp. I could only assume it was blood from those things. There was huge patches of dirt kicked up, and a tree was snapped in half not more than 10 feet from where I was sleeping. It was a tree about the size of a leg. I decided the poo poo must have actually happened, so I got my poo poo packed up and ran back to the main camp. When I got back I was greeted with a lot of "where the hell were you?". I explained to them that I had overslept. I found some of the other guys that had done the survival course, and had a word with them. I asked them if they had anything strange happen to them during their stay in the woods. Only one person said that he had seen something lurking around in the dark. He said it was shaped like a dog, only a lot bigger. The other people seemed uneasy, so I don't know if they were telling the truth about noticing nothing, or if they were hiding something. At 5 p.m. I headed over to my cope class for the biggest fun we were going to have. That would be the 2nd longest zip line in the world. Or it was at the time, I'm sure there are some bigger ones by now. To get to the zip line, you have to climb up this wire ladder onto the top of a light pole. Then grab onto one wire, and walk across another wire to the other side, which is another light pole. It's about a 20 yard wire walk. At that point you get yourself hooked up and take off. I don't even remember how long it is, but it's a long drat way to the other end. You fly over the ravine and a ton of forest. At the other end are your fellow boy scouts ready to stop you. Theres a bunch of bed mattresses nailed to trees too. Well, thats comforting. I had to wait an hour before it was my turn because someone chickened out, and had to be forcibly removed from the pole. It took me 15 minutes to walk to the line start from the end, so that kinda shows how long a distance it is. I get up the ladder, and make my way across the wire. I get hooked up to the line, and kick off the platform. The zip line takes off like a bolt of lightning. I'm soaring over the land, and it is just kick rear end. I look down as I pass over the ravine and see a mass of thousands of bodies writhing around. They are reaching up at me and screaming. I throw up all over myself. I get to the other end, and am shaking terribly bad as they catch my line and help me off. They pass it off as me being scared, and the rush getting to me. It wasn't though. I had enough of this place, it was too much now. I waited around at the end for the instructors girlfriend to come down the line. We got radioed that she had started, but she never showed up. What the hell happened to her? Turns out that she got above the ravine, and her hair flew up into the pulley and got caught. It half way scalped her. That was a very bad thing. She hadn't tired her hair back and put it under her helmet like she was told to. a rescue guy had to climb out to the middle where she was stranded, and cut her hair so she could get moving to the end. She was passed out from what I would assume to be pain and blood loss. It was all bad, and I'll never forget it. She lived fortunately. Later that day, the other instructor fell off the tower, and his line didn't catch. He shattered both his legs. He was about 40 feet off the ground at the time, trying to show off. poo poo was going sour awful fast. These 2 things happening in one day got cope canceled for the rest of the trip. I skipped the rest of my courses that day, and just hung around the mess hall. I wanted to be near some kind of civilization, and that was the closest I could get at the time. Night rolled around, and I was back in the tent with my buddies, the spiders. I didn't mind them by now. They didn't bite me or anything so it was no big deal. There was something wrong with me the whole trip though, I couldn't take a dump no matter how hard I tried. It wasn't constipation, I just didn't have to go. It was weird. I'm just letting you guys know I was having trouble pooping. I lay there in bed, wondering what was going to gently caress with me tonight. I soon dozed off and was met with nightmares of epic proportions. I don't remember what they were about, but I know I had them. I woke up from them in a cold sweat. And it was freezing cold in that tent. It was about 90 degrees when I fell asleep, now I could see my breath. I was shivering in my sleeping bag, wondering how it had got so drat cold. I go to flip on my electric lantern, but it wont turn on. Batteries must be dead. I hear the tent flap behind me head start to open. I turn my head and look over. Through the flap comes the head of the tall skinny thing. It cranes it's foot long neck and stares right at me. There is black tar stuff oozing from cuts that riddle it's face. It looks at me for a few seconds then starts talking. It says "Come with me. You must come with me." I actually said "No" It's face moves closer to mine, and it keep repeating it's phrase. I'm in absolute terror. The thing suddenly starts howling in pain. Like a man would. It's then jerked back out the tent. I say jerked because it looked like something pulled it out. I hear thrashing going down into the ravine. Followed by a roaring noise and now screaming. I curl up into a ball in my sleeping bag and close my eyes shut as tight as I can get them. I must have fallen asleep because I woke up to the sound of the trumpet at 5 a.m. Today was the day we leave. I was so loving happy to leave that godforsaken place. I had all my poo poo packed up by 7 a.m. and I was waiting out by the van. I said gently caress the ending gathering and waiting in the parking lot. Everyone got back an hour or so later, and we took off. As soon as we left the parking lot I had to take a dump. My bowels knew what was going on. That's it. There is your story guys. I hope you enjoyed it. Now I have to get to bed, I have work way too early tomorrow.
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Jul 24, 2015 19:06
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Here's some spooky phone poo poo from Khazar-khum! The Telephone Man and Ghostly Phone Sex. Telephone Man If I were to list every thing that went on in the house it would fill this forum and a couple others, too. My Dad owned the place for 25 years. I lived in the house & in another house on the same land all that time. So I have quite a trove of stories to tell. If you ever watch the Ghost Hunters on TV, you know that they want to see some kind of evidence before calling a place haunted. There's one little problem with that: ghosts are like fish. You're in the boat, you've got the lines out, you know that there's fish in the lake; but if they're not in the mood to bite, forget it. With ghosts, you can place all the high-tech gear you want in the place, but if they won't or can't appear, there's nothing you can do. Anyway, just about everybody's favorite story involved the phone man When we moved in, the place still had party lines. My Mom wouldn't settle for that, so we had the phone company come out and place a single line. Everything was OK outside: they ran the lines to the house and outbuilding, a long, low construct that had housed the man while he built the house. We later converted it back into an apartment for me when I got married. He did the downstairs, and then went up. To get into the very large attic, you had to open a closet door and then climb up into the opening. There were shelves in there, which could be used as a ladder if needs be. The phone man was able to hoist himself up in with no problem. My Mom left him alone and went back downstairs. A short while later, he came down, got some tools or somesuch, and went back upstairs. And disappeared. We never saw him come down. The phone company had to send someone to get the truck. They never spoke to us, and we never signed off on the work order. But we had phones, so it was OK. And that was it. You'd think it was a joke, except for two things. One, he left his flashlight in the closet. We used it for years, until it finally got lost. And two, when people came to install AC & add insulation, they found a hard hat in the attic. So what did happen to the phone man? I don't know. Ghostly Phone Sex In my Dad's house, we had many many things happen. There was a building behind the house that the owner had lived in while building the main house. It had a bathroom, the making of a rudimentary kitchen, and a phone. The line was separate from the main house. We used the place as a garage/storage/whatever for years. Then when I got married, we decided to convert most of it back into a living space. We laid carpet, tile, put in a shower, stove, etc. My folks had turned the phone off to prevent anyone from using it & running up a bill. Now it was time to turn it back on. They had to replace some lines and naturally that meant climbing the poles. We were inside when he fell off the pole. Fortunately the neighbor was a fireman. He kept the phone man quiet until the ambulance came. Someone went up in a cherry-picker to finish the job because they couldn't just leave things as they were. According to the new man, the guy's harness wasn't loose or anything--he just fell out of it. No one could figure it out. And then the phone bill came. $850. From the time the guy climbed the pole to the time the second guy finished the job was roughly 2 hours. My Dad called the number that the bill said had been dialled something like 3000 times. It was a long-distance pay phone-sex line. So we went to the phone company to complain. The lady at the desk had to get her supervisor because they'd never seen anything like it. They calculated that the actual number of calls that could be placed was something like 80. But even that didn't make sense, as the calls were made before the phone had been connected. They sent someone out to check the lines, I guess to see of someone was tapping them. But no. Who or what made the calls? (side note: there are two versions of The Telephone Man but they are the same story so I picked the one I thought was better written)
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Jul 28, 2015 18:52
