The Lady In The Chiffon Dress — A Ghost Story

Once upon a time, in a small town nestled in the mountains, there was a legend that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it. It was said that a mysterious ghostly figure roamed the woods, known only as “The Lady In The Chiffon Dress.” This mysterious ghostly figure was said to have no face that frightened unsuspecting victims to death if looked upon.

The townspeople lived in fear of this mysterious ghostly figure, locking their doors and windows tight each evening. But one brave young girl and a practicing solitary witch named Lily, was determined to dispel the evil from the woods. Armed with nothing but her wits, a flashlight and a long handle mirror, she ventured into the dark woods one moonlit night, determined to confront the “mysterious ghostly figure.”

As she crept through the shadows, Lily heard a strange, whistling wind sound coming from behind a gnarled old tree. Peering around the trunk, she spotted the mysterious ghostly figure.

Lily remembered not to look at the apparition, so she quickly turned around, facing away. Lily pulled out a long handle mirror looking back over her shoulder. She saw the mysterious ghostly figure floating in the wind.

With her back still turned, Lily held the mirror, and shined her flashlight over her shoulder at the mysterious ghostly figure. Lily chanted 13 times “Ashes to ashes, Spirit to spirit, Take this soul, Banish this evil” at the end of her chanting the mysterious ghostly figure let out a shriek that could be heard throughout the dark woods, and disappeared in a burst of flames.

Lily never spoke of the incident to anyone, but she knew that the mysterious ghostly figure was gone to never return!

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This Is The Story Of The Ghost In The Upstairs Apartment

My girlfriend and I moved into this apartment complex. The building we moved into only had 2 apartments, upstairs and downstairs, so they gave us the downstairs apartment. The manager said it should be quiet since no one occupied the upstairs apartment.

We got all moved in within a couple of days. The first couple of nights in our new apartment was uneventful, peaceful and quiet. On the third night, I was startled awake by what sounded like a pot falling the floor in the upstairs apartment, my girlfriend heard it to, half awake she asked, what was that noise, I told her I didn’t know. So I got up to look around the apartment to make sure everything was okay inside our apartment.

The next day arriving home from work I saw a maintenance man exiting the upstairs apartment, so I asked, is someone moving in upstairs? He answered no that apartment will be closed for awhile. Pretty messed up huh? I asked. That’s an understatement, he said, you didn’t hear from me but the tenant that lived there got hacked up about a week before you moved in, it was a bloodbath. Hacked up I blurted out! He shushed me and said we’re not suppose to say anything, they haven’t caught the person that did it yet. And with that he walked off.

I considered telling my girlfriend, but decided not to say anything, she would freak out and be ready to move.

The next night as I lay in bed, I had tried to dismiss the news about the upstairs tenant, the night was draped in a thick veil of darkness, the sort that clung to the walls of our spacious apartment like a guilty secret. I had tried to ignore the unsettling creaks and groans of the old building, chalking them up to its age. But as the clock struck midnight, those sounds took on a different significance, wrapping me in a suffocating embrace.

It began with hearing footsteps, doors opening and closing, the footsteps were faint—an echo of something I wanted to ignore. The taps and thuds drifted down from the upstairs apartment, like a distant lullaby sung by a bitter wind. I’d hear them, accompanied by the soft sound of something heavy dragging across the floor. It seemed like the apartment above was merely occupied by a restless tenant, pacing in their sleep or moving furniture at odd hours. I thought to myself, what the heck is going on upstairs?

But on this particular night, the noises grew hungry. The footsteps turned deliberate, a cacophony of shuffling and thumping tumbling down through the floorboards, rattling in my chest as I sat up in the dimly lit bedroom. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck as though someone—something—was watching me. Swallowing hard, I convinced myself to rise from the safety of my bed being careful not to wake my girlfriend, and tiptoe to the front-door and opened and peered up the narrow staircase to the upstairs apartment.

Closing the door behind me, I stood at the base of the stairs, peering up into the shadows that danced above and started up the stairs. Each step groaned beneath me as if they too were warning me to turn back. The door to the upstairs apartment was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of inky blackness yawning into view. That was new. It had always been closed, sealed tight like a tomb. Hesitation gnawed at my insides, but curiosity was powerful, an ancient drive urging me onward. As the air thickened with an unnatural chill, I pushed the door open, its hinges creaking in protest.

The hallway enveloped me, the air sharper, filled with an electric tension that crackled against my skin. My heart raced, and I hesitated for a brief moment, listening. Silence, heavy and oppressive, hung in the air, broken only by the soft whisper of my own breathing. I took a few hesitant steps forward, my own footfalls echoing back like a taunt.

And then it happened: the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut from within the apartment. Time froze, and I froze along with it, every instinct screaming at me to flee. I couldn’t look away from the door, though, as though something inside was beckoning me closer. Captivated against my will, I took a step toward it.

“Who’s there?” I called, my voice feeble against the void.

No answer. Only the suffocating silence, that all-consuming quiet before the storm. I thought fleetingly of the old tenant who had hacked to death. The thought should have sent me running, but I could feel a presence—an energy swirling in the air—that made me yearn for contact, for proof of life, or perhaps something beyond it.

But as I reached out for the doorknob, the air shifted. From the shadows came a whisper, a voice dripping with malice as chilling as the wind outside. “Leave this place…”

I stumbled backward, tripping over myself as the door swung open wide, revealing a darkness so profound that it seemed to consume the very light of my own existence. The footsteps returned, now rushing down the stairs, dragging something with them—a reminder of the transient nature of life itself. Whatever lurked above was no mere tenant. It was a secret, an echo of loss, and in that moment, I understood that some doors were never meant to be opened.

Rumors about the apartment whispered from tenant to tenant—tales of grief, loss, murder and may-ham. My girlfriend and I decided to move out.

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What Happen To Bonnie?

This happened several years back. My parents were out of town. Some friends came over to my house to party, you know get drunk and high, they knew I always had the best weed back then. One of my friends Darrel, had a brother that was old enough to buy alcohol, so he brought some alcohol and more weed over to the house.

We rolled up several joints to smoke, that’s what we called them back then before their were blunts. So anyway we got ready to fire up and realized we didn’t have a lighter or matches. We searched everywhere and nothing. I said let’s just run down to the corner store, the guy down there knows me well and will sell me one.

So it was about 11pm, we all piled into my car and off to the store we went, so it was me Darrel, and our two friends Virginia and Jennifer. We got to the store and ran into another friend, we called him Box, and he had two girls with him Sheryl and Lila. Box and I went into the store and I got the lighter and left out of the store. Box came out a little behind me with two six packs, don’t ask how he was our age.

We were all out in the parking lot talking when another friend pulled up her name was Bonnie. We decided to go down to the local park to party, I had to go back to my house to pick up our party supplies it was right on the way.

We got to the park with Box in the lead car, and Bonnie behind me. Box lead us to the very back of the park. It was a baseball field at the end, but only one light lit the parking lot. Then box said follow me, we pulled all the way down to where the parking lot ended and made a left turn into a road that didn’t seem to be a road but took us around to the back of the baseball field.

We turned the cars around for easy exit. Box brought his car to a stop, and got out and so did all of us, Box said no one can see us back here if they pull in, meaning park rangers. To our left was the baseball field, to the right was thick brush.

By this time it was about 11:45PM, and we broke out the beer and weed. We had broke into three groups standing by the cars, were having a good time, laughing and talking, smoking and drinking.

