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Pretzel Rod Stewart posted:Yeah, I really liked the story and googled about it a bit and found an interview with the author. Apparently he was intentionally trying to convey the importance of enthusiastic consent and making sure things are mutual, so the story about the clockmaker whose self-image was that of a good man suffering who had made some mistakes is supposed to mirror the behavior of Rob who was sort of a creep and the narrator who was a major creep. You even have the situation where Kerry was kissing his neck as a foil and to show this cuts both ways. Nah, it's still weak. Reiterating his Catholicism so he can conflate guilt with pleasure is pretty common. There's way too many problems with it. Even if you accept that Amy was punishing creeps, there's a world of difference between a fumbling kiss and murder. Kerry lost a limb for basically doing nothing more than a hickey. Sex is punished by death. It's way overdone.
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Jun 19, 2015 00:03
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Fair criticism. I definitely agree the religion stuff in particular was ham-handed.
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Jun 20, 2015 20:03
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I don't know what to make of this. It's weird and creepy. Not exactly horror, but it does leave me with a sense of unease and confusion. I suggest starting at the '11' in the 'Archivo del blog' list. Maybe someone else can make sense of it all. http://thebooksofsand.blogspot.com/
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Jun 20, 2015 20:14
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Wedemeyer posted:I don't know what to make of this. It's weird and creepy. Not exactly horror, but it does leave me with a sense of unease and confusion. I suggest starting at the '11' in the 'Archivo del blog' list. Maybe someone else can make sense of it all.
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Jun 20, 2015 22:21
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Loved this one. Not as creepy as most, but man I just can't stop thinking about it. Probably the best /r/nosleep short story I've ever read: Tight, to the point, and kept me guessing every step of the way. I hope you all get a kick out of it, too: Memories for Sale submitted 6 days ago by donutdrake At 4:51AM, I woke up in a beige hotel room in a town I didn't know. I had almost nothing, no real possessions, no identity, and no memories. At first I didn't realize anything was wrong, and I just tried to go back to sleep. But I was struck by a momentary panic when I realized that I didn't know who I was, or where I was, or why I had to go back to sleep. I searched the beige hotel room. There was nothing, other than a wallet and a business card. The wallet contained $5,000 in cash and a note. Written upon the note, in an illegible scrawl, were the following words: “Don’t try to remember. Start over. I'm sorry.” The handwriting, I later deduced, was my own. The business card had been slid under the door. It was matte, and white, with black text that read: “Trouble remembering? Memories for sale! Call 0800-662-606” I should have destroyed it right then and there, I should have thrown it out the window, or tore it into tiny pieces, or burned it, or eaten it. But I didn't. I slid it into my pocket. For a long while, I tried to work out what to do. I knew how to read, obviously. I probably knew other stuff as well. But I didn't know that I knew it. I went downstairs and asked the lady in reception. She said she remembered me check in. She said I’d booked the room for 6 more nights. And she said I looked like poo poo. Thanks, I said. I felt like everything I knew was just on the cusp of my consciousness. Positioned just out of reach. Out of fear? Out of sorrow? Out of malice? I weighed up the possibilities in my empty head. Unconsciously, I started turning the business card over in my hands. For the next few weeks, little happened. I was in a grimy, nondescript town. There was a cinema and a shopping mall and an elementary school and a big box store, and there were cars and trees and people and birds, and they all took their history for granted. I managed to get a job working nights at a gas station. It was winter and the nights were long, so I didn't see the sun very often. My boss thought I was doing a great job. She told me that I was the best employee she ever had. All I ever did was sit there and serve the customers. I never thought about myself. I didn't have aspirations. I didn't have bad habits. For those weeks, I was a nameless, faceless tool of the Shell corporation, in a literal sense. Oh, I gave myself a name. John Doe. Imaginative, isn't it? Maybe I forgot, or maybe I didn't care. I rented a grungy apartment near to the gas station, and I put a few pieces of furniture in there. I started to dread the end of my shifts at the gas station. At work, I had purpose, I had meaning. At home, I didn't know what to do. I would turn on the TV and try to remember if there was anything I liked, but I couldn't. I bought a few things, to try and remember if I could use them. I didn't like reading books, and I didn't know many words. I couldn't play any musical instruments. I wasn't good with computers. I was allergic to fish. I sucked at video games. And I sucked at crochet. I suppose there are worse things than sucking at crochet. The business card, meanwhile, burned a hole in my pocket. I wanted to call them. Oh, how I wanted to call them. But all I knew was that I’d wanted to forget. I put it off. I'm sure you have things that you’d rather forget. Embarrassing memories, social faux-pas, perhaps? Or maybe something worse. Maybe you’d wanted to forget your grief. Or maybe you’d wanted to forget something you’d done. On the other hand, maybe I knew something that the powers that be hadn't wanted me to know. I knew I was hiding. Nobody in town had recognized me. Who could I have been hiding from? As the weeks passed, as I ran out of lovely hobbies and began to resent the beige walls of my new living quarters. As every morning at home became a long grind, I realized that the card was winning. I picked up the phone and I dialled the number. A man answered. “Hello! You've reached The Memory Corporation. My name is Mr. Loftus. Can I help you?” “Uh, hi. I don’t remember anything.” “Ha, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me that. Well, how about I book you in for an appointment? I'm free tomorrow afternoon, if that suits.” “Yeah, that suits, I guess.” “What can I call you, sir?” “John Doe.” “Perfect! I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Doe!” He gave me an address. It was not in a good part of town. Now, it was my shift at the gas station that went by like treacle. There was a clock at the far end of the room from me. I watched the seconds march on. “Hello, Mr. Doe! In the flesh! Yes, I remember hearing about you. You look like you’re doing quite well for yourself!” The address pointed to a narrow building, sandwiched between a chicken shop and what may have been an estate agent at some point. You had to go up a flight of stairs to get there. The name of the place was ‘The Memory Corporation’. “Thank you. I have some questions, if you don’t mind.” I said. Loftus was a man in his mid-thirties, white as a ghost, with short black hair, well-trimmed sideburns, and a pronounced jawline. He smiled a practised smile as he talked. “Yes, everybody does. I will be straight with you, Mr. Doe. I can’t tell you anything about your past, and I don’t know your past.” “What can you do?” I asked. “Here at The Memory Corporation, we buy and sell memories. People come to us because they have memories that they want to take off of their minds, and we do just that. And we pay for these memories in cash. We don’t ask questions, and nor do our customers.” “What do you do with the memories?” “You remember what I just told you about asking questions?” grinned Loftus. “Of course, we have one more service,” he went on, “you can buy your memories back from us, if it turns out that you really want them. The first memory is free. The second is a dollar. The third is two dollars. The fourth is four dollars. The fifth is eight dollars. And so on.” I shook his hand and I left the office. But the seeds had been sewn, and my desire to know more fought its way to the forefront of my mind, and it stayed there, burning more intensely each day, threatening to consume the chance i gave myself at a normal life. The weeks turned into months. I worked longer shifts at the gas station. I got a very small pay rise. With nothing to spend it on, my money sat there, waiting to be transformed into the past. It was only so long before I caved. I made another appointment with Loftus, and I went back to The Memory Corporation. I didn't know what to expect. Loftus asked me if I was here for my free sample, barely concealing a smile, and I told him I was. He ushered me into a room that looked a little bit like a room at a doctor’s surgery, and told me to look straight up at the ceiling. I obeyed. I heard him wheeling something into the room. He appeared in eyeshot again, holding a device that looked like a wire mesh hat, festooned with spools of wire of various colours. On the inside of device, I could make out what looked like an array of tiny needles. “You may feel a slight scratching sensation.” he said. “Don’t panic. Your safety is our primary concern.” I was going to protest, but the words wouldn't come I just lay there, motionless, while he strapped the device to my head. I can’t really explain the sensation. It’s somewhere between a migraine and an orgasm. It’s a pounding, shimmering, falling sensation that drives shivers down your spine and makes your whole body convulse. The room didn't go dark, it pinwheeled, it went light, it shone, it sparkled, and then it was gone. I was sitting at a bench, on a playground. It was hot, outside, and humid. It felt as though a storm was coming. I was watching the children playing on a bunch of wooden equipment adorned with slides, poles and ropes. The children were yelling at one another and laughing. In the distance, I could hear the faint sound of a lawnmower. In particular, I was watching a girl of about seven years, with curly red hair and freckles. She was at the top of the structure, and she was engaged in some kind of heated debate with a boy of about the same age. At one point, he put his hands out and shoved. She shoved back, and they began a minor brawl. I stood up and cupped my hands around my mouth. “Hey!” And then it was over. The room came swimming back into view. “How was it?” said Loftus. “I don’t know.” said I. I had more questions than I did before. I went home as if I was in a trance. In my mind’s eye, I was still at the playground. It was like a tiny opening in a sea of dark clouds, and I could see the sunlight streaming through. Who was I? I weighed up the possibilities. Maybe I was a paedophile. Over the next few weeks, I continued working my lovely clerk job at the gas station. But the days were longer than they had been. It was as if I had only just woken up, for real this time, and 4:51AM in the beige hotel room had just been a false start. Simply put, I felt better. At home, I decided I would start sketching out all of my memories. I discovered that I wasn't too bad at drawing. I began to look forward to leaving the gas station, and returning home, to the castle of memories that I was building for myself. I saw Loftus regularly. And I begun to pay the fee. It wasn't much at first. The memories kept coming. Most of them were quite mundane. In the $1 memory, for example, I was making breakfast. It was a Sunday, and I was in the kitchen of a large, well-furnished suburban home. Nothing really important happened. $2. $4. $8. Small change. I could afford it. I got a glimpse of myself at work. I think I was an accountant. I was working with spreadsheets with a lot of dollar signs and acronyms, and I was on the phone to a client, who was starting his own business. Something ridiculous, if I remember right. It might have been ‘GlassFrog’. It was definitely a glass animal of some sort. My boss came into my office. He was a smartly dressed, broad-shouldered middle-aged man with a gaunt face and glasses. He paced while he talked, he didn't look like the type who ever sat down. “Have you heard the rumours?” he said. “Yes. Well, most of them” “They don’t reflect very well on you.” “They’re rumours.” “They don’t reflect very well on the company.” he said. Whatever they were, I didn't believe them. I was sitting at a restaurant. There was a woman at the opposite end of the table. She was young, and pretty, with curly black hair and dark blue eyes, and a nose that was slightly too small for her face. She laughed. “I had no idea you were so funny!” she exclaimed. “Nor did I,” I said. “maybe it’s this wine.” I rolled the wine around in the glass. The waiter comes over. “Which of you ordered the Bacalhau à Brás?” he said. “I did.” I said. The woman flashed me a shy smile from the other end of the table. Most of my memories were mundane and told me nothing. I remember the one I got at the $64 mark. I was at work. I went to the bathroom. The company had unisex bathrooms. Very modern. I was washing my hands, and I looked up at the mirror. It was blurry. And so, I kept working at the gas station. The hours seemed to drag on for longer each time. I worked on auto-pilot for as much time as possible. I had very little contact with my co-workers, but at the end of my shift, I would hand over to a weasley young man with acne, who looked like he’d not finished high school. And I kept working on my scrapbook, filling it with details and pictures and sketches. My memories were very short and very fragmented, but they let me build up a patchwork identity. I think I knew which company it was that I worked for. I had narrowed