I love reading the stories and articles you post/reblog--horror stuff before bed is oddly my favorite thing??--but I was wondering if you could tag things like Metalosis Maligna where there's more disturbing/gruesome images? Or if you do usually tag that stuff, what tags do you use so I can toss them on my list? I love reading horror, but visuals linger with me longer than I'd like sometimes. Thanks for your time!
I usually tag these kinds of posts with ‘gore’ or ‘disturbing’, but since I reblogged it I didn’t think about tagging it. Sometimes I forget things affect others differently than me so please feel free to message me if something disturbing is untagged.
Porcelain dolls resembling the daughters of homeowners in California were found on their porches yesterday.
Police are investigating porcelain dolls that have been left on the doorsteps of at least eight homes in Southern California, bearing a resemblance to the homeowner’s daughters.
Found on the porches of homes in a beachside town of San Clemente, a community of more than 60,000 people southeast of Los Angeles, Orange County Sheriff’s Lieutenant Jeff Hallock said in a written statement:
“Families in each of the homes where porcelain dolls were left voiced concern that the dolls resembled their daughters,” Hallock said.
Hallock added that the dolls had been collected as evidence and were being examined to determine their origin for more clues.
Gloria Ramirez (January 11, 1963 – February 19, 1994) was a Riverside, California, woman dubbed “the toxic lady” by the media when several Riverside General Hospital workers became ill after exposure to her body and blood. Her case was the basis for a scene in one episode of the American TV series The X-Files,an episode of the American TV drama Grey’s Anatomy, a segment of a show on Discovery Communications’ channel Investigation Discovery called “The New Detectives, a third season episode of Weird or What?, and the “Stink Bomb” segment of the animated film Memories and an episode of Law & Order. Gloria had two children and was a housewife. She was of Mexican descent and volunteered at an elementary school.
Emergency room visit
About 8:15 in the evening on February 19, 1994, Ramirez, suffering from the effects of advanced cervical cancer, was brought into the emergency room of Riverside General Hospital by paramedics. She was extremely confused, and suffering from tachycardia and Cheyne–Stokes respiration.
The medical staff injected her with diazepam, midazolam, and lorazepam to sedate her. When it became clear that Ramirez was responding poorly to treatment, the staff tried to defibrillate her heart; at that point several people saw an oily sheen covering Ramirez’s body, and some noticed a fruity, garlic-like odor that they thought was coming from her mouth. A registered nurse named Susan Kane attempted to draw blood from Ramirez’s arm, and noticed an ammonia like smell coming from the tube.
She passed the syringe to Julie Gorchynski, a medical resident who noticed manila-colored particles floating in the blood. At this point, Kane fainted and was removed from the room. Shortly thereafter, Gorchynski began to feel nauseated. Complaining that she was light-headed, she left the trauma room and sat at a nurse’s desk. A staff member asked her if she was okay, but before she could respond she also fainted. Maureen Welch, a respiratory therapist who was assisting in the trauma room was the third to pass out. The staff was then ordered to evacuate all emergency room patients to the parking lot outside the hospital. A skeleton crew stayed behind to stabilize Ramirez. At 8:50pm, after 45 minutes of CPR and defibrillation, Ramirez was pronounced dead from kidney failure related to her cancer.
The county health department called in California’s Department of Health and Human Services, which put two scientists on the case, Doctors Ana Maria Osorio and Kirsten Waller. They interviewed 34 hospital staff who had been working in the emergency room on February 19. Using a standardized questionnaire, Osorio and Waller found that the people who had developed severe symptoms such as loss of consciousness, shortness of breath, and muscle spasms tended to have certain things in common. People who had worked within two feet of Ramirez and had handled her intravenous lines had been at high risk. But other factors that correlated with severe symptoms didn’t seem to match a scenario in which fumes had been released: the survey found that those afflicted tended to be women rather than men, and they all had normal blood tests after the exposure.
TheoriesPossible role of dimethyl sulfoxide
Gorchynski denied that she had been affected by mass hysteria, and pointed to her own medical history as evidence. After the exposure, she spent two weeks in the intensive care unit with breathing problems, she developed hepatitis and avascular necrosis in her knees. Eager to clear her name and win her lawsuit against the hospital, she and RN Susan Kane contacted Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory.
