I found a video tape on the beach a few weeks ago. - (r/nosleep)
A few details before I start my story. I live in northern California in a small townhouse with my girlfriend. I’ve decided to change the names of both people and places, just to be cautious. I don’t want anyone going out to the beach I was at trying to dig up clues and instead find the trouble that I found. I’m sorry this is so long, I’ve tried to keep it as brief as possible. You have to understand that I’ve barely slept at all in days and it’s difficult for me to keep my thoughts in order.
Saturday - March 26th: John and I found the camcorder half buried in the sand on Stinson beach. When I picked it up out of the sand, water leaked out from inside the camcorder. Sand was packed into every crevice and the battery pack was missing. We dried it off with a beach towel and popped the cassette drive open, there was a digital cassette cartridge inside the drive, it had a yellow plastic head and a Panasonic logo, but no label or sticker attached.
It seemed like the camcorder itself was pretty much trashed but we figured it still might be possible to recover the data on the tape itself. I had an older Sony digital camcorder at home that used the same type of tape. I took the tape and camcorder inside with me when John dropped me off at home later that day. I set it down on my computer desk and forgot about it for almost a week.
Thursday - March 31st: John came over again next Thursday and saw it on my desk. I told him I had forgotten about it and hadn’t even tried to play back the tape yet. We popped it into my Sony camcorder and hooked it up to my PC’s Fire-wire port. Opened up Roxio’s Video Capture application and told it to scan the tape for footage. Only one scene appeared on the screen. I will describe it to you as best as I can recall:
A few feet in front of the camera is a woman. Her back is to the camera and she is walking down a narrow dirt path, possibly even a deer trail. Tall dry grass and small bushes line either side of the path. Based on the lighting, it is mostly likely sometime in the early morning or evening. The sky is cloudless and tinged with a soft orange color. Other than the shuffle of foot steps the only thing that can be heard is seagulls crying and the soft sound of ocean waves breaking against the shore in the distance.
Do you remember your very first best friend? I do.
Midnight was giving birth in the closet at the end of the hall. The repeating pattern of deep growls and shrieks woke me.
Kittens! I nearly shouted as I crawled down from the top bunk. My sister stirred on the bottom bed. I paused on the ladder, held my breath, hoped she wouldn’t open her eyes. After a moment, she rolled onto her side and fell back into deep sleep. I was glad she didn’t wake; I wanted the kitties all to myself.
Midnight continued to scream.
I cracked opened my bedroom door and saw my parents kneeling in the hallway, peering into the closet. They noticed I was standing there and told me to get back in bed. “But I want to make sure Midnight is okay,” I protested. She was mine, too. I should’ve been allowed to check on her. Dad refused to let me come out of the room. He said he would get me when it was over. Mom agreed with him. She said I was too little to watch.
Too little? I was four years old and knew that babies came from a mommies belly. Plus I had been waiting forever to see the kittens. My parents weren’t being fair!
“Please let me?” I begged. “I’ll be good.”
Mom commanded me to go back to bed. I crossed my arms and shook my head. Dad threatened to spank me. I stomped my foot and cried, thinking a tantrum would make them understand that I was right, and they were wrong. Dad didn’t care much for my new approach; he picked me up by the arm and carried me to my bed. He said to keep quiet or else he would take the nightlight and lock me in the dark.
"It’s not fair!” I screamed, instantly regretting it. Dad squeezed my arm so tight that I began to cry for real. When he let go, I rubbed the spot, trying to make it look worse than it really was. He told me I was punished, then pulled the nightlight from the wall.
"No, don’t!" I cried out.
Ignoring my pleads, Dad went back into the hall and slammed my door shut.
I heard my sister sobbing from on the lower bed. I felt bad that she had to suffer for my mistake, so I climbed down and cuddled up next to her. I told her I was sorry. She was terrified of the dark, more so than I, but eventually she relaxed and fell back to sleep while holding my hand. I couldn’t rest though. Midnight’s persistent shuddering cries and gargling noises, kept me from closing my eyes. I stared into the black, waiting.
It felt like forever.
I’m not sure how it happened, but the next thing I remember is Mom waking my sister and me. “Come see,” she urged. The sunlight coming through the window lit up her smile.
The kittens were tiny versions of Midnight. Eight of them in total. All the same jet-black color — except for one; he had a speck of white fur above his nose, with white front paws to match. That one … that one was mine. I knew the moment I saw him.
Dad said we could give them names. It wasn’t an easy task since they all looked the same. After several failed attempts to remember which was which, my sister decided the best thing to do was to call them Kitty-Cat, but she was only two years old and pronounced it Key-ca. The oddball was the only exception; he was mine to name, so I named him Charlie.