Some time had passed, it was maybe 12:45 or 1AM I’m not sure, I was high on the weed and tipsy from the beer, the music had stopped and was switching to the next song, when I heard what I thought was the crackle of brush under someones feet, like walking, and it seems everyone heard the noise, everyone stopped talking, looking in the direction of the noise and around at each other.

The music had resume playing, so I reached over and turned it down. With everyone still looking in the direction of the noise and seeing nothing, we heard that crackle again.

With not another word being said everyone broke for a car. I yelled everybody not in a car is gonna get left. I got into my car started it up and sped off looking calling roll-call Virginia, Jennifer, Darrel? I heard were here! Okay I got who I brought.

Looking in the rear-view to see if I could spot Box’s and Bonnie’s cars. I did see Box’s car behind mine, but I didn’t see Bonnie’s car. We pulled up to my house, Sheryl and Lila were with Box, but where was Bonnie? I ask Box if he saw Bonnie’s car behind him when we took off. He said he saw her lights come on and then went off. I asked if anyone have Bonnie’s cell, Sheryl said she did and would text her to see if she was okay.

We went into my house and continued to party. Sheryl said Bonnie was not answering the text, and when she called someone answered the phone but didn’t say anything and just hung up the phone. She said she would call her tomorrow.

It was 3AM and we were so stoned we started falling asleep. We lived in the same neighborhood so Box Volunteered to drop everyone off. We said our good-nights, they left and I went to bed.

Later the next morning around 8AM my phone rang it was Sheryl saying she had been texting me since 7AM, I was still loaded from the party, I said what’s up? Just then she said Bonnie’s missing, and her phone says she is out of the area, her mom ask me if I had seen her, so I told her we were together in the park and that was the last time I saw her, has called the police, her car was found at the park where we were last night, with her backpack and phone in it, and her mom and dad are going bat shit crazy.

After that night Bonnie was never seen or heard from again. There was an investigation but Bonnie was never found. Her whereabouts are still unknown. We never went back to that park after dark.

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A while back I met a very classy sexy beautiful older woman, lets call her Jane. We had several dates that I thought went very well, but every-time I dropped her off and tried to come for a nightcap she refused. She said she was not ready to take our relationship to the next level. Something about her just made me want her more and more.

After one of our dates she told me she wanted to put things on hold. That it wasn’t me it was her. That made me furious, so I decided to do something that I now realize i shouldn’t have done but! ! dabbled in black magic, I had obtained books, different items etc. I had been doing some rituals for some period of time.

On one of our dates, I had managed to get a strand of her hair. She had excused herself to go to the ladies room after we had eaten dinner. And there it was, a strand of her hair just laying there on the back of her chair, so I picked it up and folded it up up in one of the table napkins. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I did that.

It had been a week or so since we had last spoke. So I decided to do a ritual to bind her to me. I took a glass jar, tied our two pieces of hair together, I did a binding ritual, put the two pieces of hair in the jar and sealed the jar closed with candle wax, and waited.

The next day I had to go outta town on personal business. But I didn’t have to wait long for the results of the ritual. The next day she called and said she found herself missing talking to me and wanted to get together for another date.

Two days later I returned to town and called her. We arranged to meet for dinner and drinks at 8PM at a restaurant near my loft, which was different from our usual dates where I would go and pick her up.

That night was great. After dinner as I was getting the check she said “how about we go to your place for a night cap” I was elated, from this point I could tell my ritual was working. That night we talked, had more drinks and made love. It was everything I thought it would be.

After several months my dream relationship with Jane developed into a nightmare. Jane had started to get very jealous over little things. If we were out in public and I looked around Jane would accuse me of looking at another woman. She had said that I wanted someone younger now that we were sleeping together. I tried to convince her that, that wasn’t the case.

Jane begin following me. When I had meetings outside the office I would catch a glimpse of what I thought was her car following me. I would call her cell and ask did I just see your car at such and such a place, and she would say nope that must be your other woman.

As time went on our relationship just got worse and worse, so I decided to break the ritual jar and hopefully break the binding spell. Don’t get me wrong I wanted to continue with the relationship just not like this. We had been together now for sometime so I thought that by ending the spell we would just continue to see each other just without the jealousy. Boy was I wrong.

About two days after breaking the jar, I had not heard from Jane so I decided to give her a call. She seemed upset so I ask “what’s wrong” she answered “you know what you did”. Okay now at this point I was thinking “there’s no way she knew what I had done” so I asked “what did I do”? and she just hung-up on me.

Two days later Jane called me sounding very happy, ask me how was I and If I would like to get together on the next day for dinner. Now by this time I thought the storm had passed, so I said “yes that sounds great” so again we agreed to meet at the restaurant near my loft for dinner and drinks.

The next day came and I was excited about having dinner with Jane. We had agreed to meet at the restaurant about 8PM, she called me that afternoon to tell me she would be running a little late about fifteen minuets because of work. I said “fine see you there”.

I was leaving work at around 5:30 and I saw what looked like Jane’s car again, but I thought that couldn’t be her car, so I blew It off. I did the 3S’s when I got home. Shower, Shit and Shaved. So I was good to go. It was about 8pm when I left my loft on the way to the restaurant it was only about 5 minuets away. I parked and went inside the restaurant asking for a table for two and let the Maître d‘ know I was expecting a date..

As I sat down I saw Jane coming through the door. She spotted me and told the Maître d‘ that she was with me. She had a big smile on her face as she got to the table. I got up to pull her chair out, and asking her “how are you”? She responded “I’m great and you”? I responded “I’m good”.

We had a great meal and great conversation. It was as if no argument or anything had happen. We finished up and I asked for the check. We were on our way out of the door and again she said “how about we go to your place for a night cap” I said “meet you there”.

That night Jane and I made love like it was the first time. Later As we lay there she said in a sweet low voice “I love you, I can’t see myself longing for anyone but you”, I was surprised by the statement and speechless. There was a long moment of awkward silence. You see as much as I wanted Jane in the beginning, I mean doing a ritual and all of that, but the truth was I wasn’t in love with her, we were just dating.

I sat up on the side of the bed looking out of the window next to the bed. She asked me “did you hear what I said”? I responded “yes of coarse I did” and again there was that awkward silence. “Well” she said “aren’t you going to say something”? “Don’t you love me”? I didn’t know what to say or do at that point. Without turning around to face her I said slowly “Jane, I’m very fond of you but”. She cut me off at that point, “but you don’t love me”.

Sitting in silence, Jane rose up and started to gather her things. I said “Jane you don’t have to leave” she didn’t respond. She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, and I heard the shower start. She came out and got dressed without saying a word. Once she was done she went downstairs into the main part of the loft where she was gathering the rest of her things. I put on my clothes and went downstairs behind her again I said “Jane you don’t have to leave”.

I didn’t know what to say or do at this point, I was just standing there waiting for her to maybe say something. She laid her coat down and started looking for something in her purse, I thought she was looking for her car keys. I turned to reach for my keys as I said “give me a minuet I will walk you out”.

As I was unlocking the door I heard a “click” now anyone that has been around guns, which I have knows the sound of a revolver when you pull back the hammer. I swung around to see myself facing down a chrome plated snub nose 38. I calmly said “Jane what are you doing, you don’t want to do this”.