Livermore Labs postulated that Ramirez had been using dimethyl sulfoxide (DMSO), a solvent used as a powerful degreaser, as a home remedy for pain. Users of this substance report that it has a garlic-like taste, sold in gel form at hardware stores, it could also explain the greasy appearance of Ramirez’s body.The Livermore scientists theorized that the DMSO in Ramirez’s system might have built up, due to urinary blockage caused by her kidney failure. Oxygen administered by the paramedics would have combined with the DMSO to form dimethyl sulfone (DMSO2). DMSO2 is known to crystallize at room temperature, and crystals were observed in some of Ramirez’s drawn blood. Electric shocks administered during emergency defibrillation could have then converted the DMSO2 into dimethyl sulfate (DMSO4), a powerful poisonous gas, exposure to which could have caused the reported symptoms of the emergency room staff.
Final conclusion and burial
Two months after Ramirez died, her badly decomposed body was released for an independent autopsy and burial. The Riverside Coroner’s Office hailed Livermore’s DMSO conclusion as the probable cause of the hospital workers’ symptoms, while her family disagreed. The Ramirez family’s pathologist was unable to determine a cause of death because her heart was missing, her other organs were cross-contaminated with fecal matter, and her body was too badly decomposed. Ten weeks after she died, Ramirez was buried in an unmarked grave at Olivewood Memorial Park in Riverside.
Status of technical forensic analysis
The possible chemical explanation for this incident by Patrick M. Grant of the Livermore Forensic Science Center is beginning to appear in basic forensic science textbooks. In Houck and Siegel’s textbook, the authors opine that, although some weaknesses exist, the postulated scenario is “the most scientific explanation to date” and that “beyond this theory, no credible explanation has ever been offered for the strange case of Gloria Ramirez.”
Everything that Grant ever speculated or concluded about this incident was evaluated by professional forensic scientists, chemists, and toxicologists, passed peer-review in an accredited, refereed journal, and was published by Forensic Science International. The first paper was very technically detailed and did, in fact, give two potential chemical reaction mechanisms that may possibly have formed dimethyl sulfate from dimethyl sulfoxide and dimethyl sulfone precursors. The second communication gave supplemental support for the postulated chemical scenario, as well as insight into some of the sociology and vested interests inherent in the case.
One of the letters proposed the production of toxic chloramine gas due to urine mixing with bleach in a nearby sink. This hypothesis, previously proposed to the investigators and to the medical personnel involved in the incident, was apparently never considered by all involved. The noxious effects of this gas are documented in the New England Journal of Medicine. In reality, Grant addressed this chloramine scenario in Ref. 8, and it did not come close to fitting the ER incident.
There are few left alive who remember the Song and Dance Man.
Time has claimed the ones that survived the long night and I’m sure they went willing to meet their maker. Life takes on a strange tint after a night like that.
The ones still left – Bill Parker, Sarah Carter, and Sam Tannen – don’t talk about it. Sam is lucky. His brain started to turn to porridge a few years back and now he has trouble figuring out how to put on his pants.
He got an early reprieve from his memories. He doesn’t wake up night after night; the music still playing in his ears, with tears still drying on his cheeks.
The Song and Dance Man came to Belle Carne with little fanfare in the fall of 1956. I had just gotten out of high school and was working as a stock-boy at Handy’s Hardware. I was there the afternoon that Sarah Carter burst through the door, making the bell over the door jingle like mad.
“George, you gotta see what’s been set up by the bandstand! There this huge tent up and this man standing in front of it yellin’ like a carnival barker!” Sarah was out of breath and had obviously run from the park and all the way down Main Street.
Her hair was whipsawed every which way and one strand stuck to the end of her nose. She gave a quick puff and blew it out of the way, waiting for me to react.
With Sarah, I was always two steps behind and running to catch up. The girl had energy in those days and in an unlimited supply.
I stopped rearranging the nails and said, “There wasn’t anythin’ up there when I walked by this mornin’. When’d it go up?”
She shrugged her shoulders, a quick raise and drop, “Dunno, but it’s up, and you gotta see this guy. He’s all dressed up, head to toe, and he can talk. Boy, he can talk.”
