50 TRUE Horror Stories So Terrifying You Can’t Sleep

I’ve always been one to dismiss tales of the 
uncanny, but a recent string of odd occurrences   brought to mind a peculiar incident from 5 years 
past. It was early spring in the industrial fringes of Havenwood, a time when the mornings 
bit with an icy chill, demanding a heavy jacket and often a scrape of frost from the windshield. 
My residents sat on the quieter side of the old freight lines, a rather desolate stretch dotted 
with the occasional refinery far from the town’s main arteries. While it’s now a burgeoning suburb, 
back then it was mostly empty land. One crisp Friday morning around 9, my usual route to work 
was snarled by some roadside cleanup. Forced to detour, I ventured through the industrial park to 
the east, a rarely used stretch, typically silent, save for the rumble of heavy trucks and the 
infrequent hum of a passenger car like my   own. As my sedan crested a slight incline, 
rising over a neglected set of rail tracks, I spotted a vehicle pulled onto the shoulder. 
Its hood was up and a solitary figure stood beside the driver’s side door, his gaze fixed on 
me as I approached. The car itself was a relic, a burnt orange two-door coupe, clearly from the 
late7s, perhaps a Datson Z model. And the man, he seemed a ghost from that same era. I’ll 
never erase the image. Faded denim jeans, a crisp white shirt collar peeking over a thick 
dark brown leather jacket lined with sheepkin and sturdy tan work boots. His face was framed 
by a heavy dark mustache and hairstyled in a distinct slick back fashion reminiscent of 
a disco era film star. He was a broad man, probably in his mid-40s, standing just over 6 feet 
tall with a noticeable punch but an undeniable air of physical strength. His hands were tucked 
deep into his pockets, but his posture was unnervingly rigid, like a sentry at parade rest. 
As I drew closer, my foot instinctively lifted from the accelerator. I considered stopping, 
pulling in behind his car to offer assistance, but his unwavering stare held me. No customary 
nod, no friendly wave, not even a flicker of a smile, just an absolute unblinking gaze. His face 
utterly devoid of expression. A wave of profound unease washed over me. The help I’d intended to 
offer vanished, replaced by an urgent, primal urge to flee. Instead of pulling over, I pressed 
the gas pedal, accelerating away from the scene. It was completely out of character for me, I 
routinely stopped for anyone in distress. But   this man radiated a chilling energy I couldn’t 
ignore. Glancing in my rear view mirror, I saw he hadn’t moved, only tilting his head 
slightly to track my departure. As I watched, he slowly turned back, his gaze settling once 
more on the deserted tracks, as if awaiting the next arrival. I arrived at work, a knot of guilt 
tightening in my stomach for abandoning a fellow motorist. I recounted the strange encounter 
to Marcus, my close friend and supervisor. He listened intently, then confessed to feeling 
a shiver himself and commended me for trusting   my instinct. I pushed the incident from my mind, 
immersing myself in work. Later that afternoon, on my homework journey, I deliberately took the 
industrial park route, half hoping, half dreading to see if the burnt orange coupe was still there. 
To my relief, the spot was empty. A small weight lifted. At least he’d found a solution, and I felt 
less a cad for letting my irrational fear dictate my actions. I went home, slept soundly, and put 
the whole bizarre episode behind me. Saturdays were also work days for me, and I always chose the 
scenic, less congested route on weekends. The next morning, precisely at 9:30 a.m., I found myself 
on the very same stretch of Industrial Park Road. It was invariably a ghost town on Saturdays. 
The businesses catering to the weekday grind   were all shuttered. The night before driving home, 
I’d spent a full 15 minutes traversing that area at a crawling pace, not encountering a single 
soul or car. Even the small gas station closed its convenience store on weekends. As I crested 
the same hill, my blood ran cold. There he was, the same man, the same burnt orange car in the 
exact same spot, hood up, standing beside the driver’s door. If yesterday hadn’t instilled such 
a deep sense of dread, I might not have registered how utterly unnervingly identical it all was. It 
was as if he hadn’t. This time, however, as my car drew near, he responded. His hand emerged from 
his pocket, a halting, almost robotic wave aimed in my direction, accompanied by what looked like 
a shouted command. Though no sound reached me, accelerating, the growl of my aging vehicle seemed 
to register, because then he did something truly alarming. He raised both hands, an unmistakable 
gesture to stop, and began to shift his weight, preparing to step directly into my path. His 
features remain utterly frozen. The same vacant gaze, the same thin downturned line for a mouth, 
a mask of unnerving stillness, even as he prepared to obstruct a moving vehicle. A sharp tug on the 
steering wheel will sent my car veering slightly, narrowly missing him as I pressed harder on the 
accelerator. The road ahead stretched long and straight. Yet, even as the adrenaline surged, 
I glanced into my rear view mirror. What I saw cemented the chilling absurdity of the situation. 