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I got you The Dam Man by Arthyarthyarthy My dad was an engineer, and when I was 17 he took a job renovating a dam about 40 miles away from our house. At the beginning it was just a normal job, but he started comming home more and more...I would almost say frantic. You could tell there was something wrong at work, maybe a bad coworker or something. My parents relationship was strained as it was, and this stretched it to the limit. They started yelling at each other late at night, and one day at the dinner table the straw broke. Dad told what was bothering him. The dam was haunted, he said. Mom and I stared at him. Me in interest, my Mom in...annoyance, waiting for him to crack a smile and say he was just joking. The smile never came, he just got up and went to his "office". Mom stared at her food a while then followed him, I hung around within earshot to see what was going on. The conversation started out with my Mom's raised voice, but gradually it became quiet, confidential. Dad agreed to refuse the job, to work a few more days until they could find a replacement - no more. This is where my intelligence came into question: I asked if I could come with him to work, and see the "ghost". He agreed, but told me to bring a friend. I called Josh, and he was stoked, and by the next day we were riding in the cramped back seat of my Dad's pickup towards the dam. Josh and I checked out flashlights, nothing fancy, just those little penlights you get at gas stations. We were a far cry from professional ghost hunters. When we arrived at the dam, both Josh and I were struck by the somber mood that abounded in just about everyone. You could have told us that we were in a morgue, and it would have been easily believed. We followed Dad down through the concrete labyrinth, past the bypass', past the generators, deep down into the access and maintenance tunnels below, where the construction was going on. Dad grabbed a 1mil candle power light and two radios from one of the carts, not really stopping as he walked. It wasn't construction really, just patchwork to make sure the dam didn't explode under pressure, necessary little injections of concrete into compression cracks and that sort of thing. We went down some stairs that took an abrupt turn to the right, and were met with a 100 foot long unlit hallway, with another set of descending stairs at the far end, lit by a single naked light bulb. "Alright," Dad started, "This is it. All you have to do is walk down to the other end of the hallway and back. Feel free to turn back and come here at any time, I'll be standing right here with the torch. Just yell at me and I'll light up the whole hallway. Take one of the radios with you just in case, noise has a way of...getting trapped down here." He said while gazing down the hallway. He was talking quietly, the sort of way you would if you were surrounded by sleeping creatures. Josh and I lit our flashlights and started walking down the hallway. Almost immediately we began to feel...pressure close in around us. It seemed the darkness itself had weight to it, pushing down on our shoulders, sneaking into out throats and choking us. We both walked slowly, concentrating on that light at the end of the tunnel, on our little bouncing pen lights. Dams are creepy places in general, and this one was no different. Minute shifts in the lake caused the drat to...moan in a way, but not in a way you could hear. More like you could feel it moan, somewhere deep in your stomach. Little drips would become gunshots when reflected the right way, ventilation shafts would seam to form whispered words, voices from far off managed to appear right behind you. I had experienced these things before, in other dams, but this one was different - completely different. I suddenly snapped alert, Josh was whispering my name from somewhere. I became aware that we were laying down on the cold, moist concrete floor. The light at the end of the hallway had gone out. Our penlights did little to hold back the wet, seeping darkness that was constantly encroaching on us. I pulled the radio out of my pocket, whispering into it: "Dad...dad...turn on the light...". No reply, just a that silent static that filled the air around us, Josh and I turned around and looked behind us, we could see Dad still sitting on the steps. I wanted to yell for him, but I couldn't. If I opened my mouth...the darkness would come in, pour in, drowning me. The radio crackled up in my hand, "Turn on the light...turn on the light...turn on the light..." whispered someone. It wasn't my voice. It was a sick, wet, almost gurgling voice. Gutteral and deep, it originated from the gut instead of the throat. Josh and I pointed our flashlights at the radio, and he curse as his light flickered and died. We were stuck, trapped in that hallway. We couldn't yell, we couldn't move, we couldn't use the radio. "Josh...we have to try to get back.". He nodded back, his face eerily lit by the pale blue penlight. I tried to ignore its brief flickering, as we both started to crawl back down the hallway, using the penlight to light the way in front of us. The darkness was complete, filling the edges of my eyes. Our whole world existed in that circle of dim light before of us, everything else was black. Then my hand touched something... I jumped backwards and pointed the penlight where my hand had been...nothing. But I knew without a doubt what I felt - a foot. I had layed by hand down on the ankle of a human foot. It had been wet, slimy almost. The skin felt soft and bloated, ice cold. It was so vivid, I thought to myself. I had felt the callouses on the back of the heel, the wrinkles of skin...the tension of the dead muscle. I had surprised whatever I touched as much as it surprised me. Suddenly, Josh was yelling at me. He was gasping and spinning around on all fours, his eyes wide with fear. "What the gently caress was that..." he started, "Something touched me, put its hands on my back." He turned around and showed me the back of his shirt, a grey T-Shirt that he wore in case it got dirty. Two defined hand prints were set in it, right behind his shoulders, showing easily against the rest of the shirt - whatever hands had touched him had soaking wet hands. His face set as he looked forward, I followed. It was wearing a poncho, the heavy wet gear that dam workers who have to do deep work wear. Brief reflections of light around the sillouete showed its emergency-yellow color. It was wearing a hat too, one of the rubber seal hats I had seen my Dad wear on so many occasions. Someone else had come down to talk to Dad? Then I felt it...look at me. From far away, even though Josh and I were in total darkness, I felt it look at me and knew - absolutely knew - it saw me. Then it started walking. It was a hurried walk, with a heavy limp. A determined walk, the walk of a man who has something important to do, someone who is late, someone who wants...to kill an intruder. I was paralyzed, there on the floor, shaking from the cold water seeping in through my shirt off the floor, from fear of whatever it was that was walking at us. Closer, closer, closer. I pointed the flashlight at it - him. He was maybe thirty feet away now, his walking had picked up pace. Little details shimmered in the penlight. His face was a sickly white, the eyes grey and swollen, only one pointing directly at us, the other lazily drifting off to the left somewhere. His cheeks had dark blue veins showing through, and his lips were torn and rotting in places. Shimmers of light reflected back to me as droplets of water caugh the light - whoever the man was, he was soaking wet. Still closer...too close.. The radio! Dad was talking through the radio! "Are you boys OK back there? I'm turning on the light, cover your eyes." I couldn't see him any more, the man was close enough that he filled our view. His wet boots heavily slapping against the concrete, his wet, labored breathing seeming to slide across the walls until they reached my ears. It occurred to me that my flashlight had gone out, and at the same time the boot steps stopped. I could hear the breathing though...only feet above me. Wet rubber squeaked against itself, and I felt a wet, swollen hand slide down the side of my face, then violently grip my hair and yank my hair back. Then the world erupted in light - bright, unbroken light filled every corner of that drat hallway. "Why are you idiots laying down? Whats wrong with Josh?" I heard my Dad yell, unseen behind the bobbing light, he was running towards us. I looked over, Josh was face first on the concrete. He had passed out. I started shaking him and he woke up, pushing me off him in fear at first. Dad reached us and helped me pick hip up. Then pointed the light down the hallway and dismissively shook his head. "Lets get out of here, I'm seeing things now. I thought I saw one of the other workers just go around the corner down there." "Was he wearing wet gear?" "Yeah, why? Are you OK?" He squinted his eyes, almost knowingly at me. He had a unique experience, I thought to myself, probably every day for the last two weeks. "Why is your hair wet?" Was the last thing I remembered him asking. I find myself waking up late at night now, soaking with sweat, thinking about that tunnel. Sometimes I can feel that wet hand on my face, sometimes I feel the foot, other times I just see his silhouette at the end of the hallway, any hallway. Afterwords: Dad fronted an effort to quintuple the amount of wired and emergency lights in that dam, and the personnel were more than supportive. He also suggested to change the emergency gear to red, so that everyone wasn't jumping out of their socks every time they saw another worker.
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Sep 29, 2015 16:01
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Drain Lady was written by Soulbane, formerly known as Kendrik Rotten Meat was written by Jip-Bip-Jo I cannot overemphasize how awesome it is that Noodle Incident made the It Is A Mystery compilation
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Oct 6, 2015 04:05
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That would be Child Three by Slimebeast. His stuff is pretty good.
