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  1.  (10201.21)
    Kudos all around. Here's mine.

    First off, it is probably important to tell you that I rarely remember my dreams. When I do, the details are fuzzy and fade pretty quickly. The first night I spent in the guest room at my ex-wife's parent's house (where she was living at the time), I slept with the door open (all the better for nocturnal visits). The foot of the bed was against the wall opposite the door and there was a mirror above it. For some reason I woke up, as if from a nightmare and most definitely didn't see a shimmering woman in a white dress pass the open doorway reflected in the mirror. The adrenalin faded and I fell asleep again, this time with my head facing the door. I began to dream (for that's what it must have been) that I woke up in that bed with something pressing down on me. I couldn't breathe and could barely move. I managed to slowly work my hand to the edge of the bed. I used all my strength to try and get off the bed. I found myself wide awake, rolling to the edge. That happened again twice before I decided I was not going sleep anymore and sat there, staring at the hall for the next few hours.

    The next morning, I told my ex and her response was "oh, that's the lady. She's never tried to hurt anyone before." She’d never seen the “ghost,” but her mom and brother claim to have done so.

    The pressing dream happened again two nights in a row, after my first back surgery. I had to make physical contact with my ex to get the pressing to stop. Although, it's possible all the narcotics I was on at the time were making my brain do odd things.
  2.  (10201.22)
    While looking for a place in Dallas, the wife and I discovered that we were actively on the trail of a serial killer.

    House #1: The festering house. This was the least-creepy of all the places that we looked at. The wood floors were all so warped that they noticeably curved upward to the center of the room like bean bags, and every room was painted a bizarre different color: purple with a gray toilet, black and red tiles on the kitchen walls. There was also a toilet in the kitchen.

    House #2: The "try it out" house. Every room was painted gray or black. The back yard was as massive as it was overgrown and full of dead weeds, like an abandoned wheat field in need of threshing. Across the yard was what the agent called an "artist's shack," which was basically a single-wide that was completely bare except for bizarre red writing on the walls and a meat grinder and circular saw in one corner. I am not making any of this up.

    House #3: The "practice makes perfect" house. Smallish apartment, relatively normal--until you get to the master bathroom on the third floor, where every. square. inch of the place is covered with mirrors. Mirrors on the walls, on the ceiling, on the back of the door so you could close it and be surrounded by images of yourself, presumably riding that hooker corpse for all it's worth in the blood-filled bathtub. Even the shelves and the sink counter were made of mirror glass.

    House #4: Abandon all hope ye who enter here. An apartment with one unbroken set of stairs servicing six stories. Each floor was: living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, bathroom, bedroom. On the last (bedroom) floor, the stairs kept going...up half a flight, ending in a closet. Open the closet door, which had a lock on the outside, and there were no shelves, no poles for hanging clothes. Just a metal chair bolted to the floor.

    I didn't hear any ghosts, but probably I couldn't over my own terrified screams.
    • CommentAuthorlomopop
    • CommentTimeSep 6th 2011
     (10201.23)
    @waxpoetic - love your story!
    •  
      CommentAuthorWaxPoetic
    • CommentTimeSep 6th 2011
     (10201.24)
    Wow.
    Good and freaked out now.

    @lampcommander - I am Never House-Hunting Again. Ever. guh.

    @govspy - Evil man! Wonderful story!

    @razrangel - Love this. It is a warm thing.

    @sellmeyoursoul - I am forever delighted when people know about 'ghosts' in their homes and just refer to them like decoration.

    Thanks, all!
  3.  (10201.25)
    I have a few of these, I hope multiple entries are allowed.

    When I was a teenager, I stayed with my dad for a little while, before the house he lived in became a crack-house.

    I was told when he first moved into that house, that it was completely empty save for a bottle in the bathroom medicine cabinet, half-full of water and labeled "Holy Water."

    One day, my Uncle Jack from Nebraska, came to visit with his kids. My cousin Christopher was what the family called "touched." The whole family (except me) was Pentecostal, and had odd superstitions.