He had simply stepped back, resuming his vigil by the car door, his eyes once again fixed 
westward. It was as if the near collision, my panicked swerve to avoid a potentially fatal 
impact, had never occurred. There was no reaction, no lingering glance at my retreating car, only 
the same unwavering stare. That was the last I ever saw of him, but the experience nodded at 
me. I later called the local police department where I knew several officers, including a former 
neighbor. I presented my story, framing it as a concern for a potentially distressed motorist. 
The more I thought about it, the more anomalies surfaced. On Friday, the day of the initial 
encounter, a gas station had been opened less than a block away, a place he would have undeniably 
passed to reach his supposed breakdown spot. How could he have missed it? or why would he not 
seek help there? This hadn’t struck me on Friday, but seeing him again on Saturday, with every 
detail, the car, the raised hood, his identical attire, the precise location, even his rigid 
posture replicated perfectly, made the situation profoundly unsettling. I knew his car hadn’t been 
there overnight. I’d driven the route myself, and his face, as I passed him at the 25 mph speed 
limit, was perhaps the most disturbing element, utterly devoid of any genuine emotion, merely 
going through the pantomime of distress. It was as if he understood the actions required to flag 
down help, but not the feeling behind them. The instant return to his fixed stare after I bypassed 
him, just like the day before, underscored this chilling detachment. When I later checked with one 
of my police contacts, he confirmed no reports had come in about a stranded vehicle in that area. 
Even the patrol officer assigned to that route found nothing a miss when he eventually passed by. 
Marcus, my supervisor and friend, had reiterated his earlier advice. Always trust your gut. Thanks 
for calling it in, Elias. He’d said, “Stranded folks can be in real trouble out there, but you 
did right to listen to that feeling. If someone gives you the creeps, the best thing is to let us 
handle it.” To this day, I’ve never encountered that man or his car again, and I sincerely hope I 
never do. Whatever peculiar charade he was engaged in, it was clear his vehicle wasn’t genuinely 
malfunctioning in that conveniently secluded spot. Not twice, not identically. Of all the strange and 
unnerving experiences I’ve had throughout my life, that inexplicable encounter remains the benchmark 
for pure unadulterated creepiness. This incident often resurfaces when I recall truly unsettling 
run-ins. It even overshadows some of the inexplicable phenomena I encountered while working 
at a particular hotel. At that establishment, there was one room in particular notorious for 
unusual activity, far more than any other. It was common knowledge among staff. Anyone who’d been 
there longer than a couple of months had a tale   to tell about it. For a bit of background, this 
wasn’t a standard hotel room. It was more like a small apartment. You entered into a spacious 
common area with a television, a dining nook, and a well stocked mini bar complete with proper 
glassware. Two separate bedrooms branched off from this central living space. The first story I want 
to share about this room happened to me directly. I was alone cleaning one of the bedrooms when I 
distinctly heard the main entrance door open. My immediate thought was that the guests must have 
returned unexpectedly. Having assumed guests had simply returned earlier than anticipated, I called 
out from the bedroom, a quick apology on my lips for not having finished tidying. But the silence 
that followed was absolute unnerving. I repeated my greeting then again, but met with no reply. 
My initial confusion deepened into a prickle of unease as I ventured into the main common 
area, deserted. I checked the second bedroom. It too was empty. The entire apartment, despite the 
unmistakable sound of the entrance door clicking open moments before, was completely vacant. 
Puzzled, I finished my cleaning and immediately sought out a colleague, hoping for an explanation. 
I asked if he’d seen anyone approach the room, anyone at all. He shook his head, unequivocally 
denying any arrivals. “Are you certain?” I pressed, my mind replaying the distinct click 
of the card key. He merely reaffirmed that no one but me had gone near that particular suite. 
The strange occurrences weren’t limited to my own experiences. Another incident, also centered 
on that same notorious suite, involved a fellow employee. He recounted how late one evening while 
fing drinks to a different guest’s room nearby, he’d fumbled, sending an entire tray crashing 
to the floor, glass shattering loudly. Barely 5 seconds later, distinct footsteps emanated from 
the haunted suite, followed by the unmistakable sound of its door opening and then closing. 
He initially dismissed it, rationalizing that a curious guest must have poked their head out 
to investigate the racket. After meticulously cleaning up the broken shards, he remade the 
drinks and completed his delivery. Later, recounting the mishap, he lightigh-heartedly 
joked about having disturbed the occupants of   the adjacent room. His listener, however, looked 
at him with an odd mix of confusion and alarm, asking precisely which room he’d heard 
the commotion from. When he specified   the notorious sweep, the other employees 
face went pale. The room, it turned out, had been empty and unbooked that entire night. 