Charlie was more playful than the rest of the litter. Whenever my sister and I were allowed to pick them up, he would roll on his back to let us pet his belly. Sometimes he would try to suck on our fingers, mistaking them for a part of his mother. It never failed to make my sister laugh. And sometimes, when Midnight laid down in the box to feed them, he would get turned around, managing to walk away from her. Mom would pick him up, turn him in the right direction, and say, “You’re going the wrong way, Charlie!”
Eventually the kittens opened their eyes. My sister and I were allowed to play with them without supervision, but only if we stayed in the hallway. Dad said we weren’t allowed take them out of the closet because they were still too small to run free. We didn’t mind. Sitting on the floor petting them was one of our favorite things to do, especially when Midnight fed them.
Charlie was turning out to be the runt. He ate well, but he never latched on to Midnight like the others did. While they loved to pad at her stomach and purr, Charlie was always too busy going the wrong way. No matter how many times we picked him up and faced him in the right direction, sooner or later he would get turned around again.
Time went on and the kittens got bigger. They meowed whenever someone would walk down the hall, demanding us to stop and play. Sometimes they got up on their hind legs, just barely able to peek over edge of the box.
One day, my sister yelled something about the kittens. Mom and I came running from the living room to see what all the fuss was about. Charlie was in the hall, on the outside of the box, trying to correct his mistake. He clawed at the cardboard, wanting to make his way back to the other side. He kept falling over, shaking himself, then trying again. It was funny. Feeling sorry for him, Mom picked him up, gave him a kiss, and sat him next to his brothers and sisters. “You went the wrong way, Charlie,” she said.
That was the first time Charlie broke out of jail, but not the last. He would make it over the edge, and either Midnight or Mom would grab him by the scuff of the neck, then toss him back into the box. It happened again and again. The whole family had to help keep him where he belonged. After a while, everyone got tired of dealing with his shenanigans. We officially changed his name to Wrong Way Charlie, and let him have free rein of the hallway.
Even Midnight stopped caring. All the other kittens were content to stay in the box, but Charlie came and went as he pleased. He never went far though. Sometimes he would sneak a peek into my bedroom, or into the bathroom, but that was the extent of his exploration. It was easy to forget that he was only a few weeks old, and too frightened to venture into any of the rooms. The box and hallway was the only world that he knew … the only place he felt safe.
A few days later, I woke to the sound of Grandma’s voice coming from the living room. She was talking to my sister about making her a new dress. No one told me Grandma was coming over! I thought. Excited to see her, to see if she brought me a present, I jumped out of bed, and ran down the hallway. I feel this … soft crunch … under my foot. What was that? I turned around to see what I had stepped on.
Then I screamed.
Wrong Way Charlie crawled toward me; the back half of him was crushed and twisted. Horrible sounds escaped from his small mouth: Meeeaaahhh.Meeeaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh.
I continued to scream.
Charlie was still trying to crawl toward me while making that resounding, awful sputter. His body trembled, and his little head twitched incessantly. Mom came running down the hall, my sister right behind her. Blood was everywhere, a trail of gore soaking into the carpet. All I heard was screaming — screaming, screaming screaming; it echoed down the hallway, and throughout the years.
Midnight leaped out of the closet and ran toward me. Wide eyed, she hissed and swatted, then lapped at the blood flowing from Charlie’s gaping mouth. Grandma grabbed ahold of me, held me close. My sister pressed her face into Grandma’s side so she wouldn’t have to see. Mom and Charlie were still screaming, still making those appalling noises. I couldn’t tell them apart. “It’s still alive!” Mom wailed. “It’s still alive! Oh my god, what do I do?”
Though Grandma tried to protect me, I couldn’t look away. Charlie was crying in agony. The look on his little face said: Why is this happening to me? What have I done? Make it stop. Please. Please, make it stop.
“You have to kill it!” Grandma shouted, angry. “Put the thing out of its misery for Christ’s sake!”
Mom ran into the living room and turned the corner. I heard a drawer in the kitchen pulled open then slammed shut. She came running back, hammer in hand.
"EEEEEEEEEHH!" Mom shrieked. She pounded the hammer down on Charlie’s head, over, and over, and over again while Midnight attacked her, trying to protect the kitten.
And yet Charlie still crawled toward me, gurgling: Meeeaaahhh. Meeeaaahhhggg.
Midnight kept scratching and hissing. Mom kicked her away and brought the hammer down again. After the fifth or sixth drop, Charlie finally stopped making the awful noises. Chunks of his skull and brain littered the hallway.
It was hours later before I calmed down enough understand what had happened. Mom told me that it was okay. Dad said it wasn’t my fault. They said these things as they cleaned up the mess that used to be Charlie. But it wasn’t okay, and it was my fault. My kitten got hurt because of me. If I hadn’t been running, my Charlie would be alive. — I killed him.
Charlie was my first best friend, my first responsibility, and my first introduction to death. He’ll always be with me. Even now, after all these years … every time I walk down a fucking hallway, I see Wrong Way Charlie’s mangled little body crawling toward me.