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Oct 30, 2015 20:51
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Happy Halloween, my fellow goon ghouls and ghosties! Here's one from the vaults, a Halloween tale by Seaniqua... Haunted Hay Rack This is true. I have changed the names. I grew up in Nebraska, in a rural community an hour south of Omaha. My friends and I really enjoyed Halloween. Around fall it was usually Jon, Justin, Brandon and I that would hang out. It was weird because, outside of Halloween time, we weren't really close friends. We all just had a soft spot for the fall season and Halloween especially, so we would find time to cause mischief that our parents didn't know about. In elementary school, we would dress up and trick or treat just like any other kids. We'd sit around and tell ghost stories, watch Freddy Kruger movies we weren't supposed to, and generally be scared shitless. In middle school we moved on to the classic small town practice of scaring kids who were trick or treating. It was generally all innocent stuff. Hiding behind bushes, following kids silently then disappearing, the usual. This was more or less a way to hide the fact that we still wanted to get candy from houses, because we did that, too. In high school it got a little out of hand. Our freshman year was to be the last Halloween of hijinks, and we didn't have anything out of the ordinary planned. It was just supposed to be one last chance for the four of us to hang out and get candy. Unfortunately that's not all that happened. Justin's parents got a divorce that previous year. Again, we weren't really close so we didn't talk to him about it. The rest of us knew he was having anger problems at school. He had been in fights for sure I remember, and he may have been suspended at some point. My parents actually didn't want me to go out that night because of this kid's reputation. Not heeding my parents advice, the four of us set out that Halloween. It was 1999, Halloween was on a Sunday. Around midnight, we noticed Justin had been walking behind us for quite a way and he had run off somewhere. We couldn't see him anywhere around us. Not wanting to call any attention to ourselves so late on a school night, we didn't look for him. We figured he was in a mood or something and had ran off home or to smoke cigarettes and drink with his older brother, who is another story. Then we heard a voice we immediately recognized as Justin's coming from behind some bushes in an empty lot where we played football as kids. The bushes were rustling and we couldn't tell what was going on. He was mumbling something along the lines of, "Stop. loving stop. Keep your mouth shut." We quietly argued amongst ourselves over what he was doing, then Justin must have heard us because he stopped speaking, and the rustling stopped. He ran away in the opposite direction from us. We went over to the bush and saw a kid lying on the ground wearing a Homer Simpson mask. He wasn't moving. We asked him if he was okay and he didn't respond at all, he didn't make a sound. We were all loving terrified. Brandon took the kid's mask off, it was Brad Smith, a 6th grader in our town. His face was covered with blood, his eyes were bloodshot and blackened. He had bruises all over the place. He was barely breathing because Justin, the stupid poo poo, had been strangling this kid to death. To this day I haven't seen someone so hosed up by another person. He needed to go to the hospital. None of us had cell phones. Brandon and I stayed and Jon ran home, because he lived the closest. Not too long after Jon left, an ambulance and two town cruisers came to where we were. The paramedics rushed Brad off to the hospital and the cops asked us what happened. We told them. One of the cops gave me a ride home, the other gave Brandon a ride home. There was already a cop on the way to Justin's mom's house. Justin had actually just run back there and was sitting in the living room watching TV when he was arrested that night. Brad died in the hospital, he was 12 years old. Murder. Justin was tried as an adult and put away for life, although it was likely he'd be eventually let out on parole since he was so young. Edit: I want to stress that all three of us really tried to get this behind us. We didn't talk about it, the town stayed mum about it but I knew they were talking about it behind our backs. It was really hard on our families. My parents still refuse to talk about this. The next year, I got a job at a local haunted hay rack ride. Coincidentally, Jon and Brandon chose to get jobs as the same place. We were admittedly pretty freaked out by this coincidence, but passed it off as just that. Since we knew each other we volunteered to work the same area of the ride, which was supposed to be a team of three guys who would hide and surprise the hay rack riders. The job was an easy $20 a night. We would wait around in a little wooded area on a farmer's land, the hay rack would come by, and we'd scare them. We brought cigarettes and beers to enjoy during the down time, it was pretty simple work and enjoyable enough. But on Halloween night, we had a fourth member. I swear to you, this is the damned truth. The first hay rack ride went through at about 6:30 PM, as the sun was setting. We all sat on a few logs and cracked open a beer to share between the three of us. We shot the poo poo and tried not to talk about Justin. We all noticed him at the same time. A figure standing 50 yards away at the edge of the wooded area, not looking at us. He was looking past us. None of us said a word, he just stood there not acknowledging us. The next hay rack started to pass by and we nearly missed it, we all got up from our logs and did a real half assed job trying to scare the kids on the ride. After the rack passed, the figure was gone. We didn't see him again for a couple hours. The last hay rack was coming through, we did our job, and got ready to get the gently caress out of there because we were all feeling pretty uneasy. We started making our way back to the entrance of the hay rack ride. On our way back, we realized someone was walking behind us. We turned around. There he was again, the same figure as before. We were frozen. He spoke to us. "Where's Justin?" We didn't reply. "Where's Justin?" I said, "Justin's loving in jail..." He stood there and stared at us, turned around, and walked away in the opposite direction. We went to the entrance, all terrified shitless but almost in disbelief, we were thinking we got pranked by someone. It was common knowledge in that town that we were the three that found Brad Smith the previous year. Some chickenshit kid knew that the three of us were working there and decided to scare us. We were absolutely certain of it. We asked the farmer who ran the hay rack ride if he saw a fourth person with us that evening. He replied, "Sure, the one with the cartoon mask." Red Baron posted:I appreciate the courage it must have taken to write up all that, but what a loving tease to get through all that and then have you say, "Nvm, no ending, too hard." Sorry to the few people who replied to my story. I've been avoiding this thread since I wrote the first part of my story a few days ago. I'm realizing now that it probably wasn't cool to edit out the ending, so I want to explain myself and what happened. The truth is that I experienced the deaths of two children when I was young. Here is my personal experience, which is the only way I can think of to convey the weight of what went on. I hope that will do Justin and Brad some justice. I feel like the original ending I had - just a line or two - didn't do that. While it had a severe impact on the whole town including myself, I'm more concerned with showing respect for the two kids who lost their lives. Hopefully this is at least interesting to read. The farmer thought there was a fourth person with us, which really bothered us. After he told us that, we stuck around, hoping to see the kid come up to the barn area, but he never did. We told the guy that the kid talked to us and was trying to scare us, so he dismissed it completely. He told us to forget about it and go home, so we did, hoping it was just some rear end in a top hat who ran off after scaring us. The next day, a rumor started circulating about Justin in prison. People were saying he had hanged himself during the night. Justin's parents put a funeral announcement in the local newspaper that week, confirming the stories. I think Jon started telling people about our experience at the hayrack ride, because a couple people asked me about it. I lied and told people it was all made up, but really I just wanted people to stop talking about it. For about a week I had a terrible recurring dream with Brad and Justin in them. After it happened twice, I decided to keep a dream journal to try to get over it. I threw away the journal a long time ago, but I saved the text, here it is copy/pasted: I'm back in the field. No hay rack comes through. I am sitting on a stump. Brad is here. He has his back to me. He's standing next to Justin. Justin is dead, hanged from a tree. I am scared. I run back to the barn area. I'm back where we saw him before. I see the same scene with Brad staring at Justin, dead. I look away while I run. Everywhere I look I see Brad and Justin motionless. I go into the barn to talk to the farmer. There is no farmer. Justin is hanging from a rafter and Brad is standing next to him. I turn to run out of the barn, and Brad is standing in front of me in the same mask I last saw him wearing. I'm frozen. I start sinking into the ground. Brad is sinking with me. Chunks of the mask start falling off, like flesh off the bone. We sink further. Brad's face slowly starts to emerge from under the deteriorating halloween mask. His eyes and mouth are open. We keep sinking; the rest of the mask continues to fall off. I can smell it. We're up to our chins in mud and chunks of flesh. I'm up to my nose now. I see Justin being crucified. I wake up. I had that dream every night for 5 or 6 days. I went to Justin's funeral. Jon and Brandon didn't show up. The dreams stopped after that. I've gotten better about talking about it since then, but it's not a happy thing to think about. I've never had the dream again, thank goodness. I don't know if I believe in ghosts, but this experience continues to chill me when I think about it.