A shared sense of dread prompted them both to investigate. Upon entering, they found the suite 
still vacant, no sign of an intruder, but every piece of glassear carefully arranged within the 
cabinets was utterly smashed. To this very day, I actively avoid entering that particular suite 
alone unless absolutely compelled. A pervasive icy chill accompanies its odd, palpable aura 
and atmosphere that consistently makes my skin crawl. Not all of the hotel’s unsettling episodes 
were confined to that one cursed apartment. There was another instance in a different room which 
occurred after my own bizarre encounter in the   main suite. On that specific day, the hotel was 
unusually quiet with only two check-ins, a common occurrence given its smaller size. This meant I 
had a number of additional tasks, one of which was the repetitive chore of ensuring every unoccupied 
room had its lights off. Guests, for some reason, frequently neglected to switch them off upon 
departure. Methodically, I went through each empty room, flipping every switch before settling down 
to complete the rest of my evening duties. I had finished roughly 2 hours ahead of my usual 11 p.m. 
clockout time, an opportunity I’d normally seize. However, the manager overseeing the shift that 
night was an unyielding stickler for early   departures. She insisted I perform a complete 
double check of every room, verifying that all lights were indeed extinguished before she would 
even consider letting me leave. With a sigh, I retraced my steps. As anticipated, every room 
was dark, precisely as I’d left it, except one. I pushed open the door to find every single light 
blazing. a shocking sight that momentarily stole my breath. I knew I had been in this room just 
like all the others, and I had definitely turned off the lights. The sudden realization that they 
were all on sent a shiver down my spine. And then, as I stood there about to exit, a lamp right 
beside the bed flickered to life. The immediate surge of alarm was visceral. I’d never heard 
of lights turning on by themselves. Something was profoundly wrong. Without another thought, I 
simply closed the door and left that room. A more recent event from earlier this year still holds 
a strong grip on my nerves. I was in the final stages of cleaning a room and was heading back to 
the supply closet to grab a few more items. As I made my way down the corridor, I noticed a woman 
in a pristine white robe with long brown hair walking purposefully towards what I presumed to 
be her room. Returning to the room I just cleaned, I checked my assignment sheet for the next 
one on my list. To my instant vexation, it was located further down the very same hallway 
that the woman in the robe had just traversed. The implications of this felt inconvenient to say the 
least. Initially, I assumed the guest in the white robe had simply returned ahead of schedule, 
necessitating a polite inquiry about when her   room might be conveniently clean. While it may 
seem unusual for a boutique hotel, our ethos was built on fostering personal connections and 
offering a more interactive guest experience. So, I approached her door and knocked, anticipating 
a prompt reply. 30 seconds turned into 2 minutes, yet silence was my only answer. Concerned, 
I eventually retrieved my card key, easing the door open slightly as I called out her 
name, just to ensure my entry was appropriate. Still nothing. I pushed the door wider, cautiously 
stepping into the seemingly empty room, scanning every corner. A wave of panic seized me. I had 
seen her with my own eyes, walking to the end of this very hall, and there were no other suites 
she could have possibly entered. Overwhelmed, I backed out, shutting the door behind me with 
a decisive click. I rushed to the front desk, eager to share my unnerving experience with a 
colleague. He listened. unfazed despite not having seen the woman himself. “Ah, the phantom lady,” 
he remarked casually, confirming that others had also reported sightings. “My co-worker’s 
nonchulence did little to soothe my nerves, particularly as my thoughts drifted to the hotel’s 
dimly lit basement. This subterranean level, undeniably creepy with its unwelcoming ambiencece, 
was ironically the vital pulse of our operations. It housed storage for supplies, offices for 
management, and served as the unseen artery for transporting goods without disturbing guests. 
The pervasive sense of unease down there was well known among staff, especially after dark, when the 
air often thickened with the chilling sensation of unseen eyes. One Thanksgiving night in 2018, a 
date etched in my memory because I was helping set up Christmas decorations after my regular 
duties, I ventured into this very basement. My task was to retrieve some wreaths from a storage 
area we affectionately, or perhaps ironically, dubbed the dungeon, owing to its perpetually 
dim lighting and distinct musty odor. I quickly located the box of wreaths and pulled two out. 
