50 Frozen TRUE Scary Stories You’ll Never Forget ❄️🔥
The sun beat down relentlessly on the parched
expanse, a canvas of sunbaked ochre earth, jagged sandstone formations, and ancient gnarled junipers
that clawed at the arid soil. This was the wild, untamed frontier east of what folks called Whisper
Wind Gulch and west of the desolate settlement of Silver Creek, a forgotten stretch of the old
frontier trail. Whispers of long banished peoples, the ancestral puebloans, still clung to the air
around the numerous crumbling foundations and petetroglyphs scarred cliffs, remnants of an era
when the land had known more verdant days. Along the deep, dry aoyos, where the infrequent rains
carved their paths, stood sparse, defiant groves of cottonwoods. My grandparents, Ela and Elder
Silas, cultivated a secluded 80 acres here, a good 20 mi beyond the last vestigages of Whisper Wind
Gulch. The locals simply referred to it as the Eastern Reach. Their modest, mobile abode crowned
a gentle rise, a solitary sentinel overlooking the vast, silent landscape. A mile south, nestled at
the foot of that same hill, my aunt Lena and uncle Gideon had constructed an impressive three-story
home where they lived with their four children, two boys and two girls. From the front, it
presented as a quaint two-story dwelling, but the hillside slope revealed its basement
level from the rear, complete with a sprawling timber deck that encircled the midsection. The
house faced west, offering an unimpeded vista of the sprawling desert, while to the east, the
land dipped steadily into a deep, winding wash. The back deck afforded breathtaking views of the
sacred peaks of Zouri and the serpentine course of the Little Red River Valley, far in the distance
near St. Jude’s Crossing. This narrative unfolds the chilling ordeal that befell my elder cousin,
Caleb, during the sweltering summer of 91. It was late June and Caleb, then 17, should have been
savoring the carefree days of summer. Instead, his season was marred by a severe misstep. A recent
graduation celebration had seen him embibe far too much, culminating in a regrettable encounter
with the local constabularary. The outcome, a citation for underage consumption, a period
of stringent probation, a scorching lecture from his mother, and the dreaded sentence of a
summer-long grounding. To add insult to injury, his mother confiscated the keys to the pickup
truck he tirelessly worked all the previous summer to acquire. Stranded in the absolute
middle of nowhere, Caleb found himself with little to do but assist Elder Silas and at their
hilltop residence. One stifling afternoon, after a long day of chores, Caleb noticed a familiar
truck parked near his father Warren’s porch. Their reclusive neighbor, Silas, who lived about 5
miles west, had stopped by for a visit. Silas was an enigmatic figure, always with a far away look
in his eyes, rumored to have spent a little too much time exploring altered states back in the
70s. His dwelling sat perched at top a bluff, running alongside the forgotten ruins of Blackwood
Manor. Warren and Silas were deep in conversation on the porch when Caleb approached. After a brief
greeting, Silas turned to Caleb with an offer, a project on his property, a couple of hundred
dollars for a week or two’s labor. Desperate for a distraction, and perhaps some secret funds for
when his parents left for their annual trip to New Hampshire with Elder Silas and the following week,
Caleb readily agreed. The next morning, Warren, with a knowing grin, returned Caleb’s truck keys.
He drove over to Silas’s place to find him loading shovels and various tools into his trunk. Caleb
hadn’t thought to ask what the work entailed, but the shovel suggested fence mending or some
such manual labor. Silas gestured for Caleb to climb into the passenger seat, and they set off,
following a barely discernible two-track dirt path along the crest of the bluff, heading north. From
this vantage point, the panorama was expansive. The distant outlines of Whisperwind Gulch, the
sprawling dry washes dotted with cottonwoods to the west. The majestic white sentinel mountains
dominating the southern horizon. And to the north, the ancient mesa formations near Stonebrook.
To the east, a small valley unfolded along a lesser wash, and amidst its sparse vegetation,
Caleb could just make out the skeletal roof line of Blackwood Manor. A cold dread snaked down
his spine, raising goosebumps on his arms. He quickly pushed away the chilling tales
associated with that oursed place. They rounded a small weathered sandstone outcropping and
Silas brought the truck to a halt. Before them, silent and imposing, stood a massive, crumbling
structure, the very ruins Caleb had always tried to forget. The ruins, a sprawling skeletal
footprint on the desert floor, had long since surrendered their secrets to the relentless sun
and countless treasure hunters. What remained appeared at first glance to be little more than
a vast jumble of broken sandstone, but a closer inspection revealed a mosaic of ancient pottery
shards glinting among the debris. Like so many of these ancestral sites, large brutal gouges marred
the earth, evidence of backho used by those who sought relics with more might than finesse. A
prickle of disqu snaked through Caleb. Silas, catching sight of his apprehension, launched
into his grand vision. They were not merely digging. They were undertaking an archaeological
excavation. His intention was to unearth the hidden history of this place, eventually opening a
private museum on his property, charging a modest $5 for visitors to witness their discoveries.
Caleb’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t disturbing these sites illegal?” he ventured, his voice betraying a
hint of trepidation. Silas merely chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound. Not if you own the land,
son. Every last inch of this belongs to me. Caleb’s unease deepened. What about the stories?
He pressed, his mind drifting to the hushed legend surrounding Blackwood Manor. The spirits, Silus
Gaod. You mean the tall tales about Blackwood? Look, Caleb, your aunt and are good people,
honest to a fault, but they got a little carried away with the local gossip about
old stodd. Freaked themselves out. Besides, he waved a dismissive hand. This isn’t a burial
ground. No bodies here. In hindsight, Caleb would recount, he should have trusted the instinct
screaming at him to turn and flee. Instead, he swallowed his misgivings and began to dig.
Around midday, Silas ambled back to his truck, promising to return with sandwiches for their
lunch. Caleb remained at the ruin, his shovel biting into the dusty soil. He didn’t register
it immediately, but as the hours drifted by, an uncanny silence descended upon the site. There
was no rustle of lizards, no chirp of birds, not even the relentless high-pitched thrum of
cicas, which typically dominated the summer air. On the wind, a whisper, faint and indistinct,
seemed to curl around him. Yet he rationalized it away, blaming his heightened senses on the
proximity of Blackwood Manor, a mere mile distant, and the chilling lore it held. Silas eventually
reappeared, not only with their sandwiches, but also a vintage camera, an old 35 mm model.
This was to meticulously document their progress, he explained, for the future museum. Caleb found
himself posing awkwardly as Silas snapped pictures of him in the small cleared out sections, standing
beside a meager collection of fines, a fragment of a pot, a scattering of colorful beads, and what
looked like half of a stone tool. The first week passed in a blur of dust and sweat. Progress was
slow, and their discoveries feuded. Caleb found himself looking forward to his day off with an
almost desperate yearning. A persistent nagging intuition whispered of impending misfortune, a
shadow clinging to him like the desert dust. He hadn’t slept soundly since starting. One night,
waking with the distinct sensation of his bed trembling. The weekend offered a brief,
unremarkable reprieve. But Monday morning, as Caleb pulled up to Silas’s property, a
massive backho sat parked in the driveway. A neighboring rancher had loaned it,” Silas
explained, his eyes gleaming with renewed fervor. “Now they could truly accelerate
their efforts.” “And accelerate they did.” By Tuesday and Wednesday, they had uncovered
three more rooms, meticulously documenting each new artifact with roll after roll of film.
After filling four rolls, Silas decided to take them to town for development, a painstaking
10-day process in those pre-digital days. By Thursday, the air hummed with a different kind
of energy. They had reached a significantly larger chamber within the PBLO, and in its very center
lay an enormous flat block of sandstone. This, unlike the smaller fragments they’ previously
encountered, sparked Silus’s intense curiosity. With the backhoe, he carefully maneuvered the
massive slab aside. Beneath it, a void yawned, a deep, unsettling black hole. A sudden, cold
knot tightened in Caleb’s stomach. Silas, however, vibrated with excitement. He leaned over
the edge, straining to see into the darkness, then grabbed his flashlight, aiming its beam into
the abyss. “It’s another room,” he exclaimed, his voice echoing in the confined space. Caleb
felt a visceral aversion. The dark opening made his skin crawl. Go grab the ladder from my truck,”
Silas ordered, his voice sharp with anticipation. Caleb complied, a silent prayer forming on his
lips that Silas wouldn’t ask him to descend into that sinister void. As he hurried back
towards the ruins, the first rumble of thunder echoed across the vast plains. To the south,
ominous monsoon clouds were already massing, and the wind, once a gentle breath, began to whip
around them, carrying the scent of distant rain. Silas carefully lowered the ladder into the
newfound chamber. “Are you sure it’s safe?” Caleb asked, his voice barely audible above the rising
wind. Silas scoffed. This room’s been sealed off for a thousand years under that rock. “I highly
doubt the roof’s going anywhere now.” Silas, a beam of light preceding him, disappeared into
the dark opening, his excited voice echoing up a moment later. by all that’s unholy,” he bellowed.
He called for Caleb, who hesitantly approached the edge. Grab the camera and come on down. A cold
dread coiled in Caleb’s stomach. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse to flee, but the sting
of Silus’s potential mockery, the thought of being branded a coward, was a powerful deterrent.
He snatched the vintage camera and with a gulp began his descent into the pitch black abyss. At
first, he was swallowed by an absolute void. It was an oppressive darkness, so profound that even
the meager sunlight filtering through the opening above failed to penetrate it. Then, the focused
beam of Silus’s flashlight cut through the gloom, illuminating a colossal corrugated ceramic
pot. Caleb’s eyes adjusted, and a chilling realization dawned. The very walls and floor of
this chamber were stained in unnatural black. The air was thick and stagnant, heavy with
the pungent metallic scent of sulfur. Silas, oblivious to Caleb’s growing unease, was
practically buzzing with frantic energy, darting around the room, marveling at the unseen
treasures he imagined lay hidden. A distant, ominous rumble of thunder shook the earth.
“Start taking pictures,” Silas commanded, his voice sharp with impatience at Caleb’s frozen
stance. and make sure the flash is on. Caleb, heart hammering, began to snap photos. Each flash
momentarily ripped through the darkness, painting the cavern in stark, fleeting moments of light.
It was on the third photograph that Caleb caught a glimpse of something utterly horrifying. A human
skull, grimacing in the momentary illumination. His breath hitched, a choked cry escaping his
lips. Silas, there’s a skull. Silas, engrossed in his own explorations, didn’t register the terror
in Caleb’s voice. Caleb took another photo just to confirm the impossible, his chest pounding like
a drum. Yep, undeniably a skull. He tried again, louder this time. Silas. A skull. Silas finally
turned, his expression one of mild annoyance. What? Oh, yeah. A skull. There’s a few of them
down here. Looks like there was a fire in this room. With a nonchalant kick, he sent one
of the craniums skittering across the floor towards Caleb, who instinctively recoiled. “What
the hell, man?” Caleb’s fear, now boiling into a furious indignation, erupted. “Dude, this isn’t
right. You shouldn’t be messing with bodies. We need to call the cops or something. Silas merely
laughed. A cynical, dismissive sound. Call the cops and tell them what? That we found a bunch of
thousand-year-old dead. Ancestral PBloans. Caleb was beyond furious. Listen, Silas, if you want
to desecrate this stuff, be my guest. I’m done. There’s something fundamentally wrong about this
place, and I’m leaving.” Silus chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re scared of a pile of
old bones.” “Whatever, man. Go. I’m not paying your ass to be a crybaby.” Caleb, incandescent
with rage, hurled Silas’s camera to the ground, the sound of plastic shattering echoing in the
chamber. He scrambled up the ladder, ignoring Silas’s curses at the broken equipment. His only
thought was escape. He began the long walk back to Silas’s property, where his pickup was parked.
The wind, now a formidable force, clawed at him, whipping dust and grit into his face. Ominous
black clouds had swallowed the sun, and vivid flashes of lightning now split the sky, followed
almost immediately by ground shaking thunder. Upon reaching his aunt and uncle’s house, Caleb was
met by an unsettling silence. The front door was unlocked, but the house was dark and empty. He
remembered then aunt Lena and uncle Gideon along with his sisters had already departed for their
trip to Nebraska. His older brother, Zach, was at work pulling a shift at Pizza Hut. Exhaustion
and lingering dread weighed heavily on him. He collapsed onto the living room couch, seeking
a brief respit, trying desperately to banish the image of that black room full of bones from
his mind. A deafening crack of thunder directly overhead jolted Caleb awake. The house was plunged
into darkness. He fumbled for the light switch, flipping it repeatedly, but nothing happened.
Another blinding flash of lightning illuminated the room, confirming his suspicion the storm
had knocked out the power. The wind outside had escalated into a furious howl. He groped through
a closet until his hand closed around a lantern, which he quickly lit. The gnawing feeling
of unease persisted, tightening its grip. He decided a joint might calm his frayed nerves and
ascended to his bedroom, where he kept his stash. His bedroom window faced the driveway. He pushed
it open, a gust of wind sweeping into the room, and reached for his lighter. Just then,
a blinding flash of lightning split the night. And in that fleeting, stark illumination,
something dark and impossibly swift darted across the driveway. Caleb’s heart lurched, skipping
a beat. Simultaneously, the dogs downstairs erupted into a frantic chorus of barks. He
dropped the joint, slamming the window shut, a primal terror seizing him. What the hell was
that? He rushed downstairs, his mind reeling, and instinctively slid the front door’s deadbolt home.
Then he heard it, heavy, rapid footsteps pounding across the front porch. Full-blown panic seized
him. The side door, he bolted across the living room, tripping over a chair in his haste. The dogs
were losing their minds, a frantic symphony of growls and barks. Another flash of lightning and
he caught a glimpse of a dark indistinct shape hurtling past the living room window. He reached
the side door, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the lock. Whatever was outside was already
there, its grip on the doororknob, twisting. With a desperate shove, Caleb slammed the
deadbolt home. The basement sliding glass door, he scrambled down the stairs, reaching the front
door to find it already secured. A fleeting sense of relief washed over him until another lightning
bolt ripped across the sky. In its stark, momentary illumination, he saw it, a towering
silhouette at the edge of the yard, undeniably humanoid, yet somehow wrong. It appeared draped
in shaggy fur with something akin to a coyote pelt covering its head. And from the shadowy void where
a face should have been, two pin pricks of crimson light glowed. He inhaled sharply, his breath
catching in his throat, a primal terror seizing him. Stumbling backward, he lost his footing, his
head connecting sharply with a low table. A choked cry escaped him as he scrambled back up, bolting
for the phone upstairs. Call 911. Call 911. His mind shrieked, his heart hammering against his
ribs. He snatched up the receiver. Dead. A heavy, resonant thud from the roof above startled him,
shaking him from his despair. It was on the roof. Gun, gun, his thoughts raced. He burst into his
parents’ bedroom where a shotgun was kept in the closet. The dogs, a flurry of anxious barks,
bounded in after him. Outside, the heavens opened, rain beginning to fall in sheets. Yet he could
still discern the rhythmic thuds on the roof. He locked the bedroom door, then dove into the
closet, the dogs pressing close to his legs. His hands, trembling uncontrollably, fumbled for
the shotgun, loading it with a clack that sounded deafening in the confined space. The dogs were
eerily silent now. The thutting on the roof had ceased. Asterisk, “Where the hell is it? Is it in
the house?” asterisk he sank to the floor of the closet. The dogs huddled around him, their warmth
and meager comfort. What felt like an eternity passed, marked only by the distant rumbling base
of the storm as it slowly migrated northward. He found a sliver of calm, a numb shock settling
over him. Suddenly, the bedroom door rattled violently. Asterisk bang bang asterisk something
was relentlessly pounding on it. A thunderous boom erupted as the shotgun discharged, tearing
a ragged hole through the closet ceiling. Then a shriek, “Don’t shoot.” It was Zach. Tears streamed
down Caleb’s face. The shotgun clattered to the floor as he lunged for the door, fumbling with the
lock, almost knocking his brother over. Zach stood there, incandescent with fury. “What the hell,
man? Why are you shooting at me? Caleb was dazed, the day’s harrowing events spilling out of him
in a frantic, disjointed rush. Zach listened, his expression unreadable, not uttering a word
until Caleb finished. Okay, Caleb. Zach finally said, “What did you smoke?” “Nothing. I’m not
high, bro.” Zach chuckled a dry, disbelieving sound. Right. Well, mom’s going to be pissed. Not
just about the huge hole you blew in their closet, but also all the mud tracks. You better get it
cleaned up. Mud? And how did you even get in? The house was locked. Caleb demanded. Zach explained
that the sliding glass door to the basement had been wide open. The power, he added, had come
back on sometime while Caleb was in the closet. Just as Zach had said, there were undeniable
footprints of red mud tracking across the floor. Large bare footprints. Caleb showed Zach his own
shoes, then his bare feet. The prints were far too big. I bet it was Silus, Zach concluded, a grin
spreading across his face. He probably came over to mess with you because he’s pissed you quit and
busted his camera. He knew you were freaked out, so he thought he’d really mess with you. Caleb
wasn’t entirely convinced, but the theory offered a semblance of comfort. Asterisk. Yeah, Silus.
That creep asterisk. He must not have properly secured the latch on the sliding door. The noises
on the roof must have been the wind tearing off shingles. It all started to make a twisted kind
of sense. They found a couple of beers their dad had left in the fridge and drank them. The buzz
helping to dull the edges of Caleb’s terror. They cleaned the mud tracks as best they
could, then feeling emboldened by the alcohol, decided they would confront Silus in the morning.
Zach insisted Silas needed to pay them extra since they’d now have to rent a carpet shampooer to
clean up the mess Jeff made. Finally, they decided they couldn’t stay in the house any longer and
headed into town for a friend’s party. The party was deep in the boon, centered around a roaring
bonfire with about 20 teens gathered. But Caleb found it impossible to enjoy himself. He kept
feeling a persistent unnerving sensation of being watched. The beer tasted flat and he struggled to
socialize, dismissing his friend’s concerns with a vague claim of being tired. To the east, the full
moon was rising, casting an eerie silver glow over the sandstone bluffs and cedars. Caleb gazed past
the flickering fire light, his unease clinging to him like a second skin. Caleb, restless and
agitated, thought he saw a fleeting movement in the periphery, just beyond the bonfire’s pulsing
orange embrace. A shadow, perhaps a fellow reveler seeking a moment of privacy, slipped behind
a scraggly mosquite. He tried to dismiss it, but a prickle of unease rippled through him.
Suddenly, a guttural, drawn out howl tore through the night, a sound unlike any animal he knew.
He flinched, scanning the faces around the fire, but everyone else seemed oblivious, their
laughter and chatter unbroken. Then, a distinct thud thud thud from directly behind him. He spun
around. Standing at the cusp of the fire light, cloaked in an unnatural gloom, was a towering
daunt figure. Caleb froze, fear rendering him immobile. He couldn’t discern features, but he
felt the weight of unseen eyes boring into him. In a desperate whispered prayer, he closed
his own. When he dared to open them again, the spectre was gone. Utterly unnerved, Caleb
decided he’d had enough. He told Zach he was leaving, a decision his brother, absorbed in
the party, did not contest. With the roar of the bonfire fading behind him, Caleb pointed his
truck east, heading for the old Koncho Highway. He tried to reason with himself. asterisk. It’s
just Silus playing a sick joke. That thing at the party. Probably just someone messing around.
Asterisk. But the rationalizations felt thin, fragile against the burgeoning dread. Around 2:00
a.m. The highway a ribbon of desolate blacktop. He spotted something dart across his path. A deer,
he thought, slowing instinctively. Then a crushing blow to the rear of his pickup jolted the vehicle
forward. What the hell? He slammed on the brakes, glancing into his rear view mirror. Two points
of crimson light gleamed back at him. Total panic consumed him. He floored the accelerator. Pure
terror propelling him forward. Too afraid to look back. My fascination with derelict spaces
had always been an insatiable drive. Online, I’d cultivated a network of like-minded explorers,
all of us hunting for the next forgotten marvel. One evening, a post caught my eye. An anonymous
tip detailing a gargantuan factory complex surprisingly close to my own suburb, yet utterly
unknown to me. It sounded like an urban explorer’s dream. A vast decaying monument just a 70-minute
drive away, promised to be sparsely guarded at night. The sheer scale described was unlike
anything I’d ever encountered. And I was genuinely astonished such a behemoth had escaped my notice.
That weekend, my backpack laden with essentials found its way into my car, and I set off towards
the coordinates. I found a secluded spot for my vehicle, tucked away behind a dense thicket,
confident it would remain unseen. From there, I navigated a small clearing, seeking a vantage
point to truly appreciate the facto’s imposing silhouette. Even in its abandonment,
certain exterior lights still flickered, casting eerie shadows, and the occasional glint of
a patrolling security guard’s flashlight confirmed the complex wasn’t entirely forsaken. A worn
dirt track encircled the entire structure, a stark reminder that some semblance of oversight
remained. Still, the online intel suggested a generally lax approach to trespassers, offering a
window of opportunity. I eventually discovered an external fire escape, inexplicably unsealed, which
seemed to promise the most straightforward path to the facto’s upper levels, and I began my cautious
ascent. Reaching the rooftop, I was greeted by an astonishing panoramic view. Photography was more
than a hobby for me. It was how I documented these decaying masterpieces. My camera, an extension
of my hand, began its work, capturing the raw beauty of the industrial skeletal framework and
the sprawling landscape beyond. With my private collection enriched, I began my descent into
the building’s interior. My flashlight beam cut through the pervasive gloom, revealing a truly
fascinating yet unsettling environment. The air hung thick with dust and the scent of decay. Parts
of the floor had completely disintegrated, while others were half-hazardly patched with planks,
testament to previous, less careful visitors. It was a world reclaimed. Bats flitted through the
cavernous spaces above, their wings disturbing the oppressive silence. Droppings and scattered
animal remains lay amidst the rubble and forgotten machinery, while vibrant graffiti screamed silent
stories from every available surface. My ultimate goal was the basement. I instinctively knew
that’s where the truly evocative haunting images lay hidden. I just finished snapping a few photos
of the elusive bats, which I admit didn’t turn out particularly well when, distracted by reviewing
the images on my phone, I failed to register the gaping void directly in my path. The ground
simply vanished. One moment I was walking, the next I was plunging into an abyssal darkness.
A sickening jolt shot through my leg and back as I impacted something unseen below and then oblivion.