Jane responded “so you don’t love me”? I turned to move out the front door when I heard a loud “pop” and felt a burning sensation on my right upper-arm, then I heard another “pop”.

I ran out the front door and right into my neighbor across the hall he was just arriving home, and just happen to be a police officer. He already had his gun out saying “freeze” I moved slowly to the side back against the wall so that he wouldn’t shoot me. I said “shes trying to kill me”.

He moved slowly into the loft, and I heard him say “mam put the gun down turn around and put your hands behind your back and don’t move”. By that time another officer had arrived who was with my neighbor. A few minuets later the paramedics arrived.

Jane was taken into custody without incident. I was taken to the hospital, turned out my wound was just a graze, the second shot had missed me all together, but where the bullet landed, investigators determine that Jane was aiming for my head but missed.

Jane was charged with attempted murder and received 10 years.

To this day I still practice my magic, but no more binding spells for me.

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This Is The Spine-Chilling Tale Of The Staircase Ghost In Miss Susie’s House

Who Was Miss Susie?

Miss Susie was not just any ordinary person. She was known as the neighborhood babysetter. She resides in a charming old house that whispers stories from the past. This house was known for its creaky floors, rustic charm, and, of course, the mysterious presence that haunts its staircase. As a kid I was once one of those children and I can tell you, standing at the base of the stairs you could sometimes hear the sound of the creaky stairs as if someone was walking down the stairs.

The staircase in Miss Susie’s home wasn’t just a passageway between floors; it was a living part of the house’s history. Many have claimed to see a ghostly figure gliding down the steps. They say it felt like stepping into a scene from a classic ghost story. Picture this: dim light, the sound of soft footsteps, and the chill of the air. This gave the staircase an eerie yet fascinating reputation.

Neighbors have shared numerous accounts of encounters with the staircase ghost. Some say they’ve seen a woman in white, her dress flowing as if caught in a gentle breeze. Others spoke of hearing soft whispers or feeling a sudden cold draft that sends shivers down their spine.

Everyone wonders why spirits linger in certain places. The staircase ghost isn’t different. Some believe she may be searching for something lost long ago, while others think she’s simply watching over the house. Imagine a grandparent keeping a loving eye on their family, ensuring safety, even from the afterlife. Miss Susie once said she believes someone left money somewhere under the staircase.

For Miss Susie, the ghost wasn’t a source of fear; rather, a part of the family. She would say It’s like having a quirky roommate who keeps to themselves but still makes their presence known. She use to say sometimes, she even talked to her. Who wouldn’t? After all, life is full of surprises, and having a ghost in the house is one of the most unexpected twists!

As a kid I remember people often visited Miss Susie’s house out of curiosity. The staircase ghost draws thrill-seekers and believers alike. Some came armed with cameras, hoping to capture the unexplainable. Others simply want to feel the thrill of walking up the very stairs where a ghost is said to reside. It’s like a mini-adventure, a taste of the unknown. Miss Susie didn’t mind.

The staircase ghost has gained a life of her own, becoming a local neighborhood legend. She symbolizes the mystery of life and death, reminding everyone of the stories that linger in old homes. Just like a favorite book, her tale is one that gets better with time, captivating anyone who hears it.

Miss Susie is gone now and where the house stood is now a vacant lot. Some say you can still hear whispers of history and mystery in the wind. The ghost who haunted it added a unique touch to the home, weaving a story that encompasses love, loss, and the unbreakable bonds of family. So, the next time you hear about Miss Susie and her staircase ghost, remember: some tales are meant to be shared, and some spirits are meant to linger.

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The Ghost Cat And Dog — The Fishing Trip Adventure

My dad always told me that the best time to go fishing is early in the morning. And he was right! We would always catch a bunch of fish to last us a few days and share with our neighbors.

One cool Saturday morning in September, my dad, my friend Anthony, and I headed to the lake at 4 AM. It took us about half an hour to get there. When we arrived at the lake around 4:45 AM, we found a secluded spot to set up camp for the day.

Before Anthony and I could run off into the woods, my dad stopped us and asked for help unloading the car. We took out the flashlights, snacks, radio, lawn chairs, fishing rods, and bait. My dad set up his rods while asking if we wanted to stay there or find another spot.

Anthony and I decided to find another spot. We grabbed some sandwiches, bait, and fishing poles. We walked along the bank of the lake until we found a shady spot to set up our lines.

As the day went on, my dad caught five trout while Anthony and I had no luck. We decided to take a break from fishing and go exploring. The brush around the lake was pretty thick with trails all through it. As we where walking through the trails we came upon a stream about 60 or so feet wide, running from so other part of the lake. We started playing a game of skipping rocks until Anthony spotted something floating in the stream

As it got closer we could tell it was some type of furry animal. As it floated close to the bank of the stream Anthony grabbed a long tree limb and tried to steer it closer to the bank. He managed to pull it close enough to the bank so that it was partially out of the water. Anthony kept picking away at the animal turning it over until we could tell it was a dead cat. The eerie thing about the cat is that it’s dead eyes where wide-open. I’m not sure how long we had been gone, it was starting to get dark and I knew my father would be ready to leave soon so we decided to head back to camp.

As we were walking back through the small trail, Anthony was walking behind me and said “I heard something”. I said “we’re on a creepy trail its getting dark of course you heard something” trying to make a joke to mask my sudden fear. We had both stopped and was looking back. I quickly said there’s nothing back there lets keep going.

We kept walking, a little further and faster, when we both heard something behind us and stopped suddenly looking back behind us. There in the brush was two pair of glowing red eyes staring back at us. I shined my flashlight in the direction of the red eyes it was the dead cat and he had a friend it was a dog just standing there. We took off running, after running about ten feet almost reaching camp we looked back and there was nothing chasing us.

When we reached the camp we told my father what had happen, he just laughed and said “it was probably just some wild animal”. Anthony and I just looked at each other we knew better. It was a spooky experience we would never forget.

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The Spooky University Dorm Room

Hey guys, so I’m a student at this really old prestigious university and I never used to believe in ghosts or anything like that. But let me tell you about my dorm room experience. I’ve been living in this dorm for about a year now and some weird stuff has been happening.

I’ve come back from class a few times to find my computer desk moved in front of my door and my laptop on the floor. Like, how did that even happen? And my stuff keeps getting moved around when I’m not even there. It’s super creepy because I always lock my door and I live on the second floor.

I’ve been having trouble sleeping and feeling sick when I’m alone in the room. I’ve been having these scary nightmares and sometimes I wake up feeling like someone is watching me. One time, I swear I felt someone touching me while I was sleeping.

I talked to my old roommate who used to live in the dorm before me and he said he experienced some weird stuff too. Then he dropped a bombshell on me – apparently, a student died in the room a few years ago under suspicious circumstances. And the university never told me about it!

After hearing that, I asked to move to a different dorm room. The lady at the front desk said they can’t seem to keep that room occupied. Yikes! I’m definitely not staying there any longer.

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The Wolf Of Lookout Rd.

When the company I worked for first moved out on Lookout Rd. driving down the long secluded road with brush on one side and train tracks on the other, I remember thinking that the area looked like an area where people dump bodies.

So one day my car was in the shop, I had to take the bus home from work, and as the sun began to set on another eerie fall night, I found myself walking down the long dark stretch of Lookout Road towards Old Oconnor Rd. The air was still, and a sense of unease settled over me as I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The only light to guide my path was a dim streetlight that seemed miles away, casting long shadows that played tricks on my mind.