As I turned to leave, a whisper, clear as a bell, drifted right into my ear. Wrong one. I recoiled 
instantly, my heart leaping into my throat. I was utterly alone. There was no conceivable source 
for that voice. Shaken, I retreated to the main floor to begin decorating. It was only then, as I 
discovered that the first wreath I’d grabbed was unsuitable due to a complete lack of ribbon, 
tinsel, holly, or berries, that the gravity of the whisper truly hit me. The disembodied 
voice had been helping me, guiding me to avoid a wasted trip. I was utterly stunned. That wasn’t 
the only peculiar event linked to the basement. A different tale, though not my own, unfolded down 
there. An employee walking the desolate basement corridor one evening spotted what appeared to 
be one of our maintenance workers. What struck her as odd was the late hour his shift had long 
ended. She called out, questioning his presence when a sudden, sickening crunch echoed from a 
storage room nearby. Investigating the sound, she found a raw, jagged hole punched through 
the door panel as if someone had driven their   fist straight through it. When she turned back 
to confront the maintenance worker, he was gone, vanished without a trace. Another bizarre incident 
involved an employee performing turndown service in a guest room. For those unfamiliar, 
turnown service is our hotel’s unique way of refreshing a room for the night, complete 
with champagne and chocolatecovered strawberries. We also, rather controversially in my opinion, 
add lit candles, a practice I’ve always considered a ridiculous fire hazard. Though thankfully the 
hotel remained standing. This particular employee was meticulously lighting the final candle and 
doing a last minute check when he realized he’d   forgotten to replenish the body towels. He 
stepped out to fetch them. Upon his return, he found all eight candles, which he had just 
carefully illuminated, completely extinguished. Thinking it merely strange, he reel at them 
all and prepared to depart. However, like me, he had a curiosity for the inexplicable. 
He decided to wait five more minutes, then re-entered the room. Sure enough, every 
single candle was out once more. Convinced that an unseen entity was playfully toying with him, 
he reelit them for a third time and finally left. Adding to the night’s oddities, the very guests 
who had received the turndown service later called   to complain. The candles Elias Thornne’s colleague 
had so meticulously lit were all extinguished upon their return. Some things, it seems, simply 
defy explanation. Yet, not all the hotel’s tales are steeped in such palpable unease. One, 
in particular, offers a touch of poignant warmth. For the first 15 years of its operation, the 
hotel’s sprawling grounds were a source of   immense pride for a man named Sam. As he saw it, 
he wasn’t just a groundskeeper. He was an artist, cultivating the hotel’s natural beauty. He ensured 
every blade of grass was impeccably trimmed, every flower bed a vibrant tapestry, and in 
winter, the parking lot was always pristine, free of ice and snow. Sam poured his heart into 
his work, a dedication that tragically ended eight years ago when he suffered a heart attack right 
there on the property. Since his passing, many would agree the grounds haven’t quite held the 
same luster. However, a good number of the current grounds keepers believe Sam never truly left. They 
claim he still watches over his beloved domain. One groundskeeper recalled finishing a new flower 
arrangement at the front of the hotel when a soft whisper clear as day breathed beautiful. He 
scanned the area. Only other groundskeepers were nearby, too far to have uttered the word. 
Apparently, this isn’t an isolated incident. Several employees have reported hearing an 
encouraging voice compliment their efforts   whenever they’ve gone above and beyond to beautify 
the landscape. They firmly believe it’s Sam, still checking up on his masterpiece. As if any 
place his spirit would linger, it would be here amidst the verdant canvas he so lovingly tended. 
As a curious aside, the very land upon which the hotel now stands was once productive farmland 
for nearly 170 years before its acquisition and transformation into the hotel premises around 
the 1990s. Regarding the unexplained phenomena, Elias Thorne notes that the earliest signs 
of activity surfaced about 3 months after the   hotel opened its doors. Initially, it was minor, 
a pen inexplicably rolling off a desk, an object falling from a table despite being nowhere near 
the edge. But as the years passed, the occurrences grew in intensity. The first reported instance of 
someone hearing a distinct voice occurred in 2000. An employee gathering supplies in the service area 
suddenly heard a clear imperative leave. He looked around, wondering if he was being rushed, 
but found himself utterly alone. By 2004, the activity had escalated into more violent 
manifestations, with the first report of a   freshlymade bed being inexplicably trashed, sheets 
and pillows scattered throughout the room, though nothing was torn. Around this time, it became 
increasingly common for staff to hear phantom footsteps ascending from the basement, only to 
find no one there, or to experience the unsettling sensation of being watched in the subterranean 
depths. Elias Thorne couldn’t pinpoint the exact first sighting of an apparition, but estimated 
it would have been around the same period as the   bed incident. Curiously, despite all the varied 
reports, he’s never once heard of anyone having a tactile experience with these entities. Now, 
for some of the darker revelations Elias Thorne shared, in the hotel’s entire history, only one 
individual has ever died on the property itself, and this unfortunate event is strongly suspected 
to be linked to the recurring sightings of the   woman in white. Given that the hotel property was 
once farmland, the developers opted to preserve a section of naturally beautiful woods adjacent to 
the building. Within these woods, hiking trails were established for guests, and a pond offered 
a serene spot for recreation. However, in 2007, a woman staying at the hotel tragically drowned 
in that very pond. Since that harrowing incident, guests are no longer informed about the pond’s 
existence, and if they discover it on their own, prominent signs now prohibit fishing, swimming, 
and ice skating purely for liability reasons. Marcus, Elias’s boss, is personally convinced 
that it is this woman’s spirit that staff and guests occasionally glimpse around the hotel, 
given that no other fatalities have occurred on   site. However, he hypothesizes that the other, 
more general paranormal activity experienced by people might well be attributable to the spirits 
of farm workers who tragically perished due to   work-related injuries during the land’s previous 
incarnation. Regarding that specific room, the one where the lights had so inexplicably 
reeluminated after I definitely switched them off, a rather fascinating revelation came to light. 
