Let's Share Some Spooky Stories!

[Spookie Monster]

The nights grow longer; a chill wind blows; dry leaves rustle in the treetops.  Once more the season of the witch has returned.  Let me suggest to the good members of Elliquiy that in celebration of it we share some spooky stories.

For a few years we engaged in a round of hyakumonogatari kaidankai, the ancient Japanese tradition where people tell stories amid one hundred candles, extinguishing them as they go.  That went fairly well -- at least until the very end.  I would now like to begin a round of de duizenderotischeprikkennacht, the ancient Dutch tradition where brave storytellers gather together to tell one thousand spooky stories.  When that final story is concluded, the storytellers will experience a wonderful and strange visitation from the Otherworld.

So they say.

If you have a spooky story to offer, please post it in this thread.  It can be true or somewhat less than true; it can have happened to you or to someone else; it can be brief or lengthy.  Ghost stories, urban legends, terrifying parables, and tales of woe are all welcome.  Stories can be eerie, gory, even humorous.  I encourage you to tell multiple stories, although I do recommend including only one story per post.  Finally, please give credit where credit is due.  Minor editing of a source is perfectly acceptable.  Your own stories are great!

But where to start the tale of a thousand tales?  Such a long journey must begin with a particularly bold step, don't you agree?  Hmmm...  I think that I'll lead with W. Somerset Maugham's rendition of "The Appointment in Samarra," which I'm adapting from here.


The Appointment in Samarra

There was a goodhearted merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to the market to buy provisions.  In a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, "Master, just now when I was in the marketplace I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me.  She looked at me and made a threatening gesture.  Master, I beg you, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate.  I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me."

The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs into its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went.

Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he found Death standing in the crowd and he marched to her.  "Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?" he demanded.

"That was not a threatening gesture," she said.  "It was only a start of surprise.  I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra."


Brrr!  Perhaps a hint as to what awaits us?

Spel

[Spookie Monster]

Permit me another!  I'm lifting this one from here, but E.F. Benson's classic short story "The Bus-Conductor" has sparked a number of inspired variations...


Elevator Lift

There was a young woman who had just started a new job in a tall office building.  She was walking to work one day when a long black hearse pulled alongside her, matching her pace.  This made her nervous and she anxiously watched it out of the corner of her eye.

The driver called to her in a deep, booming voice: "Do you need a lift, miss?"  She turned to look at him; his skin was deathly pale.  The man gestured to the rear of the vehicle, which contained a coffin.  "Room for one more," he said.

Profoundly disturbed, the woman ran down the street until she came to the office building where she worked.  For the rest of the day, she couldn't stop thinking about the strange man in the hearse.  She was relieved when it was time to go home.

The woman worked up on the ninth floor and when the elevator came it was almost completely full.  She hesitated.  "Room for one more," said a familiar booming voice.

The woman gasped.  The elevator operator was the hearse driver from that morning.  The woman backed away, stammering, "I... I'll take the stairs!"  The man just stared at her as the doors slid closed.

The woman had only taken a few steps when she heard first a loud bang, then a chorus of screams, and finally a deafening crash.  She hurried downstairs.  When she arrived, she was told that the elevator cable had broken; all of the passengers aboard had plunged to a grisly death.


Do you have a spooky story to share?  Room for many more!

Spel

[Jag]

We should never forget that less is more and nothing is scarier than the unknown.



"I can't sleep," she whispered as she crawled into bed with me.

I woke up cold, clutching the dress she was buried in.

[Lilias]

Nothing like two-sentence horror stories.



A girl heard her mom yell her name from downstairs, so she got up and started to head down. As she got to the stairs, her mom pulled her into her room and said, 'I heard that, too.'

[Jag]

The Doll by Carly Davis

Hayden had gotten the doll in the mail. She didn’t know who it was from, seeing as there was no name on the box and no return address. The doll was beautiful. It stood three feet tall and had long dark brown hair. Its blue eyes looked far too real in her porcelain face. The doll's features had been made to give her a delicate and pleasant countenance.

As she took the doll out of the box it had come in, Hayden noticed a sealed envelope attached to the bottom. She looked at the front of it, which read, “to you,” took the card out and began reading:

Now that I’ve found you

We’ll never be apart

Hayden was totally unaware that she had been reading the message aloud. As she continued looking at the card, she was suddenly overcome with a weird, eerie sensation as though someone were watching her. She looked toward the doll and saw that the doll was looking right back at her, which was weird because she could have sworn her head had been turned down when she had taken her out of the box. What was even creepier was the fact that it looked as if the doll was trying hold back a smile; the type of smile that said, “I have a secret.”

Putting the note on the table, Hayden picked the doll up and stood it in the corner of her living room. For the next ten minutes she walked through her apartment tidying up and trying to shake off the eerie feeling she had gotten from the doll.

At about two o clock that afternoon, Hayden thought that it would be good idea to get out of the apartment for a while, so she decided to visit her sister. Her older sister, Paige, was the only family she had left. Ever since they were little girls the two of them had been extremely close. As she walked out of her apartment building, Hayden signaled for a taxi; fifteen minutes later the driver pulled up to her sisters building.

“Thanks,” Hayden said to the driver, handing him a ten dollar bill.

Hayden walked up to the buildings intercom and rung for her sister.

“Hello?” Paige asked.

“Hey Paige, it’s me.”

The door buzzed as her sister let her in. Hayden took the elevator up to the fourth floor and as the doors opened she was met by her big sister.

“You didn’t have to meet me, I could have rung the doorbell.” Hayden said as her sister hugged her.