As I quickened my pace, my eyes darted around, searching for any signs of danger. It was then that I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. A large, shadowy figure loomed in the darkness, its presence sending a chill down my spine. At first glance, it appeared to be a German Shepherd dog, but as It drew closer, I realized it was something much more sinister.

Standing at a height that nearly matched my own, this creature was no ordinary dog. Its eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light, and its fur bristled with an untamed energy. I felt the blood drain from my face as I struggled to maintain my composure. In a feeble attempt to break the tension, I mustered up the courage to speak, “Damn, you scared the shit out of me.”

With each step I took, I could feel the creature’s gaze following me, its powerful presence looming over me like a shadow. Despite my best efforts to remain calm, the instinctual fear of the unknown gripped me, urging me to run. But I remembered the wise words of my father: never run from a dog, for it will only give chase.

As I finally reached the safety of the dim streetlight, I dared to steal a glance to my left. To my surprise, the creature was nowhere to be seen. Had it been a trick of the night, a figment of my imagination? Or was it something more, a being that lurked in the shadows of Lookout Road, waiting to strike when least expected.

The Wolf of Lookout Rd. had left an indelible mark on my psyche, a reminder of the thin veil that separates the mundane from the mysterious. As I continued on my journey home, I couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets lay hidden in the darkness, waiting to be uncovered by those brave enough to seek them out. Oh I never rode the bus again!

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The Number And The Legends Of The Devil’s Highway

Back in the 1950’s my father was a long-haul truck driver, I sometimes road with him on long weekends. One night he and I were driving alone a stretch of road when this happened!

The low rumble of the diesel engine is the only constant companion through the moonless New Mexico night. The glow of the dash lights casts My Fathers calloused hands in a pale yellow as he grip the wheel of his eighteen-wheeler. It’s the mid-50s, and Route 666 stretches out before us like a black ribbon unspooling into an abyss, the “Devil’s Highway” as some call it. You’ve heard the whispers, the tales of strange happenings, but for a long-haul trucker, a schedule waits for no ghost story.

The radio crackles with static, then fades into silence, leaving only the hypnotic hum of the tires against the asphalt. Peering into the inky blackness beyond the headlights. The landscape is sparse, unforgiving – a few gnarled junipers, the looming silhouettes of distant mesas. We passed a sign, barely legible in the fleeting beam: “Gallup – 40 miles.” Good. Almost there my Father said.

Then we see it. A flicker, barely perceptible, in my peripheral vision. I glance to the right. Nothing but desert. I shake my head, blame lack of sleep. But then it’s there again, closer this time, just beyond the shoulder. A figure.

My Father eased off the accelerator, my heart giving a sudden, unwelcome lurch. It’s a man, standing perfectly still, his back to us. He’s wearing an old, dark suit, out of place in this desolate landscape, and an impossibly tall, wide-brimmed hat that casts his face in shadow. He’s not hitchhiking; his arms are at his sides, stiff. And he’s facing the desert, not the road.

As we slowly rolled pass the figure, I could see a man. No, not a man. It’s too… angular. Too still. Like a scarecrow carved from obsidian. Our headlights illuminate him fully for a split second, and in that instant, we see it: a gaunt, impossibly elongated form. His head slowly, mechanically, begins to turn.

My Father pressed the accelerator, the truck roars, picking up speed, my eyes are glued to the right-side rear-view mirror. I could see his head as he continues turning. Slowly. Unnaturally. He’s turning in our direction. He’s not looking at the desert anymore.

And then, just as his face would have come into view, he lifts a hand. A long, skeletal hand, fingers like twisted branches. And he waves. A slow, deliberate, farewell wave.

My Father slammed his foot down, the truck howling as we leave the impossible figure behind. The sun will be up soon, and in the harsh light of day, you’ll tell yourself it was just a trick of the light, a desert mirage, imagination playing tricks on your mind. But as you watch the first weak streaks of dawn paint the eastern sky, you can still feel the chill of that wave, a cold touch that lingers long after the silence of the highway returns. My Father vows, loudly, I’ll never take Route 666 again.

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I Made The Call To 1-666-1Spooky

It was 3 AM, and I was scrolling through old internet forums, the kind of place where every post looks like it was etched with a rusty spoon. That’s where I found it: the number. 1-666-1Spooky. The thread claimed it was a cursed line, a direct connection to a voice that could tell you exactly how you were going to die. A perfect late-night dare for a bored, twenty-three-year-old skeptic like me.

My heart was doing a ridiculous little drum solo against my ribs as I punched the digits into my burner phone—a cheap, plastic thing I bought just for this joke. The dialing tone was unusually thick and sticky, like wet velvet. It rang four times, each ring a slow, heavy thud.

Then, it connected. Not with a greeting, or a recording, or even static, but with a sound that felt less heard and more felt. It was the sound of air moving in a vast, cold, empty place—a sighing, rattling whisper that pulled the heat right out of the room and left the metallic taste of ozone on my tongue.

“Hello?” I managed, my voice a pathetic squeak.

The whisper responded, and though it didn’t use words, I understood it perfectly. It was a language made of pure dread, a single, concise thought pushed directly into my mind: You know what you asked for.

A click. The line went dead. I stared at the phone, suddenly freezing, the initial adrenaline rush gone, replaced by a deep, metallic unease. It was just a prank, I told myself, a really high-quality sound effect.

I tossed the phone onto my desk and tried to forget it, but the room felt different. The shadows in the corners seemed thicker, more deliberate. I started noticing things. Later that morning, I went to make coffee. As I reached for the handle of the ceramic mug, I hesitated. Why? I didn’t know. I chose a different mug. That night, I was driving home when a car ran a red light. I slammed on the brakes, stopping inches from the intersection. My hands shook. I should have been hit. Looking down at the dash, I saw the time: 3:03 AM.

The day after, I was cleaning my apartment and saw a loose wire hanging by the sink. I instinctively reached out to fix it, but a flash of intuition, sharp and terrifying, stopped me. I used a broom handle instead, fishing the wire away as a tiny spark of blue electricity snapped against the wood.

It’s been a week now. I haven’t heard the whisper again, but I don’t need to. I didn’t get a date or a time on the phone, but I got the message: the manner of my death is fixed, and I am now hyper-aware of every single thing that can cause it. Every time I instinctively turn away from the rattling air conditioner, every time I hesitate before stepping onto a loose floorboard, I know I’m cheating. I’m dodging the inevitable, one tiny, desperate decision at a time.

I made the call because I was bored. Now, I am never bored. I’m busy watching the world, seeing the countless, precise ways it is trying to kill me. And I’m exhausted, because I know one day, I’ll miss the right choice. One day, I won’t hesitate. The true horror wasn’t the voice on the line; it was the awareness it granted me.

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The Boston Strangler refers to a serial killer who murdered 13 women in the Boston, Massachusetts, area between 1962 and 1964. The killings involved strangulation, often with items of clothing, and sexual assault, according to Biography. There were no signs of forced entry in most cases, leading to speculation that the women knew their killer or willingly allowed him into their homes. The brutality and mystery surrounding the crimes instilled fear throughout Boston and sparked a large-scale investigation, says EBSCO.