Last year, I spent six months participating in what I was told was a psychological experiment. I found an ad in my local paper looking for imaginative people looking to make good money, and since it was the only ad that week that I was remotely qualified for, I gave them a call and we arranged an interview.
They told me that all I would have to do is stay in a room, alone, with sensors attached to my head to read my brain activity, and while I was there I would visualize a double of myself. They called it my “tulpa.”
It seemed easy enough, and I agreed to do it as soon as they told me how much I would be paid. The next day, I began. They brought me to a simple room and gave me a bed, then attached sensors to my head and hooked them into a little black box on the table beside me. They talked me through the process of visualizing my double again, and explained that if I got bored or restless, instead of moving around, I should visualize my double moving around, or try to interact with him, and so on. The idea was to keep him with me the entire time I was in the room.
I had trouble with it for the first few days. It was more controlled than any sort of daydreaming I’d done before. I’d imagine my double for a few minutes, then grow distracted. By the fourth day, however, I could manage to keep him “present” for the entire six hours. They told me I was doing very well.
The second week, they gave me a different room with wall-mounted speakers. They told me they wanted to see if I could still keep the tulpa with me in spite of distracting stimuli. The music was discordant, ugly, unsettling, and it made the process a little more difficult, but I managed nonetheless. The next week, they played even more unsettling music, punctuated with shrieks, feedback loops, what sounded like an old school modem dialing up and guttural voices speaking some foreign language. I just laughed it off; I was a pro by then.
After about a month, I started to get bored. To liven things up, I started interacting with my doppelganger. we’d have conversations, play rock-paper-scissors, I’d imagine him juggling or break dancing, or whatever caught my fancy. I asked the researchers if my foolishness would adversely affect their study, but they encouraged me.
So, we played and communicated, and that was fun for a while…and then it got a little strange. I was telling him about my first date one day and he corrected me. I’d said my date was wearing a yellow top, and he told me it was a green one. I thought about it for a second and realized he was right. It creeped me out, and after my shift that day I talked to the researchers about it. “You’re using the thought-form to access your subconscious,” they explained. “You knew on some level that you were wrong, and you subconscious corrected yourself.”
What had been creepy was suddenly cool. I was talking to my subconscious! It took some practice, but I found that I could question my tulpa and access all sorts of memories. I could make it quote whole pages of books I’d read once, years before, or things I was taught and immediately forgot in high school. It was awesome.
That was around the time I started “calling up” my double outside of the research center. Not often, at first, but I was so used to imagining him by now that it almost seemed odd not to see him. So, whenever I was bored, I’d visualize my double. Eventually, I started doing it almost all the time. It was amusing to take him along like an invisible friend. I imagined him when I was hanging out with friends, or visiting my mom; I even brought him along on a date once. I didn’t need to speak aloud to him, so I was able to carry out conversations with him and no one was the wiser.
I know that sounds strange, but it was fun. Not only was he a walking repository of everything I knew and everything I had forgotten, he also seemed more in touch with me than I did at times. He had an uncanny grasp of the minutiae of body language that I didn’t even realize I was picking up on. For example, I thought the date I brought him along on was going badly, but he pointed out how she was laughing a little too hard at my jokes and leaning towards me as I spoke, and a bunch of other subtle clues I wasn’t consciously picking up on. I listened and let’s just say that the date went very well.
By the time I’d been at the research center for four months he was with me constantly. The researchers approached me one day after my shift and asked me if I’d stopped visualizing him. I denied it and they seemed pleased. I silently asked my double if he knew what prompted that, but he just shrugged it off. So did I.
I withdrew a little from the world at that point. I was having trouble relating to people. It seemed to me that they were so confused and unsure of themselves, while I had a manifestation of myself to confer with. It made socializing awkward. Nobody else seemed aware of the reasons behind their actions, why some things made them mad and others made them laugh. They didn’t know what moved them…but I did, or at least I could ask myself and get an answer
A friend confronted me one evening. He pounded at the door until I answered it and came in fuming and swearing up a storm. “You haven’t answered when I called you in fucking weeks, you dick!” he yelled. “What’s your fucking problem?”
I was about to apologize to him and probably would have offered to hit the bars with him that night, but my tulpa grew suddenly furious. “Hit him,” it said, and before I knew what I was doing, I had. I heard his nose break. He fell to the floor and came up swinging, and we beat each other up and down my apartment. I was more furious than I have ever been, and I was not merciful. I knocked him to the ground and gave him two savage kicks to the ribs, and that was when he fled, hunched over and sobbing.
The police were by a few minutes later, but I told them that he had been the instigator and since he wasn’t around to refute me, they let me off with a warning. My tulpa was grinning the entire time. We spent the night crowing about my victory and sneering over how badly I’d beaten my friend.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when I was checking out my black eye and cut lip in the mirror, that I remembered what had set me o ff. My double was the one who’d grown furious, not me. I’d been feeling guilty and a little ashamed, but he’d goaded me into a vicious fight with a concerned friend. He was present, of course, and knew my thoughts. “You don’t need him any more. You don’t need anyone else,” he told me; I felt my skin crawl.