When consciousness returned, a dim glow pulled some distance away, my flashlight, I was deep, far
deeper than I’d anticipated. A wave of agony shot through my back as I attempted to move, crawling
gingerly towards the light. My hands, scraping along the uneven surface, immediately encountered
a treacherous carpet of shattered glass. Someone long ago had evidently found amusement in casting
bottles down here, leaving a perilous minefield. Each agonizing inch towards the flashlight
was a battle against the pain and the unseen danger. Finally, my fingers closed around its cold
metal. Directing its beam, I surveyed my immediate surroundings. A cold dread seeped into my bones.
The surface I’d landed on wasn’t the bottom of the pit. It was merely a temporary reprieve. Directly
beneath me, barely visible, yawned yet another, even more unforgiving chasm, a direct plunge
into the facto’s true basement. My fall had been cushioned imperfectly by some forgotten debris,
but the true peril lay just inches away. Panic began to set in, a chilling realization that
I was utterly trapped. A desperate internal debate raged. the shame and legal repercussions of
being discovered trespassing versus the terrifying prospect of remaining injured and alone in this
industrial grave. My back throbbed mercilessly as I tried in vain to rise. Dousing my flashlight,
I resigned myself to the inky blackness, needing to conserve its precious energy. A dead battery I
knew would spell my ultimate doom. My mind raced, grappling with the impossible choices. Could
I attempt to drop further, despite the searing pain in my back and legs? Would my injured body
withstand another impact? And what if the basement below offered no exit, a sealed off tomb that
would only worsen my predicament? I cast a final, desperate gaze around my immediate prison, but
there was no way out, just the sheer, unforgiving walls of this subterranean fisher. Then, a flicker
of hope, my cell phone. How could I have forgotten it? Fumbling it from my pocket, I jabbed at the
screen, a desperate plea for connection. But alas, the facto’s depth swallowed all signals. My mother
wouldn’t be receiving any calls. As if to mock my plight, the phone screen had also splintered
in the fall, a minor injury compared to my own, but another unwelcome sign of misfortune.
So there I sat, alone and utterly terrified, the cold darkness pressing in. The hours bled into
each other. My phone’s cracked display, a cruel digital sund dial, eventually confirmed I’d been
down there for a full 24 hours. I screamed until my throat was raw, my voice echoing for lornly in
the vast emptiness. No one came. Of course not. This patrolled sight was largely deserted after
dark. In those agonizing moments, a chilling question nodded me. What if I’m never found?
What if I simply perish here? My body decaying into a skeleton for future explorers to stumble
upon years from now. These thoughts were stark, terrifying realities pushing me to the brink of
giving up. I was truly afraid, almost bracing myself for death’s embrace. But then a distant
sound, footsteps. I didn’t know it at the time, but other urban explorers had arrived. The factory
was immense and sounds carried, amplified by the echoes. I started screaming louder than ever
for help. Soon, two figures appeared, burly and clearly better equipped than I was. They located
me within minutes and returned to their truck, producing a sturdy rope they’d evidently
brought for just such an emergency. One of the men carefully descended, bracing himself
as I, still seated, was helped into a harness. It wasn’t until I was safely out that I realized
the drop hadn’t been as extreme as my terror had made it seem. While I certainly couldn’t have
managed it alone, it was comforting to know that with assistance, escape wasn’t an impossible
feat. They hauled me up gently asking if I was well enough to drive. After a few tentative steps,
the pain still present but manageable, I confirmed I thought I’d be okay. I thanked them profusely,
my gratitude immense. One of the guys asked for my number, which I gave without a second thought,
still reeling from the ordeal. Back in my car, I drove home, the harrowing experience behind
me. It was Sunday night, and I had spent nearly a full day, if not more, trapped in that forsaken
place. From that day on, my urban exploring days ceased. Those fleeting moments where I genuinely
believed I was going to die solidified my resolve to never return to such dangerous pursuits. Now,
I advocate for extreme caution. If you’re going to venture into such places, take proper equipment.
Prioritize safety above all else, and crucially, never go alone. You truly never know the dangers
that lurk, especially when you lose focus on your surroundings. That harrowing night in the factory
cemented my new philosophy. Yet, it wasn’t the first time an unforeseen peril had underscored
the absolute necessity of vigilance. Years prior, during a seemingly innocuous school trip to
a bustling city, a different kind of darkness had emerged, leaving an equally indelible mark.
My twin brother and I, along with our friends, were part of a large contingent of
students staying at a downtown hotel. One crisp morning, having opted for an early start
to beat the breakfast rush, my roommate and I found ourselves at the hotel elevators. The doors
hissed open, revealing a sparse group. But just as they began to slide shut, two unfamiliar men
deafly inserted themselves into the cabin, their presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. They
were young, perhaps barely out of their teens, and their gazes lingered a moment too long.
We exchanged an uneasy glance, but dismissed it as paranoia. Upon reaching our floor, a quiet
residential stretch designed in a simple square, my brother peeled off with his friends to their
rooms, leaving just my roommate and me. We chatted idly as we navigated the long corridor, fumbling
for our room key cards. It was then, as we finally reached our door, that a chill snaked down
my spine. The same two men who had taken a different turn earlier were now standing just a
few yards away, seemingly idling, yet their eyes were fixed directly on us. My roommate’s relaxed
posture stiffened, and I saw a flicker of alarm in her usually calm eyes. It was a primal signal,
one I instantly recognized. They weren’t lost, they were waiting. My heart hammered against my
ribs. I instinctively reached for my room key, a desperate urge to get inside. But before I could
fully retrieve it, my roommate subtly pressed my hand against my pocket, a silent, urgent warning.
She had read the situation faster, deeper than I had. Opening that door right then would have been
an invitation to a far greater danger. As if on Q, they began to close the distance, their steps
measured unhurried. Their English was broken, their questions vague, but the intent behind
their narrowed eyes was unmistakable. One fixed an unnerving stare on me, scrutinizing me from
head to toe, while the other edged closer to my roommate, his voice dropping as he asked for
her contact information. A sharp no sprang from her lips, laced with a defiance that belied the
tremor in her voice. I found my own voice then, a shaky attempt to explain we were underage on a
school trip and absolutely unable to comply. But logic and please seemed to bounce off an invisible
wall. Their expressions remained impassive, their persistence chilling. The gap between us continued
to shrink. It was clear no wasn’t an answer they accepted. Then sensing a momentary lapse in their
advance, a window of opportunity, my roommate seized my wrist. “Run,” she hissed, pulling me
along. We bolted down the hallway, adrenaline surging, and collided with my brother and his
friend rounding a corner. A frantic explanation, a shared surge of alarm, and suddenly all four
of us were sprinting towards the elevator bank. We stabbed the down button repeatedly, desperate
to reach the ground floor to find our chaperones, to find safety. Just as the doors
opened, revealing an empty car, the two men appeared again at the far end of the
hallway, their presence a stark reminder of how close we’d come. We piled in, huddling together,
clinging to each other as the elevator descended, our relief palpable only when we were finally
safe among the bustling crowds downstairs. The relief that flooded through us as the elevator
doors hissed shut, leaving the two men fuming at the far end of the corridor was immense. We
pressed the door close button with frantic urgency, a desperate plea for escape answered
by the swift ascent of the cabin. For a fleeting moment, we believed the terrifying ordeal
was finally over. We were gravely mistaken. Having descended to the ground floor, we hurried
towards the bustling breakfast hall where our group and chaperons were already congregating. The
reassuring sounds of chatter and clinking cutlery were a bomb to our frayed nerves. Then, across
the expansive room, we saw them. The two men, an unnerving, silent presence observing us
from a distance. Our hearts plummeted. They had followed us. A silent, panicked glance
passed between my roommate, my brother, his friend, and me. We knew we couldn’t stay.
We quickly retreated from the breakfast hall, making our way back up to our room. Once inside,
an overwhelming sense of vulnerability washed over us. They knew our floor, perhaps even our room
number from observing us earlier. We were exposed, and the potential implications were chilling. Our
escalating panic was suddenly interrupted by the sharp ring of the hotel room phone. A jolt went
through me. At this hotel, guests could call other rooms directly. We instantly assumed it was my
brother or his friend playing a mischievous joke to lighten the mood. But as my roommate cautiously
picked up, her face drained of color. All that met her ear was the unnerving sound of heavy labored
breathing punctuated by faint chilling laughter. We slammed the receiver down after what
felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than 20 seconds. Terrified, I immediately
called my brother’s room, asking them to meet us outside. When they arrived, we recounted the
disturbing phone call on our way to the elevators, then opted for the stairs, seeking a less
confined escape route. My brother’s friend, attempting to soothe our palpable fear, sheepishly
admitted it was his prank. My roommate, desperate for reassurance, chose to believe him, but I knew
better. My brother and his friend wouldn’t stoop to such a malicious trick. Their attempt
was a transparent effort to calm us down. Still trembling, we found one of our chaperones
downstairs and recounted the entire encounter. Their reaction was one of immediate alarm. We
then approached the front desk, but without a room number or names for the men, the staff could
offer little more than sympathetic assurances. They suggested the men might be part of a large,
perhaps less than reputable group staying at the hotel and would likely be departing soon. These
hollow reassurances did nothing to settle our nerves. Thankfully, despite our terror, we never
encountered the two men again. My next chapter, however, finds me in a setting far removed from
bustling city hotels. It begins rather promisingly within the walls of an ancient psychiatric
hospital. No longer bound by employment or geography, I can now freely disclose its location,
the Kiteon in Dumfree, Scotland. This sprawling complex of buildings erected in the 1870s might
conjure a specific image in your mind, but I assure you it defies typical expectations. Picture
exquisite architecture nestled amidst meticulously manicured parklands, even featuring an imposing
church at its very core. Yet for those with a discerning eye, the echoes of its past purpose are
undeniably present. Take for instance the grand main staircase. Its sweeping curves and ornate rot
iron ballastrades are undeniably beautiful, yet their true function whispers a darker tale. These
barriers were designed not merely for aesthetics, but to prevent desperate souls from plummeting
40 ft to their demise on the intricate tiled floor below. There are also hidden rooms
unseen by daylight for perhaps a century, likely unknown even to the current staff.
They exist, waiting to be discovered, if one only knows where to look. My role there
was that of a night security guard. Each evening I would drive a slow, methodical circuit around
the extensive grounds for an hour at a time. It was a vast area rife with shadows and secluded
nooks where individuals with ill intent could easily conceal themselves. And it was just me, a
5’2in woman armed solely with a powerful torch. The company had lost two previous guards before
I started. Both having cited a fear of the dark, a sentiment that had never once resonated with
me. It simply never occurred to me to feel unsafe. A significant part of my duties involved
responding to alarm calls. These were invariably false alarms triggered by innocuous things. A
sudden draft, a moth fluttering against a motion sensor, curtains dancing in an unseen breeze.
Never anything sinister. People would often ask, “Don’t you get scared going into those old
buildings alone?” The honest answer was, “No, not really.” The idea of being afraid of things
that might go bump in the night was a foreign concept to me. It was one of those breathtaking
mid-inter nights just before Christmas. A sharp frost kissed the air and the moon shone with such
brilliant intensity that it cast stark, dramatic shadows across the buildings. As I made my way to
the furthest reaches of the complex, beyond the reach of any artificial lights, the stars began
to the celestial tapestry above me, a breathtaking expanse untouched by the city’s glow, was a rare
and cherished sight. I just soaked it in, feeling the crisp prech Christmas air on my face, when a
sharp, insistent chirp tore through the stillness. An alarm. My gaze instinctively swung toward
Soway House. A grim gothic silhouette against the starlet sky. Of all the buildings on the
Kiteon sprawling campus, Soway, the oldest, always felt the most oppressive. Nowadays, it housed art
studios and music practice rooms, a mundane veneer over decades of institutional memory. Alarms were
common, usually benign. I pulled my van to a stop, grabbed my keys, and approached, expecting
another straightforward resolution. Indeed, the external door was a jar carelessly left open
by an artist or musician. I deactivated the alarm, began filling out my incident report, and almost
instantly a heavy thud vibrated through the floorboards above. Banging. Someone’s still
here, I thought. A minor annoyance. Then the realization asterisk. It’s 3:00 in the morning and
it’s freezing. Who’d be loitering in an abandoned art studio? an insomniac art critic. Perhaps
asterisk still protocol demanded a check. Up the creaking stairs I went. The banging had ceased. I
swept my powerful torch beam through each studio, each practice room. Empty, silent. The quiet was
absolute pressing. Concluding it was an echo or my imagination. I descended to finish my report. The
moment my pen touched paper, the banging resumed with a renewed violent intensity. It wasn’t just
a thud now. It sounded like heavy objects, perhaps furniture, being hurled across a room. Wind, I
tried to convince myself, desperately grasping for a rational explanation, a loose window shutter,
but there wasn’t a whisper of a breeze outside, the air utterly still. This was an old psychiatric
hospital in the dead of night, and I was alone. My logical mind was fighting a losing battle.
Reluctantly, I climbed the stairs again. I expected chaos, overturned easels, scattered
instruments. Instead, every chair was in its place, every canvas neatly stacked. Windows
were securely latched. I even checked the small, dank toilets for creaky pipes. Nothing. The
stillness was infuriating, the silence maddening. The noise had to be coming from somewhere.
I considered myself a pragmatic person. When attending an alarm, you search for concrete
causes. A faulty sensor, a dropped item, a genuine intruder. Explaining an activation with
malevolent presence wouldn’t get my company paid. You could whistle for that kind of reimbursement.
But as I descended the stairs for the second time, a profound, undeniable chill snaked its way up
my spine. My skin prickled with a cold static energy. It wasn’t just a feeling of being
watched. It was a certainty of something behind me. Not human. Something that didn’t want
me there. The old adage flashed through my mind. Don’t let it know you’re there. Don’t let it know
you’re scared. I recognized that familiar dread, a specific weight in the air, a draining negative
aura I’d encountered years ago in a house that had stifled the very color from my life. This wasn’t
just a bad vibe. It felt actively malevolent, an unseen force of pure distilled fear.
So I walked one foot after the other, the unseen presence keeping perfect silent pace
with my descent. Desperate, I began to pray, a half-remembered plea to St. Michael the Archangel,
protector against wickedness. I wasn’t Catholic, but in moments of genuine terror, ancient
invocations felt like the only anchor. It worked wonders during sleep paralysis, too, but that’s
another story. As I reached the final bend of the staircase, the oppressive feeling abruptly lifted.
Just like that. I wanted to bolt to flee into the frosty night, but my paperwork lay unfinished.
As I resumed my task at the door, the crashes and thumps started again. A furious symphony of unseen
destruction from the upper floors. I slammed my pen down. “Enough!” I yelled into the cavernous
building, my voice echoing back, “I haven’t got all night for your nonsense. Knock yourself out.
I’m leaving.” And I did. Back at the office, recounting the bizarre night to a colleague, he
cut me off mid-sentence. Sowe house,” he murmured, a knowing glint in his eye. “Oh, that place is
utterly haunted.” The hushed revelation from my colleague lingered in the air, a final unsettling
confirmation. Sowway House wasn’t just old, it was utterly haunted. Its shadowed halls, I
later learned, held a grimmer secret. The whispers of the past spoke of an on-site crematorium, a
final resting place for patients who never left its care. There was a certain dark poetry to it,
I thought, a morbid elegance. If spirits chose to linger, at least Saul’s resident specters
had discerning taste, opting for a grand, if forboding, architectural marvel. Our own office,
a soulless 1950s concrete cube, also boasted a spectral resident, a truly uninspired entity that
simply phoned it in, devoid of any genuine eerie ambition. I preferred my ghosts with a bit of
panache, the sort that made their presence known on crisp moonlight nights. I’m certain they
still roam sawways corridors long after my departure. This chilling encounter, however, was
not my only dance with the uncanny. Approximately a year prior, a different kind of urban legend
beckoned, drawing me and a few trusted companions to Chicago’s infamous Edgewater Hospital. It
was a place of local historical significance known as the birthplace of notable figures like
Hillary Clinton and its abandoned state made it an irresistible target for our particular brand
of exploration. While I wouldn’t call us seasoned professionals, we certainly weren’t noviceses to
Chicago’s intricate urban exploration scene. Our chosen ingress was audacious, a maintenance pipe
spanning the gap between an adjacent building and the abandoned hospital’s upper floors. It was a
precarious tightroppe walk, and midway across, a snagging piece of barbed wire claimed my
favorite hat, a casualty I regretfully knew I’d never retrieve. Once inside, after shimming
off the pipe and threw a broken window, one of my friends sustained a small gash on their arm from
the shattered glass. Ever prepared, we immediately paused to patch up the wound with our trusty first
aid kit, a staple alongside our other structural and premed supplies. With the immediate emergency
handled, we dawned our respirators. The air, thick and oppressive, visibly teamed with asbestous, a
common hazard in these derelictked monuments. We had seemingly landed in a patient wing and began
to navigate the decaying hallway. Darkness pressed in, but our flashlights and headlamps, retrieved
from our bags, cut through the gloom. The ceilings hung precariously low in places, and the floor
groaned beneath our weight. a disquing symphony of decay. The structural integrity was, to put
it mildly, questionable. As we pressed deeper, the familiar sight that always brought a strange
comfort to these expeditions began to appear, graffiti. I don’t dabble in it myself, but the
bold declarations of, “Do not pass, enter at your own risk,” or even the occasional crude anatomical
drawing somehow made this desolate place feel less alien, more like home. I thrive in these forgotten
spaces. This is where I truly feel alive. We soon reached what must have been a nurse’s station,
its counters buried under an avalanche of files. A quick sweep with our flashlights confirmed
chilling details. Many of the documents were stamped with the word deceased. Our beams then
drifted to the surrounding rooms, their doors open, but windows and internal partitions obscured
by drawn curtains long since emptied of their occupants. I saw one of the curtains stir. A slow,
deliberate drift. “Just a draft,” I told myself. Despite the freezing midsummer air that permeated
the building, we pushed on, our boots crunching through the shattered tiles and what felt like
thousands of forgotten papers that carpeted the floor. Eventually, a grand staircase appeared.
Down, we decided, a decision that, in hindsight, was a colossal mistake. As we descended, a
peculiar knot tightened in my stomach. My friends and I had an unspoken rule. If someone caught a
truly bad vibe, we turned back, but the thrill, the sheer excitement of discovery, made me try to
ignore the growing unease. The stairway emptied into what was unmistakably the morg. At first
it was just an impenetrable blackness and an indescribable stench, a smell so profoundly
foul I would willingly stand by a scorching summer garbage can rather than endure it again. Of
course, no bodies remained. The place long since cleared, but the memory of its purpose lingered
in that suffocating air. As our flashlight beams finally pierced the inky void, sweeping across
the room, we all tensed. I heard a friend mutter obscenities under his breath. The room, or so
we initially believed, was caked in blood. We’d later realize it was rust, but in that moment, in
the oppressive darkness of a morg with adrenaline coursing, it was a terrifying sight. The opposite
wall was lined with rust encrusted cabinets, while large stained tubs dominated the side walls.
We poked around for a bit, but I could feel the palpable tension, the elevated alert status of
everyone around me. My own skin began to prickle, a cold sweat breaking out as that same
insistent not tightened in my stomach. The bad vibes were undeniable owl. Can we please
just leave?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, only to be cut off by a sudden, vigorous rattle
that shook the very air around us. Our lights immediately snapped towards one side of them. The
metallic screech followed by a violent shudder erupted from a forgotten faucet looming over one
of the morgs stark tubs. It was an earthshattering sound that cleaved through the oppressive silence,
instantly shattering any pretense of calm. To this very day, I recall that precise moment as
the most intensely terrifying of my existence. Without a second thought, my companions
and I scrambled from that oursed basement, our boots thutting frantically as we raced back up
the grand decaying staircase. Our desperate ascent created a cacophony of noise enough to alert the
complex’s on-site security, who quickly caught up to us. A formidable figure, uniformed and stern,
blocked our path. “Get out now,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument, or I’ll
call the police. As we sheepishly made our way towards the exit, his demeanor softened
slightly, and we seized the opportunity, peppering him with questions. He confirmed our
earlier suspicions about the deceased files we’d seen. They were indeed a source of ongoing legal
and ethical disputes. With a final weary sigh, he reiterated the standard warning, “Don’t come
back.” But then added a chilling detail. A young tagger, he claimed, had met his end on the roof,
the victim of an exploding transformer. Whether it was a cautionary tale or a genuine tragedy, I
couldn’t say, but it only cemented the profound sense of unease that Edgewater Hospital radiated.
That experience, etched deeply into my memory, occurred 3 years ago when I was a mere 14-year-old
9th grader. The shift in narrative brings me to a completely different kind of unease, one that
unfolded during a school excursion. It was a 5-hour journey from home to a vibrant, unfamiliar
city where several classmates, two teachers, and I were to spend three nights. Our mission to
participate in a prestigious regional invention contest and exhibition, an event held only
by annually. Our hotel was modest, a quaint two-story establishment. Conveniently, a 7-Eleven
stood just next door, and the exhibition hall at the local school was a short walk away. As typical
teenagers, we were buzzing with restless energy, particularly drawn to the novelty of the 7-Eleven,
a luxury our small hometown lacked. Its 24-hour operation meant it became our unofficial
hangout spot during free hours. One evening, roughly 1000 p.m., well past the closing time of
most city shops, a few close friends, four other classmates, and I decided to venture out for a
late night snack. The streets were eerily quiet, save for a few stray pedestrians. We were
likely the only minors out and about. Our teachers had explicitly warned us against late
night excursions, but teenage stubbornness, as it often does, prevailed. Inside the 7-Eleven,
the silence was almost absolute, broken only by the quiet hum of the refrigerators. A young man,
probably in his 20s, manned the cash register, the sole employee. We each grabbed a snack,
exchanging light-hearted chatter for a few minutes before the quiet returned. The street remained
empty, and the store continued its desolate vigil. While browsing the confectionary aisle, I
overheard a deep masculine voice from near the tables where my classmates were seated. My
curiosity peaked. I moved closer, observing a man clearly older, perhaps in his late 30s or early
40s, engaging two of my female classmates and a male classmate. He was broad-shouldered, clad in
a green t-shirt and khaki pants, a distinctive tattoo adorning his right arm, though its design
now escapes me. He introduced himself as Bob Leo, a name that immediately struck me as fabricated,
and regailed my classmates with tales of being a musician, punctuating his claims with a painfully
offkey rendition of a few lines from Bob Marley’s No Woman, No Cry. I positioned myself subtly
behind an aisle, observing and listening intently. My classmates feigned politeness, but their
strained voices betrayed their growing discomfort. Meanwhile, some of our male classmates,
sensing the awkwardness, positioned themselves strategically near Bob Leo, attempting to draw
his attention away, hoping to create an opening for the girls to slip past. My hand instinctively
went to my phone, ready to dial our teachers. It was then that Bob Leo’s gaze landed on me and my
friends. He extended an offer, grandly declaring that his friends, two other men now visible
outside the store, staring intently at us, were treating us to as much soft serve ice cream
as we desired. A creeping dread settled over us, but we slowly made our way to the cashier.