I thought about it and checked the clock. It was near about five and time for me to quit anyway. “All right, let’s go check it out then.”
Sarah grinned from ear to ear and was gone. I didn’t doubt she was telling everyone in the gang, the ones that were still in town anyway. Most of us scattered to the four winds after graduation. Only a handful of us remained in town and only a handful of us were on hand to witness the dance.
I walked down to the bandstand by myself, not bothering to wait for the others. Most likely, Sarah was already there waiting for us. I met up with Bill as I passed the drugstore, where he worked as a soda jerk. “What the hell is Sarah talkin’ about, George?
She blew in here and then blew out again before I could ask her anything.” Bill was a big guy, the tallest (and heaviest) guy in our class and I just about cracked up the first time I saw him wearing that little peaked paper cap McClearly makes his soda jerks wear. Bill doesn’t really liked to be laughed at, though, and after the knot under my eye went down, I made sure not to laugh at him anymore.
He’s a good guy aside from that temper. He was the best guy on the high school basketball team, too, though he’s one of the few guys who got kicked out of a game. He threw another player halfway down the court, and they were on the same team, too. Bill said the other guy elbowed him in the gut. It had to have been an accident; no one would have done it on purpose.
As a doctor, I’m bound by doctor-patient privilege to not disclose the specifics of what I’m about to tell you. But as a human being, I feel compelled to share. This is, without a doubt, the most horrific story I’ve ever had the displeasure of being a part of.
It was 2009, and my schedule that day was light. I was just finishing up my lunch when I got a call from a friend and colleague who had his own practice in the same building as me. Sometimes we would send work each other’s way when we knew the other could use it. I was a bit elated at the prospect of him calling me because I had just been going over my books and stressing a bit.
“Are you busy right now? I’d like to send someone up to you,” he said.
“No, my afternoon is barren. What are the details?”
“It’s a walk-in. From the look of it, an eating disorder. Her mother is concerned.”
Eating disorder. Those can be unpleasant. I’d actually had a bulimic throw up in my office once when I stepped out momentarily to check my calendar. Still, I needed the work.
“Alright, send her up.”
I tried to tidy up my desk to make my office look more presentable and professional while I waited. Ten minutes ticked by and no patient showed up, so I stepped out to go looking for her. When I got to the hall, there was a small contingent of people standing around the elevator. They were talking amongst themselves.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The elevator’s broke,” someone said.
Shit, I bet she’s on there, I thought.
“What floor is it stuck on?”
“The tenth and eleventh.”
Yeah, that would be about right. My colleague’s office was on the tenth, three floors down. I knew from experience that it could be anywhere up to an hour before they got the elevator working again. I hoped she wasn’t claustrophobic. Returning to my office, I called downstairs.
“What’s up?” my colleague asked after picking up.
“She’s stuck in the elevator.”
He laughed. “Really? Poor thing.”
“What’s her name?”
“Amelia.” he paused. “Amelia D-something.”
“Alright, thanks. If you got any impressions on her from your brief visit, maybe you can share them later, over drinks?”
“Don’t tell me. I want to form my own opinion first.”
True to form, an hour and ten minutes later, I heard a loud cheer from the hallway, indicating the elevator had started working again.
I should go make sure she’s alright, I thought to myself, and went out to join the throng of people standing around in the hallway.
There were a lot more people by then, and I couldn’t make my way to the elevator doors or even see them from where I was, but I could hear it when the elevator dinged indicating it was stopping on our floor and the rolling mechanical sound of the doors opening.
There was a loud gasp from the crowd of people, followed by a lot of jabbering.
“Holy shit!” someone said quite loudly.
People started hustling away from from the elevator, shoving past me. I struggled against the tide and made my way to where a number of people were standing around, staring into the elevator cab. As I approached, I could smell this stench… it was like stumbling into the apartment of a recluse who hadn’t come out or bathed for years. It rolled like a wave out of the elevator and cascaded over everyone in the hallway. A young man in a business suit who looked dressed for an interview was covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. I skirted around him to see into the elevator.