    Christopher was about 8, and went wandering around the house. Past the living room and dining room was a hall that led to the kitchen. On the left hand side was a door that seemed like a closet door. Really, it was the size of a closet, and had another door that went to a bedroom, and also had a staircase that led upstairs. All in all that little room was maybe 4 or 5 foot square.

    Chris opens the door, walks in for a minute, closes the door and walks back. He asks "who are those guys in that room back there?" We all act confused and tell him there's no room; just a staircase.

    He proceeds to tell us that he walked into a large room, with a card table and chairs, and that there were four men sitting around the table playing cards. They were wearing suits and hats. When he walked in, he said they stopped playing and turned to look at him, but none of the men had any faces.

    We all showed Chris the room, and he argued that it was a different room; this wasn't the same room he'd been in.

    None of us could figure out if he had made it up or what; he seemed quite serious. That was seriously about 20 years ago, and I've never forgotten it.
    • CommentAuthorRenThing
    • CommentTimeSep 6th 2011
     (10201.26)
    Back when I was a young teen and a Boy Scout we did an overnight stay at one of the battery's on the California coast. The US built concrete bunkers, some very expansive, during WWII to shell the Japanese if they tried to invade. Since then they've been decommissioned. Some of them are safe to be in, such as Battery Alexander where we camped, but others weren't; a few had 15' deep vertical shafts with smooth concrete walls and no ladders. Not a fun place to fall into.

    Some of the closed batteries could be gotten into. Bars bent open or cut away let sneaks like us inside. Most of the batteries were filled with graffiti and old bottles and cans, a few condom wrappers. One though creeped me the fuck out.

    We went in deep until we were out of reach of the day light. We got to what must've been the central room because passages branched off from it in a few different directions. In the center of the room was a circle in what I'm pretty sure was red paint (it was faded pink, rather than flaking red-brown of blood) and on the wall was a pentagram done in the same. Candles were scattered around the room and showed signs of having been used. Words in a language I didn't understand were written on the walls and floor. Looking back it was pretty amateur stuff, like someone had read about a spooky Satanic ritual and did their impression of it, but to a kid as young as I was it was terrifying.

    Especially when we heard something from one of the back passages, a scrape like a rock being dragged against the concrete floor by a shifting foot.

    We booked for day light and never looked back.
    •  
      CommentAuthortaphead
    • CommentTimeSep 6th 2011
     (10201.27)
    Fuck you, guys. This is now my new favourite thread.
    • CommentAuthorDC
    • CommentTimeSep 6th 2011
     (10201.28)
    This is a mild story compared to some presented here. Here it goes anyway.
    I live in the same apartment since I'm 8. We moved when the building was almost finished so it's not old and doesn't have any "baggage". One day, when I was young (probably 10 or something) I was watching television on the living room. I craved chocolate or something like that and called my mom (I had to had permission to eat sweets). She didn't answer so I went to the bedrooms to see where she was. On the hall I called "mom, where are you?" and distinctively heard "in here". "Here where?" to which she answers "here". I suddenly remember my mom was cleaning up the garage so I was alone at home and yet a woman's voice answered me. In panic I ran to the living room shutting every door I came across. Never heard any voices again so I don't know if it was imagination or not.
    •  
      CommentAuthorscs
    • CommentTimeSep 6th 2011
     (10201.29)
    True story, no shit, I was there, I drove the fucking car, had to wash it afterwards.

    In 1974 I was taking a driving tour of the US. I'd picked up a hitchhiker somewhere in Utah, and thank God there was a witness. We were barreling down some state highway. It was late afternoon, and we started seeing birds and squirrels. Or maybe it was prairie dogs, I dunno. Rodents. Squirrel-sized rodents. Dead ones.

    The birds eating the squirrels, but weren't making a dent in them. There was a dead one every few feet, too many to successfully avoid at 70mph. Ka-thump. Ka-ka-thump-ump. Zillions of em. We were astonished. And it went on for miles. Overstuffed birds and dead squirrels.

    Then up ahead we saw one lone live squirrel. He sat tall on his haunches, eyeing us from just off the side of the road. He didn't twitch until we were almost on him. At the last possible second, he dashed into the road, stopped in our lane, flopped onto his belly, and put his little squirrely hands over his face.