He handed out three ice creams. As he passed the final cone to me, his voice dropped to an
urgent whisper, “Leave immediately with your classmates. I’ll try to distract them. I quickly
distributed the ice creams among my companions. My gaze darted to the commotion near the exit.
One of our group, attempting a subtle escape, was intercepted at the door by the two men from
outside. I couldn’t discern their exchange, but the tension was palpable. Panic flared. I quickly
relayed the cashier’s urgent warning to my other classmates, who in turn informed the rest. Bob Leo
was still engrossed in his theatrical performance. Instantly, our male classmates sprang into
action. One gracefully approached a female friend, extending an invitation to leave as if he were
her boyfriend. Another mirrored the gesture for my other female classmate. I whipped out my phone,
feigning an urgent text message from our teacher, sternly ordering our return to the hotel. Bob Leo,
his composure fracturing, tried more forcefully to detain us. His assertions sharper now, but we were
already in motion. A unified surge towards the door. As I passed my friend, I grabbed his arm,
pulling him along with me. The two men outside lunged, one grabbing his hand, but he deafly
slipped free. They barked protests, claiming to be teachers from the very exhibition we were
attending. Their voices laced with frustration. I challenged them, asking a specific detail
about the event, and their immediate awkward silence was damning. As we fled down the street, a
guttural shout reached us, followed by a phrase in what I recognized as a foreign tongue. My friend
later translated, “Damn, we almost had them.” We scrambled away in a flurry, my female classmates
trembling beside me. Back in the safety of the hotel, the girls openly sobbed and we huddled
together, recounting the horrifying encounter. I pressed my friend for details about what the
men had said, but he just waved it off, clearly rattled, muttering something about nonsense and
lies. We reported everything to our teachers, who immediately contacted the police. From that night
on, our evening excursions were officially over. We never got the chance to properly thank the
brave cashier, but we anonymously left a small token of our gratitude. As for Bob Leo and his
unsettling associates, a silent vow was made. We would never cross paths with them again. Life,
however, has a peculiar way of serving up new unsettling encounters. My next chapter unfolded
not in a bustling city, but in the mundane late night stillness of a small Oklahoma motel where I
taken on the night audit shift. The town was small enough that genuine oddities were rare, making the
arrival of a new trainee all the more jarring. It was 11 p.m., the start of my 8-hour vigil until
7 a.m. when a tall, slender man, easily in his early 60s, walked in. I’m the new guy you’re
supposed to train tonight,” he announced, his voice a little ready. My immediate thought
wasn’t welcoming. It was sheer frustration at my planned Buffy the Vampire Slayer binge watch being
ruined. He came around to the desk and I began the basic rundown of the job, mostly checking
people in and printing night audit reports. He seemed pleasant enough, if a bit slow on the
uptake, a trait a co-orker had already flagged, noting he wasn’t the smartest person in the world.
I chocked it up to age or a different learning style, not malice, assuming he just needed to
do things a few times before getting the hang of them. Hours crawled by, filled with small talk,
bad jokes, and an episode of Modern Family. Then, out of the blue, he asked if I was married. When I
said no, he volunteered that a recent divorce had pretty much destroyed his life, which he implied
led him to this motel job. Around 2:30 a.m., he declared he’d forgotten his heart medication
at home, a mere 5 to 10 minutes away, and asked to retrieve it. Given his age and the late hour,
it seemed reasonable, and I agreed. But when he returned at 3:00 a.m., the shift was immediate
and disturbing. one I was perpetually squinted as if refusing to open fully, and he was clearly
struggling to keep it from closing. His first words were a bizarre any rooms available.
I forced a laugh, assuming a poorly timed, unfunny joke. He settled beside me, and as we
tried to resume modern family, the conversation took a sharp, unsettling turn. He started talking
about sex, then fixing me with his halfopen eye, asked, “Do you have sex regularly?” The air
thickened with an unwelcome dread. At this point, a brief description of myself is probably
in order. I’m 23 years old. The audacity of the question hung in the stale motel air.
This older man, barely acquainted with me, inquired about my sexual activity. I’m a rather
unassuming figure, a ginger-haired, somewhat heavy set gay man. Certainly not accustomed to
being the object of such direct personal probing. My instinct typically is to be upfront about my
identity, but in this quiet, conservative town, discretion felt wiser. I mumbled something vague
about friends. He pressed further, asking if I was gay. I demurred again. Yet the persistent line
of questioning about sex continued, culminating in his confession that he was attracted to men. In
a moment of sheer, almost comical obliviousness, I simply replied, “Oh, hey, me too.” The danger,
the flashing warning signs were utterly absent from my perception. His subsequent behavior
became undeniably peculiar, textbook signs of intoxication or severe impairment. He
began to slouch, freezing in odd positions for prolonged periods, his gaze unfocused, as
if he might simply drift off to sleep. Still, no alarm bells rang for me. I attributed it to a
potential adverse reaction to his forgotten then retrieved medication. I asked if he was all right.
He confirmed he wasn’t feeling well and blamed a strange reaction to the pills. I offered to summon
my managers to pick him up, but he flatly refused. It was at this point that a prickle of unease
finally snaked its way up my spine. A chilling realization that something was deeply a miss.
Yet my primary thought was merely to endure the shift. Help could wait until morning. A few
minutes later, I glanced over. He met my eyes, giving a subtle, almost conspiratorial nod, an
unspoken invitation to approach. I looked back at my computer, and when I turned my head again,
he was noticeably closer. his hand tentatively extended. “You want to?” he began, his voice
barely a whisper. “My stomach lurched.” “No, sorry,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I
can’t do that at work.” He fell silent for a beat, then shockingly persisted. “Why not? Couldn’t you
just flash me your ass or something?” Even then, the full gravity of the situation hadn’t quite
registered. My response was still a dismissive, “No, you’re clearly messed up on something. Let’s
just get through the night and we’ll deal with this in the morning.” He reacted by rolling his
chair closer, his hand making unwelcome contact with my thigh. I instinctively pulled away with
a nervous chuckle, attempting a firm but calm warning. “Look, man, I really don’t want to call
the manager, but I will if you don’t stop.” He seemed momentarily chasened, retreating slightly,
but barely a minute passed before he tried again, this time with a furtive, almost stealthy
movement. That was it. I stood abruptly, figning a need for the restroom, but in truth, I made a
beline for the back storage area, locked the door behind me, and called my manager. The manager’s
reaction was immediate and unequivocal. Call the police now. I wasn’t a physically imposing
person, but I hadn’t felt physically threatened by this man, which I now realize had contributed
to my initial misguided complacency. Still, the instruction was clear. I dialed the police.
They sounded utterly baffled by my account, but assured me officers were on their way. Returning
to the front desk to check on the trainee, I found the space empty. He was gone. I searched
the entire first floor, but there was no sign of him. Then, through the glass of the main door,
I peered into the darkness of the parking lot. A figure was on all fours. I walked outside to
find him weeping, clutching what remained of his broken glasses. A large splatter of blood marred
the concrete directly in front of him. I couldn’t be certain of the exact sequence of events, but
I surmised he had either slipped or passed out, falling face first onto the unforgiving pavement.
His face was a mess of blood, and he was clearly disoriented and unable to function. I helped him
up, guided him to the lobby couch, and gently cleaned him with a wet rag. He repeatedly asked
for a room, but after a few insisted requests, I simply told him, “Sure, I’ll get you a room in
a few minutes.” About 5 minutes later, the police arrived. They questioned both of us and then
took him into custody for the night. They offered few details, but from what I gathered, they had
apparently dealt with this individual on multiple occasions. He clearly had significant unresolved
issues. And just like that, the bizarre ordeal was over. The next day, I recounted the events to my
friends, family, and co-workers. Their reactions ranged from outright disgust to palpable unease.
To me, however, it was just a profoundly strange encounter with an older gay man who had perhaps
lived in denial for so long that something had irrevocably fractured, leaving him unable to cope.
I hadn’t felt physically in danger that night, a fact I attributed to my own size and gender,
but the experience was undeniably disturbing. Of course, had I been a woman or smaller,
perhaps if I had been a different person, less prone to rationalizing the unusual, I might
have reacted with greater terror to certain childhood discoveries. I recall a time with my
cousin when we stumbled upon a crude wooden cross, its makeshift form jutting from the soft earth
of a naent housing development. We shivered, then laughed it off, chalking it up to
some morbid game invented by local kids. Construction eventually advanced in that area,
and as far as we knew, no grim discovery ever validated our fleeting fear. Typically, we steered
clear of the half-finished houses springing up in those woods, instinctively sensing they weren’t
safe playgrounds. But, as children are won’t to do, curiosity proved an irresistible siren. One
afternoon, we succumbed, venturing into a skeleton of a house, just a concrete slab and a timber
frame reaching for the sky. After about 2 hours of exploring its hollow, uninteresting spaces,
the novelty wore off. These naent structures held no allure. They were just cold, dusty frames.
Disappointed, we headed home. The silence that greeted our return was unsettling. Then the whale
of a siren cut through the stillness. Peering out, we watched a fire truck disappear into the dense
treeline where we’d just been. The fire department quickly cordined off the woods, a small cluster
of curious neighbors already forming at the entrance. We milled about gathering snippets of
information until a fireman confirmed our worst fears. A house had burned down. It was the same
one we had been in mere hours before. Days later, the local news carried a report about a serial
arsonist whose destructive protest against the development had claimed another vacant structure.
It was a chilling reminder of how close we’d come to a far more dangerous encounter. My career path
eventually led me to a quieter, though equally profound confrontation with mortality. For 12
years, I’ve served as a nurse in an elderly care home. Over time, death sheds its shock and morphs
into a stark, almost routine facet of existence. As difficult as it sounds, I’ve become accustomed
to it. It’s an unpleasant but inherent part of the job, and I’ve never once felt fear or discomfort
in the presence of a deceased resident. 6 years ago, I transitioned from the bustling casualty
unit of the local hospital to the night shift at the care home, seeking a change of pace. Darkness
held no fears for me. It was simply the backdrop to my duties. That resolve, however, was tested
last summer. One of the residents passed away, a man I’d never particularly warned to. known
for his abusive tendencies towards his late wife, also a former resident, and even his dog, which
we eventually had to rehome due to his neglect. To be honest, I felt a flicker of relief when
he was gone. That night, I was working with a colleague who could at times be quite trying. I
feigned extreme busyiness, making myself scarce on my designated floor, and instead retreated
to another wing, losing myself in YouTube videos for a few hours. A peculiar sensation began to
prickle at my awareness. A subtle disquing feeling of being observed. A presence lurking just beyond
my peripheral vision. I initially dismissed it as fatigue. A trick of the mind in the quiet hours.
But then a sharp, clattering crash shattered the stillness of the hallway behind me. I spun around
to find one of our large industrial laundry carts, notoriously heavy, lying overturned. One
of its small wheels still spun lazily in the air. These carts simply didn’t flip
themselves. A primitive instinct took over, overriding my usual pragmatism. I didn’t dwell
on the impossibility. I simply rided the cart, my mind already made up. I had had enough
of being alone. I sought out my coworker, settling into her presence, and thankfully
nothing else occurred that night. The next day, my best friend Mari, also a co-orker, exhibited a
strange nervousness, an anxious clinginess echoed by other staff members. My relationship with many
of my colleagues was cordial but often distant, some even ignoring me. Yet that evening, an
unspoken need for company drew us together, and we found a surprising camaraderie.
Everyone seemed reluctant to be alone. Eventually, we managed to usher the day shift out,
and Mari and I prepared for a long night of good coffee and good conversation. It began subtly,
soft, repetitive tapping, as if someone was gently wrapping on a wall or door. At first, we paid
it no mind, attributing it to the old building settling. But the tapping grew more frequent, more
insistent, eventually demanding our investigation. We began a slow patrol of the entire building,
but the source of the sound proved elusive, seeming to switch locations as we approached.
We’d hear it clearly on the first floor, only for it to jump to the second as we neared the
room. We joked nervously about rats in the walls, a transparent attempt to calm our frayed nerves,
but we both knew this was no ordinary night. Midway through our peculiar hiking tour
of the facility, one of the residents, an elderly gentleman grappling with dementia,
approached us. He complained about the little man in his room. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence
in our line of work. Many residents suffering from dementia would frequently describe seeing
or interacting with unseen figures. But tonight, it felt different. Despite our hopes, the
elderly gentleman’s room was predictably vacant. He hadn’t just had a nightmare. He had seen
something. And that something was apparently now making the rounds. Over the next harrowing hours,
more calls came in. Each resident describing the persistent presence of the little man in their
rooms. Fear, a cold, unwelcome guest truly took root. Then in a move born of sheer desperation,
Mari and I resorted to clutching a kitchen knife, carrying its cold steel like a talisman against
the encroaching dread. Around 1:00 a.m., the unsettling symphony of tapping shifted. We began
to hear distinct footsteps, heavy and deliberate. Mari, whose nerves were already frraed,
practically dissolved with terror. Even then, a stubborn part of me resisted the paranormal
explanation. I clung to logic and strode towards the sound. This, I now believe, was a colossal
mistake. The footsteps escalated, growing louder, more pronounced, until they abruptly ceased,
only to erupt again elsewhere with a terrifying, violent intensity. It wasn’t just walking. It
sounded like someone charging at us in a furious rage. The chaos mounted, thunderous banging,
stomping paces, and the chilling creek of doors opening. We even found doors that we had
definitively secured now a jar, and lights we had extinguished moments before were blazing. We
seriously contemplated dialing the police multiple times, but the absurdity of our story, the fear
of ridicule held us back. Somehow, we endured the shift. As the morning staff trickled in, we
recounted every unnerving detail of our night. To our astonishment, no one laughed. Instead,
a shared, grim understanding passed between us. They had experienced the exact same phenomena the
day before. Mari and I, shaken, drove home. After a brief, fitful nap, she called our boss. Maria
confirmed that the entire morning shift, utterly horrified, had refused to work. They too had heard
the unsettling noises, and most disturbingly, one of the residents had been discovered with a
clear foot-shaped mark pressed onto her chest, as if someone had forcefully stepped on her. Our boss
then reached out to a spiritual healer, a man who voluntarily offered his services at the hospital
once a week, claiming the ability to communicate with spirits and aid those grappling with the
fear of death or the afterlife. He and Maria proceeded to the deceased man’s room, remaining
there for nearly an hour. Maria never divulged the specifics of their actions, but whatever
they did, it unequivocally restored peace. Our subsequent shift was entirely normal, and the
disturbances never recurred. I don’t often revisit that night in my mind, but since then, two other
individuals have passed away during my shifts. I perform my duties without fear, but occasionally
I pause, reflect, and fervently hope I never again encounter such an unsettling manifestation. My
trajectory veered significantly when I was around 7 years old into the realm of a local scouting
group. To be frank, it wasn’t my preferred extracurricular. I was never a naturally outgoing
child, but my parents harbored a hopeful notion that a stint in scouting might coax me into making
friends and enjoying myself. Most of my memories from that period are hazy, save for a faint
recollection of playing on Sunday afternoons. However, one specific memory remained strikingly
vivid. It was a snowy mid December Sunday, an afternoon like many others. The crisp bear
bit at our exposed skin as the rest of the kids and I engaged in a boisterous game of tag with our
supervisors, all of us outside the main building. Let me paint a picture of our surroundings. The
building itself marked the terminus of a road that meandered into a small village. On three sides,
it was enveloped by vast barren potato fields, while a small verdant forest crowned a hill
directly behind it. As I mentioned, it was bitterly cold and a thick blanket of snow muffled
the landscape. Adding to the sensory deprivation, a dense fog clung to the falling snow, obscuring
visibility to barely 100 ft. Even now, I find it puzzling why we weren’t kept indoors. The game
of tag commenced. A small contingent of us, three other kids, my closest companions in the
group, made a beline for the rear of the building. Most of the other children were clustered at the
front, making it a high-risk zone for being it. We reasoned that retreating to the back would
significantly improve our chances of evasion, even though the supervisors had explicitly
forbidden us from venturing there. Upon reaching the relative sanctuary of the building’s back
wall, we hunkered down, staying utterly silent, confident that neither supervisor nor peer would
detect our presence. I distinctly remember closing my eyes, the distant shrieks of other children,
a faint, muffled chorus in the snowy expanse. The building stretched quite long, and we were quite
far along its secluded rear. My friend, designated as lookout, carefully scanned our surroundings
while the two of us huddled, whispering softly. Our quiet conversation was abruptly cut short by
a sharp crack from the small patch of woods before us. A snowy expanse, perhaps 30 ft wide, separated
us from the tree line. We were just kids, so our first thought was of a startled animal, or maybe
one of the older children trying to spook us. My companion, Ever the Pragmatist, shrugged
it off, urging us to focus on the game. But when my gaze drifted back to the woods, barely 10
seconds later, a figure stood silhouetted against a slender birch tree, his left hand resting
on its bark. He wore a dark coat and jeans, his head bald, his features indistinct in the hazy
light. A gasp tore from my throat, and my friends turned, asking what was wrong. I could only point
my finger trembling at the man. Their own screams joined mine, but they were swallowed by the
muffled snow and fog. No supervisor came rushing to our aid. The man remained utterly still,
an unnerving statue. One of the other children urged us to run to get back to the main group,
but I was frozen, my limbs heavy, like in those waking nightmares where you try to flee but can’t
move. As I stared, transfixed, it seemed as though skin had stretched totly over his eye sockets,
and his mouth, a gaping, unnaturally wide chasm, was devoid of expression. Then, with agonizing
slowness, he began to walk towards us. A primal, desperate scream ripped from me. He offered
no response, no sound at all. We didn’t wait to see what he wanted. We scrambled to our feet
and bolted towards the front of the building, towards the distant, reassuring shouts of the
other children. Once we reached the group, one of the older kids immediately dashed inside
to alert the senior supervisor. I risked another glance back, but the man was gone. Only the stark
line of trees and our frantic footprints in the snow remained. Later, three supervisors, including
the senior one, ventured behind the building. They returned with the usual pronouncements.
Nothing there. Everything was fine. We received a stern warning for straying from the group and
cheating, and our parents were informed. Yet, the memory of that figure lingers, resurfacing
occasionally. I still wonder who or what was he, and what horrifying fate awaited us if I hadn’t
found the courage to run, had simply remained frozen in the snow. It’s no surprise that
my involvement with the scout movement ended shortly after that. Years later, a different
kind of mystery called to me. My boyfriend and I embarked on an adventure into an abandoned wine
makaker’s mansion in Portugal. It was a stunning, perhaps century old villa perched on the banks of
the Doru River. Its grand facade slowly succumbing to the embrace of sprawling vines and wild
vegetation framed by tall palm trees. A beautiful yet undeniably eerie place. We first stumbled
upon it last year, spending a good part of the day exploring its decaying splendor. Returning this
summer, we found the wilderness had reclaimed even more ground. The vines and high grasses had grown
so rampant we almost couldn’t locate it again, waiting through shoulder high ferns that
made the approach feel almost prehistoric. Before even reaching the house, you’re confronted
by an almost impenetrable thicket of wild grass and vines. The first real hint of the mansion’s
former glory is a shaded grotto, a remarkably Victorian-looking space with carved stone benches
now thickly carpeted in moss, and a natural spring bubbling at its back. Directly above this spring,
however, a dark secret gapes, a hole in the rock wall, a passage or tunnel just wide enough for
an adult to crouch and scramble into the absolute darkness. Assuming you managed to gather your
courage after peering into that abyss, where you could swear you felt a presence, you’d find more
hidden caves carved into the rock face beneath the house. The largest of these confirms the existence
of an entire network of secret passages. Its entrance partially obscured by a pile of forgotten
old chairs. Beneath the manor beyond the grotto, a rough huneed passage led into the labyrinth and
darkness of the cellar. Here, immense stone vats, still bearing the faint scent of fermenting
grapes, stood as silent sentinels to a bygone era of wine-making. Hundreds of dustladen bottles,
many unlabeled, lay scattered, forming a perilous obstacle course that demanded our careful
navigation. Ascending to the first floor, we were met with a palpable sense of hasty
abandonment. The initial room to our left was particularly striking. It looked as if a frantic
bonfire had consumed important papers, leaving charred fragments scattered amidst a collection
of single vintage women’s shoes. We determined the burnt documents were official records from the
1920s, lending an unsettling historical context to the scene. The floorboards here were treacherous,
groaning ominously beneath our weight, forcing us to hug the walls for fear of collapsing into
the void below. Further along the corridor, the narrative of decay continued with more solitary
shoes and endless crates of empty wine bottles, all hinting at a mid 20th century exodus. Then,
at the threshold of what appeared to be a former living room, a truly unnerving discovery awaited.
A naked, perhaps oneeyed, baby doll, its limbs contorted into an unnatural, almost skeletal pose
encrusted with cobwebs. It was a macob sentinel. My boyfriend and I, in a strange act of compassion
for the inanimate, placed it gently into a large wooden trunk in the room’s corner, hoping to grant
it some peace. Yet upon our return this summer, a chilling surprise, the doll had moved. It now
rested on a central table in the very same room, inexplicably wrapped in a string of rosary beads,
a silent testament to a presence other than our own. The rest of the first floor offered little
beyond the melancholic beauty of rotting timbers and spectral curtains. However, the true enigma of
the mansion resided in its crumbling attic. Here, amidst evidence of severe structural compromise,
lay a confounding revelation. An elderly neighbor we encountered who claimed the house had been
derelictked for his entire 60-year residency, was contradicted by the attic’s contents.