“It was no bother, I missed you. Paige responded. “So how are things?” She continued as the two of them walked to the apartment.

“As good as can be expected.” Hayden responded. When they reached the apartment, Paige made some tea and the girls sat down.

“I’ve been thinking about mom a lot lately.” Hayden stated.

“I hope you haven’t been blaming yourself for what happened. You know that wasn’t your fault.” Her older sister responded seriously.

Hayden couldn’t help but think about the hard time she had been having over the past couple of years, taking care of her mother who had developed schizophrenia. Her mother had made her miserable to the point where she couldn’t have anything else to do with her. Hayden had decided that their mother would be better taken care of in a mental institution, to which Paige had agreed. Both girls had continuously visited their mother in the hospital for months, but eventually their mother became more violent and the visitations stopped completely. A year later the girls’ mother died alone in her room at Point View Psychiatric Hospital. Hayden took it especially hard; she loved her mother more than anything, but during her last years she had become a totally different person, cursing her out, hitting her, and having hallucinations. In the end she couldn’t take it anymore, she wasn’t strong enough for it; she wasn’t strong at all.

“You have to move on.” Paige told Hayden. “Mom would have wanted both of us to.”

“I know,” Hayden responded plaintively.

“I got a doll in the mail today.” She said, deciding to change the subject.

“Yeah?” her sister said, happy to be talking about something else.

“Yes, she’s beautiful, she looks…”

“What?” Paige asked as she noticed her sister had stopped talking.

“She looks a lot like the ones mom used to get us when we were little girls, only this one is taller.”

“Who sent it?” Paige asked as she felt a sensation that was one of fear creeping up the back of her neck; fear not for herself but for her sister. It was ridiculous she knew, but she couldn’t help it.

“I don’t know, there was no name or return address.” Hayden responded.

“That’s weird.” Paige stated, trying to shake off the strange feeling.

Over the next few hours, the girls drank tea and Paige decided to fix dinner. They ate and talked about more positive things. Pretty soon Hayden decided that she’d better get back to her own apartment.

Outside she hailed a cab and relaxed in the backseat. The driver pulled up to her building fifteen minutes later and Hayden got out. Opening the door to her apartment, Hayden realized she was exhausted; all she wanted to do was get some sleep. She walked to her living room, turned on the light and stopped when she saw the doll. Hayden couldn’t help but think that the doll looked like a real human girl standing in the corner. She was so life like and she reminded Hayden of someone, she just couldn’t put her finger on who. Finally, Hayden crossed the living room and made her way toward the hallway; far too aware that the dolls eyes were following her.

She walked into the bathroom and jumped into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go. As she stood under the hot water, Hayden thought back to the conversation she had with her sister about how the doll looked like the ones their mother used to buy them when they were children. It seemed like some weird coincidence, like maybe her mother had somehow sent this doll to her; after all, there was no name and no return address. Hayden eventually turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. Wrapping the towel around her, Hayden suddenly froze; there was laughter coming from the living room; a way too familiar laugh. Opening the bathroom door, Hayden slowly made her way down the hall toward it. As she stepped into the room, Hayden’s eyes collided with the dolls and a fear so great seized her that she could hardly breathe. The dolls facial features seemed to be changing; seemed to be becoming more human like. Its eyes now were so intense and alive that Hayden felt as if this thing wasn’t really a doll at all but something very different, something evil but at the same time, familiar. As she stared at the doll, Hayden realized that it was beginning to look more and more like someone she knew;

It was beginning to look like her mother.

Grabbing the doll, Hayden ran to her hallway closet and threw it inside, slamming the door shut. She kept telling herself she was being ridiculous and that she needed to get some sleep; but she couldn’t knock the fear or the feeling that her mother was still around.

◊

Hayden didn’t know what it was that woke her up at first. Maybe it was the fact that she had a bad dream, or maybe she had to use the bathroom. But as she opened her eyes she suddenly knew exactly why she had woken up; there was a noise coming from the hallway. It was the sound of a door creaking open, and then the small patter of footsteps.

Please no, she thought as the footsteps got closer. Her door was cracked open and she couldn’t for the life of her move to close it. She could only sit in bed and wait for whatever was to come next. The footsteps continued and then stopped, right outside her door. Hayden could now see the shadow of two very small feet through the crack at the bottom of the door. Slowly her door opened a little wider and the doll pushed its head through the opening, the delicate, and pleasant look on its face now replaced by a look of pure evil.

What did I do?, Hayden thought as the doll stood in her doorway staring at her, the eyes which had once looked alive and life like, now looked black and dead, but still as intense as the first time she had took her out of the box.

The doll was saying something and although Hayden couldn’t hear its voice, she was able to read the dolls lips,

“You know what you did.”

“What do you want?” Hayden suddenly screamed at the doll as she found her voice.

She stared in horror as the doll began walking toward her and Hayden heard its voice for the first time.

“Now that I’ve found you, we’ll never be apart.”

Hayden screamed at the top of her lungs as she realized she was staring face to face not with a doll anymore, but with her mother...

When the darkness came, she didn’t try to fight it.

◊

“How long has she been like this?” Doctor Niles asked the nurse as he observed her through the one- sided mirror.

“She’s been like this for hours, all she does is stare blankly at the wall; she hasn’t said a word,” The nurse responded.

Doctor Niles opened the connecting door and stepped into the room that Hayden had been in for the past few hours since being transferred from the hospital.

“Hello Hayden, I’m Doctor Niles. You’re at Point View Psychiatric Hospital.”

Hayden continued to stare blankly past the doctor, mumbling something inaudible.

