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Something awful has given access to some great pieces of horror over the years, and I'm not just talking about the pale guy in the pinstripe suit: If you've got any ghost stories or paranormal stories that goons have shared over the years, let's relive some of the spookiest threads here on the most holy of holidays Please include the OP goon if you can, but some of these are so old I cannot remember. Here's a few to get started: Tales of a Ghost Hunter Rotting Meat quote:The following events occured during a two week vacation stay at a rented house in Cape Cod. I was not particularly old; I believe I was 9 and my sister was 4. My mother, however, was in her 30s, so I can't chalk up her experiences to an overactive imagination. The Rake quote:During the summer of 2003, events in the northeastern United States involving a strange, human-like creature sparked brief local media interest before an apparent blackout was enacted. Little or no information was left intact, as most online and written accounts of the creature were mysteriously destroyed. Those stories were all from Causality Jane. Pulled from archives: *Warning, it's a long one* quote:It's not the darkness in my room that frightens me. The unidentified sound floating up from somewhere deep in my house doesn't set my poor heart panicking. I'm not terrified as I try not to notice my barely open closet door. It's the potential that gets me. It's what could be there. The more you think about it, the more likely every possibility becomes as the shadows thicken and every stray noise or movement forces you deeper into your fear. The scariest part, to me at least, is that you'll never know what is or isn't there until you go have a look for yourself. Unless it comes looking for you, of course. The rumors about my good friend Liz's house took their dear sweet time reaching me. They were just whispers of things, ominous hints, and I brushed them aside fairly easily. Liz and I were close, so close that people even mistook us for sisters, and were there any dark secrets about her house, I would have known. Like me, she was a storyteller, and storytellers just don't hide that kind of thing. If you've got anything goons from the forums have made that spooked you, be it stories, videos, or anything else, post it here and let's get into the spooky mood!
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Oct 31, 2023 06:30
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| # ? May 9, 2024 22:33 |
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I had a bunch of these saved on an old college flash drive. Got me through some lonely nights on my first weeks away from home in a strange city. Hard to believe how long ago that was. The Second Floor of Doom Unknown Author Since I was in third grade I was best friends with a guy named Kris. He lived with his mother and his grandparents in the old family home, this three story farmhouse. The house had a strange rule. No one was allowed on the second story. Ever. The reason for this: It was haunted. The bedrooms were on the third floor so every time we would go up there to play we would stop on the landing for the second floor and see who could hang there the longest without being freaked out. Hang out on the second floor landing long enough and the doors began to rattle on their frames. What you could see from the landing was a long hallway, three doors on the right and a bank of windows with the blinds drawn. This was a source of entertainment for years and he would always tell us ghost stories about living on the third floor and hearing noises from those locked rooms on the floor below us. Scratching on the ceiling, banging, voices. One summer, we repeatedly ran down the second floor hall to see who could get to the end, turn the last doorknob and get back without being grabbed by ghosts. The doors were all locked and none of them were supposed to open. We stopped doing this the one night I slept over, yanked open one of the doors (to find a dark, empty room) and heard this cacophony of horrible sounds. Scratching and babbling and what not. I also swear that I saw something moving in the shadows. We both freaked out and ran downstairs. His grandfather was extremely pissed that he had to go up and close the door. He came down from the second floor, pale as a dying man and wound up walking slowly outside and tossing the room key, this gnarly old skeleton key, into the woods. However, the second floor lost its allure in sixth grade when his grandfather was found dead on the second floor, half in and half out of one of the rooms that was supposed to be locked forever. From that day on, we stopped loving around there and his mother and grandmother nailed the doors shut. After that, things got weirder. He would tell us that one of the voices he heard from the rooms below was his grandfather asking him to open the door and let him out. By the time we got into high school, he started to unravel and we didn't hang much. He was extremely depressed and so was his mother and grandmother. His grandmother's health was failing, too. They all looked horrible, like they weren't taking very good care of themselves anymore. When I did see him he would tell me harrowing stories about being kept up all night by the voices in the rooms below and that they banged on the floor all night and wouldn't let him sleep. His grandfather was angry, he always told me. In the spring of our sophomore year he stopped coming to school. I was trying to check up on him but his mother wouldn't let me talk to him. I went by his house one day and she told me through a crack in the door that he couldn't be my friend anymore and that I should stay away. I went by a couple of days later and knocked again but no one answered. I saw the curtains move a little, like someone was looking at me through the window but that was it. A few days later I went by again and found that no one lived there any more. The blinds and curtains were pulled and the place was empty. I never found out what happened to him or his family. Drain Lady By Kendrik My father was a military man. Retired back in '95 from the Navy after 20 years of proud service to our country. But before that, we moved often... every 3-4 years or thereabouts we'd pack up and get shipped somewhere new. Early 1989, a wonderful opportunity arose and dad took it. A 16 hour flight later, and we were stationed at N.A.S Sigonella, Sicily. I guess I was about, ohhh 10 or 11 at the time. Those years were blurred