    Ka-thump.

    The hitchiker and I looked at each other. "Did you see...?"

    "Yes."

    Thank God he was there, because right at that moment I'd have doubted my senses.

    We kept our eyes peeled, but never saw another live one. A few miles later, the corpses thinned out and the road became clear. A couple of hours later I dropped the hitcher in western Colorado, and have never again seen him, that highway, or suicide squirrels.

    Utah. There's something about that place.
  4.  (10201.30)
    So, I'm in Chicago, fall 2001, and I'm fucking this really hot chick. I'd been trying to hook up with her since high school. This is the first time we actually had sex together and it was totally brag-worthy.

    So, post-coitus, we're laying there, in this 100 year-old+ 3-story brownstone in Logan Square, and it's the middle of the night. We can hear footsteps running up and down the hall; it sounds like one of her roommates is chasing their pet rabbit. As we lay there, we both realize we could hear the footsteps running while we were having sex.

    Then we hear a crash, like breaking glass. We hear a couple other bangs and thumps as well.

    We get up, partially dressed to check it out.

    In the dining room, outside her bedroom, there's a broken glass, and it must have been full of water because the floor is wet. On the wall on the other side of her bedroom, one of her paintings had been thrown off of the wall. It was too far away to have just fallen. In between the dining room and the living room was the door to the stairwell downstairs. There usually is a skeleton key in the lock. It was across the room. Kind of like if the key had just shot straight out of the lock.

    There was one roommate home during this time; she was out cold. I ended up shaking her awake; she didn't know anything about what had happened, though she was having a nightmare when I woke her up.

    The glass being broke, I figured the rabbit knocked off the coffee table. But I couldn't figure out how the key shot out of the lock or who threw the painting. Also, we couldn't figure out who was chasing the rabbit.
  5.  (10201.31)
    1st, fuck me for having to follow after Government Spy...but I guess someone has to lower the bar

    2nd I'm probably stretching the topic a bit here it's not a "real" ghost story, but I thought it worth sharing cause it shows the flip side of where some of them come from.

    My father is a practical joker, who grew up in rural Ireland in the early 50s.
    Near where he lived, was a road that curved, had a bit of a straight away and then curved back. The straight away was lined with trees that stretched over the road and created a canopy that made it dark. At night, it was pitch black.

    So my father tied a long rope to a bucket and placed the bucket in the ditch at the side of the road at one end of the straight bit, then walked the rope down the end of the road and stopped at the other end and then sat down.

    When a couple of his friends came along, he waited for them to pass the bucket a bit, then he began reeling it in. The bucket scraped the ground and the friends turned back to see what the noise was, at which point he, of course, stopped.
    Whenever they started walking he would start again.
    After a couple of starts, they just ran like hell.

    he apparently did this a couple of times so of course that started rumours of that bit of the road being haunted.

    A joke a little while later backfired though. When walking down that road with a friend conversation died as they approached the dark patch. They walked silently for a bit when he suddenly turned and grabbed his friend's shirt and yelled "I'm going EAT YOU" as if he was possessed.
    The buddy ran off. But my father was then left to walk that bit all alone in the dark, scared.

    Didn't stop his practical jokes, but it damn well made him start to think them through a bit more.
    •  
      CommentAuthorcurb
    • CommentTimeSep 7th 2011
     (10201.32)
    That is one utterly brilliant practical joke.
    •  
      CommentAuthorespada
    • CommentTimeSep 8th 2011 edited
     (10201.33)
    Hello All...long time lurker...seldom poster

    These stories are all great

    government spy- Love the stories...also oncluding the others you have posted in other threads.

    As not to just be a free loader...here is one of mine...true story (aren't they all)

    Being a latchkey kid, Matthew knew how to stay entertained the two hours he was alone after school. His imagination must have traversed universes by age nine.

    “My brother told me that the field behind our house used to be an old cemetery…and our clotheslines out back are just old crosses that used to be in the cemetery.”