A spiritual medium in town for one of her public engagements had requested to stay in a room 
known for its paranormal activity. Naturally, she was assigned to that very suite. After a two 
night stay, upon her departure, she shared her experiences with the hotel staff. Though I wasn’t 
present for this particular conversation, Marcus later recounted the medium’s insights to me. 
She disclosed that during her time in the room, she had only made contact with a single spirit, 
that of a six-year-old boy. This detail was particularly striking as it seemed to confirm our 
suspicions about the origins of the hotel spectral   residence, connecting them to the property’s 
past as a working farm. The medium described the boy as largely mischievous, prone to minor 
pranks like activating the lights. Reassuringly, she emphasized that none of the spirits inhabiting 
the hotel held any malevolent intentions towards the living. Coming from a medium, one can 
interpret this as they wish. But I, Elias Thorne, found her words quite credible, primarily because 
in all our years, no one has ever been physically harmed. The spirits rarely even manifest to 
guests. Their presence mostly felt and witnessed by the staff. Separately, a vivid memory from my 
earlier years often springs to mind. Back in 1992, my high school friends and I, a group of rather 
naive young adults, were convinced a two-week beach vacation was the ultimate right of passage. 
What started as a dream trip to Cancun, Mexico, born from a movie one of us had seen, an idyllic 
escape from the harsh New England winters and a   grand celebration of surviving high school, would 
for a brief time turn into something far less idyllic. There were six of us in total. Keith, our 
unofficial leader, who had navigated a tough time after losing his father in junior year, found this 
trip a muchneeded focus for optimism. Greg and Kirk, both history and archaeology enthusiasts, 
were as eager to explore Mayan ruins as they were the beaches and local bruise. Dorothy and Hannah 
quite rare gamer girls in our area were simply excited for an adventure with their big brothers, 
as they jokingly called the rest of us. And I, Elias Thorne, was simply yearning for something 
new and thrilling. Unfortunately, our immediate post-graduation plans were thwarted. Some of us 
needed our savings for college. Others found jobs that wouldn’t grant us the time off. Yet, we made 
a solemn pack to make it happen. Years passed. One, then another, then five. Finally, Keith 
surprised us all with a phone call, announcing he’d secured not just a suite, but an entire house 
on the beach for 2 weeks. Five of us were home for the holidays. And as we gathered at a local bar 
for a joyous reunion, Keith proudly displayed the travel brochure. The property was stunning, almost 
excessively opulent with its golden accents and lavish amenities. It seemed impossibly expensive, 
even when split six ways. But surprisingly, it was a steal for a two week stay. What’s wrong with it? 
Kirk voiced the question we all silently pondered. Keith clarified that a recent hurricane had 
severely impacted the local economy, driving down prices for properties outside the more bustling 
Cancun city center as owners struggled to compete. Our chosen house was closer to the quieter village 
of Puerto Morelos, yet still conveniently located for attractions like Tulum and Zelha. We 
could explore any beach we desired, take a boat to Isla Muheres, or even venture to Bise, 
all for merely a third of our initial budget. We cautiously agreed, trusting Keith’s diligent 
vetting process. He’d already put down the deposit and locked in the dates, and we eagerly marked 
our calendars. It was late the following year, and the truth was, we were all moving on 
with our lives. Relationships were forming, weddings were on the horizon, and Greg even had 
a baby on the way with his fiance. This felt like our last chance to truly relive our childhood 
dream before our paths diverged permanently. Fast forward 9 months and the day 
finally arrived. I, Elias Thorne, had devoured countless travel guides and 
meticulously packed everything I needed,   opting for the cheapest flight, which meant a 
ciruitous route of layovers and gate changes. Catching up with Dorothy at the bustling baggage 
claim felt like a reunion decades in the making,   despite only a few years having passed. We 
embraced, remarking on the subtle changes time had etched into each other’s faces. a quiet 
acknowledgement of the distance traveled since our   high school days. The plan was simple. Share a cab 
to our rented paradise. We joined a winding queue, trading updates on our lives, Dorothy’s upcoming 
spring wedding, and her impending move to Europe, Hannah’s last minute withdrawal from the trip 
due to work commitments, sending her regrets. Gradually, the mundane details of our adult 
lives gave way to the burgeoning excitement   of vacation mode. Our turn eventually came and we 
were directed to a battered rust tinged Chevrolet, a relic driven by an older man whose movements 
were as fluid as a dancer, yet whose smile held the practiced glint of a salesman eager to close a 
deal. His name was Boloff. With brisk efficiency, he stowed our luggage in the trunk and ushered 
us into the back seat. I recited our address. He peered at me through the rearview mirror, a 
flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. I repeated it and he nodded though his expression remained 
subtly perplexed. After a quick exchange over his crackling radio where the address was reiterated 
twice and even the dispatcher sounded a little   lost. Boloff flipped his turn signal merging 
right against the outgoing airport traffic heading towards the city. He quoted a price. I asented 
and soon we were cruising down an increasingly deserted lane swallowed by the encroaching shadows 
of dusk. Most travelers were veering towards the glittering promise of Cancun’s main attractions. 