The woman in the elevator was not at all what I was expecting. Massively obese, she looked like she weighed somewhere around 500-600 lbs. Her face was so puffed up, her eyes were barely visible, just two dark dots above her cheeks. She had frizzed-out, brown hair that still had curlers in it. The notion that I was smelling a recluse seemed all the more plausible at the sight of her.
Her mouth was covered with what looked like greasy barbecue sauce. There was even some sort of gristle at the corners of her lips. There was more of it all over her hands and wiped down the front of her shirt. It looked like she had come straight from an all-you-can-eat rib buffet. Clenched tightly in one of her hands was a big, black trash bag that sagged full of something that seemed to slosh around inside it. The smell coming out of it was nauseating.
The woman stepped out of the elevator, her eyes and nose runny with tears and mucous. I stepped forward while everyone else backed away, horrified.
“Amelia?” I asked her.
She looked at me through her beady, little piggy eyes, her cheeks covered with that vile, red gunk and streaking with tears and opened her mouth. For about three seconds, I had the horrible notion that she was going to vomit an entire barbecue on me.
“I… I was hungry,” she stuttered with a thick, Southern accent.
The young man in the suit heaved involuntarily at the smell of her breath and then strode away, trying to maintain his demeanor.
“That’s okay,” I said, reaching out to help her. “Do you want to talk about it in my office?”
Seeing me reach out to her, she clenched her black trash bag tightly and hugged it to her chest. The contents of it made a sickening squish sound. I could taste my own lunch in the back of my throat.
“Is that, yours?” I asked. “I’m not going to take it.”
She started sobbing. This horrible, almost hob-like squeal of a sob. Honestly, I didn’t want to touch her. I wanted to go back into my office, lock the door and pretend I was glad my afternoon was completely empty. The smell wafting off her and off that bag of spoils was going to be permeating every crevice of my office for days, I just knew it. Still, this was a human being that had come seeking my help, and I was not about to turn her away.
“My office is right down the hall. Why don’t you come with me?” I started walking. In my head, I said, If she doesn’t come with me, fuck it. She can go back to her apartment that’s probably filled with roaches and feces and who knows what other ungodly things, and I’ll find someone else to help.
But she followed me, lumbering on legs that stretched the limits of the sweatpants she had on. I held the door open for her and she waddled in, kneading the contents of that trash bag in her thick sausage fingers, making it belch and splurch. She stopped and just stood there in the middle of my office.
“The elev-v-vator got st-stuck,” she mumbled.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I hope you were all right. Thank goodness you brought something to eat, yes?”
She started crying again, squeezing her trash bag and I was afraid it was going to explode and leave god knows what all over my office floor. She nodded as her face turned red and tears poured out of seemingly every pore of her head.
I went and got her a box of tissues and handed her a couple. She tried to take them while still holding onto the bag with both hands.
“Would you like me to hold that?” I offered, praying she’d say no.
She shook her head.
“What do you have in there?” I finally decided to ask.
She huffed and snorted, trying to inhale all the fluid back into her face. Using one of the tissues, she mopped her eyes and mouth, getting blotchy red smears all over the place.
“L-l-left… leftovers…” she stuttered, then her chest started heaving and she threw her head back and started bawling again. Her face was like a fountain. She was so utterly miserable, and I really started to feel bad for her.
“Look,” I said, “getting stuck in that elevator was obviously pretty traumatic.”
Her wailing hit a crescendo.
“So why don’t we postpone things until you’ve calmed down a bit.”
She struggled through her sobbing, “Y-you wanna m-m-meet with me?”
“Well, yes… but not today. Why don’t you go home and try to relax. I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind right now to talk. But I want to help you. So let’s schedule an appointment for later this week. How does that sound?”
I walked back to my desk and got out one of my cards. Her mouth was quivering and she looked ready to collapse into a pile of screaming phlegm, but she was calming down a bit, just nodding more than anything, and she took my card with the same sticky fingers holding several drippy tissues.
“Th-thank you.” she said quietly. I couldn’t read her face at all. Her features were so red and swollen and wet that she seemed almost blank and expressionless.
“Do you want me to escort you down to the lobby?” I asked, “In case something happens with the elevator again? It should be alright, but I don’t want you to be nervous.”