it down to a few, at least. Similarly, I’d been noting down places, names of businesses, names of streets, trying to work out which city I was in. There was one which was about a day’s drive from here. And, as I pushed the cash into his hand, time and time again, Loftus smiled with his mouth. And playing on his eyes was an emotion that I couldn't quite place - but I think it was pity. In many of my memories, I was wearing a ring. I think I was either engaged, or married. I wasn't entirely sure who to. I hadn't seen the woman from the restaurant again, although I guessed it could have been her. I used to work very long hours at the office, and I would get home, back to that pleasant suburban house, and collapse into bed, next to a disturbance in the blankets. I could have been married to a pile of pillows, for all I knew. The girl I saw. She was my daughter. I became convinced of it. At the $512 mark, I got the jackpot - I got her first steps. I saw her cautiously wobbling across the carpet of our living room. I saw the pride on her little face. “Daddy!” she says. And she smiled at me with the semi-toothless grin of an infant. I smiled back. And I was proud. I have her name. Eleanor. It was delightfully old-fashioned. It had been around 4 months since 4:51AM. I was still working at the gas station. I’d begun to ration the memories out a little more, because I was at the $512 mark, and it seemed like I ought to start being careful with my money. Looking back on it, it’s clear that I was feeding an addiction, and that I didn't really care how much it cost, as long as I could get my next fix. At home, I’d been working on another project. I still didn't know much about the woman who I’d seen at the restaurant, but I had enough information to look up Eleanor. I knew where she lived. She was about a day’s drive away. I took a day off of work, and I drove there, to find her. The whole way there, I was excited, and I was panicked. I loved her. I loved Eleanor. I’d been dreaming about her. And, with her gone, I’d been missing her. I was so excited to see her. At the same time, I was worried. I still didn't know why exactly why I’d sold my memories, and I wasn't looking forward to finding out. Was it something to do with her? I suppose it must have been. But, whatever differences we’d had, we could work it out. That’s what I told myself. I’d entertained the idea that she was dead, but I put it out of my mind. I didn't want to think about it. I pulled up in the driveway of her house. It wasn't the one from my memories. It was small and squat, only one floor. The front garden was unkempt, the grass came up to my ankles, and it was dotted with weeds and prickles. With heart in mouth, I rapped on the front door, and waited. The 30 seconds I waited were, to me, longer than a day, a week, a month at that crappy gas station. The possibilities screamed through my head. Maybe she doesn't want to see you. Maybe she doesn't live here, maybe nobody does. Maybe she’s dead. Click. The door unlocked. It opened about a foot, and a woman peered out. It was her. She was older, perhaps in her mid-twenties now. Her features had long since lost their rounded, child-like quality, and now she looked thin and angular. I’ll never forget her eyes. They were oldest of all. She paused for a moment, peering at me, as if she were expecting me to say something. “Eleanor?” I said. “Do I know you?” she said. “Yes, I'm-”, I faltered. I realised I still didn't know my own name. “I'm your father.” I managed. I knew it was wrong, the moment I said it. She didn't react at first, as if she didn't understand the implication. Then, she flew into a rage. “Look, mister, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. But if this is your idea of a joke, it isn’t loving funny, OK? If you come here again, I'm calling the cops.” She slammed the door in my face. I'm sorry, Eleanor. I was crying. I didn't realize until I got in the car. I cried for a long time, and barely made a sound. I kept visiting The Memory Corporation. I didn't let on any of this to Loftus. I just put the money into his hand, and he wheeled out the machine. He knew that I was an addict, but he didn’t say anything. It wasn't his job to judge me. My patrons at the gas station never begrudged me for selling them cigarettes and booze, and I never begrudged him. At the $8192 mark, I was in trouble. I would probably need to take out a loan if I was going to go any further. But I had to know why Eleanor hadn't recognized me. Her rejection hurt, and it wouldn't stop hurting, but right now it was a meaningless pain. I didn't understand what I’d done to deserve it. I was in the interrogation room of a police station. It was blue. I was blue. Everything was blue. An officer came in, slamming the door behind him. He was a bald, overweight man, and he looked like the kind of cop who broke skateboards in half and shot other people’s dogs. “I won’t answer any questions without my attorney present.” I said. The cop looked on me, his nose wrinkled, his eyes narrowed. “It’s not a legal requirement for you to have an attorney present, Mr. Pearson.” He said. “Can I get your badge number, sir?” I said. “Sure thing,” he said. “It won’t help you in jail. Because that’s where you’re going, pal. Jail. You sick gently caress”. He spat on the floor. It was disgusting. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, officer,” I said, “but can I please be allowed to call my attorney?” “No. Stay put. You can stew.” He left the room. I sat there for god knows how long. I was blue. Maybe it was hours, maybe it was only thirty minutes. They’d confiscated my watch. Occasionally I heard voices outside, but I didn't know what they were saying. Maybe it was about me. I went through periods of fear and anger. One moment I had to stop myself shaking, put my hand on my jaw and stop my teeth chattering. Was my wife okay? Was my daughter okay? What the hell had happened? I remembered the strange conversation I’d had with my boss earlier that week. What had he meant? The next moment I was angry. What the hell had I done to deserve this? What was their right to detain me? Why wouldn't someone come in and tell me what had happened? Why? Eventually, the cop from before came back. This time, he didn't want to question me, and he dropped his tough guy persona. He spoke quietly and with tremendous restraint. “Mr. Pearson?” he said. “Yes, officer?” I said. “You’re free to go.”. He paused. “Your wife confessed everything. They found the note on her bedside table.” He paused. “When they got there, it was too late.” he said. The world began to fall apart, and then splintered into a million tiny fragments. The last thing I remember is him saying “I'm sorry.” When I got up, Loftus knew that something was wrong. For the first time, he dropped the attitude of slick professionalism that he’d been carefully maintaining for the past few months. “Are you OK?” he said. I hurried out. I didn't sleep for the longest time. I couldn't sleep. I could put the pieces together, but I no longer wanted to. I knew I shouldn't have tried to put it all together. I knew that I was escaping from something. It was my folly. I didn't go to the gas station that night. There was no point. My boss called my phone, asking where I was, threatening to dock my pay. I told her I didn't care. I burned the scrapbook. It was too painful to look at for any longer. The fire consumed the pages, and it consumed the delicate strokes of my pencil, but it didn't consume the memories. In the small hours of the morning, there was a knock at the door of my beige apartment. I didn't answer, I tried to pretend I wasn't home. Then it came once more, louder this time. “Hello?! I need to talk to you! It’s urgent!”. It was a familiar voice. It was Loftus. I tensed. It was Loftus! For a moment, I projected my self-loathing onto him. It was all his fault. He was the one who’d fed me this cocktail of waking dreams and nightmares. He would pay. I opened the door. He was carrying a folder bursting with papers. He looked dishevelled. He looked ill. “I’m so glad I caught you.” he said, breathlessly. “I thought you might not have been home. I thought it might have been too late.” I said nothing. My anger was gone. “John. I'm quitting my job at the Memory Corporation. I'm coming clean. I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do, but I can’t do it anymore. I'm going to make it all right. I'm going to make it all right for you.” I said nothing. “John, the memories that I gave you. They aren't yours. I don’t know how else to say it. They’re not yours! They belong to another man, who came to The Memory Corporation over a decade ago. One of our first customers.” I said nothing. I just listened. I don’t know if I felt better or worse. “They filed his memories away with everyone else’s and he left. But a few weeks later he came back, he said he wanted his memories back. We gave them back to him, and then he wanted to get rid of them again. Since then, we’ve given his memories to dozens, possibly hundreds of clients. They work like a charm. They have a great return rate. They turn one-off customers into repeat customers, if you know what I mean.” I nodded. He scrabbled through his papers until he found mine. “I don’t know very much about you. You weren't married and you had no children. You were some kind of engineer, I think. I don’t know why you came to The Corporation. But when I arrived, you’d been using them for some time, and you've been using them for years since.” I nodded. “You’re taking this very well.” he said. “I didn't know quite how people would react. Now, If you’ll excuse me, I have a huge list of clients to get to. Here’s your file, have a good life, and I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner.” He left in a hurry. I wonder if The Corporation was already looking for him. I glanced at the file he’d given me. Software engineer. 32 years of age. Childless and unmarried. Unhappy with his job. I suppose Loftus could relate. I tried to go on. I tried to lead a normal life. I'm still trying, now. But I can’t. I ruined it, I ruined everything. When I close my eyes, I see the woman I never married, and the daughter I never had. What did she do to Eleanor while I was working late? I don’t want to know. At some point, I lost the will to continue. I stopped going to work. I stopped showering. I stopped eating. The rational part of my brain knows my memories aren't real, but they feel real to me. I can’t bear to live a moment longer without them, without her. The memories may be fake, but the love is real and the grief is realer still. I've decided what I'm going to do. And there’s no point trying to stop me. By the time you read this, It’ll already be done. I'm going back to the Memory Corporation. They have branches in other towns, maybe I’ll go to one of them. I’ll shake hands, cordially, with the salesperson. And I’ll tell them I want to erase everything. And I’ll start over, for real this time. I don’t care if you think I'm stupid for doing it; I can’t bear to live like this for another moment. Memories are all that holds our fragile little world together. Without them, we have nothing. When you get old, you start to forget, so you surround yourself with pictures and mementos, and you reminisce about days gone by, because you want to hold onto your memories forever. Sometimes, memories hurt. They hurt bad. But it is our memories that define who we are. Without them, we are nothing. My advice to you is this: cherish your memories. Even the ones that cause you pain. Don’t throw them away.
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Jun 25, 2015 16:07
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Is it just me, or is that We Can Remember it For You Wholesale/Total Recall with the serial numbers filed off? To be fair, I got bored with it and skimmed after the third paragraph.
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Jun 26, 2015 01:58
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Bad Angus! Bad!
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Delivery McGee posted:Is it just me, or is that We Can Remember it For You Wholesale/Total Recall with the serial numbers filed off? To be fair, I got bored with it and skimmed after the third paragraph. <Glass shatters> drat. Now I hate that story. Am I the only one who finds that a lot of the stories I like are just rehashed films/famous books I haven't seen/forgot about. Edit: Just reread WCRIFYW and I don't think they're that similar, though they have the same premise (the illusion of purposefully implanted memories being absolutely true). Plus WCRIFYW is just like ten times better. Drunk Nerds has a new favorite as of 00:21 on Jun 27, 2015 |
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Jun 27, 2015 00:14
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Does anyone have the story about the guy and his friend going to a country in south east Asia I think and do a rite of passage/manhood and they start being followed by something that repeats the end of their sentences? They camp out in some trees and set up a trap to ambush it and it's this weird pig mimic thing. I'm pretty sure they were Marines or something similar doing relief work. I have a text file saved somewhere with most of the old goon classics if anyone's interested, but haven't been able to track that one down.
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Jun 29, 2015 06:50
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kazr posted:Does anyone have the story about the guy and his friend going to a country in south east Asia I think and do a rite of passage/manhood and they start being followed by something that repeats the end of their sentences? They camp out in some trees and set up a trap to ambush it and it's this weird pig mimic thing. I'm pretty sure they were Marines or something similar doing relief work. Search for "Echoes." The rest of the stories on the same page are also drat good.