Unlike the rest of the mansion, which rireed of early 20th century desertion, the attic showed
signs of habitation as recently as the 1990s or early 2000s. We found a child’s room adorned
with contemporary red and green furniture, school textbooks from that era, and even
collectible stickers common in ’90s chewing gum. More disturbingly, amidst these domestic
relics were photographs of a distinctly cultic nature. In the center of the attic, the floor had
completely caved in, revealing a massive heap of rotting leather, fabric, and other unidentifiable
detritus. The attic posed more questions than answers. Had a family secretly resided here? How
could the neighbor have missed them? Why only the attic? And what happened to them? The entire
structure was dangerously unstable, urging a swift departure. We knew we were light on our feet, but
the risk of plunging through the disintegrating floors was omnipresent, forcing us to move with
extreme caution, relying solely on support beams and doorways. Approximately two years prior,
a new chapter of peculiar encounters began, not in an abandoned mansion, but at the mundane
front desk of the hotel where I transferred from laundry. Simon, a recently divorced man with no
fixed abode, moved into our establishment. He was the quintessential guest who felt compelled
to share every detail of his life story, whether solicited or not. My first solo night shift proved
particularly memorable. Simon approached the desk, not to check in himself, but to negotiate
a further discount for his belongings, which he intended to store in a room. He’d already
secured a remarkably low rate through our director of sales, but his ambition for savings apparently
knew no bounds. He insisted he wasn’t using the room, only his possessions were. Yet, the
room remained formally rented under his name. After getting approval for an additional discount,
he began moving his array of possessions into the designated space. Simon, my newest long-term
resident, proved to be an endless well of requests, requiring my assistance with everything
imaginable. As the sole staff member on duty, I had little choice but to oblige. He offered
his gratitude, but instead of the customary tip, I received a branded flashlight bearing the name
of his failed business. Oh, wonderful, Simon. Just what I needed, I thought, barely suppressing my
sarcasm. In those days, I primarily worked the morning shift, which meant regular encounters
with Simon at breakfast. He was a geralous man, and I soon learned a great deal about his personal
life, including a troubling cardiac condition. There had been complications, even an ambulance
call out during a second shift when he suffered a heart attack. He’d recovered seemingly,
but I often saw him indulging in drinks and cigarettes. I offered gentle warnings about the
dangers of these habits, but he waved them off, convinced he’d be fine. He eventually confided
that his heart surgery had been mishandled, necessitating another trip to the hospital, and
that he was suing the facility. I wished him luck, and he retreated to his room. The next morning,
Simon was conspicuously absent from breakfast. I didn’t think much of it at first until a visitor
inquired about him. Complicating matters, another guest with the exact same name was staying across
the hall. I mistakenly called the first Simon, only to be met with confusion. The second call
to our Simon’s room went unanswered. His friend, growing increasingly worried, mentioned he hadn’t
heard from Simon since the previous afternoon and emphasized the urgency of his impending surgery.
He asked for a key to Simon’s room, which I, bound by policy, couldn’t provide since his name wasn’t
on the reservation. I instructed him to wait in the lobby while a sudden cold dread settled over
me. Approaching Simon’s door, I knocked and called his name, but only silence answered. The latch was
engaged, preventing entry. I hurried to fetch our maintenance man, and together we forced the
door open. He, visibly nervous, hung back, so I stepped into the room, calling Simon’s name
with a rising panic. He lay motionless on the bed. Another frantic call of his name yielded nothing.
Overwhelmed by fear, I dialed 911. They instructed me to check for breathing. There was none. A
quick, chilling touch confirmed my worst fears. He was cold, utterly lifeless. Simon was dead.
Despite my terror, I tried to remain composed. Paramedics arrived, attempting resuscitation,
but it was feudal. They called for a body bag. Simon’s friend, meanwhile, delivered the
devastating news to his family. Later that day, Simon’s brother arrived to clear out the room.
Housekeeping, performing their duties afterward, made some truly bizarre discoveries, including
several voodoo dolls. Simon, it seemed, was a profoundly eccentric individual. Ever since
that night, I’ve made it a point to rent out that room last. An undeniable chill lingers within
its walls, and the lights, despite multiple checks by maintenance, inexplicably flicker.
Perhaps it’s mere superstition, but the memory remains unsettling. It stands as one of the most
disturbing incidents of my tenure here. My next chapter, however, takes me far from the sterile
halls of a motel to the sunbaked landscapes of Arizona. I joined a group on a multi-day
excursion to Lake Havsu, an intriguing Native American reservation bordering the magnificent
Grand Canyon. For those unfamiliar, it’s a place with a unique, almost quirky character
and a surprisingly popular tourist magnet. Years prior, it had gained a darker notoriety when
a Japanese tourist was tragically murdered on the reservation, a crime reportedly linked to a local
individual. My own narrative isn’t quite so grim, fortunately. Our adventure began with an
arduous 8-mile descent from the canyon rim, navigating winding switchbacks and a dusty dirt
trail that snaked through the heart of a parched, bone-ry gorge. Though some journeyed on horseback
for miles, there was no discernable trace of human habitation, no hint of modern life. Then, as we
rounded a bend, an astonishing sight greeted us. A substantial town seemingly out of nowhere,
boasting houses, basic electricity, a police station, and even a community center. The small
settlement, though possessing modern amenities, exuded an unsettling air. Gaunt horses ribbed
stark against their flanks roamed many of the backyards, and every local gaze that met ours
seemed to carry a silent, inscrable message, leaving us with a lingering sense of unease.
The residents, despite the basic infrastructure, remained largely aloof, observing us with a quiet
detachment. Beyond this enigmatic town, deeper into the gorge, the landscape transformed. We
eventually reached the precipice of Havasu Falls, where the roaring turquoise cascades signaled
the start of the tourist campground. This was a far more welcoming site for a group of young
campers than the unpaved streets of the village we just traversed. The falls themselves were
a breathtaking spectacle, the water of vibrant blue, enriched by the natural limestone and
minerals leeching from the surrounding rock. This cerulean stream wounded its way through
all the campsites, inviting swimmers to revel in its refreshing embrace. Our group, a handful
of us young, impressionable kids accompanied by two adult chaperones, set up camp for the evening.
In hindsight, our chaperones must have been under immense, perhaps traumatizing pressure entrusted
with our well-being in such a remote and unique environment. We cooked a simple dinner, sharing
stories and backcountry brownies. soaking in the serene beauty of the canyon. As dusk deepened into
a stardusted night, our conversation naturally drifted to ghost stories, tales of shadowy
figures, and things that went bump in the night, evoking the classic horror tropes of childhood.
One of the girls, her face dramatically illuminated from below by a flashlight, began
her narrative. We were all huddled in the inky darkness, engrossed by her eerie storytelling.
She had barely spoken for a few minutes when, without warning, a boy in our circle abruptly
flicked on his own flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom. “Someone’s there,” he declared,
his voice a strained whisper. His light landed on the empty space beside the storyteller. And there,
as if materialized from thin air, sat a man. He was probably in his late 20s or early 30s with
strikingly long white hair, sitting cross-legged, utterly silent. None of us had heard him
approach. The girl recoiled, and our chaperones, clearly startled, exchanged a disoriented
glance. It was the older woman among them who found her voice first, her tone a careful blend
of politeness and authority. “Excuse me, sir,” she began. “What are you doing here?” The man
paused, his silence stretching for an unnerving moment. “Just listening to ghost stories,”
he eventually replied, his voice flat. “Well, this is our campsite,” she explained. “And we were
hoping for some privacy to spend time together.” “So, would you mind leaving?” A beat passed.
“Yes, please. Thank you.” Slowly, the man rose to his feet. He was remarkably tall and large, his
figure seeming to stretch even further in the dim light. He wore a headlamp, yet made no move to
switch it on. Then, with deliberate unconcern, he simply walked directly into the thick brush
and vegetation surrounding our campsite. We listened as he crashed through the undergrowth,
the sounds of his departure echoing eerily. Everyone was thoroughly unnerved. The chaperones
immediately began discussing our next steps, deciding we needed to remain on high alert. We
waited in tense silence for a few more minutes, hoping that perhaps it was all a misunderstanding
and he would truly leave us alone. But as we sat there, a thunderous crashing sound erupted from
the brush all around us, reverberating through the pitch black night. A few of the kids, armed
with flashlights, began shining their beams into the darkness. Periodically, the man would appear
standing motionless at the edge of the bushes, his figure starkly outlined before turning and
plunging back into the shadows. His expression was unreadable, not angry, but certainly not
friendly. At some point, he began making a strange, unsettling whooping sound. That
was the decisive moment. We knew we needed to get help. Conveniently, our chaperones had
friends at another campsite further down river, and that’s where we made our hurried retreat for
the remainder of the evening. The next morning, under the reassuring gaze of the sun, our
campsite seemed significantly less terrifying. As we returned to retrieve our belongings, we
spotted a man, an obvious mentor from an art camp, sitting on a bench at a campsite just downstream
from ours. He had a camel back hydration pack and was mostly looking down, only occasionally
glancing up as we toasted bagels and boiled water for oatmeal. Our instructions were clear.
Ignore him as best we could. After all, a day of fun under the falls awaited us. As we
prepared our swimming gear, standing up to head out, the man too rose. Our female chaperon
was the sole adult with us at this point, as the other had left in the scramble to reach
the safe campsite the night before, someone having been bitten by an unknown creature in the rush. As
we started walking, our chaperon urged us to pick up the pace faster and faster until we were almost
running. When we approached some other campsites, now bustling with more people, she decided it was
time for a confrontation. She spun around a full 180°, bringing her face to face with the man. Our
chaperon, her patience frayed, rounded on him. She unleashed a torrent of questions and accusations,
demanding to know why he was watching children, what his intentions were, and what exactly was
wrong with him, ordering him to keep his distance. The man, visibly taken aback, stared down,
seemingly stunned as others began to gather, drawn by the commotion. He offered no resistance,
no violence, just a bewildered silence. Our chaperon then swiftly directed us towards the
waterfalls, instructing us to wait for her there. She promised to follow within 15 minutes.
An unsettling 45 minutes later, Lee soldered into view, splashing gleefully in the turquoise pools,
a wide, almost childlike grin plastered across his face. He seemed utterly oblivious to our presence,
his demeanor entirely transformed. We later pressed our group leader for an explanation. She
revealed that Lee, who was on a father-son trip, had apparently suffered some sort of breakdown
during a previous visit to Lake Havsu with an ex-girlfriend. He had inexplicably confused our
chaperon with this former partner, accusing her of doing well, things he clearly disapproved of. It
seemed there was a deeper untold story about the ex-girlfriend running off with Lee’s best friend.
To us, the situation clearly pointed to underlying mental health struggles that warranted attention.
Such encounters with the mentally distressed are unsettling, but perhaps less viscerally terrifying
than those born of pure recklessness. My thoughts drifted to a time at 15 or 16 when a band of us
fueled by youthful bravado decided to explore an abandoned industrial mill at the forest’s edge.
To reach it, we had to navigate a running stream, hopping precariously across mossicked rocks.
Upon arrival, no visible doors beckoned, but gaps in the crumbling facade allowed us
glimpses into its cavernous interior, gargantuan metal contraptions, tangled webs of exposed
wiring, skeletal chairs, and discarded debris. The mill was remarkably untouched. No signs
of ransacking, not a single spray painted tag, which only fueled our excitement. We felt like
pioneers. The thrill of discovery propelled us. We targeted a boarded up window, its plank
stubbornly secured. But under our repeated assaults, the old nails finally surrendered. With
a protesting groan, the entire section gave way. I volunteered to descend first. Perching on the
ledge, I cautiously lowered myself, but the drop was deeper than anticipated. My feet dangled in
empty space, so I simply let go, plummeting into the unseen. The impact was a jarring thud.
landing on the very board we just dislodged, which now acted as a precarious platform. My
friends, having heard the loud crash, immediately asked if I was okay, convinced I’d injured myself.
Flipping on my headlamp, I reassured them and then helped the others down. We found ourselves in a
vast subterranean chamber, the mill’s basement. Central to the space stood an antiquated lift
reminiscent of some forgotten industrial era, complete with a rot iron trellis door. We pulled
the barrier aside and stepped inside. On the rear panel, my lamp illuminated a faded proverb about
owing our lives to God. As I pondered the cryptic message, the entire room suddenly flooded with
light. I was momentarily dazed until my friend, grinning, pointed to a switch he’d found. The
light still worked. Our elation was short-lived. However, a distinct shuffling, the unmistakable
sound of movement, echoed from the floor above. A chilling realization dawned. We were in the
basement and our only exit was up. Fear, raw and immediate, seized us. We were just kids after all.
Resigning ourselves to an inevitable encounter, we armed ourselves with a stray spade we found
nearby and began creeping up the creaking stairs. Muffled voices, then heavy footsteps, emanated
from behind a door. With a shared glance, we burst through only to be met by the startled faces of 10
construction workers, tools in hand. Panic seized us. We scrambled, finding an emergency exit that
yielded readily to our push and bolted into the thick woods. As we tore through the trees, police
sirens pierced the air, patrol cars flashing past us in the opposite direction. In my haste, my
shoelace snagged, sending me sprawling. I escaped with a neat scar on my elbow, a permanent momento
of our ill- fated adventure. This taste of danger, however, was merely a prelude. A different kind of
unsettling encounter awaited me in September 2014 when I was a 15-year-old high schooler. Hailing
from a small European nation now residing in Germany, I embarked on a week-long field trip, a
customary right of passage for 8th graders. I’d had my share of strange interactions, but nothing
quite prepared me for the ordeal that unfolded. The school field trip to a distant island, a
mandatory expedition for my 14-year-old class, introduced a different kind of unsettling
experience. Among us was Jane, a quiet girl who until then had merely been reserved. She
kept to herself, yet was generally well-liked, never bullied, just inherently shy. Our
interactions online had been minimal, mostly polite exchanges on social media
with no romantic undercurrents or animosity. Now, far from the familiar routines of school,
something in Jane began to shift. After sneaking a few cigarettes with my friends in our hotel
room, we joined the teacher for an excursion to examine the island’s unique flora. It was during
this walk that I first noticed Jane’s increasingly frequent attempts at conversation and her tendency
to walk uncomfortably close. I dismissed it as mere coincidence at first, attributing it to
the group dynamic. But as the days unfolded, her behavior grew bolder, more intrusive. She
began touching me, offering unsolicited hugs, and consistently positioning herself in my
vicinity. By the third day, we were on a boat cruise to a smaller outlying island. Jane settled
beside me, her camera and almost constant fixture. I initially paid little mind, still too young
and naive to recognize the escalating red flags. But then I noticed the sheer volume of photographs
she was taking, almost exclusively of me. A flicker of unease finally stirred, and I gently
suggested she might want to ease up. Her response was an hour-ong rambling monologue peppered with
unconvincing imitations of Irish and British accents, a disjointed stream of consciousness
that held no discernable meaning. I simply offered polite smiles and non-committal, “That’s nice.” in
return. In the subsequent days, her hugs grew more insistent, her presence more suffocating, and my
discomfort intensified. One afternoon, I decided I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I approached
her, suggesting we needed to talk privately. We sought out a secluded patch of woods, and
I, mustering my courage, asked her directly if she had feelings for me. She vehemently
denied it, claiming a misunderstanding, but her evasiveness only solidified my suspicion that
something was fundamentally off. Then, unprompted, she divulged a deeply personal history. Her
mother suffered from schizophrenia, a burden that had plunged Jane into severe depression. My
initial sympathy wared with my persistent unease, but I nonetheless reiterated that her physical
gestures were inappropriate and needed to cease. Meanwhile, my friends, realizing my prolonged
absence, had organized a small search party. They eventually located us, and we rejoined the
group. Yet, Jane, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, continued to cling to my side. Later that evening,
she appeared at our hotel room door, asking for water despite having her own supply. Once inside,
she refused to leave. We eventually resorted to a desperate ploy, claiming we were heading out
for an evening of fun, knowing she wouldn’t be invited. The next day, her behavior escalated
dramatically. She shadowed my every move, and the unsolicited hugs resumed. The zenith of her
abnormal obsession occurred that evening. I was taking a walk with a friend, and as I turned to
speak, I saw her, a solitary figure trailing us. The sheer chilling dread that washed over me was
unlike anything I had ever experienced. My friend, attempting levity, half joked that we had a
stalker and should report it to the police. Fortunately, she eventually lost track of us
and gave up the chase. My closest friend, upon hearing the full extent of the story, confronted
Jane directly, telling her in no uncertain terms to leave me alone. Though I was initially dismayed
by his bluntness, feeling it unduly cruel despite her actions, I now understand it was a necessary,
even merciful intervention. Overwhelmed by a sense of guilt, I later sought Jane out in her room to
apologize for my friend’s harsh words. I found her on her bed racked with uncontrolled sobs. I
did my best to calm her before making my retreat. Soon after, a female friend named Sarah invited me
to her room, wanting to discuss the situation. Two other girls were already there when I arrived.
We settled onto the balcony chairs, and Sarah, her voice hushed, revealed the full extent
of Jane’s struggles, her profound depression, and a history of self harm. As we talked, a
sudden, inexplicable prickle of unease drew my gaze upwards. There, about 50 meters away, sat
Jane, perched on a rock, listening to music, her solemn eyes fixed directly on me. A wave of dismay
washed over me. I murmured to my friends that we had an audience. A shared shudder passed through
them, and with a unanimous, silent agreement, we decided to observe her for a moment longer before
retreating indoors. Just stay away from her, Sarah had whispered her final urgent counsel before our
island adventure concluded. To my immense relief, that day marked the end of our field trip, and I
finally found a measure of peace. My unsettling encounters with Jane slowly faded, primarily
because she became a frequent absentee from school. Later, the grim whispers reached me. Jane
had attempted suicide via overdose multiple times, surviving each harrowing incident. A persistent
rumor even placed her in a psychiatric facility, though I have no concrete evidence to confirm
its truth. Regardless of the specifics, the core lesson from that entire ordeal resonated deeply.
Sometimes it’s not only acceptable, but necessary to be firm, even to the point of appearing rude
to safeguard yourself. It might feel cruel or even cause distress to another person. But ultimately,
your life and your happiness are paramount, and you must protect them. This principle of standing
up for oneself against the strange and unsettling brings to mind a very different kind of story from
my childhood. Back when I was a little kid, my stepfather worked the graveyard shift at a Shell
gas station on the outskirts of Reno, Nevada. It was a well-kept, fairly new establishment
strategically located off the highway before the ascent into the Sierra Neadas and towards Lake
Tahoe. He rarely had issues, though he would often recount tales of the interesting characters
who frequented the station, and he’d even befriended a few regulars. On his night shifts,
he was always the sole employee. His co-workers would often regail him with stories of resident
ghosts, playful poltergeists who’d supposedly switch off lights, rattle bathroom doors open and
shut, or even playfully knock snacks off shelves. My stepfather, being the staunch skeptic he was,
dismissed these tales as fanciful exaggerations. Nothing supernatural ever happened on his watch,
so he simply brushed them off until one night. The shift began quietly. It was a still night with few
customers needing anything beyond gas, and with the convenience of pay at the pump, hardly anyone
bothered coming inside. My stepfather was immersed in a game on his phone, occasionally glancing up
at the automatic doors or the security monitors, expecting to see a late night arrival. The
station, however, remained deserted. He returned his attention to his screen when the
electronic doors whooshed open, triggering the familiar chime above. He set his phone down,
looking up to greet the unseen customer. But the space was empty. He called out, “Hello.”
The only response was silence. A quick check of the security camera confirmed he was alone. No
cars were visible at the pumps or in the parking lot. A flicker of unease began to stir. The doors
were sensor activated. They shouldn’t have opened unless someone was directly approaching. Still,
he rationalized it as a glitch or a juvenile prank and resumed his game. Hello. A voice echoed clear
as day directly in front of him. His head shot up, ready to address the customer he somehow hadn’t
noticed before. But once again, there was no one. The weirdness intensified. He tried to convince
himself that he was just imagining things or that the sound had emanated from his phone or the
radio. Then the screams began. He later described them as bursting forth from absolute nowhere. A
woman’s terrified shrieks so piercing and chilling that he instinctively jumped, dropping his phone.
My stepfather is a formidable man, 6’2 and built solid, not easily rattled. But he swore these
screams terrified him to his core, leaving him utterly unable to think straight. He scrambled
out from behind the counter, checking every aisle, then the bathrooms and maintenance closet. Empty.
The screams, however, continued deafeningly loud. He thought perhaps a woman outside was in distress
being attacked. He bolted out into the parking lot, scanning the desolate expanse. Nothing.
No person, no car, no source for the horrific noise. He ran around the back of the store,
completing a full loop of the building. Still, he found nothing. Just as suddenly as they
had begun, the scream ceased. He returned inside bewildered and immediately began reviewing
the security tapes. He checked the recordings, but aside from his own frantic dashes in and
out of the store, the footage showed nothing out of the ordinary. Puzzled, he tried to shake
off the strange experience. The next morning, as his coworker took over the shift, my stepfather
recounted the events, chuckling nervously and dismissing it as a crude prank by some bored
teenagers. But his colleagueu’s reaction was entirely different. A response that, despite
my stepfather’s staunch disbelief in anything supernatural, lodged itself deep in his memory.