Doctor Niles continued, “Can you remember what happened?

No response. Doctor Niles tried a new direction.

“Your sister is here I’ll go get her so that you can talk to her.”

As Doctor Niles left the room, Hayden continued to stare blankly but her voice grew a little louder.

“Now that you’ve found me, we’ll never be apart.”

Just then Paige stepped into the room holding something behind her back.

“Hi sweetie, how are you feeling?” Paige asked devastated as she thought about how familiar this whole situation was.

Hayden could feel the tears stinging her eyes as she began to shake everywhere; that feeling again, she thought.

“Oh no Hayden don’t cry. Look, I’ve brought you someone to keep you company.” Paige stated, holding up the four foot doll.

Hayden looked up at the doll with her mother’s face and screamed at the top of her lungs as she now understood that she had never really gotten away from her mother in the first place, and she never would.

“What’s wrong?” Paige asked genuinely perplexed as she looked from her sister to the doll. From what Paige could see it was the most beautiful and pleasant looking doll she had ever laid eyes on.

Just then Doctor Niles stepped in and turned to Paige, “I think it would be wise if we kept her here for now.

She’s beginning to show signs of schizophrenia.”

[Lilias]

After working a hard day I came home to see my girlfriend cradling our child. I didn't know which was more frightening, seeing my dead girlfriend and stillborn child, or knowing that someone broke into my apartment to place them there.

[Jag]

More two line horror stories!



They said I'd experience "phantom limb syndrome" when it would sometimes feel like my arm was still there.

They didn't say I'd wake up at night to it strangling me.

[Ryven]

"I can't move, breathe, speak, or hear, and it's so dark all the time.  If I knew it would be this lonely, I would have been cremated instead." 

[SinXAzgard21]

I thought I'd make a nice dinner for my wife.  I wonder if she'll recognize the taste of her lover.

Best I got, just woke up. V.V

[Jag]

1001

“The Moores are having a baby.”

I glanced up from the table, surprised. “They got the okay?”

My husband nodded. “The paperwork came in today, so I heard.” He lowered his eyes in sorrow. “Poor Joanna.”

“She’s only 53,” I breathed.

A bead of sweat dripped down my brow, landing on the cool, concrete floor of the bunker. I tried to remind myself to be thankful for this place, this concrete tomb, but it grew more difficult each day. Perpetuum Technologies, the company that sprung up just in time for the largest nuclear war the world had ever seen, had designed the vault to sustain one thousand people for as long as it took the surface to be inhabitable again.

Exactly one thousand people.

Poor Joanna indeed.

[Formless]

A folklore story from my town. It could be too graphic or disturbing. So read it under your own discretion.

The Jinn's Fire

They will always tell you never to drive alone in the desert. Do not say ' You go on ahead and I'll follow you later ' , when you plan on a picnic or a camp trip. When the sun goes down , and the fiery redness across the sky is the only ray of light , the lone person will see far in the distance the flare of a camp fire. You're riding the path your friends have given you. Or maybe you're going back to the highway through the same path you came through. So you think to yourself , that's where they are. You drive towards it. And as you climb over that dune that obstruct your view , you realize the fire is on the far right from where you remember. Did you make a sharp turn while scaling that dune? But you keep on driving there , and no matter how long you've driven , the fire only remains further from reach. Until the night falls and all around you is pitch black.

Finally you see the fire growing closer , and closer. And as you stop to dismount your ride. Be it your trusty 4x4 or a galloping horse. You step closer into the fire. Its bigger than you expected. Not as huge as a bonfire , but much bigger than your camp's fire , or so you remember.

The fire's light around you luminate what seems to be a village. You're standing in the middle of a village. Houses of stone and dirt. And the ghastly silhouette of people approaching. You call for them. But was that such a wise choice when the fire's light finally unveil their marred faces. Clawed and scarred. And as one step closer to you. You can see their nails. Longer , with a flickering surface. Their nails are made of copper. And they're punished to forever mar themselves with their own claws. Until they please the Jinn who cursed their bodies. They gather around you. There's already one between you and your ride. And so you storm through them to escape. What could they possibly want from you. And you never wish to know.

But this is when you realize your doom. The village , every nuke and turn is blocked by a house. It never made sense how you made it into the village. But as you stumble and run , fleeing those demons  you lose your breath and they catch up.

You scream to reason with them. But they drag you by your feet and you feel their nails ripping through your ankles. And as they approach the fire , they wrap you in a red cloth. A tight wrap much like a mummy. And even though you scream and beg , it falls into defiant ears. And they slowly ease you into the fire. Watching it as it eats your body through your helpless screams. Tills your ashes remains and blown by the winds of the next morning.

[Euron Greyjoy]

Getting married.

[Lilias]

The last thing I saw was my alarm clock flashing 12:07 before she pushed her long rotting nails through my chest, her other hand muffling my screams.

I sat bolt upright, relieved it was only a dream, but as I saw my alarm clock read 12:06, I heard my closet door creak open.

[Valerian]

When my older sister was born my parents moved into a small house and in that house the door to the laundry room was right across the kitchen table.  So my sister would often be seen sitting in her highchair waving and staring and giggling while looking into the laundry room.  This behavior continued for a long time and when she could talk well enough they asked her who she was talking to.  She said "The little boy."

My parents asked if he was nice and after this she waited a moment and then replied "Yes."  Some time after this she seemed to forget all about it and my parents dismissed it as an imaginary friend.  They never mentioned it after that.