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Oct 31, 2015 17:35
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I've been dredging through the archives for something like that but nothing quite matches your description. I do have a short story about a creepy hole/room beneath a house that caused bad luck for several different families if you're interested.
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Nov 12, 2015 05:48
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Alright, here we go! The Ritual Room by G-Prestige First family My parents used to have these friends who lived in an old farm house years ago. This house has been around for over a hundred years, but the original family moved out a long time ago and these people moved in. They raised and trained horses, as well as instructed horseback riding lessons. I'm unsure what the husband's job was, but the wife's was solely taking care of the horses. I used to spend a lot of time there when I was younger, as you normally have to go where your parents go when you're 7 or 8 (these events started occurring 12-13 years ago. I haven't heard anything in the last 6 years or so.) Anyways, eventually, my mom started hearing things from the wife such as the husband has been abusing her and their daughter. Apparently the husband was normal and then his personality completely changed and this is when the abuse started. The wife claims that there was nothing that would trigger his anger, it would just happen. Then one day, I remember looking out my back window and seeing an extremely bright, red sky at night. It turns out that their barn was on fire. The barn burned to the ground, and it was later found out that a car had been purposely parked within the barn under hay, left on over night. This is what caused the fire. Apparently when the wreckage from the barn was removed, they had found a hidden room under the barn which looked like a sanctuary or place rituals were completed. There was a lot of large, colourful and strangely shaped rocks placed around skeletal corpses. The husband used to spend all his time taking care of that car, and according to the wife, he was very mad at some problems he was having with it, and planned to "at least make some money from the drat thing". I assume he was going to try and collect insurance from the loss of the barn. The marriage ended up deteriorating, and the wife and daughter left with very bad emotional scars. Second family Eventually, after they move out, another couple move in. After a year or so of living there, (they continued to train horses and my parents had formed a relationship with this couple as well) the husband started to behave strangely as well. Again, he beat the wife and had actually murdered about 8 or 9 horses with gunshots to the head. No reason was behind this, as they were very healthy. The husband was arrested, since the couple boarded horses as well and it wasn't their horses who died. He is then diagnosed with schizophrenia, something he showed no symptoms of before he had lived there for a while. Third family They move out, so moving on to the final couple that lived there. This is the worst situation of all three. These people, the Drinkwalter family, were very nice people. As usual with the people who live on this farm, they took care of horses. This time they didn't raise them, they simply boarded them and trained people how to ride them, as well as the odd horse show now and then. Again, following the pattern, after a year or so of living there the husband started behaving weird. He would spend days in the barn, only come in to eat and sleep, but he wasn't tending the horses. I'm not sure what he was doing, the wife just told my parents that she didn't know why he was always in there. Eventually he started becoming very abusive. He beat the wife, but never touched the daughters. One day, on July 28, 2002, there was a double murder. The husband had shot and killed the wife with a shot gun. This was on his daughter's birthday, and he left a birthday card on the table saying something along the lines of, "I'm so sorry, I had to. Happy Birthday". The husband had thought his wife was having an affair with his neighbor, so he headed over to his neighbor's house. When the man answered the door, he shot and killed him as well with the same shotgun. The man's son was standing right behind him. The cops were called, and a pursuit took place. Thats when the killer, Wayne Drinkwalter, died*. http://www.northumberlandnews.com/news-story/3770473-murder-suspect-dies-during-police-chase/ Wayne Drinkwalter was in a car accident because the police threw a spike belt down and he was ejected from his car. I find it creepy that the entire time, there has always been the "ritual" room below the barn, as they just build a new barn right over it. *The original link in Noodle Incident's compilation was dead, so I did a quick google search for the guy.  BONUS STORY ABOUT A SCARY-rear end HOLE IN THE GROUNDMammoth Cave by an unknown poster The year was 1958 when my parents were crossing the country to return home to visit relatives. Back then there were no highways, and the mountainous area of Kentucky was treacherous driving. Narrow roads that two cars, at some points, could not pass, and these roads also ran along the sides of mountains with steep cliffs and dangerous drop-offs. On their way to Ohio, by the time they got to Kentucky, my parents were so tired they decided to stop at a hotel for rest. They saw a sign advertising the world famous Mammoth Cave. This was not a billboard, mind you, because those were nearly nonexistent in the Kentucky backwoods of that day, but a handmade sign with an arrow pointing to the direction of yet another narrow road. They had never been there before, but figured it would be well populated, even in those days, with two or three hotels. Following the sign's directions, they turned and drove what seemed forever, almost to the point of giving up and turning back. After driving miles and miles on the dark and winding road, in the middle of the night, finally they arrived at what my father described as an aged, large, Colonial style farmhouse. They had not passed a car, or house, or any sign of civilization for many miles. In front of this huge house there was a sign - also hand-painted - saying "Mammoth Cave and Hotel." My mother got a terrible feeling and refused to get out the car. My father was stubborn, and decided it had drove too far for nothing and was going to check it out anyway. So scared she was, my mother said, that she locked the doors the moment my father stepped out of the car, even though there was no sign of life or other vehicles anywhere in sight. My father said the door to the so-called hotel was open, and when he stepped inside there was a huge hole near the entrance with a velvet rope hanging around it. He said it was near the door and you had to step around it to keep from falling in. On one side were a bunch of old, old women in rocking chairs; on the other side a sign-in desk with a huge book on it. He said it looked like something you would see in a western movie. He said the old women numbered somewhere between 10 and 12. It was dimly lit by what appeared to be lanterns. There were no other furnishings in the room - only the gaping hole, which went straight down into the earth. He said it seemed bottomless, and the cavelike hole eventually fell from view into darkness that seemed hundreds of feet down. He described steps that ran the length of its depth for as far as one could see. One of the old women told him that the hole was the Mammoth Cave, but it was "closed" being so late at night. She offered him a room to stay in and asked him to sign his name in the book. He said he still gets frightened when he recalls the event, and my father is not one to scare easily. He said he had a feeling that if he stayed much longer, he would never leave alive. He also said the women started to approach him, and he felt he may not have escaped their clutches had he not lied and told them he was going to the car to get his family. My mother had the car started and door opened by the time he reached it. He said she was terrified, even though she had not entered the farmhouse and saw what he did. To this day she said she has never felt so scared in all her life. They burned the rubber and got out of there, and did not stop until after daylight and they found "civilization" again. As the years passed, our family has gone to the real Mammoth Cave - nothing like the mysterious event my parents experienced that strange night so long ago. In daylight hours, we've even searched the primitive side roads and found no house similar in design. Once we found a burnt down farmhouse, but there were no visible signs of a gaping hole that led to what seemed the depths of hell. Nearly 50 years later and we're still looking for answers.
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Nov 17, 2015 03:17
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Interesting! I'll have to see if I can find the original poster, maybe they had a similar follow-up. I wonder, will this thread ever be moved back to GBS? It was a lot more productive there, pre-GBS 2.0. With Lowtax cutting down on low-content stuff maybe it wouldn't be filled with random shitposting the way it was in 2014.