I explained all this to the researchers who employed me, but they just laughed it off. “You can’t be scared of something that you’re imagining,” one told me. My double stood beside him and nodded his head, then smirked at me.
I tried to take their words to heart, but over the next few days I found myself growing more and more anxious around my tulpa, and it seemed that he was changing. He looked taller and more menacing. His eyes twinkled with mischief, and I saw malice in his constant smile. No job was worth losing my mind over, I decided. If he was out of control, I’d put him down. I was so used to him at that point that visualizing him was an automatic process, so I started trying my damnedest to not visualize him. It took a few days, but it started to work somewhat. I could get rid of him for hours at a time, but every time he came back, he seemed worse. His skin seemed ashen, his teeth more pointed. He hissed and gibbered and threatened and swore. The discordant music I’d been listening to for months seemed to accompany him everywhere. Even when I was at home; I’d relax and slip up, no longer concentrating on no seeing him, and there he’d be, and that howling noise with him.
I was still visiting the research center and spending my next six hours there. I needed the money, and I thought they weren’t away that I was now not actively visualizing my tulpa. I was wrong. After my shift one day, about five and a half months in, two impressive men grabbed me and restrained me, and someone in a lab coat jabbed a hypodermic needle into me.
I woke up from my stupor back in the room, strapped into the bed, music blaring, with my doppelganger standing over me, cackling. He hardly looked human any more. His features were twisted. His eyes were sunken in their sockets and filmed over like a corpse’s. He was much taller than me, but hunched over. His hands were twisted, and his fingernails were like talons. He was, in short, fucking terrifying. I tried to will him away, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate. He giggled and tapped the IV in my arm. I thrashed in my restraints as best I could, but could hardly move at all.
“They’re pumping you full of the good shit, I think. How’s the mind? All fuzzy?” He leaned closer and closer as he spoke. I gagged; his breath smelled like spoiled meat. I tried to focus, but I couldn’t banish him.
The next few weeks were terrible. Every so often, someone in a doctor’s coat would come in and inject me with something or force-feed me a pill. They kept me dizzy and unfocused, and sometimes left me hallucinating or delusional. My thought-form was still present, constantly mocking. He interacted with, or perhaps caused, my delusions. I hallucinated that my mother was there, scolding me, and then he cut her throat and her blood showered me. It was so real that I could taste it.
The doctors never spoke to me. I begged at times, screamed, hurled invectives, demanded answers. They never spoke to me. They may have talked to my tulpa, my personal monster. I’m not sure. I was so doped and confused that it may have just been more delusion, but I remember them talking with him. I grew convinced that he was the real one and that I was the thought-form. He encouraged that line of thought at times, but mocked me at others. ‘ Another thing that I pray was a delusion: he could touch me. More than that, he could hurt me. He’d poke and prod at me if he felt I wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Once, he grabbed my testicles and squeezed until I told him I loved him. Another time, he slashed my forearm with one of his talons. I still have a scar; most days I can convince myself that I injured myself, and just hallucinated that he was responsible. Most days.
Then, one day, while he was telling me a story about how he was going to gut everyone I loved, starting with my sister, he paused. A querulous look crossed his face, and he reached out and touched my head. Like mother used to when I was feverish. He stayed still for a long moment and then smiled. “All thoughts are creative,” he told me, then he walked out the door.
Three hours later, I was given an injection and passed out. I awoke unrestrained. Shaking, I made my way to the door and found it unlocked I walked out into the empty hallway and then ran. I stumbled more than once, but I made it down the stairs and out into the lot behind the building. There, I collapsed, weeping like a child. I knew I had to keep moving, but I couldn’t manage it.
I got home eventually; I don’t remember how. I locked the door and shoved a dresser against it, took a long shower, and slept for a day and a half. Nobody came for me in the night, and nobody came the next day or the one after that. I twas over. I’d spent a week locked in that room, but it had felt like a century. I’d withdrawn so much from my life beforehand that nobody had even known I was missing.
The police didn’t find anything. The research center was empty when they searched it. The paper trail fell apart. The names I’d given them were aliases. Even the money I’d received was apparently untraceable.
I recovered as much as one can. I don’t leave the house much, and I have panic attacks when I do. I cry a lot. I don’t sleep much, and my nightmares are terrible. It’s over, I tell myself. I survived. I used the concentration those bastards taught me to convince myself. It works, sometimes.
Not today, though. Three days ago, I got a phone call from my mother. There’s been a tragedy. My sister’s the latest victim in a spree of killings, the police say. The perpetrator mugs his victims, then guts them.
The funeral was this afternoon. It was as lovely a service as a funeral can be, I suppose. I was a little distracted, though. All I could hear was music coming from somewhere distant. It was discordant, unsettling stuff that sounds like feedback, shrieking, and a modem dialing up. I hear it still – a little louder now.