When I was born, I exhibited the same behavior while sitting at the table and when I could talk they asked me who I was talking to.  I replied "The little boy."  Once again they asked if he was nice and I said the same thing as my sister -- with a slight difference.  "Yes," I replied.  "But I think he is lying."

[Spookie Monster]

Thank you very much, everyone, for those spooky tales!  Maybe I'll sleep with the lights on tonight... or maybe I'll just stay up till morning... or November...

For my next story, I've chosen Gertrude Atherton's disconcerting "The Striding Place," which I'm taking from here.


The Striding Place

Weigall, continental and detached, tired early of grouse shooting.  To stand propped against a sod fence while his host's workmen routed up the birds with long poles and drove them towards the waiting guns, made him feel himself a parody on the ancestors who had roamed the moors and forests of this West Riding of Yorkshire in hot pursuit of game worth the killing.  But when in England in August he always accepted whatever proffered for the season, and invited his host to shoot pheasants on his estates in the South.  The amusements of life, he argued, should be accepted with the same philosophy as its ills.

It had been a bad day.  A heavy rain had made the moor so spongy that it fairly sprang beneath the feet.  Whether or not the grouse had haunts of their own, wherein they were immune from rheumatism, the bag had been small.  The women, too, were an unusually dull lot, with the exception of a new-minded debutante who bothered Weigall at dinner by demanding the verbal restoration of the vague paintings on the vaulted roof above them.

But it was no one of these things that sat on Weigall's mind as, when the other men went up to bed, he let himself out of the castle and sauntered down to the river.  His intimate friend, the companion of his boyhood, the chum of his college days, his fellow-traveller in many lands, the man for whom he possessed stronger affection than for all men, had mysteriously disappeared two days ago, and his track might have sprung to the upper air for all trace he had left behind him.  He had been a guest on the adjoining estate during the past week, shooting with the fervor of the true sportsman, making love in the intervals to Adeline Cavan, and apparently in the best of spirits.  As far as was known there was nothing to lower his mental mercury, for his rent-roll was a large one, Miss Cavan blushed whenever he looked at her, and, being one of the best shots in England, he was never happier than in August.  The suicide theory was preposterous, all agreed, and there was as little reason to believe him murdered.  Nevertheless, he had walked out of March Abbey two nights ago without hat or overcoat, and had not been seen since.

The country was being patrolled night and day.  A hundred keepers and workmen were beating the woods and poking the bogs on the moors, but as yet not so much as a handkerchief had been found.

Weigall did not believe for a moment that Wyatt Gifford was dead, and although it was impossible not to be affected by the general uneasiness, he was disposed to be more angry than frightened.  At Cambridge Gifford had been an incorrigible practical joker, and by no means had outgrown the habit; it would be like him to cut across the country in his evening clothes, board a cattle-train, and amuse himself touching up the picture of the sensation in West Riding.

However, Weigall's affection for his friend was too deep to companion with tranquillity in the present state of doubt, and, instead of going to bed early with the other men, he determined to walk until ready for sleep.  He went down to the river and followed the path through the woods.  There was no moon, but the stars sprinkled their cold light upon the pretty belt of water flowing placidly past wood and ruin, between green masses of overhanging rocks or sloping banks tangled with tree and shrub, leaping occasionally over stones with the harsh notes of an angry scold, to recover its equanimity the moment the way was clear again.

It was very dark in the depths where Weigall trod.  He smiled as he recalled a remark of Gifford's: "An English wood is like a good many other things in life -- very promising at a distance, but a hollow mockery when you get within.  You see daylight on both sides, and the sun freckles the very bracken.  Our woods need the night to make them seem what they ought to be -- what they once were, before our ancestors' descendants demanded so much more money, in these so much more various days."

Weigall strolled along, smoking, and thinking of his friend, his pranks -- many of which had done more credit to his imagination than this -- and recalling conversations that had lasted the night through.  Just before the end of the London season they had walked the streets one hot night after a party, discussing the various theories of the soul's destiny.  That afternoon they had met at the coffin of a college friend whose mind had been a blank for the past three years.  Some months previously they had called at the asylum to see him.  His expression had been senile, his face imprinted with the record of debauchery.  In death the face was placid, intelligent, without ignoble lineation -- the face of the man they had known at college.  Weigall and Gifford had had no time to comment there, and the afternoon and evening were full; but, coming forth from the house of festivity together, they had reverted almost at once to the topic.

"I cherish the theory," Gifford had said, "that the soul sometimes lingers in the body after death.  During madness, of course, it is an impotent prisoner, albeit a conscious one.  Fancy its agony, and its horror!  What more natural than that, when the life-spark goes out, the tortured soul should take possession of the vacant skull and triumph once more for a few hours while old friends look their last?  It has had time to repent while compelled to crouch and behold the result of its work, and it has shrived itself into a state of comparative purity.  If I had my way, I should stay inside my bones until the coffin had gone into its niche, that I might obviate for my poor old comrade the tragic impersonality of death.  And I should like to see justice done to it, as it were -- to see it lowered among its ancestors with the ceremony and solemnity that are its due.  I am afraid that if I dissevered myself too quickly, I should yield to curiosity and hasten to investigate the mysteries of space."

"You believe in the soul as an independent entity, then -- that it and the vital principle are not one and the same?"

"Absolutely.  The body and soul are twins, life comrades -- sometimes friends, sometimes enemies, but always loyal in the last instance.  Some day, when I am tired of the world, I shall go to India and become a mahatma, solely for the pleasure of receiving proof during life of this independent relationship."

"Suppose you were not sealed up properly, and returned after one of your astral flights to find your earthly part unfit for habitation?  It is an experiment I don't think I should care to try, unless even juggling with soul and flesh had palled."

