30 TRUE Terrifying Stories Told In The Rain 🌧️ You Might Not Sleep Tonight

30 TRUE Terrifying Stories Told In The Rain 🌧️ You Might Not Sleep Tonight

Our family’s temporary residence four years back 
was a desolate farm, a place we’d borrowed from a woman eager to sell it. A trial run, she called 
it. From the moment our tires crunched onto the gravel drive, a chilling certainty settled in my 
gut. Something was profoundly a miss. A constant unseen gaze felt fixed upon me. A suffocating 
scrutiny that never lifted. Since we weren’t actual owners, the main house was off limits, 
leaving us to inhabit a drafty wooden storage shed, our crude sleeping quarters. The farm’s 
layout was stark. A manual barbed wire gate marked the entrance, opening onto a vast, barren field. 
To the right stood a solitary outdoor privy, a lonely sentinel. Beyond that, a sparse cluster 
of trees, and then our rustic shed. Further still, the imposing silent mainhouse to the left, 
and finally, the encroaching, dense forest. Just within the forest’s edge, a gnarled tree 
sported a tattered, sunbleleached plastic bag, long since forgotten by whoever tied it there. 
Beneath it, a pronounced mound of earth hinted at a hidden burial. Our meager household included my 
parents, myself for dogs, and the farm’s original, watchful hound. Our daily grind began at 5:00 a.m. 
A trek into the city for school and work. That first night, a disquing detail nodded at me. My 
room was the only one in our shed without a proper lock. The oppressive unease was so profound, sleep 
was an impossibility. I lay awake until dawn, catching what rest I could on the bumpy ride 
to school. Soon, the unsettling became outright bizarre. Doors began to swing open at night. 
Initially, I dismissed it as a trick of the wind. A tired cliche, I know. But the occurrences 
grew in frequency, the movements more forceful, almost violent. By the end of that inaugural 
week, I finally saw it. A figure, impossibly dark and humanoid, stood silhouetted against 
the faint moonlight bleeding into my doorway. Its face, a stark, pale void, had no discernable 
features beyond hollow, lightless cavities where eyes should be, and a gaping, formless crevice 
instead of a mouth. It simply stood, observing. I made a silent vow. I would not sleep here. Not 
while that thing watched. I fixed my gaze back, desperate to convince myself it was a figment, a 
stress-induced hallucination. But nights later, the pretense shattered. It began to move. It 
glided into my room, a whisper of shadow. It tapped a soft, deliberate thumb thump on the metal 
window pane right beside my bed. Objects suddenly shifted. It remained an unsettling presence, a 
silent, persistent tormentor. A beam of light from my flashlight would banish it, but the chilling 
sensation lingered, a cold residue in the air. I kept a flashlight perpetually ready. Music a 
constant drone against the encroaching silence, a desperate attempt to stay calm, to stay awake. 
Inevitably, exhaustion one. On those mornings when I succumbed to sleep, I’d awaken with a splitting 
headache, a dreadful sensation that my eyes had been forcibly pressed back into my skull. The pain 
was immediate, sharp. Later, my parents installed security cameras, not for phantoms, but because 
the forest offered a shortcut to a neighboring farm’s fishing lake, attracting unwanted visitors. 
A detail that seemed trivial at the time, but proved to be anything but. Then, my aunt arrived. 
She was a woman of peculiar beliefs, convinced the farm held a cache of buried gold. Her attention 
was immediately drawn to the mound beneath the marked tree, the very spot I’d noticed. gold? 
Undoubtedly, she declared, it seemed a perfectly reasonable idea to her to dig it up. A profoundly 
bad idea. As I plunged the shovel into the earth at her insistence, a unique sensation registered. 
The ground here felt different, distinct from ordinary soil, rocks, or clay. After breaching 
a shallow straight of fragmented rock, my shovel struck something soft yet resilient, like old 
leather. a harder shove, a tearing sound, and then immediately beneath it, something impossibly hard, 
intricately shaped, and stubbornly unyielding. My aunt was convinced it was merely a protection 
for the gold, and my parents, eager to get her off their backs, begged me on, but it was no 
use. The object was too large, occupying the majority of the pit, making it impossible to dig 
around. The excavation we had undertaken possessed an unnerving precision, as though the earth itself 
had been carved to accommodate the peculiar object   it yielded. My aunt, with a flippant gesture, 
declared her intention to backfill the pit, a promise she conveniently forgot before we returned 
home. That night, however, was an absolute descent into terror. The gentle, almost curious taps that 
had once graced my window were now replaced by a violent, relentless hammering. The entity, no 
longer content with mere observation, invaded my room with alarming frequency, and my flashlight, 
once a reliable deterrent, now proved utterly useless. I was condemned to a sleepless vigil. 
Every nerve-ending screaming under an invisible, crushing weight. My door, refusing to latch, 
became a perpetual gateway for the malevolent presence. It no longer just watched. It made 
unsettling sounds. an undeniable palpable being, its featureless gaze boring into me. This is the 
juncture where the security cameras installed for utterly mundane reasons became chillingly 
relevant. The moment the true horror began, they ceased to function. All four feeds monitoring 
the farmhouse, the outhouse, my personal window, and the surrounding forest simply died. Three of 
them offered nothing but a blizzard of static. Yet the camera pointing towards the dense woods, 
the one positioned near where we had disturbed the earth, displayed a fleeting image, a small, 
indistinct blur. After that horrifying night, the relentless torment mysteriously ebetted. 
The incessant banging vanished. The silent, watchful figure never materialized again. While 
sleep remained a luxury I couldn’t fully afford, haunted by a deep-seated dread, the overt 
manifestation ceased. Sometime later, we finally moved away from that oursed farm. For 
years have elapsed, yet the experience remains unnervingly vivid. It was undeniably real, 
confirmed by subtle shared observations from others. The object we unearthed and subsequently 
reared. That impossible, intricately shaped thing, still occupies a disquing corner of my mind, as 
does the sheer unadulterated terror of that night. I perpetually question whether we disturbed 
a forgotten grave or awakened some malevolent   artifact long dormant beneath the soil. Roughly 5 
years ago, I began working as a certified nursing assistant at a long-term care facility located 
in eastern Tennessee. My new hall partner, a woman with a weary but knowing look, 
delivered my resident assignments with   a cautionary aside about one particular resident, 
Helen. Everyone here thinks she’s possessed. she confided. A ry amusement mixed with a genuine 
warning in her tone. Right. Whatever. Firstly, I wasn’t religious. Secondly, I’d witnessed 
countless elderly individuals grapple with the myriad eccentricities that accompany the 
twilight years, far too often attributed to   demonic forces in the Bible belt. So, I offered 
a polite, non-committal smile and a gnaw. Helen, I soon discovered, was challenging, to 
put it mildly. Though wheelchair bound, she possessed an uncanny knack for propelling 
herself up and down the corridors, a constant, low murmur of incomprehensible words trailing 
in her wake. And then there were her sudden, unprovoked attacks. Without warning, she would 
lash out at anyone nearby, fellow residents, staff, even visitors, clawing, striking, and 
kicking with a surprising ferocity until she was forcibly restrained. Her strength during these 
outbursts was truly astonishing, accompanied by deep, guttural growls that would send shivers down 
your spine. For the safety of everyone else, we eventually had to keep her isolated in her room, 
her wheelchair locked down. A few months into the job, I switched to the night shift on the same 
hall, primarily for the slightly higher hourly wage. The night nurse wasted no time in confirming 
that Helen was just as demanding after dark. One particular night, as I made my rounds, heading 
down the hall for my midnight vital checks, a distinct foul odor reached me. The unmistakable 
stench of fecal matter. Approaching Helen’s room, my initial thought was that the evening shift, 
in their rush, had left a soiled adult diaper in the trash can, a common oversight. The trash cans 
were conveniently placed just inside the doors for the housekeeping staff. I peered into the room, 
illuminated by the faint hallway light. The trash can was empty, yet the stench was undeniably 
strong, almost overpowering. I cautiously stepped into the room, pausing. Helen’s low, raspy 
muttering filled the silence. On the night shift, with only one CNA per hall and the nurse 
stationed miles away, the sound felt more unsettling than usual. It was dark, but I knew 
Helen was awake. Her bathroom was immediately to the left of her door, so I reached in and 
flipped on the light. The sight that assaulted my eyes as I moved past the bathroom and into 
full view of Helen’s bed will forever haunt me. She lay on her back facing me, her bony hand 
methodically smearing her own excrement across the wall. But amidst the brown, an alarming crimson 
was unmistakably present. After a frantic call to the nurse, we quickly discovered that she hadn’t 
merely been playing in the bowel movement she’d   made in her adult diaper. The horrifying truth 
emerged. Helen had inflicted these wounds upon herself, savagely tearing at the delicate anal 
tissue to produce the bloody fecal mixture she then smeared across the wall. Throughout this 
gruesome act, she displayed no sign of pain, no flicker of discomfort. As a result, we were 
forced to implement nighttime restraints, securing her for her own safety and the sanitation of her 
room. A few mornings later, a new charge nurse was assigned to my hall. before her shift officially 
began. She was responsible for administering morning medications. I sternly cautioned her 
against interacting with Helen unless I was present. She dismissed my warning with a skeptical 
look, scoffing, “That little old thing.” She can’t possibly weigh more than 85 lb soaking wet. 87 and 
a half, I corrected a grim humor in my voice. And it takes five CNAs to bathe her. She clearly 
didn’t believe me, but reluctantly agreed to notify me before medicating Helen. Just as I was 
about to begin my end of shift charting, the nurse signaled she was ready for Helen’s medications. I 
nodded, rose, and followed her into Helen’s room, where the residents still lay restrained. I moved 
to grab a pair of gloves from the wall dispenser, only to find it empty. Turning to the nurse, 
I said, “I’ll run to the stock room for a box. Don’t touch her until I get back. I saw her eyes 
roll as I left the room. Returning from the stock room moments later, panicked cries for help 
echoed down my hall. The CNA from the adjacent hall was already sprinting toward the sound, 
and I followed, my heart pounding. The screams originated from the new, overly confident nurse. 
She had, against all my warnings, undone Helen’s wrist restraints. Now Helen was violently clawing 
at her. One hand entangled in the nurse’s hair at the back of her head. The other digging savagely 
into her throat, already marked with scratches and oozing blood. From Helen’s throat erupted a 
raw, guttural shriek that chilled me to the bone. We hate you. It took me, the other CNA, and 
another nurse to finally pry Helen’s fingers from my colleagueu’s throat and rear restrain her. 
While the nurse from the other hall tended to   my injured colleagueu’s wounds, I began filling 
out the incident report. Through ragged sobs, the new nurse explained that after I’d left, Helen 
had spoken to her in a surprisingly sweet voice, wishing her good morning and even smiling. Helen 
had then asked if she wouldn’t mind helping her use the bathroom, an absurd request given Helen’s 
incontinence and the fact she hadn’t used a toilet in over a year. Naively, the nurse had agreed, 
removing the wrist restraints. That was when Helen had suddenly, terrifyingly, pounced. The 
nurse cried harder, describing how Helen’s voice, even her very smell, had utterly transformed in 
an instant. My report detailed deep lacerations to her throat and a missing patch of hair where Helen 
had ripped it from her scalp. She quit that very night. There were many other unsettling incidents 
and I grew increasingly terrified of caring for that woman. The absolute worst, however, occurred 
on my very last night at the nursing home. I had already clocked out and was about to leave when 
I remembered I needed to inform the dayshift CNAs   about a resident’s upcoming off-site doctor’s 
appointment, which one of them would need to attend. Spotting them down the hall, I called 
out and started walking in their direction. As I passed Helen’s room, I did a double take and 
froze. The day shift had already gotten Helen up and into her wheelchair, which was locked in the 
middle of her room. Yet, she had somehow managed to free one of her hands from the restraint. She 
was methodically chewing on the index finger of that hand. Everything became a blur. I screamed 
something unintelligible, rushing into the room with the dayshift nurse close behind. It took all 
of us to wrestle her finger out of her mouth. She screamed and growled in protest the entire time. 
Her mouth a grotesque cavern of yellow jagged teeth now smeared with blood and bits of flesh. 
Helen had noded the meat off most of her right index finger. The doctor was called in stating 
he’d never seen anything like it and confirmed she would need skin graft surgery. It was more than 
I could bear. I walked out of that nursing home and never returned. I didn’t give notice, didn’t 
even call. I remained profoundly traumatized by Helen and never worked as a CNA again. This all 
happened a while ago. For context, I’m a male in my mid20s now, and at the time, I was living 
at home with my parents in a larger than average house with a furnished basement apartment located 
in a safe city in California. My living space in the basement of my California home usually meant a 
symphony of domestic sounds from the upper floors,   the creek of footsteps, doors opening and closing, 
even the rumble of the garage door when my younger siblings pulled in late from college. These 
familiar noises, even at 2 or 3 in the morning, were simply part of the household rhythm, never a 
cause for alarm. However, a few Christmases ago, when my parents had flown to a sunny Mexican 
resort and my brother chose to remain in his   college town, the usual sounds were replaced 
by an unsettling silence. For a full week, I was the sole occupant. On the first night of my 
solitary tenure, I returned from a friend’s house around 11 p.m. After a brief period of television, 
I decided to head to my basement apartment. Before descending, I engaged the comprehensive security 
system. While it lacked cameras, it was designed to trigger a piercing alarm if any door or window 
was breached, and if that alarm persisted for over a minute, the police would be notified. I tucked 
myself into bed, browsed social media for a bit, and then drifted off. Some hours later, I was 
roused by a distinct loud mechanical groan. The garage door was opening. A strange thought given 
I was alone and no one was expected back for days. 30 seconds later, it slammed shut. I dismissed it. 
Perhaps my brother had made an unannounced return. I reasoned sleepily. I lay there listening, half 
expecting the alarm to blare or to hear footsteps, but the house remained silent. My drowsiness 
quickly won, and I slipped back into sleep, convinced it was nothing more than a momentary 
oddity. The following morning confirmed my initial dismissal. No sign of my brother, no triggered 
alarm, no evidence of forced entry. Everything was in its place. I even called my brother who 
assured me he hadn’t been home. Shrugging it off as a particularly vivid dream or sleepinduced 
hallucination. I went to work. The next evening followed the same pattern. After work, I met 
friends, returned home, armed the security system, and retired. I was sleeping soundly, the peculiar 
events of the previous night completely forgotten when I was abruptly jolted awake once more 
by the unmistakable loud sound of the garage   door opening. This time I sat bolt upright. My 
mind raced, demanding an explanation. A cold knot of dread began to form in my stomach. 
Yet a fierce need to understand what was   happening propelled me forward. I grabbed my 
baseball bat and jacket and headed upstairs. The main door clicked shut behind me as I locked 
it. The sound amplified in the absolute quiet of the house. As I approached the garage, a prickle 
of fear ran down my spine. The garage door was indeed wide open, the interior light blazing, but 
the space was utterly deserted. I pinched myself hard, needing to confirm I wasn’t still dreaming. 
At 2:30 a.m., the neighborhood was eerily still, my footsteps crunching loudly on the snow dusted 
ground, a stark contrast to the silence of the usually boisterous neighbors dog, who remained 
inexplicably quiet. I began a cautious patrol around the house. As I rounded the corner into the 
backyard, the motion sensor light flickered on, illuminating something that sent a profound chill 
through my entire being. The fresh indentations in the snow confirmed a recent presence. A path 
clearly indicating someone had vaulted the   perimeter fence and proceeded to circle the house, 
peering into each window. This trespass, while deeply unsettling, at least offered a tangible, 
if unwelcome, explanation for the outdoor anomaly. What remained a baffling void, however, was any 
logical reason for the garage door’s unsolicited entry and exit. The escalating stranges compelled 
me to contact law enforcement. 30 minutes later, officers arrived diligently surveying the property 
for any additional evidence. Aside from the stark impressions in the snow, their search yielded 
nothing conclusive. Yet, a detail that prickled my unease was when an officer sweeping his flashlight 
beam across the fence line into the adjacent yard, the very point I suspected the intruder had 
emerged from, discovered no corresponding   footprints. They dismissed it with a casual 
theory. The perpetrator likely cleared the fence entirely, landing directly on my lawn. It 
was a convenient explanation, one I found utterly unconvincing. With no theft or damage to report, 
the police were understandably limited in their actions. Once they departed, I retreated indoors, 
attempting to remain vigilant against any further disturbances. Fortunately, the night unfolded 
without incident, and exhaustion eventually claimed me on the living room couch. The following 
evening, the third night of my solitude, I returned home directly from work, prepared a hasty 
meal, and then sought the solace of my bed. Sleep, however, proved elusive. The unsettling events of 
the preceding two nights replayed relentlessly in my mind, holding me captive in a waking state 
until the early hours. It wasn’t until 2:00 a.m. that my weary mind finally gave way to sleep 
after hours spent in a tense vigil. This time, the silence was shattered not by the metallic groan 
of the garage door, but by the piercing whale   of the security alarm. Whether due to an elevated 
state of anxiety or merely a superficial slumber, I was instantly on my feet, baseball bat clutched 
tight, adrenaline surging. My plan was to allow the deafening siren to do its job, trusting it 
would summon the police swiftly. The shrill clamor echoed through the house, an excruciating symphony 
that stretched what felt like an eternity. In reality, only a few minutes had passed, but 
my own frantic heartbeat hammered in my ears, louder than the alarm itself. A chilling 
realization washed over me. Despite the blaring siren, there had been no corresponding sounds 
from the upper floor. No telltale footsteps, no creek of opening doors, no shattering glass 
or splintering wood to indicate a forced entry. Summoning every last shred of courage, I ascended 
from the basement, flipping on every light switch as I went, eventually reaching the ground 
floor. My voice, surprisingly steady, echoed through the empty rooms, a desperate inquiry 
into the void, hoping to elicit a response,   any response, from an unseen presence. Yet the 
house remained eerily still, utterly devoid of any sign of intrusion. I silenced the piercing alarm 
and then mustering what little nerve I had left, conducted a swift inspection of all the doors 
and windows from within. Venturing outside, as I had the previous night, was an impossibility. 
The sheer terror paralyzed me. It wasn’t until the familiar officers arrived some 30 minutes 
later that I accompanied them back into the   frigid night. We circled the property once 
more, searching for anything a miss. Again, fresh footprints marked the snow. But this time, 
their trajectory was unnervingly different. They no longer led from the backyard. Instead, these 
new prints cut directly across the front driveway, curving around the side of the house, and halting 
abruptly beneath a low window, the very window that peered directly into my basement bedroom. A 
profound, bone- deep terror seized me. The moment the officers departed, I fled, driving straight 
to a nearby hotel, desperate for respit. There, in the sterile quiet of the room, I wrestled with 
the urge to call my parents, ultimately deciding against it. Their sun-drenched Mexican escape 
shouldn’t be clouded by my escalating dread. Nor did I wish to confide in my brother, whose 
inevitable mockery would only compound my fear. My resolve solidified. Would return home the next day 
and meticulously replace every battery in every sensor of the security system. It was a flimsy, 
self-made justification, a desperate attempt to rationalize the inexplicable, even though it 
offered no coherent explanation for the garage   door’s random activations on the preceding two 
nights. The following evening, I left work early. True to my resolve, I meticulously swapped out all 
the sensor batteries, rearmed the security system, and then forgoing my basement apartment, sought 
refuge in my parents’ master bedroom on the   uppermost floor. The thought of an unseen presence 
watching me sleep in my own room was unbearable. A silent voyer at my window. Sleep, an alien 
concept, had abandoned me long ago. My baseball bat, a cold comfort, rested within arms reach. 
The stillness of the pre-dawn hours was brutally shattered by the security alarms piercing shriek. 
It was 2:30 a.m. and my breath hitched. No crash of glass, no splintering wood, just the sudden 
electronic whale, I sprang upright, adrenaline courarssing back gripped, I moved toward the 
door, a primal urge to confront the unknown, battling with a chilling premonition. Just inches 
from the handle, an instinct, raw and powerful, screamed, “No, I twisted the lock instead, sealing 
myself in.” The sirens lament filled the house. A relentless auditory assault. I wasn’t waiting 
for the standard police dispatch. This time, my phone was already dialing 911. The silence 
from the rest of the house was more unnerving than any noise. No footsteps, no creeks, 
nothing. I peered through the curtains, but the street below was utterly deserted. The 911 
operator’s calm voice barely registered as a new sound far more immediate and terrifying sliced 
through the alarm’s drone. The doororknob of my locked door began to rattle. Not a tentative 
jiggle, but a furious violent wrenching as if an unseen hand driven by a desperate inhuman speed 
was trying to tear it from its casing. A raw, guttural scream tore from my throat. Someone 
is in my house. They’re trying to kill me. The operator’s subsequent questions were lost 
in a haze of pure panic. I could only shriek   my address, begging for immediate assistance. 
The phone clattered onto the bed. My fingers, white knuckled, tightened around the bat, every 
muscle tensed, bracing for the inevitable breach. But then, as abruptly as it began, the furious 
rattling ceased. The alarm still shrieked. Yet, the house beyond my door fell silent once more. 
No footsteps, no further movement. My mind, already afraid, conjured images of spectral 
invaders, shapeless entities. I stood, weapon ready, anticipating a dramatic entry that never 
materialized. The whale of approaching sirens, initially distant, rapidly grew louder, 
culminating in the sharp crunch of tires on   my driveway. The choice was instantaneous. 
A desperate escape through the window, onto the garage roof, and then down to the blessed 
safety of the police trumped even a second more alone in that house. The biting cold and my lack 
of a jacket were irrelevant. I smashed the window, scrambled onto the garage, and immediately caught 
the attention of the officers below. They helped me descend, their faces grim as they asked if the 
intruder was still inside. Tears welled, blurring my vision. I could only manage a choked nod. Three 
officers fanned out to sweep the house, while one remained with me, a reassuring presence. Minutes 
later, they returned, their expressions perplexed. No signs of forced entry anywhere, they reported. 