    Adan was 11, brought up devout Christian and believed what he believed simply because he was told…why else would he believe otherwise?

    “What does your brother know? He sleeps all day in your garage and worships the devil.”
    “My mom says it’s true….and in the past when people have talked about it in our house….weird things start to happen around here.”
    “It is probably just demons.” Adan said, as it was habit for charismatic Christians to explain away everything with demons.

    So Matt and Adan went on talking about the weird things they noticed in the field behind Matt’s house. The old grayed-out abandoned cars, the half living/half dead trees that grew sideways out of the ground. Both of them agreed that it was very strange that there was never a shortage of Crows in the field staring at them as they went back there to play. Just as their words grew more hushed…and they were both deep in thought with terror about ever going back out into the field to play again. There was a deafening sound of rushing water coming from Matt’s laundry room. A hose hooked up to the washer had broken.

    “Turn the red handle until it is off.”
    Matt reached out to touch the hot water handle.
    “It’s too hot to touch”
    “But the water coming out of the hose is freezing.”
    “I told you weird stuff happens.” Matt said. Adan nodded and shook…unable to speak.
  6.  (10201.34)
    @Alan Tyson-
    looks like a dirtier and less wormy version of my bathtub. Best tub ever for bubble baths, btw.

    Great tales all :) Guess it's time for my own...don't eat me!

    I grew up on ghost stories. Tales of sunken ships seen sailing, dead milish from the French and Indian Wars appearing here and there, thieving Goodfolk and angry Lutin. Almost everyone had a story that began "I don't believe in ghosts but I swear, one time..." As kids we told each other tales over roasted marshmallows and grahmcrackers. Nowadays, they're murmured over cheap beers or mike's hard lemonades, while we pretend we don't look over our shoulders in the dark on cold nights when the wind screams like a hurt child.
    I could say I saw this. I could say I saw that. The mind plays tricks, and in night, it tries to make sense of the patterns of the shadows of leaves in the wind. After watching various shows of 'real ghost stories' and drinking coffees, you can can see anything if you sneak out into the cemetery with your friends at night.
    Strange lights. Human shapes in the mist. Inhuman screams.
    In the day, it turns to something more reasonable. Electric memorial candles. Other kids looking for ghosts. An owl.
    But not everything can be so easily explained away.
    Once upon a time, walking home from a summer course, I came across a friend of mine. He was leaning against the door frame to his apartment, smoking like a chimney, as was his habit. We spoke briefly; small talk, and I was trying to get home before dinner. It was a mundane conversation. Dull. Pointless. We said we'd talk later.
    A few days later I found out that he'd died of lung cancer some weeks before my last chat with him outside his apartment. Was it a trick of the mind-- or a goodbye from a friend beyond the grave?
    •  
      CommentAuthorKieran
    • CommentTimeSep 9th 2011
     (10201.35)
    I was 10, on country holiday with my godmother’s sons. We loved visiting abandoned houses. That big old house looked inhabited. A ruin, windows closed, no car and the garden took over.

    We broke through a first floor window. No electricity, silence, piles of moldering crap, dust and spider webs. Upstairs, we found a stair that climbed to a room with lights on and an eerie music is coming from somewhere.

    We step into an atelier. A webbed dying tape recorder plays classical music in a loop and everything is dust covered. Suddenly we hear a breaking sound from below. We weren’t alone; we ran and never went back.

    But, just before running, on the atelier’s table, we were looking at five, wrapped in plastic, real-sized heads made of wax.
    •  
      CommentAuthorphill_sea
    • CommentTimeSep 9th 2011 edited
     (10201.36)
    Edited to add:
    Government Spy and Alan have the stickiest stories, but thank-you all for sharing! I don't know that I could work in a prison, for those exact reasons, and kudos to Gov't Spy for being able to hack it.

    Also, lampcommander. . . what a nightmarish house hunting experience. . . ugh. Texas.




    I'd gone to New Orleans, and, unsurprisingly, drank a lot and forgotten all about some chicken bones I'd put in the pocket of my cargo pants. I took them to antagonize the friend I'd travelled down with. I forgot about them until I put the pants back on; they'd been through a wash, so the bones were clean.