She shook her head. “That don’t s-seem like a g-g-good idea.”
And with that, she turned around and waddled out of my office, slowly, sobbing slightly every now and then. With her went that sloshy, black trashbag and with them both went that putrid aroma of filth and squalor. I literally breathed a sigh of relief as I heard the door click shut.
She never called me back.
It was a week later that I finally got around to having drinks with my colleague from downstairs. We were relaxing, having a couple beers, and I suddenly remembered her.
“Oh, thanks by the way.” I said.
“Amelia. Eating disorder? Last week you sent her up to me, remember?”
“Oh, right.” he sipped his beer. “The one who got stuck in the elevator. How did that go?”
“She was a wreck.” I said. “Sobbing and practically hysterical. I talked her into rescheduling, but she hasn’t called me to make an appointment.”
“Did you talk to her mother?”
“No, I didn’t get any information from her. I gave her my card.”
“What did you think?” he asked.
“Classic food dependency.” I said. “Definitely a binge eater. Her face was just all—”
“No, not the mother, I mean Amelia.”
“What did you think of Amelia?” he said again.
“I’m telling you what I thought.”
“Amelia, the scrawny twelve year-old girl, you think is a binge eater?”
“What? No, that’s not—”
And then it hit me.
“Was her mother with her?”
“Yeah, I sent them both up to you.”
“They were in the elevator together?”
He looked at me, and the same dawning realization came over his own face.
Needless to say, she never rescheduled. Amelia D-something. Nor did her mother: the nameless, obese woman I met that day at the elevator, smelling like death, covered in gore and carrying her trash bag of sloshing leftovers.
Thanks to everyone who sent me messages wishing me well. I’m very lucky to have so many followers who care :)
I’m still in the hospital so I probably won’t be doing any updates until at least Monday. Hopefully by then I’ll be home and recovering. I don’t really talk about myself much on this blog, but some of you have expressed interest in my illness and the reason for my hospital stay. Long story short: I have lupus (SLE) and it recently decided to attack my heart and cause it to beat irregularly.
Chronic illness is no fun, but I won’t let it stop me from bringing the creepy to all my amazing followers.
To hold you guys over here is a small list of some of my favorite horror movies currently on Netflix:
The Banshee Chapter
House of the Devil
V/H/S and V/H/S 2
Grand Piano (this is more of a thriller)
So you’ve decided to spend a night in a cabin in the woods! You fool. You might as well sacrifice yourself to Satan and save yourself some time and effort. But if you and your friends feel you have to embark on this most deadly of vacations, here are 13 tips that might just keep you alive. (Probably not, though.)
Producer’s note: This story is excerpted from Reddit user blue_tidal‘s encounter.
About five years ago I lived downtown in a major city in the US. I’ve always been a night person, so I would often find myself bored after my roommate, who was decidedly not a night person, went to sleep. To pass the time, I used to go for long walks and spend the time thinking.
I spent four years like that, walking alone at night, and never once had a reason to feel afraid. I always used to joke with my roommate that even the drug dealers in the city were polite. But all of that changed in just a few minutes of one evening.
It was a Wednesday, somewhere between one and two in the morning, and I was walking near a police patrolled park quite a ways from my apartment. It was a quiet night, even for a week night, with very little traffic and almost no one on foot. The park, as it was most nights, was completely empty.
I turned down a short side street in order to loop back to my apartment when I first noticed him. At the far end of the street, on my side, was the silhouette of a man, dancing. It was a strange dance, similar to a waltz, but he finished each “box” with an odd forward stride. I guess you could say he was dance-walking, headed straight for me.
Deciding he was probably drunk, I stepped as close as I could to the road to give him the majority of the sidewalk to pass me by. The closer he got, the more I realized how gracefully he was moving. He was very tall and lanky, and wearing an old suit. He danced closer still, until I could make out his face. His eyes were open wide and wild, head tilted back slightly, looking off at the sky. His mouth was formed in a painfully wide cartoon of a smile. Between the eyes and the smile, I decided to cross the street before he danced any closer.
