Its Creepy story time!


Flaccid Member
Nov 15, 2004
Every fall i love to creep myself out with storys and pictures of haunting, ghosts, demons and general evil afoot that one might be unlucky enough to percieve. Share with all your creepy tidbits you've come across while searching the dark corners of the internet.


Anyone remember the Blair Witch Project? Anyone who grew up around that area knows that the woods are just like that shit, with a house coming out of nowhere.

I used to go for hikes through the woods with an old Army map, a knife, and my dog. He used to go for rabbits, catch them, and bring them back to me alive and kicking, like he didn't know what to do with this fuzzy twitching thing in my mouth. Occasionaly I'd come across him eating one though, but that's neither here nor there. Foxes had a thing for him as well, and we'd always see one up on a ridge or on some rocks, watching us walk past.

It was following a "trail, unimproved" that I came across this house. It wasn't very surprising at this point to see a house abandoned in the middle of nowhere. The explanation given was that farms would go bust, no one would tend the fields, and the trees would reclaim the plowed fields. Fair enough.

It was the middle of Autumn, so the trees were in a good lather, falling leaves and everything looking decidedly poetic. I didn't really notice anything until my dog jerked my arm, not because of him running off but because he had froze. He had looked like this a few times before, when someone was trying to break into the house and whenever he saw another male dog who tried to bump chests with him. On point, looking huge and ruffled, which is saying something when he's a rotty/chow mix. I thought maybe he got a hint of coyotes, and then I saw the house.

What paint it had once faded off ages ago, leaving warped grey side boards. It was a two story farm house, and someone had obviously wanted to keep something inside. With some resistance at first, I moved closer. How do I know the above? Mainly because the wood 2X4s were nailed on the outside of the windows and doors. Okay, I thought, they couldn't do it on the inside, because then they would lock themselves in, right?

But why would they do it period?

Something else got my attention. There was a walk around porch roof, and going around back I could see where in one second story window all the boards had been blown out, shattered, along with some of the house itself. While the 2X4s were good and rotted, I could still see where someone had carved something into them, or perhaps clawed at them? I don't know. I do know, like the protagonist in an HP Lovecraft story, I should have probably at this point ran for the woodline, or at least until I had a can of gasoline. Especially after the events in Seaford.

But I was young, and impetous, and taking matters into my own hands, I went around to the front door again. With a running start, I threw myself through the front door, and into a fucking nightmare.

The wooden walls were covered with streaks of brown in impressions in the whitewashed wood, which I know realise was blood from fingers being scratched down to the quick. And perhaps white washed is too strong a term. There was white, but someone had taken time to write hex marks in line after line around the house. I could see what I thought was huge spider laying almost out of my line of sight in a doorway. I realised that it was a hand as my brain put things together. Baxter, the dog, had entered with me, growling low in this throat, coming up to my side and never taking more steps than I did. He did not like the hand, and bared his teeth at it in a way more akin to wolves, with that sudden sharp two tone snarl they do.

The hex lines, basically pentacles about every foot interspersed with crosses, ran into what I want to call the kitchen, with empty cabinets and an old iron stove. Needless to say, a thick curtain of dust covered everything, but there were places were there were less dust. Squatting, I made out footprints, bare human footprints, and ran a finger along the middle of one. Somewhere in the house, something thumped, and there was a giggle. More like in the back of my mind, but Baxter lurched as if he heard it too. I didn't like where this was going, but I continued on, my heart beating in my chest.

Perhaps I imagined the next rattle, coming from behind me, but I don't think I did. Investigating, I saw that the hand had slid several feet down the wall, further into the room. I could see the dust trails where it had moved, and shook my head. Something was fucking with me, but again, I was too headstrong, too reckless. I also thought my being a paratrooper, and under the auspice of St. Michael had something to do with it - if he could face the down devil, I could explore the domain of some half ass ghost, couldn't I?

Perhaps! But when a finger fucking twitched, it did not sit well in my stomach. And when I heard, much like I had before, the sound of something beating around upstairs, Baxter getting more and more anxious by the second, I decided to leave. I grabbed my fear by the throat, and walked from the house, through the threshold.

I don't know if my walking pissed it off or my running only inflamed it further, but when I heard the sound of footsteps coming, I took off for the woodline and the open fields, thinking for some reason it represented safety. Baxter ran beside me, ears back and in a flat out sprint. The wind kicked up behind me and I could smell the rot in the air. The smell of open sewage on a hot day, of a corpse putrefying and wet. The bile rose at the back of my throat and I spit, dodging through trees and leaping over more than one rock. It was riding the wind though, it's footsteps only taunting to heighten the thrill of the chase. How can you outrun the wind?

You can't. So I turned, ripped the medal from my neck, and shoved it into the wind. I don't remember what I yelled, to be honest. I suspect it was a cry to St. Michael with all of my faith, because there was a white explosion in my head, and my vision was filled with light. The only equivalent I have is when I got caught too close to a flashbang, with the noise slowly filtering back in with my vision.

Again, the smell of roses and gunpowder on the wind, and something else. You could smell fire on the wind, like your clothes might smell after standing too close to a bonfire. I heard steps again in the leaves, but it was only my dog, looking around curiously, licking the air. After a moment he looked off into the distance, wagged his tail, and then began to turn back. I followed him, looking where he had stared so intently. I saw nothing, but there was a cool breeze suddenly from that direction, and the smells, so apart but seeming so right, were stronger for a second, and then faded out. I walked with my dog out of whatever horror I had wandered into for a second.

When I got back home, my mother asked me what girl I had been with. She said she could smell me from there, and while I smelled good, I smelled STRONG. She didn't believe I wasn't with a girl, and only said "You don't have to lie, but we can pretend if you're embarassed to tell your mother. Just ask your "friend" what perfume she uses, because I'd like a bottle."

A deployment later, I returned to the house with the can of gasoline, the dog, and some handwritten prayers. What I found when the house burned to the ground is another story altogether.
So did I just read a story from Goosebumps? Maybe "Are you afraid of the Dark"

I used to like the elementary school book fair book: "Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark"

Part 2

A little over a year later had me driving down the "trail, unimproved" in a jeep, three five gallon jugs of gas in the backseat, a sheet of handwritten prayers tucked into my pocket, and the dog curled up in the backseat. I had left with this, I told my mother the area where I was going to hike, and took off. These were what I hoped, enough to finish what I had started.

I kept the events of that place to myself, knowing that I had experienced what some might call "a minor miracle" in my faith. I had told the story when I was younger about the first ghost to some people when it came to telling "Oh man this one time..." stories, much like this thread. Things would always get quiet shortly afterwards, and someone would eventually go "That's fucked up" softly, and that was that. Still, I knew the house was there, and unlike in the first case, I didn't know that I had broken whatever presence haunted that house for good.

I arrived at noon, with the first whispers of an early summer thunderstorm starting to show on the horizon. If this fire got out of hand, I hoped to let nature deal with it, and hauled the three cans out of the jeep, along with a coil of rope, and a shovel. I had my knife in the small of my back, and hefting three cans awkwardly, I walked towards the house, ignoring the sudden sinking feeling in my stomach.

Where there had once been a good wind moving through the woodline had died when I began walking towards the house with my goods. Baxter's tail was stiff, and his hair was on end again. Everything was literally silent. No birds flew, no trees moved. It felt like high noon at Dodge City, and to ease the tension I blew the first few notes of that song you hear in every spaghetti western.

Apparently, I hadn't broken shit. Just driven it away from me in a desperate moment, and I couldn't be sure when it might come back. Indeed, as I set the cans down, one of the 2X4s in the second story windows chose that time to pop out, making an empty thunk as it hit the top of the awning. Baxter barked once, and I loosened the St. Mike's medal from inside my shirt, wearing it openly and spreading the contents of the first can around the outside of the house.

The complete lack of anything serious happening was more frightening, I think, than if it had appeared gibbering and screaming around the corner of the house. I took a note from Ghostbusters, of all things, and tried my damndest not to think about what the hell it could do. When my foot got caught on a root, I let out a scream, thinking that it was coming out of the ground for me. My heart was beating as loudly in my chest as the first time I jumped out of a plane, and I was glad when the first can was completely empty.

The second can and third can were meant for the inside of the house, and while it was high noon, the light inside seemed less substantial, and the door yawned like a mouth, inviting me inside. Calling the dog to my heels, I marched in, and immediately spread the gas as fast as I could. With my first step a hard stiff wind blew from the direction of the storm front, and the entire house groaned in protest. The hand I had seen the first time had not moved at all, from where I remembered it, but all the same I avoided it. As I went into the kitchen, I took a moment to look around, and noticed on the counter there were fresh footprints on the dust, about infant sized. They dissapeared thanfully under the onslaught of gas, and I had used up over half of the first can when I saw the entryway into the parlor.