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Jun 29, 2015 08:33
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kazr posted:Does anyone have the story about the guy and his friend going to a country in south east Asia I think and do a rite of passage/manhood and they start being followed by something that repeats the end of their sentences? They camp out in some trees and set up a trap to ambush it and it's this weird pig mimic thing. I'm pretty sure they were Marines or something similar doing relief work. --------------------------------------------- Another story from the jungle, this one being the one that still gives me nightmares on occasion. Now, I can not really claim this as happening exactly as I remembered it, not in any honest sense. I remember it as happening like so however, which still has me waking on occasion in a cold sweat. This is back in some weird little island in the Philippines learning jungle survival stuff from the nigridos. My friend Tony and I were getting the hang of some of the finer points of staying alive in a world that wanted you dead and festering with larvae. Tony is a solid guy, the kind of friend your lucky to have. He had my back, I had his, and it didn't matter what stupid poo poo the other decided to get himself into, he wasn't going into it alone. Seriously the guy was loyal to a fault, still is. This is actually how we ended up in the middle of the bush together god knows how many miles from whatever could be considered civilization and light years away from anything remotely safe. Part of the final test of what you learned out there was to go out alone for a coupla days and make your way back to the village. It was a basic practical test, ideally you had a nigrido shadowing you not too far off making sure you didn't get yourself graved by being an idiot. You'd never know these guys were there though, ever, they knew this territory and knew how to work it. The jungle is dense, profoundly thick. I know you've probably heard stories about how you can walk past like...an entire ruined temple in the middle of South America and never even clue in that its there even though your practically on its doorstep. Its true, you step ten feet from your buddy in the wrong direction, blink wrong and bam, your alone. We had both done pretty good as far as the nigridos cared, we picked up things fast and weren't shy about doing things most westerners balk at, eating bugs, getting filthy and reaching into mysterious holes to grab whatever might be lurking in there. I had no problem with this as my dad was kind of a nutjob survivalist in my early youth and had a thing for doing things "the Traditional Way," Tony had no problems doing this stuff because he had balls the size of a C-130, loaded with tanks, and driving those tanks were condors with helmets. Anyways, its time for the practicals, and although we were supposed to solo that noise, Tony and I basically said "no dice we're going in as a pair," to which the nigridos smiled and nodded and agreed that we were smart to demand such a thing. You never go out there alone. I always thought it was kind of a trick question thing anyways, sending your goofy rear end out into the dense solo when all throughout the training they go on and on about how you're a dumb poo poo if you go out there alone. Bonus points for us I guess right? We get bags over our heads and led to a little riverboat. They rumble us out for a few hours and then unceremoniously dump our asses onto the beach. The nigrido tosses us a knife, stares at us for awhile before making this weird little gesture and buggering off on his boat. I couldn't catch the exact gesture, but it was like a gang sign I guess, quick, fingers all tangled up. His boat was poo poo, I swear it was made out of warehouse pallets or something the like. Tony and I both figured the guy probably went up river a bit then bailed on his own craft and fixed to shadow us and keep an eye out. With bravado fed by the others presence we went into the jungle all smiles and ego. We were good, we knew this, we were not afraid and figured this would be fun as hell, and give us some future stories to tell the ladies about and hence get laid. Tony has a knack for direction and the two of us sussed our whereabout after only a few hours. It was daytime, so climbing a tree gave us a pretty decent view. Not a lot to see really, but somehow he figured on a direction we were supposed to go and we headed off. Moving through the jungle can be slow work, in the movies you have to hack your way through poo poo with a machete like Indiana Jones or some poo poo. Reality is a bit different. If you know where to step, you can avoid all the work of cutting stuff down. Along fallen logs is pretty good, up roots and the like, but don't ever put your foot alongside something like that, that's snakefood. The nigridos do it at kind of a lazy jog, we were more deliberate but still moving at a pace that was comfortable to us. We chattered constantly, it wasn't to keep predators away, as far as we knew the island had no real big threats like cats or anything, we did it because Tony and I couldn't shut the gently caress up when we were around each other. I'm sure you guys have friends like that. Those two chucklefucks in the back of the classroom in highschool always snickering and loaded with injokes, that was pretty much us, in the jungle...with a single knife and something to prove. The first day was pretty drat uneventful, we didn't eat, and we spent almost the entire time moving. We found water in different places, big cone shaped leaves are good for that, and they typically come with snacks of differing squiggly varieties. We made camp up in the branches of a big goofy rear end looking tree, took light watches and slept like babies. I woke up covered in bugs the size of my fingers and Tony fell off his branch and got stuck in the crook of the tree when he woke up, clumsy bastard. The second day started out like the first, chattering, moving, high spirits. The jungle was getting smellier and bleaker as we went, I think we were close to an estuary or something because there was a briny smell. The soil went from firm with a heavy layer of dead vegetation, to black-brown silt and loose. Tony and I tried making some fire, took us awhile but we did the trick with thread from his shirt and long bendy twig to make a bow with and whatnot. We got some smoldering going, but poo poo out there was so wet it just made a lot of thick black smoke and never really caught. I figured if we kept some tender dry ontop of our heads or something and maybe found some good dead wood we'd have something worth burning. As time went on we got to talking about old times, funny crap we had done, new ideas for pranks with which to torment our hapless buddies with and the desire to come out of this not only successful but as badass as possible. We didn't want to be the Swiss family loving Robinson, we wanted Rambo. I mean seriously, how could anyone want anything BUT that. Imagine that crap, coming out of the bush all grim faced and scarred, with like a dead deer over your shoulder and the skulls of your enemies tied around you in a belt made out of human hair. Not that we had enemies local, but I'm sure we could make some right? That's pretty much us. It was around mid-day Tony and I noticed this weird echo effect with the jungle. It was hard to notice because we never really shut up, but when we talked, there was this weird echo that was soft and sounded far away at first. Until he pointed it out and we started listening more carefully. Every time we talked, there it was, that echo...it wasn't as far away as it initially sounded either, just deceptively soft. We figured it was maybe soundwaves bouncing off the broadleaf plants in the area or something and coming back at us all curved up. We weren't rocket scientists, but we weren't proper dumb either. Tony and I made a game out of it, we'd start chattering at each other and then he'd hold up his hand, fingers splayed and visually countdown with em, we'd stop mid sentence when he hit zero, and could hear the last few words said bounce around us in a weird jungle whisper. At dusks we had been getting kind of tired of the game and blew it off, but before we went up to rest Tony pulled it on me one last time. Normally echoes just kind of stop or trail off right? This time...I dunno, it just kind of looped, and it looped wrong. The last thing I had been saying to Tony was something along the lines of "I'm a goddamned sexual tyranno-" and cut off. What we heard bouncing around us in that quiet sibilant way was, "I'm a god damned, god damned, god, god, I'm, damned." Tony and I stopped talking and just kind of stared at each other for a bit. We weren't ruling out echoes yet, though over all our time out here doing this training we hadn't ever really heard it before, or mention of it. We were both creeped right the gently caress out, and when one of us is creeped, the other picks up on it and the hackles go up. We found ourselves a solid tree and that night we did not pull light watches, we pulled proper. I'm figuring a little after midnight Tony woke me up with a hand on my shoulder. It's dark at night in the jungle, god damned dark, and noisy. The canopy over head pretty much prevents any good starlight coming through, and the skies are most always fat with gray clouds. The bugs get set to screeching at night and they don't quit for nothing. Underneath our tree something was rooting around in the bushes, even through the bugs we could both hear it. Shuffling, a quiet snort, crunches, snuffling. Sounded like a pig to me and I was set to bark at it and maybe spook it off when Tony's hand on my shoulder tenses. Then I could hear it. Muttering in between the snuffles. A snort, some bushes rustling and a few low scattered words. Bits and pieces of sentences. It took me a second, but gently caress me if it didn't sound like Tony down there pissed off and searching for something he'd lost in the bush. You know when a grumpy rear end drops a contact or something and gets to searching for it muttering under his breath, it's like that. Whatever was down there was loving talking. It wasn't making any sense though, the weirdest loving thing. "So tits," snortsnort "Yeah the green," shuffle, "Named after fucker," rustle. Then a laugh, and I froze when I heard that. It started with my laugh, which is this goofy Mark Hamill as the Joker thing and ended with Tony's troublemaker's drawl. See we had been bullshitting for the past what, day and a half, and spent a good time laughing our asses off at each other. Whatever the gently caress that thing was down there it was like it was trying our voices on for size. Canis latran We'd both seen Predator, we'd been quoting that poo poo for days out here. I can't even begin to count how many times I'd just stop while one of the instructors was explaining something, stare off into the horizon and mutter, "Theres something out there, up in them trees." Which never failed to make Tony laugh like a retard. Military types watch a lot of god damned movies, and your typical boots on the ground motherfucker can quote like a champ. No lie, we can even do crazy poo poo like quote a movie line for line with a different cast from yet another movie. You haven't lived til you've seen a bunch of petty officers do a scene from Aliens with Thurgood from Half-Baked as the Sarge. We caught the similarities to our situation pretty god damned fast. It was eerie listening to this thing natter about imbecility down there, it had no comprehension of the noises it was making, but it was loving making them. Tony slid me the knife and secured himself in his spot and I kept the watch until dawn. The thing trundled off a half hour or so before daybreak. I'm no Apache, but I know knives well enough to be comforted by holding one, but even that didn't break the "oh what the gently caress have we gotten ourselves into," gloom that caught us. The next day was a grim loving thing. We weren't chattering, we weren't joking around anymore. Nerves were on edge and both of us had to have looked like someone had gutted our favorite dog. Tony did at least, I'm a goofy looking guy so I probably still looked like a run of the mill dork. Believe me, the urge to quote predator was pretty god damned strong but we just couldn't get past the feeling that we needed to be quiet and careful. Tony managed a half-hearted Arnold gargle when we were headed up a ridge, I think in an attempt to beat the gloom, but even that couldn't do it. He does a good Arnold gargle too, for those that don't know what that is, its hard to describe really its like a weirdly accented "Arghlearg" noise done in Arnies manner that's pretty unmistakable when you hear it. Wow, actually writing that down makes it seem so dumb as hell, still funny as all get out though I think. We didn't hear that weird echo as long as we didn't talk. We were starting to get hungry though, and random bugs wasn't doing much to assuage that. It felt like, I dunno the right description, it felt like we were being bullied if that made any sense. We couldn't talk, we weren't allowed to. That got us both feeling a little pissed off. Tony and I individually aren't anything I'd call cowards, we aren't heroes by any stretch of the word, but were not pussies. Together though, we get stupid brave. I'm sure you might see where this is leading. To us it was a natural shift. It took a few hours of grimly trudging along in the direction we believed was the right way to go for the shift to happen, but it was kind of inevitable. Screw this thing. Screw this stupid talking thing. I broke the silence proper, started bitching about the girls on this island, how they had curves like a dirt road. Tony countered immediately that I lacked the proper gear to drive a dirt road. We started chattering again, this time aggressively, we were defying this damned spooky thing. We began the most ridiculous conversations. How do you properly screw a dolphin? Do you beach it and plug the blowhole? Do you sneak up on it in a zodiac, spear gun it's rear end and go at an eye socket? Crap like that. We were uncouth savages. We were listening for that stupid echo, waiting for it. We were not disappointed. The echoes started up, it was hard to get a location, but the best I could figure was back and towards my side a bit. Tony scored a major victory when he said something along the lines of, "Dance around that flagpole bare-assed and body-painted like I'm a drag-queen paramount." The echo came back as "I'm a drag-queen." Tony stopped in his tracks, turned around and screamed back at it, "YOU'RE loving RIGHT YOUR A DRAG-QUEEN YOU DICK EYED JUNGLE oval office!" It was liberating, terrifying though. That was the first time we actually addressed the god damned thing. But we did, we addressed it, we acknowledged it as existing and that just sat bad. A small victory but that feeling in our guts, that wasn't the feeling you get when you win a fight. It's the feeling you get when you start a war. When Tony had called that thing out it was a declaration of war. We both started getting hostile, not towards each other mind you, but towards this whatever the hell it was. We got to planning, and threatening, vocalizing the horrible things we were planning on doing to it once we caught a hold of it. I distinctly remember Tony saying something along the lines of "I'm strangle this goofy-assed thing, I'ma kill it with my bare hands." I laughed, "Dude what if it's a fuckin' nigrido and he's just screwing with us." Tony just stared at me. I shrugged, couldn't blame him for the sentiment really. Thing is, we kept going on, we never turned around, neither of us wanted to actually stand our ground or charge off after it. There was this distinct sensation that doing so would have been one helluva bad idea. We were getting hungry though and figured that it was probably time to do something about it. There's a lot to eat in the jungle if you're not shy, frogs, bugs and the like can keep you going like a trail ration, but if you want something with more substance you have to kill it, or if you're some sort of fancy botanist I suppose you can tell a jungle death turnip from a potato and do it that way. We were not botanists, and I only knew which plants could get me high, unconscious or stop bleeding. Tony climbed up a tree and managed to brain some sort of monkey critter with a rock. The guy could be quiet as hell, and the monkey critters out here were curious and stupid. The specific trap we used to catch the monkey off guard was me laying down in a space between some trees and doing my best curly impression from the Three Stooges. You know the thing where you lay on your side, and start running and kind of churn circles while going "whooop whooop whooop." Well, that's what I was doing, which got a few monkeys coming down and looking at us like dude, what the gently caress are you doing, and Tony hit one with a rock. We were some crafty bitches. I managed to start an acceptable fire, previously I had taken our tinder and folded it up in a dry leaf and worn it on my head like an idiot. The campfire was tiny, but it did the trick, I cleaned the monkey critter as best I could and we cooked it old school on some sticks. The sticks caught fire frequently, and a lot of the meat burned to inedible carbon but my god it was good. We cooked the hell out of that monkey, I'm sure it was loaded with parasites, but burning the hell out of it had to help, and I figured we could get purged when we got back to our unit, or hell, just the village if I could boil some water and drop some tabs. The other monkey critters watched us eat, they were quiet, just staring. Probably should have felt bad about that in hindsight, but