I took my eyes off of him to cross the empty street. As I reached the other side, I glanced back… and then stopped dead in my tracks. He had stopped dancing and was standing with one foot in the street, perfectly parallel to me. He was facing me but still looking skyward. Smile still wide on his lips.
I was completely and utterly unnerved by this. I started walking again, but kept my eyes on the man. He didn’t move.
Once I had put about half a block between us, I turned away from him for a moment to watch the sidewalk in front of me. The street and sidewalk ahead of me were completely empty. Still unnerved, I looked back to where he had been standing to find him gone. For the briefest of moments I felt relieved, until I noticed him. He had crossed the street, and was now slightly crouched down. I couldn’t tell for sure due to the distance and the shadows, but I was certain he was facing me. I had looked away from him for no more than 10 seconds, so it was clear that he had moved fast.
I was so shocked that I stood there for some time, staring at him. And then he started moving toward me again. He took giant, exaggerated tip toed steps, as if he were a cartoon character sneaking up on someone. Except he was moving very, very quickly.
I’d like to say at this point I ran away or pulled out my pepper spray or my cellphone or anything at all, but I didn’t. I just stood there, completely frozen as the smiling man crept toward me.
And then he stopped again, about a car length away from me. Still smiling his smile, still looking to the sky.
When I finally found my voice, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. What I meant to ask was, “What the fuck do you want?!” in an angry, commanding tone. What came out was a whimper, “What the fuu…?”
Regardless of whether or not humans can smell fear, they can certainly hear it. I heard it in my own voice, and that only made me more afraid. But he didn’t react to it at all. He just stood there, smiling.
And then, after what felt like forever, he turned around, very slowly, and started dance-walking away. Just like that. Not wanting to turn my back to him again, I just watched him go, until he was far enough away to almost be out of sight. And then I realized something. He wasn’t moving away anymore, nor was he dancing. I watched in horror as the distant shape of him grew larger and larger. He was coming back my way. And this time he was running.
I ran too.
I ran until I was off of the side road and back onto a better lit road with sparse traffic. Looking behind me then, he was nowhere to be found. The rest of the way home, I kept glancing over my shoulder, always expecting to see his stupid smile, but he was never there.
I lived in that city for six months after that night, and I never went out for another walk. There was something about his face that always haunted me. He didn’t look drunk, he didn’t look high. He looked completely and utterly insane. And that’s a very, very scary thing to see.
My dead girlfriend keeps messaging me on Facebook. I’ve got the screenshots. I don’t know what to do. - (r/nosleep)
Tonight’s kind of a catalyst for this post. I just received another message, and it’s worse than any of the others.
My girlfriend died on the 7th of August, 2012. She was involved in a three car collision driving home from work when someone ran a red light. She passed away within minutes on the scene.
We had been dating for five years at that point. She wasn’t big on the idea of marriage (it felt archaic, she said, gave her a weird vibe), but if she had been, I would have married her within three months of our relationship. She was vibrant; the kind of girl that would choose dare every time. She was happiest when camping, but a total technophile too. She always smelled like cinnamon.
That being said, she wasn’t perfect. She always said something along the lines of, “If I kark it first, don’t just say good things about me. I’ve never liked that. If you don’t pay me out, you’re doing me a disservice. I’ve got so many flaws, and that’s just part of me.” So, this is for Em: the music she said she liked and the music she actually liked were very different. Her idea of affection was a side-hug. She had really long toes, like a chimpanzee.
I know that’s tangential, but I don’t feel right discussing her without you having an idea of what she was like.
Onto the meat. Em had been dead for approaching thirteen months when she first messaged me.
September 4, 2013. This is when it began. I had left Emily’s Facebook account activated so I could send her the occasional message, post on her wall, go through her albums. It felt too final (and too un-Emily) to memorialize it. I ‘share’ access with her mother (Susan) - meaning, her mother has her login and password and has spent a total of approximately three minutes on the website (or on a computer, total). After a little confusion, I assumed it was her.
November 16th, 2013. I had received confirmation from Susan that she hadn’t logged in to Em’s Facebook since the week of her death. Em knew a lot of people, so I instantly assumed this was one of her more tech savvy ‘friends’ fucking with me in the worst possible way.