Draped over the windows were large white sheets, each painted with a single pentacle. A hex mark, in other words, designed to keep something in. The darkness was more complete in there, and my bravado failed me when I tried to take the first step in, pouring the gas from the safety of the threshold and letting it leak into the room. Something thumped upstairs, and I felt I didn't have much more time before events went quickly out of hand again. I went back to the center of the kitchen, grabbed the last can, and started spreading that on the hallway walls that led to the upstairs. I was not going up there, I decided, but I didn't count on the small trapdoor in the pantry, leading to what might have been a root cellar.

Flicking my lighter, I could see that it was covered with steel banded wood, holding down the rusting door. There was no need for a lock, as the boards over the door were bolted into cement around the trapdoor. Nothing was getting out of that. All the same, when I flicked my lighter shut and continued on my crusade something wailed in the dark place under this house, that made my dog howl in response and me drop the gas, spilling it over my boots and jeans. Something down there made the house shake, sending loose chunks of ceiling down on me. It was time to leave.

I drove my knife though the jug, and tossed it down the hallway, ignoring the persistant thump thump upstairs, like a heart, and ran until I was clear of the pooling gas. Running my lighter along the wall, the gas began to spread, running in blue flames both directions. I was careful to keep the flame away from me, and ran for the door.

The inside of the house had shielded us from the wind that waited for us outside. The storm had snuck up on us and I was almost thrown back by the wind. Reaching down I picked up the dog, threw him over my shoulder, and walked towards the car, taking shelter behind what trees I could. I turned back towards the house, and the fire was starting to take, licking against the dried and rotted wood. I stood there in the wind that bent the trees almost sideways, and watched as one tongue of flame sent a blue ring around the house.

Then the smell, the rot and the decay of last time, with something slamming around in the doorway, highlighted by the flames. I felt my fear drain away at that moment, all the anxiety that had been building was gone replaced by a sudden anger. At what, I don't know. Maybe at whatever had caused this to happen, but regardless, Baxter was put on the ground and I drew my knife and took a step forward. I was literally seeing red, going into the berzerker drive that had won me so many fights before.

"I'm right here motherfucker! I'm not going anywhere!" I screamed over the wind, as if this was just another shit talking dude. The ridiculousness of it all still strikes me today, a guy yelling at the air, brandishing a knife like a retard at something only he can see. Baxter came up next to me, growling low in his throat, eyes deep set in his massive head.

I wonder why it didn't charge me. Was I just taking out my rage and frustration on the unknown that surrounded this place on a figment of my own mind? Or was it there, and it was just unused to simple human courage, drawing a line in the dirt and saying "Here, and no further". Whatever the reason, it stopped thrashing, and the outline of flames surrounding it dissapeared.

The red faded from my vision shortly after the first story ceiling caved in, and I walked backwards the entire time, never taking my eyes from the house. I went to the jeep, got in the with the dog, and we had dinner at subway.

Roast beef with bacon, for both of us, on that cheese bread. It started to rain when we arrived at the Subway, and kept on after we had returned to the smoking embers of the house. I had made a stop on the way back to pick up a flashlight and a crow bar, and with that and the shovel, I shifted the ashes, not finding anything of interest until I got near the trapdoor. Baxter dug it out, a caved in skull that was partially destroyed by the fire, but huge and mishapen. The skull was too large, the eye sockets uneven. I ran a finger around the nose hole and wondered again what had happened here?. After several minutes of work with the pick and crowbar, I had a sort of answer. The faintest smell of corpses rose up to meet me, like a soda can in winter that a mouse died in during the spring.

There was a skeleton down there, and from the wider set of the hips I assumed it was a woman, with both of her femurs smashed. Several skeletons surrounded her, small infant skeletons. Making several knots in the rope, I tied off the rope to a sturdy looking tree nearby. If worst came to worst I could always chimney my way up, as it was only a ten foot drop. Either way, I had made sure that someone knew where I was if the shit met the fan.

I crawled down, looking at the skeleton surrounded by three infants with odd skulls and other deformities. I was surrounded by great despair, and shook my head at the waste of it all before carefully shouldering the skeleton and making the climb up with it. My internal revulsion was offset by a need to do the right thing here. So it took me several trips to collect all the bones, longer than it took me to dig the actual graves in the rain soft dirt. I piled stones over each, five graves. One for the mother and her four children, I think, and pulled out my sheet of prayers. I prayed to God, to Saint Michael, and I folded it up and offered my own blessings. Baxter sat quietly and watched throughout it all, and when I was done, he howled low and long.

I walked from that place filthy and covered in soot and dirt, and my nose was filled with the smell of fire. There was no scent of roses, no smell of gunpowder freshly burnt, but there was a smell of things growing underneath it all that hadn't been present before. That, I think, was all the sign I needed to know we had done the right thing.

I got in the jeep, and we drove away. I have never taken the supernatural for granted since.

Last night, I was derailed from seeing a movie by a pal of mine 'J,' who needed a ride to a barbeque, with an invite as barter. Damn right I could see the movie another time!

We arrive at Lindsey's house, where her roommates were all running about, organizing the contents of 11 empty grocery bags; meat here, condiments there, booze here, etc...

I'd noted to Lindsey that I liked her new home, it's much bigger, roomier, and safer than her previous one, to which she looked a little puzzled.

"You... you must be referring to the house on 'Nashville St,' because you never saw..."
"...the other one," Lindsey's roommate Emily finished.
"So... you don't know the story of the place in between the place you knew us to live in and this one, right?" Lindsey asked.

I just stood there, curious of all of the wide-eyed, uneasy looks, making myself wordlessly obvious that I'd not a clue. They called in the third roommate, Brianne, followed by J.

They took turns adding in their 'two-cents,' confirming little details, adding others, to which they all agreed upon as the story progressed. Rather than make this a back-and-forth story of four people interjecting, I'll tell it to you third-person.

On Carrollton Avenue in New Orleans, Lindsey had parted with her previous roommate, and got together with two girls from school she didn't know so well, Brianne and Emily, and got a decent place. The place in question was rather roomy, in a good location, and, above all, a hell of a bargain. This house, like most in the neighborhood, is nearly one hundred years old.

When Emily and Lindsey arrived to move their belongings in, they saw a note on the door of the furthest room from the front door, there was a note by Brianne, saying that she'd already claimed it, which annoyed the other two girls.

A blessing in disguise.

Brianne's Mad Dash

Within the first week or two, Brianne and the girls were all in the house together, Lindsey and Emily supposedly asleep, and Brianne up all night, determined to finish the book she was reading. At somewhere between 2-4am, she reached the last page of her text, closing the book, and settling into bed to see if she was tired enough to sleep, just yet. Note that the book was NOT a mystery/horror book, and that she had an elated feeling about what she'd just read.

She was replacing the book back on the shelf, and general before-bed tidying up, when the light above her started flickering, then went out. Brianne then turned off all of the lamps around the room, leaving the one near her desk on.

She soon found out she couldn’t sleep, so she sat up again, and turned on the television, putting in a cartoon DVD, in the hope it'd tire her out before the sun came up.

She heard a rapping on the wall, and stood, not knowing if it came from her door or her wall. Brianne lowered the volume on the TV, fearing it woke up a roommate, and approached the corner of the room where the noise was coming from. It wasn't the door, it wasn't the wall, it was coming from the closet.

What Brianne didn't know at the time was that her deep closet shared a wall with Emily's equally deep closet, not Emily's wall.

Brianne assumed it was Emily who was knocking, and crept back to bed, in silence. Again, the rapping coursed through the room, so Brianne got up, exited the room, only to find Emily fast asleep in her own room, her body splayed nowhere near the wall in question. She checked on Lindsey, who was also fully asunder, her room too far for her to have knocked on the wall, to do so loud enough to gain Brianne's attention would have woken up the whole house!

Confused, and a little weirded-out, Brianne returned to her room, closed the door, and turned off the TV and remaining lamps, and reached for the desk lamp, which turned off before she could hit the switch. She retreated her hand in surprise, and the light flickered on; she then reached forward again, and she successfully managed to turn it off, the desk lamp having given up on a life of its own.

Suddenly, light flooded the room, the overhead light blasted into life; perhaps it wasn't the bulb that broke, but simply a loose socket?