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Nov 18, 2015 06:24
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I'm on it just give me 10 minutes to power up my laptop
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Dec 20, 2015 07:14
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Here we go, I'll start off with Face-jacket and then post the story of Eddie because I'm fond of that one. Face-jacket For a long period of time I was stationed in Okinawa Japan, which was a gorgeous and very brightly colored place. It's japan, so it's weird as gently caress to begin with, but the Ryukyu islands were a special and colorful weird as gently caress. The island is heavily urbanized, but there is still jungle in between the housing areas and the commercial districts, and it is crazy thick. This wasn't the low-brush jungle of the philipines, this place was just a morass of vegetation. The cities and towns themselves were very clean too, much cleaner than any other place I've been to, and the smell wasn't too bad. It smelled of the ocean, cooked meats and seagull poo poo, with only a little of the rank rotten vegetation smell you typically get in jungle areas. When I say the jungle was kind of inbetween places I mean just that. You could be walking down a heavily travelled sidewalk past a mall or supermarket or something and on the other side of the street, bam, inpenetrable foliage and weird noises. They had these snakes there, Habu, poisonous and hilariously aggressive that would screw around right at the borders of jungle-meets-city and chase you around if you were unlucky enough to draw their attention. Between them and the ganguro kids I got my fair share of mundane heebie-jeebies. Ganguros are...well, poo poo, look it up on the internet, I don't really have words for it. Pleasant enough kids, very animated, but just a weird subculture. Anyways, the fun stuff. I was spending a lot of my free time poking around the old mythologies and folklore of the area, and as you might have guessed Japan has a crazy deep history of scary monsters, ghosts of every imaginable variety and some really bizarre occurances. I was in particular digging around for information on the Ryukyunese version of the kappa. Kappas are pretty well known, turtle shelled dudes with a dent on the tops of their heads, dig cucumbers and suck the blood out of people who get too close to their river homes, yadda-yadda. Interestingly enough the part thats left out is that these things suck the blood out from your anus, leaving a bloated corpse with a distended rectum. This sounds gross, but it actually makes sense. When someone drowns they'll go through a coupla different stages of decomposition, bloat occurs and the rectum does get distended, sometimes grossly. I figured people dragging up someones body from a river and seeing the malformed orifices would probably whip up some bizarre creature to account for somthing that would seem so unprecedented. I thought I had it all figured out and went to a coupla different places to test my ideas and see how they were recieved from my various sources, which were old people. Old people who usually didn't like foreigners and eventually REALLY started to dislike me for bothering them all the time to boot. One of the guys I was always talking to about this stuff was a guy named Fred Nakamura. Fred had a more japanese first name I'm sure, but he never told me what it was. He was the awesome old goat with a collection of some really nasty and neat stuff. He had jars of preserved fish of hideous aspect, haunted mundane objects wrapped in paper wards and books, so many awesome books. He was a great source of information, and my time spent in his dinky little house was usually occupied by me poking around and finding something weird, like a jar filled with frog eggs and asking him what the gently caress. Then he would tell me what the gently caress and I'd be happy and buy him an Orion, which was this pretty awesome beer. One night Fred and I are getting heavy into the creepy stories and I'm complaining that while Japan has an awesome history of weird spooky poo poo I had yet to really see anything spooky as all gently caress. The entire island was like one big cocktease for me so far. All this lore, legendry and history and I had yet to meet a woman whose neck was like a snake or a hopping one eyed haunted umbrella (I poo poo you not, one of the yokai things is supposed to be exactly like that). Fred gets tired of my whining and pretty much calls me on my poo poo saying that if I was faced with something really and truly terrifying I'd lose my poo poo and bail, and everyone knows americans are all talk, especially the ones on this island, which was mostly marines and some airforce. I cop attitude towards that and puff up a bit, but he's just merciless, goin' on about how folks like me are all talk, no bark and no balls, blah blah blah. I know where he's going with this so I play along to the stereotypes. It's polite, it'll get me what I want and it makes the old guy happy to bash someone mercilessly to do it. I start bragging and he gives me a dare, and I take it in a heartbeat. Theres a little quiet creek not far from his house, and at that creek theres a concrete aqueduct thing that is apparently home to something pretty god damned nasty, he'll offer to take me there if I don't chicken poo poo out and bail. If I do, he'll mock me, my ancestors, my branch of the military, my favorite color and my first dog for the end of my days. Hells yes. I am in like Flynn. So this creek is in one of the wierd little sideways jungles not too far away from the Kadena airforce base. Nothing too fancy about it, it just missed development and is pretty rarely troubled by people. Its dense bush so we walk along the creek-edge which was rocky. The water was amazingly clean too for the first part of our trip. Crystal clear stuff, only occasionally did I see a styrofoam cup or anything normal like that. I could hear the streets to either side, people talking on their phones and music playing on the overhead speakers, also cicadas, always those god damned cicadas. So, we keep going the length of this little creek and very suddenly it starts getting choked and nasty. I went on about how pretty it was specifically to illustrate how nasty it got and how quickly. One second I'm looking at an arrowhead spring water commercial, the next, there's dead cats all over the place and it smells like someone slapped a leper with a colostomy bag. It was gross, stinky and uncomfortably warm and humid. Fred just keeps chugging along and pretty soon the jungle starts reaching over the creek and it's getting darker. Sure enough we come to a a bunch of large concrete pipes that serve as some sort of overflow collection. The pipes were pretty big, there were three of em, and you could walk right in without having to duck your head, and they were expectedly dark as hell. Fred points at them and tells me, "Alright badass, you march up the one on the right, only the right ok, you got a flashlight?" I pull out my little kick rear end flashlight I've had for years, the thing is trusty as a crow's eye and give him a smug grin, "Good to go Fred, when I get out of there your buying me a girlfriend for the evening." He shrugs and laughs and says something in japanese before shooing me into the hole. I start to head in, I've got pretty solid all-weather boots so I'm walking into the pipe from the middle of the creek, not too worried about foot rot or anything like that since I'm not planing on spending too much time out here. As I go in Fred yells at me from back up the creek, "Don't be a bitch!" I'm like, whatever dude, and in I go. The pipes dark as hell, and crawling with spiders. The creek narrows out and I'm able to walk on dry ground for a good distance as that little circle of light behind me gets dimmer. Theres not a lot of graffiti, which actually bothered me. Usually these places are rotten with tags and whatnot but this place only had a very few markings, most noticeable a bright red and yellow mark that said "PISS GO YEAH!!" which was awesome. I peed on it and then went my way. The tunnel curved, cutting me off from my lightsource at the rear and my little flashlight was doing a brave attempt at keeping the corridor in front of me illuminated pretty drat well. Eventually I couldn't see much to my sides though, which is how the cistern chamber caught me off guard. I was going along and I just got this feeling, halfway between spider-senses tingling and a noticeable change in pressure. I turned and scanned my sides and rear with the flashlight and discovered that I was standing in a pretty god drat big circle room with a low ceiling. Spooky place, it was awesome and carried the noise of my footsteps like crazy, I could hear my steps bouncing around all over the place. As I was marveling at my surroundings I noticed on the far end of the chamber, near a pipe that went further the walls looked, dirty...smudged with something, which from that distance I assumed to be crap. I walked up and discovered that the smudges were a little bit more defined, at first I figured it for graffiti and felt a little more relaxed, but as I got up there I realized, no, it wasn't graffiti and I began to feel a lot more worried. They were drawings of faces. Hundreds, maybe thousands of em. Life sized renditions of faces drawn in some brown-black substances that could have been paint, feces or...yeah, the cliche writing aid of the terminally homicidal. I don't think it was blood, but it could have drat well been blood. That wouldn't have been the creepiest part though, the faces, yeesh. These things were drawn with care and great detail, and they were all recognizeably individual. No two were alike. Male, female, young and old, every inch of the far wall was faces. There was no empty space between the renditions either, and occasionally a drawing would share a jawline or an ear with it's neighbor. It felt weird too, you always feel like your being watched when your alone but the sensation I was getting was uncanny and potent. I was being watched, by this wall. I just stared at em for the longest time, almost wanting to touch em to feel if they were just two dimensional or more. What broke my