Like ghosts? Then you’ll love Poveglia, a small, deserted island in the Venetian lagoon that’s going on the auction block next month. It’s been called “the island of madness,” “Hell,” and “the most haunted place on Earth.” You’d just love it to pieces.
I am going back through all of my r/nosleep posts, and have realized that putting the source through the tumblr posting tool is not actually showing the source to the post. I’ll be spending tomorrow editing each and every one to make sure the source is properly attributed. I will be putting the original link to the reddit post and user at the end of each r/nosleep post I make rather than in the source option tumblr gives me. I am sorry to any user whose story I have posted without a link back to the original.
Please if anyone sees an unsourced post or a wrong source message me so that I can correct it.
First, I need to apologize to you /r/nosleep. I am so sorry. I’m coming to you in my time of need.
Please help me.
Please read this to the end.
That’s it. That’s all I ask. I don’t know what to do or where to turn. Please just help me. That’s all I ask.
My name is Andrea, and I’m a single mother.
I don’t tell you this like it’s some badge of honor and I’m expecting cookies, milk, and chocolate-covered snowflakes like most of the others in my social circle would. They want your pats on the back and recognition; I just want some of your time.
I see motherhood as a burden. Necessary, yes, but still a burden. My son’s name is Jesse. He’s eleven. That’s fifth grade for the math haters.
Jesse started the fifth grade this year like any other kid would. There was a little bit of trepidation and lots of excitement. He was a happy-go-lucky sort of kid. Full of life and energy.
All that changed after he met Stan on Tuesday.
Stan was a late addition to Jesse’s class; a transfer student from another district. Jesse’s teacher sat Stan next to Jesse.
When I picked Jesse up after school on Tuesday, he told me that Stan was his new best friend. He wasn’t acting like himself though. He was pale and sweaty. I took his temperature, but he wasn’t running a fever. I asked about his day and all he would tell me was that Stan was his new best friend.
“Stan’s my new best friend,” Jesse would say.
“I know. I can’t wait to meet him,” I’d say back.
“Mom, Stan is great. You should meet him. He’s my new best friend. The best in the world.”
We must’ve had this same conversation a thousand times that night. When I tucked Jesse in bed, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes. He put his little hand in front of his face and wiggled his index finger, telling me to come closer.
I bent over him and he put his hands to either side of his mouth. You know, the little kid way of telling a secret? Well I turned my head and he whispered something into my ear that chilled me. At the time, I didn’t know why it chilled me, but it did.
He whispered, “You believe me. Right, Mom?”
I sat back up and looked down at him. “Believe you about what, honey?”
“Stan,” he said. “Stan’s my best friend.”
I nodded and took his temperature once more.
Again, he wasn’t running a fever.
I went to bed, but couldn’t really sleep that night.
I actually liked it. It wasn’t all that scary, but the story was interesting and kept me intrigued. I probably wouldn’t buy the DVD, but I enjoyed seeing it in theaters. It definitely falls more on the mindfuck spectrum of horror, so if that’s your thing I’d recommend seeing it.
I was driving a shortcut from Twentynine Palms, CA to Albuquerque, NM. Twentynine Palms is located in the desolate high desert east of LA. The shortcut was all two lane road through total nothingness, except for passing through Amboy, CA. Amboy is a nearly abandoned town nearly as far below sea level as Death Valley, with a dormant volcano and lava field on one side and a salt flat on the other. It was also, at the time, a hotspot for satanic group activity.
So I was driving by myself in the afternoon. I stopped in Amboy and snapped a picture of the city sign, just to prove I was there to friends who dared me to take that route to the I-40. I got back in my car and proceeded to drive up into the mountain range between Amboy and the I-40.
Once I reach the top I am driving north through a canyon with high grass on both sides of the road. Up ahead I see some stuff in the middle of the road. As I approach I slow down to see a red Pontiac Fiero stopped sideways across both lanes, a suitcase open with clothes scattered everywhere and two bodies laying face down in the road, a man and a woman.
I stop a hundred feet or so away and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. Being a Marine, I reach under the seat and pull out a 9mm pistol and chamber a round. Something seemed very wrong, it looked too perfect as if it were staged. An ambush? Was I being paranoid? Something was just wrong. Getting out of the car seemed unthinkable, it was the horror movie move.
As I scanned the road I saw a line I could drive. Pass the guy in the road on his left, swerve to the right side of the woman, behind the Fiero and I’d be on the other side. I dropped it into first gear, punched it and drove the line I planned.
I passed the back of the Fiero without hitting it or either of the bodies in the road. I continued forward a couple hundred feet and slowed down so I could breathe and let my heart slow down. As I looked up into the rearview mirror I saw that the two bodies had gotten up to their knees and twenty or so people emerged from the tall grass on either side of the road by the car and bodies. At that moment my right foot smashed the gas pedal to the floor and did not let up until I had to slowdown for the I-40 east onramp.