The ‘the wheels on the bus’ comment was from when we were discussing songs to play on a road trip that never eventuated. ‘hello’ happened a million times.
Around February 2014, Emily started tagging herself in my photos. I would get notifications for them, but the tag would generally always be removed by the time I got to it. The first time I actually caught one, it felt like someone had punched me in the gut. ‘She’ would tag herself in spaces where it was plausible for her to be, or where she would usually hang out. I’ve got screenshots of two (from April and June; these are the only ones I’ve caught, so they’re a little out of the timeline I’m trying to write out):
Around this period of time, I stopped being able to sleep. I was too angry to sleep.
She would tag herself in random photos every couple of weeks. The friends who noticed and said something thought it was a fucked up bug; I found out recently that there have been friends who have noticed and didn’t say anything. Some of them have removed me from their Facebook friends list.
At this point, some of you may be wondering why I didn’t just kill my Facebook profile. I wish I had. I did for a little while. On days when I can’t get out there, though, it’s nice having my friends available to chat. It’s nice visiting Em’s page when the little green circle isn’t next to her name. I was already socially reclusive when Em was alive; her death turned me into something pretty close to a hermit, and Facebook and MMOs were (are) my only real social outlets.
It wasn’t until I was going over these logs a few months later that I noticed she was recycling my own words as well.
My response seems kind of lackluster here. I was intentionally providing him/her with emotional ‘bait’ (‘This is actually devastating’) to keep them interested in their game; I was working off the assumption that the kind of person to do this would be the kind of person that would thrive on the distress of others. I was posting in tech forums, looking for ways to track this person, contacting Facebook. I needed to keep them around so I could gather ‘evidence’.
Before anyone asks, yes, I had changed the password and all security info countless times.
I hadn’t discovered any leads. Facebook had told me the locations her page had been accessed from, but since her death, they’re all places I can account for (my home, my work, her mum’s house, etc). My response here wasn’t bait. ‘yo ask Nathan’ was an in-joke too lame worth explaining, but seeing ‘her’ say it again just absolutely fucking crippled me. My reaction in real life was much less prettier. I’m not expecting my bond back.
Her last few messages had started to scare me, but I wouldn’t admit it at this point.
‘FRE EZIN G’ is the first original word she’s (?) made. This has given me nightmares that have only started to kick in recently. I keep dreaming that she’s in an ice cold car, frozen blue and grey, and I’m standing outside in the warmth screaming at her to open the door. She doesn’t even realise I’m there. Sometimes her legs are outside with me.
I wasn’t actually drunk. She wasn’t an affectionate girl, and it always embarrassed her to exchange ‘I love you’s, cuddle, talk about how much we meant to each other. She was more comfortable with it when I was boozed up. I got fake-drunk a lot.
Her reply is what prompted me to finally memorialize her page, thinking it might help curb this behavior. It might seem innocuous compared to her previous message - it’s pasted from an old conversation where I was trying to convince her to let me drive her home from a friend’s.
In the collision, the dashboard had crushed her. She was severed in a diagonal line from her right hip to midway down her left thigh. One of her legs was found tucked under the backseat.
These are logs from the day she died. She was usually home from work by 4.30. This, alongside a couple of voicemail messages, is the last time I talked to her under the assumption that she was alive. You’ll see why I’m showing you these soon.
When it comes to horror, nothing makes a freaky plotline even freakier than the words ‘based on a true story.’ Even when these so-called true stories turn out to be more fiction than fact, the mere suggestion is enough to induce goose bumps. Check out our favorite tales of (allegedly) true terror and rest assured, they didn’t really happen in real life…yet.
The Lost Town of Deepwood, Pennsylvania - (r/nosleep)
When I was a kid my dad traveled a lot for work. Back then, his company was growing exponentially and my father was sent to oversee the opening of new stores all across the country. In 2002, he had a particularly busy year. My dad was assigned to a store in Pennsylvania and, because it was a longer assignment and because it was summertime as well, he decided to take my mom and I with him.
Since we were going to be there for two months, they gave us a fully furnished house in the suburbs. It was two stories tall and at the end of a very lonely cul-de-sac. The town itself was very small, with a little over 3,000 residents, and the suburb where we stayed was even more rural.