Brianne, in the few seconds it took for her to turn around, and head towards the light switch, became uneasy. Sure, it was scary, and the visual impact of the overhead light flickering like crazy was intimidating enough, but it wasn't without the realm of reason that this old house had loose bulbs, sockets, even wiring, to which she'd have a chat with the landlord about investigating before a inner-wall fire could occur.

Brianne consoled herself with such thoughts, as she approached the light switch in the strobed room, to finally turn it off, and put an end to this ordeal for the night. However, she began to believe the strobing effect of the light flickering on and off maniacally was making her see things... or not, for once she got to the light switch...

The light switch was been frantically flipping up and down on its own.

She jumped back in panic, as the strobing continued for a full few seconds, then suddenly stopped. Following a few moments later, in the darkness, was the knocking making a re-appearance, but much, much louder than before.

Brianne grabbed what she could, and got the fuck out of there around 5am, not only not looking back, but too scared to even inform the other girls of what went on.

The Wireman

It took a long time for Brianne to be coaxed back into the house, since no strange events had occurred since, yet Brianne wasn't going anywhere NEAR that room, so, she slept elsewhere in the house. It was suggested that Brianne sleep on the second floor, since the weather was good, and the only reason it wasn't used was that the landlord had yet to repair the AC/Heating units up there. Brianne refused. As tall-tale hauntings go, Brianne reasoned, she was going to stay away from an attic as far as possible, despite the fact that all of the happenings occurred in the back bedroom that she once claimed.

Weeks passed, and Emily had some visitors come over on one occasion, and Lindsey had some of her own on another; neither group of visitors slept more than one night in that house, citing that they had 'strange dreams' that they refused to discuss, and they had an unnatural apprehension from going down the hall past Emily's room.

Lindsey decided to investigate a bit, and entered Brianne's room during the day, finding nothing out of order. However, upon inspecting the closet where Brianne heard pounding noises, she discovered that not only did the back of the closet share a wall with the back of Emily's closet, there was a sizable hole cut out of it, enough for a child to pass back and forth. Upon even closer inspection, the wall was shared, yes, but was hollowed, there was three feet or more difference between the two panels in the back of the two closets. Lindsey shined a light on the little space, and found a large spool of 'industrial' wire. She turned the light upward, toward the ceiling, and discovered this little 'hollow' went straight through the second floor, and into the attic, she could see a large beam stretching across, far above.

Lindsey kept this discovery to herself for a few days.

A night or two later, Emily was looking rather haggard, and explained that it was due to lack of sleep, since recurring nightmares kept jolting her out of slumber. The other two girls pressed on the contents of the dreams, the reslut of which much to their shock.

All three girls (and one overnight guest) had the same dream, as did the two previous guests, when contacted and insisted upon the details:

A very old, bald man was suspended above them, from wires somehow attached to his back, reaching up into the blackness; his arms were slung down, locked at the elbow, as to reach as far down as he possibly could; his arms began as skin, muscle, and sinew, but gradually terminated into a cluster of wires. The Wireman dangled above the dreamer, waving/scissoring his arms back and forth at locked length, as if trying to wipe past the faces of the startled dreamer. Finally, the man would buckle, as if a few inches of slack was granted from above, and the Wireman would immediately and eagerly grasp the sleeper’s throats with its wire-hands, and choke them vigrously. They could hear him smiling. The dreamer would suffer and die in the dreams, before awaking.

The vast majority of these factors were shared with the dreamers, without deviance.

Call in The Calvary

The profusely apologetic Landlord didn't question the girls' fright (obviously there's something he knew they didn't,) and offered to send in an exorcist. Apparently, Exorcists are few and far between, so the girls popped down to some of the (very few) reputable psychics that were marvelously expensive; she got three to come on half-pay, half-favor. Remember, this is New Orleans, even I know of 1000 'Psychics,' but I only believe 3 or 4 of them.

It should be noted that Lindsey was smart about this, she didn't mention anything about the room, dreams, or actual location of the house, and should the psychics wish to investigate before they come to the site. Lindsey convinced them to accept the job with as very little info as possible, and all of the girls were there when the Psychics showed up, offering them nothing, but listening to everything.

The Psychics entered the house and all of its rooms, feeling nothing, until they got to the last room of the hall, where all three of them looked at each other in discomfort. One began crying. They backed out of the room. Lindsey took them into Emily's room, and showed them the 'little room' between the closets (obviously from the 'safe' side,) and directed their attention upward. Soon after, the band of explorers would find themselves in the dreaded attic, and had found the crossbeam in question.

It had a deeply-etched groove of wear from a once-taut wire, and was indeed centered directly above that little hole.

The Psychics soon joined the girls in the living room, and discussed what they felt.

Apparently, a long time ago, a woman had run off from her husband, and little boy. The husband refused to let the child go outside, thinking that he'd run off, and the only way the mother would return was if the child was there, she'd surely not come back if it were just the father.

One day, tired of the wait, the father locked his son in his bedroom, and hung himself (with wire, we're not 100% certain, in the little room? Not 100% certain) until, of course, he died, assuming that the mother would soon come for the son. She didn't. The little boy died of dehydration in his room.

While this didn't explain a good half of what went on, the Psychic went on to say...

"Well, there was some sort of torture... perhaps self-torture, but I don't know if the preceded the man and his boy, or if it involved the man and his boy... we threw down many tarot cards, and, despite the meaning of 'The Hanged Man' that we all accept, it came up every damn hand... we use 108 cards, it came up EVERY three cards after a thorough re-shuffle. I think it's demanding a new meaning, perhaps an obvious one? We don't know, we don't normally do this, but certain impressions are undeniable."


The Landlord offered a second property, bigger, better, and cheaper, to which the girls took, and presently live.

The girls, when they think of it, did a little investigating, and here's what they came up with:

(1) Neighbors had seen six sets of tennants come and go in the last two years alone.

(2) Their pal, Brian, who had several nervous breakdowns (including crying in class, and walking around bug-eyed,) in the year previous turned out having lived in that very house, in that very room for six months. Brian was mortified when the girls admitted they stayed there. He even recalled the 'Wireman' dream with eerie clarity and description. Apparently his state has improved in the time he's been out of that house.

(3) The house is currently unoccupied.

It was our senior prom Friday, and afterwards we hung out at Denny's, because my friends are dorks. During a lull in our conversation, we started talking about ghosts, and I told them about the Wireman They got freaked, and 2 days later we went to Gettysburg (45 minutes away) for some ghost hunting.

We go to Gettysburg a lot and look for ghosts, but this was the one night we found anything. The party consisted of me with a flashlight, Barb the chauffeur, and Shannon with a digital camcorder. When we got there it was still light, but after it turned dark we left the battlefield for Sachs Bridge, where there were some other people. I had read earlier that the first path connected to the parking spaces was the most haunted, so we went down there first. We walked down a good distance, and stopped next to a puddle. I was just shining my light around and someone, either Shannon or Barb, said, "Hey, look at your breath!" So I shined my flashlight on them.

The temperature hadn't changed, it was probably around 65 degrees, but our breath was completely fluid white. We stood still for a few seconds, letting out a deliberate long breath, then they ran the fuck back to the bridge, and I followed. We checked out the rest of the area, including going back down there, but nothing else happened.

Then we went to the Gettysburg college and checked out the Stevens Dorm, where the Blue Boy is. Apparently, some girls were taking care of an orphan boy, but had to have him stand outside in a snowstorm while an RA checked their room, and he vanished. Shannon recorded and took more pics there, and on the front left side of the building she and I both felt unsual. Then we all headed back to Denny's for a bit.

Later we spent the night at Shannon's house so we could watch the video, and we all huddled around the small screen a few hours later. Nothing new was in it, and it was jumpy during the breath scare. But, right around there, Shannon had taken a picture, and there was a weird noise right after it. It sounded like a Polaroid picture or a power window, her camcorder can't make that noise, and there was no one else around. None of us heard it while it was recording.

So then she uploaded it all to her computer, and slowed down the noise. At half speed, it was a soldiers marching/horse noise. Barb brought a video over, one that she had shown me before, and during the Sachs Bridge part, it mentioned that soldiers had marched over the bridge to battle. Also, rather recently, a woman had gone down the path and was standing very close to where we had been standing, and her husband recorded a horse and soldiers moving deeper in the woods.

Then we looked at the dorm pictures.... In almost every one, there was a weird blue light, and in 2 of them the light was next to second story windows. After a while I got bored and did something else, until Shannon screamed, and pointed out that one of the blue blobs looked like a little boy. We looked, and it seemed like a little boy standing on the windowsill, his arms folded (like he was trying to get warm?).