reverie was a face near the floor, at the edge of the tunnel leading deeper into the pipeworks. The faces weren't all japanese, some of em were anglo and african, and there was one face that stood out to me for its familarity. I freaked right the gently caress out. I turned to get my bearing and make haste out the exit, figuring I could haul rear end until I saw the exit, calm down and saunter out like a badass and still pass my dare. My light flashed around finding the passage I had come in from, but in it's travel it passed over something and I only saw it for a half second. Hunched over, raggedy-assed clothes, blank white eyes. It was a good coupla yards from me but I just didn't have the balls right then to put my light back on it. I wasn't alone in here, and whatever was there with me was right over there. I froze, checked my breathing and felt my heart go system critical. I could hear him breathing in there with me, the labored kind of breathing a COPD patient has, laborous, unsustaining breaths. Not loud, but long and troubled. A long pregnant period of time passed were I was just waiting to either poo poo myself or bolt. He broke the silence first, and his voice was high pitched like a girls, real shy sounding, like chimes or a voice you'd hear belting out some jump-rope poem in a school yard. "Would you take tea?" I gave an involuntary shudder and tried to say no thank you but it came out as "eeee." I heard him move towards me and I was gone, all my muscles suddenly decided to work for me and the whole freezing thing let up. I took off like a rabbit on fire. When I was young, I could run. Not so much now, I still have the legs, but the rest of me has gone pretty happily soft. Back then though, kapow, off like a shot. I was half coyote, half gazelle, I could outrun anything. My grandfather once told me that his dad won a bet against the devil in a race, and had since never been short of things to run away from. Right then, I was the Flash, I left a trail of splashes far behind me, and even though it was dark as a beggar's future I moved without fear forward, because I knew that no matter what was in front of me, it could not be worse than what was behind me. I'm lucky I didn't brain myself on the wall of the pipe. When I saw that circle of light that said "Outside! Safe!" I leaned into it and shot out of the mouth of that tunnel like a cannonball. Fred was standing there having a cigarette and I grabbed his raggedy old rear end and kept going. A couple of hours later, back at his house he gave me a sound bitching out and mocked me mercilessly. I was entirely too happy and terrified to bother shooting him down and took his abuse with a broad smile. "Dude, what the gently caress, did I just get the poo poo scared out of me by some old blind artist or something? I mean seriously!?" Part of me figured that there was very well a practical reason for what I had just experianced. Japan is rife with subcultures and weirdos, and it's not unlikely to run into some crazy old pervert hiding in a pipe who draws the faces of people he sees every day, and maybe the blank white eyes I had thought I saw were like, sunglasses or something, maybe he was wearing contacts. More likely, Fred set me up and a budy of his was in there waiting to scare the poo poo out of the american kid. If that had been the case, I was lucky I went with flight instead of the alternative, I had enough bad poo poo on my conscience, don't need to add mercilessly beating an old man to a pulp on top of it. Fred started telling me the story of what that pipe was and what it used to be. A long time ago, before the war and hell...before the japanese, there was a cave near there that had since been filled in. The cave was the home of an old man who took faces from people and made them into a kind of cloak he would wear as he went out hunting. If he saw someone whos face he wanted to take, but couldn't right then for whatever reason, he'd go home to his cave and with one long rear end nail and his own black spit, paint a rendition of their face on the wall so he'd remember it. The story says, to save yourself you had to sneak in there in the dark and smudge out your face when you found it. I got butterflies in my stomach and remembered what I had seen down there, and what I had neglected to do. I called Fred a miserable old bastard and if that thing came for me I'd never buy him a beer ever again. Fred laughed at me, called me a stupid kid, and then asked if I wanted to see more places like that. Of course I said yes. Face-jacket, thats what the guy was called.
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Dec 20, 2015 07:30
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Eddie I had a friend a long time ago named Edgar. Edgar was the single most mexican motherfucker I ever met. The actor from that Machete movie kinda reminds me of Eddie, except my guy was like...four foot something and broader than a barn door. I met this guy shortly after my time with the fleet, he was hurt in a pretty bad way and didn't wanna get fixed up by a legit doc or take a trip to the emergency room, his buddies had heard I did patch jobs on the cheap and welp. Pulling a coupla rounds out of someones rear end can make for strange friendships I suppose. Guy was covered in ink, he had tear-drops, numbers, spider thingies...all sorts of signs that proclaimed him as a macho badass with whom you do not want to gently caress with. I've been told what these things mean but I can't loving remember them for the life of me. Regardless, they're designed to ward people off and mebbe warn em about the individual wearing them. They have the opposite effect on me since I met Edgar, I feel safer...like I have someone at my back that will pull me out of the poo poo if it I need it. After I fixed up this guy, he saved my rear end more times than I can reckon. I lived in a pretty ratty part of town, and I'm not exactly a threatening looking person normally. I'm not an easy mark but I look the part ya know? Anyways, Eddie saved my rear end from what I think was a mugging on occasion. Getting cornered by a buncha dickheads out of the circle K with an eye on my cigarettes, I'm wondering where I'm going to stash the bodies and Eddie's bouncy car pulls up and solves the problem for me. Those fuckers BAILED when they saw him. He was pretty god drat friendly, drug me to a coupla decent parties, fed me el presidente til I was unconcious on his sister's couch and tried to hook me up with his cousin. I'm a half-breed, and neither of those parts is mexican, but that didn't seem to bother him, I stood out like a sore thumb at the gatherings ya, but I was the "Only white boy who I'ma let take a knife to my rear end." Long story short, we was pals. He and his boys got into pretty frequent rumbles with another troop and I made out nice for myself picking up their pieces. It may not have been particularly ethical doing patch jobs, but gently caress it I've never really been big on ethics. Anywho, they have this long standing fight with these guys from across town and eventually poo poo starts hitting the fan. Apparently the other guys had a santarista or some poo poo giving em a hand. I don't know if thats the proper term for the chicks that do this poo poo, I know the word bruja popped up. My own sadly racist as poo poo word for it was meximagician. Ya, ya I know, its not exactly telling of my cultured self to sling poo poo like that but whatever. Hispanic magic is bloody terrible poo poo. It's chicken feet and skulls, and bad poo poo incoming. Feels old as gently caress too, I have no doubt that that gobbldygook they spew when slinging a hex is nauhatl, and it makes my skin loving crawl. The other guys are getting more vicious, what would be occasional spats in the street and maybe a drive-by is turning even nastier. People are getting attacked in their homes, Eddie's hot cousin got her thighs stabbed while she was sleeping and they're doing poo poo like leaving gutted dog corpses hanging over fences. What starts making my guys worry is that they aren't feeling so hot all of a sudden. These are tough macho dudes, but superstitious as all hell, hearing a bruja is mucking around deflates em at an alarming pace. Edgar puffs up to compensate for this and starts making with the threats towards the bruja the other guys got. Saying he dosn't care about that poo poo, he's gonna slice up the old oval office and her sons. Blah blah blah. I'm like "Eddie chill man, she's prolly some dudes grandma." But he's having none of it, he's got a bit of torquemada in him I think, he's gonna cut himself a witch. poo poo does not go well for em over the next few weeks. Bunch of his boys get picked up and thrown out by the police, two of em flat out loving disappear and their girls are getting hit with the poo poo, the bad guys are targeting their families now. I know how voodoo rolls, it's a mindfuck, you make people afraid with it, ride their anxieties and fill in the blanks they make on their own. It's taking credit for something bad that happens even if you aren't the one responsible and tying all the lovely things that can happen to someone to one imagined source, you. It's terrorism, the most effective kind, people have been doing it to eachother ever since some broken rear end nutjob tribal picked up a dead animal and made the stronger guys hunt for him by claiming he could catch their souls in it. I was worried, but still pretty distant from all this poo poo. Edgar was my only friend in this, these were not my people. gently caress, I don't even have people. So I was watching it from the outside, only really getting involved when Edgar brought me someone to fix and a bottle of JD to pay me off with. By this point he knew he didn't have to bring me poo poo, I'd do it on the house if he needed it, but traditions right? I got involved when Edgar got his drat self loving killed. The way I heard it a grip of bad guys caught him dropping his little girl off at his grandmothers and loving disembowled him on the sidewalk right there. It had to have happened fast, this guy knew how to fight. He bled out in the ambulance, the paramedic taking care of him was a drinking buddy of mine and told me he was paled out right from the get go. It's not the