Our neighborhood was relatively new, and most of the houses were still empty. The housing development, Lone Wood, had only just started cutting into the dense forest that surrounded it and all the empty houses gave it a very eerie, albeit boring, feel.
Lucky for me, there were a few other kids who lived in Lone Wood and one of them happened to be my age. Jamie and I were both 12 and really that was all we needed to have in common.
We had a lot of fun that summer. Being a city kid, I was eager to explore all the bike trails local kids had made out in the woods. The city of Middlesbrough was a very old town which was incorporated sometime in the early 1800s. The town had tons of history, but nothing really to do. One particularly boring Sunday, Jamie and I even went to the town’s museum.
It was pretty boring, as expected, until we heard some kid ask an employee about the “lost town”. The employee replied that that was just a legend, but that was enough to pique my curiosity.
I quizzed Jamie about it but he didn’t seem to know much either. It was a full five weeks into the summer before I finally got my questions answered.
Jamie and I were building a bike ramp over a narrow stream late one afternoon when we saw a group of five teenagers boisterously heading out into the woods. They were carrying flashlights and beer, several of them trying to scare the girls of the group into turning back.
“I wonder where they’re going.” I mused as I glanced over at Jamie. He stood up and wiped his brow.
“I know where they’re going.”
“Where?” I stood up and dusted the dirt off my shorts. The novelty of living in a small town had weeks ago given way to boredom and I jumped on anything that sounded remotely interesting.
“They’re looking for the Lost Town.” He sighed regretfully.
“Okay, seriously, what is that? I knew you know more than you let on. I need to know Jamie, I need to know!” I shook his shoulders in mock hysteria and he stumbled for balance.
“ Alright! I’ll tell you, geez, Katie!” Jamie picked up his bike and started walking down the bike path. I grabbed mine and followed him.
“The Lost Town is just a dumb legend. The stories say that Middlesbrough had a sister city nearby, somewhere out in these woods. Then one day, like a century and a half ago, the whole town just disappeared. The people left or died, nobody knows, nobody even remembers the name of the town. It’s like a right of passage or something for kids to go looking for it.”
"Jamie we should-“
“No!” He stopped and turned to look at me. “Some kid went looking for it in the 70s and never came back. They found his body like ten years later in the middle of nowhere. He got lost out there. It’s easy to do, everything looks the same.”
“He was a total idiot! Probably on drugs, it was 70s. We are a totally different generation - we have satnav!“
“Satnav?” He looked at me curiously. Jamie had lived in this town his whole life and sometimes I forgot how sheltered he was.
“Satellite Navigation? My dad has a GPS that he totally wouldn’t notice missing for a day. Come on Jamie, it’d be so much fun!”
“I’d better get back.” Jamie looked at his watch and then mounted his bike. “My dad is taking me to a movie tonight.”
We rode in an uncomfortable silence until an idea struck me as we rolled over the abandoned train tracks. They were old and almost buried by plant growth.
“Hey… I know you don’t want to talk about it, but has anyone ever found anything?
“No. Well, my friend’s older brother said he found some human bones out there once, but nobody believed him.”
“Oh. And where do people look?”
“Well, almost everybody goes to the lake.” He pointed to the left of us, where we’d seen the teenagers heading earlier. “It’s pretty deep back there but they figure that if there was another town, they would have lived by the lake, so…that’s where they go.”
“Well, you know what I would do? I would follow the train tracks. I mean, they look pretty old. And I don’t know why they would lay them going back into those woods unless there was something back there, so that’s where I’d go.”
Jamie considered this and then nodded. “Yeah, I guess I could buy that. No one follows the tracks that way, though. That’s where that kid that disappeared went.”
For the anon with the horror movie with a happy ending, I suggest Tucker and Dale vs. Evil, but it's a horror comedy and it has a happy ending. Actually, imo, an ending that makes you happy and gives feels! :D
The only reason I didn’t mention Tucker and Dale is because it’s technically a comedy, but it is definitely worth a watch and has a great ending. It’s probably one of my favorite horror/comedies of all time.
Another good horror/comedy/musical is Stage Fright. It’s like Phantom of the Opera meets Friday the 13th