Albert DeSalvo and the Boston Strangler case

Confession and Controversies: In 1965, Albert DeSalvo, already in custody for unrelated sexual assault and robbery charges, confessed to being the Boston Strangler. However, his confession was met with skepticism, and he was never formally charged with the Strangler murders. DeSalvo’s initial confessions lacked details, and some inconsistencies with crime scene evidence further fueled doubts about his guilt.

DNA evidence:

In 2013, advancements in DNA technology allowed for re-examination of forensic evidence from the last attributed victim, 19-year-old Mary Sullivan. DNA from the crime scene was matched to DeSalvo’s nephew, and subsequent exhumation and testing of DeSalvo’s remains definitively linked him to Sullivan’s murder.
Lingering Questions: Despite the DNA evidence in the Sullivan case, some individuals, including some investigators and authors, continue to believe that multiple killers were responsible for the Boston Strangler murders.

The lasting impact

The Boston Strangler case significantly impacted the public’s perception of serial killers and generated intense media coverage. The investigation itself led to changes in law enforcement procedures, including the use of computers in criminal investigations for the first time in the country, according to Boston.com. The case continues to fascinate and be discussed, even decades later.
Note: While DeSalvo’s involvement in the murder of Mary Sullivan is definitively established through DNA evidence, his role in all the Boston Strangler murders remains a subject of discussion and debate.

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As always, we check out the full list of ALL paranormal activity, including evps, poltergeists, and the bizarre and supernatural. All of these are featured in some of the creepiest scary videos on the internet.

So here is what’s in these scary videos: A GHOST is captured in the middle of the road. A GHOST is captured in a school bathroom. A cctv camera captures a GHOST on a HAUNTED property. A woman who is fixing up a house in Oregon captures a GHOST upstairs. A GHOST can be seen scaring a dog.

Back in the early 80’s in San Antonio, TX my young wife where having financial problems and ended up homeless. At one point we stayed at one of the local camp grounds, in on of the little huts. They were small but comfortable with electricity and air.

One evening we went out to grab a bite to eat and afterwards we decided to go for a walk around the area. It was mainly an industrial area divided by large fields of grass. So we were walking and came upon a large grassy field with a house that looked like it had been moved there, dumped and abandoned.

The house looked pretty large from outside, it didn’t have a foundation it was sitting on concrete blocks. There were a set of stairs leading up to the front porch of the house but not connected to the house, just kinda leaning up against the house. So curiosity got the best of us and we managed to get up those stairs and into the house.

It was wired, the front room of the house was fully furnished, I mean large sofa, loveseat and other chairs and whatnot stands. Shelves with books on it. Pictures were hanging on the wall, dishes in the cabinets, I mean the house didn’t look abandon like the outside. We expected to walk into a empty house, but the house was far from empty. We slowly made our way down the hallway, I was halfway expecting to run into someone staying in the house.

The house had three bedrooms and they were all fully furnished. One of the rooms was a kids room, judging by things on the was I would say a boys room. The other room you could tell it belonged to a teenage girl. The third room was the parents room. My wife looked at me and said “look like whoever lived in the home just up and left with out taking anything more then their clothes”. But how the house got on the lot was a mystery.

The was a closed door at the end of the hallway, painted an ancient shade of black, chipped and faded with age, I thought led to another bedroom or closet. The doorknob, a twisted iron spiral, gleamed strangely in the dim light, almost inviting me to grasp it. As I reached out, a rush of wind seemed to escape beneath the frame, swirling my hair as though the door had exhaled, urging me to come closer. I hesitated, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. What waited me behind that threshold? Was it merely a forgotten room, or was it the very embodiment of every dark tale that had ever been told?

I opened the door to see stairs leading down into darkness. I didn’t have a flashlight so I couldn’t see anything below. Then I thought BELOW! I said to my wife “this house was sitting on blocks how could their be a basement”? Apparently this was no ordinary door, it led to something profound and sinister, a dark dimension.

It was starting to get dark outside and the house didn’t have electricity so my wife said “it’s getting dark lets get out of here”. As we were leaving I said to my wife “let me check something out” I walked around the side of the house to see if there was a door visible from the outside of the house, and there it was, with no doorknob, so it looked like if you opened that door from the inside you would be looking outside. But that’s not the case.

Later that night as we sat around a campfire with a couple of friends that we had met since staying at the campground, Fred and and his girlfriend Billy, we told them the story about the house with the never ending basement, they were interested in seeing the house themselves. So we agreed to visit the house again the next day.

Since the house was surrounded by warehouses and businesses we decided to visit the house after 6PM, when most of the business will be closed. A little after 6pm armed with two flashlights from Fred’s car, we sat out to visit the house. Me my wife Fred and Billy. We arrived at the house a few minuets later. I pointed out that the house was on blocks and couldn’t possibly have a basement, and we proceeded inside the house.

We entered the house slowly, searching all the rooms and checking all corners with the flashlights. Retracing the steps of the day before, until we reached the door. I looked around at everyone and said, “we’ll here’s the door”. I reached for the doorknob turned to open it. A lingering scent of damp earth mingled with an unsettling stillness that raised the hairs on my arms. It was almost as if the very walls were breathing, watching me, waiting for the moment I would step inside the door and down the dark stairs. Chilled, yet propelled by a curiosity I could not suppress, I grabbed my wife’s hand she grabbed Billy’s hand, Billy reached back to grab Fred’s hand, and as a group we all stepped inside to the door.

I hesitated, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. Suddenly our surroundings had completely changed. I yelled “step back, now” we took a step or two backwards and we were suddenly back into the house. I turned to Fred and said “tomorrow we will come back and try again but we will need some rope”. We all agreed and left.

When we got back to the camp ground, we again grouped around a camp fire to discuss our trip to the house, joined by Fred and Billy’s friend, Lee. We told Lee about the house, he wanted to see the house, so again we all agreed to meet at the camp ground the next evening and go see the house.

The next evening after closing time we gathered at the camp ground with our flash lights and rope, and proceeded to the house. When we got to the house Lee looked around and said “wow” and asked “how could there be a basement in this house, Fred remarked “brotha you ain’t seen nothin yet”. We proceeded into the house and looked around. Everything still looked the same. We slowly walked down the hallway checking the rooms as we go until we reached the basement door. Before opening the door I looked around the area for somewhere to tie the rope, I saw a bed in the last room that looked heavy enough that it couldn’t move. I reached down and tied the rope securely to the bed frame leg.

We tied the rope around each one of us securely and proceeded to the door. I opened the door and we stepped in. Lee said “well I’ll be a son of a bitch” Fred said “I told ya”. Shining the flash toward the floor to see where I was stepping, we took about three steps forward to where the first step down was. Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the stillness, echoing through the endless dark—a sound so raw, so desperate, that it paralyzed me, and the realization chilled me to my core. we were not alone. We stood there in silence frozen in fear. Just then we heard a soft but stern voice say “TURN BACK, LEAVE NOW YOU DON’T BELONG HERE”.

In a panic, we turned and moved as one back to the door, with a swift breath, I twisted the knob and pulled. The door groaned as if awakening from a long slumber. The house was pitch black except for the light from the dim lights from the surrounding buildings and our flashlights. I said “this is impossible we were in there only a few moments, it doesn’t get dark until about 9PM and when we went in it was around 6:30PM”. Looking at my watch it said 10PM, what seemed like a few minutes was actually 3 and a half hours. Had we lost complete track of time? Lee made his way to the bedroom to untie the rope, and we hurried outside the house and untied ourselves.