    As a late christmas gift to a friend, I made her a "Voodoo Wish Charm." The charm was made of the chicken bones, some black cloth scraps of my trench coat, and a shoelace from a pair of my dad's running shoes. Bones wrapped in the cloth, all tied together with the shoe lace -- It looked witchy, and she liked it.

    I explained she'd have to write her wish down, wrap it around the charm, then burn the lot in a coffee can, on a full moon. No, I didn't know what I was talking about.

    A few weeks later I woke up in bed, it was dark, and I could not move. I heard a truck pull up next to my window, or close to it, since i was on the 3rd floor, but the lights were blaring through, and I tried to get up and look, but still couldn't move.

    My inability to move started to frighten me, and I considered calling out to my roommates, but couldn't even speak.

    Then, something turned my head. I didn't turn it; it was turned for me. Standing there, towering over me was a gigantic, pitch black man with yellow teeth and eyes, totally naked.

    I knew he wasn't screaming, but his voice rattled my head and my teeth felt loose. As the yelling went on, he climbed onto my bed, and stood over me, gesturing madly and yelling the whole time. I broke a sweat and tears streamed down my face, but that was the extend of my movement.

    I don't remember falling asleep, but I woke up feeling like death.

    Talking to my friend a few weeks later, I asked if she'd used her charm yet. She told me no, her mom had found and destroyed it. My stomach knotted. I asked: Did she destroy it on [the date of my night terror experience]?

    Of course, my friend's response: "Yah! How'd you know that?"
  7.  (10201.37)
    @ Phil_Sea. Ooh. False awakenings, what a bitch. I used to suffer from them terribly, and still vividly recall the the first time (other than as a child, wherein I awoke to the spectacle of a dancing rupert bear toy) that it happened.
    In the early nineties, I was an animation student down in leafy Surrey, living in college digs with two of my friends from my former college, as was typical of myself, having gotten on a fairly prestigious course, alongside good friends, I squandered it drinking. One night, we spent the evening with a friend from another room watching "Genesis of the Daleks" as he was an avid Dr. Who fan, and in the course of watching, I accidentally drank a bottle of Jack Daniels. All of it. This was followed by copious emergency vomiting, and being guided, across the room to my bed.

    *lights out*

    Now, Loukie was my roommates girlfriend, She was terribly sweet and pretty much the human being that Blizzard designed gnomes off of. Loukie was 4'10, quite curvy, but very, very small. She giggled a lot, when she giggled, it sounded like a child.

    Having passed out from nearly brain-killing myself, I awoke and found, much to my chagrin, that firstly, my other roommates TV was on, and it was tuned into static at full volume, and Loukie was sitting on my chest, giggling, something that I did not particularly approve of. So, I pushed her off. Or should I say, I attempted to, because as I pushed her, she moved away from me, through the air, floating gently, like... well, a lot like Ralph in Salems Lot and at this particular point, despite being able to think with all the speed of a brick being dragged through treacle, I realised I was in a whole world of shit.
    Above the beds in our dorms, we had lamps mounted on the wall, activated by a push button on the side, and given that "Loukie" had suddenly started to look a lot like one of the transformed angels from Raiders of the Lost Ark as she sped back across the room toward me, I made straight for it. I couldn't make it, I swear even now, knowing that this was a dream, that I could not get my hands on the light, because the thing kept pulling my arms down, somehow, utterly frantic, I got the light on.

    The TV was off, other than the illumination from my lamp, the room was pitch black, My two roommates were fast asleep. (one kneeling on the floor, face down on his bed, where he stayed till 5 the next evening) and the Loukie thing? Hung around, like an echo. If I looked at the areas of the room that were still dark, I could see her plainly, shifting about. I got up, shambled down the corridor, went into a girl associates room (shared, oddly enough with Loukie) where they were still awake, and got into bed there, in tears, refusing to leave, and finally passing out, to awake in the morning, with a terrible headache, and inexplicable reason for uninvited bedsharing, and a fear of going to sleep that would last the next three years.
    •  
      CommentAuthorGreasemonkey
    • CommentTimeSep 9th 2011 edited
     (10201.38)
    Mine's not as epic as some of the stuff you guys have been posting, but what the heck.