Oh, so you’ve heard her, too. A different kind of adventure unfolded when my brother, cousin,
cousin’s girlfriend, and I decided to explore an abandoned hospital in the heart of town. We, my
brother, and I were only visiting, but my cousin, a local, assured us he knew the way. Our entry
point was a disused door leading directly into the building’s old morg from which we could access
the roof. The plan was to traverse the rooftop to a specific ladder that would grant us access to
the third floor. The second floor strangely seemed to be entirely absent or inaccessible from our
route. The upper section of this ladder, however, was encased in a flimsy metal covering, making the
rungs unreachable. Our only option was to scale the side using the structural rods embedded in the
wall. My cousin, being the most agile, went first, then helped me, a much shorter individual,
navigate the precarious climb. Next was his girlfriend. She managed only halfway before her
nerve broke, declaring she couldn’t proceed. My brother, ever the gentleman, opted to stay with
her while my cousin and I continued our ascent. We reached the third floor, finding ourselves
on the rooftop. An air conditioning unit, rusted and silent, loomed nearby, alongside
clear evidence that someone had spent at least one night there. Two other structures punctuated
the roofscape, one a direct entrance into the main hospital building, and the other, a chillingly
dark, cold room with its door ominously a jar, despite the full moon casting an eerie glow on
everything else. Deciding against immediate entry, we opted to scout the opposite side of the roof
for a more straightforward way in. As we peered over the edge, a blood curdling scream pierced the
night. Then another and another. Though I couldn’t identify the source, my cousin instantly
recognized the terrified shrieks. “That’s her.” “My girlfriend,” he exclaimed, his face contorted
with alarm. Being significantly larger and stronger than me, he declared he needed to descend
immediately and told me to wait if I couldn’t manage to climb down alone. I watched, stunned as
he practically flew down two stories. It wasn’t until a moment later, when I attempted to follow,
that I experienced my own terrifying plunge, slipping from the ladder and landing barely a
meter from the roof’s edge, narrowly avoiding a catastrophic fall into what I later realized
was an underground car park entrance. Regaining my composure, I scrambled towards my cousin, who
was now lying on the ground. I assumed security had apprehended him, or worse. It turned out his
girlfriend, in a moment of pure panic, had tried to climb the ladder before my brother could stop
her. She’d been only 50 cm from the ground. Yet, the fear of falling had triggered a full-blown
panic attack. Our urban escapade was abruptly cut short, though we vowed to return. Those three
minutes, especially my unexpected tumble, remain etched in my memory as some of the most terrifying
of my life. Approximately two years ago, a different kind of peculiar encounter unfolded on
Halloween night. I was working the graveyard shift at a small town casino’s cafe, fully embracing the
festive spirit. Being a massive Harry Potter fan, I dressed up as Hermione Granger, complete
with a Gryffinder themed ensemble, a short skirt worn over leggings, a polo shirt, and a
tie. My workplace was holding a costume contest, and for once, I decided to put myself out there
and join the fun. It was around 2:00 a.m., a time when the cafe was usually quiet, but the Halloween
buzz meant we were considerably busier than usual. I was cheerfully ringing up customers, genuinely
enjoying the parade of costumes when a man approached my counter. It was immediately clear
he was heavily intoxicated. He was exceptionally tall, easily over 6 ft, powerfully built, and
bald. I distinctly remember his total coming to $2.40, an odd detail to recall, but it
stuck. He handed me a single $100 bill, presenting me with the familiar late night
challenge of making change. I extended my hand, expecting the $100 bill to facilitate his
$2.40 coffee transaction. Instead, he paused, his gaze fixed on me. “No,” he drawled, his
voice thick and insistent. “This is for you.” He clarified that his coffee would be a separate
charge. As a cashier, tips were a rare luxury and certainly never on this scale. I hesitated,
unsure if he was serious, when his eyes slowly rad over my body. “It’s for you to come to my room
with me,” he leared. My hand shot out, pushing the bill back towards him. “No, thank you,” I
stated, my voice firm despite the sudden chill that snaked up my spine. Undeterred, he pulled
out another hundred, tossing both bills at me. How about now? He challenged. Still no thank you,
I repeated, my resolve hardening. Fortunately, a security guard was close by, having witnessed
the escalating exchange. He calmly approached, politely, instructing the man to pay for his
coffee and leave. The man sneered at the guard. “If she’s going to dress like a [ __ ] she should
act like one,” he spat, his words hitting me like a physical blow. Tears pricked at my eyes. I’d
encountered my share of crude individuals, but never such outright brazen harassment. The guard
reiterated his demand, warning of immediate escort if he didn’t comply. The man’s gaze snapped back
to me, a menacing glint in his eye. “Fine, you bitch,” he hissed. “I’ll wait for you outside. You
better meet me there, or else.” I stood frozen, my mind reeling, the sheer intimidation of the
man paralyzing me. The security guard immediately recognized the explicit threat, declaring he
would call the police. That ignited a furious rage in the man. He lunged, attempting to strike the
guard, but missed. The guard expertly pinned him against the wall, radioing for backup to contact
the authorities. Even as he struggled, the man’s eyes sought mine, his voice dripping with venom.
“Why do all you [ __ ] act like this?” “At least I would have paid you,” he ranted, spewing other
vile obscenities. The chaos erupted so swiftly, so intensely that I barely registered what was
happening. “By this point, I was openly weeping, and my co-workers quickly ushered me away to the
back room. The police arrived and apprehended the man. Apparently, he had punched a hole in the
wall and even tried to hit one of the officers. After I provided my statement, I was permitted
to leave early. The same security guard kindly escorted me to my car. The most infuriating part,
this man was a major high roller at the casino, and they refused to press charges or
ban him. I resigned shortly thereafter, disgusted by their prioritization of profit over
the safety and well-being of their employees. My next story takes me to a truly bizarre edifice
on my university campus known simply as biosai. It’s a sprawling structure oddly divided into
three distinct wings, biology, psychology, and zoology. Campus lore suggests three different
architects were commissioned, one for each wing, working in complete isolation. The result is an
architectural nightmare. Staircases that terminate abruptly in solid walls. closets that open onto
stairwells and doors leading to nothing but concrete. The persistent rumor claims that if you
were to affix a sticky note to every single window visible from inside the building, you’d still
find exterior windows that remained uncovered. I resided in the campus dorms for 3 years. And
one evening, curiosity overriding caution, a few friends from my floor and I decided to explore
Bioai, which was open until 11 p.m. Initially, it was exhilarating. We discovered strange relics and
even a freezer humorously labeled as containing a Yeti. But the fun soon took an unsettling turn. We
were deep in the basement when we stumbled upon a large closet. Peering inside, we saw clear signs
of habitation, a makeshift mattress on the floor, a backpack overflowing with personal items beside
it, and scattered clothes. We quickly, silently, backed away. As we continued our exploration,
soft footsteps began to trail us. Every time we glanced over our shoulders, the corridor was
empty. The footsteps persisted, growing closer. We rounded a corner only to come face to face
with a man, his features grim, his expression unmistakably furious. We screamed in unison and
bolted, the man’s enraged shouts echoing behind us as we frantically searched for an exit. Finally,
bursting out into the frosty night, we sprinted towards our residence hall. One of my friends
stumbled and fell, but in our panicked scramble, we shouted, “Every man for himself,” and kept
running, propelled by sheer terror. In hindsight, he was probably just a harmless, if territorial,
resident. My journey through peculiar encounters continued, this time taking me back to a memorable
school trip to the bustling heart of New York City roughly a year to 18 months ago. To keep costs at
a minimum, our accommodation was in various hosts, which, I must admit, were surprisingly decent.
One afternoon after a day of excursions, our group of 30 students and three teachers gathered in the
courtyard section of our hostel for a debriefing, preparing for the following day’s itinerary. Our
lead teacher stood on a small bench, addressing us all. As she spoke, a tall, slender man, clearly
not part of our group, casually drifted into our periphery, eventually situating himself at the
very back of our huddle. A few of the boys noticed him and pointed him out. Since we’d received a
scattering of inquiries from curious onlookers about our group throughout the trip, we initially
didn’t perceive his presence as particularly strange. However, when the teacher’s gaze met
his, he blurted out, “You’re so beautiful.” She was taken aback, a little flattered, but mostly
confused. He remained there, seemingly integrated into our group, showering her with continuous,
unsolicited compliments. It was exceptionally odd. As we began to file into the lobby, he followed.
One of our teachers quickly flagged down a hostile staff member who, with practiced politeness,
intervened. Which room are you in? What floor? What section? The staff member inquired, “Did you
lose your key?” The man merely brushed past him, continuing to trail our group as we descended
towards the basement where we were planning to use the communal kitchen facilities. It was undeniably
more than a coincidence. He was eventually coaxed away, but his unsettling persistence meant he
kept trying to return. Our teacher eventually instructed us to retreat to our rooms, and I’m not
sure what unfolded after that, but his relentless pursuit was profoundly creepy. A very different
kind of unsettling experience unfolded for me between 1999 and 2000 when I was 13. My father
had recently taken up a new hobby, attending local auctions. We lived in the deep rural stretches
of South Central Pennsylvania, practically a stones throw from the Mason Dixon line. The towns
scattered around us were tiny, mostly swallowed by vast expanses of farmland, endless cornfields, and
a plethora of general run-down old barns. There were two main auctions in our vicinity. Stoner’s
auction on Sundays and Wheelies auction on Tuesday evenings. I was hitting puberty a bit early and
with it came a wave of intense angst and emotional drama. The previous year had seen my first foray
into romance, but his parents, disapproving of the relationship, had strictly forbidden us from
seeing each other. Somehow their wishes prevailed, severing our connection. The only remaining
thread I had to him was a casual mention from my dad who had spotted him at Wheelies one Tuesday
night when I wasn’t there. From that moment on, I never missed a single Wheelies auction, always
clinging to the faint hope that I’d catch sight of him again. Sadly, I never did. As a teenager,
I was inseparable from my trusty notebook and pen, often finding secluded spots to immerse myself in
journaling, utterly oblivious to my surroundings. This habit, ironically, eventually led to
my expulsion from our church’s youth group, but that’s a story for another time.
Many of those Tuesday nights at Wheelies, my younger sister would accompany dad and me.
She’d spend her time running around, playing, sometimes venturing a little too far from the main
crowds. She too remembers a particular individual I’m about to describe. One evening, my attention
was drawn to an elderly man with strikingly deep, kind eyes. His face is still so vivid in my
memory. He smiled and winked at me, and I suppose in my hormonally charged confusion, I felt
a flicker of thrill at the unexpected attention. Perhaps it was the second time, or maybe even
the third, but one night, I felt a hand brush against my butt, more than just an accidental
nudge from someone passing in close quarters. It was an open-handed slide, distinct and
deliberate. I remember I was wearing this rather outlandish biking outfit I picked up from Walmart.
It was silky, and the boys have been dishing out compliments when I wore it. The sensation of that
hand completely sliding across the slick fabric of my pants remains incredibly clear in my mind. On
another night, as I sat absorbed in my notebook writing, he walked past and nudged my pen, making
me mess up my words. He winked again, a really sad look of longing in his eyes. Even then, I still
rationalized it, thinking he was just some weird old guy, nothing to be afraid of. Wheelies, after
all, was teameming with peculiar old men. And as long as I stayed close to my dad, I felt safe.
But when he showed up at it wasn’t long before our paths crossed again, this time at Stoners the
Sunday auction. A few weeks later, perhaps I’d gone all out that day, dawning a slightly too much
glitter makeup and an edgy, rebellious ensemble that probably looked more awkward than cool on
a 13-year-old. My journal was open in my lap, my younger sister busily drawing beside me when
a light tap interrupted my writing. I turned to see him, Wilma, settled in the seat directly
behind me. The vast rows of empty benches around us made it clear this wasn’t accidental. He had
specifically chosen to be there. His voice, a low, unnervingly controlled murmur, broke the silence.
Tell me about yourself, little lady. My mind raced, grappling with the audacity. I distinctly
recall saying, my voice perhaps a little too loud. Sir, I don’t think you want to know. I’m only
13. The words seemed to hang in the air, a stark, undeniable truth. After a tense pause, during
which he said nothing, I resolutely turned back to my journal, feigning complete absorption. He
eventually left. In hindsight, I wonder if my bluntness, perhaps the unspoken threat of being
overheard by others, was enough to deter him. The thought of my innocent sister, utterly oblivious
to the subtle creepiness, sitting right there, still sends a shiver down my spine. That day, I
made sure she didn’t leave my side for a second, not even for the restroom. It was also, I
believe, the day he actually spoke his name, Wilma. My final encounter with Wilma happened
on a sweltering Tuesday night in late summer. The Wheelies auction was exceptionally crowded,
forcing my dad to park our 98 Oldsmobile Cutless Sierra far from the main action, tucked away in
a small wooded section of the property, well out of sight of other attendees. Complaining about the
heat and craving some solitude with my Walkman and a Mountain Dew, I in full annoyed teenager mode
pestered my dad for the car keys. He was deep in a bidding war and without a moment’s thought tossed
them my way. Looking back, I realize how reckless that was. If he truly considered it, knowing about
Wilma, he’d never have agreed. The car’s windows were rolled all the way down, offering a faint
breeze. I’d scanned the chaotic crowd earlier and hadn’t spotted Wilma, so a false sense of
security had settled over me. Lost in the music blaring from my headphones, I barely registered a
persistent tapping. I ripped the headphones off. Wilma stood there right at the driver’s side
window, his face inches from mine, peering into the car. “Hot enough for you?” he asked, his voice
now devoid of any pretense of subtlety. No one around to witness the intrusion. My heart leaped
into my throat. On pure instinct, I flung the door open and scrambled out, shouting, “Why do you keep
following me?” My voice, amplified by indignation, must have carried through the still air. he
visibly recoiled, a flicker of genuine surprise on his face. “Follow you?” he stammered, his
tone regaining that unnervingly quiet quality. “I’ve been coming here for years.” The sheer
audacity, the way he had leaned his entire upper body into the car, pierced even my teenage naive
taye. “I knew with absolute certainty this was wrong.” “Listen, sir, you’re making me extremely
uncomfortable,” I stated, my voice firm. I’m going to get my dad. I clutched my dad’s massive
curring, a heavy metallic weapon in my fist, instinctively slipping my middle finger through
a ring for a better grip. I mentally rehearsed swinging it if necessary. The old man surprisingly
didn’t argue. He just ran. Not a brisk walk, but a full-blown sprint, scrambling down the small
embankment and disappearing into the twilight. I raced back to the throng, pulling my dad aside,
breathlessly, recounting the terrifying encounter. He nodded, his jaw tight, promising to take care
of it before scouring the crowd. But Wilma was gone. That night, the tears came, a torrent of
fear and violated trust. The incident with Wilma, however, left me profoundly rattled. The memory
of that encounter was a persistent shadow, and the uneasy feeling that he might somehow
track me down kept me on edge. I ceased my visits to both auctions, and my father confirmed
he never saw the man again. His earlier claim about being a longtime regular at those sales
now seemed unsettlingly hollow given his abrupt disappearance. A new connection emerged around
this time, a man named Perseus. I’d met him through a mutual acquaintance, a friendship that
eventually dissolved, but not before I forged new ties with Perseus and his housemates. My life
at that point was a bit insular. My erratic work schedule had caused a gradual drift from old
friends, leaving me with a sparse social calendar. Perseus and his tribe, as he fondly called
his tight-knit group, extended an unexpectedly warm welcome. They were particularly enthusiastic
about boosting my rather dismal dating prospects, a topic I’d been struggling with. Their house
was a regular hub for gatherings. One evening, Perseus reached out on Facebook, insisting I
join him and some friends at the local library for what he vaguely termed a class. Intrigued, I
went. It turned out to be a group session centered around a self-help book with Perseus leading
the discussion. Now, self-help literature has never truly resonated with me. While I value
growth and readily absorb practical advice, the prospect of sifting through hundreds of pages
of abstract concepts when I could be delving into politics or fiction felt like a chore. So, I
feigned interest half listening and participated minimally. The lure of the postclass beers and
the social connection with Perseus and his friends was the real draw. I found myself returning to
these classes primarily for the camaraderie. I did in a way enjoy the academic environment of a
library setting, but the wisdom often struck me as rather generic, the kind of universally applicable
platitudes one could encounter almost anywhere. It simply wasn’t my intellectual cup of tea. Outside
of the classes, the parties were genuinely fun. I appreciated the constructive criticism one of
them offered and I was developing real bonds with Perseus and other members of the group. On one
occasion driving with a few of them, a friend earnestly pressed me about the classes, claiming
they leveled up each time. I politely deflected, citing my demanding work schedule. Months
passed, filled with more parties and easygoing social interactions. Despite enjoying the group’s
company, subtle undercurrents began to surface, things that stirred a vague discomfort. It’s
hard to articulate precisely, but one of the housemates, for instance, eventually moved out
after grappling with severe, undisclosed mental illness. More significantly, it was Perseus’s
burgeoning obsession with the self-help movement that began to unnerve me. His shelves groaned
under the weight of countless tomes on the subject. The teaching a class setup already felt
a bit odd. But then he began outlining his grand vision despite holding a respectable university
degree. He is assued the traditional academic path. Instead, he dreamed of founding an online
university where he would personally impart wisdom on critical thinking, logic, and self-improvement.
Then came the moment that truly solidified my unease. During a casual visit to his house one
afternoon, I overheard Perseus on the phone in the living room. His voice, clear and unconcerned,
carried a chilling pronouncement. Oh, so and so is calling me a cult leader. Sure, I’m a cult leader,
but I’m an ethical cult leader. I would never get someone to drink poison. My internal alarm bells
screamed, but a part of me tried to rationalize. Was I overreacting? Was it just a dark joke?
I brushed it off, convinced myself he was just being facicious, or perhaps didn’t fully grasp the
gravity of the term cult leader. Life continued with more parties, and I even helped them move.
Yet, other instances reinforced that subtle discomfort. I recall being at a coffee shop with
Perseus and some of the other guys when a woman walked by. Perseus turned to them, uttering a
crude, “Wow, her tits.” It was a fleeting comment, but it struck me as unnecessarily vulgar. I’m
no prude. I discussed sex with my close friends candidly. But this felt different. A kind of trash
talk that just didn’t sit right. I said nothing, however, reluctant to disrupt the easygoing bro
why camaraderie I’d come to appreciate. Perseus’s crude commentary wasn’t a one-off. His remarks
about women were a persistent, vulgar undertone to our interactions. While I often bit my tongue, his
relentless promotion of pickup artist PUA manuals, particularly the mystery method, was even
more grading. I’d skimmed parts of it, finding the advice profoundly superficial and
frankly creepy. It advocated for techniques to bug every woman in a bar, a strategy one found utterly
repellent. I stopped reading, but he never ceased his proddding. One afternoon in a coffee shop,
he blurted out an explicitly offensive question. Dude, don’t you want a dick in your mouth? It
was a shocking, deeply uncomfortable moment. Yet, I tried to dismiss it as a crude joke. What truly
unnerved me, however, was his constant boasting to the other tribe members about his supposed PUA
victories. He’d recount tales of successfully gaining a woman’s attention right in front of
her boyfriend, the alpha, or how he danced with a woman but deliberately avoided sleeping with her
because he’d timed the order of things wrong. It all seemed so calculated, so manipulative,
and completely artificial. One evening, during a casual gathering at his house with
a few of us, including a new impressionable young man who admired Jordan Peterson, I
cautiously opened up about my nent dating life. While I wasn’t actively dating, I had a couple
of promising leads. One long-distance woman who unfortunately flaked and another I just started
talking to with positive initial signs. I shared my optimism about this great new woman, hoping
for some genuine camaraderie or advice. Instead, Perseus immediately launched into a critique of
my dating history, declaring, “I never sealed the deal.” Then, without missing a beat, he pulled
the very PUA book I’d abandoned from his shelf, placing it in front of me with the pronouncement,
“This is the king.” “This was the final straw.” I told him I wasn’t interested in the whole PUA
self-help scene. He countered, reminding me of my recent lack of success with women, insisting
this material would solve all my problems. I conceded that things hadn’t been ideal, but argued
they were improving, and I was actively working on myself. The conversation quickly escalated
into a heated debate. I pointed out that much of the self-help movement, particularly its PUA
offshoots, was based on evolutionary psychology, a field I personally distrusted. I argued, as do
many critics, that it often relies on speculation or cherrypicks facts to support a predetermined
agenda. He became fiercely defensive, his voice rising as he challenged me. That’s not true.
Do you believe in evolution? Do you believe in psychology? Then how can you say evolutionary
psychology is an alleged field? He then diverted, claiming that people in certain academic fields
often dismiss others, a truism that did little to address the core of our disagreement. The argument
spiraled into a frustrating back and forth with me accusing him of pushing his beliefs and him in
turn demanding I define pushing. He asked why I was so against helping oneself, a question that
felt disingenuous given the context. He cut me off, asserting I was being irritating for refusing
to heed his counsel after seeking dating advice. I clarified that I desired friendly guidance,
not a prescriptive book. Though unstated, his implication was clear. Embraced this
text or my romantic prospects were doomed. It struck me that he hadn’t inquired about the
woman I was seeing, her background, interests, or our conversations. He simply offered a
book. When I reiterated my disinterest, he insisted the PUA scene was diverse and shouldn’t
be judged. Yet his persistent pushing compelled me to articulate my true feelings. Honestly,
I don’t respect the entire self-help industry, I told him. I think most of them are scammers.
This visibly struck a nerve. I’m taking that personally, he retorted, because you just insulted
my profession. I’ve been writing a self-help book for years. This was news to me, and I said so,
but the revelation had already soured the air. He then accused me of judging books I hadn’t read.
I tried. I countered. They sucked. He dismissed my tone as aggressive, then pivoted, revealing he’d
read all my short stories and was upset I’d never visited his website, a website I hadn’t even known
existed and had no interest in. So, to hang out with you, I need to go on your website. I asked
him directly. I don’t recall his exact response, but he continued to badger me about why I
wouldn’t read the books. I reiterated my refusal, stating he needed to accept it, but his
pressure mounted. Finally, I delivered my definitive opinion. Many of those books are
misogynistic. He bristled, demanding to know if I was calling him a misogynist. Do you think my
girlfriend thinks I’m a misogynist? He challenged, adding almost pedantically, “Misogyny means
hatred of women. Do you understand that? My patience evaporated. I was mentally checked out.
He continued to label me unreasonable, but by then I felt thoroughly freaked out, sensing a clear
undercurrent of aggression, and my own anger began to simmer. The argument spiraled. He accused
me again of not listening. I walked to the fridge, grabbed the beers I purchased, and in my haste to
leave, left the plastic wrapping behind. Perseus immediately demanded I not leave trash in his
fridge. I retrieved it, made for the door, and on my way out told him to stop using rhetorical,
manipulative techniques. I then declared pointedly that his classes were creepy. He slammed the
door in my face as I stepped out, beers in hand. Neither of us had consumed more than one drink,
so alcohol was not to blame for the vitrial. As I waited for my cab, I fired off a text. Dude,
that wasn’t cool. I’ve never seen anyone act like that before. You were poking me. Not all your
friends are going to want this self-help stuff. If they tell you they don’t want it, leave them
alone. A few minutes later, his response arrived. You sound upset. Maybe take some space to reflect.
My reply was swift and decisive. No, not cool. We’re done. You seriously freaked me out. Don’t
try to gaslight me. Goodbye. I went home unable to sleep, questioning if I was overreacting.