We, however, were on a two-lane road already littered with refues, moving deeper into the 
unknown. Just past the on-ramp, we transitioned into a starkly different reality. A sprawling 
makeshift settlement stretched before us, teeming with people. Torches flickered to life, casting an 
eerie glow on families living in palpable squalor. Barefoot toddlers and children played in the 
dirt outside tent-like shelters. Further down, beached vessels lay half submerged in the sand, 
repurposed as homes by families who painstakingly cut doorways and windows into their holes. 
Gaunt, stray dogs and cats roamed the roadside, their hungry eyes following our slow progress. As 
darkness deepened, the road grew quieter still, winding along the coast under the vast canopy of 
the Yucatan rainforest. The ocean, a shimmering expanse in the fading light, captivated Dorothy’s 
attention, but my gaze was drawn inland to the deepening gloom. Bolof, who had been so jovial 
initially, grew noticeably more reserved, his cheerfulness evaporating the moment he knew 
our precise destination. “You know, people in this area,” he began, his voice dropping. “It’s 
very dangerous. You must be very careful.” I shook my head, feigning an understanding I 
didn’t possess. A friend rented a house here, I offered weakly. He nodded, but his skepticism was 
palpable. Dorothy tensed beside me, her view of the beach now obscured by the encroaching forest. 
She glanced at me, her eyes silently asking, “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Another 
mile or so, and we broke free of the trees, once again, hugging the shoreline. Inland, 
the harsh jaundest glow of security lights illuminated a small strip mall containing a market 
and a few other nondescript shops. The market, the only establishment open, had a cluster of 
taxis parked outside, their drivers enjoying beers and sodas. Bolof honked and waved, and the 
men cheered back. His smile, briefly rekindled by their camaraderie, provided a fleeting sense 
of ease. But as we rounded the next bend, his grin vanished. The road ahead was plunged into 
headlight devouring darkness. In the distance, several figures materialized in the middle 
of the lane. A handful of teenagers, some holding flashlights, all clutching heavy 
sticks. Bolof began to slow. “Gang of kids,” he muttered. “They want to collect the toll.” Dorothy 
instinctively clutched my arm. I’d heard whispered tales of such roadside shakedowns. “How much?” I 
asked, my voice barely a whisper. Bolof shook his head. “We not stop,” he pressed the accelerator, 
surging towards the obstructing figures. At the last possible second, they scattered, diving for 
the shoulders as our taxi roared past. Dorothy dove into my lap, and we both ducked as a hail 
of rocks clattered against the back of the car. Boloff logged the incident on his radio, 
then mumbled something under his breath,   perhaps regretting taking this particular fair. 
Moments later, we arrived at our address. Despite the glossy brochure photos showcasing a dazzling 
facade and lush gardens, the property’s exterior, stark and uninviting in the dim light, was 
undeniably rundown. Our haven, it turned out, was a fortress. We pulled up to a towering 
concrete barrier easily 20 ft high crown not with barbed wire but with hundreds of broken 
bottle shards cemented together in gruesome jagged rows. The only access was a formidable steel 
gate currently sealed shut guarded by a solitary intercom. Elias Thornne buzzed the unit and with 
a protracted agonizing groan of protesting metal the gate began its slow arduous journey open. 
Every squeal echoed the tension in the air. Both Boloff and Elias Thorne kept a vigilant watch on 
the deepening shadows beyond, half expecting the gang of stick wielding teenagers to reappear. 