We went back Monday even though it was crowded because of Memorial Day, but nothing else happened. Shannon still has to send me the pictures and video, otherwise I'd post them now. We might go back tonight, there's nothing else to do around here...
TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture -- a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously -- oh, so cautiously -- cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back -- but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, "Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or, "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little -- a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness -- all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me -- the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once -- once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye -- not even his -- could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock -- still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
I used to like the elementary school book fair book: "Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark"[img][/QUOTE]
I posted here about those stories a month or so ago - definitely a childhood gem :cool:
How come scary stories aren't ever scary? Write me something about being a wage slave for the rest of my adult, conscious life.
Blood Mirror

The sealed, séance room at the old farm house.

My grandmothers house is a restored and remodeled farmhouse. The foundation,
and most of the downstairs, is unchanged from when the original house was built
around 150 years ago. All of the materials, the lumber, iron nails, thick door frames,
are all the same. For a better mental picture of the house, the downstairs is very
similar to the house in the 1990 return of the living dead. The difference is the
hidden basement, and the previously sealed room.

Without going into boring detail, a hidden basement was discovered at my
grandparents house about 40 years ago, and there was a strangely shaped room
down there. No one knew what the room was for, until a local psychic looked at the
room and immediately told my grandparents to stay away from it, and to move the
antique furniture out of the room.

The psychic, or as the town called her "witch," left the house in a panic repeatedly
mumbling "bad people," and "cursed." My grandparents didn't do as she said, and
only moved out the furniture when my father and mother bought a house.

Family and friends always thought the old witch was just a crazy woman, until the
problems started. Now, no relative on either side of the family will accept the
furniture, and some can't even bring themselves to look at it when they're at my
parents house.

No one goes in the basement. No one can figure out why the basement has smelled
like rotting meat ever since the furniture was moved. There has never been an
explanation why the door to the basement will unlock itself, and open. The fresh
flowers grandma used to arrange downstairs will always wilt in a day, and everyone
who has stayed and been in the bathroom has heard at least once someone knock on
the basement door and quietly ask "hello?"

Like my parents house. . .except not as worse.

This is the background story before the serious stuff.
The death bed/ The silent mirror.

The worst part of the furniture that was moved was an old wooden bed that was
painted in a faded, pea soup green, and the matching mirror cabinet. Everyone
hated these pieces of furniture after the move.

The bed frame had a huge, plain headboard, and there were pillars in the four
corners of the bed that ended in a dull, arrowhead shape. Because of the design of
the bed, the mattress would rest just below a thick frame that connected all the
pillars. When you laid down in the sunken bed surrounded by its high, wooden
walls, you always felt like the bed was swallowing you. About 150 years ago, an
unknown relative of the family built this bed, and no parts had been changed since.
Every time you rolled on the bed it would creak loudly, moaning under the stress it
has had to endure over the decades.

The matching mirror was a huge and flawless despite its age, and the ornate frame
for the piece showed no signs of wear. The mirror was attached above cabinets, so
an average size man could only see his reflection above his waist. In the room that
had both pieces, the mirror faced the bed. The headboard of the bed faced the door,
and the mirror was on the same side as the door. If you wanted to see your reflection
in the mirror, you had to walk into the room and stand in front of the bed.

The reason the bed is called the death bed is because family members would always
sleep on the bed when they were extremely sick, or going to die. Almost all of my
dads family had died on that bed, and by coincidence, a few of my mothers family
passed always as well there. My first experience with the death bed was when I was
a child, and I had a bad case of strep throat. I had to sleep on the bed.

I had fallen asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, but my fever was too
strong, and I woke up in pain around midnight. As I lay in the bed, struggling
against the pain and facing the wall on the left side of the bed, I heard the bed creak.
Not only did I hear the bed creak, but I could feel it move.

I lay motionless until the creak happened again, and I felt someone roll over closer
to me. Thinking it may be my mother who might have come in to keep an eye on me
since I was sick, I rolled over to see if she was asleep. Someone else was there.

A woman, probably in her thirties, was facing me. She was staring right at me with
her eyes and mouth wide open. She looked like she was going to start crying and
wail out in pain, but she just stared. Surrounding her eyes and mouth were dark
blue circles, and her straight black hair was thrown covered part of her face. Her
cheeks were sunk in, and her mouth kept dropping more and more open like the
sorrow was becoming too much. I turned away to try and grab a hold of the side bed
and pull myself out, and when I looked back she was no longer there. I crawled back
into the bed, put the sheets over my head, and didn't move for the rest of the night.

I told my mother what I saw in the morning, and she didn't seem too concerned
until I mentioned how sad and hurt the woman looked. My mother, who was sitting
at the kitchen table with me, stood up, went to the bedroom where my father was
getting ready for work, and starting talking to him. I couldn't make out what she
was saying, but he came out soon after and said "don't go in that room again, and
you're not to sleep in there again, I don't care how sick you are." I asked if it was
because of the woman and he said yes, and then I asked if I'm going to be in trouble
and he said "your great aunt is dead, she won't bother you and she was nice

She is the only young woman to die on the bed. She died of some type of
asphyxiation that the farmland doctors couldn't figure out. Apparently she stopped
getting enough oxygen being pumped in her blood, and she died being virtually
paralyzed and unable to call out for hours.

The good poltergeist stuff is coming up; this is the calm stuff.
More death bed/mirror

Although this particular mirror (there are three total) never conjured the big
problems like the other mirrors, it did something strange always. The room with the
bed and mirror had blinds that keep all the light out of the room when closed, and
at night, there was no light at all. The room was always pitch black except the
mirror, which would glow. It wouldn't project light or illuminate anything, but it
would glow brightly despite no light being directed to it at all. If you went to look in
the mirror, you could see a clear reflection of yourself, but NOTHING else in the
room. It was like you existed in a void.

Death bed silent man

My first encounter with the silent man was about two years after the dead woman
on the bed. It was during the day, and I was looking through the mirror cabinet
draws for an old stapler. I found the stapler, and I as I was looking at it to see if it
needed staples (or if it would work), I heard a man clearly say:


He didn't say it in a friendly tone, but more of "I see you" sort of tone. What's
worse is I looked up into the mirror and I was alone in the room. I moved as quickly
out of the room as I could, and as I did I heard the same voice, but in a growling,
angry voice say:

"Get back here"

I didn't, but whatever it was now angry, and people started to take notice.

Since the room with the bed was at the end of the end of the hall, you could look
right in to the living room from the doorway. Also, you could always see me leave
my room since. I remember the first time I left my room and froze in fear as I
looked into the doorway of the death bed room. There was something like a man,
translucent, crouched down like a panther ready to pounce. I stared into the top of
the head of the "man" (because the figure was looking down), until I gathered
enough courage to run for the living room where my parents were. As I took off, so
did it, and it jabbed me in the small of my back, knocking me down. Over the period
of a year, this happened a few more times, and I have scars on my lower back the
size of fingertips. There are no fingerprints, but there are unusual and consistent
oval scars.

Also, since my parents room were right next door to the death bed room, the door to
my parents room would slam shut. It would only slam shut when someone was
trying to enter or leave the room, sometimes hitting one of my parents in the face
with the door. My mother was pissed one day that the doors would do that and I
said it was the ghost in the death bed room. She said she knew, and her and my
father could hear something laughing through the walls sometimes.

She closed and bolted the door shut until we moved. Occasionally you would hear
something knock lightly on the door and ask "hello" very quietly. When we moved,
my parents had the bed and mirror destroyed to take care of the problem.
Unfortunately we then decided to keep the old music boxes and the buried mirrors.

On a kinda side note: No one had ever experienced anything bad with the bed, or
anything with the angry male ghost until it was moved into the séance room in the
farm house basement. People don't go down there anymore because something else
also knocks lightly on the closed basement door and asks "hello."

The big stories about the old music boxes and the two mirrors are next.

First the old music boxes.

I hated this fuckin' things since the first time I saw them. They were about 100 years
old, ceramic (mostly), highly decorated with sky and clouds type themes, and the
music that came out of them were perfect. All three of them, the two clouds and
soaring ballerina (the top had a ballerina that would twirl when the box was
wound), were in perfect condition. They just didn't seem right. The people had left
these boxes and everything else their daughter had behind. They were angry with
her because she committed suicide, and didn't want a reminder of such a bad child.
Wow, what a happy family.