neither of us was feeling charitable or friendly really. Something about having meat in our bellies and actual fire, albeit a small one made us feel a lot more ready for this weird poo poo and we got to planning on how we were gonna handle it. Idea one was to continue on as we were going and maybe just pick up the pace. It was the safest idea by far and Tony figured we had another day until we got to either a lovely road we could navigate off of or a larger river we could follow. Idea two was to cover ourselves in mud, arm ourselves with bows made from roots and poo poo and ambush the thing. I poo poo you not, we figured why the hell not. Idea three was to split apart at night, have each person in a different tree and stay up until whatever it was came snooting around. Whoever was in the tree it decided to investigate would signal the other who would come down and murder the hell out of it from the rear. I liked idea three and voted for it, Tony voted for two and the monkey's skull sided with me making it a unanimous vote for idea three, because Tony was Italian and Italians don't get to vote. There was some threatening of each other's life, but in the end we pretty much settled on our two tree ambush idea. We didn't move from that site that day. We sharpened some sticks, thick short ones make good spikes. Tony let me keep the knife since I was a bit swifter with it than he was and he carried the spikes. The guy is strong, much stronger than me and I figured he could put those things too much better use than I if he could get a good line up. Figured it would go like this. It would start bothering one or the other of us who would throw a twig at his buddy. Buddy would come down and engage whatever it was, at which point the initial target would drop down and help secure the kill. We went over it a coupla different times, figured out some possible oh-poo poo secondary plans but really, there wasn't much to it. This thing had been creeping us out for awhile and we wanted it dead, we felt kind of elated by the thought of killing it. Turn the tables on its rear end and come out like badasses. We got ourselves motivated and I did something which is I guess kind of embarrassing but whatever. I put on warpaint. I guess that's dorky as hell. I took some of the black-silt soil we had been around, mixed it with monkey-juice and smeared three dark lines across my face. Tony thought I looked kinda badass so he did the same. We used to do this during training and paintball games, hell, once during a hide and go seek game with some corpsman girls at camp Lester we did it. Yes, we played hide and go seek, with the legitimate intent of getting laid by said corpgirls, yes we smeared our face paint on the aforementioned corpgirls. He did a full on handprint on his face, it looked very Conan meets Geronimo meets a Guido. The paint tightened up into pretty solid noticeable lines when the fluids coagulated, which took all of fifteen minutes or so. Our site was decent too, an opening in the canopy over where we had set our campfire promised that if there was any light to be had that night, we'd be able to make some use of it. We picked out our trees, climbed up there and took a few practice throws with twigs we had nearby. I hit him in the eye, he kept aiming at my balls. Spirits were high, sort of...it was a false high, bravado I think. Night came, and with it, bugsong. High chirps and cackling buzzes all over the place. I near pissed myself when what I had assumed to be a knot of wood next to my thigh twitched and started this staccato screech that ricocheted off the trees. Was a big assed beetle thing. We lucked out in that cloud cover was lighter than it typically is and we had a good moon. Not bright by any stretch, but more than we had any night previous. We waited. Felt like forever, sitting up in a tree, trying to keep your heartbeat regular. Knowing the second we heard whatever it was we heard we'd get that adrenaline kick to the nuts that would make our whole body start shaking. I'm not sure how long we waited up there before it came. At first I missed it entirely, I was so intent on listening for it I missed it entirely. When I finally zeroed in on the snuffling, rummaging, muttering beneath me I realized I had been hearing it for some time now. It was under me. Me. I pulled my knife up and crouched on my branch, my free hand making sure for the love of god I had a strong hold on a nearby branch. I took a few minutes to steady myself and really listen. I wanted to make sure of a few things before I alerted Tony. I desperately wanted this thing to be alone, and I wanted to get a general idea of its size. Size wasn't too hard, judging by the heaviness of the rummaging going on beneath me it was man-sized, maybe a bit bigger but lower to the ground. As for the numbers, well gently caress...I only heard one. Small comfort that. I had a pile of little pre-snapped twigs and I grabbed the whole drat thing and tossed it towards Tony's tree. Now, remember I said Tony can be a quiet guy. I had no idea if I had hit him, or if he had started moving, I could only really guess as to the actions over on his end. I got a good grip on the branch with my legs and made to swing under it, do kind of spider man maneuver and maybe stab downwards. It was a bit overelaborate yeah, but I used to climb trees all the time as a kid, and dangling like a douchebag was second nature. Nowadays the dangling not so much, douchebag I still got. Anyways, I'm dangling, I let go with my hands and get ready to knife this loving thing in the head when I see it. A huge moment of confusion washed over me when it happened. I drat near went loose and fell off my branch. Tony is looking straight up at me. He's gotta be like, four feet off the ground just looking at me with this blank retarded look on his face. Mind you, its pretty dark, but I can see a face...swear it looked like him, at first. Then I focus on it a bit more and notice. It has no loving facepaint. It's not Tony. poo poo, it doesn't even look like Tony's face anymore, it's just A face. But it's a god damned human face, looking up at me, blinking. My blood runs cold and I can feel my body come to a screeching halt. "Tony, get the gently caress back up in your tree." I say. "Up in your tree." It says back, sounding pleased with its god damned self. I can hear Tony, the real Tony over there in his tree rustle as he gets right the hell back up in the branches. "What the hell is goin' on, what the hell, what the heeeeell is that." He's got this angry nervousness in his voice. I've heard him like this only a few times, usually before we got our collective asses kicked by some angry merchant marines. The thing is still staring at me, and I'm making out more of its body. It's a loving pig. I mean, it's body. Its got the broad rectangular barrel of a body. Its quadruped though I cant make out the distinct feet, its got a human, or at least human-ish face. "It's a pig Tony, it's just a god damned pig." I say, and the thing is mimicking me just the same as always. I can hear an exasperated sigh over in the other tree and I continue, "It's got a people face though, stay the gently caress up in that tree Doc." Doc is a magic word to corpsmen, its a business word and it isn't lightly used, marines call us Doc, but usually only after we've proven ourselves I guess you could say, corpsmen rarely refer to each other as such, unless were trying to elaborate on a point. I was elaborating my point as hard as I could, as calmly as I could, without making GBS threads myself. I was still upside down, if I had poo poo myself, well...think about how unpleasant it would be to fill your pants and then have it run up your damned back and into your hair. Blech. Man-face is looking up at me and Tony goes silent over there. We stare at each other for along while before I manage to find purchase and swivel back upright. I'm not looking down anymore, let that thing root around. I didn't sleep that night. It left before morning, like it always did and Tony and I went to ground and moved out, as fast as possible. We talked little, only that what I had seen was an unquantifiable thing, I could not predict any actions outcome on something I knew absolutely nothing about. I mean poo poo, if it had been like a tiger or something ridiculous like that, I could have figured something out, even something stupid, but not this thing. If it had been the nigrido, well, Tony and I would have likely kicked the hell out of him, but I woulda chilled Tony out before he killed him no problem. It wasn't anything I knew though, it was wrong, and bizarre and very disturbing. We immediately initiated idea one. We didn't hunt anymore monkeys, we didn't fish, we didn't eat bugs. We drank sparingly as we went, which gave us some serious dehydration issues. Tony had an idea of where to go and that's where we went, fast. Thank god for the river, when we found we made so many miles. We weren't playing around anymore either. The first civilian craft we saw, which was this lovely little rickshaw thing, we flagged it, asked for a lift and we got back home. When we arrived at the village we were haggard, dehydrated, cut up and miserable. This wasn't a big surprise to the nigridos, everybody came back from the practical like that. What bothered them is the man they sent out to watch over us never came back. That keeps me up some nights. by Canis Latrans of Something Awful
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Jun 29, 2015 08:39
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Wedemeyer posted:I don't know what to make of this. It's weird and creepy. Not exactly horror, but it does leave me with a sense of unease and confusion. I suggest starting at the '11' in the 'Archivo del blog' list. Maybe someone else can make sense of it all. Accordion Man has a new favorite as of 16:23 on Jun 29, 2015 |
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Jun 29, 2015 16:12
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Thanks a lot, definitely one of my favorites.
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Jun 30, 2015 04:01
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Does anyone know which thread had the story of this guys childhood home which was filled with terrible poo poo, like a mirror sealed to the wall with wax and blood or something where you could see a woman in it depending on where you looked? I think there was also a room where family members died and he slept in it as a kid and woke up to a ghost in bed with him or something. I remember it being super creepy, would love to read it again! vvv omg yes THANK YOU 
LeafyGreens has a new favorite as of 00:17 on Jul 2, 2015 |
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Jul 2, 2015 00:06
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I think that's the one in this post? I really liked it too. As much as I love the creepypasta I'm down for some more first-person remembrances itt
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Jul 2, 2015 00:09
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Summer always makes me think of sitting out on hot nights, covered in bugspray and telling scary stories. I thought I'd share one of my favorites from the 2011 SA ghost stories thread: The Snoopy Dog by One White Whisker. It's hosed up and weird, more of a long unsettling jumble of childhood memories than straight-up horror but as much as I still don't know what the hell is going on in this story I still love it. If anyone has an explanation for what's going on that'd be cool, but anyways I thought I'd share a story.
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Jul 4, 2015 19:54
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Pretty sure I saw this story here but I'm not positive. It was about a soldier who had a super-scary encounter with a djinn, while stationed either in Iraq or Afghanistan. There are a whole lot of djinn stories told by soldiers who were deployed in the ME -- djinn are apparently like the Bigfoot of the Hindu Kush -- but this one was especially unnerving. The djinn looked just like an ordinary person except he was only visible through night-vision goggles, and he was dancing in an unnatural, disjointed way. Apparently witnessed by everyone who was on duty that night. Anybody remember this, or was it not on SA at all and I'm Alzing out early? Thanks in advance.
spite house has a new favorite as of 22:18 on Jul 4, 2015 |
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Jul 4, 2015 22:16
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There was this one. But think there may have been another more involved one. Can't quite place it though.kombatMedik posted:
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Jul 5, 2015 23:46
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spite house posted:Pretty sure I saw this story here but I'm not positive. It was about a soldier who had a super-scary encounter with a djinn, while stationed either in Iraq or Afghanistan. There are a whole lot of djinn stories told by soldiers who were deployed in the ME -- djinn are apparently like the Bigfoot of the Hindu Kush -- but this one was especially unnerving. The djinn looked just like an ordinary person except he was only visible through night-vision goggles, and he was dancing in an unnatural, disjointed way. Apparently witnessed by everyone who was on duty that night. Anybody remember this, or was it not on SA at all and I'm Alzing out early? Thanks in advance. It's called Backwards and Forwards and in One Place. Just scroll down here: http://jezebel.com/10-of-the-scariest-stories-weve-ever-heard-1652856691 It freaked me out 
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Jul 6, 2015 01:56
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newts posted:It's called Backwards and Forwards and in One Place. Just scroll down here: http://jezebel.com/10-of-the-scariest-stories-weve-ever-heard-1652856691 quote:Backwards And Forwards And In One Place, from Gnomi Malone I really liked that description in the last paragraph.
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Jul 6, 2015 02:07
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Well I am a horrible story teller, but this rambling tale fits right into the thread. Forgive me in advance if it's hard to follow. I was 17 and dating my first real GF of the time, so about as goony as it gets. To make things even goonier I was actually living with her, in her parents house. Let's just say her dad was really chill. The most important part of this story is the tragic beginning, her mom and dad had been in a horrible car accident many months before I moved in. Her mom was killed in the wreck, and dad was seriously injured. Dad's list of injuries included both legs shattered, pelvis broken, I think a collapsed lung or two, plus god knows what else. When I moved in he was JUST beginning to learn how to walk again, and was mostly confined to his chair/bed. Dad had moved into the basement as it was the easiest for him to get in and out of the garage etc, one small set of steps, for trips to the hospital, her brother also lived in the basement in the other room. The rest of the house included the main floor, with living room, kitchen, a lower level kind of sunken 'grandmothers apartment' style landing, which lead out into the patio and back yard. The top floor had a bathroom, the GF's bedroom, Master Bedroom, and a computer room. Since dad had moved into the basement right from the hospital, the master bedroom was essentially untouched since the accident, the door had been closed when they left for the party that night (which is what they were coming back from when the accident happened) and had not been opened since. To help give you an idea of what the top floor looked like:  Note the GF's bedroom shared part of the wall with the Master Bedroom, that large black thing against the shared wall was a large bookshelf packed. The GF's bed faced the shared wall, so when you're lying in bed you would be looking at said wall. OK so onto the good stuff? Once I moved in (which was say 6 months after the accident, might have been closer to 12 months, things were normal and good, as normal as can be. The occurrences started off small, people were noticing things out of place in the living room, a picture shifted on the back wall, or a book slid halfway down the mantelpiece, not totally out of the ordinary for a house of 4 people plus a cat and hyper active border collie. As most people know the longer you live in a place, the more accustomed you become to the noises and general ambiance of that place. I had been living there for a few months now, and had become fairly acclimatized. When someone came up to the top floor, you would hear a few creaks on the stairs (usually giving you a 5 second warning to put your pants back on) Other sounds like the back patio door being opened or closed had a very distinct sound, and easily heard from the GF's Bedroom (The patio door would have been directly underneath her bed). And voices, the sound of her father calling up the stairs (after a few months he could make it into the kitchen but the top floor stairs were impossible) for you to come down was common place. I remember quite distinctly the two of us lying awake in bed around 10pm, probably talking about mundane teenager poo poo, when we heard her dad call to us from the bottom of the stairs. I got up and went to see what he wanted... no one there, just the dark empty stairwell. Shrugging it off I went back to bed. The following night one the GF's best friend stays over late (call it 11pm), we're in her room shooting the poo poo when we hear the sliding patio door open and close. Again thinking nothing of it we ignore it. Morning arrives and we head