"That would not be an uninteresting predicament.  I should rather enjoy experimenting with broken machinery."

The high wild roar of water smote suddenly upon Weigall's ear and checked his memories.  He left the wood and walked out on the huge slippery stones which nearly close the River Wharfe at this point, and watched the waters boil down into the narrow pass with their furious untiring energy.  The black quiet of the woods rose high on either side.  The stars seemed colder and whiter just above.  On either hand the perspective of the river might have run into a rayless cavern.  There was no lonelier spot in England, nor one which had the right to claim so many ghosts, if ghosts there were.

Weigall was not a coward, but he recalled uncomfortably the tales of those that had been done to death in the Strid: Wordsworth's Boy of Egremond had been disposed of by the practical Whitaker; but countless others, more venturesome than wise, had gone down into that narrow boiling course, never to appear in the still pool a few yards beyond.  Below the great rocks which form the walls of the Strid was believed to be a natural vault, on to whose shelves the dead were drawn.  The spot had an ugly fascination.  Weigall stood, visioning skeletons, uncoffined and green, the home of the eyeless things which had devoured all that had covered and filled that rattling symbol of man's mortality; then fell to wondering if any one had attempted to leap the Strid of late.  It was covered with slime; he had never seen it look so treacherous.

He shuddered and turned away, impelled, despite his manhood, to flee the spot.  As he did so, something tossing in the foam below the fall -- something as white, yet independent of it -- caught his eye and arrested his step.  Then he saw that it was describing a contrary motion to the rushing water -- an upward backward motion.  Weigall stood rigid, breathless; he fancied he heard the crackling of his hair.  Was that a hand?  It thrust itself still higher above the boiling foam, turned sidewise, and four frantic fingers were distinctly visible against the black rock beyond.

Weigall's superstitious terror left him.  A man was there, struggling to free himself from the suction beneath the Strid, swept down, doubtless, but a moment before his arrival, perhaps as he stood with his back to the current.

He stepped as close to the edge as he dared.  The hand doubled as if in imprecation, shaking savagely in the face of that force which leaves its creatures to immutable law; then spread wide again, clutching, expanding, crying for help as audibly as the human voice.

Weigall dashed to the nearest tree, dragged and twisted off a branch with his strong arms, and returned as swiftly to the Strid.  The hand was in the same place, still gesticulating as wildly; the body was undoubtedly caught in the rocks below, perhaps already half-way along one of those hideous shelves.  Weigall let himself down upon a lower rock, braced his shoulder against the mass beside him, then, leaning out over the water, thrust the branch into the hand.  The fingers clutched it convulsively.  Weigall tugged powerfully, his own feet dragged perilously near the edge.  For a moment he produced no impression, then an arm shot above the waters.

The blood sprang to Weigall's head; he was choked with the impression that the Strid had him in her roaring hold, and he saw nothing.  Then the mist cleared.  The hand and arm were nearer, although the rest of the body was still concealed by the foam.  Weigall peered out with distended eyes.  The meagre light revealed in the cuffs links of a peculiar device.  The fingers clutching the branch were as familiar.

Weigall forgot the slippery stones, the terrible death if he stepped too far.  He pulled with passionate will and muscle.  Memories flung themselves into the hot light of his brain, trooping rapidly upon each other's heels, as in the thought of the drowning.  Most of the pleasures of his life, good and bad, were identified in some way with this friend.  Scenes of college days, of travel, where they had deliberately sought adventure and stood between one another and death upon more occasions than one, of hours of delightful companionship among the treasures of art, and others in the pursuit of pleasure, flashed like the changing particles of a kaleidoscope.  Weigall had loved several women; but he would have flouted in these moments the thought that he had ever loved any woman as he loved Wyatt Gifford.  There were so many charming women in the world, and in the thirty-two years of his life he had never known another man to whom he had cared to give his intimate friendship.

He threw himself on his face.  His wrists were cracking, the skin was torn from his hands.  The fingers still gripped the stick.  There was life in them yet.

Suddenly something gave way.  The hand swung about, tearing the branch from Weigall's grasp.  The body had been liberated and flung outward, though still submerged by the foam and spray.

Weigall scrambled to his feet and sprang along the rocks, knowing that the danger from suction was over and that Gifford must be carried straight to the quiet pool.  Gifford was a fish in the water and could live under it longer than most men.  If he survived this, it would not be the first time that his pluck and science had saved him from drowning.

Weigall reached the pool.  A man in his evening clothes floated on it, his face turned towards a projecting rock over which his arm had fallen, upholding the body.  The hand that had held the branch hung limply over the rock, its white reflection visible in the black water.  Weigall plunged into the shallow pool, lifted Gifford in his arms and returned to the bank.  He laid the body down and threw off his coat that he might be the freer to practise the methods of resuscitation.  He was glad of the moment's respite.  The valiant life in the man might have been exhausted in that last struggle.  He had not dared to look at his face, to put his ear to the heart.  The hesitation lasted but a moment.  There was no time to lose.

He turned to his prostrate friend.  As he did so, something strange and disagreeable smote his senses.  For a half-moment he did not appreciate its nature.  Then his teeth cracked together, his feet, his outstretched arms pointed towards the woods.  But he sprang to the side of the man and bent down and peered into his face.  There was no face.


Do you have a spooky story to share?

Spel


Edit: Formatting.

[Drake Valentine]

Getting married.

Lmfao.



Hmm, well this is a true story.