first time I've had a friend of mine get a headstart on me, but it never feels good. Edgar was a hoot, and now he was loving dead...to boot, I was probably gonna get mugged loving hard next time I was out, and probably by the guys that killed him. They knew who I was, my protection was gone. So I did what any honest coward would do, I stayed in my loving apartment. I locked the doors, and didn't plan on leaving until judgement day. I'm not that much of an oorah go get em kinda guy. I can throwdown yeah, but only enough to keep my goofy rear end alive, and I almost never go looking for a fight if I can help it. I'm no viking, I'm a craven-hearted coyote son of a bitch. I would have been completely happy waiting this poo poo out. Ya sure there would have been some guilt, but I have plenty of guilt I carry along, eventually the individual poo poo stops mattering and it's just this loving thing following me around that I can placate with alcohol. My plan would have worked wonderfully if it hadn't been for Eddie not leaving me the gently caress alone. Now I was drunk as a ferryman, so that might have done it, but he was there sitting on my lovely couch one morning when I pulled myself out of bed. loving staring at me. Didn't have the decency to put his guts back in either, they were all splayed out over my tv-tray, getting gook in my microwave dinner I hadn't finished. "Get the gently caress out of here Eddie I can't fix you up this time dude." I sez. He's looking at me with the blackest eyes, and he ain't blinking. I sure as hell do. I leave him to my couch and go take a shower. Have you ever tried having a cigarette while showering? Theres an art to it, but its god drat satisfying. When I get back out there he's moved from the couch to my little kitchen and is looking up at all the empty booze bottles I got stacked on the shelves. I never threw away any of the poo poo he gave me, even after I drank em. Just kept them up there for some loving reason. He's staring at em, and I realize just how drat short this guy is. In life Edgar always seemed pretty loving gigantic to me. Here, now...he seemed so much smaller. "Eddie get out of my loving kitchen." I say, I havn't had an episode like this in years and I'm not liking it one bit. I've been doing really good. He just kind cocks his head towards me and says, "Ain't I paid you enough?" "Oh gently caress you," My bloods getting jumpy and my breath is starting to fever up,been at least a year since I've had poo poo like this happen, I was doing so well. "They did it front of my little girl man, she had em do it in front of Maggie." "Yeah well it's loving done now innit? It's over, go to sleep Eddie." "It ain't over man, what if she goes after her?" I'm looking for my meds now, going through my drawers trying to find the pills I havn't taken in like forever, but didn't have the balls to throw out. They make this poo poo stop happening sometimes, or at least they did. I'm a big fan of placebos, even if they don't do poo poo, my desperate and sudden need to take them right the gently caress now might actually accomplish the intended effect. gently caress, I probably coulda shot-gunned skittles and got the right effect. "It ain't over man, that witch gotta pay, she gotta get where I can get her." He says, he's got this lazy english thats unmistakeable. He dosn't sound all stuffed up and impressive like he used to either, he sounds like he's had the poo poo kicked out of him. Ha, gently caress that description, he sounds dead. Although in retrospect dead people shouldn't loving sound like anything right? "What the gently caress you want me to do about Eddie? Seriously, I pull bullets out of asses and stitch poo poo up, what in the name of seven snakes do you expect me to even be able to do? I'm not a jaguar mang." Can't find my pills, I'm starting to accept it as happening, not exactly the best of things and I know it. "You got to get her man, you got to get her rear end for me." "Thats serious poo poo, what am I gonna tell the cops when they pull me in? Edgar the Undead Mexican sent me, its cool guys?" "I never took you for a pussy." "I'm not a pussy, I just plan on staying alive you bag of dicks." "Why the gently caress for, you hate living as much as I hate being dead." "Yeah well I'm not looking forward to whats waiting for me where your at Eddie, I got bad poo poo following me." He takes down one of my empty bottles, Captain Morgan I think and turns it in his hands. I'm starting to get a bit desperate here. I got bad poo poo waiting for me if I leave the apartment before this poo poo blows over, on the other hand, I've got Eddie in here with me. Stuck between a spic and a hard place. Ha ha, gently caress me. "I know how this works mang," He says, "It's tradition, I'll do something for you, you do something for me." "What the gently caress you talking about Eddie, you can't do poo poo for me." "I'm not the only dead guy here Doc." And my blood runs flat loving cold at that. I've been collecting things like Eddie for a long god damned time. There are a lot of em, its what sent me to the pills ya know? They havn't come out in forever, but I never really felt like they left. "You threatening me Eddie?" "No you stupid gently caress, when I ever done you wrong?" "What the gently caress you figuring?" "You do this for me, you take this bitch out, I'll keep these motherfuckers in check, I can handle these bitches." It wasn't the first time I've shaken a dead man's hand. War does funny things to a guy. Maybe not funny ha-ha, but definately funny in some bizarre loving way. Funny like watching some fresh outta bootcamp shitbag catching a grenade and getting blown apart so loving hard and fast all thats left is his boots just kinda standing there steaming. Its horrible ya, and any right-minded person would puke right there. But war makes you laugh your tits off while you're puking your guts out, because its so goddamn funny. Maybe thats why after making the deal with Edgar I couldn't wipe my stupid smile off my face. It felt good to walk the warpath again. It was like getting a handjob from that girl in highschool who wouldn't give you the time of day back when you were a kid. It's like, ah...having a cigarette after a coupla days dry and you get that light headed hooo-yeah feeling. Like taking the perfect clean poo poo, you know the kind, zero residue left behind, zero splash, just a ten point dive from your rear end into the bowl, the kind they should have at the olympics. Once it was struck and the sun headed out I went to work. Violence was about to go down and the idea of walking out of it alive wasn't even pinging my common sense radar. I had to macgyver the poo poo I felt needful from what I had laying around. Jury-rigged witchcraft to ruin some old ladies day. Tore up my one yellowed pillowcase into strips and wrote the lord's prayer on it with magic marker before wrapping it around an old aluminum baseball bat Eddie's hot cousin gave me in case an rear end in a top hat kicked in my door. I grabbed the dice I used to bilk some dudes out of like forty bucks and tossed em in my back pocket. The last was a half finished bottle of I think, that Parrot Bay coconut poo poo that I could chug down like it was soda. Seriously though that stuff isn't even alcohol until about three minutes after you've slammed it, and then you are on your rear end. Rum is important though, dosn't matter what kind really, I know a guy who's big on rum, and he could be important if the poo poo goes sideways like I'm figuring might happen. gently caress, I'm hoping it goes hard sideways. By this time I'm rolling with the delusion. It feels loving good to just accept this as the way it is, to just roll with it and throw myself laughing into the madness. This delusion is something I'm comfortable with, it's pleasant. Like smoking in the shower. Ah, I'm mistaken. The last thing I took with me was my headset earphones and a little broken walkman. It used to have a working radio, but I dropped it rocking the gently caress out a few too many times and well...it didn't exactly work at loving all anymore, but I needed it. I was carried to the site of my crusade by a bus. Seventy-five cents. Bus driver looked at me funny, I was rocking out to a walkman that didn't work with a baseball bat over my shoulder. I highly doubt I was the strangest thing he'd seen that night. Back in the day crusaders got to wear cool poo poo like armor and fancy stuff like that, I had ratty blue-jeans and a Dr. Pepper shirt. I knew where these guys lived, everyone did. Other side of town in a lovely little neighborhood that mirrored Edgars stomping grounds. If you didn't know they were at war with eachother you woulda sworn they were family. poo poo they might have been. Bus dropped me off at the seven-eleven at the corner. Skinny black guy with a camo jacket asked me for my change, told him all I had was the bad kind and to get the gently caress out. He left. The small white house with the double front windows, thats what Edgar's cousin had talked about. It musta been like nine thirty and there was a party going on. Bouncy cars out front bouncing, loud music playing, and many men in white wife-beaters having a good time. They were marked like Eddie was marked, I still didn't have a loving clue what those marks meant aside from them meaning I was probably about to get my rear end killed. I turn the volume up on my little walkman. It's not playing anything, it never does anymore, but it's playing it loudly. Theres only one way to do something this stupid, do it hard. I had a dance in my step as I walked up to the two guys sitting on the hood of the car right out front. One of em popped his head up and looked at his buddy, they both said something but I couldn't hear it. Music was too loud. I give em a half smile, shrug and point to my headphones. The guy nearest to me pulls out a little nifty switchblade. He gets a bat to the face. Connects somewhere just around the jaw and turns him around. His friend hesitates a second before laying into my goofy rear end with a solid right that just about causes me to poo poo my pants. I hit street with more than the recommended velocity and try and get back as fast as I can. Just in time to catch a boot to the mouth as it turns