down stairs to see what dad's up to, and ask him why he was going into the backyard at 11pm. He just laughs and says he was passed out asleep in his chair by 9 (heavy painkillers tend to do that) Ok, we ask her brother and he says he was playing pokemon all night. Whatever, not a big deal, poo poo happens and the brain plays tricks on you. The next night same situation, lying in bed contemplating the latest and greatest in nu-metal music. This time we both hear the distinct creak, creak on the steps of someone coming upstairs. Followed by a few shuffled footsteps which move down the hall towards the bedrooms and stop. Now to say neither of us were put-off by this would be lying, that sudden dry gripping fear that paralyzes you was quite real. And I had no intention at all of getting up and opening the door. After what was probably a minute but felt like 30 we both gathered our nerve and got up to take a look. I remember preparing myself for the worst as I swung the door open as fast as I could, and was greeted again with a dark empty hallway. gently caress what are we 5 years old? It was probably the dog, or dad sleep walking due to his painkiller cocktail. Back to bed and morning comes quickly. After that the weird poo poo stops for awhile, life goes back to normal. Except anytime you walk past that master bedroom door, you are overcome with a feeling of dread, it makes your body move quickly past it and you're looking behind you praying to god the door stays shut. The goon who posted the basement story know's exactly that feeling I'm talking about, pure utter dread. Since my memory isn't the greatest the events may be slightly out of order, but at some point during all this it was mentioned that the bathroom must have horrible duct work, because it was always SO cold compared to the rest of the house, even with the door left open to help circulate the air. In fact there was a very appreciable threshold between the hallway and the bathroom, once you stepped across that line you could FEEL the temperature was drastically different. Around the time of the lull in all this action, we started noticing the animals behaving strangely. Namely the dog would sit in the living room and just STARE at the top floor stairs, unblinking, unmoving, for minutes at a time. Dog being dog. Except the cat would do the same drat thing, (I have a cat so I know cats love to sit and stare at walls) but this was different, they could see something we couldn't, the body language was undeniable. That much was clear. Well now it's onto the best part (right, still gives me shivers up the spine even thinking about it); So like I said after a hiatus of sorts from weird poo poo happening, it seems everything just overflowed all at once, in a spectacular fashion. One night lying in bed, chatting away. I seem to remember actually checking the time and it was on the dot 10:30 pm. How else to describe what happened next I am not really sure, there was an inhuman BANG against the shared wall, loud enough that there should have been drywall bits and paint chips flaking off the wall at the very least. The bang was so loud and sudden that we both instantly froze, that instantaneous and totally involuntary action taking over the mind, body and soul. Fear doesn't even begin to touch on the feeling. That was it, one loud bang. I think we both stayed stock still staring at that wall until the wee hours of the morning. At some point we talked it over and both agreed, we would swing the door open as fast as possible and RUN past the bedroom, we ended up running out of the house. Eventually we had her friend come back over and explained everything to her. After going over the details a few times, someone came up with the bright idea to go into the master bedroom, and confront the problem head on. This part was easy, expecting to find ghosts or what else behind the door we were however disappointed. Inside the bedroom it was still in the condition left many many months ago, the bed half made, A few articles of clothing on top of the dresser, and the bookcase against the wall. We inspected that book case to see if there was ANY possible way the noise could have been from something as simple as a large book falling, but everything was intact. We left the bedroom as it was and closed the door, nothing amiss. We just had over active imaginations. Stupid kids. It was at this point we started rationalizing all the previous stuff that had been happening over the weeks. Coming up with reasons for everything, from the house settling to changes in humidity. The last part of this saga I can clearly remember is the sleep over. Even though we had managed to justify everything in our heads, we still had that feeling of fear and dread living in the house. The GF invited her best friend and the best friends' older brother for a sleep over. The older brother was in his mid 20's and from what I remember was a big guy (big boned and cause he was fat) so he was there as a Litmus Test for if we were being big scared babby's or not. We settled into her room and had a good time, music and snacks etc. As the clock ran closer to 10-10:30 pm we all started to get prepared for whatever was going to happen. Heck maybe nothing would happen, who even knew if this poo poo was on a schedule? As we were getting ready to just laugh it all off, we hear her dad (the voice of her dad) calling from down the bottom of the stairs. "Amy... Amy..." Ok we're going to ignore that guys, ignore it and it will go away. Next is the creak, creak on the top floor stairs. Right on cue the shuffled foot steps coming down the hallway. The hallway has no lights on so you wouldn't see anything underneath the bedroom door, but you could feel the footsteps stopping directly in front of it, a presence filling that empty void just behind the closed door. Did anyone say anything? hell no. Did we dare move a whisker or breath even the tiniest breath? I think not. The night passed without further incident and we eventually felt it safe enough (all of us, including the big older brother) quickly left the bedroom. Unfortunately my story ends here without much closure. It was shortly after that myself and the GF had a falling out, as 16-17 year olds are apt to do. My parents came a few days later and took me back home. I haven't seen or spoken to the ex GF since, so I don't know what the outcome eventually was. I do know her father came into a lot of money due to the life insurance claim, so with any luck they sold the house and never set foot in it again. That was a long one folks, I hope it was readable! Now I'm going to stop thinking about all that and go back to happy thoughts Addendum: I left out a few things that I didn't really know how to include them, word them properly etc. - We tried a Ouija board, nothing came of that - Once in awhile we could hear coins clinking at night, her parents had a bowl of coins sitting on the large dresser - We setup a video camera facing the bowl of coins and recorded it over a few nights, didn't capture anything - At some point we couldn't find the cat, and the last resort was to check inside the master bedroom, the cat came bolting out when we opened the door Funny asides: Totally unrelated to the occurrences - Her dad was a weird perv type, he used to spend all day in the basement downloading underage porn. He was the typical late 80's early 90's programmer type, short pudgy with a mustache and glasses. He also had a massive model train set that took up the entire garage. No j/o crystal that I knew about though - Her uncle was equally weird. He worked downtown in a suit and tie job, but still lived with his parents (In his late 40's), he was super effeminate and was an audiophile, bragging about his $50,000 speakers. He also kept a loaded .44 magnum under his pillow - The dad and uncle used to spend all day painting the little figures to include in the model train 'sets' , they found it hilarious to paint little the little people with nazi arm bands on, or glue the arms so they were saluting - Knowing what I know now I'm pretty sure her little brother was autistic. He was 13 or 14 years old and would spend all day in his room playing pokemon, he also had a bed wetting problem constantly. Also he loved microwave instant bacon  Blue On Blue has a new favorite as of 02:46 on Jul 6, 2015 |
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Jul 6, 2015 02:22
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newts posted:It's called Backwards and Forwards and in One Place. Just scroll down here: http://jezebel.com/10-of-the-scariest-stories-weve-ever-heard-1652856691
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Jul 6, 2015 02:54
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I liked your story, Sappo. Super creppy. Especially Sappo569 posted:- Her dad was a weird perv type, he used to spend all day in the basement downloading underage porn. (really though, i wish you got more closure re: momghost, if only so i could read about it)
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Jul 6, 2015 04:01
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cowboythreespeech posted:I liked your story, Sappo. Super creppy. Especially I'm sure there was more I just don't remember now, I know there was something about her mom's hairbrush. Which was still on the dresser from when she was getting ready before the fateful night Momghost might have just been pissed I was sleeping with her daughter too  And yeah her dad was how I first learned about newsgroups for questionable porn, and ebay bid snipers (he used to spend the other part of his day buying random poo poo on ebay)
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Jul 6, 2015 04:11
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Was he just loving super open to you all about downloading child porn? Or did you snoop around and find it?
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Jul 6, 2015 05:23
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Davinci posted:Was he just loving super open to you all about downloading child porn? Or did you snoop around and find it? I seem to remember him being like 'Hey c'mere' and showing me his ebay stuff on the laptop over his shoulder, and in the corner would be the newsgroup window opened as well
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Jul 6, 2015 05:45
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I was abducted by aliens once. True story... Kind of. I was about 28 at the time (33 now) and hadn't really thought about aliens in the sense of them abducting people since the X-Files were a big deal back in the 90s. I'm a big fan of fantasy/sci-fi but when I think of aliens I think of the Xenomorphs and Predators as opposed to little grey dudes, so when it happened I was a bit surprised to say the least. I'd fallen on hard times so I was back living with me mum and dad in my old room. So I was in a comfortable, safe space and added to that they live in a heavily built up area of Liverpool which is a far cry from the back water roads and isolated farm houses you'd expect these things to happen, but then again I'm not an alien so maybe they felt like mixing it up a bit. I couldn't tell you the exact time. I don't have a beside clock and when I woke up I was paralyzed and couldn’t check my phone. I was aware of sleep paralysis and I’d had it a couple of times before this, so I tried to relax and sleep it off, but something shifted underneath me and I realised I was moving. Not sideways or down, like in some falling dream, but up. I was levitating and rising higher and higher with each second. My sheets were still draped over me as I was perfectly horizontal and I could feel them dangling to my sides and air at my back. Next I began to float backwards, towards my window and I grew numb. I couldn’t feel it but I looked on as I passed through my curtains, blinds and then the double glazed glass. I remember looking down, past my body at the outside of the house as I continued to float away like some giant Scouse zeppelin into the cold summer night. I wasn’t too far above the house skyline when I was brought into a ship. I didn’t see its shape, but I was being guided down a hallway. Bright, non-reflective silver hallways, lined every now and then with a kind of ribbed section. Like you’d see on a ship, not sure how ships are put together but I presume they connect the hallways together somehow, but I digress. I should point out here that I was terrified. I knew full well what was going on and as great as it’d be to meet an alien life-form It I’d rather not do so in such a vulnerable state, I’m sure you’d agree. Anyway, it was when I saw the small, grey globe just to my right out of my peripheral vision that something clicked. It was like a lightswitch had gone on it my head and I knew this was just an extension of the sleep paralysis. It was a dream, some mad, mad dream. Trouble was, after I realised this I’d broke the illusion and nothing more happened. That corridor continued on for a few minutes more before I just fell asleep for real that time. (OR DIIIID IIIII? Yes, yes I did.) The point to all this is that despite it being a dream it felt and appeared SO real. If I had no idea what night terrors were, I’d be convinced %100 that I was genuinely abducted by aliens. I can easily see how people can make those kinds of claims and pass lie-detector tests. I think the only other night terror was kind of like that broken-boned moonwalking dude in the Middle East. Some guy with long hair “headbanging” and moshing in my room, but his arms looked like their bones had been shattered as they thrashed and jiggled horribly underneath his hunched body. Real weird. As an aside, would this be the place to talk about shared dreamscapes and the like? Now, I’m no hippy and I don’t think we can ACTUALLY venture into each other’s minds, but I do believe that somewhere along our evolutionary path there’s a lump of jelly somewhere in our brains that’s retained some kind of shared knowledge from years and years ago. It’s why people have animalistic dreams about running on their hands, why people sometimes dream of having their limbs swapped around and more confusingly, the one I’m about to explain. I’ve brought this up before and I know I’ve read someone else having this same dream, almost to a T. I had it twice as a child, once whilst delirious from fever. No idea if that had any bearing on it, but whatever. It starts in a bright, white void. I know a void means the absence of light, but anyway. There’s nothing bar a small, black dot on the horizon which gradually grows. Pretty soon it looks like a tiny, little egg. It’s about this time when you notice that it’s not growing, nor is it getting closer. It’s you. You’re speeding towards this dark shape at an alarming rate. The egg continues to grow and it’s massive, beyond gargantuan and towards its upper left quadrant there’s a split. It doesn’t meet the “edge” of the shape, but beyond that break is another blinding, white void. There’s a yawning noise accompanied by an immense pressure as you fly into the crack in the egg. It’s the damndest thing and years later I saw something similar in the attract sequence of Alien 3 for the Super Nintendo and it made me feel queasy whenever it came on. Anyway, that’s just a few mad things your head can do when you’re asleep.
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Jul 6, 2015 14:18
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coronatae posted:Summer always makes me think of sitting out on hot nights, covered in bugspray and telling scary stories. I thought I'd share one of my favorites from the 2011 SA ghost stories thread: The Snoopy Dog by One White Whisker. Christ. It starts off really well but then kinda devolves into some nasty rear end child abuse story. Also it's really long. Not one for a brief glance.
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Jul 6, 2015 17:23
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After posting the link I started rereading it and I didn't remember just how hosed up it got  Glad someone pulled up that djinn story because I've never heard it before. I'll post something similar from the archives when I get off work
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Jul 6, 2015 18:47
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I remember in one of the threads from times past there was a goon who was sharing stories of some really weird rear end poo poo happening in their back yard. They were also sharing pictures, and it was not only really compelling but they seemed absolutely convinced there was some kind of weird poo poo going on. I believe at one point there was even discussion that they may have some kind of demonic entity stalking them and they started investigating preventive measures like burning different kinds of herbs and incense. I don't think the "story" was ever finished. Ringing any bells for anyone?
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Jul 6, 2015 21:57
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Transmogrifier posted:I remember in one of the threads from times past there was a goon who was sharing stories of some really weird rear end poo poo happening in their back yard. They were also sharing pictures, and it was not only really compelling but they seemed absolutely convinced there was some kind of weird poo poo going on. I believe at one point there was even discussion that they may have some kind of demonic entity stalking them and they started investigating preventive measures like burning different kinds of herbs and incense. I don't think the "story" was ever finished. Ringing any bells for anyone? I think I remember something of the sort, the goon was taking pictures of the window looking into the backyard etc?