We got back to the camp grounds, we really didn’t know what to think about what happened inside the house. I said “I need a beer”. My wife said “maybe that’s what happened to the people that lived in the house, maybe they got lost in that. portal and couldn’t get out”. We chilled the rest of the night and spoke no more about the house.

After a couple of days we were sitting around shootin the shit and brought up the house, we decided that the next day we would visit the house. A little after 6PM the next day we sat out for the house. It didn’t take us very long to reach the area where the house was located. It was a nice fall breezy evening. It was so nice out that I didn’t even realize that we were walking pass the area where the house was, but the house, the house was gone.

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The air in my apartment had grown thick, heavy with a cloying sweetness that stung the back of my throat. It wasn’t the pleasant aroma of baking bread or blooming flowers; it was something else, something sickly and artificial, like overripe fruit left to rot in the sun. I first noticed it a few weeks ago, a subtle undercurrent to the usual city grime and exhaust fumes that permeated everything. Now, it was almost suffocating.

I’m not a religious man, not in the traditional sense. I’ve always considered myself a pragmatist, a skeptic. Ghosts, demons, angels – they were all just stories, comforting fables for those afraid of the dark. But the things that began happening to me, the escalating strangeness that invaded my life, chipped away at my carefully constructed wall of disbelief.

It started subtly. Dreams, vivid and unsettling, that burrowed into my consciousness and lingered long after I woke. I’d find myself staring at reflections for far too long, convinced there was something… different. My appetite vanished. I’d pick at meals, feeling a knot of unease tighten in my stomach, a premonition of something dreadful.

Then came the whispers. Faint, almost imperceptible, but definitely there, just at the periphery of my hearing. My name, I thought, carried on a breath of warm air, seductive and laced with promise. I dismissed it as stress, exhaustion, the product of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

But the whispers grew louder, more insistent. They started to form words, phrases, promises of pleasure and power, spoken in a voice that sounded both ancient and impossibly alluring. It was like honey, dripping into my mind, sticky and irresistible.

I started to feel… watched. Everywhere I went, I had the distinct sensation of being observed, scrutinized. It was a constant pressure, a prickling awareness that someone, or something, was always just out of sight, lurking in the shadows. I’d spin around, heart hammering, but there was never anything there. Just the empty street, the vacant park bench, the indifferent faces of strangers.

The dreams intensified. They became more explicit, more disturbing. I was no longer just a passive observer; I was an active participant in scenes that blurred the line between pleasure and pain, reality and fantasy. I woke up sweating, gasping for breath, haunted by images that clung to me like cobwebs.

One night, I woke to find myself standing in the middle of my living room, completely naked. The air was thick with that cloying sweetness, almost tangible now. The shadows danced in the corners of the room, twisting into grotesque shapes. And then I saw her.

She was standing by the window, bathed in the pale moonlight. Her skin was the color of alabaster, her hair a cascade of raven black that flowed down her back like liquid night. Her eyes, though, were what held me captive. They were pools of molten gold, burning with an ancient, knowing light. They promised everything, offered everything, demanded everything.

I couldn’t move. My body was frozen, my mind paralyzed. I could only stare at her, mesmerized, caught in her intoxicating gaze. She smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of her lips that sent a shiver down my spine.

“You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?” she whispered, her voice a silken caress against my skin.

I tried to speak, to deny her, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat was dry, my tongue heavy. I could only nod, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

She glided towards me, her movements fluid and graceful, like a predator stalking its prey. She reached out a hand, her fingers long and slender, and brushed them against my cheek.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “I’m here to give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

And in that moment, I understood. I knew what she was. A succubus. A demon that fed on desire, a creature of nightmare made flesh. And she had chosen me.

I don’t know how I found the strength, but somehow, I managed to break free from her spell. I stumbled backwards, away from her, my heart pounding in my chest like a trapped bird.

“Get out!” I croaked, my voice hoarse and trembling. “Get out of my house!”

She didn’t move. She just smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” she said. “I’m a part of you now. I’m in your dreams, in your thoughts, in your desires.”

Then, she vanished. Just like that, she was gone. The cloying sweetness faded, the shadows receded, and the room was silent once more.

But I knew she was still there. Not physically, perhaps, but in my mind, in my subconscious. She was a seed that had been planted, and I knew it would take more than just a simple exorcism to get rid of her.

I started researching. I devoured books on demonology, folklore, and religious texts. I consulted with priests, rabbis, and even a self-proclaimed Wiccan. I learned about protection rituals, banishing spells, and the power of faith.

I tried everything. I filled my apartment with holy symbols, recited prayers, and performed cleansing rituals. I even slept with garlic under my pillow, which did nothing but give me terrible dreams about garlic.

Some things worked, temporarily. The rituals provided a brief respite, a moment of peace. But she always came back, stronger and more insistent than before.

The battle is still ongoing. She hasn’t manifested physically again, but her presence is always there, a subtle pressure, a nagging voice in the back of my mind. I fight her every day, clinging to my sanity, refusing to succumb to her allure.

I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be free of her. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she is a part of me now. But I refuse to let her win. I refuse to let her control me. I will keep fighting, keep resisting, until the day I die. Because the alternative… the alternative is a fate far worse than death. It’s a life consumed by darkness, a soul devoured by desire. And that is something I will never allow.

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The most famous specters haunt the city’s abandoned buildings. In the heart of Bangkok sits a 49-story tall abandoned Sathorn Unique tower known locally as the Ghost Tower. This building has scratched the curiosity of many a local and tourists alike. And while there have been more than a few to explore it, it’s full dark and twisted history is not widely known. A skeletal skyscraper looming over the Chao Phraya River, is a notorious playground for thrill-seekers and ghost hunters alike. They say the construction was cursed, the spirits of those who died during its construction forever trapped within its concrete shell. You can almost hear their mournful cries carried on the river breeze. That is what we unpack in this documentary.

Written and Directed by dana blouin
Producer Jib Blouin
Original Score by Darren Hale ‪@DarrenHale‬
Assistant Producer Mark Yang
Additional Footage by Chris Parker ‪@RetiredWorkingForYou‬
Thanks to Charlie Hub ‪@TWCH‬
Special Thanks to Dr Kriengsak Chareonwongsak ‪@drdancando‬
Special Thanks to Shaun Wood from Team Farang ‪@ShaunWoodFilms‬

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The tale of Mae Nak Phra Khanong, the devoted wife who died in childbirth while her husband was away at war. Upon his return, she greeted him with open arms, blissfully unaware that she was already a ghost. When her husband finally discovered the truth, she unleashed her terrifying wrath, becoming one of Thailand’s most feared and revered spirits. You wouldn’t want to stumble across her shrine, especially late at night.

The humid Bangkok air hung heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine and something else… something ancient and unsettling. I’d been drawn here by the whispers, the hushed tones of the locals, the stories they told only after a shot of rice whiskey loosened their tongues. They spoke of Mae Nak Phra Khanong, a legend woven into the very fabric of the city, a ghost story that felt undeniably real.

I wasn’t a believer, not really. I was a journalist, chasing a story, hoping to find a kernel of truth within the layers of folklore. But the more I delved into the legend of Mae Nak, the more the line between skepticism and unease blurred.