The moment our taxi cleared the threshold, Boloff’s urgency returned. “Close the gate,” 
he insisted, even as he eased the car beneath a covered entryway near the main door. Fortunately, 
as if on Q, the heavy gate began to creek shut on its own. Just then, the front door swung open, 
and our three energetic friends, Keith, Greg, and Kirk, spilled out onto the drive. A flurry 
of handshakes and backpacks ensued as they cheerfully hauled our luggage inside. Boloff, 
still preoccupied with the closing gate, only half listened as Keith casually inquired about 
a drive to Chichanitsaw the following morning. Once the gate finally clanged shut, Boloff was all 
smiles again, readily agreeing to transport three, perhaps four in his taxi. He quoted a price 
for the full day excursion, which Keith readily accepted. As Bolof prepared to leave, he offered 
a pardon, cryptic warning, “Keep the place tight, so the bed bugs no bite. I come back 9 tomorrow.” 
Keith seemed to brush off the comment with a laugh, but it struck Elias Thornne that their 
earlier arrival during daylight hours must have painted a far more pleasant picture of this 
fortified abode. Bolof waited until the gate was definitively locked before driving off, and 
Elias Thorne noticed another taxi, a wingman, doing a U-turn further down the road to follow him 
back to town. The brochure had been expertly shot. The photos cunningly avoided the harsh reality 
of the exterior, those imposing concrete walls, some clearly rebuilt recently, others patched 
haphazardly with cement where older blocks   had crumbled. Yet stepping inside, the opulence 
alleged by the glossy pictures was fully realized. A sprawling, sunken living room, replete with 
plush sofas and armchairs, invited relaxation. A graceful spiral staircase ascended to the private 
sleeping quarters above. While a cavernous dining area led into a professional-grade chef’s kitchen, 
we received a swift tour, but Dorothy and Elias Thorne were utterly spent from the long journey, 
the unsettling taxi ride serving as a stark cap to our day. We gratefully retrieved cold surveas from 
the fridge, noting with relief that the pantry had been generously stocked by the owner before our 
arrival. Keith had already whipped up dinner, but there were still enough leftover fajitas and 
bowls of snacks on the gaming table to satisfy   our hunger. Elias Thorne felt too tired to roll 
up a DND character, but he happily settled in, letting the familiar rhythm of his friends 
role- playing wash over him. We were all older, our conversations a little more measured 
and thoughtful. Yet, in that moment,   it felt like coming home. One detail about the 
house soon captured Elias Thorne’s attention. It didn’t offer a direct view of the beach. The 
towering concrete wall, which served as our first floor patio’s perimeter, completely obstructed the 
ocean. A private illuminated pool cast a tranquil blue glow across the yard, leading to another 
tall steel security gate beyond which Elias Thorne could just discern a narrow strip of moonlight 
glinting off the water. This made sense, he mused, given Mexican law stipulated that all beaches were 
public property, meaning the estate’s boundary naturally ended at the wall. His thoughts were 
abruptly interrupted by Keith’s next revelation. The phone doesn’t work, Keith stated, his tone 
matter of fact. “What?” Elias Thorne exclaimed. “Yeah, we were going to call for a taxi to take 
us into town for dinner, but the phone’s dead.” A flicker of unease went through Elias thorn. 
None of them had cell phones. Keith, however, seemed unperturbed. The owner lives in Puerto 
Huarez. I’ll get in touch with him after we get back from the pyramids tomorrow night, he 
explained. Dorothy and Elias Thorne exchanged a glance. Neither of them had envisioned a full day 
excursion to the pyramids. Their plan had been to ease into the vacation with a relaxing day on 
the beach, soaking up the sun. Elias Thorne was already feeling uncomfortable with the prospect of 
an entire day without modern communication or an easy exit route. The phone’s silence, though 
not an immediate crisis, felt like a growing vulnerability. My mind was already mapping out a 
plan to get Keith to Puerto Huarez in the morning to find a fix when a piercing resonant buzzer 
sliced through the night. We all jolted, the sound echoing through the great room like a prolonged 
insistent alarm, a game show buzzer signaling a profound error. Only this was no game. It 
stopped, then immediately shrieked again. Keith, ever the leader, rose from his seat and strode 
to a small al cove, clearly intending to open the gate. Don’t open the gate. Dorothy and I exclaimed 
in an unplanned chorus. Kirk and Greg chuckled at our synchronized warning, but Keith froze, 
turning to us with an odd expression as the buzzer resumed its deafening cry. “I wasn’t going to,” he 
clarified, pushing open a concealed panel in the al cove. Behind it lay a small security monitor 
and an intercom. He squinted at the fuzzy image. I rose and moved beside him just as he muttered, 
“Bunch of kids.” On the screen, one teenager, grinning maniacally, pressed his face to the 
camera, his hand relentlessly mashing the buzzer. The fisheye lens and the meager security light 
revealed a chaotic scene. A group of perhaps 10, a mix of youths and adults, with a few straggling 
dogs milling restlessly outside. The one staring into the camera possessed a chilling familiarity. 