My recounting may seem biased, but I’ve shared events to the best of my recollection. I’d endured
a string of manipulative encounters and unsettling behavior from people in my life, often being
told I was at fault. Was I the problem? This reflection brought me back to an earlier memory
from when I was around 10 or 11 years old. I grew up in a rather rural area outside of Raleigh,
North Carolina, where a 35 to 40minut drive was necessary to reach anything substantial. So, when
our small town constructed a new library around that age, my avid reading family was absolutely
thrilled. My mother, older sister, and I would make one or two trips weekly. The library held a
peculiar allure for all of us. My older sister, Babs, would typically select a few books, then
spend the remainder of her time on the computer, absorbed in printing fanfiction. My life revolved
around the world of books. My older sister, Babs, would typically ensconce herself at the computers,
lost in the digital realms of her beloved fandoms. My mother, meanwhile, navigated the romance
and non-fiction aisles, curating a selection by devouring the first few pages of each promising
title. As for me, the young adult section was my sanctuary. Homeschooled, our days were often
a blend of studies and boundless reading. I devoured three to four books a week, finding
immense joy and escape within their pages. Our library, a recent addition to our small, safe,
rural North Carolina town, was a source of great pride. Its architecture was a marvel of open
space and natural light, reminiscent of a grand gymnasium transformed. High ceiling soared above
three distinct levels, bathing the interior in a perpetual glow. Upon entry, the checkout counter
was immediately to the left. Straight ahead lay the young adult section and beyond it the
children’s area. To the right the vast expanse of adult fiction and non-fiction stretched out while
numerous small activity and study rooms dotted the perimeter. We knew the librarians by name and
many of the regulars. There was simply no reason to be on alert. This particular day unfolded much
like any other. Babs made her usual pilgrimage to select a few books, and mom drifted towards her
preferred sections, our eventual rendevu planned for the checkout line. My own ritual involved
settling onto the floor, meticulously examining each book jacket, then diving into the first
few pages to see if it captured my imagination, an endearing, if somewhat exasperating habit
I’ve since outgrown. I remember being deep into my literary quest on the second aisle nearest the
main entrance when a subtle prickle of awareness made me pause. I felt watched. It was a vague,
disquing sensation, and I initially dismissed it, attributing it to my imagination. After
all, I was just a kid in the young adult section. I continued sifting through books for
a while longer, convinced I’d explored enough of that particular shelf. Deciding to switch to the
opposite side of the bookcase, I stood, clutching the handful of books I’d chosen, and walked over.
It was then that I noticed him, a dark-haired man, lingering at the end of the aisle. He held a
book, but his gaze wasn’t on the pages. He was simply watching, his eyes seemingly fixed on me,
or perhaps just past me. I tried to ignore it, moving to the next aisle over. Moments later, he
followed. I reasoned he must be another teenager also searching for books. So I resumed my floor
sitting, my eyes scanning more book jackets until his presence grew undeniably closer. The shift was
abrupt, a swift transition from casual browsing to chilling awareness. One moment I was absorbed in
book jackets, the next he had moved into the very same aisle as me. I brushed it off, determined
not to let it bother me. I had almost gathered enough books to last until our next library visit.
A serious endeavor given our household’s ancient dialup internet and single computer shared among
five people. My younger sister was at daycare that day, so books were my primary source of joy and
entertainment. I suppose I lost track of time, but when I finally looked up again, he was still
watching me. That’s when genuine creepiness set in. Goosebumps erupted across my skin. What does
an 11-year-old do when a stranger’s unwavering gaze sends shivers down their spine? Find their
older sister, of course. I tried to rise casually, my stack of books clutched protectively, aiming
to exit the aisle. My path to the computers, where Babs should have been, required me to pass
him. I pretended to be utterly engrossed in the top book of my pile, but as I glanced up, I caught
his eye. It was then I registered his age. late 20s, early 30s, perhaps far too old for the young
adult section. My quest for Babs intensified. She was not, to my growing dismay, where I’d left her
at the computers. This was long before any of us had cell phones. Only dad had one for work, and a
cold panic began to well up. I turned back to the young adult section, and the man was still there,
observing me intently. My eyes darted around, but my mother was nowhere in sight. Accelerating
my pace, I headed straight for the adult section, frantically scanning the aisles until I spotted
her. She was nestled in a corner armchair deep in a book. I made a beline. My mother, I must
explain, is arguably the most unflapable person on the planet. When my father passed away, she called
me to calmly relay that he was in an ambulance, not alive, but that I needed to come to the
hospital. She had never, not once, overreacted to anything in her life. Now, here came a severely
panic-stricken me trying to articulate my terror. Clinging to a semblance of normaly, I tried
to compose myself as I reached my mother. I settled onto the floor beside her chair, my
voice a frantic whisper as I relayed the unnerving incident, the man’s unblinking stare still
burning in my mind. True to form, Mom remained utterly unperturbed. She attributed my unease to
an overactive imagination, a common refrain in our household, but nonetheless suggested I stay close.
Our conversation then pivoted to the mundane plans for a Walmart run, a debate over lunch, perhaps
the Mexican place near the superstore, or maybe a Waffle House. My allowance had just arrived,
and the prospect of a new wardrobe for my Barbie doll filled me with far more immediate excitement
than the lingering chill of the library encounter. Ultimately, we decided on grabbing groceries
from Walmart and heading straight home. Monthly allowances from my grandparents meant these trips
often included a fun toy, a cherished ritual for me and my sister. Mom, ever so calmly, guided me
back to the young adult section. The man was gone. Though calm, my mother was far from foolish. We
found Babs, our older sister, a worldly almost 20-year-old at the time, exactly where I’d left
her, only to discover she’d been in the restroom when I’d frantically searched for her. After
hearing my mother’s explanation of the incident, Bab’s reaction was one of immediate apprehension.
“That’s seriously creepy,” she affirmed. But she wasn’t keen on joining us at Walmart. She
offered a comforting squeeze of my hand and a quick kiss on my cheek before promising to wait
for us at the library. With a final agreement, Mom and I checked out, hopped into the car,
and made the short half-mile drive to Walmart. It was a different era, and my free-spirited
nature meant I often roamed unsupervised under my mother’s watchful yet distant eye. The earlier
disqued, replaced by the giddy thrill of spending my allowance on Barbie accessories. As mom
headed for the toiletries, shampoo, and soap, I presumed, she allowed me to wander ahead into
the adjacent doll aisle. I rounded the corner, my eyes alike with anticipation, only to find
him there. The same man from the library, standing eerily still amidst the racks
of Barbie clothes. A wave of pure, unadulterated terror washed over me. I froze, my
small world momentarily tilting. Before I could process the shock, he took a few swift steps, his
voice asking, “Do you like Barbies?” I was mute, my gaze fixed on some insignificant detail at the
end of the aisle, my mind screaming to escape. I eventually managed to shuffle away, seeking out
my mother, my voice trembling as I blurted out that he was here at Walmart. Without a word, she
abandoned her shopping cart, her pace surprisingly swift. I followed, watching her confront him
at the end of the girl’s toy aisle. Her voice, usually soft, was laced with an unyielding steel
as she demanded, “Do you enjoy bothering little girls?” Her hand instinctively gripped the
beeper in her pocket. A silent yet clear threat of calling the police. A powerful gesture
in a time before cell phones. A tense standoff ensued. The man finally raising his hands in
concession before hastily retreating. Mom, who never ever left a shopping cart unattended,
grabbed my hand and we practically ran to our car, the man nowhere in sight. We didn’t stop anywhere
until we reached the library to pick up Babs, then drove straight home. With dad working on
a contract five states away, a chilling fear lingered. If this man had followed us to Walmart,
he might follow us home. We sought refuge at our landlord’s house, staying there until he could
check our trailer and the surrounding property. Nothing further transpired, yet the library books
I’d so eagerly acquired remained unread that week, their pages untouched. I hadn’t thought about
this chilling incident until very recently. To the man who stalked an 11-year-old, I hope our paths
never cross again. Around the same age, 10 or 11, I discovered Skype, a marvelous invention
that allowed me to connect with friends when we couldn’t meet in person. One evening while
chatting with a friend, her father unexpectedly asked her to give me his Skype ID. My parents
hadn’t taught me about the darker intentions adults could harbor and having spent considerable
time in my mother’s office surrounded by various grown-ups, I felt a sense of normaly and security.
I messaged this man who was about 40 and married at the time, and we began to chat frequently. For
a considerable stretch, our online conversations felt benign enough. a gradual easing into the
personal. He’d inquire about my daily life, my interests, my nent friendships, his questions
seemingly innocent. Yet, despite our frequent chats, he consistently demurred when I suggested
a video call, always citing a poor internet connection or a broken camera. I was often
disappointed by this, never quite understanding why he preferred the anonymity of text. In my
youthful naive tay, I utterly failed to register the creeping undertones of his inquiries, even
when he delved into my budding romantic interests. He’d ask if I found myself drawn to boys or
girls, and then, with subtle but unmistakable insinuation, hint at his own developing feelings
for me, never explicitly stating, “I have a crush on you,” but dancing around the edges of the
sentiment until it was impossible to ignore. Then, just as abruptly as it began, all communication
ceased. He simply vanished from my online life. I felt a pang of confusion, perhaps a touch of
hurt, but it quickly faded into the background of typical pre-teen concerns. School, friends,
and the everyday dramas of adolescence soon absorbed my attention. The only instance when a
genuine ripple of unease surfaced about him was much later when a guidance counselor at my school
pulled me aside. her voice hushed to ask if I had ever communicated with him. A cold certainty
settled in my stomach. Yes, would land him in serious trouble, though I couldn’t articulate
why. Instinctively, I denied any interaction, claiming I’d never spoken to him. It was only
later that I pieced together the horrifying truth. He was under investigation for the exploitation
of other young girls in our town. My lie, born of childish protection, had unwittingly prolonged
the danger. My path then led me to an altogether different kind of unsettling discovery. Our town
harbored the remnants of an old asylum complex, a sprawling collection of buildings mostly
demolished or repurposed over the years. One structure, however, remained. Its architecture
suggesting it might once have been a radio room or a similar operational hub. As I explored its main
floor, my flashlight beam cut through the dust, revealing a set of stairs descending into the
unknown. The basement, I quickly discovered, was a murky expanse of flood water roughly 2 ft
deep. A distant memory stirred. The complex was riddled with maintenance tunnels. This, I thought,
could be an intriguing entrance. I retreated, gathered my boots and waiters, and returned to the
watery underworld. The basement was an absolute mess. Rubbish floated everywhere, a testament
to years of neglect. But my hope of finding the tunnels was dashed. Their entrances were solidly
bricked off. Disappointed, I turned to leave. But as I adjusted my footing, I tripped over something
submerged. Stopping to regain my balance and survey my grim surroundings, the flashlight
beam danced across the water, and I gasped. The entire floor beneath the shallow flood was a
macob tapestry of various animal parts and bones. My eyes fixed on a dog, its body unmistakably
spled open, the precise cuts revealing it had met its end not by natural causes but by human hands.
It lay there barely submerged in an inch or two of water, a silent, sickening tableau. I had stumbled
upon some deranged individuals makeshift animal sacrifice altar. A cold dread enveloped me, and I
scrambled out of that place with a speed born of pure terror. Just a week later, that very building
was consumed by fire, a chilling, if fitting, end. My professional life has also offered its
share of quiet anomalies. I work the night shift at an alarm company, monitoring residential and
commercial alerts across the city. My office is a small solitary domain, just six or seven rooms,
including the front desk and a conference room. Every night unfolds in much the same way, a quiet
vigil punctuated by routine trips to the restroom or to refill my water bottle. There was nothing
out of the ordinary until one evening, a few hours into my shift. I stepped out to use the restroom
and noticed the light in the front desk area was undeniably on. It certainly hadn’t been on during
my previous trips, and I would have noticed. While I’m not easily startled, this felt distinctly odd.
I walked in, flipped the switch off, and dismissed it, not giving it a second thought as I continued
my duties. From my office, I have a clear view of the entire space via security cameras. I would
have seen anyone if they were there. A few minutes later, the office phone rang. An unusual
occurrence at that particular hour. I answered, but no one spoke. There was a subtle rustle,
a faint shift of movement, enough to confirm someone was indeed on the other end. I repeated,
“Hello,” a few times. Checking the caller ID, it simply readconerence 1. The conference room was
only a few feet from where I sat. I immediately hung up. My gaze snapped to the camera feed for
conference one. Nothing. The room was clear. the phone exactly where it had been all night.
Still, a chill pricked at my skin, and I walked out to the conference room myself, to be met with
absolute silence and an empty space. It shook me, but I clung to my rational mind. If I didn’t see
it, it couldn’t get to me. I shrugged it off, determined not to dwell on it, and thankfully,
nothing else occurred for the remainder of my shift. My own personal encounters with the
inexplicable began much earlier. This story takes place when I was 15 in England where I live.
It has truly haunted me since. One Wednesday night around 11 p.m. I was engrossed in a video game
when an unexpected knock resonated through the house. It was a highly unusual occurrence for that
hour, unsettling in its very suddeness. My mother was the one who went to the door. The unexpected
rap on our front door late on a Wednesday night when I was just 15 pulled me from the virtual
world of my video game. My mother went to answer, but the sheer strangeness of the hour drew me down
our square spiral staircase. From the top landing, I could peer over the balcony into the dimly
lit hallway. The outside was even darker, making it hard to discern much through the glass.
When mom opened the door, two men stood there. She later described them as tall, pale, clean
shaven, and quite muscular, dressed in black suits with what she thought sounded like German accents.
They offered no explanation for their presence, no greeting, no demand. Their only question, repeated
twice, was whether I was home. What truly unnerved me, however, was that they didn’t just ask for me
by my first name. They used my full name, Trotton, a surname not commonly known, much less associated
with the second doctor. My mother, quick-witted and protective, immediately claimed they had the
wrong house, and swiftly closed the door. She then instructed me to stay out of sight, convinced
they were still outside, scrutinizing our windows, trying to confirm if I was indeed there. After
what felt like an eternity, perhaps 20 minutes, they finally moved from the pavement. But my
mother remained wary, certain they would still be watching from their car. So, I stayed hidden
a while longer. The entire incident was deeply intimidating, especially for a 15-year-old who had
never caused a day of trouble in her life. 3 years have passed and I’ve heard nothing more from them.
I still wonder who they were, what they wanted, or if it was truly as malicious as it felt. My
theories range from a bizarre prank by a friend involving a religious group to somehow ending up
on some unknown list or perhaps a consequence of my deep web searches. My journalistic endeavors
once led me to an interviewee who shared a truly disturbing childhood memory. As a young girl,
perhaps 8 years old, she would repeatedly come downstairs at night, insisting there was a man
hiding in her closet. Her father, a man of logic, would gently dismiss her fears, assuring her
that bogeyman wasn’t real, sending her back to bed. This routine played out for about a week.
Eventually, frustrated, he marched into her room, declaring he’d prove there was nothing
there. As he reached for the closet door, he opened at a crack, only to feel an unseen force
slam it shut again. It turned out there really was a man in her closet. This individual was a pervert
who had been sneaking into the house every night, lurking in the closet and watching the girl as
she slept. Her father brutally beat him, and the man was subsequently sentenced to many years
in prison. I researched her story two decades after the fact. The man had just been released,
and his whereabouts were unknown. A year ago, at the close of my first year at university,
our fine art program arranged a drawing trip to a picturesque beach and cliffside location. My
friend and I wandered away from the main group, exploring castle gardens that ultimately led us
down to a secluded beach on the other side of the cliff. We spotted some of our tutors nearby, so
we knew we weren’t too far from our bus meeting point. Deciding to take the scenic route, we
began navigating the rocky edge of the cliff to reach our designated beach. It was essentially
a scramble over massive boulders. Halfway across, we realized the tide was rapidly coming in,
threatening to trap us. Just as we debated our next move, a voice uncannily similar to
one of our tutors called out, “Hey girls, what’s the time?” We looked up expecting to see
our tutor, but instead there stood a fully naked man on the cliff edge, hands on his hips. Our eyes
widened in confused horror, and a stunned silence fell between us. He repeated his question, so I
mumbled the time. He simply stood there watching us before eventually turning and climbing
away. We raced against the incoming tide, making it back to the main beach just as the
water lapped at our feet. When we reported the bizarre encounter to our actual tutor, it turned
out many other people had also seen the naked man. It was an incredibly unsettling experience.
My father, in a rather unsettling revelation, once claimed to have been involved in a satanic
cult in his younger days. From what he divulged, it appeared to be a genuinely sinister
organization, reportedly engaging in necrilia and explicit worship of Satan. Membership in this
sinister cabal necessitated a pentagram tattoo, a mark my father still bore, though now
hidden beneath another design. Its faint, unsettling contours, were still discernible. He
maintained the group, supposedly based in Arizona, was responsible for dark deeds, including murder.
He confessed to joining them in a moment of profound despair, his mind reeling from the brutal
slaying of his wife and child. Though he insisted he committed no atrocities himself, he admitted
to exacting revenge on one cult member whom he believed had orchestrated his family’s demise.
He recounted a particularly harrowing incident during his time with them. A phone call ostensibly
from his deceased grandmother. He swore her voice was unmistakable and her parting words, “I’ll
see you in hell, Eric.” followed by a chilling maniacal cackle cemented the horror. After his
eventual departure from that dark fraternity, a chilling suspicion began to form in my mind.
Something might have clung to him. A malevolent presence that upon his growing frailty a year
ago redirected its focus to me, sensing a new, more vulnerable target. The only other plausible
explanation I could conceive dated back to when I was seven, an outof body experience where I
distinctly recalled a shadowy entity trailing me, much like a scene from a psychological horror
film. While a part of me struggled to fully accept my father’s fantastical claims, the visible
tattoo served as undeniable proof of his past, and the cult itself, typical of the mid80s to9s,
was likely long dissolved and dormant. My senior year of high school brought a memorable,
if unsettling, trip to Greece. Our small liberal private school didn’t believe in rigid
itineraries. So our group, seven students, myself being the only senior, along with a few
juniors and underclassmen and two teachers in their early 30s, simply immersed ourselves in the
culture, sites, and cuisine. After five nights in Athens, we planned a weekend excursion to Deli.
On our fourth evening in the city, we embarked on a 20-minute walk to a local restaurant.
As is customary in many European countries, dinner was a late, leisurely affair, and by the
time we finished, it was likely between 10:30 and 11 p.m. Yet, the central square still buzzed
with a decent number of people. While navigating the square, I paused to select a song on my iPod,
inadvertently falling a little behind the group. It was then I noticed him, a man sprinting across
the square, stopping abruptly just behind the last of my classmates, and then maintaining an
unnervingly consistent pace about 8 to 10 ft back. I suddenly alerted one of our teachers, who,
after a quick glance, confirmed my suspicion and urged us to pick up our pace. The man, in turn,
accelerated. Soon, we were in a full-blown sprint, darting across streets and weaving through
traffic, a frantic chase by a stranger through the Athenian night. After a terrifying 5-minute dash,
we burst into our hotel lobby. The man hot on our heels. He was intercepted by a quick-thinking
manager who, after a swift conversation in Greek, explained that the man was Romanian, spoke
little Greek, and was vague about his intentions. Frankly, I found the manager’s explanation far
more vague than reassuring. The entire encounter left me profoundly shaken, my sense of security
shattered. We departed for Deli the following day, but the memory of that night, an event from 2011
or 2012, has lingered, a chilling testament to random urban fear that I’ve only now found the
courage to articulate. Approximately six or seven years ago, a different, more sustained sense
of dread began to unfold. An experience I’ve largely kept to myself. I was 12, living with my
parents in a quaint, secluded town in Britany, France. We’d moved from the city 2 years prior,
embracing the tranquility of a place where our nearest neighbors were a good 500 m away, a common
enough distance in that rural region. My days revolved around attending the local middle school,
a 10-minute bus ride away. The journey from our house to the bus stop, however, was a kilometer
long trek on foot. To reach our home from the bus stop, one had a choice of four distinct paths. One
was considerably longer, skirting a particularly hazardous road, while another offered a slightly
more direct route, albeit still lengthy. The shortest route, my customary choice, meandered
through quiet country lanes. It was an innocuous path until one crisp October afternoon, as I
made the familiar turn towards home, a figure materialized. He was perhaps 18, older maybe, with
an unsettling intensity in his gaze. He called out, his voice sharp, waiting for me to turn fully
onto the lane before falling into step behind me. My intuition screamed and I halted, turning to
face him. “Please, just go away,” I pleaded, unsure if he was a new neighbor or something
far more sinister. His response was chilling, delivered with a casual cruelty that belied
the terror he was inflicting. “He informed me he’d been paid to sexually assault me, and
if I ever spoke of it, he would kill my family and me.” A glint of metal flashed as he revealed
a large knife. At 12 or 13 years old, this was an unimaginable horror. I fled, propelled by pure
adrenaline, bursting through our front door, locking every bolt, and cowering until my parents
return at 6. From that day on, for several months, he was a silent, predatory sentinel. I’d
spot him waiting at the familiar turn, forcing me to abandon my usual path and take
detours through the woods. The cat and mouse game became a grim daily ritual, an unspoken
pact of terror. He always found me eventually, no matter which route I chose. One afternoon,
the game escalated into a nightmare. He attacked, lunging at me with the knife, intent on his dark
purpose. I ran for my life, a primal scramble through the undergrowth, barely evading his
desperate thrusts. I escaped physically unharmed, but the price was a brown shirt torn and abandoned
in my frantic flight. My parents, to my crushing disappointment, had initially dismissed my fears
when I first told them about the man. They saw it as childish overreaction. But after the physical
assault, the denial shattered. We went to the police. It was then I learned the horrifying
scope of his depravity. I wasn’t his only victim. He had sexually assaulted several young girls,
though mercifully he hadn’t killed anyone. His actions, the police explained, were rooted in
severe mental illness. He had been released from prison 3 years prior. Later, a girl attacked
2 years after me shared a small yet profound piece of news. He had been apprehended and jailed
once more. A wave of profound relief washed over me then, and still does. The thought that no one
else would suffer at his hands, that this reign of terror was finally over, brought an unexpected
peace. My attention then turns to a more recent, albeit equally perplexing phenomenon, the
transformation of my former elementary school. After my departure, the building closed its doors
only to reopen years later as an unconventional church. This wasn’t your typical small town
chapel. It had expanded into a sprawling complex boasting dozens of rooms, an architectural scale
that felt almost disproportionate for a house of worship. As an irreligious person, I’ve never
attended church services, so I often wonder if its unique characteristics are normal. The
first oddity that struck me was the complete eradication of the old playground situated behind
the main building. In its place now stretched an expansive field of pristine white gravel. While I
considered it might serve as an overflow parking area, I’ve never witnessed enough congregants
to necessitate such a vast space. Driving past one evening after dinner, another bizarre sight
caught my eye. An ancient, severely damaged car, appearing scorched and sliced in half, protruded
eerily from the front yard. Painted starkly across its mangled frame were the words, “The end
is near.” The abruptness of this apocalyptic pronouncement, coupled with its grim appearance,
felt less like a religious message and more like a deliberate act of fear-mongering. A acquaintance
who actually attended this church shared even stranger observations. The chapel, once the
school gym, was now painted entirely jet black, every wall shrouded in an oppressive darkness.