    So, in the early eighties I was working as a farm hand on a property in the Australian outback, and there was a well known ghost legend involving the old shearing shed on the road into town. Back in the thirties, the shed had been fully operational; three dozen employees shearing thousands of sheep through the season. One of the farm kids, aged about four or five, had fallen into a wool press while playing and suffocated under a bunch of fleeces. Most of our neighbours claimed to have heard a child crying in the abandoned shed on quiet nights, and the local high schoolers used to dare one another to sneak in there and look for the ghost. Anyway, I was walking home from the pub on a Saturday night, somewhat the worse for drink, and passing the shed I heard what was unmistakably the sound of a little kid crying, coming from way back inside. I stuck my head in through the door, the place was abandoned, the noise stopped. Walked around inside with my torch, nothing.

    What was it? Fuck knows. It wasn't an animal or a night bird, and I wasn't anywhere near hammered enough to be hearing imaginary sounds. I don't believe the spirits of the deceased hang around the places where they died, but maybe there's something to the idea that traumatic events leave an imprint on places, and sometimes we hear echoes.
  8.  (10201.39)
    This story was told to me by my mother...

    My grandfather was raised on a farm in Illinois. His grandmother had become senile, and would wander out of the house and get lost in the woods. They would have to go out looking for her, and find her scratched up and hurt, sometimes worse. Now, obviously, this is several decades ago, and I do not condone the practice, but the only solution they could find, was to tie her to her rocking chair at night to prevent her from getting lost.

    Eventually, she passed away. I'm not sure of the time frame here, but I do know that when my mother was a teenager, the rocking chair came to stay at their house. It was a large chair, and with long, flat arms. You could see where your wrists would rest on the arms, that the wood was worn down from where they tied great-grandmother Musselman to the chair.

    At night, after everyone had gone to sleep, they could hear the chair rocking all by itself. They would lie in bed wondering if their great-grandmother was haunting her chair. But no one was brave enough to go look.

    So one evening, as everyone got comfortable in the living room to watch The Twilight Zone, all of a sudden the chair began to rock. They all turned to look at the chair, and the family cat had jumped into the rocking chair, and weighed just enough to start the chair rocking.
    •  
      CommentAuthorFinagle
    • CommentTimeSep 11th 2011
     (10201.40)
    #InvisibleDuck

    Short but sweet anecdote of life on the frozen American prairie. Small-town boredom gives rise to many an amusing tale.

    I was involved with a woman named Phoebe in college, who was from [redacted], Nebraska. Growing up in [redacted], there aren't a lot of chances for serious amusement. The best, and most readily available source is of course, your family. Phoebe is a bit of a nerd, and it so happens has a sister a few years younger, who we'll call Pepper. Pepper was sort of more of a social and somewhat gullible child, and this became the target, of course, of familial pranking.

    Phoebe invented a tale about the Invisible Duck. Nothing elaborate about it - the whole area around [redacted] was allegedly patrolled by a giant, invisible carnivorous duck that ate bad children. Any chance she got, Phoebe would build up the myth and legend around our Invisible Duck.

    The matter came to a head when they were perhaps 12 and 9. A heavy overnight snow had cancelled school, and Phoebe caught wind of this before Pepper awoke. Stealing quietly downstairs, she used some cardboard to fashion giant duck-shaped snowshoe cutouts. She tied these to her feet, and laid a track down outside that ended just outside Pepper's window.

    Then she rushed inside with great alarm, shook Pepper awake yelling about the Invisible Duck, got her dressed and led Pepper out there to behold the tracks of her doom, with the pride of any polar explorer putting plaster in a Yeti-track. It really is a shame that digital cameras on phones weren't common then, to document her sister's reaction.

    I understand it took some time to get Pepper to come out of her room. It was never really forgiven or forgotten, and became a sort of underground smouldering coal-fire of sibling conflict that as an only child, I'm gladly unaware of personally.