My mind reeled, trying to reconcile the terror with their findings. They re-entered, meticulously 
searching for clues, yet emerged empty-handed. My usually helpful neighbor, drawn by the 
commotion, approached with a concerned frown,   offering me a jacket, noting my shivering form. 
The officers, having exhausted their options, advised me to contact the security company, 
suggesting a potential system malfunction. They listened to my account of the violently 
rattling doororknob with a skepticism they   struggled to mask but seeing my profound distress 
chose not to press further. One officer kindly offered me his couch for the night, an offer 
I accepted with immense desperate gratitude, knowing I couldn’t endure another moment in that 
house. The following morning, as I ate a sparse breakfast at the officer’s home, my neighbor 
called. He had an exterior security camera that captured a segment of my driveway and offered 
to review the footage with me, hoping for some   closure. I agreed, desperate for any explanation. 
He arrived, laptop in hand, and initiated the playback. What unfolded on that screen curdled 
the blood in both our veins, dissolving his last vestigages of doubt. At approximately 2:15 a.m., a 
bald figure clad only in dark clothing was clearly visible. emerging from the street and pausing at 
the edge of my property. What the neighbors camera revealed was a vision of pure unadulterated dread. 
At precisely 2:15 a.m., a figure bald and clad in dark attire materialized from the street’s murky 
depths. He didn’t step onto my property. He paused at the very edge of my driveway, facing the house. 
For five long minutes, he stood there, motionless, hands at his sides, a silent sentinel. Then at 
2:20 a.m. a slow, almost imperceptible rocking motion began. His feet remained rooted, but his 
body swayed back and forth, a macob dance under the street lights faint glow. This unsettling 
ritual continued for exactly 10 minutes. At 2:30 a.m., the precise moment my security alarm 
shrieked its protest, he simply turned and   retreated, melting back into the darkness from 
which he came. Witnessing this footage sent a tremor through my very being. The surreal calm 
of his presence, the mechanical precision of his timing, it shattered any lingering skepticism 
about the paranormal. Everything I thought I knew about reality began to unravel. We meticulously 
reviewed the recordings from the preceding three nights. The chilling pattern was identical. The 
same bald man dressed in black would appear around 2:15 a.m. perform his bizarre rocking vigil 
and vanish at 2:30 a.m. mere minutes before I or the police arrived. The unsettling anomaly was 
that despite the footprints in the snow pointing towards my basement window, this figure never 
once ventured onto my lawn, never approached the side of the house, nor did he ever step into the 
backyard. He simply stood at the periphery of my property, staring and swaying before retreating. I 
handed the recordings over to the authorities, but predictably the mystery man was never identified 
or apprehended. The incident deeply unsettled me. I immediately called my brother, imploring him to 
come stay until our parents returned. Thankfully, the nightly intrusion ceased after that, but the 
psychological scars remained. For an entire year, I couldn’t sleep without every light in my 
room ablaze, a habit I still maintain. And the questions, they nod at me relentlessly. Who was 
this person? How did he know I was sleeping in the house that night? What was his connection 
to the alarm blaring and the garage door   inexplicably opening? We even had the security 
system thoroughly inspected, and it was deemed fully functional. It worked perfectly after that 
night. And what about the footprints leading to my basement window contradicting the camera footage? 
How did my locked bedroom door hold against that furious unseen assault? Was the entity on the 
other side truly intent on entering? And what horrors would have unfolded if it had succeeded? 
The following autumn, those lingering questions were abruptly shoved aside by a different kind of 
terror. It was 4:00 a.m. and I was taking a smoke break outside my workplace. The pre-dawn air was 
crisp and empty, not a soul in sight. Suddenly, a man materialized from the shadows, approaching 
me. He was disheveled, his back laden with what appeared to be all his worldly possessions, and he 
clutched a massive glass bottle of vodka, which he began to swing idly. He asked for a cigarette. I 
politely declined, expecting the usual disgruntled sigh and a slow retreat, but this man dug in his 
heels. His eyes, dark and piercing, held a wild, unpredictable glint that would make even a 
seasoned lion tamer flinch. “A truly terrifying combination, especially when he was aggressively 
invading my personal space. “You better give me a smoke,” he snarled, his voice gutturled. “No, 
dude. Sorry,” I reiterated, trying to keep my voice even. I said, “Give me a smoke. You don’t 
know who you’re dealing with, he bellowed, looming over me. I stood up, all 5’3 of me, feeling 
incredibly small. My only advantages were my steeltoed boots and a desperate, defiant resolve. 
He recoiled a step, then surged forward again, directly blocking my path back to the building 
door. He interpreted my movement as a challenge, and his aggression immediately escalated. If you 
don’t give me a cigarette, I’m going to end you. No one will find you. Now look me in the 
eyes, woman. I am looking at you in the eyes, I retorted, planting my feet firmly, unleashing 
the thousand-y stare, honed by countless graveyard shifts. He kept insisting, and I kept countering, 
each time adding, “And what are you going to do about it?” “Don’t try me. I’ll drag you by 
your hair to the bushes. And then you’ll see, he threatened, his face inches from mine, the 
vodka bottle raised. That’s when I snapped, my voice erupting into a furious shout. Get out 
of my face. Back off. Get out of here now. In a classic display of predator psychology, my sudden 
unexpected aggression seemed to unnerve him. He continued to spew heinous threats, but his bluster 
was tempered by a visible flicker of uncertainty. He swayed. The bottle still clutched, but his eyes 
darted. No longer quite so confident. The footage from my neighbor’s security camera was a chilling 
revelation. At precisely 2:15 a.m., a bald man in dark clothing emerged from the street, stopping 
dead at the very edge of my driveway, facing the house. He didn’t step onto my property, but he was 
undeniably there, standing motionless, hands at his sides, simply staring. At 2:20 a.m., a subtle, 
disturbing shift occurred. He began to rock back and forth, his feet never leaving their spot for 
a full 10 minutes. At 2:30 a.m., the exact instant my security alarm shrieked, he abruptly turned and 
walked away, disappearing back down the street. Seeing this sent a cold wave of fear through 
me. It was so utterly unreal, a stark challenge to everything I thought I knew about the world, 
shaking my very disbelief in the paranormal. We then reviewed the tapes from the previous three 
nights. The pattern was identical and even more unnerving. The same bald figure in dark clothes 
would appear around 2:15 a.m., plant himself in front of my driveway, perform his silent, swaying 
vigil, and then vanish at 2:30 a.m., mere minutes before I or the police had a chance to confront 
him. The truly perplexing detail was that in the video footage, he never once came into my backyard 
or even approached the side of the house toward my basement window. He simply stood at the street’s 
edge, fixated on the house before departing. I turned over the recordings to the police, 
but to no one’s surprise, the man was never   caught or identified. That day, I called my 
brother and asked him to come stay with me until our parents returned. Thankfully, nothing 
further happened after that harrowing night, but the experience left indelible mental scars. 
For a year, I slept with all the lights on in my room, a habit I still maintain to this day. 
And the questions, they continued to torment me. Who was that man? How did he know I was 
sleeping there? What was his connection to the alarm blaring and the garage door opening 
inexplicably? For the record, we had a technician thoroughly inspect the security system, and 
it was reportedly functioning perfectly and   continued to do so afterwards. What about the 
snow footprints then? And how did that doornob hold for as long as it did? Did the entity on the 
other side truly intend to break in? What would have happened if it had? Several months later, a 
completely separate, equally unsettling incident occurred. It was 4:00 a.m. and I was outside 
my workplace having a cigarette. The street was deserted. A man approached me asking if I had a 
spare. I politely declined. Usually, this prompts a grumble and a departure, but not this time. 
This fellow was clearly prepared to dig in. He carried all his worldly possessions in a backpack 
and clutched an enormous glass bottle of vodka, which he began to swing around nonchalantly. His 
eyes held a disturbing intensity, the kind that would unnerve a lion tamer, not an ideal trait in 
someone invading your personal space. “You better give me a smoke,” he growled, leaning in close. 
“No, dude. Sorry,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. I said, “Give me a smoke. You 
don’t know who you’re dealing with, he roared, now looming over me, too far into my personal 
bubble. I stood up, all 5’3 in of me, my steeltoed boots and raw determination my only defense. He 
took a step back, then immediately surged forward, blocking my path to the door. He interpreted 
my movement as a threat, and his aggression spiked. If you don’t give me a cigarette, 
I’m going to end you. No one will find you. Now look me in the eyes, woman. I am looking at 
you in the eyes. I shot back, planting my feet firmly and summoning my most formidable graveyard 
shift stare. A look any night worker understands. He kept insisting I meet his gaze, and I kept 
replying just as swiftly that I already was daring him with a what are you going to do about 
it? Don’t try me. I will drag you by your hair to the bushes and then you’ll see, he threatened, 
closing the distance even further, raising the vodka bottle. This was my breaking point. “Get out 
of my face and back off.” “Get out of here now!” I screamed, my voice surprisingly loud. In typical 
predatory fashion, he seemed takenback by the sudden outburst. Though he continued to utter all 
sorts of heinous threats, his conviction faltered, replaced by a nervous agitation. The man’s eyes, 
darting frantically, scanned the desolate street for any potential witness, confirming the 
grim reality of my peril. Had my coworker not intervened, I knew with a chilling certainty 
that my life was at stake. The terror he exuded was palpable, an insidious creepiness that words 
could barely convey. Just as my resolve began to fray, a familiar figure burst through the 
workplace door, already shouting into a phone, “My coworker.” Her arrival was a lifeline. 
He swiftly turned his aggression toward her, unleashing a torrent of abuse, only to falter as 
he registered her frantic call to the authorities. With a final volley of slurred threats, he stalked 
away, melting back into the pre-dawn gloom. The police arrived, took my detailed account, 
but the man, an apparition of malevolence, was never apprehended. To this day, the chilling 
question echoes in my mind. What dark fate awaited me if she hadn’t appeared when she did? Years 
before, my parents indulged in a peculiar pastime, exploring the spectral remains of abandoned towns 
and forgotten mines. When I was younger, I’d often find myself reluctantly dragged along on these 
excursions, a passive observer in their Macob hobby. But once college began, my participation 
ceased. Despite my lifelong skepticism, a deep-seated disbelief in anything beyond a 
tangible, many of those abandoned places left   me with an unnerving sense of disqu, a feeling I 
always attributed to the oppressive atmosphere. Yet there was one encounter, a singular, 
profoundly inexplicable event that defied all rational explanation. Our explorations 
frequently took us to the desolate northern reaches of Arizona, a landscape dotted with 
ghost towns and minds long since fallen silent. The specific location of this inexplicable 
incident now escapes my memory, but I recall   my parents’ fascination after seeing it 
featured on a paranormal investigation show. Though not ghost hunters themselves, 
they were ardent enthusiasts of eerie loces, convinced that supposedly haunted sites offered 
the most compelling photographic opportunities. Reaching this particular mine proved an arduous 
endeavor. The road was so treacherous we had to abandon our vehicle and hike a grueling mile or 
two to its remote entrance. I’m unsure if it was local lore or a detail from the TV show, but the 
story of two children who had vanished there years prior, presumably swallowed by the unguarded mine 
shafts, permeated the air with a heavy dread. As I finally peered into those yawning abysses, they 
seemed to stretch into genuine bottomless pits.   far more menacing than anything I’d ever 
witnessed. An overwhelming sense of unease settled upon me. A chilling, unbidden thought began to 
fester in the back of my mind. My stepmother, her back turned to me, stood precariously close 
to one of the shafts, engrossed in photographing its inky depths. An insistent, almost violent 
urge to push her, to send her plummeting into the darkness below, consumed me. Despite my 
desperate attempts to banish the horrifying notion, it clung to me with an unnerving tenacity, 
whispering that it was somehow in my best interest to commit the act. The second she remained there 
stretched into an eternity, an overwhelming wave of irrational hatred washing over me. The moment 
she finally stepped away from the precipice, the malevolent impulse vanished as suddenly as 
it had appeared, leaving me feeling as though an   immense weight had been lifted. While I know such 
morbid thoughts can occur near dangerous ledges, a profound certainty tells me this was different, 
more sinister, even if I lacked any proof. With her photographic pursuits in that area complete, 
my stepmother moved on to other sections of the mine. My father and I decided to follow a winding 
path, curious to see what lay beyond the next bend. As we rounded a particularly sharp curve, 
we spotted him. A man seemingly in his mid20s, clad in what appeared to be full, old-fashioned 
mining gear. While I’m no expert in mining attire, its inacronistic style was unmistakable. He 
offered us a casual wave, then veered off the path, disappearing into an open clearing where, I 
suspected more unsealed shafts lay hidden. Before I could even consider investigating, my father 
spun around, his face etched with an urgent gravity and declared, “We have to leave now.” I’ve 
since racked my brain for explanations for the man’s presence, but too many details refused to 
align. The mine, long since abandoned, was clearly not operational. No one then should have been 
wandering its depths in full antiquated mining gear. For a long time, I tried to rationalize the 
encounter, convincing myself it was nothing more than an elaborate prank orchestrated by locals, 
perhaps targeting visitors inspired by the very paranormal show that led us there. But this theory 
quickly crumbled. We’d seen no other vehicles on the treacherous, unpaved road leading up to the 
site. Furthermore, our visit wasn’t immediately after its television feature. At least 6 months 
had passed. Add to that its extreme remoteness, Google Maps was useless, forcing us to solicit 
directions from local residents, and the idea of someone staging such a detailed, elaborate hoax 
became deeply implausible. Even after 7 years, the memory sends an undeniable shiver down my 
spine. My professional life then took me to a different care home where I spent 2 and 
1/2 years working permanent night shifts. This facility was housed in a grand old building, 
originally a stately home, expanded and adapted over the years. The knights there often held a 
strange persistent hub, a barely perceptible thrum that would frequently rouse at least one resident, 
usually prompting a request for the bathroom,   a drink, or simply the mistaken belief that it was 
morning. Our nocturnal duties involved settling everyone for bed, then undertaking light cleaning 
and laundry, all while maintaining an almost monastic quiet to avoid disturbing anyone’s rest. 
Yet, despite our best efforts, every now and then, within mere minutes of each other, multiple 
residents, or sometimes the panic alarms on their   bedsides, would activate. They would invariably 
ask us to quieten the children, demanding to know why they were running around and playing 
outside so late and where their parents were. This phenomenon was strictly confined to one particular 
wing of the building. It wasn’t just me. Several other staff members were convinced that the old 
house harbored something distinctly supernatural. Then came the night I covered a shift for my 
friend Kiara at our local McDonald’s. It was late around 11 p.m. and the restaurant was deserted. My 
manager instructed me to sweep the floors until a customer arrived, and one did. He was a disheveled 
figure, his long rusty beard, glasses, and stained clothing painting a rather unsettling picture. 
As I approached the register, I offered a polite, “Hello, can I get you anything?” “Yeah, a large 
coffee, please,” he grumbled. I took his order, prepared his coffee, and wished him a pleasant 
night. He offered a surprisingly warm smile in return. Returning to my sweeping, I noticed him 
choose a table uncomfortably close to where I needed to work, typically under the tables and 
around the floor area. As I neared his spot, he murmured, “You’re very beautiful.” “Thank you 
so much,” I replied, managing a small, polite smile. “Can I give you a ride home when you get 
off work?” he pressed. “Oh, no thank you,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “I have a ride home.” 
His demeanor shifted instantly, transforming from the polite customer into something abruptly, 
starkly rude. “What’s your schedule?” he demanded. “I’m not allowed to give out that information.” 
“Sorry,” I replied, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. He simply picked up his coffee and walked 
back outside. The following night, Kiara and our friend Jack were also on shift. I recounted the 
unnerving encounter to Kiier, who responded with a strange, worried expression. “Jack, overhearing, 
approached me.” “Monica, is everything okay?” he asked. I repeated the story and a look of pure 
terror washed over his face. What he said next sent a jolt of icy fear through me. That man 
called the restaurant earlier and asked about   you. My blood ran cold as the man himself walked 
back into the restaurant. Kiier’s face went white and Jack’s stomach visibly dropped. My own 
stomach churned with a sickening dread as I forced out a shaky “Hello, can I get you anything 
tonight?” “No,” he said, his eyes fixed on me. “But can I take you home?” Jack without a moment’s 
hesitation, stepped out from behind the counter. No, she ain’t going anywhere with you, he 
declared, his voice firm. Get out before I call the cops. Our manager, however, was less concerned 
with my safety and more irritated by Jack abandoning his post at the drive-thru window while 
Kiier was busy at the fryer. Jack, understanding the underlying danger, agreed to swap positions 
with me until the morning crew arrived. Then the manager, still oblivious to the gravity 
of the situation, asked me to take out the trash. “Okay,” I said nervously, but Jack was furious. 
He knew this was a deliberate attempt to put me in harm’s way. “I’ll do it,” he announced, taking 
the heavy bags himself. “I stayed inside, my heart pounding.” When Jack returned, he quickly pulled 
me into the janitor’s closet, his face grim. That guy was waiting for you,” he whispered in his 
truck with five other big guys in there. A wave of nausea washed over me, making me feel utterly 
sick to my stomach. Jack then went to inform the manager, who, as usual, seemed indifferent to the 
profound danger that had just been averted. “He’s harmless,” the manager had scoffed, waving off my 
concerns. “Get back to work.” The next morning, Jack and I were back on shift when our colleague 
Taylor approached me, his face etched with worry. That man came back, he confessed, and he knew your 
schedule. He said he’d wait for you today. I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. I was utterly 
sick of it. Moments later, he reappeared. Jack, without a second thought, stepped out from behind 
the counter. Get out, he declared, his voice firm and unwavering. Get out of this restaurant right 
now and don’t ever come back or I’m calling the police. The man, visibly stunned, retreated and 
vanished. Jack, for his courageous defense, was immediately fired. To me, however, he was a hero, 
and I wept for his lost job, knowing Kiara and I would be left vulnerable, working alone. Yet in a 
strange turn, the man never returned after that. The experience had poisoned my willingness to 
stay. I quit my job at McDonald’s and Kiier soon followed. Now, in a twist of fate, Jack, Kiara, 
and I all reside in the same apartment complex and work together at a local grocery store, a small 
comfort forged in the wake of that terror. I often reflect on that night, on the stark reality of 
what might have happened had Jack not insisted on   taking out the trash himself. I am simply grateful 
I never encountered that creep again. My pension for exploration, however, soon led me and a friend 
into another unsettling ordeal. In December, we embarked on a 45minute drive to a small town in 
Pennsylvania, seeking out an abandoned, crumbling house. The route eventually dwindled to a single 
lane road winding through a dense forest. As we turned onto it, we immediately noticed a dead deer 
lying on the side of the road. A grim sight, but not entirely uncommon. Its significance, however, 
would become terrifyingly clear. Then my friend’s GPS began to malfunction, relentlessly instructing 
us to return to the route, even though we were clearly on it. The arrow pointing inexplicably 
away from the forest. We decided to press on, arriving at a small parking lot where only 
a few other cars were parked. People often used the adjacent forest trail for biking and 
running. We made our way to the focal point, an old water tower, where we paused to take some 
pictures. Neither of us felt inclined to walk the trail itself. An oppressive sense of unease hung 
in the air, a feeling that everyone else on that path knew some dark secret that eluded us. Despite 
our misgivings, we found ourselves taking a short walk along the trail, making desolatory 
small talk. We were the only ones there, or so it seemed, until a bicycle bell chimed 
crisply behind us. We turned only to see a woman on a bike silently glide past, then stop ahead 
to tie her shoe. “Look,” my friend whispered. “Her bike doesn’t have a bell.” The inexplicable 
sound sent a shiver down my spine. The strangeness compounded. Despite the sparse parking lot, we 
passed over 30 people on the trail. Each one unnervingly silent, their gaze fixed on us with an 
unwavering, unsettling intensity. Then my friend pointed out another anomaly, a large boulder 
with a continuous stream of water trickling   directly from its middle with no visible source 
or crack in the rock. It was profoundly bizarre. A profound, insistent drowsiness began to weigh 
heavily on us both. We continued, pushing through the strange lethargy until I stopped abruptly and 
pointed into the deep woods. Far back, amidst the trees, a tall black figure stood motionless. It 
had the indistinct shape of a man, but I couldn’t discern any clothes or even a face. As we stared, 
transfixed, a loud, violent snapping sound like a tree branch breaking, exploded directly behind us. 
We spun around, hearts hammering, but the ground was utterly clear. Not a single stick or broken 
branch lay anywhere. When we looked back toward the figure, it was gone. All of this transpired 
in barely 5 seconds. The oppressive drowsiness intensified and we unanimously decided to abandon 
our expedition and return to the car. As we walked back, the parking lot was now completely 
deserted. Our drive back through the forest road, which we’d only been on for about an hour, 
became even more horrifying. When we reached the intersection leading out of the forest, the deer 
we’d seen earlier was still there. But it was no longer just a dead deer. It was a perfectly clean, 
immaculate skeleton picked entirely bare of flesh and fur without a single speck of blood. Only its 
head remained, still attached to the impossibly clean bones. No animal could have consumed or 
stripped it with such surgical precision in such a short span of time, leaving absolutely no 
trace. We were utterly terrified, desperate to simply get home. Just then, my friend’s car trunk 
inexplicably popped open. Her hands were nowhere near the release button. She got out to manually 
close it, and as she did, all the other car doors simultaneously clicked shut and locked, except 
for my passenger door, which remained stubbornly unlocked. To add to the escalating nightmare, 
despite having full cell service, her GPS refused to function again until we were well clear of 
that cursed forest. Leaving that peculiar town, I carried an unshakable feeling that the very 
ground beneath it wanted us gone. It was as if some unseen intelligence actively steered us away 
from understanding. Each fleeting glimpse of the   bizarre instantly overshadowed by a new, equally 
baffling distraction. Even now, years later, the memory naws at me, whispering in my dreams a 
single, unsettling word, harvest. I can’t explain its significance, but it lingers like a curse. 