Two colossal flat screen televisions dominated the space, ceaselessly flashing the phrase,
“God is good,” at a dizzying pace. He also confirmed something I’d noticed myself from
casual drives. The congregational demographics were remarkably skewed. All the women appeared
to be young, ranging from 16 to 20, while the men were invariably much older. Furthermore, I’d
often witnessed men in dark suits patrolling the grounds at night like unofficial guards,
though their presence was sporadic. Their methods of traffic control were also peculiar.
They would completely block the road without any reflective gear to allow their churchgoers to
exit, preventing any other vehicles from passing until they deemed it appropriate. Separately,
these details might seem like isolated quirks, but woven together, they created a tapestry of
unsettling curiosity, peing not only my interest, but also that of those around me. I specifically
sought out the acquaintance who had attended, pressing him for more details. He recounted
witnessing numerous ballots, all of whom, he remarked, seemed utterly lifeless, their
eyes blank and distant. He also suspected a curious link to a local Chick-fil-A, noting that
a disproportionate number of its female employees were church members. Coincidence perhaps, but it’s
another piece in this increasingly bizarre puzzle. I was nine when I asked my dad for my path. At
the age of seven, took an unexpected turn towards the musical. My father, a professional musician
himself, arranged for me to begin piano lessons. My teacher, a man named Scott, was by all accounts
a kind and patient instructor. He was also a jovial man, frequently hosting weekend bonfires at
his property, inviting our extended family. These gatherings were a blur of rock music and cold beer
for the adults. While for us children, my father’s three daughters, I was the eldest, and the three
children of his partner, it meant marshmallow roasting and boundless energy spent running wild.
Scott was always eager to join our games, and in our young eyes, he was the epitome of fun, never
too busy to engage. Between the ages of 5 and 12, we would clamber all over him, dressing him
up, pouncing, and dissolving into giggles at his tickle attacks. While, as an adult, red
flags now scream from these memories, back then, we simply relished the attention from an adult
who seemed to genuinely enjoy our company. I even recall a cassette tape where we were
recording a mock news broadcast only for him to burst in with a tickle ambush. I haven’t found
a player for it, and honestly, I’m not sure I ever want to listen. As I edged towards my pre-teen
years, around 11 or 12, a subtle shift began. I, as the eldest girl, started to notice a distinct
favoritism from Scott. He adored the drawings I made for him, seemed to particularly enjoy having
me on his lap, and during the short motorcycle rides he offered each child around the block. Mine
was invariably the longest. He once took me all the way to a Target, buying me a dress that was
undeniably too short, highlighting my legs in a way that now makes me cringe. Another time, while
sunbathing at a beach party, I could feel his gaze on me lingering through his sunglasses. And here’s
the unsettling truth. At the time, I craved that attention. Constantly competing with five other
children, boisterous teenage boys and younger girls, I rarely sought special notice from my dad
or his fianceé. But Scott’s focus made me feel sophisticated, intriguing. Eventually, the easy
camaraderie faded. Scott and my dad’s band drifted apart. A new pianist joined, and the bonfire
invitation ceased. I had already stopped piano lessons by 11, switching to the clarinet. For a
long time, I didn’t give it much thought. Then, when I was 16, my dad called my sisters and me
into a family meeting. Scott, he revealed, was in jail. He had been arrested for sexually assaulting
a 12-year-old girl who, despite his threats, had bravely told her parents. My dad confessed
he had begun to suspect something was a miss, particularly after the incident with the short
dress. Suddenly, everything clicked into place. I struggled with a storm of emotions. Nothing had
happened to me. Yet, the unsettling implication of his thoughts, his desires, was undeniable. Had
I, a 12-year-old desperate for adult validation, unwittingly invited that attention. I was shocked
by his arrest. Even then, now as an adult, my understanding of sexuality is deeply fractured,
and my trust in people is minimal. I often wonder what, if any, part of this is connected to him.
Occasionally, the devastation still washes over me that someone I admired so much could harbor such
sinister thoughts about me, about my developing body. Years later, at 18, a mundane afternoon
outing brought a different kind of unsettling encounter. My mother, sister, and I were browsing
in our local Target when I recognized Stacy, a girl my age who I used to go to high school
with. Having dropped out my senior year, it had been about a year since I’d seen anyone from my
old school. I offered a quick, dismissive glance, certain she wouldn’t recognize me. A few minutes
later, on the opposite side of the store, our eyes met again awkwardly. I tried to walk past, but
this time she spoke. “Hey, didn’t we play tennis together?” Stacy asked, her eyes wide, her smile
almost painfully large. Another girl stood beside her, but I didn’t know her. I simply offered a
turse yes. I had never been friends with Stacy in school. In fact, I’d never really spoken to her
at all. Despite my attempt to pass by unnoticed, Stacy, a girl I vaguely remembered from high
school, broke the silence. Her eyes wide and an almost unnervingly cheerful smile on her
face. She initiated conversation as if we were old friends picking up where we left off.
She inquired if I still attended high school, to which I explained my early graduation via
online courses. The initial exchange felt benign, a simple catching up after my absence from
the school scene. I wanted to cut it short, but Stacy’s persistence was unwavering, proddding
me with questions about my current activities, college plans, and general experiences. They
were harmless questions, and I didn’t mind answering them. But then the conversation took
a sharp, unexpected turn. Stacy, with an almost practiced smoothness, maneuvered the discussion
towards God and Christianity. While I consider myself a Christian, I’m certainly not the type
to constantly evangelize or quote scripture to strangers. When she asked if I attended church, I
responded affirmatively. Her eyes widened further, and her smile stretched even larger, becoming
almost grotesque. Her testimony, delivered in an oddly robotic tone, felt less like a personal
sharing and more like a carefully rehearsed script. She spoke of her past high school years,
painting a picture of superficial happiness masking deep sorrow. But then she announced, her
smile unwavering, I found this incredible church. It showed me God’s true path, his boundless
love. He accepted me completely and he will you, too. Now with God by my side, I am always
happy. The claims grew bolder. At this church, God literally manifests before your eyes. He cured
all my physical and mental sufferings, even my old tennis knee injury. There was no genuine emotion
in her voice, just wide eyes and that unfailing, unsettling smile. Then Ashley, her friend, who
appeared to be in her late teens or early 20s, began to speak. All the while, my mother
and sister were just an aisle away, waiting patiently for me. Ashley echoed Stacy’s
sentiment, speaking of her own battles with severe depression and suicidal thoughts. Her words,
though laced with an uncomfortable familiarity, seemed to resonate. She described feeling dead
inside, even using the unsettling term zombie, before this church opened her eyes and heart. The
implication was clear. I too must be feeling this inner deadness and only their church could
offer salvation. It was at this point that a genuine sense of unease began to prickle. Her
tone then shifted almost conspiratorially. It’s no accident we met you, Ashley insisted, a glint
in her eye. God led us here. He showed me a vision of you opening a present, and that present
is our Lord and Savior. She spoke of destiny, of a divine hand guiding our chance encounter with
both her and Stacy placed specifically in my path to facilitate my spiritual awakening. A cold jolt
ran through me. Ashley’s mention of depression and suicidal ideiation struck an uncomfortably
familiar chord. I had wrestled with my own dark thoughts for years, a private torment no one
knew about. For a fleeting, desperate second, a flicker of hope ignited. Could this be a sign? A
divine nudge to finally seek help to open up. But as Ashley dove deeper into the specifics of their
church, that fragile hope quickly evaporated. The conversation swiftly moved to the extraordinary
nature of their congregation. They emphasized it wasn’t a normal church, claiming that God
himself in flesh and blood appeared before them, listening to their please and healing them of all
misery and grief. Ashley produced a business card featuring the church’s email, a Bible verse,
and unsettlingly her personal phone number. As our prolonged conversation finally drew to a
close, they reiterated how cool I was, expressing their gladness to have met me. Then, with an
abruptness that mirrored their approach, they turned and walked away. As I slowly walked away,
my legs felt strangely heavy, almost rubbery. A chilling realization solidified in my mind. This
was a cult. Their unnervingly uniform mannerisms, the almost rehearsed cadence of their testimonies,
all screamed of a carefully crafted script. Just then, my sister found me, her presence a welcome
anchor, and confirmed my worst suspicions. She had apparently overheard Stacy and Ashley delivering
the exact same spiel to another unsuspecting girl on the opposite side of the store moments before
they ambushed me. It was all a performance, a meticulously orchestrated recruitment drive,
not a genuine, serendipitous encounter. This stark realization wasn’t merely a conclusion. It was a
profound unraveling of their calculated game. a subtle yet insidious method to draw new faces into
their fold. With me, they had skillfully woven my college experiences and academic trajectory into
their conversation, probing for common ground. For the other girls, their approach was a symphony
of compliments, an earnest seeming fascination with artistic pursuits. I found myself haunted
by questions. How many had they approached? Were they simply cruising the aisles, hunting for
vulnerable souls? The sheer volume of unknowns nodded at me. As a person with a faith of my own,
their fil pronouncements about God felt less like devotion and more like a tool, a means to an end,
unsettling me deeply. In retrospect, there’s a certain dark humor in recollecting their zealous,
almost manic declarations of faith, a caricature of devotion that now strikes me as comically
unhinged. Yet the unease persists. If anyone possesses insight into the minations of cults,
how they ensnare and indoctrinate, I implore you to share. Was this merely an attempt at
evangelism, a clumsy overture of misguided piety, or something far more sinister? I wish I knew.
My hope is to never cross paths with Stacy again, a hope tempered by the chilling knowledge that
our college campus will soon be a shared space. My urban explorations occasionally led me to a
vast abandoned munitions factory, sprawling for square miles, its desolate roads winding through
forgotten landscapes. One evening, under a shroud of late twilight, a low thrming sound began
to vibrate through the stillness. It grew steadily into a thunderous beat, and my instinct
screamed, “A helicopter flying unnervingly low.” It materialized over the distant treeline,
perhaps half a mile to the east, its powerful search lights cutting through the gloom, pointing
directly down. Without a second thought, I dove into the deep ditch bordering the road, burrowing
myself into the dense scrub, a desperate bid for concealment. The helicopter never reappeared
that night, nor did I encounter another living soul. But that brief, tense moment, illuminated
by an unseen menace, left me profoundly shaken. I grew up with the church, though my attendance is
sporadic now, my perspective having broadened with age and experience. A personal detail relevant
here. I live with cerebral palsy, a condition that impacts my motor functions and affects
my leg muscles. I’ve undergone two surgeries, so I’m intimately familiar with the awkwardness of
being an object of pity. I can navigate the world perfectly well with or without my orthosis.
Anyway, there was this particular church I attended with my father, stepmother, sister,
and older stepsister. I’ll call it church of the corn to spare the institution itself from
this isolated incident. Their brand of worship could best be described as exuberantly fervent,
but that’s not the crux of the matter. The issue lay with the youth pastor and my sister’s rather
strained relationship. I, on the other hand, got along with him well enough, though I wouldn’t
have called us friends. Yet a specific incident involving him still compels me to maintain a
certain distance from churchgoers during services even to this day. One evening, my sister and I
were among a group of church friends, some of whom are now part of a much more tolerable youth
group, mercifully spared the trauma of reenacting Jesus’s crucifixion, though that’s a story for
another time. I found myself perched in the front row, observing the service with my characteristic
quiet reserve. My mind, I admit, often drifted, grappling with the perceived absurdity of it all.
I was zoning out as the pastor delivered a typical evangelical sermon when suddenly I felt his
hand on my knee. “I want this boy to run, jump, and walk,” the youth pastor declared, his voice
cutting through my mental fog. It took my mind a disorienting second to process what was happening.
“I’m generally a physically affectionate person. I welcome hugs, handshakes, and other expressions
of warmth. But with this man, a subtle distrust lingered. I froze, feeling a chilling sense of
being exploited, used as a prop for his sermon, an element in his broader agenda. The moment
service ended, I bolted to my sister. She had witnessed the entire unsettling exchange, and
her response, for which I will always adore her, was immediate and intuitive. She prompted me to
jump and run around, guiding me through the church sanctuary until the uncomfortable feeling began to
dissipate, replaced by a sense of liberation. That fleeting feeling of unease always returned when
I saw him, and I soon found myself drifting away from that church. My role on the evening shift,
concluding at midnight, always involved a thorough sweep of the vast warehouse. This wasn’t merely
about security. It was a critical health and safety check ensuring the morning crew due in at
7:00 a.m. would face no unwelcome surprises. While I’m terrible with precise dimensions, imagine
a colossal multi-story supermarket, that’s the scale we’re talking about. One particular night,
however, pushed the boundaries of routine into the realm of the truly unsettling. I was running
considerably behind schedule alone in a cavernous space, the clock nudging 12:45 a.m. The top floor,
laid out in endless, narrow picking aisles like a retail labyrinth, led to a small packing area
where I was completing my final paperwork. Every single aisle lay cloaked in impenetrable
darkness, the main lighting system long dormant. My only sanctuary of light was the small packing
bench where I stood, positioned just off the end of one such aisle, giving me a long, unobstructed
view down the entire length of the top floor. I just penned the last signature when a distinct
click echoed, and a strip of lights flickered to life at the extreme far end of the aisle before
me. The sudden illumination revealed nothing but a bare wall and a fire door, stark against the
gloom. My first thought was sheer bewilderment. I knew unequivocally that no one else was here.
I had personally watched the last staff members depart a full 45 minutes earlier. Yet a presence
had triggered the lights. A cold dread began to seep into my bones as one by one each subsequent
section of the aisle began to illuminate. A chain reaction of light advancing steadily towards me.
It was as if an invisible entity or person was walking deliberately down the aisle, activating
each segment of lighting as they passed. The hairs on the back of my neck stood rigid, and I found
myself utterly paralyzed, watching as the entire expanse of the aisle pulsed with light segment
by segment until it reached its culmination just a few feet from where I stood. I didn’t wait
for whatever was there to manifest further. Suffice it to say, I never again volunteered for
a solitary late night shift in that warehouse. The memory still sends shivers down my spine. My
next venture led me to a defunct industrial plant already slated for demolition, nestled deep
within the urban sprawl. The cover of night, I reasoned, would be my best ally for a solitary
reconnaissance. My primary objective, the rooftop, where an ancient, forgotten billboard
promised unparalleled views of the winding freeway and the city’s towering highrises.
Navigating the main floor in utter blackness, my meager flashlight beam a solitary guide, I
sought the crucial stairway. After a prolonged search through the ground floor’s sprawling, empty
expanse, I finally located an ascending flight. The second floor, a mirror of the first in its
profound darkness, still beckoned. I pressed on, my small light carving fleeting tunnels through
the gloom, intrigued by the genuinely diverse layouts on each level of this century old
structure. The architectural eccentricities were fascinating, a testament to a bygone era.
Ascending to the third floor, I veered right, immediately entering a palpable void. It felt
vast, an echoing cavern of unseen dimensions. As I swung my flashlight, its beam danced across
the walls, revealing the first hint of something profoundly out of place. Intricate patterns
drawn entirely in red. As my light swept further, the chilling realization dawned. I was in a room
completely encased in these crimson designs. The graffiti wasn’t random. It was a deliberate,
almost hieroglyphic language, a tapestry of sun glyphs interwoven with unmistakably satanic
iconography. Then my beam settled on the peace to resistance, a sprawling mural of serpents, more
glyphs, and other arcane symbols that screamed of ritual. I felt a primal fear seize me, freezing me
in place for what felt like an eternity, perhaps 10 minutes, fully expecting fanatics to emerge
from the shadows, and accost me. The urge to flee was overwhelming, and I wasted no time in making
my hurried exit. The shift back to a less overtly dangerous but still peculiar memory takes me to a
festive albeit unsettling Christmas season when I was 12. My mother, my cousin, a year my junior, my
best friend, and I embarked on a shopping trip to Walmart. I was even then precociously independent,
often venturing solo to the movies or the mall or simply exploring stores alone while my mom
shopped, never encountering any trouble. So with customary freedom, us girls immediately gravitated
towards the vibrant holiday section, leaving my mother to her own retail pursuits. Amidst the
festive displays, two colossal man-sized figures dominated the scene. A cheerful Santa and a
jovial snowman. These animatronic giants were designed to dance and belt out Christmas carols,
their mechanical magic a highlight of the season. However, some mischievous soul had repositioned
them before our arrival, turning their massive forms to face each other. Now, as they burst into
song and dance, their bulbous, fabric-covered stomachs, and their bulbous, fabriccovered
stomachs smacked together with each synchronized swing. It was a crude juvenile prank set in motion
just as we approached. I remember standing there utterly mesmerized watching these two enormous
ridiculous figures sing and hump for our dubious entertainment. A deep chuckle rumbled beside me.
Pretty funny, huh? Did you like watching that? A man’s voice queried. My cousin and I exchanged
a nervous side glance, unsure how to react. Even at that young age, I instinctively knew
his comment was inappropriate, though I lacked the specific understanding of what exactly
made it so gross. When the display concluded, he asked, “Do you want to watch it again?” “No,”
I said, grabbing my cousin’s hand and pulling her from the aisle. He didn’t follow. We eventually
drifted into the toy section, drawn by the allure of Barbie dolls. As I browsed, a subtle shiver
ran down my spine. the familiar sensation of being watched. I glanced up and there he was, the
same unsettling man from the Christmas department, now at the far end of this aisle, his eyes fixed
on us. My body went cold. He began walking towards us. Come on, we have to go. I hissed, yanking
my cousin’s arm. She was completely oblivious, stamping her foot in childish protest. I dug my
nails into her arm until she finally looked up, saw him approaching, and allowed me to pull her
away. As we fled the aisle, he hurled a vile epithet at me, his face contorted in a furious
snarl. We ran blindly through the sprawling store until we found my mother, who I recall was
browsing in the crafts department. We breathlessly told her we’d seen a creepy guy, but for reasons
I still can’t quite articulate. Perhaps fearing a loss of our independence, we omitted the details
of him following us or his menacing outburst. To this day, I hope never to cross paths with that
Christmas pervert again. Moving to a different kind of local menace, there’s a particular cult
near my hometown. Most people have concluded that they engage in animal worship and perform
pagan rituals, often involving burning animals alive to elevate them to a higher existence.
Animal carcasses have been found throughout the surrounding swamp, and I myself once stumbled
upon a skinned cat there. The perceived epicenter of their activities is a local landmark, a bridge
shrouded in eerie legends of haunted mansions, cemeteries, and suicides, earning it the ominous
moniker Satan’s Bridge. Like me, many local kids are drawn to it for spooky adventures. Almost
two years ago, my friends and I were exploring the area when several cars, flashing their lights
and blaring their horns, chased us off. Last year, I returned with a much larger group, only to be
pursued with even greater ferocity, nearly driven off the road. A few months after that harrowing
incident, we came back armed with guns. Though the only thing we encountered was a hooded figure
peering over the bridge’s railing, we didn’t dare go looking for them. More recently, during another
visit, we heard distinct whistling and at one point, a girl’s scream. One of our most recent
attempts was met with an immediate oppressive sense of dread and the undeniable feeling of being
watched as soon as we turned onto the road leading to the bridge. Another time, we decided to test a
local urban legend. If you park your car near the bridge at night, turn off all the lights, a pale
girl will run from the woods begging for help. We parked and waited for 10 minutes and indeed
something moved in the woods. We were genuinely excited, thinking the legend was true, but we were
mistaken. As soon as we rolled our windows down, the sounds of barking dogs echoed from the
shadowy figure. It became chillingly clear that we were being observed by whatever group
worships there. We waited to see what the man, for it was a man we discerned, would do, but he
simply stared at us from the dark woods. I share these experiences not out of fear, but because I
find the entire situation incredibly intriguing. I’ve often wondered if others have similar stories
or if anyone has suggestions for what my friends and I should try next. We’ve been quite dedicated
to understanding this group for some time. About 6 years ago, when I was still in high school, living
in my parents’ house, I had begun. My awareness of the world has long been punctuated by encounters
with the truly inexplicable, forging in me a steadfast conviction in the paranormal. I believe
there are forces at play, mysteries we can’t fully comprehend, and a deep need for vigilance against
them. For years, every morning between 4 and 5:00, disembodied whispers and almost demonic cadence
would emanate from the head of my bed. Initially, I dismissed it as my radio, a comforting presence
I’d slept with since childhood. But then, a chilling realization dawned. I hadn’t had
a radio by my bed since I was 12. Each dawn, I would wake with a jolt, confirming the radio was
indeed off, its silence amplifying the spectral chorus. That same unsettling period brought
other peculiar phenomena. I recall standing in the bathroom preparing for a shower. The only
sound, the running water, the shower door firmly shut. The bathroom door was closed, too. The vents
silent, the tiny window latched. Yet before my eyes, an untouched roll of toilet paper began to
unwind itself from its holder. Not just a little, but nearly half the roll spilling onto
the floor in an impossible cascade. My childhood was also marked by nights spent in
bed, feeling an invisible presence tugging at my blankets, creating a bizarre game of tugof-war,
my small hands desperately clinging to the fabric. Even younger, I would sense things on the top
of my bed, prompting me to instinctively flail my legs, sometimes making contact with something
unseen, pushing it away. While my cats were often the culprit, there were many nights my door was
closed, none of them able to enter my room. Later in life, I took a security position at a hospital.
One night, summoned for the graveyard shift, I encountered a member of the cleaning staff.
Something about them felt off. We chatted briefly, and they broached the subject of ghosts, asking
if I believed. It was between 2 and 3:00 in the morning, and they even remarked that spectral
activity tended to peak at those very hours. Perhaps an hour or two later, as I patrolled
the halls, I bumped into a different cleaner. I asked her about the other person I just
spoken to, the one who’d been working in this section. Her reply sent a shiver down my spine.
There had been no other cleaner in that area, only her. Years before, when I was around 6
or seven, my divorced mother had a boyfriend named Dave. He was a laid-back guy, often
bringing me cool graphic t-shirts and toys. But our connection never deepened into genuine
friendship. I saw him only a few times a week, always in my mother’s company. Their relationship,
in short, lasted only a few months, and Dave and I lost touch. When I inquired why they’d
broken up, my mother simply stated he was too crazy for her. I wouldn’t fully grasp the
extent of that craziness until weeks later. Dave began showing up at our house uninvited,
multiple times, bearing gifts for my mother and pleading for her to take him back. Each
time he was turned away, but his persistence was relentless. He started appearing at my
mother’s workplace, mailing unsolicited items, and generally escalating his unsettling behavior.