save those pinpricks of memory that still haunt me. That still plague my dreams from time to time. Our first home there was an apartment in a complex called "Bellavista" far from the Naval base. There was a waiting list to move into Base Housing that generally ran for about a year and a half's wait. Until your time to move, you had to live amongst the locals wherever you could. Bellavista was a beautiful place... we lived on the upper floor of the complex and had a wonderful view of the countryside off our back balcony. At night, one could look up at the night sky and see a thin trail of fiery red lava slowly ebbing from still active Mt. Etna. And in the morning, everything left out in the open was often found to be blanketed ever so slightly in volcanic ash, almost like a light dusting of snow. But naturally, as perfectly nice as Bellavista was, it wasn't meant for us for long. The lnadlord's daughter was pregnant, engaged... and homeless. Guess who got the boot? So we moved, with the landlord's assistance, into another home. Motta S. Anastasia, a little cobblestone-streeted town near Catania, and much closer to the Navy base. The day we drove up to the new place, I felt ill. Of course, nothing was thought of this at the time, but I'd swear in retrospect I was being told something. The place was a 3 story house with an apartment on each floor. I really don't remember the neighbors, but both were similarly Navy families. And I can imagine I pissed them off a lot with the screaming. Dad unlocked the door and proceeded into the small entryway. The cobblestone street gave way to a marbled floor entrance and a matching set of marble stairs up to the second floor, which was our new home. The place was stunningly beautiful. Marble floors... glass french doors into the living room area... balconies attached to nearly every room, save the one that was to be mine. Claw foot bathtub...bidet... all the modern conveniences expected of a home in Europe. I walked into the room that was going to be mine. Small, simple, square and quite cold. To the left, at the end of the wall was a door covered with a "persiana." Basically, a form of window blinds made from heavy horizontal flaps that was operated via a cloth strap attached to the wall. I pulled it up to see that the door was mostly glass and beyond it was a very small "room" lined with brick along the floor and walls. I opened the door and stepped into the room and looked up to discover the room extended all the way up through the third floor and up to a hole in the roof. There was no covering on the hole either... it went straight into open air. The shaft allowed a fair amount of light to shine into the only room in the house without a window in it, which I thought was pretty drat cool initially. The chill seemed to come from the room, despite the glaring sun nearly directly overhead. It was then I heard the first whispers. Like... if you were to take a wire brush and softly rub the stiff bristles against your jeans. At the time, I attributed it to echoes off the brick... but I couldn't help but feel weird about it. It wasn't coming from any discernable direction or source... but it surrounded me like a blanket, as if sound could be tangible and touchable. It pressed in gently on my ears like pressure on an aircraft ascending or descending. I turned to leave and I noticed a glinting drain in the middle of the floor. It was obviously for rainwater to drain away but my nausea increased when I saw it. My stomach gnawed at itself as I ran out of there and I swear I saw the drain cover jiggle a bit on my way out. I lowered the persiana quickly and rejoined the family in the living room, shaking and sick as a dog. Now granted... a little brick room was far from the norm for paranormal ghosty stuff. But try telling that to whatever was in there. Christ. For weeks and weeks, I'd get up the nerve to open the persiana in broad daylight and risk a peek... only to stumble back from the door sick as all hell to my stomach and trembling. I tried telling my parents of course... but an 11 year old's ramblings about a scary brick room generally get chalked up to too many "Freddy" and "Jason" movies. The whisperings rarely stopped at night. They were persistent from the time I laid down until I finally forced myself into slumber. Often, I'd wake up in the middle of the night to silence, and then the whisperings would start up again, as if it was waiting to make sure I was awake. There was never any real words to the whispering... just a hollow "ksssh sshhhaww hissssshhhhh haaahhh ooooshhhh aaashhhhh" that seemed to repeat, but never in the same cadence. There was no emotion behind it either that I can remember. It wasn't angry, it wasn't sad nor happy. Just there. Always loving there. One night, after about 2 months of this, I was awoken by a particularly horrifying dream. I seemed to start having those dreams after we moved in... I had never had constant nightmares prior. But I awoke from the dream with the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Immediately my eyes darted to the door... and saw that the persiana was up. Now, European goons with experience, back me up... Persianas are about the noisiest drat things to have in a house. They're generally metal slats hooked in with metal hooks that grind and squeak loudly in protest as they're pulled open. There was no way in hell that the persiana, which was always closed, could have been opened without waking up everyone in the house. But sure enough, it was open about 3/4 of the way up the damned door. A bit of moonlight reflected off the bricks in the shaft and into my room with a dull bluish tone. I lay there for hours, paralyzed in my bed, but unable to look away from the door, lest there be something there when I looked back. Eventually, I just conked out... The next morning crept up finally and I was freed from my paralysis. I ran to the door amidst a wave of nausea and pulled the persiana shut as fast as I could. There was a light dusting of volcanic ash on the brick floor and I'd swear I could make out footprints or scuffing in it. Mom, still asleep at the time, yelled at me from across the hall after hearing the noise, but I couldn't care less. Over the course of the next 3 months, it was the same routine. The whisperings never faltered. The persiana would be found at least 2 to 3 times a week opened, and the blackness of the room would stare out at me in my bed. Then one night, it was different. I still have nightmares of this incident and it makes me cringe and