We stored everything she used to have in the attic except the boxes (my mom loved
them), and we didn't take down this mirror thing she had in her room. Instead of a
full-length mirror, she took mirror squares and glued them almost next to each
other on a part of the wall. It was like a broken, full-length mirror that faced the
bed. Luckily, I got the room with the horrible mirror.

One day, the dog was chasing one of our cats around, bumps into the dresser that
had the music boxes on them, and all the boxes fall to the floor and break. There
were only two people that were upset that happened: my mother and the daughter.

We were there only one month after that, and it was a nightmare. Our dog suddenly
developed over 50 ulcers in her stomach and died. . .in three days. Even though
there was no smoke, you and everyone around you would start choking and
coughing. Air would rush so strongly by your ears sometimes that you couldn't hear
the world around you. People would start sleep walking (the only time ever in this
house during this period) and leave the house. You would always wake up outside
like it was an eviction of a supernatural kind. Then there was her mirror.

She looked very similar to the girl in the ring (no drowning symptoms, evil whitish
eyes, or any of that stuff, but she wore a white night dress and has long, dark hair). I
remember being in bed and looking at the mirrors, when I saw her for the first time.
It was like the mirrors were really one big, broken window, and she was looking
through. Just her upper body because she was like peering around through the
mirrors at me, and she was angry. Sometimes she would look scared or worried, but
most of the time is was pure anger. I hid every time I saw something like that, except
when I was leaving the room. Sometimes I would be walking out and I would look at
the mirror at an angle, and I could see her kinda like hiding behind the wall so you
couldn't see her if you looked directly at the mirror.

She apparently appeared in some other mirrors in the house, but I didn't see them.
New tenets moved in after us, and then quickly moved away. The house had been
abandoned for a few years and was recently torn down.

Next are the antique mirrors that used to be buried. (Why my mother and father
wanted them, I have no idea.)

More about the death bed I forgot

Just about everyone that knows the death bed room remembers the mumbling
voices. If you left my room at about 1 a.m., or at noon, you could hear about 10
people "talking," but it was more like a whole bunch of mumbling voices. If you got
to about two steps from the doorway to the room, they would stop but not all at
once. It was like someone said "everybody quiet," and not everybody did right

I had a sleep over, and one of my friends got up to use the bathroom at night. He
said when he was coming back that he heard the mumbling in the room that I told
him about a while ago. However, he didn't go up to the door, but stood there and
tried to listen to what's going on (the angry male ghost hadn't appeared yet, so there
was no reason to be scared). Eventually, the voices quickly died down and he left
about 5 seconds after it was quiet. As he started to walk to my room, the door to the
death bed room closed very slowly, and he says he heard something like a giggle.

When he made it to my room he was so scared he was crying.

would rather have the death bed than this mirror. Sure, I don't live at home
anymore, but the fact that it exists bothers me. It's called the blood mirror because
the seal used to keep the back of the mirror to the frame is blood. Blood isn't like
glue so we were able to crack the frame off easily (we were going to save the frame
and replace the mirror around the first week we had it, but we put everything back
together). One of my mothers relatives (the first woman to kill herself) used to do
this with cabinet seals and stuff, so we weren't shocked when it happened, but we
were spooked.

She tried to put her blood in everything because she was some type of witch, and she
was trying to live forever or something. I know that's going to raise questions but we
don't really know because there aren't any records of her anymore or any solid
information or basis really in witchcraft. She was probably just plain nuts.

Here's a diagram of the upstairs where the mirror is. It will be important later.

Brothers Room | Bathroom | Parents Room
| |
| |
-----------------| Hallway |
Blood Mirror D |
Room |--------------------------------D------| |
| Metal frame mirror room | Stairs |
| | |
| | |

It's crude, but there you go. It's all upstairs.

Ghost stairs

There are three types of ghosts on the stairs. The first is the casual walker, who will
walk at a calm pace. Even if you stare at the stairs, whatever it is will keep walking.
This doesn't happen to often anymore, but it was really cool when it did.

The second is the clumsy runner. Someone just takes off and kinda trips and
stumbles on the stairs on the way up. It's like a kid running. Very rare to happen.

Both all reach the landing on the second floor and walk towards the blood mirror
room, past the metal mirror room. That's how I connect the stairs walkers, but I
could be wrong.

The third is horrible.

I was asleep one night and I woke up to a loud thud downstairs. I listened as
whatever it was ran full speed to the stairs, up the stairs, down the hall, and
slammed into the door with the blood mirror in it and kept slamming. . .where I was
sleeping. I started shaking because I just woke up and it sounded like some madman
was in the house coming for me and I wasn't ready. My dad comes out of his room
and yells "what the fuck are you doing at. . " and trails off. No one was there in the

The knocker

The knocker comes in two varieties. The knocking with the death bed room is more
of someone making a fist, sticking out his or her index finger, and gently rapping on
the door. The first knocker with the mirror is nothing like that. It's more of a full
fist, all four knuckles rapping on the door. This one comes once in a while and just
knocks on the blood mirror door for about two minutes, sometimes during the day.

"knock knock knock" (quickly but gently)
Me: "yeah, what?"
"knock knock knock"
Me: "yeah?"
"Knock knock knock"
Me: "what?!" (I go to answer the door)
I open the door and there's only dead silence.

The second knocker is a full-fist pounding that shakes the door. This has happened

The first time was 10 seconds of beating on the door at 2 in the morning. I go to the
door because I think it's an emergency, and no one is there.

The second time I heard the pounding and didn't get up (this was about six months
later). Every ten seconds something would pound on the door and pause for about
one minute. Then I heard the doorknob wiggle. Scratching on the door. The
doorknob shaking slightly.

Then BAM!! One big hit smacks the door and I hear something run downstairs and
into the kitchen, where there is no more noise.


Scratching has been heard on many separate occasions, from either inside the closet
or from behind the mirror. I would have to say from behind the closet is scarier to
me because I saw the movie House when I was young, and if you've seen that movie
you know that a certain part can leave an impression on a kid.

The scratching is very light, and not in one spot. The scratching will go from low in
the closet to high like something trying to figure a way out. If you see the original
haunting, there is a scene when something is trying to get into a door and it sounds
just like this. The pounding on the door wasn't similar, but the scratching is dead

Behind the mirror you hear scratching sometimes, only around 1 or five in the
morning. Sometimes there is a tapping sound, but mostly scratching.

I got more, but I got to take a break for a sec if that's ok.

Why I hate the blood mirror.

Sure it attracts things that knock on the door and run up the stairs. Yeah there's
scratching and tapping from the closet and mirror. When you look at it though, it's
just noise. The blood mirror, however, is more than just noise.

It could be any day, at any time, with any one in the room, and then it attacks. Since
the mirror has no way to directly hurt you, it makes you hurt yourself. I have been
quietly watching TV or talking to friends that are in the same room with me and the
blood mirror, and you can feel it come alive.

The room temperature will drop 40, 50, 60 degrees within minutes so you can see
your breath. You can't concentrate or focus on what you were doing. Your eyes
can't focus on one point, and you're unaware of what you're body is doing. All you
can really hear is your heart pounding at a rhythmic pace. Suddenly you, and
anyone else around, is in a haze. . .a trance.

When you regain focus, you realize you're bleeding.

The most common thing people will do is scratch themselves with their fingers on
their left hand on their right arm or upper chest. Without thinking, people will dig
huge gashes into their bodies with just their fingers and not know it. Every time
they will look at the mirror when they realize what they just did.

It doesn't happen often, but when it does it's truly frightening. The best example I
have is when I brought my now ex-girlfriend to show her the room because I had
told her about all the ghosts in my house. When we walked in I said:

"Here's my old room, and there's the mirror."

And as soon as I said that and pointed to the mirror, the temperate began to drop
drastically. I went over to some shelves to see how much of my stuff my little
brother had taken since I had left, and I took my eyes off her. When I looked back
at her she was staring at a wall, with a desperately sorrowful face, and digging into
her right arm. I grabbed her, and as I did I must have woke her up out of her
trance. She looked scared until she saw the cuts in her arm and screamed. She was
out of the house before I could leave the room. As soon as she left, the room
instantly got warmer. It wanted her. . .something about her she liked.

The blood mirror still stands today behind an old dresser. My mother always gets
crippling arthritic pain whenever she goes to take down the mirror and get rid of it.
The pain is so bad she can't even grip silverware. . .until she decides to do something
else. I moved the dresser drawer to hide the mirror, to bury it, so it won't bother
anyone else. Some day the dresser drawer will be moved and the mirror will reflect
the light of day again, and I know it will be even angrier than it was before I hid it. I
pity the person that inherits it then.

