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 (nobody)...and 50 guests Last 5 registered Oplandisks nothingstar N_loop yipe foxtrotromeo Browse members... |
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Here is the fabulous late summer / early autumn Ghost Stories Thread, just what one needs for a little Hallowe'en pre-game. By the time Oct. 31st rolls around I want to see the whole team GOOD and SPOOKED. We begin with a little from Richard Littler, creator of the blog. |
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hey Tony, you already abandoned the microfiction thread? |
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*bump* The Scarfolk Council thing is a fun read. Hadn't heard of it before. Never had any overt "haunting" experiences, but I've a friend who swears up and down that he "hit" a "ghost dog" with his car once. So the story goes, while driving through a dark neighborhood out in the country one night, a dog with a crazed look ran in front of his car and shone a bright white as it passed through the headlights and under the car. He slammed on the brakes trying to avoid it, but had no time. He got out, upset and expecting to find a dead/dying animal but then looked under his car and all around and could find no trace of it. I've known this guy for 20 years and he's generally a skeptic, not one prone to flights of fancy, so I don't know what he would hope to gain by lying about it. He told me about it the night it happened (roommates at the time), and this was late December so I don't think it was an attempt at some kind of belated "Halloween, spooked ya!". Where we live, there is no snow, so it wasn't a "white dog" brought on by some winter optical illusion, either. More than the missing body, he said it was the dog's expression that unnerved him the most. A contorted look, "both terrified and excited", I think were his words. Now, I don't know if "ghost dogs" are really a thing, but the way he told the story... I believed him. |
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Excellent, the "both terrified and excited" detail almost turns it into a Clive Barker story. I wonder if user "ghost dog" that I just noticed logged in has more to tell. mo, surely there are ghosts in your ancient, storied part of the world? Surely you've seen or heard about something. |
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Little Red Riding Hood? |
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thanks for loggin in Tony. i have my own reasons to do that. |
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Hmmm. So you've never been to , or felt the ghost of a mature woman with nice feet face-sitting you in the night? |
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jesus christ an alcatraz for the mentally ill!!!! will read l8 |
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yeah something similar ;) |
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never seen that WarwickEstates blog b4, right up my alley |
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Fucking insane. Great read. |
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I listen to these occassionally, have sampled them a lot too. |
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got the kindle version for when i need a good scare, thanks man |
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yes, ghosts are real. i know a few stories of cases studied by parapsi researchers & scholars of legends told by the folklore!! |
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The remake of could be worth a viddy. Bonus fact: Thom “sour face” Yorke scores. |
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of course ghosts are real. no one disputes this but killjoys and sourpusses. |
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....aaaaand it's ruined |
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haa you guys don't like thom yorke |
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I can’t say I dislike radiohead’s music, that would be lying. I don’t know Yorke so won’t judge. I used to find him witty in interviews but now I find him a tad bitter. |
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I do not like The Sad Beatles. They're like a Spinal Tap satire of 90s suicide soundtrack alt rock. They played a benefit concert at a home for depressed women and their drummer died when he fell into a tank of Xanax. That trailer looks amazing btw, I bailed on it after a few seconds because I don't even want the overall look of the production design spoiled. |
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“Sad Beatles” Ha ha how outrageous |
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let's fight over readiohead, bitch |
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Burn the bitch |
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*throws burning plastic flowers at you then dies theatrically on a bed of ashes* |
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lol sad beatles i like them |
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Great to hear! Sorry I’m doing my best to stay calm, someone died. |
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someone died? |
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tony danza now that you've changed your profile pic what if we forget that you're fleetmouse |
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I just like to be a cute lil moomin now, hihi |