Just this morning, out of a morbid curiosity, I retrieved the GPS coordinates from my phone. 
The address itself having long since vanished from my memory. What I found splashed across the 
search results, chilled me to the bone. Abandoned paper mills to be demolished on Friday. There had 
been no mention of demolition a mere month prior, let alone years ago. Long before this, I’d taken 
up a different kind of vigil. For several years, I served as a security guard at an abandoned 
psychiatric complex, a sprawling, decaying behemoth now designated a heritage site. A 
property company was attempting to sell the land, and my job, along with a handful of others, was 
to patrol the grounds during the graveyard shift from dusk till dawn to prevent vandalism 
and unauthorized entry. One particularly moonless night around 2:00 a.m., my partner and 
I began our hourly rounds. He took the perimeter, moving counterclockwise while I delved into 
the heart of the complex, navigating between   four derelict buildings, flashlight cutting 
through the oppressive gloom, searching for breaches in the fence line. As my beam pierced the 
darkness ahead, it caught a figure, a young woman, perhaps in her early 20s, strikingly 
pretty, despite her disheveled appearance. She approached me, her voice soft and strained, 
explaining she was searching for some men who had taken something from her. Given the isolation, 
I offered to help, even suggesting calling the police. She declined with a faint, sorrowful 
smile, her demeanor steeped in despondency. Concerned she might harm herself in this desolate 
place, I reiterated my offer of help and insisted on escorting her to safety. That’s when her 
expression contorted into an image of pure anguish and she unleashed the most blood curdling scream 
I have ever heard. Tears streamed down her face, a grotesque mask of grief and fury. Her sudden 
shift in mood was unnerving to say the least. I’ll find them. I’ll find them. She shrieked before 
bolting behind one of the crumbling structures. It took me a split second to process the surreal 
event. My mind grappling with the possibilities. Was she truly deranged or perhaps under the 
influence of something potent? I gave chase, convinced she was a danger to herself or 
others. But as I rounded the building, she was gone. Not half a second later, my 
partner emerged from the very same corner, oblivious, whistling a tuneless melody. He’d seen 
no one, heard nothing, despite the woman’s scream having been loud enough to wake the dead. Later, 
I learned the grim truth about that particular ward. Before modern regulations, it was a place 
where patients were treated inhumanely. It was an open secret that female patients inexplicably 
often became pregnant and their babies were cruy snatched from them at birth. The realization hit 
me like a physical blow. The next day, both my partner and I quit. Nightclub suddenly seemed a 
far safer bet. Roughly a decade ago, in my early 20s, two friends and I decided to embark on a late 
night adventure. Our target, an old abandoned coal mine on the outskirts of town, accessible only by 
a set of disused train tracks. One of my friends had already scouted the location, having explored 
it with another buddy a week prior, and they’d cut a convenient hole in the perimeter fence. The 
mineard was a labyrinth of shadows utterly devoid of light. Having no prior experience with such 
industrial landscapes, my imagination ran wild, conjuring images of colossal, unseen 
towers and silos looming around us. I could just barely discern the darker outlines 
of immense doors and cavernous openings in the   structures accompanied by faint scuttling sounds. 
We dismissed these, attributing them to the usual suspects, pigeons or bats. Our ultimate goal was 
a forgotten World War II bunker nestled at top a hill within the mine complex. As we stealthily 
made our way towards it, a faint rhythmic tapping began to register. A soft insistent tick tick tick 
emanating from the impenetrable darkness behind us. From the direction we had come, we pressed on, 
our path winding past the soul, stark pole light in the yard, steadily ascending the incline to the 
bunker’s perch. All the while, the soft rhythmic tick tick tick dog at our heels from the darkness 
below. Reaching the summit, the bunker loomed, its m cavernous blackness. Prudence, or perhaps a 
creeping unease, prevailed. The absence of light within its depths was too daunting. And so we 
opted to bypass it. Instead, we circled to the rear, and that’s when the truly unsettling began. 
There, etched into the earth, was a gaping hole, a crude ladder descending into what appeared to 
be a lower subterranean level of the bunker. The relentless tick, tick, tick persisted, now seeming 
to emanate from unseen shadows on two sides of us. We found ourselves in a precarious position. the 
hills steep drop offs defining two sides of our small clearing, the bunker’s unyielding walls 
forming the others. We were effectively trapped with only a narrow winding path offering escape 
and the mysterious shaft at our feet. Deciding this was as good a spot as any, we prepared to 
light a joint. I fumbled for the joint, my back to the sheer drop a few feet behind me, the ladder 
hole directly at my feet. The wind surprisingly fierce at top the exposed hill made lighting it an 
exercise in frustration. My irritation mounted not just at my ineptitude but at the incessant tick 
tick tick until then I dismissed it as a loose metal sign on the fence we breached gently swaying 
in the breeze. Now thoroughly annoyed by both the unlit joint and the persistent noise, I spun 
around, fixing my gaze in its perceived direction. What do you guys think that is? I muttered to 
my friends, then tried again to light the joint, this time directly facing the source of the sound. 
I made no attempt to shield the flame. The moment the lighter flared, the soft tick, tick, tick 
exploded into a resounding earth shaking boom. My mind instantly screamed, “Security guards!” 
That booming had to be them thundering down metal stairs in one of the dark imposing towers. They 
must have seen the light illuminate my face. And now they were surely on their way. All three of 
us instinctively crouched, caught in a terrifying limbo between fight and flight. Unsure whether to 
bolt, hide, or freeze. We opted to wait, reasoning that the darkness would conceal us, and their 
cacophinous approach would give us ample warning. Yet the boom was relentless, unending, and I 
swore it was growing louder. “How long are those stairs?” I wondered, a prickle of genuine dread 
starting to override my initial rationalizations. This was profoundly strange. I distinctly heard 
movement in the tall grass at the base of the hill, though we all quickly agreed it was probably 
just the wind. Still, the consensus was clear. It was time to make our stealthy exit. Crouching low, 
we began to navigate the mining yard towards our escape route, only to encounter a new, terrifying 
problem. Whatever was making the noise was now directly between us and our path out. We hunkered 
down in the middle of an open gravel road, desperately trying to formulate a plan. The 
impenetrable darkness, we hoped, would render us invisible. To be absolutely sure, we strategically 
positioned ourselves so a large chainlink fence separated us from that god-awful booming sound. By 
this point, my internal monologue had upgraded the guards, two cops, and a frantic edgginess began 
to set in. But still, we resolved to wait it out. A chilling realization began to creep over us. 
None of this made any sense. The guards or cops, whatever they were, should have reached the 
bottom of those phantom stairs by now. And then, as if the situation needed more terror, things 
got even weirder. With the ceaseless boom still echoing ahead and no choice but to wait 
if we wanted to use our only known exit,   we started to hear something else in the dark all 
around us. It was close on the very same gravel we were hiding on. Things were moving. A dull thud 
registered, followed by a slow, grating scrape as something was dragged across the gravel. Then 
again from elsewhere, quiet but undeniably near. These unsettling noises were everywhere. Thuds, 
then a slow dragging across the gravel. Yet, we couldn’t for the life of us pinpoint their 
direction. At this exact moment, my rational adult brain shattered, replaced by the primal terror of 
a scared child. My mind raced, conjuring images of all the people who had died in this mind, 
of whatever malevolent things might be living   in those tunnels. The source of the noise had 
morphed in my mind from mere security personnel to something far, far worse. The realization hit 
us with a sickening thud. We were utterly exposed, trapped between the ceaseless phantom drumming and 
whatever lurking horrors those thuds and scrapes represented. There was no choice but to abandon 
our initial plan. Our only viable escape route, we concluded in a desperate rush, was to scramble 
over the perimeter fence at the back of the mine, plunge into the dense woods beyond, and somehow 
navigate our way to the highway. With that adrenalinefueled resolve, we pushed ourselves up 
from the gritty earth, slinking away as quickly and stealthily as our terrified bodies would 
allow. We moved like ghosts, the cacophony of unseen entities slowly receding behind us, growing 
no closer. Soon we found ourselves amidst long, shadowy rows of empty, derelictked train cars, a 
perfect impromptu labyrinth. Their cold metallic bulk offered ideal cover, allowing us to weave 
between them, shielded from any distant eyes. As the mineard’s edge drew near, and with the 
reassuring barrier of the train cars around us, a fragile sense of relief began to settle in. 
We allowed ourselves to speak in whispers that were a touch less hushed, a slight loosening of 
our terrified vigilance. That, it turned out, was a critical mistake. Barely secons after we’d 
immersed ourselves in the protective gloom of the train cars, a deafening explosion ripped through 
the air. The train car immediately adjacent to us, just feet away, erupted with the same monstrous 
boom that had relentlessly pursued us. In that instant, pure unadulterated terror seized me. 
I have never before or since moved with such frantic speed. The hundreds of feet separating me 
from the external world, from freedom, vanished in a blur. To this day, I cannot fathom how I 
cleared that 10-ft fence with such effortless, desperate agility. I remember only the 
sensation of launching myself over its crest, plunging into the blackness beyond. We tumbled 
onto the road, gasping for breath, and fled back towards town. Even as the road curved away from 
the mine, the relentless, earth-shaking boom of something tearing apart those train cars echoed 
ominously behind us. “My friends, perhaps as a coping mechanism, seemed determined to erase 
the entire experience from their minds, growing visibly uncomfortable whenever the topic arose. 
My own mind, however, offered no such reprieve. A relentless curiosity nodded at me, compelling 
me to return to the abandoned mine site several times over the subsequent years. I never 
encountered anything out of the ordinary   on these solo excursions. Eventually, on my last 
visit, I found the entire complex had been raised, its ghostly structures and rail lines reduced to 
rubble, hauled away. asterisk. Years before these bewildering events, my grandmother, in the way 
old ladies sometimes do, suffered a fall and broke her hip. It was a serious injury leading to a 
prolonged stay in the hospital where she underwent extensive monitoring and specialized care. Once 
stable, she was transferred to a long-term care facility, a kind of transitional way station 
on the journey back home. I visited her there a few times, and the initial conditions were frankly 
horrifying. The wards were shockingly overcrowded, the air thick and stifling, a palpable sense of 
misery hanging heavy. I could tell my grandmother, a woman of meticulous habits, was miserable. 
Fortunately, she was soon moved to a far more pleasant and comfortable section of the facility. 
One afternoon, I went to visit her in her new room, bringing her some snacks and flowers, 
hoping to lift her spirits. We talked for hours, exchanging stories, reminiscing, sharing the 
mundane and the meaningful. As I gathered my things to leave, her hand shot out, clamping 
tightly onto mine. Her eyes, usually sparkling with wit, were suddenly earnest, almost fearful. 
Don’t go,” she whispered, her voice laced with an urgency that chilled me. “There’s something I need 
to tell you, but I keep putting it off because I think I’m losing my mind.” I offered a small, 
reassuring smile, squeezing her hand gently. “It’s all right, Grandma,” I said, my voice soft. 
“You know I’ll always believe you no matter what.” She glanced around, her eyes darting nervously, 
checking if anyone else was within earshot. The room thankfully was empty. Still sitting up 
in bed, she tightened her grip on my hand and beckoned me closer. I leaned in, my ear almost 
to her lips. “There’s a little girl,” she began, her voice barely audible, “who comes and plays in 
here at night.” She paused, her brow furrowing. I don’t know if she’s a worker’s child 
or something else, but she’s here every night. My grandmother continued, her voice 
gaining a quiet intensity. She wakes me up, skipping across the room. She picks up little 
things, moves them around just like any curious child would. And after a few minutes, I hear her 
singing a soft tune in the corridor, and then she just disappears. I looked at her, trying to keep 
my expression neutral. Is that all?” I asked, a faint attempt at casual dismissal. She nodded 
slowly, but then added with unwavering certainty. “She’s here every single night at the exact same 
time, 2 in the morning.” My grandmother was an incredibly light sleeper, and my mind immediately 
reached for logical explanations. I told her it was probably just a staff member’s child, perhaps 
a relative visiting, doing late night rounds. I tried my best to weave a convincing, rational 
narrative. But my grandmother, sharp as attack, even in her advanced years, wasn’t swayed. She 
fixed her gaze on me, her eyes holding a deep, unsettling wisdom. “I think,” she said, her voice 
firm. “We both know what’s really going on here.” And she left it at that, a chilling pronouncement 
hanging heavy in the air. The bond between us, already strong, deepened with her shared secret. 
She knew, and I knew, that the little girl was no figment of a fading mind. Though a shiver of fear 
ran through her at the thought, I tried to offer comfort, suggesting perhaps the nocturnal visitor 
wouldn’t return. She seemed to accept the solace, choosing to focus on her upcoming discharge, a 
release eagerly anticipated for the following week. 2 days later, my work schedule finally 
allowed another visit. She was brimming with talk of home, but her excitement was momentarily 
eclipsed by a fresh mystery. She came back last night, she confided, her grip tightening on my 
hand again, and something else happened. Your jacket, it’s gone. My old jacket, a familiar 
fixture draped over the chair by her bedside, had simply vanished. She recounted waking to the 
ghost girl’s familiar skipping. Only this time, the spectral child had met her gaze before 
flitting off. In the harsh light of morning, the jacket was nowhere to be found. She’d interrogated 
every shift day and night, but not a single staff member could account for its disappearance. Though 
I held little sentiment for the worn garment, my grandmother, with time heavy on her hands, 
had made its recovery her singular mission. Against the nurse’s advice, she wheeled herself 
tirelessly through the facility on her mobility frame, a determined detective in pursuit of a lost 
coat. Her quest proved fruitless, only fueling her mounting frustration. The day before her scheduled 
departure, her temper flared. She railed at the nurses, accusing them, convinced they had either 
misplaced it deliberately or in one heated moment even stolen it. That night, sleep finally claimed 
her, but the familiar patter of tiny footsteps soon roused her. Her eyes fluttered open just 
in time to see the faint shadow of a little girl flit past her door. As she blinked, preparing 
to drift back to sleep, her gaze fell upon the chair. There, draped as if it had never left, was 
my old jacket. A profound calm settled over her. She knew with an unshakable certainty 
that the ghost girl had returned it,   either having found it herself or simply offering 
a farewell gesture before her own departure. A gentle smile touched my grandmother’s lips, 
content with this final, tender interaction. She left the following morning, her spirits and 
health remarkably restored, and has remained well ever since. Yet the memory of those strange 
occurrences lingered with me. A year later, with time on my hands, I delved into the history 
of that particular building. Records revealed it had once been a school operating since 1910. The 
school itself escaped direct hit. But during World War II, a stray bomb decimated the adjacent family 
home, claiming the lives of all four inhabitants, a mother, father, a son of three, and a daughter, 
aged 10. The puzzle pieces clicked into place. The 10-year-old girl, I reasoned, would have 
attended the very school now serving as a care   home, spending countless hours within its walls. 
It was a logical, if heartbreaking, explanation for her continued ethereal presence. A silent 
gratitude formed in my mind. Thank you, little ghost girl, for bringing my coat back. I hope 
you found your peace. My college years brought a different kind of nightly vigil. On Sundays, I’d 
work a late afternoon shift, 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. as a security guard at a chemical factory. I 
never quite learned what they manufactured there, but the facility was housed within three 
sprawling buildings, which, bizarrely enough,   had once served as an orange juice factory. The 
evening air around the plant was consistently cool, a welcome relief. My relief would arrive 
at 11 p.m. a towering figure 6’3 who occasionally showed up early, allowing us a brief camaraderie 
of casual conversation before I departed. My routine involved walking to the property, a 
roughly 10:30 p.m. trek, and in all my time, I never encountered any issues. Two of the three 
factory buildings were dedicated to the intricate processes of mixing, heating, and emulsification, 
while the third housed the administrative offices. The administrative wing, typically a hushed 
expanse on weekends, was locked down and entirely dark. One shift, my relief, a towering figure who 
usually arrived right on time, pulled into the lot at 10:15 p.m. We decided to walk the perimeter 
together during my final rounds. As we approached the administrative building, an unsettling detail 
registered. A single light had flickered on inside one of the offices. I’d never seen this before. 
The building was always completely vacant on weekends. My hand instinctively went to my keys, 
ready to investigate. I was 19, still imbued with that youthful audacity that made me believe I was 
invincible. But as I took a step toward the door, my colleagueu’s hand shot out, clamping around 
my arm. “Don’t go in there,” he murmured, his voice low, ” urgent. “Just leave it.” I 
turned, surprised by his intensity. His face, usually jovial, was stark, pale, his eyes 
wide with a terror that looked as if he’d just seen a ghost. In that moment, all my bravado 
evaporated. His profound fear was contagious, a chilling confirmation that whatever was inside, 
I wanted no part of it. Back at the guard shack, he recounted a similar incident from his past. 
One 3:00 a.m. patrol, the same office light had mysteriously turned on. He’d gone inside. An 
unnatural cold permeated the room. He flipped the switch, extinguishing the light, but as he exited 
the building, it flared to life behind him again. Annoyed, he re-entered, reaching for the switch, 
when an invisible force slammed into his back, propelling him forward. He wheeled around, heart 
hammering, and scrambled out of the building, vowing never to set foot in that administrative 
block again. Later, I spoke to one of the older factory workers about it. He confirmed a grim 
local legend. When the site operated as a juice factory, that very building housed a massive 
industrial juicer. Years ago, a worker suffered a fatal accident there, reportedly crushed within 
the machinery. Whether true or not, the old-timer swore he wouldn’t step inside that building after 
dark either. A few weeks later, the persistent dread, the lingering questions about what lay 
within those walls became too much to bear. I quit. Years have passed, but the memory still 
haunts me, leaving me to wonder daily what truly transpired within that silent, illuminated office. 
This indelible impression of the supernatural led my friend and me sometime later to a different 
kind of investigation. We decided to explore an old abandoned factory, a skeleton of concrete and 
rusted metal long scarred by a devastating fire. We packed our bags with flashlights, first aid 
kits, and everything we thought we might need. Our entry point was a shattered window at the rear. 
The moment we pulled into the deserted parking lot, however, my friend clutched her stomach. “I 
don’t like this feeling,” she whispered, her face pale. Heating her intuition, I drove away. As we 
continued down the road, we saw it. a featureless shadow, unmistakably humanoid, trudging along the 
side of the burnedout factory. Its gate was odd, a shuffling limp that suggested a profound injury. I 
slowed, turning the car to get a better look, and the figure seemed closer, its outline sharpening. 
A wave of unease washed over us. We sped away again, our eyes glued to the rear view mirror, but 
the figure was simply gone. It was too unsettling. We decided to abandon the factory altogether and 
find a new location. My friend, usually chatty, fell into a strange, uncharacteristic silence, 
unresponsive to my attempts at conversation. After we’d passed several landmarks, her voice 
suddenly broke the quiet, flat, and devoid of emotion. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, 
unblinking. “Someone hung themselves at this place,” she inoned. “Someone burned to death 
here. Someone shot someone here. I tried to ask questions to break her trance, but it was useless. 
We drove out of the city and finally pulled into a Walmart parking lot. Just as we parked, she 
blinked as if waking from a deep sleep. “Where are we?” she asked, her voice normal again. “What 
time is it?” “Why are we here?” She had no memory of anything she’d said or any of the places we’d 
driven past. I showed her a 30-inute recording I’d taken on my old phone. Watching herself, detached 
and unsettling, she gasped, then insisted we leave immediately. I went home and driven by a 
morbid curiosity, researched the deaths she had mentioned. Every single one was accurate. As a 
high school student, I was always on the hunt for ways to earn money and help my family. So, I 
applied for numerous jobs, eager to take on any opportunity. Five places extended offers, and I 
decided to begin with a trial shift at the first one that accepted me, McDonald’s. I have to admit, 
the staff and management were genuinely pleasant, and having my friend already working there 
was a definite bonus. The only real downside, and my friend agreed, was the customers. Still, 
I wasn’t entirely sure which shifts I wanted or if I even wanted the job long-term. So, I asked. 
My manager, understanding my desire to explore the role, readily agreed to a trial shift and let 
me pick the hours. Against my better judgment, I opted for a night slot, figuring it would be a 
quieter introduction to the job. I was profoundly mistaken. Borrowing my friend’s uniform, she 
drove me to work. This particular McDonald’s, I quickly learned, occupied a rather unsavory 
corner of town, frequented by the city’s more desperate elements, alcoholics and drug users. 
From the moment we arrived, a deep sense of unease settled in. My gut churned, a premonition that 
this wouldn’t be an easy night, but my friend, ever reassuring, tried to calm my nerves. She 
dropped me off at the bus stop, just a 5-minute walk from the restaurant, promising to collect 
me at midnight. It was 10 p.m., so my trial was scheduled for a mere 2 hours. I confirmed the 
pickup spot and watched her car shrink into the distance, its tail lights fading. Once alone, 
I started my short walk toward the McDonald’s. Almost immediately, I heard footsteps behind me. 
