3:47 pm. August 4th, 1973.
My name is Kevin Matthews. I am at the Matthews Lakeside cabin in Black Rock Park which I received in my dad’s will. I’m writing this to document my odd findings of my family’s lakehouse.
I’ve been looking at real estate ads in the paper to get a good idea of how much I can get off this place. I then looked through some old newspapers and read articles about murders and strange unexplainable occurrences at a cabin by lake Buchanan, called “Camp Matt”. After hearing of this I had to get answers.
9:14 pm. August 5th, 1973.
Today I spoke to someone who witnessed some phenomena, a main named Clawson Aandale. Mr. Aandale said that he was staying at Camp Matt for about 3 days and on the 3rd night he said he saw a man standing under the tall oak out front, staring into the cabin windows. Another odd thing, Clawson said that the man was wearing the same clothes that he was, that he was…imitating him. Another, Ruth Oakley, found her husband Dylan stabbed to death under the “tall oak” at Camp Matt in 1953. She swore her innocence to the police and that she had nothing to do with his death, but the only prints found on the knife were hers and she claims she only touched the knife after pulling it out of her husband.…
I was on a business trip about a year ago and I had to drive from Denver to LA. It was a long drive and I was growing tired of the road, so I stopped at the Holiday Inn hotel that was nearby. I walked up to the desk and rung the bell. Just seconds later, a man came out from the back room. “Hello sir, my name is John Shelby,” the man said, “How can I assist you?”
“I’m looking for a room,” I replied, “Are there any available?”
He searched in his computer to see if a room was available. To my luck, there was one more room left. He gave me a key and told me to have a nice night. I asked him to point me toward a vending machine and he did just that. When I walked to the vending machine, craving a bag of chips, I noticed a pool at the end of the hall. A lot of hotels have pools, there’s nothing strange about that. What got me confused was the fact that the water was red, blood red. I purchased my bag of chips and went back to the front desk where the man was still present.…
My name is Sophia Radcliffe, and I am a retired Social Worker with the Ministry of Children and Family Development. I am only writing this because I am no longer working with the ministry, and have no obligations to keep my personal experiences to myself, however I will not use real names to protect the identity of the survivors. I have been given permission to share this story by my former client, Mrs. Sanderson, who is the only other person who knows the truth.
In the winter of 2003, I was given a case that would be the deciding factor in entering my early retirement. I had been a social worker for fourteen years by this point, and I honestly believed I had seen it all, but this case was interesting to say the least. The six-year-old girl that I was going to be working with had just been placed in the psychiatric ward of a nearby hospital, and I was to meet with her every week until she was considered well enough to be moved to a foster home.
The following information is what I am able to share from her case file, news reports and the research that followed:
The girl’s father was a Lieutenant in the military and had been overseas when she was born, unaware of her existence until he came home to find his wife with a two year old girl.…
It was times like these, when I wished I could just run away and never look back. I wanted to scream, but I only could cry internally from all the stress that came from my family. My father and my stepmother always go at each other’s neck like a couple of lions fighting over a piece of meat. There is no peace, sometimes I wish, I could crawl into a hole and never come out of it. I desperately pray to God that every day would at least get a little better, but it never does. Nothing never gets better.
The only thing I look forward to is sleep. The feeling of suppression and neglect from my stepmother increases with every passing day. Sometimes, I lay in bed wondering if my family or friends would even miss me if I went away. Would people cry? The only love I ever felt was from my father, but lately things have taken a turn for the worse. Fights have gotten more violent and there were days, I would find my father crying, praying for a miracle to happen.
Night fell and I waited in my room for about several hours. The grating damned noise of the clock above contributed to my frustration, I did not hear my father and stepmother arguing anymore.…
In 1998 I got a new teaching job in a new town. To save money I moved into a small house that was for rent. My roommate, Claire, was nice enough and the two of us got along easily. I moved in and found my room. While unpacking I came across an old framed photograph. Three men dressed as hospital orderlies were sitting together in the living room of the house. These three men had once lived in the house I was now renting with Claire. I didn’t want to throw away the photograph, it didn’t seem right. But I didn’t want to keep it, either. I chose to hang the picture up in the living room as decoration and a reminder of the friendship that once bloomed in the house.
On the first night I was awakened by Claire stumbling around in the dark in my bedroom. Flipping on the lights I saw Claire and realized that she was sleep walking. I called her name and finally woke Claire up and she, confused by what had happened, apologized and told me that she had never slept walked before.