out. Hurts. I have an issue with my mouth, it's a delicate spot for me. I'm about to call it and back out of this poo poo when my song comes on. You know the song, everyone has one, it's quite motivating...people can do fun poo poo when their song is playing, it's the reason I brought the loving thing. I'm getting the poo poo stomped out of me now, but he's leaving himself open in all the wrong places. Knees, knees are like paper-mache foundations on a skyscraper if you tap em right. Tap em with a bat. Tap tap. This house had a white picket fence I poo poo you not. It was hard to see if it was well kept because it was loving dark around here, only like one street lamp actually bothered to not be broken so I couldn't really tell, but I bet it was clean. I bet it was well kept. Apparently my altercation outside drew some attention and carbon copy guys start coming out from all over the place. It sounds bad, but in the place I happened to be at, all these guys sort of looked the same to me. Same shirts, same baggy pants, same markings, same angry "what the gently caress is this white guy doing with that bat" look on their faces. I wasn't just any white guy with a bat. I was Gringomageddon, I was become kali, my song was playing and even though I couldn't remember the words I was singing along best as able. At some point one of the fuckers put a knife in my upper thigh. Not really dangerously deep, although it was a couple breaths away from my balls, which would have been a problem. Enough to comically stick out to the side though. I hit them with my bat. I wasn't aiming to kill, or wound...or poo poo, I wasn't aiming. I was swinging. Most of the time I hit something, not always a bad guy. I distinctly remembering bashing the unholy batshit out of the mailbox and screaming at it. This is of course when poo poo gets weird. By this time I figure I'm so deep into my own little broken rectum of a rabbit hole that what is and what is not are completely indistinguishable from the other. For all I loving know I'm downtown at the thrift store just WAILING on the clothing rack and screaming about Ronald Reagan trying to sell my scrotum to the lizard people. Or I could be going to war with a bunch of gangbangers. By this point I no longer care. I really could use those skittles right about now. The people I'm beating down are people I've seen before. A young marine I watched catch a round in the head while I was fixing his broken thumb. A buddy of mine who got drunk with me back in the day and ended up drowning in a creek and I was too wasted to even loving notice. My first girlfriend, the one who got beaten into a coma by her dad and never woke up all the way. There's dogs loving everywhere. Barking dogs, tearing at my calves, some of em are pit bulls, cropped ears. Some of em ain't dogs...they are my coyotes, and they are laughing their asses off. My songs stuck in an endless loop and all I can do is keep swinging. I'm so sorry I didn't get your head down man, I was too focused on your stupid loving thumb. I am so sorry I wasn't thinking, I should have been watching your back. Somewhere in there my grandfathers cheering me on, but I cant understand him because the musics too loud and well, I never really could loving understand the guy. My hands are shaking and some part of me is wondering why I havn't been shot yet. There is gunfire ya, there's actually a quite a lot. There are bullets flying all over the god damned place, and oh holy gently caress Gunney's down and they are calling for the Doc and I can't loving get to him! Get the gently caress out of my way! I'm not alone anymore. Edgar's boys are here...and they are shooting the gently caress out of everything.I have backup? I have loving backup, my marines are here, it's going to be ok. Give them hell guys, give them buckets of it. I've got something to do here. You know its not easy to kick a door down. I remember that clearly enough. Don't get me wrong, I kicked that thing like four times hard as I could, and I've got some legs on me sister. All I accomplished was hurting my foot before I used the knob. I'm not without a bit of retarded. Open that door the polite way. Everything was going to hell around me, but I was the eye of the hurricane. It was calm where I was. Edgar was keeping the dead off me I think, he was out there in the front yard with his boys keeping my ghosts back while they kept the living occupied. He must have talked to one of them about this before hand. Coulda' told me about that part of his plan I think. The living room was fuckin' quaint. The couch was plaid, there was a potted plant and a giant crucifix on the wall with xipe totec splayed out on it. lovely little tv, on which was a guy in a bee suit silently looking at me with his mouth in a wide O and his eyes bugged out. Oh dios Mioooooo. She wasn't what I thought she would be, I imagined a shriveled little black thing with venomous eyes and black magic crawling off of her. I imagined a female version of the Emperor from Star Wars, all croaky and full of hate. What I got was a pudgy warm-looking woman in a flower print mumu holding in her arms what I first took to be a chihuahua and then on second glance saw as this loving...thing. Like an oversized hideous little skinned bat. Big rear end ears and beady eyes, mouth filled with ridiculously oversized teeth and tattered patagia just hanging off the sides. Its god-drat little hands, little people hands. This thing made chihuahua's look dignified. It was, what the gently caress. The bitch threw it at me, and it screamed as it came, it screamed words. Dumb old crow. I came equipped. Its not the first time I swang a bat at something that was probably a chihuahua. It was the first time I actually hit the loving thing. Out of the god drat park. Oh wait, this thing was a bat...I swung a bat, at a bat. Ah ha ha, gently caress me. She called up my old regrets on me, she hissed out my sins. I have a lot of those. She said poo poo in words I don't think have any meaning except to the dead, and the dead came for me as best they could. They held me down and whispered my name to me as it's written in the book the name-eater carries. She spat curses on me and I felt them hold. Edgar was trying as best he could, I think I saw him wrench a few things off me, but the poor guy had no idea the poo poo I carry around on me. I'm like a pack mule for bad poo poo. I went down hard. There were a lot of bullets flying around, did I mention that? I'm pretty sure I did. She found one. When that mamasita went down that poo poo let up just enough. The things holding me down with chains made of my own not inconsiderable regrets stopped for a bit. I was able to get up and stand again, I used the bat to assist. She was dead on the ground, gangbanger's bullet resting somewhere pleasantly warm in her graymatter, but this poo poo wasnt done yet. Old witches die hard. Her ghost was there pulling itself up and figuring out what the gently caress just happened, and I can hear Edgar screaming at me to do something. He wanted to do this part himself I think, but he's busy keeping my ghosts from ripping me right the gently caress apart. So I do the only thing I can do. I take a swig of rum, and grab a hold of my dice. I ask the Baron for one last favor, spew the rum into my hand onto the dice and roll those bitches. Afterlife lottery. I get a five and a three, they come to rest between her rapidly cooling breasts draped in that ridiculous mumu. I have no idea where that indicates, but I'm hoping it's like Eskimo hell or something ridiculous like that. Nothing but penguins with dildo-hats and polar bears on scooters. The good Baron takes her off my hands and it's done, it's loving done. I'm giggling, half crying...Edgar's not there anymore, and one of his boys yanks my stupid rear end out the door and into the car. Eddies sister is there and she puts pressure on my thigh, which is bleeding like god damned crazy for some reason and saying poo poo in that spanish-moonspeak with such rapidity that its making my head spin. They peel out of there fast as gently caress, I'm fading out but I'm there enough to giggle and mutter out "eepa eepa!" Ha ha, gently caress me, passing out time. Eddie's sister helped me get out of Los Angeles after that. gently caress that town, I'm never going back. But she and I occasionally keep in touch. Edgar's still around, but he keeps it quiet, especially since I've gotten my poo poo relatively together. So there, does that count as a ghost story? It has ghosts in it. In my head when I'm going over it, I'm always played by the same guy. To hell with Bruce Willis, I want Steve Buscemi. (I did look for stories abour haunted paintings but found none-- are you thinking of haunted jars? He has the Kissing Jar/Wife-in-a-jar and the now-lost Bad Jar. I'd be happy to post those if people want to read them)
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Dec 20, 2015 07:41
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AnonSpore posted:I liked the one where he posted about the maggots in the dying woman's vagina or something Oh yeah, it was something his persona's wife had seen while serving as a medic in the Middle East. Also it was a dying small child. I don't recall a specific calling-out of his stories, but they did get progressively more implausible until we all kinda knew. HM's stuff had been believable because it turned out that all the phenomena was caused by it being an old-rear end building in the dead of winter. 50FA's last story involved some kind of Irish spirit that got reincarnated in each generation of his family, and at one point the only thing keeping him alive was her magic. They were good stories, but they tended to devour the thread. And since those early stories had been plausible it irritated a lot of people when the later stories took that hard left into weirdness.
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Dec 20, 2015 22:41
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Yes, I posted a link to them a little earlier in the thread. Watching that story compete with the then-recent 50FA story for space was interesting.
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Dec 21, 2015 23:11
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