A long time(I think it was about ten years to be more accurate,) me and my friends were messing around late at night, adventuring and having a good time. Well, we decided to throw ourselves a little party on an old abandoned field. I, having a bad feeling about it the moment I stepped foot, wasn't too keen on the idea. The area itself was a bit creepy to begin with, there was a run down church across from it that had been that way since I was little and known it. Needless to say, some of the guys were a bit intoxicated at the time I was with. We even later set up a small campfire and gossiped/told various stories.

Well, I saw one of my friends who wasn't at the fire, just running and screaming, scared out of his mind about something. Of course, I am not the type to sit around to see whatever it may be, so I got up and bolted away from the campfire into a similar direction or more importantly one where my vehicle was at the time. I heard footsteps behind me, so I figure it was the other guys as well, likely they decided to follow me towards the vehicles. I felt something brush against my shoulder, as if it was grabbing me or trying to stop me, but the moment I got off that field it stopped. I turned around and saw no one there, nothing.

At that time, I was literally 'screw this place, screw you guys, I am out.' I straight up got in my car and left. I had no intentions of stepping foot on that field again.

My friend that got spooked said he saw something, which was why he took off running. Later we found out(or I more importantly) that that site was part of Indian Burial ground and thus why it was later abandoned. Of course, I am not sure how much of that is true, but I do know I am never going anywhere near that field or nearby ruined church again.

[Oniya]

Not all spooky stories are horrific.  Some - merely have a lesson to be told.  The one I am going to relate is based on an old Ukrainian folk tale, which I will link at the end.



A long time ago, a farmer lived with his wife and two daughters at the edge of the forest.  The oldest daughter was his child from a previous wife, and his new wife hated her - spoiling the younger and forcing the elder to dress in cast-offs and treating her no better than a servant.  Worse than a servant perhaps.

One year, when the winter was exceptionally fierce, the farmer and his family began to run low on food.  As the wife wouldn't dream of stinting her own daughter, she prevailed upon the farmer to take the older girl out into the forest and leave her.  The farmer reluctantly did as his wife wished, and took the girl to a shack in the woods.  He was not completely heartless, as he left her with a blanket, some firewood and some hunting snares, so she was able to catch a rabbit for food.  And since she was not utterly spoiled, she was able to prepare a rough stew over the fire.

At night, however, it got terribly cold and frightening.  She imagined all sorts of perils in the forest, and nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a knock at the door.  Despite her fears, she got up and answered it.

There, on the ground, was a head.  Just a head.  To her growing horror, it opened its eyes and spoke to her.

'I am cold and hungry.  Bring me inside that I might warm myself.'

Needless to say, she was terrified - but she was also a kind-hearted girl.  So she lifted the head and brought it inside, setting it down on the floor near the fire.  The head gave a non-committal grunt and then demanded, 'I am hungry.  Feed me.'

The girl looked at what was left in the stew-pot.  It was barely enough for her breakfast.  Still, she fed the rest of it to the head, which burped (don't ask me how - or where the food went) and said, 'I would sleep now.  Give me a blanket so that I can rest comfortably.'

By this point, the girl was near tears with the constant demands, especially since the blanket was the last of her own comforts.  Nevertheless, she tucked it around the head, and once it started snoring, she curled up in a corner with only her ragged dress for warmth.

In the morning, there was another knock on the door, and her father's voice calling her name.  In her excitement, she ran to greet him, tripping over the blanket that was still piled in front of the fire.  Instead of the head, there was a pile of fine clothes, gold, and jewelry.

Her father was astonished - even more so when she told him how it had come to be there.  In delight, he brought his daughter and the treasure back home - there was no way for his wife to claim that they 'couldn't afford' to have her there now.  The story spread, and within a year, the girl had won a fine husband due to her bravery and compassion.

And yet, the story doesn't end here.  After seeing the riches that came from the shack, the farmer's wife sent her own daughter to sleep there for the night.  Just as before, the head appeared at the door, demanding food and shelter, but the spoiled daughter refused to lift a finger for it.  In the morning, all her possessions had turned to dust, leaving her in rags no better than her sister had been forced to wear.

Source  (Just for you, Spel.   )

[TheGlyphstone]

The world's shortest horror story, by Fredrick Brown.

"The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door


(This can also be the world's shortest erotic story. )

[Winsted]

This one is actually true, or at least I believe the memory of it.  I honestly can't recall if I was dreaming or not.

I was very, very young yet, talking like 4 or 5.  My parents always left a light on in the hall outside my room because I was afraid of the dark.  This particular night, I looked down my bed towards the open door in the hallway and there was a shadow cast into my room of a person, but it was attached to no body.  It walked into my room and up to my bedside.  I remember feeling no fear at all.  To this day, I still believe it was my late grandpa coming to visit me.

[Drake Valentine]

Years ago, probably sometime in 06, me and my friends were hanging out. Well, I figure it may be interesting at that time to bring an older ouija board that one of my elder siblings had. Two of my friends didn't want anything to do with it, one of my friends decided to experiment with me. I can't exactly recall the questions that were inquired, my friend at the time was doing more of the asking and I was just going along with it and the answers aren't as memorable as either. Though the events that followed shortly afterwards in those span of days were.

The first night that I slept, I felt a presence around me. It did not bother me as much.

The second night I slept, again the presence, this time it felt like it was grabbing me. A bit disturbed at this point, but I figure, probably just my imagination.

The third night I slept, I felt that I was being dragged down from my bed, literally. Like something was holding my ankles. I freaked, but I couldn't call out for help. I thrashed about, and I think the more I tried to call, I heard a voice, something choppy and incoherent. Somehow I did manage to break free and 'wake' up. I wasn't physically pulled from anywhere. Now truly disturbed by this I ended up leaving a night light on for a small period of time after the event.