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once there was an electronic music message board that died... ...but still lived |
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plot twist we are the ghosts |
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Sorry I meant on tv... not sure why I didn’t add that. |
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russell russell someone got their face eaten |
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Anyone remember 'Strange But True' with Michael Aspel, from the early 90s? Used to scare the crap out of me evry Friday night (just after 999 lifesavers with Michael Burk, iirc), and then talk about it on monday morning in school. All the eps are on youtube... my fav is the feature length one with Joan Collins in Venice. It has an episode about a stone throwing poltergeist in a lawnmower repair shop in Cardiff, which I found the other day [it's in Grangetown] and it still looks exactly the same 25 years hence. |
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I walked past it and did a treble take, and thought i was dreaming for a sec |
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oh yeah i remember that, freaky shit on there sometimes. i remember coming home in winter from a school choir thing, being shit scared of ghosts but wanting to get back in time for strange but true and making my mate run all the way, heh. first season of the x files was around the same time and that was scary for a nipper too, that and a channel 5 ripoff called dark skies re: experiences in real life though, i saw something weird when i was about 6. i was getting a book from my mum's room (toby and the space cats, standard) and saw a little girl in a grey dress sat on the bed, reflected in my mum's mirror. black hair, and sad looking with sharp blue eyes. turned around and she was gone |
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this is all an acid trip phobiazero is having in his dorm room. when he comes down, we will cease to exist... mostly |
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That's a good one! Was the air unnaturally cold when she manifested? Did you ever see her again? |
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i didn't notice any cold spot but there were a few happenings over the years in that house... things would go missing then appear in odd places or disappear full stop. electric stuff would break pretty spectacularly, lightbulbs exploded, pcs melting inside etc. waz a pretty odd place. the girl in the mirror was the only time i actually saw something weird though |
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speaking of cold spots. |
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I have had a few paranormal experiences in my life, here is one, 100% true: My granddad died when I was 12. He was the father of 8 children and so a huge flock descended on his little flat to tidy it out and divvy up his possessions. The main task was cleaning out his tiny spare room piled to the ceiling with boxes and boxes of tat. He'd worked in his later years as a security guard at a wholesale warehouse and would often go through the bins taking random shit like a dozen bottles of shampoo or broken telephones or what have you and this room was stuffed with his hoard. It took the brothers and uncles and cousins the entire day to go through a box, see if there was anything of worth, cart the unwanted crap out of the flat, down three flights of stairs and leave it by the bins. I spent most of my time trying not to stare at the bath. My grandad had died from some sort of stomach problem, I'm not sure of the specifics, but he had been found slumped over the side of the bath face down having vomited blood and other fluids all over the inside, over the taps, the tiles, everywhere. Now I was petrified of entering the room, terrified I might see some spot of dark red insides that had escaped cleaning. Why my dad told me the circumstances of his death I'll never know but I had been haunted by the image of him, agonized with blood covered lips since he had. |
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As evening approached a box was found amongst the last dozen or so, in it were photographs. There was one large framed photo of each of his children individually, one of him and my grandmother and one of the family as a whole. The individual photos were given to their respective subjects and a long discussion ensued about who would get other two. As the sisters bickered over who deserved them more my dad reached in to the box and said, "who gets this?" and lifted a large painted portrait from the box. It was a thickly daubed, chest up portrait of an old woman in turn of the century garb sat facing left with her head turned towards the viewer, a passive, almost solemn expression on her face. What stood out was how stark the painting was. The woman was almost shrouded in blackness and the painting was done entirely in shades of blue upon that black, as if painted at night with only moonlight for illumination. The wrinkles and muscles of her face acted as swollen highlights in the blackness, almost hyperreal in their speckled detail. Her pupils had piercing pinpoints of reflection, by far the brightest aspect of the picture, which drew your gaze unavoidably towards them and followed your every move in front of her. Her lips were thin, her mouth flat, it looked like she hadn't smiled for decades. I didn't note this much detail immediately of course, it was over time because, as no one responded to my dad's question, he took it upon himself to bring the portrait home with us. |