While the late hour often meant other pedestrians, a prickle of unease ran down my spine. This 
felt different. I felt a palpable sense of being watched. I stopped and the footsteps behind me 
ceased in perfect synchronicity. Turning slowly, my eyes met those of a man in his mid-40s, openly 
scrutinizing me. He offered a wide, unsettling smile, his breathing audibly heavy. He was taller, 
broader, and significantly more imposing than I was, standing just a few meters away. A wave of 
revulsion washed over me, and I quickly averted my gaze, breaking into a frantic sprint towards the 
brightly lit McDonald’s. Inside, the atmosphere was chaotic, even at 10:30 p.m. Drunken, Borish 
customers were already testing my patience. One even attempted to flirt aggressively, but my male 
friend, seeing my discomfort, quickly intervened, causing the man to leave. My friend was a 
familiar acquaintance and his presence made me feel significantly safer as he patiently 
guided me through the various tasks. We soon found ourselves becoming fast friends. After 
taking an order from another inebriated patron, my friend pulled me aside. “Do you know that guy 
outside?” he asked, his voice low. I looked at him confused, thinking he was joking until he pointed 
towards the window. My mouth went instantly dry, my face paling. It was him, the same man who 
had followed me before work. Foolishly, I didn’t confess my earlier encounter. I forced a nervous 
laugh, shrugging it off as nothing significant. My friend, still perplexed, returned to the kitchen. 
By 11 p.m., the customer flow dwindled. Yet, the man remained outside, his relentless stare 
fixed on me. I kept my head down, silently begging that he wouldn’t come inside. His unwavering gaze, 
like a pair of predatory eyes, rad over my body, leaving me feeling utterly violated and unclean. 
The sheer intensity of his presence, lingering since the start of my shift, began to trigger 
a deep panic. Lost in my desperate thoughts, a soft click jolted me. My heart seized as the main 
door slowly opened. The creepy man entered, his eyes still consuming me as he advanced towards the 
counter. He stopped directly in front of me, his breath wreaking of stale alcohol and cigarettes, a 
faint trickle of drool at the corner of his mouth. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me from 
his musky, putrid scent. My internal alarm bells screamed, but I forced myself to maintain a facade 
of customer service. He simply stared, unblinking. I glanced towards my friend, engrossed in the 
kitchen, then back at the man. For a full five agonizing minutes, he remained utterly silent, 
ignoring every polite inquiry. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, raspy murmur, beautiful 
skin, so young, short black hair. Such a nice complexion you have. Before I could even 
process his words or call for help, he lunged. He attempted to vault over the counter, his 
eyes fixed on me with a primal, ravenous hunger, as if I were nothing more than a piece of meat. 
He struggled, getting stuck midway, his hands grasping desperately towards me as I scrambled 
backward. The violent lunge sent me sprawling, my legs tangled as I tried to scuttle backwards. 
A silent scream caught in my throat. My friend, reacting with astonishing speed, roared for the 
manager. The sudden commotion startled my asalent who scrambled back over the counter and fled out 
the door. My colleague rushed to my aid, pulling me into the back office as per the manager’s 
urgent instruction, both to soothe my shock and   to contact the authorities. He looked as unnerved 
as I felt, a ghost of fear in his eyes. While our manager awaited the police at the front, my friend 
quickly filled in the details. This predator was a known menace notorious for harassing female staff, 
taking their pictures, soliciting their numbers, offering booze, and meticulously cataloging their 
appearances. He was under a permanent ban from the premises and its vicinity, a fact well known to 
law enforcement given his history of disturbing, predatory conduct, including a reported sexual 
assault on another employee after her shift. After the harrowing investigation and my statement, 
it was past 1:00 a.m. My ride home was my other friend, the one who had driven me to work earlier. 
He gently held my hand, his quiet reassurances a bomb against my rattled nerves. Needless to 
say, I never set foot in that place again. My trust in night shifts shattered. I’m now looking 
for work at a different fast food establishment. During my high school years, urban exploration 
was our preferred brand of thrill. With a few friends old enough to drive, weekend nights 
saw us assembling a crew of 6 to 10 embarking on covert escapades. That summer, our undisputed 
champion of eerie locals was an abandoned movie theater on the town’s western outskirts. Shuttered 
for about 3 years, by the time we discovered it, the building had become a hollow shell. Despite 
the no trespassing signs plastered across the main entrance and every fire exit, it smashed main 
doors, glass long since shattered and haphazardly boarded, offered easy access. We understood it was 
likely a haven for the homeless, but our youthful naive tay amplified by our numbers made us feel 
untouchable. The illicit nature of our visits, always conducted between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 
a.m. to avoid detection or police reports, only heightened the excitement. Our initial two 
foray were group affairs. Inside the screens were ripped, seats slashed in each of the roughly 
eight auditoriums, bathroom mirrors lay in shards, and graffiti covered every surface. Even though we 
never saw them, we were acutely aware that others were likely hiding within. We’d spotted shopping 
carts from a nearby store littered with empty cans and bottles alongside grimy blankets tossed 
half-aphazardly in various rooms. clear signs of occupancy. After familiarizing ourselves with 
the theat’s chaotic geography over those first two trips, our third and final visit saw us elevate 
the stakes. This time, the six of us split into three pairs. Each pair would enter through the 
main door, spend a tense 5 minutes exploring, then exit through a designated fire escape at the rear, 
where another pair would be waiting. Beck and Doug were the first to go in. We waited outside the 
minute stretching into an unnerving seven. Just as genuine worry began to prickle, they burst out 
of their designated fire exit. Doug, breathless, explained that they’d ventured upstairs into the 
old office space. There, a sleeping bag, one they hadn’t seen on previous visits, lay conspicuously 
on the floor. The sight had instantly unnerved them, prompting an immediate decision to leave. 
But in their haste, they become disoriented, turning to exit through the wrong door. Beck and 
Doug, convinced they were being watched, lingered at the fire escape, their gazes sweeping the 
desolate theater room for any sign of movement. After a minute of unnerving silence, they finally 
mustered the courage to sprint through the correct   exit. They burst into the hallway, breathlessly, 
insisting we abandon our plans. But Jack and I, fueled by a stubborn curiosity, refused. Brad and 
Drew, the other two members of our group, decided to join us, making a quartet. Beck and Doug, 
clearly rattled, agreed to wait by the exit. Our immediate objective was the upstairs office. As we 
began our ascent, a thunderous bam echoed from the back of the theater. We exchanged knowing glances. 
It had to be Beck and Doug trying to scare us out. The noise ceased as we reached the office landing. 
Doug’s earlier description was accurate. A sleeping bag lay unrolled on the floor surrounded 
by a few crumpled paper bags. Brad, aiming his flashlight into one, recoiled slightly as it 
illuminated a syringe and something distinctly resembling a sex toy. A nervous laugh rippled 
through our group, tinged with a collective, gross out. Finding nothing else of particular interest, 
we turned to head back down. As our eyes settled on the staircase, the pounding resumed louder and 
more insistent than before. The laughter died in our throats. Perhaps Beck and Doug weren’t just 
playing a prank. A wave of unease washed over us, urging us to find the exit. We clambered out, 
only to be met by a frantic, overlapping chorus from Beck and Doug. Barely a minute after we’d 
gone inside, they recounted a tall gaunt man had shuffled past their hiding spot, his greasy 
hair and unckempt appearance giving him a   truly unsettling aura. One of the waiting boys, 
attempting to be polite, offered a quick hello. The man stopped abruptly, turned, and took a 
short, lurching step towards him before freezing. Beck noted that one side of his face was deeply 
wrinkled, as if from a severe burn. He fixed the boy with an intense stare for several agonizing 
seconds. Then, without uttering a word, turned and vanished around the corner, precisely where we 
had just entered. It was then that Beck and Doug, desperate to warn us, had started their frantic 
pounding on the door. We had been inside for about five terrifying minutes, completely unaware 
that this ominous individual was sharing the space with us. He must have heard us and simply found a 
place to hide. Shaken, we began the hundred-yard walk back to our car in the parking lot. Just as 
we reached it, a vehicle pulled in, its headlights momentarily blinding us before the unmistakable 
flash of red and blue. The police. Two officers emerged, asking us to sit in front of their car. 
We quickly fabricated a story. We’d intended to explore the theater, but a really scary tall 
man had walked in, and we’d gotten spooked. The officers lectured us sternly about the dangers of 
abandoned buildings, warning us of past violence within that very structure and the potential 
for us to be hurt doing something stupid. They eventually let us go, and as we drove away, we saw 
an officer sweeping his flashlight beam across the theat’s main entrance. We heeded their advice. 
Our urban exploration days in derelict buildings were over. From then on, our illicit adventures 
were confined to the safer, if less thrilling, grounds of graveyards and cemeteries. What 
specific violence the officer referred to remained a mystery, perhaps a scare tactic, but we 
weren’t willing to find out. My current occupation is hospital maintenance, but the following story 
took place outside of work last November. My grandfather passed away after several years in 
a local care home. His primary caregiver was N’s mother, a woman I remain close with. As his final 
days drew near, she texted me with grim news, urging me to get my mother, who works out of town, 
and myself to his side immediately. The next two nights were an exhaustive vigil. My mother and I 
barely left his bedside, gently wetting his lips, rubbing his head, singing old Charlie Pride tunes, 
and recounting stories from our childhoods and hers. At one point, his shallow breaths seemed to 
cease. The room was filled with the melancholic strains of Is going to San Anton by Charlie Pride. 
My mother, tears tracing paths down her face, confided how deeply that song resonated with 
her memories of her own father, my grandfather. He’d barely been conscious since our arrival, 
a brief flicker of lucidity on the first day,   quickly fading into the haze of his final hours. 
Now his breathing had become shallow, interspersed with agonizing gasps. My ex-girlfriend’s mother, 
Tyne, a steadfast friend, arrived on her day off to join our vigil. As my mother cradled 
his head in her lap, Charlie Pride’s voice a gentle backdrop. She whispered reassurances 
that she would look after her brothers,   that I would be there for her. The pauses between 
his labored breaths grew longer, more profound. Tyne sat beside me, the CD player behind us, while 
my mother lay across the care home bed, a silent sentinel. Suddenly, his breathing ceased. In that 
exact instant, the CD player also fell silent. It was unnerving. It hadn’t skipped or paused 
once throughout the entire weekend. My mother, through her immediate sobs, assumed Tyne had 
reverently switched it off, marking his passing. I, however, exchanged a wide-eyed glance with 
Tyne. Had that truly just happened? 20 agonizing seconds later, he drew a deep, shuddering breath, 
and the CD abruptly skipped forward, resuming the very song my mother cherished. Is anybody going 
to San Anton? Before the final notes faded, he was gone. Tyne, ever pragmatic, later remarked 
on the curious phenomenon of strange occurrences, often coinciding with a person’s departure. I’d 
spent several months as a security guard at a particular site, and from my very first day, a 
string of unsettling events had begun to unfold. The complex comprised a two-section office 
building. The north side remained partially operational with offices on the first floor and 
the second floor along with parts of the first used for storing spare chairs and cubicle walls. 
The south side, however, was a desolate husk abandoned since a company relocated in 2013. Both 
its floors were frozen in time, still furnished with cubicles, chairs, desks, and faded posters 
from that era. Though devoid of personal files, the lights in the south section malfunctioned, 
a casualty of weather damage sustained in 2016. My patrols began on the ground floor of the 
north offices, a mostly empty space saved for   a tornado shelter, cubicle walls propped against 
a wall, and the janitor supply room. Down here, I distinctly felt my jacket tugged more than once 
while making my rounds. The second floor, with its active offices, proved even more lively. Chairs 
would inexplicably roll into the hallway, and the sharp thud of a filing cabinet slamming shut was 
a common occurrence. Each time I investigated, I’d find stray papers scattered half open on the 
floor. But the south building, that was truly the worst. On my inaugural patrol there, I witnessed 
rolling chairs shift their positions repeatedly. While I initially suspected my colleagues, only 
two people, security and maintenance, possessed key card access to that abandoned wing. Upstairs, 
I’d heard office doors slam with alarming force. And when I ventured to investigate, footsteps 
would echo from higher up, always just out of sight. My co-workers, I knew, had reported hearing 
disembodied voices and glimpsing fleeting shadows. My own most tangible experience beyond the 
sounds involved a flashlight with brand new batteries replaced the day prior that would 
flicker erratically on the south building’s   bottom floor only to resume normal function the 
moment I stepped outside. I was determined to get to the bottom of it. I planned to bring a digital 
recorder on my next shift, hoping to capture some evidence. Was it mere hardware malfunction or 
something far more profound? I intended to find out today. That day, with two friends, I ventured 
up the mountain behind my house, airsoft rifles in hand, for a skirmish at an abandoned mine. Despite 
the fog and persistent drizzle, we paid little mind. By 4:50 p.m., the light was fading, and a 
thick, oppressive mist had rolled in, enveloping us completely. We were casually exploring near an 
old derelict bucket crane when my friend Connor suddenly spoke. His voice hushed. He claimed 
to see a dark figure, indistinct yet undeniably humanoid, emerging from the swirling fog and 
advancing toward us. As the mist thickened, swallowing us whole, the approaching form quickly 
grew more substantial, less like a trick of the light and more like a hulking presence. We 
initially dismissed it as a lone park ranger or perhaps a troubled soul seeking refuge in the 
wilderness, and naturally our pace quickened, eager to avoid any unwanted interaction. But 
this figure was distinct, broadly built, almost impossibly large, and it moved with an alarming, 
purposeful stride directly towards us. Then, with a sudden, mournful blare, the fire siren 
from the distant town across the valley pierced the damp air. In that instant, the entire forest 
fell into an unnerving, profound silence. Every rustle ceased. Every drip of rain seemed to hold 
its breath. Connor, attempting to break the spell, shouted a question into the swirling white, 
but only an echoing void replied. I swore in that fleeting moment, I glimpsed a creature with 
a distinctly canine shape, its outline blurred by the fog. My friend, however, insisted he saw a 
man. With a shared primal urge, we scrambled off the precarious gravel path, plunging down a steep 
10-ft embankment into the denser woods below, hoping the cover would shield us from whatever 
pursued. After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a minute or two of frantic 
movement through the underbrush, we paused,   gasping for breath, about 500 ft from the road. 
The silence, broken only by our ragged breathing, was deafening. We strained our ears, trying to 
discern if we were still being tracked. Through the skeletal trees to my left, I saw a shadow 
melt behind a thick trunk. Something’s there, I whispered, my voice barely a thread. My friend, 
however, pointed frantically to our right, claiming to see movement among the pines. 
Then, from the oppressive quiet, a chilling sound reached our ears. My friends swore they 
heard a faint, drawn out whale, like someone in profound distress. But to me, it was the 
unmistakable guttural bark of a dog. Slowly, cautiously, we began to retrace our steps, 
eventually stumbling upon a narrow ATV trail that promised a way back to the main road. We sprinted 
down it, adrenaline fueling our desperate flight. As our feet hit the asphalt, my friend cried out, 
convinced the entity was still dogging our heels. A block away, through the persistent fog, in the 
middle of the deserted road, I looked back. There, silhouetted against the diffused street lights, 
sat what I could only describe as the dog,   its head cocked, watching us. My friends, though, 
saw only a person. I still wrestle with it, the conflicting images searing into my mind. What 
in God’s name was that? A skinwalker, perhaps, but we were in Eastern Pennsylvania. That seemed 
utterly improbable. Any theories, any suggestions at all would be a welcome relief from the endless 
questions. This all happened in late November of 2012. I was working an installation project at 
a winery in North Carolina, a demanding out of town job that stretched late into the evening 
to ensure we finished within a single day. Around midnight, I finally climbed into my truck 
for the 3-hour journey back to my home in Oakland. It was 1:30 in the morning when I found myself 
outside Stockton, the highway stretching out, empty and desolate. Then I saw her, a girl 
standing perfectly still by the side of the road in the absolute middle of nowhere. She was 
wearing a simple white dress, barely reaching 3 in above her knees, and her feet were bare against 
the cold asphalt. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that was 
unmoving, statuesque. I stared as I drove past, but she remained utterly still. Not a flicker of 
movement, not even an acknowledgement of my loud truck rumbling by. A chill worked its way down my 
spine. You hear stories about figures like this, only for them to appear in your passenger 
seat moments later. But she just stood there, a silent sentinel in the lonely night. What 
struck me as most profoundly bizarre was the weather. It was cold, easily in the low 40s, and 
a steady drizzle was falling. Yet, she wore only that flimsy dress and no shoes. If she were just 
some ordinary girl trying to freak people out, she would have been absolutely freezing, visibly 
shivering. But this girl was perfectly motionless, an unnerving tableau. Later that night, back 
home, the image lingered. Compelled by a morbid curiosity, I searched online for ghost 
girl outside of Stockton. To my astonishment, a flurry of articles and stories about the East 
8 Mile Road Ghost Girl appeared, and almost every description matched my eerie encounter 
precisely. I never returned to that specific area. I moved to another state not long after, but a 
part of me still yearns to go back to see what else I might discover. Has anyone else encountered 
this spectral figure in that region? Or indeed any phantom girl by the roadside just like this 
one? Any information, no matter how small, would bring a measure of peace. My grandparents in 
East Texas possess a sprawling 600 acres nestled about 15 minutes down a long winding dirt road. 
Truly the middle of nowhere. For four generations, this land has been the bedrock of our family’s 
cattle ranching legacy. If you wander long enough, you’ll stumble upon whispers of the past, 
scattered remnants stretching back to the 1800s. A solitary crumbling brick well swallowed by 
tall woods. A lone defiant third of a chimney, and what was once a general store, now utterly 
unrecognizable, consumed by the encroaching forest, leaning precariously as if the surrounding 
trees are all that prevent its final collapse. In the heart of this ancient property, we’ve 
constructed a modest camp. Our family’s cabin, a rustic structure overlooking a 20acre pond, 
was the setting for these next tales passed down from my father and his kin. One particular 
Wednesday night, my grandparents, along with their three daughters and my dad, were driving 
home from Bible class, their farm 15 mi distant from the ranch. The local paper had been buzzing 
with whispers of unidentified aerial phenomena, though most folks dismissed the sightings as the 
ramblings of isolated country dwellers. Casually, my dad pointed to a distant light high above them, 
quipping that it must be another one of those UFOs. But as they watched, transfixed, the light 
began to descend, growing larger, more defined, until, I swear, it settled directly in the middle 
of their desolate country road. My grandparents, devout Christians, would later recount the event 
with unwavering conviction. In the inky blackness, only the outline of a massive circular object 
adorned with evenly spaced lights was visible, completely blocking their path. A low, persistent 
hum was its only discernable sound. My aunts, terrified, shrieked in unison, pleading with my 
grandfather to turn back, but his stubborn nature prevailed. After what felt like an eternity, 
the craft silently lifted, hovering just above the treeline beside them. Grandpa, seizing 
the opportunity, floored the accelerator, curdling down the road at over a 100 m an hour. 
The mysterious object effortlessly keeping pace alongside their truck. To their immense relief, it 
eventually peeled away, vanishing into the night. Minutes later, pulling into their driveway, 
they discovered it had materialized again,   resting in their back pasture a mere 200 yd away. 
Grandpa sprinted inside, grabbed his shotgun, but by the time he emerged, it was gone for good. 
I’m not claiming it was extraterrestrial. It could just as easily have been some covert government 
operation, privy to their exact location, simply toying with them. A year later, my dad and his 
brother-in-law were out [ __ ] hunting on the 20 acres where the pond was eventually dug. As they 
moved through the darkness, they heard something sizable crunching leaves just off to their side. 
They swung their flashlight towards the sound only for it to instantly appear on the opposite flank. 
This cat and mouse game continued relentlessly, the unseen presence mirroring their every move. 
Frustrated, they finally stood back to back, training their two flashlights in opposing 
directions. Desperate for a glimpse, they never saw it, but the sounds of it circling them, 
running through the undergrowth, were undeniable. resigned. They tried their best to ignore it, 
but the invisible entity remained, pacing them, running circles around them, an unnerving escort 
through the night. The following incident occurred when I was about 17. Weekends at the cabin were 
often spent hunting and fishing with my dad. Our bedroom featured two beds with a window between 
their headboards that offered a direct view of   the long 20-yard porch. One night around 3:30 
a.m., I was jolted awake by the unmistakable sounds of someone running and walking the 
length of that porch. My eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling, as I mentally cataloged the 
details. No shoes, definitely bipedal, and heavy enough to produce a distinct thud with each step. 
For 10 agonizing minutes, this thing sprinted across the porch, then walked a few steps, only 
to break into another furious sprint. The scared 17-year-old girl in me was absolutely paralyzed, 
too terrified to even glance out the window. Part of me feared a scene straight out of a horror film 
where the unseen menace would suddenly appear, teeth bared, drooling right at the glass, 
staring back at me. Eventually, the commotion, or perhaps my own silent terror, roused my dad, 
who had been snoring loudly beside me. The instant the sound of his snoring ceased, the activity on 
the porch stopped. I never heard it again after that. My father, during a solitary weekend retreat 
at our ancestral cabin, engaged in the meticulous task of sighting in a newly acquired firearm. 
