My eyes are in a ferverous affair with the clock, and my focus is none the wiser. The police dispatcher is pleading for me to humor her inquiries, if for no reason other than to keep my consciousness afloat. It is so late, and today has been so challenging. Nevertheless, I’ll gratify her with my story, because I am really in no mood to tell it again later.
Mariam Cliffington happened into our photo center again today. These visits are becoming relentless, as are the innumerable poorly Photoshopped images on her SanDisk flash drive. Every day it’s the same process. She perches at our photo Kiosk, orders small batches of 5×7 and 4×6 photos, and crones over the photo printer as it squeals its mechanical protests. The unfortunate photo specialist on duty is then scolded by dear old Mariam, as “the color in my son’s face is coming out too pale” and “my granddaughter’s dress looks much too washed out” becomes as recitable as the Lord’s Prayer. The project is then gifted to me, as I am the only one who receives her limited mercy. This is due in part because I am the only one in the store qualified as a professional photo editor.…
I’ve always loved the dark.
It feels warm and welcoming. Like a mask, hiding all the stress and emotion that the daylight shows so explicitly and replacing them with a sensuous feeling. The dark reveals your true nature and abolishes the facade you play during the daytime.
Yes. The dark is good. You can be yourself in the dark and not feel judged or threatened all the while by being yourself.
That’s why I love the night so much. You can just relax in the blackness, surrounded by nothing but shadow. Allowing the dark to overcome your senses and numb them down until you feel nothing at all but complete weightlessness.
Then, when sleep finally takes control, you are thrusted into even deeper darkness. Infinite darkness. Just black empty space. An endless void your mind creates to help you drift off into unconsciousness.
But why? Why is it always black? Have you ever thought about that? Whenever we close our eyes, we are met with black. But why?
You don’t notice it, do you? You don’t think about it. It’s just there. Like breathing, blinking. After a while your subconscious just accepts that when we close our eyes, we see darkness.…
The audience laughed as the young man in the top hat smiled. The trick he had just completed had apparently been more than enough to please the crowd. As the man slowly walked away from the almost blindly bright spotlight, he kept his face focused on the crowd, continuing to smile.
He attempted to focus on specific members, one being a teenager who appeared to be recording the whole thing on his phone, another being a pretty blond girl with particularly lovely blue eyes. Tom realized that this wasn’t helping when he almost tripped on his own feet, and he went back to just smiling and focusing his effort on leaving the stage.
After a few moments, the magician was out of the audience’s sight.
Immediately, he stopped grinning and went to his nearby dressing room.
Once the magician had opened the door, he ducked under the doorway and walked inside the cramped room. Closing the door, he finally let out a sigh. After years of doing the same acts, it was finally starting to tire him out. At this point, he collapsed against the door and sat down for several minutes, thinking.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking at the door.…
I don’t know what’s worse, the screams that ended a few weeks ago, or the silence that has fallen since then. Before, I felt like everything should be done to help others. Now, in my self-reflection, I don’t know anymore.
It was like any other day in the city. Sunny, crowded, and busy. I was walking to work at a large national bank, where I recently began an internship. I remember the day well because, besides the obvious fact that the world ended on this day, I had finally convinced myself to talk to the cute secretary across the hall from me. Things just seemed to be going my way that day. I walked to work every day, and the flow of traffic was straight my way. That’s when the alarms sounded.
There was a mass panic, as is expected. I watched as thousands of people ran in hysteria, all going absolutely nowhere. Some of the people ran for the subways, anything deep in the ground. There’s only so many places to go, and as I stated before, people weren’t getting very far. The only option I really had was to follow all those going into the subways. There were some military personnel in the corridor instructing us down the tunnel, wearing full military gas suits like they were equipped for some sort of bio-air attack.…
A true (?) story.
When it all began, I was a lonely seventh grader at a large public school. I had few friends there, and even these “friends” of mine bullied and mistreated me more often then not. So I made my friends at church. At this point in my life, I was deeply religious, even at such a young age. I prayed and read the Bible daily, and my family regularly attended church. However, no matter how much effort I put into my religion, I always felt a great distance between me and God. I could spend all day praying, but every time I tried, I still felt like I was talking to the wall. How could I know He was there at all if I couldn’t see Him, couldn’t hear Him, couldn’t feel Him?
But my father – oh, he could hear God just fine. I knew because he had seen them – seen the Angels.
My father and my mother, still married at this time, disagreed upon many issues, especially religious ones. So as the tension between them grew, my father turned to other sources of fulfillment. He began taking long walks each day, during which he would spend hours praying. …
Ever since I can remember I have been able to see things that others cannot. I still remember the days of my infancy when I would, for the first time, sleep in my own bed, in my own room, and how the shadows of unknown beings would haunt my room. Or perhaps my head? All I know is that I saw things, and that, at least to me, these things were as real as the other things that other people were able too see and touch.
I can still play in my memory the ominous events. How I pointlessly attempted to sleep as the door of my wardrobe opened slowly, and always stopped just before I could be able to see what pushed it open, although it was already hard enough to see with one eye barely open just to be aware in case that whatever hid behind the door decided to come out.
As I grew older I came closer in contact with these things and I started to be able to sense them, feel them, and even smell them. The odor was not pleasant, it was a rotten smell, maybe even came close to smell like death itself. As time passed and I got more used to these beings, my senses were more effective, I could see everything, sense everything, smell everything, and be able to differentiate what was one of these beings, and what was something else shared with the rest of the people around me.…
We all have that one story, don’t we? The one you grow up thinking about, but never actually grow the balls to tell anyone. Well this is my story. I don’t know what I’m hoping to accomplish by telling you. Maybe I’m looking for someone to tell me that I’m not insane, or maybe once I put it on paper it will…Hell, I don’t know. Just someone read this…just please.
Let me give you a little background. Twenty years ago when I was eight years old, still living with my mom. My friend Dave and I decided that we would brave “The House”. Now, The House was an abandoned two story home, that had been empty going on ten years, save for the occasional drug abuser that would sleep in it. However that’s not what made this particular house special. The standing rumor is what made it interesting.
For as long as I can remember adults in my neighborhood had told us, the children, that it was haunted. I’m sure it was just their way of getting us not to play in it though. Regardless, because of that, the house had a sort of ominous aura that hung around it. Just looking at that decaying building would give you the shivers.…
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.…