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Jul 6, 2015 22:00
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Sappo569 posted:I think I remember something of the sort, the goon was taking pictures of the window looking into the backyard etc? Yeah, I think the backyard wasn't a particularly large one either. Some other details I think I recall was the goon being especially irate because whatever it was had taken to destroying portions of their fence and there may have been one or two dead animals that showed up on the door step. I think at one point they were even considering using a ouija board until a bunch of other posters told them not to gently caress with one. Some posters were saying it was probably just some homeless dude loving with the OP but it was pretty drat unnerving nonetheless. (Of course those details popped up after I posted and closed my laptop to leave work for the day.  )
Transmogrifier has a new favorite as of 23:55 on Jul 6, 2015 |
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Jul 6, 2015 22:52
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Found the desert story I was thinking of! As relayed to us by Tewbrainer: Creature in the Desert (from Tewbrainer's uncle) I got stuck out in the middle of loving nowhere in Iraq, in a tank we called poo poo House. Yes, it had a real name and a real call sign, but we called it poo poo House. Deal with it. Anyways all they had us provide fire support and run patrols during the day so that people see us and think, "Oh poo poo, a tank, I better not stir poo poo up tonight". Mostly it seemed like they looked at us and thought, "drat, That is one loud and annoying piece of machinery". We finally got a chance to see some combat, or at least a break from running circles around broke-rear end farms. Soldiers on the ground north of us were getting fired on every night, and when morning finally came, there were no enemy bodies to be found. So brass sent us a little south, along a river bed that they thought the enemy was using as a highway, and we were to sit way off and watch this dried-up river bed through the thermal and cauterize any movement. So we're moving along near sunset in a 3 tank V when the first position tank hits the breaks, tells us there's a civilian in the road ahead. Ricky, poo poo Houses loving commander, looks out the top, along with the other two, and see what's up. Nothing out there. We pull back in and start moving. This was a fairly common occurrence, the heat out there can literally mirror ground ahead of you. Really neat actually, when it happens. We hit spots the next night and pull tight, checking the scopes for anything hot out there in the river bed. It was about this time that the feeling started. I would describe it as static. In a tank you get used to it being hot and stuffy, but this was more like an abundance of energy that made the muscles in your chest pull up and your heart beat too fast. I leaned back from the thermal and made a little small talk with Rick, when we started to here little clinking noises on the outside of the metal. We immediately shot into action, as little clinks typically mean some stupid rear end is shooting at us with small arms. I look through the thermal and am completely confused by what I see. Solid white. Well that can't be right, I kept looking through it. Then, a circle came into view, less hot than its surroundings, and pulled back, forming a silhouette of a head. Someone was on the tank. It seemed to hear something, as it straightened up like an alert animal and looked off in the distance, then vanished in a blur. Well, everything in thermal leaves a blur, I guess. I told Rick and he got on the radio and asked the tank nearest to us to come and scratch our back [shoot whatever was on us off], the other tank started moving. That's when tank number three came on the line and said that something had tried to pull their commander out of the hatch, and the only reason it didn't succeeded is because the gunner and loader grabbed onto him in time, but he got "clawed up" bad. There was absolute terror in the voice of tank 3's commander, whatever he saw "wasn't right." I watched the other two tanks form up on IVIS, when our driver said could see someone on the ground in front of us. I checked my scope, sure enough there was a white object on the ground about 100 feet infront of us. A crouching, seemingly naked object. "Run that fucker over" was Rick's response to this, and as soon as the driver touched the gas the thing started running at us on all fours. I just caught site of it as it ran over the top of the tank, silently hoping to myself that whatever it was got toasted by the exhaust as it ran off the back of the tank. "He's still on you poo poo House, want me to clear him?" We heard over the radio, to which Rick replied "Toast him. We'll inspect the pieces." Which was quickly followed by nice, satisfying little clinking noises against our thick, bad rear end hide. Three bursts, then silence, followed by "Looks like you're cleared." Rick cocked his side arm and popped out of the hatch, turning left and right, filling the tank with glorious fresh air. He seemed to hear something, as he leaned over the side of the tank. Then, panic. Four shots off from his sidearm, and a scream, and started to fall back in the hatch. Something had him by the collar. It looked like a human hand, only black and leathery, with long, sharp nails. Both I and the loader started trying to unwrap it, God was its skin hot. Somewhere in the struggle I remember looking up and seeing the reflection off of two black eyes, silhouetted against the Iraq stars, and could hear the sound of labored breathing. This whole even lasted less than maybe a second, when Rick got himself together and lunged forward, breaking the things arm backwards on the hatch opening with a sickening crunch. I mean sickening. That was the first time I've ever heard a bone break, and the first time I heard a scream anything like that thing. Think dying rabbit multiplied by 10. A high pitch scream that you could only hear where your spine attatches to your neck. Whatever it was decided it had enough of that and ran off, and we sealed up the tank until sunrise. Tank 2 had watched it all happen on their thermal, but still couldn't believe Rick's or tank 3's commander. It guess it's understandable, because those thermal's make the world look like a giant blob. When they were finally able to see each other in person though, everyone believed. Rick showed his torn shirt, but tank 3's commander took the cake. He had scratches all over his face, neck, and left arm. I don't know if it was some sort of desert wild man or what, but poo poo aint right over there anyways. That's the tamest of most of the other ghost stories that get passed around. I'll see if I can get any of the infantries and forward them to you. Liku posted:I loved this story; does your uncle have anything else? I have the rest of that story, which takes place over the next two or three years. If you want to hear really scary stuff, just ask someone on the front lines. The scariest thing in the world can be a child walking up to you with a covered basket over there. Rick was pretty popular for a while after that event, but since he absolutely hated telling the story, things died out pretty quick and nothing really happened for a few months, and pretty soon it was winter. We were in a house doing one of the many impromptu briefings, when a feeble old man walked in and sat down. He was the father of the village elder, too old to actually rule, but still a prominent figure in the communities. He was well respected by us too, unlike his son, but thats getting too far into personal stories. Lets just say that the Elder liked to kick rear end and his son was a coward. So the briefing cleared up and Rick grabbed me and an interpreter and caught up with the elder, and asked if he had the time for a few questions. The old man threw up his hands and smiled, motioning us to the shade, speaking Arabic laughingly through worn out teeth and a sharp grey beard, "If only you Americans spent as much time letting us ask questions!" Rick told the story of that day. The translators eyes got bigger, the Elder gradually closed his eyes and relaxed, looking like he fell asleep, but drumming his fingers together to let us know he was still awake. When Rick was finished, the Elder spoke in slow sentences, repeating things a few times to the interpreter. I only heard one word I recognized; Al-Mawt -- death. "He says 'It is the wild man, the thorn finger, the many deaths. He comes in the nights and takes the weak, the alone.'" The old man tapped his finger, "He has a long claw on his left finger, he pokes a hole in your neck while you sleep, and takes your blood." Rick said he broke the fuckers arm, and the Elder seemed delighted. "Pain it caused him, and it will be time before he is well again, but he will be. But a sinister enemy you've made, one that five of us would give our lives to see dead. Have you seen him again?" Rick shook his head, "Always watch over your shoulder. Never be alone, never be in the deep sands. A man in our village once shot Thorn Finger, and we rejoiced, but we found him dried like a raisin in his bed the next season" During that last part, the elder sucked his cheeks in and crossed his arms across his chest. Rick asked a few more questions about other experiences, but there weren't too many. Apparently Old Thorny was pretty good at his job. Later that night, the Elder found us and pulled a lightly wrapped cloth out of his tunic, an action that would have got him killed if he wasn't known to us. I can't tell you how high strung you have to be over there. It was a knife, with a bone handle, and a yellowish-reddish-silver blade. Very old. "My Seenahash, my right arm. Before the cowards came, the peace-speakers, this was what ruled. In my arm it was war, but in yours, it will be salvation from revenge. Keep it close, keep it warm." Rick started rummaging around for something to trade, "Blood will be enough. Black blood is worth its weight." And he left. Even though this doesn't relate to the story, I'm going to go a little off topic of how in awe I personally was of the Elder. He was probably 40 years older than me, and I still think he could have killed me in a fight. He had survived through countless raids and attacks, puckers and stitch scars covered his arms and chest. He was missing his ring finger on his left hand, "A good trade," he once told me, "He took my finger, I took his head, and his wife." But he was a double edged sword. He was ruthless and vigilant at the same time. If he was on your side you would call him a hero, but if you were against him you would call him a tyrant. Luckily we were on his side. But, as you walked with him through the streets, you would see men lower their heads and step back, women pull their children close. "Americans are too kind." he once told me. "If I were in your position, I would have ruined this country. I would have killed everyone who had ever stood against me." He said clenching his fists. "Only the strong would be left, whether allies or enemies, they would be strong, and the weak would be rooted out." He reminded me alot of John [Steve's grandfather, my great grandfater], in some warped, twisted way. Sorry for that digression. Spring came, and with it a mix of fog, rain, and light dust storms. In other words, tank hell. Missions kept coming in, people kept saying we were going to get withdrawn, then more missions would come in. Moral was not well. We were eventually placed on the outskirts of a city, and tilted high to offer fire support for a push that was happening later the next day. As noon came, we watched a light dust storm on the horizon move close, and locked everything up. This wasn't going to be a big one, just an inconvenience. The inside of a tank is a strange place during a dust storm. It's ungodly hot, and quiet, and somehow you feel like you just got teleported back to training, and as long as you didn't look through the para-scope, you were back in the states. Then we heard the clicking. It was a nice, clear, tik-tik-tik on the roof of the hatch. Rick looked at me and shook his head. It went like that for a few hours. Tik-tik-tik, silence, Tik-tik-tik. I kept checking the scopes, waiting for the storm to die down, and each time I did I expected to see a small, black eye peering back at me. Finally the storm ended, and Rick pulled the knife out of his belt and drew his M9, telling the loader and I to do the same with a nod. I grabbed the M4. I don't know why Rick always went with the pistol. He went out of the hatch first, us right behind him. Now, there isn't a whole lot large game in Iraq. Mostly some goats, or scrawny rear end cows, but its not like they are walking around out in the middle of the desert or something. But, there we were. The tank that was splattered with goats blood, with the puckered corpses lined up in a neat row by our right tread. "gently caress me" Said Rick. I declined. There were maybe 8 or 9 goats there. I hadn't seen more than 5 up till then. We walked around the tank a few times, but there wasn't much to see other than sand and blood. We packed it up and got back in the tank, got an order over IVIS to move North a ways. Sitting in the cabin, the loader and I made small talk, while Rick was getting real friendly with that knife of his, looking up from time to time at wisps of sand coming in the hatch. The tank lurched to a stop with "gently caress gently caress gently caress" shouts from the driver. We flew into action, I hit the scope, catching the loader slide open the shell door as I turned around (at this point we thought we were under fire), jumping out of my skin as Rick yelled behind me. I turned around just in time to see his boots get pulled up through the hatch. I followed after, but didn't see anything. Not a god drat thing. My pulse was pounding in my ears, heart jumping in my chest. I heard Rick shout somewhere, and as I turned around to look at where his voice was coming from, I slipped on that drat goats blood and fell face first in the sand. I felt a knee land in the center of my back, and a hand wrap around my throat, another hand pushing my face into the sand. Then the scream, followed by hot liquid on the back of my neck that smelled like raw sewage. Immediately the weight on my back jumped off. I rolled over and saw Rick running up the tank, hopping in the gunner hatch and cocking the M240 while spinning it around 180 and firing it off in the distance. I pulled myself up and dusted off while I ran over to the tank. Thus we survived our second encounter. Rick wouldn't say much else other than "I kicked its rear end, then it saw you", but he was visibly shaken by the event. He wouldn't tell anyone what it looked like, the only thing I had to go off of was that black, leathery arm and a crouched Thermal image. "Its black paste now, its not going to survive a cut like that." He wrapped up the knife, with the blood still on it, and gave it to the elder the next time we were there (much, much later). Later, Tewbrainer's uncle finished his story: I'm glad to hear you guys liked Rick [he has been reading the thread now], I might have a picture laying around to send John. I haven't really described what he looks like, so hopefully it won't ruin any mental images of him. Also, we thought Chupicabra when we first messed with this thing, as it seamed to be a 'real' thing with a body, instead of ghost-alien creature. Our deployment took a rough turn, and Old poo poo House went to hell in back in northern Iraq where there are 'no terrorists, and peace is taking over' apparently, quoting a Fox News briefing we watched on a mini black and white TV in the evening while eating whatever we could find. Iraq has a way of burning your rear end off during the day, then freezing it back on you at night, and we were just starting to feel the chill of night leak in under the door of our make-shift mini-barracks. One by one we fell asleep, but were woken up shortly by a yelp from one of the soldiers near the door. Yelps were common out there, as the native spiders have a love for human faces. "Something was touching my face!" He yelled, Rick was up now and started lighting up a pipe. Looked like Rick was enforcing his own personal watch tonight. "I woke up and heard something breathing over me, I thought it was one of you guys trying to prank me or something, so I just layed there still. Then it touched my face..." a shiver went through him and he pulled his uniform tight. Rick was at his feet now, looking at the clay floor. Little black dots were sprinkled sparsely around, just five or six, but enough that you could see that something had walked too and from the door. Something leaking black, smelly fluids. That poor guy got teased bad, most of the men in there probably did think that it was a prank, and the pranker had gotten away un-noticed. Rick and the rest of poo poo House knew better. "Get some shut eye, I'm staying up a while" said Rick. I did. We woke up the next morning, I noticed Rick was gone. I walked outside into the sun to look for him, no sign. Maybe he took a walk? Not like him. I did a short stroll around the building, and found a set of his boot prints. They headed off into the desert. I followed them with my eyes up to the horizon, then yelled out. There was a single, line of black smoke rising up over the horizon, a neat little line. Not the big plumes of acrid black smoke