While he adjusted the laser sight from the porch, an unseen force rolled a rock that whistled 
past his head a hair’s breath from its target. His flashlight beam cut through the deepening 
shadows, revealing nothing but an empty expanse of tall grass. No living soul or discernable 
object could have been responsible. He wasted no time retreating indoors. This wasn’t the first 
inexplicable incident there. On a prior visit, a few friends and I had been gathered in the living 
room when three distinct resonant thuds echoed   from various points along the cabin’s exterior 
walls, repeating three times. This property, I must reiterate, is utterly isolated miles from 
any other human presence. These experiences firmly solidified my resolve. I will never, under any 
circumstances, spend a night alone in that cabin. This all transpired around my junior year of high 
school during spring break, marking a pivot to a different kind of unsettling journey. Our modest 
Iowa town, connected by a scattering of smaller communities, fostered an unexpected creative 
outlet. In the summer of 2014, a handful of us had formed an informal cinematic exploration guild, an 
aspiring collective of young filmmakers dedicated to producing short narratives for national 
school competitions. Our individual schedules rarely allowed for significant filming, but spring 
break 2015 finally presented an opportunity for a dedicated expedition. Four of us embarked on this 
adventure, myself, and three fellow guild members, Jake, Bill, and Kyle. Our chosen destination, 
Whispering Pines Glenn, a state park tucked away in northeastern Iowa, infamous for its dark 
and disturbing folklore. Reputed to be profoundly haunted, the area’s history stretching back to the 
1850s was a gruesome tapestry of unsolved murders, tragic suicides, grizzly dismemberments, and even 
the purported burial site of a contract killer’s victim from the 1930s. As typical thrillseeking 
adolescence, the prospect of hiking and camping in such a notoriously sinister location was 
irresistible. Its convenient proximity to a small town also meant restocking provisions wouldn’t 
be an issue, striking an ideal balance between   convenience and chilling allure. With an almost 
palpable sense of anticipation, we loaded our two sedans, programmed the parks coordinates into the 
GPS, and set off for our week of haunted camping. Roughly 90 minutes into our drive, well past the 
last major town and deep into what felt like the profound wilderness, the first unsettling signs 
began to manifest. My phone’s data signal abruptly vanished. And then, without warning, the GPS unit, 
instead of continuing along our carefully plotted route, suddenly recalculated and insisted 
we turn in a completely different direction. None of us possessed any localized knowledge 
of this remote region, let alone the precise   whereabouts of Whispering Pines Glenn, so 
we found ourselves with little alternative but to blindly adhere to the navigation systems 
inexplicable redirect. Iowa’s unique landscape, particularly in its northern reaches, dictates 
a peculiar pattern of land distribution. The topography frequently produces tracks of land 
either too steep or too rugged for cultivation or small level basins completely encircled by 
impassible slopes, rendering them agriculturally useless. Over generations, as family farms 
expanded, they often acquired vast swaths of fertile land interspersed with these barren, 
unworkable patches. To circumvent the burden of perpetual property taxes on unproductive acreage, 
many of these interstitial plots were either left unpurchased as public land, reacquired by the 
state, or generously donated to the Department of Natural Resources, DNR. Consequently, 
numerous state parks and preserves emerged, often existing as isolated islands of public 
access, entirely enveloped by private holdings. This unique geographical arrangement we later 
came to understand explained that the private property signs we’d observed bordering the 
lake at Whispering Pines Glenn, a section of   land directly adjacent to an untameable boulder 
strewn creek. Grasping this geographical quirk is essential to comprehending the bizarre events that 
unfolded next. Deep in the heart of what felt like true wilderness, our GPS unit finally diverted us 
from the smooth asphalt onto a stretch of gravel. Ordinarily, one might expect to encounter the 
familiar brown signs of the Iowa DNR denoting proximity to a state park, but there were none. 
Not a single marker, not even a noticeable cluster of trees hinting at an impending forest. This 
was our second significant disquing detail. Another 10 minutes of driving saw the gravel give 
way to rough dirt, then a lowmaintenance path before degrading further into what the state 
officially categorized as a class B minimum   maintenance road. In Iowa, a state renowned for 
its commitment to road upkeep. This classification essentially meant someone had probably driven down 
once in the 1990s and then promptly erased it from collective memory. The final winding turn, which 
our GPS still bafflingly insisted was a valid route, brought us face tof face with a solitary 
homestead. A dark farmhouse and its sprawling machine shed stood eerily silent, devoid of lights 
or any vehicles in the drive. The inongruity of a private residence marking the entrance 
to a state park was profoundly unsettling. We instinctively slowed, but to our dismay, the 
track ahead abruptly dissolved into a treacherous quagmire of tractor tire gouges churned into 
frozen ruts from the previous autumn’s harvest. The road was impassible. We halted our cars at the 
furthest point possible without risking getting stuck in the ice hardened mud and began unloading 
our initial load of equipment. Beyond our cars, the path narrowed, winding like a forgotten ribbon 
through a fow field before dipping sharply into a small but remarkably dense cluster of woods 
nestled at the bottom of a wide ravine. We disembarked and began our hike, the slope beneath 
our feet gradually steepening as we descended, taking in the unfolding scenery. At first glance, 
it felt like a perfectly atmospheric backdrop for our film project. Limestone outcrops jutted 
dramatically from the hillside. A winding footpath disappeared beneath a canopy of ancient 
trees and the air was filled with the unseasonal chirping of birds surprisingly returned from their 
wintering south. A constant low murmur of running water was audible to us all, though its precise 
source remained a mystery from our vantage point   on the trail. Looking out in any direction, all we 
could perceive was an unbroken, seemingly endless expanse of trees. At the bottom of the hill, 
a small pond glinted in the middle of a grassy clearing enclosed by a fence. As we approached, a 
stark sign confirmed our growing unease. Private property, keep out. Bill checked his watch, a sigh 
escaping him. Almost dinnertime, he announced. The practical demands of our adventure abruptly 
superseded our all. We retraced our steps back to the vehicles, re-engaging the GPS. The nearest 
town was a tiny place called Edgewood, which promised a couple of diners and a gas station, 
our best bet for stocking up on a week’s worth   of supplies, as our canned food provisions were 
meager at best. Upon reaching Edgewood, we quickly realized it was even smaller than we’d imagined, 
a town of barely 900 souls. In such close-knit communities, strangers were a rarity, and our 
outofstate plates drew a multitude of curious, sometimes wary glances. Kyle, our resident 
factfinder, seized the opportunity to inquire at the gas station about Mossy Glenn Hollow 
and the baffling, busted out dirt road that seemed to be its sole access point. To our utter 
surprise, not a single person had ever heard of a place called Mossy Glenn. Their bewildered 
expressions and their inability to fathom why four high schoolers were asking about it struck 
us as red flag number three. We brushed it off, chalking it up to the eccentricities of remote 
rural life and headed back down the dirt trail. As we rounded the bend near the farmhouse, we 
noticed it remained dark and deserted. I suggested we leave a note on the door explaining our 
intention to park by the roadside just to avoid any potential confrontation with a disgruntled 
homeowner. In the depths of the countryside, encountering a shotgun wielding resident was 
not an unheard of occurrence, especially at   dusk. Since the road beyond was impassible, 
our cars wouldn’t cause any obstruction and would technically still be on public land. With 
the parking situation temporarily addressed, we hiked back down the wooded trail. now actively 
scouting for a suitable spot to pitch our tents, ensuring we stayed on the designated public side 
of the fence pond. From this lower perspective, the endless sea of trees we’d seen earlier 
proved to be considerably thinner. The dirt path led us into a surprisingly large clearing 
bisected by a meandering creek and a delicate waterfall cascading over exposed limestone 
deposits. We couldn’t believe we’d missed such a picturesque spot just a few hours prior. 
Suddenly, a dawning realization flickered across Bill’s face. He disappeared around a corner 
into the trees, only to reappear moments later, high above us on the trail we descended. Though we 
could clearly see him, the dense tree line below the rocky ledge of the path completely obscured 
his view of our position. Continuing further up the creek, we discovered a series of perfectly 
spaced stepping stones, allowing one to move almost silently along the water’s edge without 
disturbing the flow or the surrounding rocks. The quietude of this hidden passage, and the ease with 
which one could traverse it, unseen, added another layer of intrigue to our increasingly 
bizarre surroundings. The water’s gentle   current effectively masked these hidden steps. 
We paused, capturing the muted grandeur of the mossladen boulders with our cameras, collecting 
a few picturesque scenic shots. Eventually, we located a suitable spot to establish our 
camp. Everything seemed perfectly fine until our approach to the waterfall. Just before its 
cascade, we stumbled upon an unexpected clearing, curiously free of the usual large rocks and 
boulders. Here, an odd arrangement of logs greeted us. One sat horizontally meticulously supported at 
each end by two piles of stones. In front of this, a crude stone circle formed a fire pit, its 
interior blackened with freshly charred wood, and beside it, a rudimentary bench. It was 
a surprising find, but we shrugged it off, attributing it to some weekend project by the 
residents of the nearby farmhouse. After all, with such an idyllic spot a mere stroll from home, 
why wouldn’t they? I had a similar fire pit set up at my own house, so I wasn’t unduly concerned. 
Hey, what the hell is this? Kyle’s shout echoed from a boulder a few yards ahead. Perched upon it 
was a blaze orange beanie, a solitary gardening glove, an empty beer can, and a stick of deodorant 
that had clearly seen heavy use. Looking closer at the beer can, we realized its contents had been 
consumed remarkably recently. Fresh foam still clung to the bottom, and a distinct yeasty odor 
lingered. Bewildered by this peculiar tableau, Jake began scouting the other side of the boulders 
further upstream from the items. “Holy, there’s a cave,” he yelled back. He later told us the cave 
was large enough to comfortably accommodate a person, and more disturbingly contained a glimpse 
of red fabric within its depths. Before he could investigate further, Kyle’s urgent whisper 
summoned us back. “Shampoo!” he breathed, pointing emphatically down at his feet, his 
voice barely audible, indicating we shouldn’t   raise ours. Sure enough, nestled among the damp 
leaves right beside the creek, sat a blue bottle of suave shampoo. By this point, a collective wave 
of unease had washed over us. My inclination was to abandon our little expedition then and there. 
Bill, however, remained convinced it was nothing more than forgotten trash left behind by those 
same homeowners after a weekend of too many bush lights. But to me, the pieces just weren’t 
fitting together. There was a crucial detail I hadn’t mentioned yet. The day prior, this part 
of Iowa had been subjected to heavy rain, which had created the muddy conditions on the dirt road 
and trail. With the combination of wind and rain, the items on the rocks should have shown signs of 
being wet. if not entirely displaced. Furthermore, the air was quite cold as it typically was this 
time of year, never climbing above the mid-40s for the entire week. Then everything began to click 
into place. Whoever had drunk the beer and left the shampoo, hat, glove, and deodorant must have 
done so sometime this morning. The fire pit, too, bore fresh charm marks on the rocks, and the 
wood, noticeably dry, indicated it must have been lit at the very earliest last night. This 
small cave would have provided ample shelter from the rain, keeping anyone dry without the freezing 
temperatures, or even throughout the day. Whoever was using shampoo out here must have had little 
other choice. If it were the homeowners, they would have to be seriously masochistic to bathe in 
the shallow, freezing, rocky creek rather than at home. If it wasn’t them, then we likely weren’t 
alone right now. Whoever left these things had departed in a hurry. And if they were here even 4 
hours ago, they would have had a clear view of us   on the trail cliff long before we even knew they 
were down here. Remembering the expertly placed stepping stones along the creek, they could have 
been leaving their camp just as we were descending   the dirt trail. As I processed this, I began to 
scrutinize my surroundings, realizing that our small area was naturally bordered by the thick 
trees on the trail side, several sets of huge boulders on the pond side, and limestone cliffs 
everywhere else. Due to this natural tree, rock, and hill cover, one could light a fire in that 
pit at night, and no one around would even know. The illusion of being able to see up the dirt 
trail from the camp but not down now played out in unsettling reverse from our perspective. From 
our elevated vantage point, camouflaged by brown and green hues, the entire campsite below would 
have been laid bare. This chilling realization dawned on me, exposing the full extent of our 
vulnerability. An even more sinister detail clicked into place. The cheerful chirping of 
birds and the rustling of small animals, once   a constant backdrop, had completely ceased. Now 
only the soft murmur of the creek disturbed the profound silence. As I began to articulate this 
unsettling observation, I saw the same dawning apprehension in my friend’s eyes. Jake, ever the 
investigator, started to make his way back towards the small cave, but a distinct rustling high on 
the limestone ridge above us abruptly halted him. Something substantial was moving up there. 
Something that clearly intended to keep whatever   lay within that cave concealed. We all craned our 
necks, our gazes fixed on the unseen presence as it began to shuffle down the ridge directly 
towards our makeshift camp. Given the sheer height of the cliff, the only viable route down to 
our position would have been a laborious trek all   the way back to the pond, then a ciruitous path 
up the winding stream. This sudden understanding, coupled with our exposed position, sent a jolt of 
pure terror through us. We abandoned all pretense of curiosity and sprinted back down the stream, 
scrambling up the dirt path, across the field, and finally into the comparative safety of 
our cars. During the drive back to Edgewood, a surreal silence hung in the air as we each 
tried to process the bizarre events. Consulting a satellite map later, I confirmed that the only 
truly accessible approach to that specific cliff, the source of the unsettling noise, was indeed 
from the pond. The adjacent field to the east was too craggy and impassible. Whatever had 
caused that commotion had to be quite large, and while a deer wasn’t entirely out of 
the question, it seemed unlikely. The timing felt too precise, too deliberate for 
it to be a mere animal springing into action. very moment Jake looked into the cave at 
whatever hidden red fabric it contained. Kyle, our resident conspiracy theorist, had unearthed a 
report of an escaped convict from a local prison weeks prior and was convinced we had stumbled 
upon his wilderness hideout. While the rest of us remained highly skeptical, we indulged his 
concerns by agreeing to anonymously report our strange discovery to the police, primarily because 
our overriding desire was to simply get home. Unsurprisingly, none of us ever followed up, and 
I doubt anything came of it. A small town police department in a tight-knit community receiving 
a report of strange sightings from four high schoolers who parked outside a farmer’s house for 
a few hours before bolting doesn’t exactly scream high priority criminal activity. Still, the pieces 
refused to fit together. Whoever came running down that cliff, if indeed it was a who clearly 
wanted to keep the contents of that cave hidden, but not enough to engage in a direct confrontation 
with four reasonably tall, able-bodied teenagers. We surmised that their intention was simply to 
frighten us away, a theory supported by the fact   that the unsettling noises ceased once we reached 
the dirt path. It struck me as profoundly odd that someone with something to conceal would establish 
a camp in a state park. That is until I rechecked my GPS. The free route it had taken us on led 
to an old decommissioned entrance to the park, one that had been cut off by the purchase of the 
adjacent lake area sometime between Google’s map   updates and our visit. The actual current entrance 
to the park was about 2 mi north of where the GPS had misguided us, leading us to believe it 
was a faster route. The land we were on was unquestionably public, but it was far from the 
picturesque state park we had envisioned. So to the mysterious occupant of Mossy Glenn Hollow, 
let’s hope our paths never cross again. My upbringing in a military family meant a childhood 
spent constantly moving across the country, making it difficult to maintain friendships. Coupled with 
my severe social anxiety, making new friends was a monumental challenge from the outset. This 
particular story began after 3 years living in rural Newf Finland when I was 14. Friendless with 
a difficult home life, I was deep in the throws of depression. Our house sat on a single acre of 
land separated by a river from a vast millionacre expanse of untamed forest crisscrossed with ATV 
trails. It was a deeply eerie forest, and I have countless stories of encounters within its depths 
that would put most horror films to shame. This particular narrative, however, unfolds not amidst 
the perils of bare traps, 40-foot bogs, enigmatic abandoned suburbs, or secluded houses. Those are 
sagas yet untold. It was late August. For weeks, my parents had spoken of peculiar sounds emanating 
from the forest bordering our property, distinct hoots and calls accompanied by the intermittent 
flicker of flashlights. They suspected local youths attempting to pill for beer from our 
garage. I too had heard it, a couple of voices, usually in the evening, periodically calling 
out, and often multiple voices conversing from across the river within the dense woods. It wasn’t 
a cause for alarm. Those woods were a common haunt for kids, and given my crippling social anxiety, 
I harbored no desire to engage with them. After several weeks of this routine, one afternoon 
around 400 p.m., I heard the familiar distant shouts. A sudden uncharacteristic curiosity 
stirred within me. You know what I thought? I’m going to see what the fuss is about. I ventured 
into the woods following an ATV trail my neighbor used perhaps 300 ft in. There I encountered one of 
them. I’ll use their names for clarity. The boy I met was Jack, year or two my junior and about 
a foot shorter clad in surprisingly antiquated clothing. He seemed a little takenback to see me, 
but we exchanged greetings. I explained that I’d heard them for a while and was curious about their 
activities. Jack’s face lit up with an almost childlike enthusiasm, and he insisted I follow him 
to his friends project. I trailed him deeper into the woods, eventually arriving at a distinctly 
cleared area amidst otherwise dense foliage. This spot was entirely new to me despite my frequent 
solo explorations of these very woods. Two other boys were there, Elvis, who appeared to be my 
age, and Lewis, about 2 years older. They were constructing a treehouse fort, they explained, 
and wondered if I’d be interested in helping. I, of course, agreed immediately. Being asked to hang 
out was an unprecedented social victory for me, and they happily gave me a tour of their work in 
progress. It’s important to describe their attire. When I say out of style, I mean truly anacronistic 
early 1980s fashion disasters. Neon colors were prominent. One kid even sported shoulder pads. 
Yet, their clothes were shockingly pristine, almost brand new. They wore bulky rubber boots 
and their faces were unnervingly flawless, devoid of any adolescent blemishes like pimples. 
Their hair, too, was impeccably groomed. I simply assumed these were handme-downs, perhaps from 
older siblings or parents, as they clarified they were friends, not brothers. Regardless, these boys 
were exceptionally kind to me, genuinely friendly in a way I hadn’t often experienced. They never 
delved into details about their home lives, but in our neck of the woods that wasn’t unusual. Using 
hatchets, saws, ropes, and nails, we constructed a remarkably sturdy fort. Its walls crafted 
from birch trees, reaching an impressive 8 ft high. We even fashioned a table for a lookout post 
within the largest tree we could find. The entire structure was roughly the size of a one-bedroom 
apartment, and we were immensely proud of our   collective achievement. One day, as we sat at our 
makeshift table discussing inconsequential topics, I asked Elvis why I’d never seen him around. If 
he lived nearby, he surely would attend my school, one of only two in the entire town. There was 
no way he resided within the catchment area of the other. He staunchly maintained that he did and 
equally wondered why he’d never encountered me. We didn’t share any mutual friends or classmates and 
even struggled to agree on teachers, but it didn’t matter. They talked to me and that was enough. 
So, about 2 weeks into our friendship and fort building endeavors, I mentioned I needed to head 
home for a meal. I asked if they’d like anything given that the fort was essentially in my backyard 
and my parents always prepared an abundance of   food. Their demeanor shifted abruptly. They became 
downright hostile, not about the food itself, but they adamantly refused to cross the river. 
Lewis concocted a story about it being bad luck to cross a stranger’s river, and I certainly didn’t 
press the issue. I reiterated my offer for food. They accepted and I returned with a pie for us 
all to share. They apologized for their outburst, attributing it to their superstitious nature. 
Our days with the boys at the fort quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm, a routine I cherished. 
We’d spend hours there, engrossed in our shared project. About a week after our first meeting, I 
arrived at our woodland sanctuary only to find the boys looking utterly terrible. Jack in particular 
was a shocking sight, gaunt, shivering, and pale, as if he’d endured a terrible beating and battled 
multiple bouts of pneumonia. I asked if he was all right, and he simply mumbled about having the flu. 
But it was more than just illness. They looked drenched, almost slick with a greasy film. Their 
hair was plastered to their heads, their skin clammy and translucent, and their clothes, 
once pristine, now hung on them like rags. It wasn’t entirely surprising. They seemed to 
wear the same outfits daily, much like some of   the poorer kids in town. We spent another hour or 
so together, the usual light-hearted atmosphere replaced by a subdued quiet. Finally, they 
announced they had to leave. Lewis promised he’d see me the next day, while Jack and Elvis shuffled 
off, their coughs rattling like old chains. I’d mentioned my new friends to my parents, who 
found them a bit odd, but were mostly relieved I’d found anyone to spend time with. The mysterious 
nighttime hollering and flickering flashlights had also ceased completely since I started hanging 
out with Jack, Elvis, and Lewis. The following morning, armed with a hatchet and a bag of nails, 
I set off for the fort. Our plan for the day was to construct a roof for the lookout post. But as 
I rounded the familiar bend, a profound sense of dread washed over me. The fort was a ruin. The 
sturdy walls we painstakingly erected were torn down. The table we’d made was split in half, and 
the lookout post barely had a plank left standing. Most disturbing of all, everything looked ancient. 
The wood was rotted through, crumbling to the touch, and thick moss and strange growths had 
overtaken what had been our solid half-tree floor. It looked like it had been abandoned for decades, 
not just a week. “What the hell?” I whispered, my mind racing. I tried to rationalize it. Maybe 
someone had discovered our secret hideout and destroyed it. I waited for the boys the next 
day and the day after that. I waited a whole week. They never showed. My spirits plummeted. 
Eventually, I stopped going to the fort, stopped waiting. I desperately wanted to search for them, 
but they’d never told me where they lived beyond a vague up the hill. My parents noticed my renewed 
solitude and asked about my friends. When I told them what had happened, they simply shrugged it 
off, suggesting the boys probably just didn’t   want to be friends anymore and that I didn’t 
need them. It hurt a lot and I carried that sadness for a long time. Fast forward to today. 
I’m 29 and recently I was recounting the story of these mysterious boys to my wife. I described how 
they looked, how they acted, the peculiar events, the sad ending. She listened intently, 
her eyes wide. “You hung out with a bunch of spooky ghost kids,” she exclaimed. “I found 
the idea crazy, but she pressed me. Did anyone else ever see them?” “No,” I admitted. My parents 
had heard their voices and seen the flashlights, but never the kids themselves. No one at the 
school they supposedly attended knew them. They never showed me their home or came to mine despite 
my invitations. That’s some creepy stuff, my wife concluded. You should probably share that story. 