I will never know what would have happened to me had I gotten out of the car to check on the bodies or stopped my car closer to them. Somehow I do not think it would have been good. Sometimes real life can be scarier than a movie.
Man is found dead on Australian beach in 1948. Classic John Doe case, right? Wrong. For starters, this man was a proper John Doe – absolutely no clues to his identity on his person. He wasn’t carrying a wallet, all of the tags from his clothing had been removed; in fact the only clue was the words “Taman Shud”, written on a small piece of paper concealed in a hidden pocket of his trousers. These were eventually discovered to be Persian words, translating as “finished” or “ended”, and lifted directly from the final page of Rubaiyat, a collection of poems written by Omar Khayyam. The actual text was discovered in a parked car not far from the body – with the last page missing – and an indecipherable code scrawled inside it. Police were, and still are, understandably stumped. Who was this man? Where did he come from? And what do all these confusing signs mean? Really, it’s enough to make anyone’s head hurt.
The day I found my first hole was the day my best friend came back from the dead.
We were in high school and stupid. Jake was his name and we liked to go out to this old abandoned house in the woods after school to just…screw around. Do stupid teenage things. It was a pretty big place to be honest. Two story house with a basement or three stories if you counted the small attic above it. The story is supposed to go that an old woman was building the house years and years ago in order to get away from the city life but, for some reason, never finished it. Probably died. Anyway, the house was pretty close to completion when she stopped but nobody bothered to finish it and now it just sits there rotting away.
So Jake and I would go to the house and just screw around, scaring each other or exploring the place. Whatever we felt like. Usually we were careful — or lucky — but nothing ever happened to make us worry.
Then the floorboards broke under Jake’s feet when we were exploring the second floor and he fell. I never realized how bad the condition of the house must have been because when he hit the first floor, that broke too and he fell into the basement. I ran down and looked through the broken hole in the first floor. It was dark (but we usually had the foresight to bring flashlights) so I shined a light on him. I’ll…never forget what I saw.
One of the boards or…something must’ve fallen at just the right angle that when Jake hit the ground, it speared up right through his stomach. I could see him shift and try to grab at it. Even hear him gurgle…and then he stopped.
He was dead. I was sure of it. Our stupidity got him killed. I was in shock. I didn’t know what to do.
So I just…ran. I ran out of the house and left him there.
It was about evening when I got home and I went straight to my room. I didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t stop for anything. I just wanted to curl up and try to forget that scene. My parents tried to talk to me but I feigned sleep and they just went on. Later that night, we got a call from Jake’s parents asking where he was. They actually “woke me up” for that one and I said I had no idea. The usual “Well, if you see him, please let us know!” came afterward and I just nodded before I went back to sleep.
The next day was school and I went through the morning ritual in a bit of a trance. I didn’t want to go but I couldn’t stay home. I was pretty sure Jake’s parents already suspected something of me. So I went. School was…just like usual. People screwing around in the morning and talking. I went up to my normal group of friends that I hung out with before the first bell rang and my heart stopped.
For those of you who like survival-horror games, you definitely need to check out The Evil Within. It was created by the father of survival-horor games, Shinji Mikami (best know for The Resident Evil Series), so you know you’re in for a truely terrifying experience….
When I was 9 years old I had a favorite TV series. It had human actors and actors in animal suits and funny and educational clips in between. I don’t want to name it because it was a really good show and this story is not at all a fault of the show. I will just call it “The M Show”.
The M Show was running for years and I had been watching it for as long as I can remember. I always sat down, straight after school with my older sister Scarlett and my best friend Brandi, who lived next door.
It was our ritual, every day the three of us sat together – with sweets, if our moms allowed it, or else with apples or grapes – and in the breaks of the show we talked and gossiped about all those important issues in our lives.
Then, I remember it was a warm summer Friday, Scarlett found a prize competition in one of her girl magazines. It asked questions about the show and first prize was a travel with your parents to Disney World. But even better, everybody who sent in the correct answers would become a member of The M Show Club, a fan club for the show. The same day, after watching the M Show, the three of us huddled together on the couch to answer the quiz.
The questions were very hard; they asked details about old episodes of the show. Without Scarlett, Brandi and I would never have managed to answer all the questions.
Scarlett begged our mom for stamps and envelopes and we filled the three envelopes each with a paper with our names and contact details and the answers to the questions. Scarlett even told us to vary our answers slightly so that we wouldn’t be called out for cheating.
The letters were sent off and every day we all rushed to the mailbox to get our The M Show Club badges. When the first snow began to fall we stopped checking the mailbox. Brandi was still passionate about the show and watched it every day, but Scarlett lost interest. When Scarlett stopped watching I too began to skip the show. Brandi still came over, but she was the only one watching. I sat next to her while working my way through Scarlett’s old girl magazines.