we were used to seeing. Withing minutes I and the crew were in a Humvee, zipping along the sand, with two others tailing. I sat in the passenger seat. Part of me remembered the previous night, the look on Rick's face as he sucked on that pipe he had bribed off of a farmer, a look of calm. Not the expression you would expect from someone who survived two attempted maulings from some desert wild man. But I knew that look well, it was what he looked like before he kicked rear end. A figure formed on the horizon, which was rising fast as we sped along. I tensed up a little, but relaxed as I saw that it was standing upright. We could hear static over the radios, "What the hell is he doing out here?". We got closer. Rick was standing with his back to us, a small fire infront of him. His head, which was standard military bald, had scrapes and cuts along it. Part of his left sleeve was torn. In his right hand he held his bone-handle knife, in his left a gas can. We pulled up and spun around him. He was watching over a fire, burning lightly in the middle of black stained sand. Most of the soldiers around us had their hands over their face, and cussing to themselves. The smell was terrible. Their cussing increased as they got closer to the burn. What looked like wood from a distance was actually a skeleton, charred and black, with small bits of burning flesh still clinging from the bones. It was a small skeleton, you wouldn't put it over a child, but it was all wrong. Its back legs were bent double-backwards like a dogs, with feet that ended in toes with long, curled nails. The skull had a small face on it, a jaw filled with rows of small, sharp teeth, like a piranha. Its right hand was missing its pointer finger, and seamed to be reaching up at Rick's neck, trying one last time for revenge. No one really asked questions about that event. No one was reported missing, no one with sharp teeth anyways, so the idea of Rick kidnapping and murdering someone was quickly forgotten. A group of brass drove over the next day to check it out, but the skeleton was gone. Only the black stained sand remained. *** Not long after that, on our tour back through Iraq, we stopped at the Elder's house. We sat and waited a long time in his "lobby", I guess you could call it, until him and his son emerged from a back room. His son was terribly beaten, bleeding badly out of the nose and left ear. Senior (which I'll call the elder for clarity) was breathing heavily, and wiping his hands with cloth. Junior started to leave, but his father pushed him down in a seat across from us "Sit [sons name] and listen for once you damned idiot." He said to us, translated via our interpreter. Both Rick and I noticed him (interpreter) readying himself for combat (tensing shoulders, moving his rifle forward ever so slightly). drat newbies. I sort of feel sorry for him in retrospect, he came with us with absolutely no previous knowledge of these events. "I've come to return your gift," said Rick, "It was well used." As Rick talked he pulled the wrapped knife out of cloth and handed it to Senior. Senior grinned and slid his finger around the hilt of the knife, showing the black residue on his finger to his son, who seemed to be playing in and out of consciousness. "I also brought a gift of my own." Rick pulled out a little wooden box, I'd seen him use it for tobacco before. Great, I thought, he gave the Senior tobacco. The Senior looked curious and opened the box, then gasped and dropped it to the floor, sending the finger in it bouncing along the tile. The finger's skin was black and leathery, and it had a single, long claw, almost a talon, erupting from the end. Both the son and our interpreter jumped at the sight of it. "What did you do to it? He will come to reclaim..." Senior started. "He's not coming to reclaim poo poo. I burnt his rear end out in the desert. I stood out there and called him out, and he lost." "Burnt..." mumbled Senior as he picked up the finger and turned it slowly. "You see, [sons name] this is what you should have been. This man seeks evil, and destroys it. If you sought anything, imagine where you would be now." Our interpreter started to relay this to us, but Senior held up his hand and motioned for him to leave. Rick waved him off. Senior jabbered at junior, who was starting to slump forward. I wasn't really in the mood for a family argument, and neither was Rick, but we sat there out of politeness until he gave us motion to leave. The son jumped up suddenly and grabbed his father by the throat, Rick and I stood up on reflex. You are always ready for someone to grab someone else by the throat. My instinct was to raise my hand to calm him down. Rick's instinct was to lunge over to Junior and smash his face in with the back of his Beretta. Junior toppled backwards onto the floor, and started bleeding heavily from a wound in his side. Senior was still holding the knife, now dripping with his sons blood. *** We were on the flight back to the States, crammed like sardines into a plane. Rick stared forward, not much for small talk, and I chattered back and forth with some other soldiers. "Steve, what did you hope to get out of all this? Why did you join up in the first place." Asked Rick, surprising me enough to have me completely abandon my other conversation. "I don't know. College I guess, for the good of America, that sort of thing. Why did you join up?" "I joined up in hopes that I wouldn't have to come back." He said, and I saw his thoughts wander to a bone handled knife that was hidden away in his personal sack, and a small tobacco box sealed shut with a bead of wax. "drat that thing, and drat that place to hell." "What happened that night?" "I went out there with the gas can to burn it, to kill it. It followed me a long time, teasing me by tapping its drat finger on rocks. Finally it jumped, and I got the best of it after a while." He didn't grin or smile while he told me this, and I heard the undertones in what he was trying to say to me. When he left that night, he didn't want to come back.
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Jul 7, 2015 02:37
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coronatae posted:Found the desert story I was thinking of! As relayed to us by Tewbrainer: I'd like to hear more details about this thing, if you have them. I read this post right before hopping into the shower, and while showering I came up with a theory that it may be some kind of mountain-and-cave-dwelling desert ape. I came up with a bunch of possible theories about it's physical characteristics and behavior too, but I won't bore this thread with details unless people feel like hearing them. Good story. 
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Jul 7, 2015 05:04
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Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:I'd like to hear more details about this thing, if you have them. I read this post right before hopping into the shower, and while showering I came up with a theory that it may be some kind of mountain-and-cave-dwelling desert ape. I came up with a bunch of possible theories about it's physical characteristics and behavior too, but I won't bore this thread with details unless people feel like hearing them. Eh, I say go for it. Cryptid chat can be fun.
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Jul 7, 2015 06:13
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I need some time to go spelunking in the old threads to find the original story and any other context, but in the meantime have a little story from the uncle's friend Michael: 'God, there was all sorts of weird poo poo over there, but only one thing that happened to me personally. One of the big things that the people talk about over there, especially out from the major cities, are these "Well Tricksters", which is what we called them. They were described to me as a 'big rear end lizard thing' that crawls backwards into wells at night, so that most of their body is underwater and only their head is above water. The tip of its nose has a pattern like a human face on it. The next day, when people drop the buckets in, they come up dry because they landed on the lizards nose. The lizard also has a more sinister side. When it is hungry, it will start calling out in a voice that you know. Soldiers, trained soldiers, would say they heard their wife or kids calling out to them from inside of the wells. I would like to say that I wasn't a believer in the supernatural, but I was nuts at that time about ghosts and what not, so I took every opportunity to walk around wells. Nothing happened for a long time, until... I think I was just on the Iraq southern border, either that or we were still in Kuwait, I don't really remember where it was. I remember the event well though, we were walking along when AK fire started up, sending us scattering against walls and corners and whatever we could get behind. I got behind a well. We began returning fire. For some reason I started thinking of my sisters, there in that fire fight, especially the youngest one. For some reason I thought I could hear her calling my name. My body was on autopilot, popping and shooting, then covering up again. But deep in my brain, I could here her calling me, telling me she was in trouble. The fight stopped as soon as it started, like most did over there, and I found myself leaning over the well. I could almost see an outline of a face in the water far, far below. I dug through my jacket and pulled out a glow stick, popped it, and threw it in. The face disappeared, and the glow stick floated there for a few seconds, then vanished with a splash. The face reappeared. I decided I didn't want have much to do with Arabic superstition after that.' Also I am down for cryptid chat.
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Jul 8, 2015 01:31
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First off I’d like to apologize for the content of this post in that it’s probably going to be 60% backstory and perhaps 40% main story, if that. The neat thing here though is I’m drawing a significant part of this post from a history book I own that mentions my grandfather by name. My grandfather was actually interviewed and directly quoted in this book. This book was written in the early 90s and it mostly concerned itself with telling the stories of the smaller, local heroes that you might not hear about otherwise since proper history textbooks concern themselves with the big names and major players. My grandfather was given a free copy for his participation in its writing, a copy I now own. The subject matter in this post is also going to deal with a rather disturbing chapter of humanity’s –real- history rather than the sort of paranormal or fantastic topics the thread normally deals in. Read ahead with caution if you prefer your anecdotes to be the kind that are pleasantly disconnected from reality by virtue of irrationality. To start, I’m an only child of an older married couple that immigrated to Canada in the early 70s though I was born almost two decades later. Due to my grandparents’ advanced age by this time (on both sides) during summers I was usually sent out of the country to spend a few weeks with the maternal and then paternal sides of the family. This continued until both sets of grandparents passed away. Both sets lived in the same country and both my grandfathers served during WW2. Unfortunately they had the ignoble duty of defending a smaller, weaker nation smack dab in the middle of nazi Germany and soviet Russia so, over the course of the whole war, their efforts served both sides. Their president simply aligned his nation with whoever was winning at the time for the sake of continued self-sovereignty. Neither grandfather spoke much of their experiences during the war but my paternal grandfather once deluged a miserable pair of events. He didn’t do so unprovoked. When I was 15 I was sent to the attic to get an extra blanket. I had no other direction than “it’s in the attic” so I was up there for a while poking around dusty boxes. Eventually I came across a medium-sized wooden carton, very finely crafted like a jewelry box, but sliding open like a box of cigarettes. I slipped it open and I found a wooden mask. It was painted snow white, had a red cloth backing and had a single black symbol etched on its face. The symbol was a swastika. The White Swastika Mask Now when I said this was a wooden mask I suspect you pictured a smooth, neatly carved thing but that couldn’t be a worse mental picture of it. Imagine someone used a bulldozer to brute kill a tree instead of chopping it. The leftover stump would be cracked, uneven, jagged and splintered. Imagine someone removed that wrecked stump and made a mask out of it, using a chunk of the broken top as the mask’s front. It was thick and heavy and its only smooth bits were around the eyes and mouth. The swastika was in the middle and off-angle, like an X with arms. The intersection of its lines came just above the nose and the swastika’s windmill arms framed the eye holes asymmetrically. The mouth was a skewed rictus of a grimace and the eyes were burnout holes. Hopefully you can picture that, it was weird as gently caress. A totally unhinging thing to find out of the blue but more in the ‘what the everloving gently caress, grandpa?’  way.I questioned my grandfather about it rather aggressively and he did actually tell me of its origins. He did so in an unemotional, disconnected fashion, talking at me rather than to me. Some backstory, this grandfather whom I will now call Victor, was in service for almost the entire duration of WW2, that’s nearly 5 years. For Victor the war had three phases, these were aligned with the gaining and switching of his nation’s alliances over the course of the war and Victor served a different branch of the army during each phase. Some of these terms I can’t translate because I can’t read this language well (it’s not written in English and google translate doesn’t know what the gently caress these words are either) but Victor was with the pioneer corps at one point, light infantry and reconnaissance at another and also something else during his time. During the events of this story, Victor’s nation had aligned itself with the Nazis. The majority of his nation’s forces were purely defensive, stationed at home at the borders, or very close to them anyway, since some ‘extra’ ground was taken for strategic purposes previously. Within a few hundred miles of there, Germany was undertaking the siege of a major soviet city and this offensive was a siege in the traditional, medieval sense. No active assault, just a blockage of supplies in to starve out its inhabitants, death by miserable death. This kind of siege is slow and uneventful but extremely devastating anyway. Victor’s unit was sent well out of his nation to keep an eye on this area. No offensive action was required per se just pure intelligence gathering. The progress of the blockade itself of was of zero concern actually, instead the idea was to evaluate the ongoing risk for a soviet counter-offensive to liberate the city. A force capable of punching out the Nazis here could easily be leveraged into an invasion force later on, one capable of crumpling a small country. Considering the close proximity of all these locations that was a very real strategic concern. Victor himself was a good match for these operations because he also spoke German and, in particular, Russian with the right accent. That is, a native one. German was important since you could visit friendly German encampments for supplies and rest on occasion. Russian with a native accent was important for intelligence gathering since passing yourself off as, say, the remnants of a partisan group looking for HQ was much easier to do if you didn’t sound like a foreigner. Victor was also university educated despite coming from a farming family and so he could move around social circles with ease. Last bit of backstory, I hope. Given such long periods of general inactivity, sometimes investigating the appearance of fresh tire marks on open, empty landscape that could be evidence of some kind of recent soviet movement, there was considerable downtime given the desolation of the area. During this time Victor was having an ongoing argument with a squad mate we’ll call Arnold. This argument was of a heavy nature, of certain moralities in war and what things are right and what are wrong. Much earlier on during the first phase of the war, Victor and Arnold were part of an ambush that caught the enemy completely unawares – most enemy combatants were killed before they even knew there was a fight. Firing upon soldiers unable to defend themselves unsettled Arnold - was that murder? Victor argued that it wasn’t, in war there’s always an implicit gentleman’s agreement where both parties agree the only way issues can be resolved is through violence. A caveat there is that you’re always agreeing to the prospect of violence being visited upon you. In effect, the fine print of the gentlemen’s agreement contains the terms and conditions of your death. That agreement doesn’t mean you have to maintain fairness either, if an enemy outfoxed you that’s nothing you didn’t agree to in the first place. What if you were gang pressed into service? You have freewill, you can escape and desert at any time, staying on is essentially quietly supporting the gentlemen’s agreement. In principle this idea could be extended to civilians as well. If you know your country is at war and your home is near the front lines, as a free-willed, intelligent person it’s your choice whether or not to pack your bags and leave in the face of danger. You have no right to complain if tanks roll up to your doorstep and you’re still there. Victor’s own brother-in-law had lost his home earlier in some pre-emptive scorched earth tactics to deny the enemy land and shelter; he willingly gave it up so Victor felt perfectly comfortable with even that position. Arnold was unable to poke holes in this argument though he fiercely disagreed with it. To put Victor’s position into modern terms, death & destruction in war are not immoral per se because, one way or another, both parties explicitly give consent to experience it. Now for the story: During resupplies at a favored German encampment Victor got along well with pretty much everyone. Boredom reigned here and discipline was lax at best since soldiers had entirely too much time and too many freedoms to do with it as they pleased. During a particular resupply Arnold introduced Victor to some German ‘Gentlemen,’ a cadre of 6 adult men also encamped at this position. Arnold introduced Victor to them by bringing up the morality argument. Victor stepped in occasionally to clarify some points so as to best present his position. The German Gentlemen easily agreed with Victor but they were more interested in the ambush the precipitated the whole argument. Victor exaggerated the story a bit to sound impressive to the Nazis, making it out to seem like some cat-and-mouse hunt wherein Victor and Arnold’s unit outfoxed and outplayed a communist kill-team, thus turning the hunter into the hunted. The reality wasn’t too exaggerated except that the “kill-team” was really an underequipped but batshit dogmatic irregular/partisan group deployed to sow trouble in the countryside – if you could call petty acts of retribution trouble. The German Gentlemen asked Victor about his intelligence gathering expeditions and if he had ever spent the time hunting for ‘Cellar People.’ Cellar People? It was explained to Victor that on occasion Russian farmers and the like apparently chose not to flee their homes either for scorched earth reasons or in the face of an invasion, partly out of stubbornness but mostly out of a kind of pragmatism. People that had managed to eke out a large surplus of food over the years, usually older couples, were sitting on a substantial store and faced with a dilemma, do they flee and leave behind most of their food and perhaps face starvation in the cities or refugee camps? Or do they bunker down in their basements, rich in food (especially if they had poultry or small livestock) but at risk for discovery? You can probably guess what path the ‘cellar people’ had chosen. The German Gentlemen were fond of hunting Cellar People. Victor was modestly uncomfortable with the idea but saw the practical use of obtaining their stores – “foraging” for supplies from the countryside was a time honored tradition of war after all. Victor said as much and politely inquired about their hunts. The German Gentlemen described a certain meticulous elegance to their activities. It was clumsy to just scour every basement of every abandoned home on the countryside, in fact if the home above was mostly leveled you might not know a cellar was underneath. Additionally foraging parties had already stripped what was obvious and nearby. It was much easier to sense for evidence of life in the landscape, even if it meant travelling some distance and waiting. Apparently you cannot 100% hunker down in a cellar for years on end, you need to come out and throw away your wastes, collect water, firewood and do whatever repairs were needed on the surface to keep water from flooding your hidey hole, among other things. All that entailed some observable evidence in the landscape. That is, if you knew what to look for. A clear and easy giveaway though was the soft emanations of smoke and scent from the cooking fires of cellar people. By using very long firepits filled mostly embers (no roaring fires) a family could substantially decrease the amount of smoke they produced while retaining the same heat. They cannot, however, eliminate smoke and smells entirely. The German Gentlemen went into the precise details regarding these and other tells - other evidences of life. All six Gentlemen participated in the explanation, each having several techniques to contribute. Though uncomfortable at first Victor was impressed by their sheer surgical fastidiousness of their observations. Victor told them he was in a similar line of work, though the details he looked for in the countryside were of a different nature for a different sort of target. The Cadre of Gentlemen was not ordered to do this foraging Victor learned, they just started on their own volition one day and their successes granted them more outings. I think Victor dropped the word ausgezeichnet at some point because the Gentlemen said he hadn’t seen nearly enough to be impressed yet. One of the gentlemen produced the white swastika mask from a box in his pack. It was as unsettling to see right out of the blue then as it is now so Victor reacted with a long period of silence before asking “What’s that for?”  Locating some cellar people was only the first of many steps. The true game was dealing with them. One had to carefully probe the residences of these people, Victor was told. Making an unnoticed approach was key so striking by moonlight was best even if a concealed daylight approach was possible. That is supposing that you weren’t so clumsy as to fumble around in some brush because of the low light. Though the Gentlemen had never encountered traps intended for humans, simply small things for small animals to supplement diets, unwanted surprises were always a concern. Safety first, take it slow and steady. Often cellar people were armed, rifles and rarely revolvers but usually nasty farming equipment. Finding out what they were armed with was another priority. To that end one could discretely probe a home’s defenses by making some noises, ideally innocuous and close – the rustling and scratching of animals – or something anything might provoke investigation. With 6 men total it’s easy for one person to create the noise, disappear and the others to watch. Sometimes one needed to escalate the commotion to draw investigation. This was a far more tedious process than my grandfather cared to recall. Once investigation was achieved the night could be considered a success though there were more nights more come. The cellar people, if they came out to search for footprints the next day, would only find animal tracks as the gentlemen were wont to obscure to obscure their trails. Probings would continue for sometimes many nights to try and determine all the entrances, peepholes, number of occupants, approximate dimensions of the cellar and further details. An ancillary objective was to continue escalating the noise and trouble they were causing on the outside – knocking over furniture and sometimes even killing a small animal if they had one handy. The fear and tension these small things would cause on the occupants was palpable despite being silly tricks in the end. Apparently the most powerful thing one could experience at this point was putting on the white swastika mask during the stalking and allowing a cellar person to see you. Often through window or peep hole. Not necessarily for an instant either but a full two seconds containing definite eye contact. Then it was best to slink away into the night. Exhilaration does not even begin to describe the feeling the gentlemen said, the terror you might see in the person’s eyes mingled with the danger that might get shot for your efforts. If you’ve probed carefully enough though you’ll know their patterns, armaments and thus the best location in terms of distance, safety and cover to get caught in your stalking. Victor’s reaction to the story was now mentally a combination of and  but outwardly he showed none of it, he politely asked what was the point of foolishly giving yourself away after being so careful earlier.Ultimately none; save the exhilaration the Gentlemen explained. There was a certain psychology at play here in that you did not give yourself away… necessarily. In the morning light finding not but the animal tracks and the dung you’ve planted does a great deal to eliminate one’s night time fears. A person in that situation will likely discount their own memory and senses on account of darkness and nerves. The jagged, splintery and thick nature of the white mask looks unhuman enough to belong to an animal, at least in one’s fevered retrospect. During all their hunts only one family had chosen to evacuate their cellar due to strange noises and short, possibly imagined, sights. Most people were immovable, either through stubbornness or paralyzing fear. The next night another person would have the honor of wearing the mask. The person would fully become the creature, ‘das Gespenst,’ and eliminate the family with the unseen assistance of the other five. As if to pre-empt Victor’s admonishing there was no point for doing these things but sheer exhilaration. Unlike any other kind of sensation, including the exhilaration felt before, this particular sensation can be made to last, and last, and last until you’re wholly contented with yourself. There is never a whimper when there should be a bang either. Five of the men had essentially the same additional explanation; the feeling of total dominance and control was outrageously powerful in and of itself. The sixth simply found the situation curious and a little humorous. Normally humor is derived from the unexpected, he explained, the obvious punch line is enjoyable to no one. It’s odd then that getting the obvious, expected reaction for performing a certain deed was so intensely funny in this case – at least intensely funny in an inward manner. The 6th man suspected he discovered a new, undiscovered facet of humor; the kind where getting the expected reaction is exactly the thing that makes you laugh. As a personal note here, consider the popularity of youtube fail videos that border on snuff thanks to severe accidents occurring on screen yet people still watch and enjoy them. When the whole deed was over, requisitioning a vehicle to pick up the remaining food stores was the last thing to settle. That is if there even was a food store that itself was worthwhile. In any case the Gentlemen’s superiors felt that the elimination of possible hostile elements from the countryside was in itself worthwhile. Victor was deeply and thoroughly unsettled at this point but managed to perfectly hold on to his outward calm. The Gentlemen were more indirect with their language but the euphemisms could be plainly understood. Victor didn’t want to conspicuously leave the conversation at this point to betray his feelings, and made a few comments and maintained small talk until it was appropriate to leave. Victor left by politely thanking the Gentlemen for their time and mentioned that their careful observations of the landscape, as well as their meticulous methods, have allowed him to see the countryside in new and informative ways. Afterwards, when they were alone Victor asked Arnold why in the gently caress he was introduced to a cadre of literal psychopaths and Arnold flatly stated “I thought you were kindred spirits.” Epilogue In the proceeding months, during resupplies at the German Encampment, though Victor felt disgust for the German Gentlemen he never once let anything show. He did not actively avoid the Gentlemen, feeling that would be too conspicuous, but he did not seek out their company either. Sometimes there was conversation, always polite but brief. Victor once inquired if there were any successful hunts lately but he wasn’t braced for an answer in the affirmative and frowned slightly. Victor’s last –possible- encounter with the German Gentlemen occurred one night when he and a couple other men were camping out in the bush doing their recon thing. In the middle of the night they were taken aback by a sudden shrieking in the distance. Faint, but there. Distant screams that nonetheless carried resounding waves of emotion: terror, pain, hatred, agony in a sound that cannot be fully imagined by those who’ve never heard it. Certainly we cannot imagine it fully, an actor cannot be induced to make those kinds of noises, noises nearly alien in its upmost strain of human vocal chords. As each ear fixed itself on the dimly rising pitch, pleading words taking flickering shapes in that tiny cacophony, unease escalated into alarm and perhaps fright. Three armed, professional and veteran soldiers were reduced to hiding in cover, unmoving and passive. The noises lasted an unexpectedly long time before giving way and not one person dared to budge from their firing position. The other men concluded in the morning that someone was mauled by an animal in a savage but mundane way. That was that. Always better to assume animals indeed, Victor reflected to me, despite vague but contrary evidence. The last comments I’m taking directly from the history book I mentioned earlier. My grandfather’s interview answers were a little bizarre. In them Victor spent very little time talking about himself, only that he hated the later phases of the war most of all because those days seemed unending and horrible though he didn’t take part in any more offensive action or violence. Instead he spent the remainder of his interview praising his wife who was stuck managing the family farm by herself, alone in the wilderness if far from the fighting. He praised her courage saying it was an amazing thing she did, staying safe out there while succeeding at farmer’s work. Victor’s wife chipped into the interview saying that her efforts sadly went unrecognized by the government for a very long time. Recent reforms, however, allowed her to receive the agricultural pension entitled to all farmers. The pension was a princely 50 dollars a year, she joked, entirely too much money for one person to spend. Though not a paranormal story in the slightest I think this snipit of history deserves a place here. The German Gentlemen, though monsters in their own right, are barely worth mentioning in the same breath as some of the other monsters whose unnatural sadism was inflicted upon millions during this time period. The Gentlemen were definitely creepy individuals nonetheless. I know nothing of their appearance save that one of the Gentlemen wore the 'older style of owl-rimmed glasses' and was rather handsome so I had to leave out any descriptions of their persons because I had next to none myself. My grandfather simply did not share with me all the details before he passed away so I’ve missed other things too. One thing does bother me and will continue to bother me though. I have no idea how my Grandfather came to be the owner of the mask.
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Jul 8, 2015 02:43
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Well I think I know how the Hinterkaifeck murders happened now. Thanks for that, I guess.
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Jul 8, 2015 04:22
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hard counter posted:I have no idea how my Grandfather came to be the owner of the mask. Don't apologize for an excellent creepy post. Now I'm scare to see what horrors my family might inherit from the German side of my grandparents.
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Jul 8, 2015 04:35
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Transmogrifier posted:I remember in one of the threads from times past there was a goon who was sharing stories of some really weird rear end poo poo happening in their back yard. They were also sharing pictures, and it was not only really compelling but they seemed absolutely convinced there was some kind of weird poo poo going on. I believe at one point there was even discussion that they may have some kind of demonic entity stalking them and they started investigating preventive measures like burning different kinds of herbs and incense. I don't think the "story" was ever finished. Ringing any bells for anyone? I was actually trying to remember this story the other day, wanting to re-read it. I'll have to see if I can dig anything up.
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Jul 8, 2015 05:23
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 07:18 |
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Man, reading all these stories almost makes me disappointed I've never experienced a single paranormal encounter. Almost. Although last night I was talking to my parents and the subject turned to the supernatural (as it does, I guess, when a family member's recently passed away) and when I mentioned I've never had a supernatural experience he immediately said "oh yes you have." Apparently when I was a little kid my dad came into the room where I was playing, and he swears he never said anything, but I answered the question he'd been thinking. My mom was quick to pipe up with a story of one time we'd been in a stationary shop in the city and I suddenly exclaimed "dad's coming" and ran out and sure enough, dad was 20 or 30 metres up the sidewalk. I just wish I could've kept these psychic tendencies. 
Altivia has a new favorite as of 15:01 on Jul 8, 2015 |
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Jul 8, 2015 12:55
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