Thank God for eBay.

Sorry for the crappy joke. Anyways, I need to clarify some earlier stuff I wrote
about so I'll do that in another post if you want me too. Also, I've got some other
stories, some of which are my friends if you want them. Thanks for all the support
so far.

In regards to the séance room in the basement:

Furniture from upstairs was moved downstairs, and into the séance room
accidentally. The furniture was later moved out when my parents bought a house,
and put the death bed and mirror into the third bedroom for guests. I have no idea
why they would want to use the family death bed for a guest bed, but I guess it was

If you want a mental picture of the basement, here it is. The basement is a simple
rectangle, maybe 20 feet long, and 15 feet wide. Then there is a séance room, I forget
the specs but it's built for "satanic" type rituals, attached to the basement walls. The
séance room is right by the steps up to the basement door.

The basement door was hidden on a wall in the huge downstairs bathroom. The
mirror faces the basement door, so you could be looking in the mirror and hear the
knocking behind you.

Whatever it is in the basement "talked" to me three times in one day. The first time
it knocked and asked hello, the second time it knocked and asked hello but a bit
more worried than before, the third time it just angrily "breathed" out at me. If you
exhale lightly at first and then exhale strongly and quickly at the end, you can kinda
get the idea of what I heard.

As for why my parents keep these things, I have no idea. My parents are addicted to
anything that has been passed down through the family, and their house is now
loaded with stuff from both sides. My mother hates the mirrors, but she only wants
to take them down and not throw them away because they've been in the family. It's
a weird mix of stuff from both sides of my parents families. My father has old, ratty
stuff like the old death bed, and my mother has expensive stuff from when her
family was rich and lived in a mansion. It's like we have stuff from Night of the
Living Dead, and The Haunting all in one place.
My mother has the family opals, which are exquisite pieces of jewelry that only
women in the family can wear, not because of tradition, but of some type of super
bad luck. She also has these 80+ year old ruby glasses. The glasses aren't made of
rubies, but they are a beautiful blood red and flawless. When she inherited them
about 10 years ago, she said she had to put them in a sturdy china cabinet or they'll
fall and break. That's because every other day you can hear someone run through
the dinning room and to the china hutch, where the glasses are.

My dad has this old trunk from Ireland that has the creepiest lamp (that used to be
kept in the séance room too) in it, pictures of my Indian (native American) relatives
that we no longer know who they are, and some sentimental news clippings from a
cousin of ours in Ireland who was with the IRA, but was really a child killer. No one
wants this stuff, the trunk used to be in the basement next to the séance room, and
it's ugly to boot, but it's old and has stuff from the family.

They just won't get rid of stuff that's old and has been in the family. Destroying the
death bed was kinda hard for my dad to do, but WE STILL HAVE PARTS FROM
THE MIRROR. All of it is ugly, everyone knows the pieces are cursed or at least
haunted, and we don't need any of the pieces at all, but they still keep them. I mean
Christ, those opals, once put on, cannot be taken off until right before the coffin
closes, and you are to be buried in the ground. If you take them off the body earlier,
or accept them as a gift while the original wearer is still alive, you will go mad.
Apparently that's not enough to call the pieces cursed since it has only happened
TWICE in the past 40 years. It also happens 100% of the time too, but that doesn't

I'll take as many pictures as possible while I'm there. It's like sentimental pieces
from a haunted mansion all over the place.

About why there are things happening in the basement to our house, I don't know.
There are things everywhere in the house, and the basement is no exception. I'll do
an outline of the house, and when I get a Chicago ghost hunt going, we'll stop by my
house for a quick tour.


Only thing here is the shadow man and the swinging boxing bag. The shadow man
has only been seen twice, and has "charged" every time he knows you're looking. He
doesn't come straight at you, but follows the walls around.

The swinging punching bag was really fun. It happened about every other time
anyone was downstairs, and it was really cool. I had a 110 pound leather punching
bag attached to the ceiling of the basement. Really simple construction: just a swivel
hitch bolted into the ceiling, and a three chains attached to the hitch. You would be
sitting downstairs, watching TV or talking to friends, and the chain would start to
creak. For a while we thought vibrations somehow moved the bag, until two of us
saw how it started. The bag would be perfectly still, then it would move about a foot
in one direction, and then swing back. It was creepy because you knew something
was moving that bag.

Ground floor:

All you get are the occasional runner, the night light painting, and I guess orbs.
Once in a while you see a quick flash of light like a firefly, usually in the spring or


This is where the mirrors are and the knocking. Sometimes you hear mumbling,
something moving papers (and always fucking up the system you have), lots of
motion in the mirrors (bathroom and metal frame), and one of our dogs growling at
something in the hallway briefly. If you have cat in your room, the cat will wake up
sometimes and just stare at the door for a good five minutes, and then sometimes go
under the bed. The upstairs is where the fun is.

Oh, and I should mention that our new dog won't go into the dinning room where
most of our inherited stuff is. He'll whine and cry if he looks in there, won't come if
you're offering him tasty hamburger, and will fight you if you carry him in there.
He gets over it, and then one night you hear the china cabinet move in the dinning
room, and he freaks out.

Until this thread, I never really thought about all the fucked up stuff we have in our
house. I knew we had some bad things, but I just realized how much we have there.
How come scary stories aren't ever scary? Write me something about being a wage slave for the rest of my adult, conscious life.

Your wish, granted.

The Myth of Sysiphus
by Albert Camus
The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. Egina, the daughter of Esopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about it on condition that Esopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of her conqueror.

It is said that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife's love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching him from his joys, lead him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.

You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward tlower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.

It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.

If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.

If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Edipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.

One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. "What!---by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. Discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.

All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing. Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
I keep trying to post a reply but the forum keeps sending me to the "Page cannot be displayed" page. :(

Anyway, I read all of these stories and I honestly did get creeped out big time.

I've got that "someone's behind me" feeling now and I know I'm all alone. I HATE that sensation.


How come scary stories aren't ever scary? Write me something about being a wage slave for the rest of my adult, conscious life.

And I said, I don't care if they lay me off either, because I told, I told Bill that if they move my desk one more time, then, then I'm, I'm quitting, I'm going to quit. And, and I told Don too, because they've moved my desk four times already this year, and I used to be over by the window, and I could see the squirrels, and they were married, but then, they switched from the Swingline to the Boston stapler, but I kept my Swingline stapler because it didn't bind up as much, and I kept the staples for the Swingline stapler and it's not okay because if they take my stapler then I'll set the building on fire...
How come scary stories aren't ever scary? Write me something about being a wage slave for the rest of my adult, conscious life.

Well, there's scary stories, and then there's soul numbing reality. Most people use one to escape the other. Try to guess which is used for which. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.

And now, in keeping with the spirit of the thread, I present Herbert West: Reanimator by H.P Lovecraft- a story in six segments

Herbert West: Reanimator
I. From The Dark

Of Herbert West, who was my friend in college and in after life, I can speak only with extreme terror. This terror is not due altogether to the sinister manner of his recent disappearance, but was engendered by the whole nature of his life-work, and first gained its acute form more than seventeen years ago, when we were in the third year of our course at the Miskatonic University Medical School in Arkham. While he was with me, the wonder and diabolism of his experiments fascinated me utterly, and I was his closest companion. Now that he is gone and the spell is broken, the actual fear is greater. Memories and possibilities are ever more hideous than realities.

The first horrible incident of our acquaintance was the greatest shock I ever experienced, and it is only with reluctance that I repeat it. As I have said, it happened when we were in the medical school where West had already made himself notorious through his wild theories on the nature of death and the possibility of overcoming it artificially. His views, which were widely ridiculed by the faculty and by his fellow-students, hinged on the essentially mechanistic nature of life; and concerned means for operating the organic machinery of mankind by calculated chemical action after the failure of natural processes. In his experiments with various animating solutions, he had killed and treated immense numbers of rabbits, guinea-pigs, cats, dogs, and monkeys, till he had become the prime nuisance of the college. Several times he had actually obtained signs of life in animals supposedly dead; in many cases violent signs but he soon saw that the perfection of his process, if indeed possible, would necessarily involve a lifetime of research. It likewise became clear that, since the same solution never worked alike on different organic species, he would require human subjects for further and more specialised progress. It was here that he first came into conflict with the college authorities, and was debarred from future experiments by no less a dignitary than the dean of the medical school himself -- the learned and benevolent Dr. Allan Halsey, whose work in behalf of the stricken is recalled by every old resident of Arkham.