It was early spring. I remember there were tulips in our garden and my mom reprimanded me for plucking two to decorate the kitchen table. But right after her lecture she handed me a small square letter with my name printed on it. The back said “Welcome to The M Show Fan Club.”
There was not much in the envelope – only a short leaflet that welcomed me to the club and a small ID card with my name on it, a big logo of the show and in black letters “The M Show Fan Club,” and in the line below, in big black letters, the word “Member.”
Brandi got her envelope the same day. She was glowing with happiness. Scarlett was jealous at first, but two days later she got her envelope too.
From then on, every Friday, each of us received a leaflet about the show with photos and anecdotes and background information on the characters. Occasionally the leaflets also called on the club members to promote the show and to watch out for “The M Show Tour.”
Either way, it worked: We loved the show afterwards. I think from that day on, after I proudly stuffed the membership card in my bag, I didn’t miss a single episode.
Then, in mid-June, we all got two leaflets. The first was the usual one with facts and photos. But the second was an ad:
“The tour bus is in town – this is your chance to become an ‘Elite Member’!”
The bus was coming the next Sunday to our town. We were all allowed to go. We were beyond excited.
The leaflet didn’t have much information and that was before we had a computer at home. The tour bus would arrive at 1pm and the main characters of the show would be there to welcome everybody and play games with us. Those that participated in at least four games would be upgraded to “Elite Member”-status and receive a new, golden membership card.
Those nine days of waiting for “The M Show Tour” were some of the longest in my life. Brandi and Scarlett and I planned every day how we would take photos with each of the characters and then play games with them. I secretly dreamed of beating Scarlett at the “knowledge game”, where our knowledge about the show would be tested.
On Saturday Scarlett went to a birthday-sleepover at one of her friends’ houses. The parents were supposed to bring Scarlett back by 12 on Sunday.
Around 12:30 Brandi came running to our house. She knocked on the back door, like she always did, and I let her in. Brandi was beyond excited; her mom had volunteered to accompany the three of us and she wanted to go early so that we wouldn’t miss anything.
My mom called the house of Scarlett’s friend, but they didn’t pick up their phone. She said that Scarlett would be home soon – early enough to go on time.
At 12:45 Brandi’s mother came over to ask for us. She said that we would have to leave so that the queues wouldn’t be too long. My mom said we should wait for Scarlett, but Brandi threw a tantrum; she was scared that she wouldn’t be able to hug all the characters if we came late.
Brandi’s mom decided to drive. I wanted to come along – but my mother said that she would drive Scarlett and me. I felt like I was being punished for Scarlett’s being late. I begged. I cried.
Nothing helped; Brandi went alone.
Her friends’ parents dropped Scarlett off at 13:40. I was mad at her, but my mom said if I made a scene we wouldn’t go at all. I relented.
We arrived around twenty minutes later at the big parking lot where the bus was scheduled to stop. We saw the crowds from the distance, parked the car and walked over.
I asked my mom where the characters of the show were; she said that they were just behind the crowd.
They all held the “The M Show Tour” flyers, but it looked as if the crowd were mostly parents. They stood in a half-circle towards the edge of the parking lot. Some of them looked concerned, but most of them were laughing and talking.
My mom spotted Brandi’s mother at the other end of the half-circle; we walked over to her. Brandi’s mother was one of the worried ones.
She told us that the bus had been there, together with all the animal figures from “The M Show.” They had a large bus with the “The M Show” logo and they handed out sweets.
One of the animal figures had explained to the parents that they had built a set outside of town where we all could make our own short film with the characters of the show. They said they would drive everybody there.
They took the children first. They were all so excited that few parents objected. Still, three or four parents came along and that calmed the rest. The next bus was supposed to arrive within a few minutes, to bring everyone to the set.
When I heard that I was excited like never before.
I ran to the street to look around so I could be the first on the bus. Scarlett followed me.
I didn’t see the worried expression when Brandi’s mother talked to mine.
I didn’t understand why the police came not even an hour later.
In Monday’s episode of “The M Show” one of the characters came on stage and told us to call our parents to watch the show. Our mom was already sitting with Scarlett and me.
The character said that “The M Show” didn’t have a fan club.
That week Brandi’s parents cried a lot. I was still sure that Brandi was okay, I thought she just had so much fun that she didn’t want to come back.
She must have had a lot of fun; she never came back.
Brandi’s mother cried even more, that Friday, when the small parcel arrived.
There was a new “The M Show Fan Club” membership card for Brandi. It was golden and said “Elite Member” in big, bold letters.
The parcel also contained a video. It was only a minute long; a minute of Brandi at the set of “The M Show.” She was wearing the same dress as when she came over to our house that Sunday morning.
On the video Brandi was smiling; an actor in a big animal suit stood next to her, silently.
“Hi mom, I really like it here.” Said Brandi. “I really wish you could be here.”