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My dad was very enamoured with this bizarre painting and having just decorated the stairs and landing decided to place it at the bottom of the stairs facing directly towards the top. This meant that every time you walked down the stairs this old woman would be staring directly at you and every time you walked up she'd be watching you from behind. My complete fear of the painting started almost immediately. When ascending to bed I would feel her watching, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking up and a chill spreading over my body. I began to start running up the stairs, desperate to dive in to my room, situated at the top, as quickly as possible. I started waking in the night between 2 and 3, always freezing cold. My sister also began having night terrors, reduced to a screaming mess who demanded to be allowed to sleep with my parents. I would close my eyes tightly to make my way to and from the toilet so as not to even be tempted to glance in the woman's direction. If I did I would i would freeze, for a few seconds at least, and always see the same thing. That face in the darkness, alive and staring up at me, apathy replaced with menace. The muscles and wrinkles and veins and eyelids and lips breathing and moving ever so slightly, I would swear I could see her chest rise and fall. The longer she held my gaze the larger she would appear to grow, as if she were slowly climbing to meet me, as if she would fill my vision and swallow me whole. When I could pull myself away I would slam my bedroom door shut and hide in my bed with the lights on, failing to fall back to sleep and being sure I could sometimes hear the sounds of faint knocking drifting up the stairs. |
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My dad got up for work at 5 every morning, with me following at half past. He would occasionally comment with some bemusement while eating his porridge that the retired couple next door had been banging around walking up and down the stairs in the middle of the night, sometimes to such a degree that the painting would be found on the floor. Over the following months damp began to form on the wall around and above the painting, causing the wallpaper to curl away up to the ceiling and a faint stain of the frame to appear behind the painting. I told my dad on multiple occasions that I felt the painting was the problem but he insisted that I should grow up and that there were issues with the brickwork. I knew better though. I knew because I would see her in the night, alive. I began to swear the painting was permanently changing, slight shifts in the position of an eyelid or where the moonlight highlighted her lips. Tiny, almost imperceptible movements made huge and terrifying by my obsession. The damp got worse but my parents couldn't afford to get anyone in to look at it. So did the banging, escalating to the point where my mum went and spoke to the neighbours who were as confused as she was at the regular noise. My sister was still having night terrors but they were just her growing up. Nothing ever got serious enough to actually entertain the notion of anything paranormal, at least not until one night around a year after the painting arrived. |
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I was woken, cold and frightened as I had been dozens of times before and desperate for the loo. I don't know what made this time any different from the others but I walked out and turned directly to look at the painting and was immediately overcome with dread. It was definitely different, to such a degree that I gasped. The woman had turned, now almost facing away, and was looking back over her shoulder. Her mouth was open, eyes wide with a look of fear on her own face no doubt mirroring my own. Her lips blackened seemed to move and expose similarly stained teeth underneath. I backed in to my room as I wet myself. I sat on my bed for the entire night with the lights on, but didn't hear a thing until my dad woke for work quickly followed by the front door opening for a minute and closing again. I headed out of my room to see just the stain of the paintings frame on the wall, the physical object gone. I sat down opposite my dad and asked where it was "damp must have got in the paint and caused it to run. It's gone." was his immediate and final reply. When I left for school that morning sure enough the painting was propped against the bin, I only glanced at it briefly as I hurried past but in the daylight it still seemed as it had done at night, twisted and terrified. What's more the darkened mouth was obviously a very blackened red, like blood flecked across the teeth and lips in a last gasp of pain. |
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Probably just puberty onset hormones playing tricks on me. Some men came to look at the damp a few months after the painting left and found a tiny hole in the roof above the wall which they assumed had caused it, despite there being no damp in the loft. My dad redecorated the stairway almost immediately. |
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Wow! I wonder if some goth picked it out of the trash and thought, this would go great in my bedroom. Muahahahaaaaa Rating: M.R. James / 10 |
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nothing will top Indeksikal's tale but here are some free stories from Tor. |
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