It began, as most ghost stories do, with love and loss. Nak, a beautiful young woman, lived in the Phra Khanong district with her husband, Mak. When Mak was conscripted to fight in the war, Nak was left alone and pregnant. She waited for his return, her days filled with longing, her nights with fear. But Mak never came home. Nak died in childbirth, both she and her baby lost. Or so the story goes.

The air in Bangkok hung thick and heavy, a humid blanket clinging to my skin as I navigated the labyrinthine alleyways of the old city. I’d come chasing whispers, rumors of a spirit that haunted these ancient streets, a wraith known only as the Nang Nak. It was a foolish endeavor, I knew, but the lure of the macabre had always been a siren song for me.

My first night was uneventful. I wandered past the Chao Phraya River, its dark waters reflecting the city’s neon glow, a deceptive beauty masking the undercurrents of something ancient and unknowable. I visited the Wat Mahabut, the temple dedicated to Nang Nak, a place steeped in sorrow and offerings of colorful toys for her stillborn child. I felt nothing, saw nothing, only the oppressive humidity and the judging stares of the locals who knew better than to trifle with the unseen.

But the whispers persisted, growing louder with each passing day. They spoke of a woman, abandoned by her husband, dying in childbirth, her love so powerful, so unwavering, that it anchored her spirit to this realm. They said she waited, eternally, for his return, her devotion twisted into a possessive rage.

Then came the second night. I was back in the alleys, the city hushed around me, the only sound my own ragged breathing. I passed a crumbling shophouse, its windows like vacant eyes, when I saw her. Just a glimpse, a fleeting impression of a woman in traditional Thai dress, her skin pale as moonlight, her eyes…empty.

I froze, my blood turning to ice. Logic screamed at me, telling me it was a trick of the light, a shadow playing games. But the air had grown colder, the scent of jasmine, said to be her favorite flower, clinging to the back of my throat.

Then, a voice. Soft, melodic, but laced with an unbearable sadness. It called my name, or at least, what sounded like my name, twisted and distorted by grief. I ran. I didn’t stop running until I reached the safety of my hotel room, the city lights a weak shield against the darkness that had brushed against me.

I still didn’t know if I believed in ghosts, but I knew I believed in the power of stories. The story of Mae Nak Phra Khanong was a story of love, loss, grief, and ultimately, acceptance. It was a story that had resonated through generations, a reminder of the enduring power of the human spirit, even in the face of unimaginable tragedy.

And as I walked away from the temple, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mae Nak was still watching, still listening, still waiting for her beloved Mak to return. Perhaps, in a way, he already had, in the hearts of all those who kept her story alive. The mystery of Mae Nak Phra Khanong remained, a haunting whisper in the humid Bangkok air. A whisper I knew I would never forget.

I don’t know what I saw that night, or if I saw anything at all. I left Bangkok the next morning with more questions than answers. But the image of those empty eyes seared into my memory. I came seeking a story, and I found something far more sinister, a glimpse into the abyss of undying love and its terrifying consequences. And I know, with chilling certainty, that Nang Nak is still waiting, her sorrow echoing through the silent streets of Bangkok, a constant reminder that some spirits never truly rest.

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I found it in the attic, cloaked in dust and shadows, a relic nestled among forgotten echoes of a life long past. The Mask of No Return, they whispered, swirling tales about its origins and the enigmas it housed. My fingers trembled as I lifted it from its resting place, the cold, smooth surface sending ripples of dread coiling around my spine. It was both alluring and repulsive, a face baring no expression—an eternal void, where emotions were swallowed whole.

They said the mask belonged to an ancient cult, one that danced beneath the silvery gaze of the moon, chanting secrets only the night comprehended. Those who wore it were rumored to transcend the bounds of life, straddling a thin line between worlds, forever wandering in darkness. To don the mask was to forfeit one’s humanity, for once you embraced its embrace, the return to the living was no more than a ghostly fantasy. The chilling thrill of curiosity lured me further into its depths.

With a reckless breath, I slipped the mask over my face, a snug grip that consumed my senses. Everything shifted; familiar rooms morphed into shadowy realms, and the air thickened with whispers, echoing long-forgotten cries. The world outside became muted, replaced by a cacophony of visions shimmering with malevolence. I saw figures, cloaked in night, their faces hidden behind masks that mirrored my own. They wove through eerie landscapes of gnarled trees and twisted pathways, beckoning me to join their eternal ballet.

I lost track of time, or perhaps it lost track of me. The seconds burrowed into minutes, and minutes morphed into haunting eternities. My mind danced on the precipice of sanity, teetering between desire and terror. Each fleeting moment resonated with a whisper of truth: the mask was a gateway, a portal teasing me with glimpses of a life unearthly and unfathomable. I could feel its power coursing through me, a dark elation that sang of freedom—of countless realms to explore, of countless souls entwined with every step.

Yet, deep within, a primal fear ignited, warning me that eternity came at a devouring cost. I envisioned myself forever wandering, unseen and unheard, a mere specter in realms of shadow. Panic clawed at my heart as I wrestled with the truth buried beneath layers of illusion. I wanted to scream, to rip the mask from my face, but my hands felt shackled, bound by the very essence of becoming one with the void.

As I struggled, a surge of memories flooded back—faint images of laughter, sunlight pouring through windows, the warmth of a simple life. I reached for them, craving the taste of normalcy, but the shadows tightened around me, their grip unrelenting. I was slipping away, tethered to a fate carved by the Mask of No Return.

In a final gasp of desperation, I wrenched the mask off, the chill of reality smashing against my skin like ice water. I stumbled back, gasping for breath, my heart rattling in my chest. But I wasn’t alone. The whispering figures loomed in the edges of my mind, forever a part of me. I may have escaped their world, but I could never escape what they had shown me. I had glanced beyond the veil, and with that glimpse came a truth haunting enough to know: the mask did not just swallow the wearer; it left echoes that would never fade.

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As I stood in the dimly lit living room, the air thick with unease as shadows dance along the walls, shifting restlessly. My father’s voice lingers in the air, an echo of a time when the world felt less foreboding. “It was a bargain,” he had said, his eyes glinting with excitement as he unearthed the cursed television set from the depths of a dusty thrift store. A relic from a bygone era, it was heavy and ornate, its screen tarnished but still flickering with the promise of vintage charm.

I remember the day he brought it home, it was 1965 I was eight years old at the time, the scent of stale popcorn wafting from the box as he proudly placed it in front of the old couch, a smile stretching across his face. Little did I know, that smile would soon twist into something far more sinister. The instant he plugged it in, the air crackled—not with electricity, but with something darker, something that slithered into my heart like a creeping fog. I felt it, that thick, suffocating presence, but my father dismissed my concerns with a laugh, insisting the set was merely misunderstood.

The first night, the television hummed to life, casting eerie shadows that danced across my pale skin. I felt drawn to it, as if the screen were a portal, pulling me into its depths. The channels panned from static to grainy images of forests at twilight, filled with whispered messages that made my skin crawl. It was only after the sun sank beneath the horizon that I began to notice the change in my father. Long minutes of silence stretched between his words, his laughter replaced by an unsettling stillness. At dinner, I caught him staring at the flickering screen, eyes glazed as if he were ensnared in a trance, while the images twisted and churned in the depths of that malevolent glass.

As the days passed, the television became a sentient beast, consuming more of my father with each passing evening. Striped shadows invaded our home like bad news; an unsettling calm cloaked my life in despair. My mother grew distant, her face etched with concern as she tried to pull my father from the abyss, but his gaze remained locked on the screen, as if it were whispering sweet nothings only he could hear.