And so here I am in a completely different vein of weird. My girlfriend and I recently enjoyed a 
weekend getaway at a secluded Airbnb cabin nestled high on a forested hill. We love cooking together, 
so we’d stocked up on groceries during our drive, including several bags of loose candy from a 
supermarket’s bulk section, caramels in one bag, chocolatecovered cherries in another, both 
twist tied and untouched. That first night, after a hearty dinner, we indulged in 
some caramels as a pre-desert snack. We eyed the cherries neatly tessillated within 
their crinkly plastic bag, but laziness won. We had a few more caramels and headed to bed, our 
teeth pleasantly sticky. The next morning, we woke to an odd discovery. The bag of chocolatecovered 
cherries, still on the counter where we’d left it, was completely empty. Our time building the 
fort with Jack, Elvis, and Louis settled into a comfortable routine, a welcome respit for my 
isolated teenage self. But about a week into our project, a stark change greeted me. When I arrived 
at our woodland construction site, the boys looked utterly ravaged. Jack was particularly alarming. 
He appeared as though he’d been beaten and left to weather a triple dose of pneumonia. I asked if he 
was all right, and he vaguely attributed his state to the flu. Beyond the visible exhaustion, they 
all looked incredibly damp, almost slick with a greasy sheen. Their hair was matted, their skin 
clammy and glistening, and their clothes, which had once seemed surprisingly clean despite their 
outdated style, now looked truly decrepit. It wasn’t entirely shocking, as they did tend to wear 
the same clothes daily, a trait shared by many of the more impoverished children in our town. We 
spent another hour or so working, though the usual cheer had faded. Finally, the boys announced they 
had to leave. Lewis promised he’d see me tomorrow while Jack and Elvis coughed their way back into 
the depths of the woods, sounding like lifelong chain smokers. I had mentioned these new friends 
to my parents. They found the boys a bit peculiar, but were mostly just glad I’d finally found 
some companions. Around this time, the strange nighttime hollering and flashlights from across 
the river ceased entirely. The following day, I returned to the fort, hatchet and bag of nails 
in hand, eager to put a roof on our lookout post. But as I approached, a profound sense of 
wrongness settled over me. The fort was completely demolished. The walls were torn down, our 
makeshift table was split in two, and the lookout post barely had a few pieces clinging together. 
More disturbingly, everything was visibly rotting, as if it had been abandoned for decades. The table 
was practically dust and I could see significant plant growth where our solid half-tree floor had 
been. My only thought was, “What in the world?” I tried to rationalize it, thinking maybe someone 
had discovered and destroyed our fort. So, I waited. I returned the next day and the day after 
that. I waited a full week, but I never saw those boys again. I was profoundly dejected. Eventually, 
I stopped waiting for them. I longed to search, but they had never shown me where they lived, 
only gesturing vaguely up the hill. My parents noticed my renewed solitude and asked why I wasn’t 
with my friends. When I recounted what happened, they dismissed it, insisting the boys probably 
just didn’t want to be my friend anymore and   that I didn’t need them. I remained sad for a 
considerable time. Years passed. Now I’m 29 and I was recently telling my wife about these peculiar 
kids from my youth. I described their appearance, their unusual behavior, the entire story, which 
despite its sad conclusion was a vivid memory. My wife looked at me, her eyes wide. “You hung out 
with a bunch of spooky ghost kids,” she declared. “I found the idea outlandish, but she pressed.” 
Did anyone else ever see them? And the truth was, no. My parents had heard their voices and seen 
flashlights, but never the boys themselves. No one had ever truly seen them except me. There were 
no records of them anywhere. No one at the school they supposedly attended knew them. And they never 
showed me their home or came to mine despite my invitations. My wife, clearly unsettled, remarked 
that it was spooky stuff and suggested I share it with others. So, I’m putting it out there. What 
do you all think? On a completely unrelated note, a while back, my girlfriend and I embarked 
on a weekend retreat to a charming,   secluded Airbnb cabin nestled at top a hill 
deep in the forest. We enjoy cooking together, so we picked up a generous supply of groceries on 
our way, including a selection of loose candies sold by weight. One bag held caramels, another 
chocolate-covered cherries. That first evening, after a substantial dinner, we snacked on caramels 
as we cooked. When it came time for dessert, we considered the bag of cherries, still twist 
tied and perfectly undisturbed, the treats arranged in neat rows behind the crinkly plastic. 
But feeling lazy, we opted for more caramels, nibbling a few before heading to bed with sticky 
teeth. The next morning, we awoke to find the bag of cherries standing upright on the counter, 
exactly where we’d left it, completely empty. The bag’s untwisted tie lay beside it, yet the 
plastic itself was oddly pristine, free of any crinkles. Not a single chocolate-covered cherry 
remained. We spent the better part of that day in a circular argument, each trying to convince the 
other that this wasn’t some elaborate prank, nor   had one of us secretly gorged on them and was too 
ashamed to confess. We still revisit the incident, exchanging theories. An animal seems unlikely. 
Even a nimble raccoon would surely have left a telltale mess, or at least a stray cherry. Our 
most unsettling hypothesis, one that still sends shivers down my spine, is that someone was living 
in the cabin’s basement, listening to us the entire time. This next harrowing tale unfolded 
four years ago, involving my sister-in-law, Jackie. Her family is profoundly religious, 
and the sheer extremity of her mental distress following a particular incident, a severed finger 
discovered, and subsequent police involvement, lends an undeniable, searchable truth to her 
account. Last July, Jackie embarked on a weekend trip back to Boise. Her husband, who had recently 
graduated from a BYU chapter in southern Idaho, the exact location escapes me as I’m neither 
from Idaho nor Mormon, was currently attending law school in Provo. Jackie planned to drive 
from Provo, Utah, and briefly visit friends at BYU before continuing to Boise. Her route was 
the I15, which eventually merges into I 84, leading directly to Boise after passing through 
Salt Lake City. Beyond the urban sprawl, the landscape dissolves into a desolate expanse of 
rolling desert plains, occasionally punctuated by pockets of farmland. Jackie departed Provo, Utah 
in the early evening, having prepared dinner for her husband before setting off. It was almost 
11 p.m. when she finally hit the road. Given the late hour, she decided to forego her stop 
at BYU and headed straight for Boise via I 84. She was deep in the heart of nowhere, somewhere 
between Tremonton, Utah, and Burley, Idaho, where radio signals die, cell service vanishes, and not 
a single light source punctures the inky blackness for miles. It was in this utter isolation that 
she spotted what appeared to be a body lying motionless in the road. She was just 24, driving 
a green Dodge already prone to mechanical issues, so her safe arrival home was a minor miracle in 
itself. She eventually reached my wife’s parents’ house, but the true terror began much earlier. 
According to Jackie, it was around 2:00 a.m. when the distant object on the road first caught 
her eye. As she drew closer, she distinguished the lifeless form of a body stretched across both 
lanes, leaving her no room to pass without driving over it. Cautiously, she brought her car to a 
halt, ensuring a safe distance of about 15 yd. She opened her door and called out, “Are you all 
right?” but received no reply. Her headlights cast a stark, unwavering beam on the figure. Stepping 
out, she slowly walked towards it. When she was roughly 10 ft away, the horrifying truth emerged. 
It was a dummy fully dressed in human clothing, simply lying there. Consumed by terror, she 
scrambled back to her car, slammed the door shut, and sped away, driving directly over the dummy. 
We received her frantic call from Mountain Home about 45 minutes from Boise. She was utterly 
shaken, claiming she’d heard footsteps chasing her to her car before she managed to get 
inside and drive off. We, still half asleep, dismissed it as a bizarre, isolated incident, too 
outlandish to cause serious worry. As she pulled into our subdivision, she called again, pleading 
for us to help her unload the car and offer some muchneeded consolation. I opened the garage 
door and stood in the driveway with my wife, waiting for her to pull in. She screeched into 
the driveway, practically leaping from the car, and that’s when I truly lost it. As the car 
door swung open, something fell out, a human finger. She hadn’t stopped after encountering the 
dummy. She had driven directly to us, implying the sinister individual who placed it had pursued her 
back to her vehicle. As she frantically slammed her car door shut and accelerated, the individual 
pursuing her made a desperate lunge, catching a finger in the closing door. We immediately alerted 
the local police, who following her directions, scoured area hospitals for any man presenting 
with a missing digit. To our profound relief, they located a perfect match to her description. 
He was still receiving treatment when he was placed under arrest. The authorities offered no 
further details about the man’s past or identity, simply reassuring us that he was apprehended and 
no longer a threat. It might seem an anticlimactic resolution to a truly terrifying ordeal, but I 
will never forget the visceral shock that coursed through me when that human finger tumbled from 
her car door. To this day, I refuse to travel without a firearm in my vehicle. Cast back to 
the year 2000. I was 10 years old and my parents in a misguided attempt to broaden my horizons had 
enrolled me in a 5-day summer camp in Huntsville, Ontario. It was undeniably a Bible camp, 
and having been raised without any religious instruction, I felt profoundly out of place. 
Yet, I managed to forge connections with the other campers. Seven of us girls shared a room on 
the far right of the main floor which also housed three other similar dormitories. Upstairs was 
reserved for the camp counselors. Our room boasted an unusually high ceiling and nestled near its 
apex was a small square door that provided access to the counselor’s quarters. I occupied the bottom 
bunk along the right wall. On the third night, my bunkmate and I were in stitches, exchanging 
jokes and whispered stories long past lights out. Suddenly, the small door above our heads creaked 
open, and our camp counselor’s stern voice cut through the giggles, ordering us to be quiet. We 
instantly fell silent and settled into our beds. I must have drifted off, though for how long I 
couldn’t say. Then, as if from nowhere, I heard Brianna’s urgent whisper, “Cat, wake up. Wake up 
now. Being a notoriously light sleeper, my eyes sprang open. Angel’s voice followed, a tremulous 
plea. Cat, look over to the bunk in front of you. I was facing the wall, so I slowly turned. My 
breath hitched. Sitting on the ladder leading to the top bunk directly opposite me was a silhouette 
of absolute darkness. It possessed the distinct, elegant shape of long curly hair. The faint 
moonlight filtering through the window illuminated the entire room. Yet this figure was utterly 
opaque, a void against the soft glow. Its long curly hair swayed gently almost imperceptibly. My 
eyes darted around the room, confirming that all the other girls were accounted for. Huddled in 
their beds, wide awake, I stared at the anomaly, transfixed for what felt like an eternity. A wave 
of terrified hysteria rippled through the other girls, punctuated by muffled sobs, but I was 
utterly silent, unable to even make a sound. Fear had paralyzed me, rendering me incapable 
of blinking, let alone moving. What could I have done? This thing sat there, impossibly real, right 
before my eyes. Then the figure rose, smoothly, dismounting the ladder. It stood at the edge of 
the bed for a moment. A silent, watchful presence. A chorus of screams erupted from the other girls, 
a desperate cry, “Cat! Get out of there now!” As if in response, the figure shifted, its movements 
unsettlingly robotic, and began to advance towards me. Finally, a surge of adrenaline shattered 
my paralysis. I scrambled from the bottom bunk, propelled by raw terror, and sprinted to 
the opposite side of the room. I scrambled up Brianna and Angel’s bunk ladder, my movements 
frantic and clumsy. At this point, the dam broke, and I joined the other girls in their hysterical 
sobbing. The figure remained by my bed, an ominous sentinel. Angel and I clung to each other, and I 
squeezed my eyes shut, too afraid to look again. Angel, mustering incredible courage, suddenly 
leaped down from the bunk and flipped on the light switch. In that instant, the figure was gone. Our 
commotion must have been considerable because the camp counselor’s small door opened once more, 
her voice sharp with irritation. Keep it down. We blurted out our terrifying account, and she 
reluctantly descended to investigate. She swept into the room, scanning the empty space. There’s 
nothing here, she declared, her tone dismissive. Your minds were probably playing tricks on you. 
Now back to bed. All of us, myself included, were still profoundly shaken. We remained huddled in 
our bunks, whispering about what we’d witnessed. Barely 5 minutes later, a blood curdling scream 
pierced the night, emanating from the room directly across the hall. We all dissolved into 
fresh tears. The camp counselor’s door opened again, her voice laced with exasperation. “See 
what you’ve started,” she admonished. “You have everyone in the cabin scared.” She then stomped 
off to investigate the new disturbance. We flicked our lights on and cautiously opened our door. We 
heard, “Oh, impossible.” The counselor snapped, her voice cutting through the hall. “Quiet 
down and go to bed. This is the final warning. We could still hear the girl across the way, 
sobbing, insisting something had lifted her bunk, begging not to be left to die. But the counselor’s 
authority held sway, however flimsy it felt. After a hushed 20 minutes, the dormatory finally settled 
into a fragile silence. Nothing further transpired that night, nor for the remainder of the camp. 
We exchanged phone numbers, a desperate clinging to shared reality. About a week later, I called 
both Angel and Brianna. They remembered every terrifying detail, their voices confirming the 
indelible mark that night had left. It was my first undeniable brush with the inexplicable. For 
a few years after the camp, the world felt normal. Then, at 14, the phenomena began again, this time 
centered on my bedroom. Initially, it was just sounds. The chilling rasp of something scratching 
the outer walls, disembodied screams and guttural growls, heavy footsteps, and a particularly 
horrifying scritch that sounded like impossibly long toenails dragging across the floor. Sometimes 
a low, unnervingly deep chuckle would echo, or a cold whisper would breathe my name directly into 
my ear. These disturbances started just outside my room, but over time they inevitably moved in, 
weaving their way into the very air I breathed. I rarely saw anything. It was mostly auditory. 
When I did, it was usually a tall cloaked figure, utterly devoid of features, standing silently 
in my doorway or at the foot of my bed. I’d feel cold fingers brush through my hair or a 
subtle tug at my foot, forcing me to tuck the ends of my blanket tightly under my soles every night 
for years. These nocturnal visitations typically lasted until sunrise, peeking between 1 and 4 in 
the morning, though occasionally they’d manifest even in broad daylight. One night at 14, I was 
jolted awake by a faint shuffling near my dresser. a light sleeper. Any sound brings me instantly to 
full consciousness. My eyes darted to the dresser, and there it was, a tall hooded figure, 
a silhouette of profound blackness,   meticulously sifting through my underwear 
drawer. Despite the paralyzing terror, a strange surge of defiance compelled me to sit 
bolt upright in bed. The figure slowly turned, its faceless void acknowledging my presence for a few 
agonizing seconds before simply dissipating into nothingness. Oddly, after it vanished, a profound 
calm settled over me, and I fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, however, 
confirmed the reality of the encounter. One of my bras was missing along with several pairs 
of underwear scattered on the floor. Weeks later, while doing laundry in the basement, I noticed 
something hanging from a rusty nail on a support   beam. It was the missing bra. A few days prior, 
my mother’s best friend, Denise, a woman equally attuned to the subtle shifts of the paranormal, 
had come over to go blueberry picking. She’d brought with her a large stash of cosmetic 
removal wipes, about 20 packages in total, which we placed on top of the towel cupboard 
outside the bathroom door. My parents then left for grocery shopping, leaving Denise and me alone 
in the house. Recognizing Denise’s sensitivity, I began recounting the strange events that had 
plagued our home. As I spoke, we rose from the couch and started walking towards the kitchen. 
That’s when it happened. Our front door, securely locked moments before, audibly clicked open and 
swung inward as if by an unseen hand. We exchanged a wideeyed, horrified glance. “Did you see that?” 
she whispered, her voice barely a breath. I walked over and relocked the door, but the incident 
had visibly rattled Denise. Later that night, as I lay in bed, a soft crinkling sound began, 
faint, but unmistakable. It continued for several minutes before I realized the source. Someone or 
something was playing with the packages of makeup removal wipes at top the cupboard. Suddenly, 
with a loud thud, they all tumbled to the floor. My mother, stirred by the noise, opened her 
bedroom door to investigate and began collecting them. An eerie silence descended for 20 minutes, 
only to be shattered by the crinkling resuming, followed by the wipes crashing down once more. Not 
5 seconds later, my bed was was violently shunted into the unforgiving wall. A sudden, jarring 
impact that ripped a guttural shriek from my   throat. My mother, her sleep disturbed, hurried 
into the room, her voice sharp with concern, demanding to know what had happened. Still 
trembling, I tearfully recounted the events, only to be met with her dismissive assurance that 
it was absolute nonsense. Yet, as I cautiously swung my legs from the bed and switched on the 
light, the truth stared back at me. A distinct indentation marred the wall precisely where the 
bed had slammed. I always kept my bed a good inch from the wall, a necessity due to the power 
outlet situated to its left. This wasn’t merely a bump. It was undeniable evidence. These unsettling 
experiences, I swear, are all true. For context, I live in New Jersey, and those familiar with 
weird NJ magazine will undoubtedly know about Clinton Road. For those who don’t, Clinton Road in 
West Milford is a 10-mi stretch of unlit, winding asphalt, cutting through dense woods, utterly 
devoid of houses or street lights. It’s widely regarded as the most haunted road in America, a 
morbid pilgrimage site for thrill-seeking teens and young adults. Local lore is rife with tales 
of ghosts, satanic rituals, KKK gatherings in the surrounding forest, hybrid creatures, and 
even a reputed dumping ground for mafia hitman Richard the Iceman Kaklinsk’s victims. My friend 
and I once ventured down that infamous stretch. He behind the wheel vividly recalled seeing a 
corpulent man, his face grotesqually obscured by thick paint or makeup, clad only in underwear, 
lumbering along the roadside. On another occasion, he claimed to have stumbled upon a peculiar red 
phone booth, an uncanny replica of those found in Britain, emanating an ominous purple 
blue glow into the suffocating darkness. Switching to a different chapter of my life, I 
recall my childhood in the 1960s on Long Island, and my beloved aunt Elizabeth. She was my father’s 
youngest sister, 12 years his junior, and 17 years my elder, a sophisticated, independent woman. A 
flight attendant for a major airline, she resided in a chic city apartment. Petite with radiant 
olive skin, captivating green eyes, and lustrous jet black hair. She embodied classic Italian 
beauty. She doted on me and I cherished the exotic photos and thoughtful gifts she’d bring back from 
her journeys across the country and sometimes   even from Europe. As I grew older, my parents 
occasionally allowed me to visit her apartment where she and her equally glamorous friends would 
smoke cigarettes, sip cocktails, play records, and converse about dazzling adult subjects. Merely 
being in their presence made me feel utterly sophisticated and cool. Then one day when she was 
30, life took a cruel turn. She called in sick, convinced she had the flu. Within 48 hours, she 
was gone, a victim of menitis. What followed were some of the most profoundly sorrowful moments 
of my childhood. I vividly remember my father, a man rarely given to outward displays of emotion, 
sobbing uncontrollably as he dressed for her wake, one of only three times I ever witnessed his 
raw grief. At the wake, Aunt Elizabeth lay in her flight attendant uniform, still breathtakingly 
beautiful, even in death. I recall the exquisite softness of the cream colored satin lining her 
casket. Her funeral was attended by an outpouring of mourners spilling from the doors of our small 
suburban Catholic church onto the sidewalk. Sunday dinners with my grandparents, aunts, and uncles 
were never quite the same after her passing. Ironically, despite being the niece of a flight 
attendant from the golden age of air travel,   I developed a crippling fear of flying. For 
years, my frequent work trips, particularly long haul flights, were only manageable with the 
aid of an entire bottle of red wine and ambient. A few months ago, recognizing this wasn’t 
a sustainable or healthy coping mechanism,   I resolved to stop. On my first cross-country 
flight without these crutches, I took 10 mgs of melatonin, settled anxiously into my seat, 
and eventually drifted into a fitful sleep. What followed was a nightmare so vivid it felt 
real. The dream of course unfolded on that very flight. The cabin pressure abruptly dropped. The 
plane plummeted and I was hurtling towards a fiery crash into a cornfield surrounded by the screams 
and panic of fellow passengers. Then through the chaos she appeared. My aunt Elizabeth, calm and 
purposeful, walked down the aisle towards my seat. A subtle knowing smile played on her lips as if 
she were an old friend recognizing me amidst the unfolding disaster. The impact was sudden and 
violent. My bed, with me still in it, slammed hard against the wall, wrenching a scream from 
my throat. My mother, startled awake, rushed into the room, demanding to know what was wrong. I was 
hysterical, barely able to explain, but she simply waved it off as nonsense. Still shaking, I got out 
of bed, flipped on the light, and pushed the frame away from the wall. There, clearly visible, was 
a deep indentation on the right side, precisely where the bed had struck. I never kept my bed 
flush with the wall. The power outlet on the left side always required at least an inch of space. 
This was no trick of the light. It was undeniable proof. These are not fabrications. These events 
are as real as the ground beneath our feet. We live in New Jersey, and if you’re familiar 
with the weird NJ magazine, then Clinton Road will ring a chilling bell. For those who aren’t, 
Clinton Road in West Milford is a 10mi ribbon of pure darkness, twisting and winding through dense 
woods, utterly devoid of street lights or houses. It’s infamous. Considered the most haunted road in 
America. A magnet for local teens and young adults seeking a spectral thrill. Urban legends abound. 
Restless ghosts, clandestine satanic rituals, KKK gatherings in the shadows, strange hybrid 
creatures, and even a rumored dumping ground for mafia hitman Richard the Iceman, Kaklinsk’s 
victims. My friend and I made a pilgrimage there once. He driving swore he saw a corpulent man, 
his face a canvas of grotesque paint or makeup clad only in his underwear lumbering along the 
roadside. Another time he recounted encountering a bizarre red phone booth, an exact replica of the 
iconic British ones, but pulsing with an ominous purple or dark blue glow from within. My story 
then shifts to my aunt Elizabeth. Growing up in the 60s on Long Island, she was a true idol. 