I haven't had any further restless nights following the short amount of time with the light on and off.

On another note, my friend told me something that he occasionally sees certain light's flickering when he drives by them. Lights that don't flicker otherwise. Not sure if they still do, but lampposts will waver and I have seen it happened to when riding with him.

The moral of this story; don't mess with ouija boards, even as a 'joke.'  I am not a overly superstitious guy myself, but there are some things I am not going to touch and those things are permanently one of them.

[Spookie Monster]

Thank you very much, guys!  Is it getting spookier in here or is it just me?

For my next, I offer "Fatal Glass Eye," a folktale as retold by S.E. Schlosser.


Fatal Glass Eye

My friend Liverpool Jarge was a small man, wiry and tough, but soft-spoken.  Jarge had one glass eye that was an ugly shade of blue which clashed something terrible with his real eye, which was brown.  Then one day Jarge met up with a glassblower, a real artist, who made him a special red eye with a star.  After that he started collecting glass eyes.  They were the fanciest things you ever did see, with stars and pretty stripes and more colors than any real eyes could ever have.

I went with Jarge when he placed his next order.  By that time, he had so many glass eyes that he was hard to please.  So I kidded Jarge that he should get an evil eye.  Right away the glassblower said he could make a glass eye that was hollow so it could be filled with deadly poison.  Jarge was as pleased as Punch, sayin' that a man never knew when he might get to the place where he'd want to commit suicide, and what could be easier than to pop the eye into his mouth and bite down?

Well, me and Jarge signed onto the same ship, and Jarge's new eye was delivered the day before we set sail.  What a creepy eye it was, too -- the perfect evil eye.  It was made up of rings of color that narrowed into a single red spot.  If you looked at Jarge just right and he looked at you just right, the colors ran together and the red spot popped out and would scare the life outta you.  It was hollow, too, like the man promised, and filled with a white liquid.

Jarge tried that evil eye on everyone on board ship -- includin' me.  Scared the bejesus outta me, and I'd already seen the blasted thing.  'Course, all of us told him to lay off or we'd brain him.  All of us 'cept a little Cockney feller name of Bell.

Everyone called Bell "Ding-Dong" on account of his name.  Bell nearly shriveled up with fright each time Jarge appeared with the glass eye.  Jarge was tickled to death by Ding-Dong Bell's reaction and took to plaguing the life outta him, putting the "evil eye" on him whenever he passed until Ding-Dong truly thought he was bewitched.

So the other men told Ding-Dong Bell that he had to steal the evil eye.  'Course, Jarge overheard them and he kept the eye hidden from Ding-Dong.  Turned out that the harder the eye was to steal, the more Ding-Dong believed that stealing it was the only way to lift his "curse."  Finally, Jarge started wearing the evil eye all the time -- to protect it, he claimed, though in truth it was to torment Ding-Dong.

One day while we was docked in Port Said, Jarge went aloft on a footrope to scrape a spar.  Well, something musta fetched loose, 'cause suddenly I heard a yell, and when I turned around, Jarge was plummeting forty feet headfirst onto the deck.  Cracked his skull open like an eggshell and his evil eye came rolling out.

This was Ding-Dong Bell's chance.  He darted out from a corner and grabbed up the eye.  When he saw the mate running toward us, he popped the eye into his mouth to hide it from the mate.  In less than a minute, ol' Ding-Dong Bell started shivering and fell dead on the deck, right beside poor Jarge.  He'd accidentally bit into the eye and swallowed the poison hidden inside.

What with Jarge and Ding-Dong both being dead, I figured maybe there was something in that evil eye business after all, and I was real glad it was gone.


One more?

Spel

[Spookie Monster]

Time for some "Reflection."  I've snatched bits of this one from here and bits of it from here, stitching the two versions together into a sort of Frankenstein's monster...


Reflection

One cold winter's night sixteen-year-old Katie was home alone.  Her parents had gone out to a dinner party, promising to return before it was too late, but a freak snowstorm hit the city and they were waiting at their hosts' until it blew over.

After studying for a couple of hours Katie decided to relax.  She made some popcorn, found a nice thick blanket, went into the spacious living room, and picked out a movie -- a horror movie.  The television was positioned to one side of the glass sliding door that led to the patio and the backyard.

Reclining on the couch, Katie started the movie and pulled the blanket up to her chin.  All at once a strange man appeared in the glass of the sliding door!  He gazed at her menacingly.  Terrified, she grabbed her phone and pulled the blanket up over her head.

Fortunately, there was a patrol car not far from the house; soon a police officer arrived.  Katie frantically related her story about the strange man that she'd seen standing outside, staring in at her through the glass.

The officer opened the glass sliding door and checked the patio and the backyard.  Returning after a few moments, he explained to Katie that there couldn't have been anyone standing out there, because there were no footprints in the snow.  He told her that she was probably just tired and frightened by both the movie and her parents' absence; her imagination had gotten the better of her.  Though still a little shaken, Katie sighed in relief.

As the police officer returned to the front door, however, he glanced to the carpet behind the couch that Katie had been relaxing on.  He looked closer, then looked around; his face went pale.  He called for backup before turning to Katie.  "Miss, you're extremely lucky," he finally said.

"Why...?" she asked, not quite sure if she wanted to know the answer.

"Because there are wet footprints here," he explained.  "There was someone here, but he wasn't outside; he was in here, standing right behind the couch.  What you saw in the window wasn't him -- it was his reflection."