This relentless harassment continued for weeks until inexplicably it just stopped. Then about
a year ago, my mother confided in me, sharing a piece of information she deliberately withheld
when I was younger. After months of silence, Dave had somehow uncovered details about my
father, his name, his workplace, and placed a call to his company. By a cruel twist of fate, my
father himself answered. Dave’s call was entirely unexpected. My dad knew nothing of this man who
was claiming to be my mother’s ex-boyfriend. Dave then asked my father for personal details
about me, my current location, my availability. When my dad pressed him for a reason, Dave
chillingly stated he wanted to take me to an amusement park. Just the two of us. Thankfully,
my father, bewildered and suspicious, immediately ended the call. My father, unnerved, abruptly
ended the call and immediately informed my mother. The news sent a shiver through her, a horrifying
confirmation that the man who had tormented her years ago was now attempting to insinuate himself
into my life, using an innocent outing as a pretense. To this day, the true depth of his
motives remains a chilling unknown, a thought I prefer not to revisit. The memory alone is
enough to curdle my blood. My current workplace, a Jimmy John situated in the less savory part of
town, primarily involves night shifts. These hours are typically slow, meaning the only people in
the store are usually myself, the manager, and our delivery driver. A few months back, as the school
year began, we experienced a wave of resignations, leaving us with a significant number of vacancies.
One evening, just as we were preparing to lock up, a man entered. An immediate sense of alarm,
a primal instinct, surged through me. He was dressed in grimy clothes and shivering
uncontrollably despite the relatively mild outdoor temperature. What truly caught my attention
was his posture. He was wheeling a bicycle in one hand and in the other clutched an open carton
of buttermilk. He mumbled something about having submitted an application long ago and wanting to
follow up. I offered to check with my manager, who listening through our headsets from just
around the corner, had already gleaned enough from the man’s demeanor. He’s trouble. My manager’s
voice crackled. He told me in his interview he was homeless and carless. And just look at his
arms. I stole a quick glance, my stomach churning at the sight of numerous track marks, unmistakable
evidence of introvenous drug use. Just get rid of him, the manager urged. Turning back, I delivered
a practiced line about the position already being filled. His face contorted in annoyance. Without
a word, he spun his bike around, flipped me off, and then with a shocking violent gesture curled
the half- empty buttermilk carton against our pristine glass door, splattering its contents
across the entrance and floor. He vanished into the night. I was left to clean up the mess. Later,
after we’d finally locked up, I spotted a figure on a bicycle across the street, seemingly watching
the store. We called the police, then quickly made our escape. Nothing ever came of it. I suppose his
only goal was to unnerve us. College brought with it a different kind of thrillseeking. My friends
and I, while not self-proclaimed ghost hunters, shared a pension for nocturnal excursions into
the deep woods surrounding our remote university, seeking out forgotten houses, crumbling
gravestones, and other derelict vestigages of the past, an easy enough pursuit in our isolated
region. Our favorite haunt was a secluded park home to an ancient covered bridge notorious
for its spectral reputation. The haunting, we explained to newcomers, was a trick of the light.
At the far end of the bridge, a solitary lamp cast the shadows of surrounding trees into a vaguely
humanoid figure. When one sat in the middle of the bridge, the wind would sway these shadows, giving
the illusion of the figure slowly advancing. It was a potent psychological prank, and we
relished bringing unsuspecting friends here for a good fright. It was a muggy Wednesday night
in late summer, well past 2:00 a.m., deep into our summer break, with nothing but time on our hands.
We piled into the car, eager to introduce a fresh batch of recruits to the bridgeg’s chilling
allure. The drive itself was an adventure. treacherous winding roads, steep hills, and
rocky terrain that eventually led us deep into utter seclusion. Not a single other vehicle on the
road. We arrived at the bridge, a familiar ritual, though tonight the moonlight struggled to pierce
the dense canopy, making the distant light almost imperceptible. Still, the pervasive shadows
promised a solid scare. As always, we positioned our car squarely in the middle of the covered
bridge, killed the engine, and extinguished the headlights, plunging us into absolute darkness.
Almost immediately, our new companions gasped, then shrieked, pointing wildly at the shadowy
apparition that seemed to materialize at the bridge’s exit. We played along, figning terror,
amplifying their fear with dramatic whispers and gasps. But tonight, something felt genuinely
off. the shadowy form. The typical spectral illusion at the covered bridge had undergone
a chilling transformation. This wasn’t a play of shifting branches, but something unnervingly
concrete, a silhouette that defied the usual trick of light. A shared silent glance with my friends
confirmed their recognition of the profound shift in atmosphere. Then the impossible occurred.
The figure, previously at the bridgeg’s far end, had repositioned itself directly in front of our
car. A surge of raw panic compelled me to activate the headlights, hoping to dispel the escalating
reality. But the blaze of light didn’t make it vanish. Instead, it revealed a person clad in
a dark hoodie, head bowed, steadily advancing towards us. “Just a prank,” I desperately
reasoned. Someone must have seen us arrive familiar with our little ghost game and decided
to mess with us. We rolled down our windows, yelling, “All right, you got us.” Very clever.
Yet, the figure offered no response, no flicker of acknowledgement. Assuming they were just
committed to the act, we cautiously reversed out of the bridge, heading up the winding hill to a
secluded parking lot about a minute’s drive away. We needed a moment to catch our breath, to let the
adrenaline subside. This particular lot, even on a busy midday weekend, was only ever a quarter
full with hikers, a popular trail access point. At 2:00 a.m. on a Wednesday, it should have been
utterly deserted. The scene that confronted us was profoundly disquing. Every single parking space
was occupied. Considering the park gates closed at dusk, this was an inexplicable sight. We pulled
into the center of the packed lot, bewildered. I, having grown up in the area, knew the sheer volume
of cars was equivalent to the population of our nearest small town. We sat in stunned silence
for five, then 10 minutes, exchanging bewildered theories. Suddenly, two German shepherds darted
down the hill, pausing briefly by our car before vanishing into the surrounding woods. The new girl
in our group, her face a mask of absolute horror, urged us to leave immediately. Confused but
unnerved, I quickly agreed, putting the car in reverse. She explained, her voice tight with
terror, that the area was rife with cult activity, and German shepherds were commonly used
in their rituals, likely for sacrifices. I couldn’t attest to the veracity of her claims,
but that night was the last time I ever saw her, and I never ever returned to the covered bridge.
That unsettling incident occurred when I was in junior high, roughly a decade ago. It brings
to mind another memory from much earlier, from my first or second grade, before my family
moved to a different part of the city, though I remained at the same school. Back then, my friend
Addie and I always took the bus together. She was the first friend I ever made at school, and we
remained close throughout elementary school, only drifting apart as we entered middle school.
Our bus driver seemed like a friendly enough man. I don’t recall many specifics of his appearance,
mostly just a face, as my attention on the bus was usually consumed by my dolls, my friends, or the
myriad other preoccupations of a kindergartner or first grader. But his behavior towards Addie and
me was distinctly different from how he treated the other children. For our birthdays, he would
sing happy birthday and encouraged the other kids on the bus to join in. I’m still not sure
how he even knew our birthdays, but I suppose we were kids, prone to excited chatter. He also
invariably referred to Addie and me as princess. It wasn’t a general term of endearment he used
for every girl. It was specifically for us too and perhaps one or two other select children.
We were so young that the subtle differences in his treatment were anything other than a benign
eccentricity. It wasn’t until several years later, deep into my middle school years, that the
disturbing truth surfaced. Our former bus driver had been fired and subsequently arrested.
the charge. Attempting to prevent a female middle schooler from disembarking his bus, forcing her
to scream for help or perhaps call for assistance, the specifics remain hazy. Regardless, he was
incarcerated for holding a girl against her will. Reflecting on his peculiar behavior towards Addie
and me, I can’t shake the chilling conviction that given the opportunity, he would have attempted
something similar with us. It was unnerving enough to be singled out as young girls and treated with
such strange favoritism. A starkly different yet equally unsettling experience unfolded during
a school excursion to Paris. I was just 12, though my stature and early puberty often led
adults to assume I was older, perhaps 14 at most. One afternoon, while browsing a quaint Parisian
shop with my classmates, I became acutely aware of the shopkeeper, a man in his late 30s or early
40s, his gaze fixed on me. It wasn’t merely a stare. It was a leerous lear as he repeatedly
uttered Bisu Bisu. My French was rudimentary, and none of my companions understood the phrase,
but an undeniable wave of discomfort washed over our entire group, prompting our hasty departure.
Later, when we consulted our French teacher, the meaning was revealed. The repulsive man had been
propositioning me for a kiss. The sheer audacity directed at a 12-year-old was sickening. Just last
night, a palpable sense of unease descended upon my friends and me during what began as a routine
evening walk. The afternoon had already been unexpectedly chaotic, but as the air cooled to a
pleasant warmth, we decided a stroll through our hometown, where most of us resided, would clear
our heads. It was a familiar ritual, one we often undertook individually, so a group of seven, two
15year-olds for 16year-olds, and 1 month shy of 17 felt inherently safe. We’d been walking for
over an hour, heading towards our usual turnaround point, an ice cream parlor. the furthest
destination from our meeting spot. We were already halfway home from there when we approached
a busy four-way intersection dominated by a Dunkin Donuts. Laughter filled the air as we discussed
something trivial when suddenly a woman across the street erupted into a piercing scream. She was
clearly middle-aged, perhaps late 40s to mid-50s, and verged on what one might call crazy. “Wait,
wait, stop!” She shrieked, then dashed heedlessly across the intersection, weaving through traffic
directly towards us. Every instinct screamed at us to turn and flee. But the cruel irony was that
our route home lay in the very direction she was charging from. “We reached the intersection
just as she collided with our group. “Hello, teenagers,” she declared breathlessly. “Will you
come to our concert tonight? We’ve got all sorts of bands, pure teenager music, and there’s
free pizza, snacks like brownies and cookies, even a popcorn machine. Her breathless, insistent
tone was deeply disconcerting. We tried politely to decline, explaining that dusk was settling and
we needed to get home, but she was relentless, cutting us off at every attempt to speak. One
friend tried to tell her she didn’t like that kind of music, but the woman, quick as a flash,
countered, “Oh, it’s all kinds of music. Come on, you’ll love it. And if you don’t, you can just
walk right back out. It’s just a mile up the street right over there. Come on, you’ll fit
right in.” With that, she began to physically push us in the direction of her supposed concert,
trying to hurt us into following her. This was the most overt red flag yet, solidifying the profound
discomfort we all felt, though we still tried to laugh it off nervously. My cousin, quick-witted,
feigned a phone call. Our town had notoriously terrible cell service, so I knew she was bluffing,
a fact that only amplified our underlying anxiety. Hello. Oh, yeah. We’re on our way back now. Be
there in a few minutes. Sorry, my dad’s calling,” she announced loudly to the crazy lady. The
woman, however, barely registered the ruse, her focus unwavering as she continued her aggressive
persuasion. By now, the sun had almost completely dipped below the horizon. We desperately wanted
to escape, to just be home. But first, we needed to tell our parents. That’s when her true agenda
unfurled, delivered with a chilling nonchulence. Oh, no need to tell your parents. It’s only a
short walk up the road and you all have phones, right? Just call them when you’re on your way. The
absurdity was suffocating. We exchanged frantic glances, our eyes silently pleading with the
Dunkin Donuts across the street to somehow pull us to safety. No one dared speak, paralyzed by the
bizarre situation. “Don’t worry,” she continued, a saccharine smile on her face. It’s in a
church. Nothing bad will happen to you. Our nervous chuckles and muttered protests were barely
audible. It runs until 9, she announced. Well be there in half an hour. She then gestured to
another woman and two children in identical yellow t-shirts who now sprinted across the intersection
towards us. As they drew near, their discomfort was palpable. These kids looked like they’d
rather be anywhere but here, their eyes wide with a silent plea. The other woman, older with
stark white hair, joined the chorus of invitation. “These guys are coming to our concert,” she chimed
in as the yellow shirt began distributing flyers. “They don’t know anyone yet.” “Perfect. That was
it. Our patience and our nerve snapped. We had no intention of being lured into whatever this was.”
With a silent agreement, we made a break for the crosswalk, giving them a false promise that we’d
totally come later. We practically sprinted into Duncan Donuts, seeking refuge amongst the few
other patrons, hoping safety in numbers would protect us from the street strange emptiness.
To that crazy lady and her unsettling entourage, attempting to ensnare a group of kids into a cult
church concert, I have one fervent hope. May our paths never ever cross again. My city harbors an
ancient pulking industrial complex, a factory that ceased operations four decades ago. Its silent
shell now a magnet for curious trespassers. Over the years, adventurers have left their marks
and discovered curious relics within its echoing chambers. One particular space, a time capsule of
the 80s, overflowed with unopened cassette tapes, forgotten dolls, and inevitably a symphony of
graffiti, unsettling scrolls, cryptic symbols. hinting at dark rituals and strange pronouncements
adorning every surface. As with any such forgotten monument, an intricate web of local legends had
spun around it, none verifiable yet potent enough to send shivers down the spine. A few years
back, a friend and I, drawn by the siren call of its decaying grandeur, decided it was time
for our own reconnaissance. We circumnavigated the entire perimeter, a frustrating quest for an
entry point. Every window was hermetically sealed with rough planks, the old loading docks welded
or nailed shut to the ground, massive metal doors secured with heavy chains and formidable padlocks.
After nearly 30 minutes of fruitless searching, we finally located a rolling industrial door that
with considerable effort, we managed to pry open a mere foot from the ground. It was just enough for
us to squeeze under, army crawling into the murky interior. Our flashlights cut through the gloom,
revealing a room populated by motheden mannequins and a mangled bicycle. Nothing overtly sinister,
just the usual detritus of abandonment. We had barely ventured 10 ft into the cavernous space
when a sound, chilling and utterly out of place, echoed from a distant corridor, perhaps 50 ft
away, a low guttural chuckle, deep and resonant. Without a moment’s hesitation, we
scrambled back through the opening, fleeing into the night with a speed born of pure
primal fear. I was a 17-year-old growing up in a quiet New England suburb, and about 3 years ago,
I endured what remains my most harrowing childhood experience. School, for me and my closest circle,
was a monotonous obligation we actively resented. My best friend Kevin and I were cut from the
same cloth, small in stature, big on mischief, and adept at slipping past unsuspecting faculty
and navigating tight spaces. One ordinary morning, a spontaneous decision to ditch school, took hold.
Our school’s perimeter fence, a flimsy deterrent at best, posed little challenge, and with no
security cameras to betray us, our escape was effortless. The path beyond the fence unfurled
into a long, almost forgotten road flanked by derelict houses, a ghost of a neighborhood.
This stretch was profoundly desolate, its only inhabitants a handful of elderly residents,
making the odds of our truency being noticed practically negligible. It was a well-known haunt
for local kids, boasting a small wooded area and dense brush, an ideal hideaway. With nobody
else around to disrupt our clandestine outing, our immediate plan was to head to Kevin’s
house. Kevin’s place was our target, closer than mine, and we took the usual shortcut
through the deserted back streets. A mere few minutes into our walk, a figure appeared on the
horizon, perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead. Of average height, their stillness was unnerving, and
they wore a mask, a hyperrealistic horse’s head. A cold jolt ran through me, a prickle of unease
on my skin. “Hey, nice mask, dude,” Kevin mumbled, his voice a little too loud, trying to inject
bravado. “No reply.” The figure remained frozen, a silent ecoin sentinel. “It’s not even Halloween,
bro,” Kevin added, his tone now laced with genuine bewilderment. “Still utter silence.” We exchanged
a quick, nervous glance, then decided to turn back. As we pivoted, another figure, this one,
shrouded in a chilling rabbit mask, materialized barely 10 yards behind us. Then, from the shadows
of the derelict houses, more began to emerge, each brandishing a grotesque animalistic mask. One
clutched a gleaming cleaver, another swung an axe. My breath hitched in my throat as I watched one
of them holding a cat casually plunge his knife into the struggling animal. A sickening gurgle,
a final twitch, and the small life extinguished. My stomach plummeted, a cold, empty pit forming
within me. Kevin’s face, etched with pure shock and disgust, mirrored my own horror. We
were surrounded. The masked figure stood in a terrifying silent semicircle, their weapons
glinting with what could only be fresh blood. “Dude, that’s asterisk blood.” “Asterisk!” Kevin
whispered, his voice trembling. I merely nodded, unable to speak, and subtly gestured towards a
dense cluster of bushes nearby. Our instincts screamed, “Run!” We didn’t hesitate. Adrenaline
surged, propelling our legs as we bolted, screaming past the motionless figures with a
desperate speed I hadn’t known we possessed. Our heavy backpacks, usually an incumbrance, felt
weightless in that moment of pure flight. We tore through the thorny thicket, knowing it would lead
to a more populated road. They didn’t pursue us into the dense foliage. Our lungs burned, our
faces probably ghastly with unadulterated terror. We eventually found an alternate, significantly
longer route to Kevin’s house, a detour we were more than willing to take after the hellish
encounter. I still don’t know who those masked individuals were, or what their sinister
intentions truly were. They seemed like members of some twisted cult preying on unsuspecting kids, or
perhaps just deranged psychopaths enacting a sick, elaborate prank. Yet the persistent local rumors
of missing children in the area always circled back to that day. A chilling belief that those
figures were behind the disappearances. Reporting it to the police felt feudal. Their reputation
for incompetence in our small town was legendary. From that day forward, skipping school became an
unthinkable risk. We never spoke of the incident to anyone, terrified of the repercussions for
our truency. But even now, the memory sends a shiver down my spine, a stark reminder of the
horrors we narrowly escaped. I was 14 then, naive and sheltered, when one sleepless night,
restless and bored, I logged onto a chat site. I figured talking to strangers might help pass the
time. Within 15 minutes, a private message popped up. I remember the username clearly, loving
dad or lovely dad, something to that effect. He introduced himself with a simple hi and asked
for my details. I innocently provided my real age and last name. We talked about Disney
movies for about an hour. Nothing creepy, just light-hearted banter. He seemed funny, and
I, in my youthful judgment, believed him to be a genuinely good person. I never thought to ask
his age, nor did it cross my mind to care. As sleep finally began to claim me, I told him I
needed to log off, but he insisted on staying in contact. I saw no reason not to. He knew so much
about movies, I simply assumed he was around my age. I gave him my Skype ID. For the next week,
our chats continued. Then came the video call. That’s when I saw him and he told me he was 30. It
felt a little odd, I admit, but not inappropriate. He wasn’t conventionally ugly, and at 14, I felt
a peculiar sense of maturity in conversing with an older man. But then the dynamic shifted.
After I returned from a short vacation, our conversations took an insidious turn. He
began steering them towards increasingly sexual topics. “You have such red,” he’d typed, leaving
the sentence hanging. “Your lips,” he typed, the words lingering on screen. I’d love to kiss
them. I remember a nervous giggle escaping me, a reflex born of discomfort more than
amusement. Then came the chilling request, “Would you call me dad?” My child’s mind, grasping
for an excuse, blurted out something about already having a father. His reply, “But I would love
you more,” sealed the creeping dread. Red flags, vibrant and undeniable, began to wave. After
that unnerving exchange, I feigned exhaustion, logged off, and the next morning summarily erased
him from my digital life. A couple of years prior, in my early teenage years, I was staying at a
friend’s house. Boredom, as it often does, sparked a quest for adventure. My friend proposed what
he called a drainage ditch adventure, a seemingly innocuous exploration that would soon descend into
something far more unsettling. It was a crisp, cool fall evening, the sun already dipping low in
the sky as my closest friends and I left one of their homes and set off down the street. We cut
through a small thicket of woods, reaching the ditch my friend had described. To access it, we
had to scale a fence, a flimsy barrier separating the quiet suburban houses from the concrete line
drainage channel. Once over, the ditch itself was surprisingly easy to traverse, almost like a
miniature road stretching for a considerable distance, though parts were heavily overgrown with
trees. After walking for a short while, we reached the mouth of a tunnel, a dark moss shrouded by
an overlapping hill and dense vegetation. Using our phones as makeshift flashlights, we ventured
into its quickly darkening interior. Not far in, the walls began to reveal layers of graffiti and a
multitude of spiderw webs. Upon closer inspection, however, this wasn’t typical adolescent tagging.
We found ourselves confronted by unintelligible script and unsettling occult symbols, pentagrams
among them, scrolled across the concrete. The deeper we pressed into the tunnel, the more
disturbing the imagery became. As we continued, a low-pitched hum, barely discernable at first,
began to emanate from the tunnel’s unseen depths. With every step, it grew audibly louder, cementing
our collective unease. We were thoroughly creeped out, convinced something strange was unfolding.
Before we could decide to turn back, I spotted them. Two glowing dots, eerily aligned, that had
suddenly materialized deeper within the tunnel. At that point, a silent agreement passed
between us. It was time to get the hell out, but not before I hastily snapped a few photos
of the cryptic writings and symbols on my phone. For whatever reason, those images must have been
deleted later. I can’t find them now. Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to distance myself from
the possibility of being associated with whatever sinister cult might have left those markings.
We arrived home physically unscathed, but with a truly unforgettable and unsettling tale. This
next incident unfolded during my 8th grade school trip to Philadelphia, a historical tour that had
us staying at a Hilton in downtown. One afternoon, after returning from a visit to the Liberty Bell,
our group of 10 headed to a nearby 7-Eleven for lunch. The store was packed, and its labyrinth and
shelves made it easy to get separated. I was at the counter waiting for my slice of pizza when
a man appearing to be in his early 30s entered the store. He loitered idly as the clerk prepared
my order. The moment I had my pizza in hand, he approached me. He asked for a favor, brandishing a
$20 bill in my face, and instructed me to meet him outside. Keep in mind, I was only 12. I stood
there rooted to the spot, utterly bewildered, my mind blank. Fortunately, my teacher, a
formidable man easily 6 and 1/2 ft tall, stroed over. He informed the man he was my teacher
and that any requests should be directed to him. I suppose the man was the imposing presence of
my teacher seemed to deter him instantly. With a dismissive, almost resigned, “Oh, okay.” The
man turned and exited the store. Though I had no intention of following his chilling instruction,
the sheer thought of what might have transpired had I gone outside with him sent a fresh wave
of dread through me. That experience solidified my reluctance to ever visit Philadelphia
again until I am a full-g grown adult.
50 Frozen TRUE Scary Stories You’ll Never Forget ❄️🔥
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From mysterious disappearances to chilling encounters with unseen creatures, these stories are not for the faint of heart.
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