My father’s baby sister, 12 years his junior, and 17 years my senior, she exuded a vibrant, 
independent spirit. She was a flight attendant for a major airline, living in a chic city 
apartment. Petite with exquisite olive skin, striking green eyes, and jet black hair. She was a 
classic Italian beauty. She absolutely adored me, showering me with incredible photos and gifts from 
her travels across the country and sometimes even from Europe. As I got older, my parents would 
occasionally let me visit her apartment. There, she and her equally gorgeous and glamorous 
friends would smoke cigarettes, clink cocktails, play records, and engage in sophisticated adult 
conversations. I felt incredibly cool simply by being a silent observer in the room. One day when 
she was 30, she called in sick to work thinking it was just the flu. It was menitis. She was dead 
within 2 days. The following days were among the saddest of my childhood. I vividly recall one of 
the three times I ever saw my father openly weep, his body racked with profound sobs as he dressed 
for the wake. Aunt Elizabeth lay there, serene and beautiful, dressed in her flight attendant 
uniform. I remember the comforting softness of the cream colored satin lining her casket. 
So many people came to her funeral that they spilled out onto the sidewalk next to our small 
suburban Catholic church. Sunday dinners with my grandparents, aunts, and uncles never felt the 
same. Ironically, despite having such a glamorous flight attendant for an aunt during the golden age 
of air travel, I developed an intense terror of   flying. For years, I traveled frequently for work, 
and on longhaul flights, I simply couldn’t cope without the aid of an entire bottle of red wine 
and ambient. A few months ago, I decided that this wasn’t a healthy path, and resolved to stop. On my 
first cross-country flight in a long time, I took 10 milligs of melatonin, settled anxiously into my 
seat, and tried to fall asleep. Eventually, I did, and what followed were predictably terrifying 
dreams. The dream was set on that very flight. Of course, the cabin pressure plummeted. The plane 
began to crash, and I was certain I was about to die, hurtling into a cornfield as everyone around 
me panicked and screamed. Through the chaos, I saw a flight attendant walking calmly down the aisle 
towards my seat. It was my aunt Elizabeth. She moved with an almost ethereal serenity, a subtle, 
sly smile gracing her lips as if recognizing an old friend. She hadn’t. A visage I hadn’t beheld 
in years. She wore the familiar flight attendant uniform she’d been laid to rest in. Yet her 
legs and feet were bare. She came closer, her gaze gentle, and took my left hand in hers. 
“Itll be okay, honey,” she said, her voice a soothing bomb. “It really will. Things can look 
bad, and sometimes it gets a little turbulent, but the pilot will write it.” Then a simple 
question. How are you? I stammered, a flood of disconnected thoughts tumbling out. Everything 
I might have articulated if asked to summarize my   life since 13. I vaguely recounted my university 
days, a bit about my first job, how she would have adored cell phones. I mentioned dad’s passing, but 
reassured her that mom and my sister were doing well. I complained about the insane city rents and 
lamented the transformations in our old hometown. As my words tumbled out, I sensed the plane 
stabilizing. The cabin pressure returned, the panicked whisper subsided, and the dream 
began to recede, fading just as normality reasserted itself. I awoke 30 minutes before 
landing, a phantom touch, Aunt Elizabeth’s hand, still lingering on my shoulder. I was utterly 
dumbfounded by the dream. For years, I hadn’t truly thought of Aunt Elizabeth, let alone in 
such vivid detail. With a few minutes to spare, I called my mother, relaying the extraordinary 
experience. I am mused aloud about the oddity of my aunt being barefoot in a uniform within the 
dream. My mother paused, Ben said. Elizabeth was buried barefoot. You know, it was a custom, 
she explained. From the small corner of Sicily, where my father’s family originated, women were 
laid to rest without shoes. They had honored this tradition for Aunt Elizabeth and for my 
grandmother many years later. I wouldn’t have known. The lower lid of her casket had been closed 
during the wake. I’m not a religious person, but that detail shattered my skepticism. It instilled 
an unwavering conviction that my aunt Elizabeth, or at least a profound essence of her, had indeed 
come to visit me, to offer comfort during a moment of profound stress and fear. The realization 
was wonderfully moving, like being wrapped in a warm blanket. Suddenly, memories of her, ones I 
hadn’t realized I possessed, flooded back. Tears streamed down my face in an airport bathroom. I’ve 
weathered much in my life. Numerous relocations, spells of unemployment, two divorces, losing 
a home, and then regaining one, the deaths of friends and family. But for a few precious moments 
in a dream, I was reunited with someone I loved, someone who had loved me, a little girl 
excited for the vast world ahead. I love you, Aunt Elizabeth. Visit again anytime. About a year 
ago, my family and I were outside our farmhouse, the sun dipping below the horizon around 8:00 
p.m. We lived in the deep countryside, our nearest neighbor, a distant speck, and something down the 
field kept drawing my eye. I tried to ignore it, but my sister too noticed her gaze repeatedly 
flicking towards the distant treeine, a growing unease etched on her face. My mother, 
perhaps sensing our apprehension, urged us to investigate. A monumental mistake. My sister and 
I began walking across the field. I struggled to articulate the terror that seized me next. It 
remains the most horrifying experience of my life. I didn’t see it at first, and my sister’s 
increasing fear seemed disproportionate until   we were about 100 yards from the tree line. Then I 
saw it. A towering creature easily 8 or 9 ft tall, stark white, and humanoid, yet with an elongated 
head and no discernable face. Its arms were impossibly long, and it suddenly peaked from 
behind the trees. We froze. Our progress halted. We couldn’t comprehend what we were seeing. It 
took a few more steps, emerging further from the concealment of the woods, swaying back and 
forth with an unsettling mantis-like posture, its unseen gaze fixed squarely on me. My sister 
and I erupted in screams, turning and sprinting back towards the house. My mother stood on 
the porch, her jaw slack. She had seen it, too. I had never been so utterly terrified. 
We snatched the binoculars and through their magnified lenses watched the horrifying entity 
continue to peek in and out of the tree line, meticulously observing us. My grandmother, when 
told later, dismissed it as a product of our wild imaginations. As the sun finally vanished and 
true darkness descended, the creature’s movements intensified, a continuous, terrifying sway along 
the tree line. The sheer horror was unbearable. We retreated indoors for the night, locking 
every door and window with frantic urgency. Sleep was impossible for me. All night, I heard 
faint scratching on the roof, and at one point, a profoundly loud bang. The unsettling sounds 
emanating from the barn that night became a new source of dread. I feared waking to find 
our animals vanished. The next morning, my grandmother, with an unnerving calm, asked if we’d 
heard the tremendous banging noises from outside. She then took my grandfather on her usual 
morning walk, as if nothing out of the ordinary   had occurred. I still carry the memory of that 
unexplained terror, marking it as my earliest conscious encounter with the inexplicable. Years 
before these bewildering events, when I was around 8 or nine, a family gathering brought me and 
my younger cousins to their house, situated beside a sprawling forest in northeast Florida. We 
were engaged in a spirited game of hideand seek, the only parental rule being to stay within sight 
of the house. Naturally, youthful defiance led us deeper into the woods than intended. Bored with 
the game, my adventurous spirit prompted me to suggest exploring further. The others, easily 
persuaded, joined me. As we pushed through the undergrowth, a peculiar sight stopped me dead in 
my tracks. A shimmering ball of light suspended eerily in midair. I blinked, convinced my eyes 
were playing tricks on me. I rubbed my eyes, needing to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating. And 
then, pointing, I asked my cousins if they saw it, too. Their wideeyed confirmation was chilling. 
The orb pulsed with a vibrant glow, oscillating between a soft, inviting yellow and a translucent, 
ghostly green, bobbing gently back and forth. We followed its silent, undulating dance for 
what felt like an age until it led us to a dilapidated small cabin. As soon as we reached 
its threshold, the ethereal light flickered and vanished. Dusk was setting in, but curiosity, a 
potent force in childhood, overruled any fear. My cousins and the neighbors child were too 
unnerved to approach, but I crept to a window, peering into the dim interior. A faint glow 
emanated from within, illuminating what I immediately identified as a human skull resting on 
a table amidst an assortment of jars. Then a fluid shadow detached itself from the far wall, gliding 
silently across the room. A profound chill seized me. I immediately signaled the others, my voice 
a strangled gasp, and we bolted, scrambling back through the trees as fast as our legs could carry 
us. We didn’t stop until we were safely inside the house, the door slamming shut and locked behind 
us. I remember getting a stern lecture from our parents for straying so far that we were out of 
sight from the kitchen window. I never breathed a word of the skull or the moving shadow to my 
mother or anyone else. I didn’t want to frighten   my cousins or unduly worry my parents. Even now, I 
questioned the reality of that unsettling tableau. Later that same night, I was roused by the distant 
thrum of helicopters and the urgent barking of dogs. It was well past midnight. I found my mother 
and the other adults lingering after the party, gathered in the kitchen, their gazes riveted 
to the backyard through the window. My mother, her voice hushed, explained. They discovered a 
woman’s body in the forest and a nearby cabin, now believed to be the killer’s lair. A manhunt 
was underway. Sleep was impossible for the rest of the night. The piercing white beams of the 
search lights from above cutting through the   blinds. To this day, the complete meaning of that 
night eludes me. I still wonder if that luminous orb was the woman’s restless spirit attempting 
to guide us to her killer. I’m unsure if any of the other children ever spoke of the cabin or 
if a parent ultimately alerted the police. All I remember is that after that night, we were 
strictly forbidden from venturing near the   tree line again, a restriction I had no desire to 
challenge. Now 24, I’ve had many encounters since, but this particular forgotten memory resurfaced 
recently while researching willow wisps online, prompting me to share the genesis of my own 
strange journey. Approximately 15 years ago, my parents, my brother, and I were driving through 
the sprawling countryside. We had just visited a house on the outskirts of the city and were 
hopelessly lost, searching for a way back to   the highway. The landscape was dominated by vast 
stretches of tall grass and skeletal dead trees, and the unlit dirt roads, especially at night, 
lent an unnerving quality to the surroundings. My father, navigating our Nissan Pimera 
through countless deserted crossroads,   was utterly without guidance in an era before 
GPS. As we approached yet another intersection, a peculiar sight materialized in the middle of 
the road. It appeared to be a baby carriage. As we drew nearer, my father slowly. My 
father, still easing the vehicle forward, abruptly jammed the brakes. My mother’s terrified 
shriek cut through the silence. There, slumped on its side in the middle of the desolate track, 
was a battered baby carriage. A chilling whale, undeniably that of an infant, emanated from 
within. “Oh my god, the baby. Get the baby!” my mother cried, fumbling frantically with her 
door handle. “But before she could open it fully, my father’s foot stomped the accelerator. The 
Nissan roared to life, tires spitting gravel as it fishtailed, launching us away from the 
horrific tableau. My mother, still screaming, clung to the halfopen door while my brother and I 
twisted in our seats. In the fleeting glow of the retreating tail lights, we saw them for figures, 
planks, and baseball bats clutched in their hands, leaping from the tall grass at the roadside. They 
had been waiting. We finally found our way back to the main highway, pulling into the first gas 
station we saw. My father, still visibly shaken, recounted our ordeal to the attendant. The man 
merely nodded, a casual shrug accompanying his words. “Oh yeah, those guys. They do that all 
the time. Put a baby doll in a carriage to get you to stop, then jump out of the bushes to take 
your car and your money.” We never ventured into that region again. Back in my third grade year, 
our school hosted an overnight camp out on the rugby field. No tense for us, we all bumped down 
in the clubhouse. It was a night of pure childhood delight, games of hideand seek under the stars, 
boisterous singalongs, and endless teasing of the naent third grade couples. The fun continued until 
my group of friends and I ventured to the far side of the rugby field, where all the lights had been 
turned off. Equipped with three flashlights and already brimming with the exaggerated spooky scary 
enthusiasm typical of 8-year-olds, we planned to hide in the old oak tree where we usually spent 
our school breaks. As we approached, however, two shadowy figures, they could have been teenagers, 
but in the dim light, and from our small stature, they appeared as grown men, sent a jolt of genuine 
fear through us. We abandoned our plan and bolted back to the clubhouse, breathlessly reporting our 
sighting to the three teachers supervising the   camp. All the children were immediately ushered 
inside for safety. The lone male teacher, grabbing a flashlight, announced he would investigate. He 
needed to confirm if the figures were real, and if so, how they had managed to breach the school’s 
security, as the rugby field was only accessible through the campus itself. We were told to keep 
the blinds drawn, but my curiosity proved stronger than my obedience. Peeking from beneath the blind 
closest to me, I watched him walk a cautious 40 m until he disappeared behind the very tree where 
we’d seen the figures. He stood there motionless for two long minutes. Then he returned, telling 
the other teachers he’d seen nothing, but advised them to call the police just in case. Even then, 
I sensed his profound fear. Later that night, two police cruisers arrived, followed swiftly 
by two more vans. We were all sent home, some parents disgruntled about being called to collect 
us at 10 p.m. Those without transportation had to stay at the teachers houses. We were never told 
what the police discovered. So years later, as a 16-year-old, I started digging. The eerie truth 
surfaced. the oak tree where we’d seen the men bore numerous knife marks and engraved numbers. 
Most chillingly, there was a large body-sized hole in the ground nearby, crudely covered with sand. 
I learned that a mentally ill person had been coerced into burying a body there that very night. 
We had been playing hideand seek terrifyingly close to a fresh grave, and I’m eternally grateful 
we didn’t venture any further. Our fate could have mirrored that poor souls. My family and I have 
been hunting on the same sprawling property in East Texas for over a decade. It’s timber company 
land situated miles off any paved road down a maze of dirt tracks. There’s no electricity, no running 
water, no sewage, just raw untamed wilderness. The area is sparssely populated with only a handful 
of families dotted across the vast landscape. These encounters, however, involve one of the 
locals, and they have been truly unsettling. That why father, still easing the vehicle forward, 
abruptly jammed the brakes. My mother’s terrified shriek cut through the silence. There, slumped 
on its side in the middle of the desolate track, was a battered baby carriage. A chilling whale, 
undeniably that of an infant, emanated from within. Oh my god, the baby. Get the baby,” my 
mother cried, fumbling frantically with her door handle. But before she could open it fully, 
my father’s foot stomped the accelerator. The Nissan roared to life, tires spitting gravel as 
it fishtailed, launching us away from the horrific tableau. My mother, still screaming, clung to 
the half-opened door while my brother and I twisted in our seats. In the fleeting glow of the 
retreating tail lights, we saw them four figures, planks, and baseball bats clutched in their hands, 
leaping from the tall grass at the roadside. They had been waiting. We finally found our way back 
to the main highway, pulling into the first gas station we saw. My father, still visibly shaken, 
recounted our ordeal to the attendant. The man merely nodded, a casual shrug accompanying his 
words. “Oh, yeah, those guys. They do that all the time. Put a baby doll in a carriage to get 
you to stop, then jump out of the bushes to take your car and your money. We never ventured into 
that region again. Back in my third grade year, our school hosted an overnight camp out on the 
rugby field. No tense for us, we all bumped down in the clubhouse. It was a night of pure childhood 
delight, games of hideand seek under the stars, boisterous singalongs, and endless teasing of the 
naent third grade couples. The fun continued until my group of friends and I ventured to the far side 
of the rugby field where all the lights had been   turned off. Equipped with three flashlights and 
already brimming with the exaggerated, spooky, scary enthusiasm typical of 8-year-olds, we plan 
to hide in the old oak tree where we usually spend our school breaks. As we approached, however, two 
shadowy figures, they could have been teenagers, but in the dim light and from our small stature, 
they appeared as grown men, sent a jolt of genuine fear through us. We abandoned our plan and bolted 
back to the clubhouse, breathlessly reporting our sighting to the three teachers supervising the 
camp. All the children were immediately ushered inside for safety. The lone male teacher, grabbing 
a flashlight, announced he would investigate. He needed to confirm if the figures were real, and 
if so, how they had managed to breach the school’s security, as the rugby field was only accessible 
through the campus itself. We were told to keep the blinds drawn, but my curiosity proved stronger 
than my obedience. Peeking from beneath the blind closest to me, I watched him walk a cautious 40 
m until he disappeared behind the very tree where we’d seen the figures. He stood there motionless 
for two long minutes. Then he returned, telling the other teachers he’d seen nothing, but advised 
them to call the police just in case. Even then, I sensed his profound fear. Later that night, two 
police cruisers arrived, followed swiftly by two more vans. We were all sent home. Some parents 
disgruntled about being called to collect us at 10 p.m. Those without transportation had to 
stay at the teachers houses. We were never told what the police discovered. So years later, as a 
16-year-old, I started digging. The eerie truth surfaced. The oak tree where we’d seen the men 
bore numerous knife marks and engraved numbers. Most chillingly, there was a large body-sized hole 
in the ground nearby, crudely covered with sand. I learned that a mentally ill person had been 
coerced into burying a body there that very night. We had been playing hideand seek terrifyingly 
close to a fresh grave. And I’m eternally grateful we didn’t venture any further. Our fate could have 
mirrored that poor souls. My family and I have been hunting on the same sprawling property in 
East Texas for over a decade. It’s timber company land situated miles off any paved road down a 
maze of dirt tracks. There’s no electricity, no running water, no sewage, just raw, untamed 
wilderness. The area is sparssely populated with only a handful of families dotted across 
the vast landscape. These encounters, however, involve one of the locals, and they have been 
truly unsettling. Beyond the scattered hunting camps and the sparse local inhabitants, our 
nearest neighbors resided in a dilapidated   trailer about a mile down the winding dirt road. 
We’d come to refer to their peculiar dwelling as the meth house, a moniker born from the unsettling 
ambiencece that permeated the property. While I couldn’t definitively say whether any 
illicit substances were being cooked there,   it would have been difficult to imagine otherwise. 
This place had always exuded an unsettling aura. A lone trailer sat inongruously in a clearing of 
pines, almost swallowed by overgrown brush, giving the impression of long-term abandonment. Rusting, 
broken down vehicles and miscellaneous junk were perpetually strewn across the front yard. A Macob 
totem pole of cow skulls and hipbones, initially numbering around 10, had been meticulously affixed 
to a towering pine tree, spiraling 15 to 20 ft up its trunk, steadily growing to some 20 grotesque 
additions over the years. For a long time, I thought that was the strangest thing about 
the place. Then around 2017, things took an even stranger turn. The front yard’s peculiar 
collection began to expand. A decaying taxiderermy wild hog was added to the skull tree. Nearby, 
a doll’s head adorned with makeshift horns and what looked like a tattered gown was impaled 
on a stick by the dirt road, a bizarre effigy we dubbed the baby devil. Later, we observed three 
massive tripods, each standing roughly 12 ft high, constructed from young pine trunks erected 
strategically around the trailer. One day, as we drove past, we noticed something truly 
unsettling hanging from these makeshift gallows, the spinal columns, and rib cages of various 
animals. Our initial thought was that perhaps they were using the tripods for hanging and 
cleaning deer, but the same bones remained there   for well over a year. Typically, hunters would 
dispose of a carcass much sooner as the stench can become overwhelmingly potent in a short time. 
Up to that point, we’d had no direct encounters with the residents and weren’t even sure what they 
looked like. The property was undeniably creepy, but they largely kept to themselves. That 
changed later in the season when we experienced two distinct and unnerving incidents. The first 
happened to a close friend. He’d made a quick day trip with his wife to our property to refill 
feeders and ride ATVs. To reach his usual spot, he had to take the dirt road that led right past 
the meth house. His designated hunting area was only a few hundred yards beyond their property. 
As they went about their tasks, they began to hear some truly bizarre noises. Listening closely, 
he distinguished rapid, high-pitched gibberish, a frantic exchange between two voices. He 
described it as a medley of yips, yaws, and yees punctuated by the word Jesus. Driven 
by a strange mix of fear and curiosity, they mounted one of their ATVs to investigate. They 
found two men squatting low, almost Gollumlike, beside a large mud puddle directly in front of 
the trailer. They were splashing and bouncing in the mud, all the while speaking furiously and 
loudly in their incomprehensible gibberish. The moment they noticed the approaching ATVs, they 
ceased their movements and chatter in unison, staring with the wide, unblinking eyes of startled 
animals. My friend, overcome with primal fear, hit the throttle of his ATV and didn’t dare look back. 
The second equally disturbing encounter involved my brother and me. We were staying overnight at 
the property alone, relaxing by the campfire on a moonless night after a long day of hunting. 
That’s when we began to hear something truly strange off in the distance. Pipe organ music. It 
was disjointed, marked by missed notes and erratic stops and starts, almost like someone learning 
to play. We laughed, remarking how it felt like the opening scene of a horror movie, and tried to 
ignore it. The eerie music continued on and off for the next few hours. Then all of a sudden, we 
heard a crashing sound ripping through the brush. This wasn’t the sound of a startled deer, a 
rooting armadillo, or even hogs on the trail. This was a heavy, forceful crash made by something 
large, and it was close. The brush was incredibly thick, about 10 ft high and 100 ft deep, 
separating our camp from the direction of the meth house. The rest of the night was silent. No more 
discordant organ music, no further disturbances in the woods. We tried to rationalize it the next 
morning, suggesting it was probably just a local old lady practicing her organ, the sound drifting 
over from another property or an animal crashing through the dense undergrowth. But we were deeply 
unnerved. From that night on, we made it a point never to be alone overnight at the camp again, and 
we kept a much closer eye on that house. For half a year, my eldest, who frankly wasn’t the sharpest 
tool in the shed when it came to communication, developed a peculiar habit. He’d wander to a 
specific corner of the living room, gaze upwards, and begin a string of his usual toddler gibberish. 