I stood at a crossroads of dread and disbelief. my childhood was cracking like fine porcelain, the echoes of laughter muffled beneath the weight of that accursed object. And then came that night—the night when the screen erupted into frenzied chaos. The image twisted into a chaotic whirlpool, and out of it, voices clawed their way into my consciousness, shrieking for release. My father’s laughter warped into a chilling cackle that chilled me to the bone, and in that horrifying moment, I realized the truth: it wasn’t just a television set; it was a prison, and my father had become its unwilling warden.

With heart pounding in my chest, I grabbed the remote control, trembling as I aimed it at the cursed device. Before I could press the button to shut it off, a terrible surge of energy pulsated through the room. The shadows writhed, walls began to shudder, and for an instant, it felt as if the very fabric of reality began to unravel.

In that moment of near-despair, I saw my father—truly saw him—trapped behind glass, fighting against the very thing that possessed him. I pressed the button, and just like that, the haunting laughter was silenced, but the echoes of the cursed television lingered, a reminder of the darkness that once held sway over our home. I never spoke of it again, but the specter of that night sits in the recesses of my mind, waiting, watching, whispering a haunting tale of my father and the cursed television set that forever altered the course of our life.

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Several years ago my girlfriend and I decided to create a Ouija board. We started with a flat piece of plywood about 15 inches long and 12 inches wide. We used a magic marker to add the yes, no and good bye and other letters and numbers. My girlfriend is a pretty good artist so she added images of the sun and moon. It looked good to be hand made. We used a small glass as a planchette.

We then created a circle and I lit some candles around it and consecrated It, we lit more candles around the board (white candles) and started to the process to consecrate it as well. We pushed the planchette in a circle around the board and let it rest in the center. We started by welcoming the spirits to join us within the circle. We asked the basic questions like is their anyone there? It didn’t respond. We asked if it wanted to talk with anyone in the circle. Or if it was related to anyone. It didn’t respond. So we asked if it could give us the first letter of the name they wanna speak with? And again It didn’t respond. So we closed the board.

The next day I went to work. My girlfriend knew the rules of the board. One main rule was to never use the board alone, but curiosity got the best of her and she used the board anyway. At the time we were living next door to a graveyard.

When I arrived home she proceeded to tell me about her experience with the board. I said wait you did it alone? You know better! She said I know, I know.

She said she was in the living room windows and doors closed. She said she lit the candles in a small consecrated circle and welcomed the spirits into the circle. She put one finger on the planchette, and she ask is their anyone there? She said the planchette moved to yes.

She said she ask for a name and it spelled out the name “Michael”. Now she had a brother that had passed away name Michael, so she then asked if it knew her name? She said the planchette slid to yes, and proceeded to spell her name, Elizabeth. She said she then ask Michael what is your birthday? She said the planchette then gave out three numbers, 6.6.6. then a swift wind blew through the room and the blew the candles out, and the front door blew wide open and slammed shut.

She said it happen so quickly and scared her so that she jumped up out of the circle, she didn’t know what had just happen, she rushed to the front door to check it, she says the door was locked. How could the door had opened and closed by itself.

The she told me it had all happen so quickly that she had forgotten to release the spirit correctly and had forgotten to close the circle. So yeah that’s her encounter with an Ouija board. It fucked me up too. I ended up doing a complete cleansing ritual of the house. We never heard anything and nothing ever happened. We have sense moved to another property but to this day she feels that whoever that spirit was is following her!

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Legend has it, that the train tracks out on Shane Road, like many ghost stories, starts with a tragic accident. According to locals, a school bus full of children stalled out on these tracks and a train plowed through them, killing everyone except the teacher. Overcome with grief, she came back out to the spot the next day to wait for another train to take her life as well.

As the woman sat in her parked car on the tracks, a mysterious force began pushing it uphill to safety. Once the movement stopped, the teacher got out of the car – and found children’s hand prints on her dusty back bumper and trunk. Supposedly, anyone stalled on the tracks will be saved by the ghostly children as well.

So anyway the year was 1975 the crew and I had been to the ghost tracks many times before, but this trip was different and stopped us from going ever again.

It was a clear cool Halloween night. I left the house about ten PM to pick up the gang. There was first my girl Pamela, my buddy Leroy then there was Lillie and Tyshawn.

We stopped at regular store stop to pick up some provisions and powder to dust the truck of the car. At about 11:30PM we made a right turn onto Shane road and unlike any other time an eerie feeling came over me.

I steered the car half way down Shane road and up to the tracks my buddy and I got out of the car to sprinkle the powder on the truck and bumper of the car as usual so we can search for finger prints afterwards.

My buddy and I got back in the car, I announced ok folks here we go. I pulled the car up on the tracks and came to a stop, put the car in neutral and cut off the car lights and engine. It was very quite. We waited for what seemed to be a longer then usual time for the car to start moving, but it didn’t.

Suddenly a mysterious fog begin to engulf the car. One of the young ladies from the rear seat whispered what the hell is going on? No one responded. We sat there for another minute or so as the fog begin to thicken it was getting hard to see, and my buddy said I got a bad feeling about this, lets not wait any longer lets go. Everyone agreed that this was enough for the night.

I put the car back in park and proceeded to start the car. Realizing my worse fears the car simply clicked, I made sure to car was in park and tried again, nothing. I also tried to turn on the car lights but they wouldn’t come on.

Suddenly there was a loud whistle that sounded remarkably like a train. I remember thinking no this can’t be. About that time we heard another train whistle but this time it sounded a hell of a lot closer. I was looked to my right and to my left when my buddy yelled a TRAIN!

Looking back to my right I could see a bright light on the track barreling down on us, I again tried to start the car, it wouldn’t start. Hearing the train whistle getting louder and the train light moving toward us at a fast pace, I yelled EVERYBODY OUT! I was thinking we could push the car our-self’s but the car doors wouldn’t open, none of the car doors would open. I yelled WHAT THE HELL?

We weren’t sure how close the train was in the dark thick fog. Setting there in pure fright I kept trying to start the car. Then my buddy yelled PUT THE CAR IN NEUTRAL! I yelled WHAT? again he yelled PUT THE CAR IN BACK IN NEUTRAL!

So just setting there, the car wouldn’t start, doors wouldn’t open, hell the windows wouldn’t even let down. I slammed the car gear back into neutral. The train whistle getting louder and louder the train light moving closer, the car begin to very slowly move forward inching over the tracks little by little up over the top and down the other side.

As the car started to roll down the other side of the tracks I steered the car to the right and we coasted a little further and rolled to a stop.

At that point the car lights came on. A voice whispered from the rear seat said where’s the train? There’s no train on the tracks. The train whistle had stopped and the train lights were gone as well.

As the fog begin to clear I put the car in park and the car started by itself, with no problem and we sped outta there.

Talking and driving, we didn’t stop to check for prints until we got back to our store at the corner of Pecan Valley and Rigsby. Everyone got out of the car to see if we had our print evidence, and there they were, little prints on each side of the trunk and bumper.

My buddy yelled LOOK! and there in the middle of the trunk where two very strange looking, very very large hand prints with long skinny fingers. Not a kids hand print and not human!

As I said this trip was different, and stopped me from going ever again. Ghost fog, ghost train, ghost kids and strange hand prints. I haven’t returned to the ghost tracks to this day and never will.

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