want to curl up in a ball still whenever I conjure it up. I had awoken again in the midst of a terrible nightmare. And sure enough, the persiana was up, but this time it was all the way up. The moonlight was barely filtering in that night, but I'd swear I could make out something there in the room. It felt like I was at just the right angle for me to see whatever it was, and if I were to move the slightest bit, I'd lose sight of it. It was a small sphere that shimmered like a soap bubble does. But it was so faint I could barely make it out. I watched as it hovered there for the longest time. It began to shrink like some TVs used to do when you turned them off... shrink into a tiny dot of light. But before it winked out, it flashed and expanded. It did so at an alarmingly fast rate and solidified into the form of a woman. She looked to be in her early to mid thirties, dark curly hair... definitely a local Sicilian. When she became "whole" and a solid image, she began shrieking and pounding on the glass doors with both fists. Her head swiveled wrong on her neck, shaking back and forth like if you put a teakettle on a stick and shook the stick around. Her eyes were completely black and full of anger and hatred... The skin around her mouth flapped loosely, giving me glimpses of her teeth and tongue and her hair was tossing around violently. Some sort of liquid oozed in small spurts from the corners of her mouth and flecks of whatever it was flew as she shrieked. Her screaming was horrific and nonsensical, and all I could do was scream back. My dad charged into the room to my bed, thinking I was having a nightmare. She shrank back from the door and... ugh. She slithered down the drain somehow. She twisted and distorted and I'd swear I could hear her bones splintering and cracking as she wound herself down into it. It was awful and to this day, dad says he's never heard anyone scream so inhumanly before. I often ask him jokingly if he meant from me or her. 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. Up ahead, we could see Dad still relaxing on the stairs, with the light behind him, erasing all the details of his face. But there was someone else now... 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. God Toilet (By Phylodox) That's what we call one of the washroom stalls in the building where I work. It's in one of the men's rooms in an out-of-the-way corner of the building that people don't tend to frequent. I like to go there, even though it's quite a trek across the building, because I'm the shy type when it comes to bathroom duties. That, and it gives me an excuse to get away from my desk for a bit. Well, I used to like to go there. Well, the God Toilet stall itself has been out of order for as long as I can remember. The reason it's called the God Toilet is because, for some odd reason, that bathroom stall has a spot-light set into the ceiling directly above it. No other bathroom stall in the building is set up like that. With the stall door closed, the light from the spot-light comes streaming through the cracks and under the door as though God himself were taking a dookie-break there. Hence the name. So I'm working away one morning when I get that familliar urge. I get up and begin my daily trek across the building. I get to the God Toilet washroom, go into the stall, and start doin' my thing (number one, if anyone cares. I can't imagine anyone will, but it's the details that make the story, right?) I'm only there for a few moments when I hear something. I think nothing of it, as strange noises are a common occurrence in the God Toilet bathroom. I always wrote them off as voices being carried through the ventilation system. This time, however, the noises are quite clearly coming from the stall next to me. The God Toilet. I freak out. Not because I think there are ghosts or anything, but just because I really do have a bit of a shy bladder, and the thought of someone unexpectedly sharing the room with me kind of interfered with my pee-mojo. I do my best to continue, but Mr. Bladder won't have it. In the awkward silence that followed, I could almost make out words in the odd whispering from the stall next to me. Despite myself, I lean a little closer to the stall wall, feeling like a complete weirdo for listening to someone whispering to themselves on the toilet, but intrigued. There's heavy breathing and what sounds like...sobbing? I suppress a giggle, imagining someone so thoroughly constipated that they had broken down in tears. Leaning a bit closer, I can almost make out some words in the stream of whispered gibberish. One of those words was "God". Another was "help". My amusement was definitely short-lived. I was just able to make out a whole sentence, "Oh, God, please help me," when something hit the stall wall. Hard. Hard enough to make the wall bow out towards me briefly, rattling in its frame. The whispering was still going on, but now, beneath it, I could hear grunting. Low, animalistic grunting that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. I had definitely had enough. I zipped up and, in looking down to do so, I happened to glance beneath the stall wall. On the little sliver of God Toilet floor that I could see what a drop of what could only be blood. I got the hell out of that stall and, in a moment of supreme stupidity, decided to wash my hands as quickly as I could. What can I say? My mother taught me well. I splash my hands under the water, the grunting behind me getting louder by the moment. In the mirror, I can see the God Toilet stall behind me, the light streaming through the cracks, no longer amusing but ominous. I go to leave and, in heading for the door, I see something in the mirror that will haunt me to this day. Under the stall door, inside the God Toilet, I could see a pair of feet. These weren't the standard loafered, pants-around-ankles feet you see under a stall door, though. They were quite bare, the toenails long and ragged, the flesh pale and grey. They were dead feet, and they were moving towards the stall door, shuffling with agonizing slowness. As I wrenched open the bathroom door, the last thing I heard was the latch on the God Toilet stall rattling. Sweating profusely, I walked as fast as I could back to my desk and sat there, shivering and weak, pretending to work. Needless to say, I haven't been back to the God Toilet bathroom. My bladder isn't feeling so shy, anymore.
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Oct 31, 2023 07:47
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