This went on for weeks, his babbling persisting long past when most children start speaking 
clearly. Then one day after repeating this ritual a few times he took his younger brother by 
the hand led him to the exact same corner and the little one too looked up and started talking. Both 
of them would stand there beaming and giggling as if an unseen adult was engaging them in 
conversation. After my youngest had made his third trip to that corner, a surge of curiosity mixed 
with exasperation finally prompted me to ask, “What in the world are you two doing?” I assumed 
it was some elaborate game. My eldest son, with a mischievous grin, replied, “I’m talking 
to grandpa.” I was instantly bewildered. “Honey, your grandpa lives in Nebraska.” I explained 
gently. “He’s very far away.” My son looked at me, his eyes earnest, and corrected me. “No, Mommy, 
it’s your grandpa.” The clarity of his speech, a complete and coherent thought emerging 
from a child who still primarily babbled,   sent a shiver down my spine. I stared at the 
corner. Both boys were still there, chatting away, even holding up their toys as if presenting them 
to an invisible audience. I watched for what felt like several minutes. The entire bizarre 
episode had stretched to about half an hour. All right, movie time, babies, I finally 
announced, needing to break the spell so I could finish dinner. Little ones have no concept 
of time after all. The younger one waddled over to the couch, and the elder, after carefully 
collecting the scattered toys from the corner,   joined him. As I started preparing dinner, 
my gaze kept drifting back to that corner. Thanks, Grandpa,” I muttered under my breath, a 
half- joking, half-serious thought. Immediately, the small decorative door in that corner swung 
open as if someone had just walked right through it. The air in the room thickened, a palpable 
shift in atmosphere. That night, my dreams were particularly vivid. I found myself back in my 
childhood home. A small structure almost like a miniature mosselum stood on the path leading 
to the woods. It was granite with an awning, one solid wall holding a door for decorative 
pillars and a porch swing. I walked towards it, lit a stick of incense, and sat on the swing, 
gently rocking, staring at the ground. Then there they were, those familiar worn out 
sneakers. My grandfather was sitting beside me, his old kind smile gracing his face. We just 
sat on the swing, and I poured out my heart, mostly about the boys. I told him how much I 
missed him, how I’d even named my oldest son after him. He simply listened, that gentle smile 
unwavering. After a while, we both stood. I hugged him, whispering that I hadn’t told him everything 
yet. Then my name was called from somewhere beyond a disembodied voice. I looked around seeing no 
one. When I turned back, he was gone. In my dream, I yanked open the moselum door and it revealed 
an endless vertical shaft completely lined with doors stretching in both directions. I woke up 
then crying amidst a full-blown panic attack. My grandfather had passed away in 2005, my 
grandmother in 2008, and my son was born in 2010, just one week shy of my grandfather’s birthday, 
which ironically was the day my doctor had originally scheduled my induction. Cast your mind 
back to the summer of 1980. Our family observed a cherished tradition, a week-long retreat to our 
rustic log cabin deep in the heart of the woods. It was an annual pilgrimage, an excuse to 
gather the extended family for esmores,   laughter, and shared stories specifically 
designed to bypass the chaotic holiday season when everyone was inevitably tied up with other 
commitments and relatives. This summer week was, by unspoken decree, sacred amongst us. There 
was, however, one particular family member who was somewhat estranged. She had only begun 
joining these gatherings a few years prior, and our interactions with her were largely confined to 
these summer reunions. I speak of my aunt Muriel. She had remained a spinster her entire life, never 
marrying and seemingly devoid of any romantic interests. According to my family, she was, in 
the kindest possible terms, a miserable old cow. She smoked incessantly, drank far too much, and 
possessed a generally sour disposition. And that’s me trying to paint her in the most charitable 
light. Consequently, even though she was family, we went to great lengths to keep her at arms 
length. For the moment she started drinking,   which she did frequently, her mood would swiftly 
plummet and her anger would flare. As you can imagine, none of us were particularly looking 
forward to her arrival. This year, however, a peculiar twist preceded her arrival. Muriel had 
apparently driven to the cabin a few days early, intending to prepare the beds and stock the 
refrigerator. The summer heat that year was brutal, a sweltering blanket over the landscape. 
When our designated reunion day finally dawned, we set out. This was the 1980s, a time devoid of 
cell phones, so her prior silence was entirely unremarkable. My family was the first to reach 
the secluded cabin. My sister and I scrambled from the car, eager to stretch our legs, while 
our parents immediately began retrieving luggage   from the trunk. As I unlatched the front door, a 
putrid, overwhelming stench assaulted my senses, so vile it made my stomach churn. I nearly 
vomited on the spot, utterly confounded by the source of such a horrific odor. Despite 
my sister’s protests, a morbid curiosity drew me deeper into the cabin. And there, stretched 
out on the floor in a grotesque pool of blood, lay Aunt Muriel, unmistakably dead. The grim 
tableau suggested she’d been there for several days. The oppressive summer heat had accelerated 
the decomposition, and her considerable size only exacerbated the horror of her decaying form. 
We screamed, a desperate, visceral sound, and fled back outside to our parents. One 
whiff, combined with our frantic explanation, was enough. They didn’t even attempt to enter. 
The nearest phone was a 40-minute drive away, a journey they made to contact the authorities. It 
was a harrowing 3-hour wait before they returned, by which time other relatives, cousins, 
uncles, and aunts had started to arrive, drawn by the annual tradition, oblivious 
to the tragedy that awaited them. Finally, the police cruisers pulled up, finding nearly 
20 of us huddled outside the cabin, a mixture of shock and grief on our faces. We watched, helpless 
and horrified, as they began their grim work. They advised us to leave and my uncle, his face 
solemn, drove the younger family members to his nearby farmhouse. We arrived, a silent, bewildered 
group, uncertain of what to do next. The night was profoundly dark, amplifying our unease. We all 
ended up staying at my uncles, while the adults spent the next few days in a blur of funeral 
arrangements and constant communication with the   police, ensuring no foul play was involved. Before 
they could release her body, the investigation concluded. The outcome was, to say the least, 
deeply unpleasant. Aunt Muriel had succumbed to natural causes, a sudden heart attack, which 
caused her to slip and fall, breaking both her leg and hip. She had then bled out alone on the 
cabin floor. A truly dreadful way to depart, if you ask me. She had been there for roughly 3 days, 
meaning her death occurred almost immediately upon her early arrival. I remember feeling a pang of 
disappointment despite my complicated feelings for her. No one deserved such an ending. We never 
returned to that cabin. It was eventually sold, its fate unknown to me, and our family gatherings 
found new, less haunted venues. But one indelible mark was left. To this day, I refuse to set 
foot inside a cabin. So deeply scarred am I by the events of that summer. Shifting gears to 
a different, equally baffling encounter. It was Christmas Eve 2001. I was 21, working a late shift 
at a hotel bar about 10 mi from my home. As the newest employee, I had no choice but to work the 
holiday, closing the bar at 2:00 a.m. The night was bitterly cold as I changed out of my uniform 
and headed to my motorcycle. To cut my journey almost in half, I sometimes used a notoriously 
narrow country road, barely a track known only to the few residents of the scattered houses along 
its winding path. It was passable on a motorcycle, offering a shortcut a car couldn’t manage, leading 
directly out near the main highway. My friend from work was riding pillion behind me. About a mile 
into this secluded route, in the dead of night, utterly surrounded by nothing, as we passed 
the gate of one of these isolated homes,   I glimpsed something. I immediately break, 
stopping maybe 60 to 80 ft beyond the gate. We both turned, our gaze drawn back, and there 
it was, a figure ripped straight from a sci-fi blockbuster, the quintessential Hollywood alien. 
It stood an imposing 6 and 1/2 to 7 ft tall, its skin a pallet gray. Its face was distinctly 
oval, its eyes large and dark, the complete, unnerving package. We stared, transfixed for what 
felt like 10 endless seconds, and it stared back, utterly motionless. Then a primal urge for 
self-preservation kicked in, and I floored it, fleeing the scene as fast as the motorcycle 
would carry us. We both immediately dismissed it, clinging to the comforting rationalization that it 
was merely some prankster in an elaborate costume. For years afterward, I recounted this. I’ve 
recounted that bizarre story to close friends and family countless times since, much like I’m 
sharing it with you now. We eventually moved on to different jobs. But whenever we’d cross paths, 
that alien encounter always surfaced, eliciting a shared laugh and the same bewildered question. 
What in the hell was some guy doing in an alien   costume at 2:00 a.m. on Christmas in the middle 
of nowhere in those utterly black woods? Today, I’m 36 and I consider myself a man of science. 
I certainly believe that we are not alone in the universe. Yet, I struggle to accept 99% 
of the evidence out there. I still want to believe it was just some idiot in a costume, 
but a lingering doubt will forever whisper,   “What the hell?” My own peculiar journey into 
the unexplained began when I was 13, enrolled in a wilderness therapy program for behavioral 
issues. It was situated deep in the mountains of southern Utah near a spot called Joe’s Camp. 
Plenty of strange things happened out there, and I have other tales, but one incident in particular 
terrified me more than anything. The raw physical sensation I experienced that night, I can still 
vividly recall today. We were gathered around a campfire one evening, swapping scary stories, 
and the topic of Wendigos inevitably arose. Some campers vehemently insisted they were 
real, while a staff member vaguely mentioned   local legends of encounters in the area. Being 
the edgy teenager I was, I scoffed, blurting out something defiant like, “Screw Wendigos. I’d kill 
one with my bare hands if it dared show itself.” Later that night, as I slept, I was plunged into 
a dream. I was observing a deer in a clearing, consumed by an overwhelming sense of impending 
doom. Suddenly, the deer was annihilated, crushed, obliterated in a way I can barely describe. It 
was as if it was sucked beneath a massive rock, and its spinal cord shot out, impaling me. The 
sensation of that impalement was the worst, most bizarre pain I’ve ever felt, best likened to 
a dirty, scraping agony. The dream then shifted. I was looking at my feet, visible at the edge of my 
tarp tent, before I was violently ripped from it. I woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in my 
sleeping bag outside my tent, emitting the strangest noise I’ve ever heard, a wheezing 
screech like a primal death cry. I quickly scanned my surroundings, then frantically crawled 
back into my tent, dismissing it as a horrific dream and about of sleepwalking. I never spoke of 
it while I was there. I still struggled to find a plausible explanation beyond a vivid nightmare and 
sleepwalking, but it profoundly shook me. And even now, the memory leaves me incredibly uneasy. I am 
a woman in my late 20s. My parents, a wonderfully charming lesbian couple, owned and operated 
a funeral home and cemetery nestled in a tiny   village on the edge of the Alaskan tundra. It was 
a family business passed down from my grandmother, Agatha’s father, who had inherited it from his 
own father, and so on. Katie, my other mother, was absolutely terrified of the entire situation 
from the outset. She was convinced that living so close to a field of corpses, as she put it, would 
surely lead to someone getting possessed. Yet, over time, precisely 8 years after they first 
moved there, she grew to respect the land and the quiet inhabitants resting within. I was born 
shortly after this shift in her perspective. Despite her newfound acceptance, she still 
limited my access to the cemetery. And while no one was ever possessed, we certainly had our 
share of terrifying experiences both in our home and across the property. I attended a minuscule 
schoolhouse every weekday from the time I could walk. There were only about 13 children in our 
entire village, so we all learned together in a single room taught by a small group of teachers. 
Katie and her twin sister Gloria were two of these educators. The three of us would walk to and from 
town daily while Auga and her brother co-managed the property. It was a 20-minute trek, but on 
those rare, glorious days without ice, we’d ride our bikes. Truly the highlight of my young 
life. However, on this particular December day, we had to walk. School let out around 4:00 that 
afternoon, but the sun usually dipped below the horizon by 3:30, so we were mostly enveloped in 
darkness by the time we reached the dirt road leading up to our home. I was about 6 or 7 years 
old. My tiny legs, still struggling to navigate the snow-sl path, found an easy excuse to remain 
draped over Gloria’s back. My mother’s twin, having drawn the short straw for my daily 
transportation, carried me up the incline. With my head nestled against her shoulder, I gazed 
at the cemetery, a silent city of the departed, slowly revealing itself through the skeletal 
birches and spruces. It was a sprawling expanse dotted with an eclectic collection of moseliums 
and vibrant, often ornate tombs belonging to both Inuit and Russian Orthodox communities. The 
graves always fascinated me. I’d make a game of trying to identify which ones I hadn’t seen 
before. We were almost to our front door when a lone silhouette caught my eye in the cemetery’s 
furthest corner. The dim light and distance made it impossible to tell their age or gender, but I 
knew just from their general build that it wasn’t aa or cow visiting hours, a strict rule, concluded 
at sundown, regardless of the season, and the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. Without 
a second thought, I pointed the figure out to Katie. Many of the finer details of these early 
events are recounted to me by my parents and older relatives now, but I distinctly remember Katie 
murmuring a quiet exclamation under her breath. She gently eased me off Gloria’s back and with an 
unusual urgency told me to sprint inside and fetch Cal, instructing him to meet them in the field. 
My earlier figned clumsiness vanished. Suddenly, my feet were as nimble as a rabbit’s on the icy 
ground, and I tore across the final 20 yards to the house. I burst through the front door, 
shouting a frantic summary of the situation to Auga and my uncle Cal, who I knew would be in the 
kitchen. Get the trespasser. I demanded of Cal, he grumbled, draining the last of his coffee, likely 
fortified with a shot of whiskey, and rose from the table. Cal, Auga’s brother, was an imposing 
figure, easily 6’8 with shoulders like a grizzly and what I affectionately termed Fred Flintstone 
fists. He could and often did incapacitate someone with minimal effort. Fiercely protective of 
his sisters, including Katie and Gloria, and all the women in his orbit, he commanded a dual 
respect and fear throughout our small community. He was in essence our very own very effective 
home security system. Naturally, I was thrilled by this unexpected burst of excitement in 
my otherwise predictable life. When my uncle stomped out the back door, not even bothering to 
grab a coat, I turned my eager eyes to Auga. She barely registered his departure, her gaze fixed 
on mine for a thoughtful moment before she sighed, a soft, resigned sound, and gestured towards 
the parka hanging by the door. I grabbed it and helped her slip it on, trailing her as she 
headed outside, knowing full well that her wife, Katie, would not be pleased by my presence 
in the cemetery. Reaching the ornate cast iron fence that marked the property line, Auga 
scooped me up. From her arms, I watched Cal’s colossal silhouette converging with the smaller 
forms of Katie and Gloria. The stranger remained a good hundred yards from us. “Let’s hide and 
watch,” I whispered conspiratorally to Auga, realizing Katie hadn’t yet spotted us. For a 
fleeting second, I expected her to demur to usher me towards the others. Instead, she offered 
me a mischievous smile and ducked behind a large mosselum. We can make it to grandmother’s grave 
if we’re very, very quiet,” she whispered back, her eyes twinkling. She adored the graveyard, 
a place where she had spent her own childhood, learning about her ancestors and the history of 
our town, and she clearly hoped I would come to   love it just as much. We hurried from one grave 
marker to the next, pausing only long enough to ensure we remained unseen. Katie, Gloria, and 
Kel moved with a swift, purposeful stride, their attention wholly consumed by the figure 
now standing a mere 20 ft from the massive   tomb housing my great-g grandandmother, our 
destination. As we finally reached the tomb, Aga sat me down, and we crouched behind the scattered 
rocks and weathered wood surrounding what she   called grandmother’s altar. It was then that a 
tremor of genuine fear began to ripple through me. This was a stranger, and they were positioned 
at the base of a mosselum dedicated to infants   who had passed before receiving the trib’s 
blessing from the shaman. This particular site was an older, somewhat outdated section, not 
fully adhering to contemporary Inuit customs, even though it had been refurbished in the 1970s. 
Located towards the northern part of the property, it was a place no one ever visited. The infant 
moselum, though a dilapidated monument to a tragic past, couldn’t be torn down without profound 
disrespect to the departed. It simply loomed there, a silent sentinel on the tiny hilltop of 
that section of the cemetery. As Cal, flanked by a tense Katy and Gloria, stroed towards the 
stranger. The air crackled with unspoken anxiety. I could hear my uncle’s voice carrying on the 
crisp bear, a polite inquiry about their presence, a reminder of visiting hours, an 
offer for a ride back to town. Cal, always one to offer the benefit of the doubt 
before resorting to his formidable Hulk mode,   was starting his usual diplomatic dance. Auga, 
who had initially been suppressing giggles at the sight of her towering brother looming over the 
trespasser, now clutched me tighter, her amusement fading into apprehension as the seconds ticked by. 
It took a few unnerving minutes for us to grasp the strange truth. The figure wasn’t responding 
to Cal. He didn’t even acknowledge their presence, his gaze remaining fixed on a spot just above the 
moselum. Katie and Gloria exchanged increasingly anxious glances. Cal, growing exasperated, finally 
ordered them back to the house, but they refused, pressing closer to his side. When polite words 
failed, Cal, ever the pragmatist, decided on a physical approach. He later recalled that the 
stranger was an old man, frail and delicate, and he truly hadn’t wanted to cause him harm. But the 
man was utterly unresponsive, and if he was deaf, Cal reasoned, he’d have to find some way to get 
his attention. My uncle extended a gentle hand, placing it carefully on the gentleman’s shoulder. 
The moment skin touched skin, a visible wave of nausea washed over cow. He hunched over, clutching 
his abdomen, a pained cry tearing from his throat. Aa with an urgent command for me to stay put, 
darted from our hiding spot, scrambling over the scattered stones to reach her brother. Cal, still 
reeling, waved them away, insisting they returned to the house. But all three women remained frozen 
in place, paralyzed by the sudden shift in events. The strange man still hadn’t stirred. Katie, her 
patience exhausted, yelled at him once more. She stepped around him, placing herself directly 
in his path, and waved a hand in front of his   unblinking eyes. “You need to leave. You can’t be 
here after dark. It’s not safe,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the growing dread. No, 
it’s not,” the stranger finally replied, his voice a low, raspy murmur. He slowly lowered his eyes, 
fixing his gaze on my mother. “Are you all right, dear?” he asked, his tone unnervingly casual, as 
if addressing an old friend. “Katie stood there momentarily, stunned, before glancing back at 
Cal, who was now on his knees, still clutching his stomach. As my mother’s attention wavered, the 
man turned and began to walk towards the cemetery exit. He was heading straight for our hiding 
place, and I fully intended to bolt and run, but a crushing weight seemed to pin me down. 
I whimpered, burying my face in my arms, offering silent prayers to God and my great-g 
grandandmother for protection. The ice and leaves crunched loudly underfoot, and I knew Auga had 
realized my predicament because I could hear Katie shouting at her. Finally, summoning every ounce 
of courage, I lifted my head. The man was walking directly past me. He didn’t spare me so much as 
a glance, but as he moved by, a duet whisper, smooth as riverstones, drifted to my ears, 
“Good night, blue eyes.” An inexplicable calm immediately washed over me, and I rose unsteadily 
to my feet. I watched him, almost floating, out of the cemetery and towards the main road. Katie 
rushed over to me, her face pale, urging that we had to get my uncle to the hospital. As it turned 
out, Cal required emergency surgery. His appendix had ruptured. He was utterly convinced that the 
old man had cursed him on contact. Even Aga, sweet and generally superstitious as she was, 
harbored doubts about his claim. There had been no malice in Ca’s approach, she argued. So why 
would the man have cursed him? This, however, was not our last encounter with the enigmatic 
stranger. We saw him two or three more times in the following weeks, always at the derelict 
infant’s mosselum, always staring up at the sky. From then on, he always appeared during daylight 
hours. I would sometimes sneak out and watch him from the safety of my grandmother’s grave. He was 
a white man, a detail that sparked a theory in my young mind. He was Katie and Gloria’s true father, 
who had abandoned them when they were very young. Katie quickly dismissed this, explaining that 
their father had died in the early 90s, but that didn’t sway me. He could still be him. The idea of 
a spectral, or at least deeply strange, paternal figure lingered. The following year, as early 
February brought another deluge of heavy snow, I assisted Auga and Cal with their crucial rounds. 
It was our duty to inspect every tomb and moselum, ensuring their seals held fast against the 
elements. Families in their grief sometimes conducted deeply personal rituals with their 
newly departed, leaving ceremonial offerings   directly on the bodies. Not all, however, 
remembered to meticulously restore the tombs to their former state, leaving them vulnerable to 
the impending thaws and potential flooding. As we navigated the familiar path toward grandmother’s 
resting place, I heard Auga release a soft sigh, a sound I recognized but quickly dismissed, my 
gaze already drawn to the distant infant moselum. There he stood, the enigmatic old man, his back 
to us, silhouetted against the swirling white. A smile touched my lips, a familiar comfort in 
his strange presence. Good morning, I called out, my voice carried by the wind. His response, though 
faint, cut through the gusts with an unsettling clarity. There’s no such thing, blue eyes. 
My initial reaction was a chuckle. It sounded like one of Gloria’s cynical pronouncements 
after a night of too much whiskey. But then, as abruptly as a shift in the Arctic wind, an 
unbearable weight settled in my chest. A profound aching sorrow, alien and crushing, coiled in my 
gut, bringing me to my knees in the snow. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed down my face as 
I looked up at Auga, bewildered by the intensity of this sudden, terrible dread. It was a feeling 
I had never known. Auga, her expression softening with concern, quickly scooped me into her 
arms and carried me back to the warmth of   the house. The moment I crossed the threshold, the 
suffocating sadness lifted, replaced by a sense of calm. The old man was never seen on the property 
again. I harbored a strange lingering sadness over his disappearance, a quiet void where his 
unsettling presence had been. The adults, however, were openly relieved, liberated from the strange, 
almost magnetic pull he had exerted over us all.

30 TRUE Terrifying Stories Told In The Rain 🌧️ You Might Not Sleep Tonight
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