I had always been exceptionally tolerant of West’s pursuits, and we frequently discussed his theories, whose ramifications and corollaries were almost infinite. Holding with Haeckel that all life is a chemical and physical process, and that the so-called "soul" is a myth, my friend believed that artificial reanimation of the dead can depend only on the condition of the tissues; and that unless actual decomposition has set in, a corpse fully equipped with organs may with suitable measures be set going again in the peculiar fashion known as life. That the psychic or intellectual life might be impaired by the slight deterioration of sensitive brain-cells which even a short period of death would be apt to cause, West fully realised. It had at first been his hope to find a reagent which would restore vitality before the actual advent of death, and only repeated failures on animals had shewn him that the natural and artificial life-motions were incompatible. He then sought extreme freshness in his specimens, injecting his solutions into the blood immediately after the extinction of life. It was this circumstance which made the professors so carelessly sceptical, for they felt that true death had not occurred in any case. They did not stop to view the matter closely and reasoningly.

It was not long after the faculty had interdicted his work that West confided to me his resolution to get fresh human bodies in some manner, and continue in secret the experiments he could no longer perform openly. To hear him discussing ways and means was rather ghastly, for at the college we had never procured anatomical specimens ourselves. Whenever the morgue proved inadequate, two local negroes attended to this matter, and they were seldom questioned. West was then a small, slender, spectacled youth with delicate features, yellow hair, pale blue eyes, and a soft voice, and it was uncanny to hear him dwelling on the relative merits of Christchurch Cemetery and the potter’s field. We finally decided on the potter’s field, because practically every body in Christchurch was embalmed; a thing of course ruinous to West’s researches.

I was by this time his active and enthralled assistant, and helped him make all his decisions, not only concerning the source of bodies but concerning a suitable place for our loathsome work. It was I who thought of the deserted Chapman farmhouse beyond Meadow Hill, where we fitted up on the ground floor an operating room and a laboratory, each with dark curtains to conceal our midnight doings. The place was far from any road, and in sight of no other house, yet precautions were none the less necessary; since rumours of strange lights, started by chance nocturnal roamers, would soon bring disaster on our enterprise. It was agreed to call the whole thing a chemical laboratory if discovery should occur. Gradually we equipped our sinister haunt of science with materials either purchased in Boston or quietly borrowed from the college -- materials carefully made unrecognisable save to expert eyes -- and provided spades and picks for the many burials we should have to make in the cellar. At the college we used an incinerator, but the apparatus was too costly for our unauthorised laboratory. Bodies were always a nuisance -- even the small guinea-pig bodies from the slight clandestine experiments in West’s room at the boarding-house.

We followed the local death-notices like ghouls, for our specimens demanded particular qualities. What we wanted were corpses interred soon after death and without artificial preservation; preferably free from malforming disease, and certainly with all organs present. Accident victims were our best hope. Not for many weeks did we hear of anything suitable; though we talked with morgue and hospital authorities, ostensibly in the college’s interest, as often as we could without exciting suspicion. We found that the college had first choice in every case, so that it might be necessary to remain in Arkham during the summer, when only the limited summer-school classes were held. In the end, though, luck favoured us; for one day we heard of an almost ideal case in the potter’s field; a brawny young workman drowned only the morning before in Summer’s Pond, and buried at the town’s expense without delay or embalming. That afternoon we found the new grave, and determined to begin work soon after midnight.

It was a repulsive task that we undertook in the black small hours, even though we lacked at that time the special horror of graveyards which later experiences brought to us. We carried spades and oil dark lanterns, for although electric torches were then manufactured, they were not as satisfactory as the tungsten contrivances of today. The process of unearthing was slow and sordid -- it might have been gruesomely poetical if we had been artists instead of scientists -- and we were glad when our spades struck wood. When the pine box was fully uncovered, West scrambled down and removed the lid, dragging out and propping up the contents. I reached down and hauled the contents out of the grave, and then both toiled hard to restore the spot to its former appearance. The affair made us rather nervous, especially the stiff form and vacant face of our first trophy, but we managed to remove all traces of our visit. When we had patted down the last shovelful of earth, we put the specimen in a canvas sack and set out for the old Chapman place beyond Meadow Hill.

On an improvised dissecting-table in the old farmhouse, by the light of a powerful acetylene lamp, the specimen was not very spectral looking. It had been a sturdy and apparently unimaginative youth of wholesome plebeian type -- large-framed, grey-eyed, and brown-haired -- a sound animal without psychological subtleties, and probably having vital processes of the simplest and healthiest sort. Now, with the eyes closed, it looked more asleep than dead; though the expert test of my friend soon left no doubt on that score. We had at last what West had always longed for -- a real dead man of the ideal kind, ready for the solution as prepared according to the most careful calculations and theories for human use. The tension on our part became very great. We knew that there was scarcely a chance for anything like complete success, and could not avoid hideous fears at possible grotesque results of partial animation. Especially were we apprehensive concerning the mind and impulses of the creature, since in the space following death some of the more delicate cerebral cells might well have suffered deterioration. I, myself, still held some curious notions about the traditional "soul" of man, and felt an awe at the secrets that might be told by one returning from the dead. I wondered what sights this placid youth might have seen in inaccessible spheres, and what he could relate if fully restored to life. But my wonder was not overwhelming, since for the most part I shared the materialism of my friend. He was calmer than I as he forced a large quantity of his fluid into a vein of the body’s arm, immediately binding the incision securely.

The waiting was gruesome, but West never faltered. Every now and then he applied his stethoscope to the specimen, and bore the negative results philosophically. After about three-quarters of an hour without the least sign of life he disappointedly pronounced the solution inadequate, but determined to make the most of his opportunity and try one change in the formula before disposing of his ghastly prize. We had that afternoon dug a grave in the cellar, and would have to fill it by dawn -- for although we had fixed a lock on the house, we wished to shun even the remotest risk of a ghoulish discovery. Besides, the body would not be even approximately fresh the next night. So taking the solitary acetylene lamp into the adjacent laboratory, we left our silent guest on the slab in the dark, and bent every energy to the mixing of a new solution; the weighing and measuring supervised by West with an almost fanatical care.

The awful event was very sudden, and wholly unexpected. I was pouring something from one test-tube to another, and West was busy over the alcohol blast-lamp which had to answer for a Bunsen burner in this gasless edifice, when from the pitch-black room we had left there burst the most appalling and daemoniac succession of cries that either of us had ever heard. Not more unutterable could have been the chaos of hellish sound if the pit itself had opened to release the agony of the damned, for in one inconceivable cacophony was centered all the supernal terror and unnatural despair of animate nature. Human it could not have been -- it is not in man to make such sounds -- and without a thought of our late employment or its possible discovery, both West and I leaped to the nearest window like stricken animals; overturning tubes, lamp, and retorts, and vaulting madly into the starred abyss of the rural night. I think we screamed ourselves as we stumbled frantically toward the town, though as we reached the outskirts we put on a semblance of restraint -- just enough to seem like belated revellers staggering home from a debauch.

We did not separate, but managed to get to West’s room, where we whispered with the gas up until dawn. By then we had calmed ourselves a little with rational theories and plans for investigation, so that we could sleep through the day -- classes being disregarded. But that evening two items in the paper, wholly unrelated, made it again impossible for us to sleep. The old deserted Chapman house had inexplicably burned to an amorphous heap of ashes; that we could understand because of the upset lamp. Also, an attempt had been made to disturb a new grave in the potter’s field, as if by futile and spadeless clawing at the earth. That we could not understand, for we had patted down the mould very carefully.

And for seventeen years after that West would look frequently over his shoulder, and complain of fancied footsteps behind him. Now he has disappeared.
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Herbert West: Reanimator by H.P Lovecraft - part II
II. The Plague-Daemon

I shall never forget that hideous summer sixteen years ago, when like a noxious afrite from the halls of Eblis typhoid stalked leeringly through Arkham. It is by that satanic scourge that most recall the year, for truly terror brooded with bat-wings over the piles of coffins in the tombs of Christchurch Cemetery; yet for me there is a greater horror in that time -- a horror known to me alone now that Herbert West has disappeared.

West and I were doing post-graduate work in summer classes at the medical school of Miskatonic University, and my friend had attained a wide notoriety because of his experiments leading toward the revivification of the dead. After the scientific slaughter of uncounted small animals the freakish work had ostensibly stopped by order of our sceptical dean, Dr. Allan Halsey; though West had continued to perform certain secret tests in his dingy boarding-house room, and had on one terrible and unforgettable occasion taken a human body from its grave in the potter’s field to a deserted farmhouse beyond Meadow Hill.