Claire was shaking, she then went on to explain that she was having a vivid and bizarre dream.…
It was a dark and rainy day in February when I was hit by a small red pick up. February 15th. I was told I flew 15 feet before landing smack on my head. Apparently the driver was drunk and didn’t see me crossing.
I don’t remember that day at all.
Four weeks I slept, in a coma that many feared I would never come out of. I was placed in a ward of children and teens with major bodily harm or disease. My roommate was a boy named Mason. I never did find out his last name. For the time in which I slept, he found out bits and pieces of me from my various visitors. My favorite color, what music I liked, and other random things.
The day I woke up, I was showered with love and attention from my family and it took me almost an hour to realize the presence of the boy laying in the bed beside me. He flashed me a lopsided grin and quietly went back to the book he was reading.
Eventually I was left in peace and after about 20 minutes of mental debate, I spoke up and asked him his name.…
In the late nineties, scientists conducted the Distant Snake Experiment. The experiment consisted of putting a one-man-capsule in a distant orbit around Earth. They would be suspended in solitary confinement for two months, logging their mental status and their physical status during that time. However, the experiment was shut down shortly after it was created due to strange complications. The experiment puts a man inside a vessel, then puts that vessel in a 400,000 kilometer orbit around earth. After failing to get any vessels far enough into space their first two attempts, on the third try they had managed to do it. Astronaut Duncan Vanguard was sent into a distant orbit around Earth. While reaching 400,000 kilometers he had full contact with Earth. However, once he had reached his orbit the station would no longer respond to any of his messages from space. No matter what Duncan said while up there, none of the scientists could legally respond. A full orbit would take about a two months, but the mission only lasted twenty-nine days.
Everything went wrong when Duncan Vanguard went behind the moon. The moon orbits Earth at about 385,000 kilometers. The scientists planned for the moon being there. Something the scientists didn’t realize, though, is how fast the moon would come back around and block out communication between him and Earth.…
After moving to a small town in southern Michigan I got a job as a cashier in the local store. After work I would walk home to my small house and order a small pizza.
This was my routine for two weeks when things took a strange turn. I called in my usual order to the pizzeria when a new voice, one I hadn’t heard before answer the phone and told me “The usual? No problem. I’ll deliver it in less than five minutes.”
Sure enough within five minutes my order was delivered and it was exactly what I had ordered every night before. When I tried to give the delivery boy a tip he declined, he said he didn’t need it and that he was just working at the pizzeria to get out of the house and to try and meet new people.
This became my new routine for about three months. I’d order the same pizza and the same deliver boy would stop by at the same time. It was sort of a running joke between us how he knew my routine so well and that I always had exactly what he needed.
When I grew tired of eating the same thing every night.…
When I was very little, I met my very best friend.
I was quite the fearless little child, so I wasn’t afraid of him. Though, I do think most little kids might’ve been. But, I was a boy, and by my logic that meant I wasn’t supposed to be scared of anything. Even if I was little, I was still a boy.
I met him when I was five. I was at a park with my twin sister, Abby. I had just made my way down the slide. That was one of my favorite things. Feeling the wind in my face, the thrill of the fall, even if it were just a gradual slope that lasted two seconds at the very most. I popped right back up after getting to the end and whirled around to run right back to the ladder that would again lead me to my second long thrill.
That was when I saw him. He lingered in the shade of a tree at the edge of the park, peeking out behind the trunk. Everything my mother had told me about not talking to strangers flew out the window as I turned to look at him.
“Hi! My name’s Tyler.…
I don’t like it here…
The room is cold and claustrophobic. The walls seem to close in on me if I look at them for too long – which is kind of hard, saying that all that consists in my room is a bed, a desk with a chair and those damned fucking four white walls.
Hardly anyone ever comes in here. Anyone except the nurses, wearing those infuriatingly white uniforms (They really like that colour don’t they? It drives me mental, hurts my eyes). They stare at me as though I’ve grown an extra head and don’t even attempt at starting a conversation. All they tell me is that I’ll be in here for a while – a month, a year perhaps. It depends on my ‘progress’ as they put it. I don’t understand what the fuck they’re on about but they assure me I’m doing fine. Whatever…
After a few weeks of being here and eavesdropping in conversations I shouldn’t be listening to, I’ve learned three things:
– I’m on Ward 3, Section A
– I must be monitored every two hours by at least two qualified members of staff
– And I require electro-shock therapy as part of my psychological treatment