Do you have a spooky story to share?

Spel

[LuckyOwl]

This one popped up on LoL's subreddit a few months ago. It's still spooky.

Story

Before reading this, I just want to clarify that this post is not an attack on the honor system of League of Legends; it is more of a personal statement...
My client crashed midway through a game two days ago, and I was feeling pretty tired, so I logged off and went to sleep. After relogging today, I noticed that I had received an honor from that game, the "honorable opponent" one, to be exact. I originally thought someone DDOS'd it, but the fact that I received honor from it was weird to me. I couldn't really remember what that game was about, since it was so short, but luckily, I had the recording of it on my LolReplay, despite it not showing up on my match history.
I played Nocturne jungle for that game, like I usually do, more recently now because of the new skin, and I had a pretty standard build for about 15 minutes, which was a madred's razor, some boots, a vamp scepter and a few health pots up until the point that my client crashed.
Upon re-watching it, I realized off the bat that something was...off about that game. The enemy jungler never connected. In the loading screen, his/her name never appeared. "Typical" I thought. "The name is probably in another language." But after the screen loaded, I saw that he simply had no name. Stranger yet, he was also a Nocturne player. From the beginning, he sat still in his base.
I might as well describe to you what happened during the game. We started out normally, and I jungled and ganked, but no one died for the first 15 minutes or so. Everyone was reasonably leveled and farmed, with every player being in the 6-10 level range, save for the enemy Nocturne. It was at 15:13 when I used my ultimate to get what seemed to be an assured kill on the enemy Soraka. This is when the game crashed...or when I thought it crashed. My recorder thought otherwise.
In the replay, the screen glitched for about 10 seconds after I ulted her, with everything freezing in place. When I was actually playing the game, it was during this glitch that my client froze and closed on me. But in the replay, after the glitch, it showed us all still playing...this REALLY freaked me out, but I kept watching. Apparently, my "character" secured the kill on the Soraka, recalled and continued to jungle. That's when I read the eerie message... "...has reconnected." The no name jungler on the other team got back into the game somehow and started to jungle. I felt uneasy watching him.
The other lanes kept at each other, and it didn't take me long to figure out the next oddity. The Soraka "I" had killed never respawned. When I pressed tab to see the death timer, there was none...she just stayed dead. "An ally has been slain." This time someone on my team died, the Ezreal, and it was the enemy Nocturne who killed him. He never respawned either. I froze in my chair, watching people die, one by one, each death leaving a lasting impression on me.
The Nocturne that I was "supposedly" playing did everything I would have done, which weirded me out even further. It was almost like I was still playing in that match. After each player died, none would respawn. I was always on edge whenever I saw my character getting low on health, to the point that I was gripping my desk. I can't really explain why, but it's a nerve-racking feeling knowing that if your character died, they wouldn't come back... I kept telling myself it was a glitch, but after what happened next, I found it hard to.
There were only 3 people left. Me, the no name Nocturne, and the enemy mid laner, a Diana. At this point, my eyes were glued to the screen, and I couldn't help but watch as my character pursued her. This was the death that disturbed me the most. My character ulted towards her, as I normally would have done, and met her at her wraith camp. Just as my character got there, I saw the enemy Nocturne standing still in the passage to their red buff...he just stood there and watched my Nocturne destroy the enemy Diana.
After her death, everything was still.
The minions didn't move, the projectiles were frozen in place, along with my character. Everything was frozen except the no name jungler. He moved towards me and paused for a second. The timer in the recording was still going. Curious as to why he just stood there, I checked my settings on the recording. The chat box was unchecked. I remember my fingers shaking a bit as I clicked to check it.
The no name jungler had been typing throughout the entire match after the apparent crash. All he said, over and over, every single minute was, "KILL THEM ALL. KILL THEM ALL." Up until I had killed Diana. I felt my heart sink when I read those words, decorated across my screen. What he said soon after was what sent chills throughout my entire body.
"Thank you for your assistance."
And that's when the game ended. No nexus was destroyed, no surrender vote was cast. It just ended. Horrified at what I just witnessed, I immediately took down the names of everyone in that game. After a bit of searching, I found that none of them played another game after that one. I'm still checking every few minutes, hoping that one of them will get in a game soon. I don't really know what happened to those people, and I don't think I want to know...
I have since deleted the recording from my computer. I don't want anything to do with that replay...
The image of seeing the "honorable opponent" message on my screen from logging in is still burned in my head...never have I felt so undeserving.

[Sel Nar]

A classic.

"For sale: Baby Shoes. Never Worn."

[Valerian]

To celebrate their first year in university, six friends went camping in the wilderness. After driving for several hours from the nearest town, they discovered a lagoon, nestled beside a cliff ideal for diving. They set up camp in the woods nearby and spent the evening swimming in the warm, clear water. As the sun sunk below the trees, one of the friends went up to the highest point on the cliff and jumped off, while the other five watched. Their laughter slowly subsided as they waited for him to surface. It only took half a minute for them to dive in after their friend.

Struggling and sputtering among the weeds in the lagoon, they searched hopelessly for him. Finally they disentangled themselves and came up, but they never saw their friend again. Heartbroken, they returned to the city and passed a strange and lonely year in which their only solace was the knowledge that they would return to the lagoon to honour the anniversary of their friend's death.

A year passed and they returned to the lagoon as a memorial, but as they approached they saw their friend standing there, head bowed. Excitedly they called to him and began running, but he didn't turn. As they got closer they called him more desperately, but still to no avail. With joy they ran towards him, but stopped dead when they saw not one but five crosses on the waterside.