Then she laughed. “I’m sorry the others were late. I’m sure they would have loved it too.”
If literary history teaches us one thing, it’s that people were just as confused and immature in the Middle Ages as they are now. From unsolvable codes to 13th-century penis doodles in the margins of bibles, history is like an all-encompassing high school cliche that never comes to an end. These books span the course of written history, and they’re all utterly bizarre.
When I was young, I lived on a farm in rural Oregon with my parents. I was the only child. We weren’t a big commercial farm. Just a family-type thing. We had five cows, three horses, a small herd of goats, two dogs, and one chicken coop. We also had some Indian Runner ducks we kept mostly as pets. We didn’t really make any money off the place, just enough to sustain the animals and a little extra for ourselves. Money enough to take a decent vacation every couple of years. Dad had his other job in town, an insurance agent. He was the only one around really, the town wasn’t more than about 1,500 people. Mom gave horse-riding lessons as well. We weren’t rich, but we were comfortable.
It was really an easy life (or at least it could have been a lot worse), I went to school, Dad went to work, Mom took care of the animals, then we all had dinner together every night, and I would go to bed while Mom and Dad had a beer or two and watched the news. Sometimes at night I would hear things outside. Mostly just normal stuff. The cows or horses would get spooked by a coyote or something, or I would hear the dogs chasing a rabbit, barking their heads off. Every once in a great while we would find a chicken dead. Dad would always tell me about it but never let me see the body, although I asked frequently. He would keep Mom and I inside until he had gone out, did whatever he did with the body, throw sawdust over any blood, and then life would go on as normal. I assumed it was foxes, as I had seen a couple of them out in the pasture over the years, slinking around back and forth through the grass.
The summer when I was ten years old, I remember helping Mom change the bedding in the horse stalls, when we heard a huge racket going on outside. If you’ve never heard the sounds of a horse in pain, you don’t want to, trust me. It sounds almost like a person screaming. Well that’s what we heard, and one of our horses, the palamino, came running into the barn with a wound on it’s left thigh. Four long marks, like claw marks, ran across it’s body for about a foot. It had blood running down it’s leg, and was limping. I was so scared by the sight of that much blood that Mom locked the horse in a stall and made me go inside with one of the dogs. She told me to lock the door and stay inside until she came in to get me. I did.
Eventually Mom came inside and told me that the horse had hurt itself on the barbed wire that ran the perimeter of the pasture, we owned more land beyond that, but it was mostly forested. I guess I believed her at the time, but at dinner that night I noticed Dad was being particularly quiet and Mom was talking a lot more than she normally did. She was being really animated, and I noticed that Dad had gotten his rifle out and set it by the back door. Usually he only did that when the coyotes had been acting up.
Yep, it’s a pretty decent early James Wan horror film (he also did Saw, Insidious, and the Conjuring). It’s not top tier horror, but definitely worth a watch (especially if dolls/puppets freak you out).
I found your blog last night and read through a few stories before going to sleep. Interestingly enough, my brain took every last one of those stories and mashed them into one giant mindfuck of a dream. Thanks, it was pretty entertaining!
Do know of anymore scary texts or emails links of some sort sent between people? Ones like the "Annie96 is typing"? I really like reading those and they always give me a chill! And btw, your blog is frightening, so job well done!
The Dionaea House is a classic. You might also want to check out Candle Cove or Ted the Caver - one is correspondence through an internet message board, and the other is from an early 2000’s geocities page done in the style of blog updates. Here are two great ones from r/nosleep:
Last night was the first time at my friend's house and I'd watched Lights Out before I went over and HER FUCKING HALLWAY IS REALLY SIMILAR TO THE ONE IN THE VIDEO AND WE WERE HOME ALONE AND WE WENT INTO HER ROOM AND SHE ASKED IF I MINDED TURNING THE LIGHTS OFF IN THE HALL my heart dropped so much
I use to have a very similar hallway once upon a time, but the worst part about it was the fact it had a mirror at the end. Every time I walked past that damn hallway I about pissed myself thinking someone was standing at the end. Luckily my new home has no creepy hallways to freak me out at night.
Also keep all your lights on.. forever. You can never be too safe.
Do you know any stories revolving around cannibalism? I'd love to read one of those some time!
Well if you are looking for creepypastas or short stories specifically about cannibalism I really don’t know any great ones off the top of my head (maybe some of my followers will). But if cannibalism interests you history is filled with some gruesome stories of real life cannibalism: The Donner Party, Jeffrey Dahmer, Albert Fish, Sawney Bean, the survivors of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571, etc…
have you heard anything about the waverly hills sanatorium being restored to be used as a hotel (obviously using it's haunted status to draw in the more adventurous types)?
I actually made a post about it a few weeks ago. It’s probably the only way us normal people would ever get to see the inside of Waverly Hills. Even during my very short stint as a paranormal investigator my fellow teammates who were veterans said it is impossible to investigate Waverly Hills.