I was with him on that odious occasion, and saw him inject into the still veins the elixir which he thought would to some extent restore life’s chemical and physical processes. It had ended horribly -- in a delirium of fear which we gradually came to attribute to our own overwrought nerves -- and West had never afterward been able to shake off a maddening sensation of being haunted and hunted. The body had not been quite fresh enough; it is obvious that to restore normal mental attributes a body must be very fresh indeed; and the burning of the old house had prevented us from burying the thing. It would have been better if we could have known it was underground.

After that experience West had dropped his researches for some time; but as the zeal of the born scientist slowly returned, he again became importunate with the college faculty, pleading for the use of the dissecting-room and of fresh human specimens for the work he regarded as so overwhelmingly important. His pleas, however, were wholly in vain; for the decision of Dr. Halsey was inflexible, and the other professors all endorsed the verdict of their leader. In the radical theory of reanimation they saw nothing but the immature vagaries of a youthful enthusiast whose slight form, yellow hair, spectacled blue eyes, and soft voice gave no hint of the supernormal -- almost diabolical -- power of the cold brain within. I can see him now as he was then -- and I shiver. He grew sterner of face, but never elderly. And now Sefton Asylum has had the mishap and West has vanished.

West clashed disagreeably with Dr. Halsey near the end of our last undergraduate term in a wordy dispute that did less credit to him than to the kindiy dean in point of courtesy. He felt that he was needlessly and irrationally retarded in a supremely great work; a work which he could of course conduct to suit himself in later years, but which he wished to begin while still possessed of the exceptional facilities of the university. That the tradition-bound elders should ignore his singular results on animals, and persist in their denial of the possibility of reanimation, was inexpressibly disgusting and almost incomprehensible to a youth of West’s logical temperament. Only greater maturity could help him understand the chronic mental limitations of the "professor-doctor" type -- the product of generations of pathetic Puritanism; kindly, conscientious, and sometimes gentle and amiable, yet always narrow, intolerant, custom-ridden, and lacking in perspective. Age has more charity for these incomplete yet high-souled characters, whose worst real vice is timidity, and who are ultimately punished by general ridicule for their intellectual sins -- sins like Ptolemaism, Calvinism, anti-Darwinism, anti-Nietzscheism, and every sort of Sabbatarianism and sumptuary legislation. West, young despite his marvellous scientific acquirements, had scant patience with good Dr. Halsey and his erudite colleagues; and nursed an increasing resentment, coupled with a desire to prove his theories to these obtuse worthies in some striking and dramatic fashion. Like most youths, he indulged in elaborate daydreams of revenge, triumph, and final magnanimous forgiveness.

And then had come the scourge, grinning and lethal, from the nightmare caverns of Tartarus. West and I had graduated about the time of its beginning, but had remained for additional work at the summer school, so that we were in Arkham when it broke with full daemoniac fury upon the town. Though not as yet licenced physicians, we now had our degrees, and were pressed frantically into public service as the numbers of the stricken grew. The situation was almost past management, and deaths ensued too frequently for the local undertakers fully to handle. Burials without embalming were made in rapid succession, and even the Christchurch Cemetery receiving tomb was crammed with coffins of the unembalmed dead. This circumstance was not without effect on West, who thought often of the irony of the situation -- so many fresh specimens, yet none for his persecuted researches! We were frightfully overworked, and the terrific mental and nervous strain made my friend brood morbidly.

But West’s gentle enemies were no less harassed with prostrating duties. College had all but closed, and every doctor of the medical faculty was helping to fight the typhoid plague. Dr. Halsey in particular had distinguished himself in sacrificing service, applying his extreme skill with whole-hearted energy to cases which many others shunned because of danger or apparent hopelessness. Before a month was over the fearless dean had become a popular hero, though he seemed unconscious of his fame as he struggled to keep from collapsing with physical fatigue and nervous exhaustion. West could not withhold admiration for the fortitude of his foe, but because of this was even more determined to prove to him the truth of his amazing doctrines. Taking advantage of the disorganisation of both college work and municipal health regulations, he managed to get a recently deceased body smuggled into the university dissecting-room one night, and in my presence injected a new modification of his solution. The thing actually opened its eyes, but only stared at the ceiling with a look of soul-petrifying horror before collapsing into an inertness from which nothing could rouse it. West said it was not fresh enough -- the hot summer air does not favour corpses. That time we were almost caught before we incinerated the thing, and West doubted the advisability of repeating his daring misuse of the college laboratory.

The peak of the epidemic was reached in August. West and I were almost dead, and Dr. Halsey did die on the 14th. The students all attended the hasty funeral on the 15th, and bought an impressive wreath, though the latter was quite overshadowed by the tributes sent by wealthy Arkham citizens and by the municipality itself. It was almost a public affair, for the dean had surely been a public benefactor. After the entombment we were all somewhat depressed, and spent the afternoon at the bar of the Commercial House; where West, though shaken by the death of his chief opponent, chilled the rest of us with references to his notorious theories. Most of the students went home, or to various duties, as the evening advanced; but West persuaded me to aid him in "making a night of it." West’s landlady saw us arrive at his room about two in the morning, with a third man between us; and told her husband that we had all evidently dined and wined rather well.

Apparently this acidulous matron was right; for about 3 a.m. the whole house was aroused by cries coming from West’s room, where when they broke down the door, they found the two of us unconscious on the blood-stained carpet, beaten, scratched, and mauled, and with the broken remnants of West’s bottles and instruments around us. Only an open window told what had become of our assailant, and many wondered how he himself had fared after the terrific leap from the second story to the lawn which he must have made. There were some strange garments in the room, but West upon regaining consciousness said they did not belong to the stranger, but were specimens collected for bacteriological analysis in the course of investigations on the transmission of germ diseases. He ordered them burnt as soon as possible in the capacious fireplace. To the police we both declared ignorance of our late companion’s identity. He was, West nervously said, a congenial stranger whom we had met at some downtown bar of uncertain location. We had all been rather jovial, and West and I did not wish to have our pugnacious companion hunted down.

That same night saw the beginning of the second Arkham horror -- the horror that to me eclipsed the plague itself. Christchurch Cemetery was the scene of a terrible killing; a watchman having been clawed to death in a manner not only too hideous for description, but raising a doubt as to the human agency of the deed. The victim had been seen alive considerably after midnight -- the dawn revealed the unutterable thing. The manager of a circus at the neighbouring town of Bolton was questioned, but he swore that no beast had at any time escaped from its cage. Those who found the body noted a trail of blood leading to the receiving tomb, where a small pool of red lay on the concrete just outside the gate. A fainter trail led away toward the woods, but it soon gave out.

The next night devils danced on the roofs of Arkham, and unnatural madness howled in the wind. Through the fevered town had crept a curse which some said was greater than the plague, and which some whispered was the embodied daemon-soul of the plague itself. Eight houses were entered by a nameless thing which strewed red death in its wake -- in all, seventeen maimed and shapeless remnants of bodies were left behind by the voiceless, sadistic monster that crept abroad. A few persons had half seen it in the dark, and said it was white and like a malformed ape or anthropomorphic fiend. It had not left behind quite all that it had attacked, for sometimes it had been hungry. The number it had killed was fourteen; three of the bodies had been in stricken homes and had not been alive.

On the third night frantic bands of searchers, led by the police, captured it in a house on Crane Street near the Miskatonic campus. They had organised the quest with care, keeping in touch by means of volunteer telephone stations, and when someone in the college district had reported hearing a scratching at a shuttered window, the net was quickly spread. On account of the general alarm and precautions, there were only two more victims, and the capture was effected without major casualties. The thing was finally stopped by a bullet, though not a fatal one, and was rushed to the local hospital amidst universal excitement and loathing.

For it had been a man. This much was clear despite the nauseous eyes, the voiceless simianism, and the daemoniac savagery. They dressed its wound and carted it to the asylum at Sefton, where it beat its head against the walls of a padded cell for sixteen years -- until the recent mishap, when it escaped under circumstances that few like to mention. What had most disgusted the searchers of Arkham was the thing they noticed when the monster’s face was cleaned -- the mocking, unbelievable resemblance to a learned and self-sacrificing martyr who had been entombed but three days before -- the late Dr. Allan Halsey, public benefactor and dean of the medical school of Miskatonic University.

To the vanished Herbert West and to me the disgust and horror were supreme. I shudder tonight as I think of it; shudder even more than I did that morning when West muttered through his bandages, "Damn it, it wasn’t quite fresh enough!"