Whether it was the late hour or my own heightened paranoia, I was certain he was one of the figures 
who had obstructed our taxi earlier. “Just ignore them,” I murmured, my unease growing. The buzzer 
blared again, and an irritated groan rippled through our small group. Dorothy buried her 
face in her hands, the relentless noise clearly affecting her more deeply than the rest of us. 
“Can you just silence that thing?” she pleaded. I don’t know, Keith replied, shrugging as he fumbled 
with the intercom. He found the power button and pressed it. The buzzer died instantly. It seemed 
the kid outside understood, for he immediately withdrew his hand and stepped back from the panel. 
Though his eyes, full of mischief and a definite glint of anger, remained fixed on the camera. 
The harsh light washed out his other features. The group behind him huddled in tight clusters. 
Their backs now turned to our unseen gaze. Keith, sensing the unnerving shift, flipped the 
power back on and before I could utter a word, pushed the talk button. “Hey, what can we do for 
you guys?” he called out, attempting a friendly, casual tone. A burst of loud laughter erupted 
from outside, easily audible within the house. The kid at the intercom stepped forward again, 
pressed the talk button, and spoke rapidly in   Spanish. I caught enough to discern his meaning. 
He wanted food, drinks, and an invitation to join our party. Then, switching to English, he added, 
“We can bring in women and some ganja. Have a real good time. See?” We exchanged bewildered 
glances, not considering the preposterous offer, but rather the sheer audacity of it. 
Sorry, bro. Party’s over, Keith responded, already mentally dismissing the encounter. The 
gang outside conferred briefly among themselves. The spokesperson then hit the talk button 
again. No, I don’t think you’ll sleep tonight. With that unsettling declaration, the group 
scattered, running off in various directions. The kid at the front, a wide grin plastered across 
his face, glared once more into the camera before backing away and disappearing around the 
exterior wall. Dorothy immediately stood, her hands trembling as she searched for something. 
It turned out to be a bottle of tequila. Greg, always close to her, went to offer comfort. 
I would later learn that just 6 months prior, Dorothy and her fianceé had been victims of a 
home invasion in Baltimore, tied up and robbed at gunpoint in the middle of the night. “This entire 
confrontation was a profound trigger for her. “We need eyes upstairs,” Keith stated, his voice now 
devoid of any casualness. “Someone has to be able to see over that wall. I’ve got some security 
cameras here and there on the beach side.” Kirk and I both looked up at the spiral staircase. 
Keep the lights off. Keith called after us. We obeyed. I made my way to a beachside bedroom, 
peering out the sliding glass door onto the balcony. There were no windows overlooking the 
side of the house from this room, suggesting they were likely pressing against the perimeter wall to 
avoid detection. I sat on the king-sized bed only to realize it was a terrible idea. Despite the 
adrenaline, an overwhelming wave of sleepiness washed over me. I stood back up. At that precise 
moment, a barrage of stones arked over the wall. A dozen or more, the size of softballs and golf 
balls caught in the luminous blue glow of the pool area rained down onto the sand and concrete 
below. The initial volley pelted the balcony, some stones ricocheting off the metal rails with 
a deafening clang before plunging into the pool. The sharp report sounded chillingly like gunfire, 
and a piercing shriek from Dorothy echoed from the other end of the house. Instantly, the sprawling 
backyard and the stretch of beach beyond were bathed in stark white light as the powerful 
security towers positioned at each corner of   the property flared to life. The broken glass 
shards crowning the walls gleamed menacingly, and Elias Thorne could just make out dark shadows 
stretching towards the breaking surf along with the bobbing tops of a small group of heads. A few 
figures retreated slightly only to launch another hail of stones. Some of these new projectiles 
arked towards the brilliant security lights while others whistled menacingly towards the patio 
window. Thankfully, none of the rocks aimed at the building reached the glass, deflecting harmlessly 
off the railings or the robust patio overhang. Even those targeting the lights merely bounced off 
the reinforced casings without causing any damage. From the front of the house, Kirk’s urgent call 
broke through the dinelias thorn sprinted from the   room down the hall and into a smaller bedroom 
where he was pointing frantically towards the perimeter. Someone had managed to toss a heavy 
thick moving blanket over the top of the concrete barrier, and Kirk had spotted the very top rung 
of a ladder peeking over. For some bizarre, unthinking reason, Elias Thornne snatched up 
the ancient radio clock from the bedside table. He ripped the cord free, winding it tightly 
around the device, and Kirk shot him that look, the one he always reserves for Elias Thorne’s 
more illconceived strategies during their weekly   DND sessions. It wasn’t until Elias Thorne burst 
onto the patio that his conscious mind caught up with the absurd plan he was formulating. Just 
as a man’s head cautiously crested the wall, Elias Thorne launched the clock with every ounce 
of strength he had, sending it spinning like a   crude frisbee across the 30 ft or so towards him. 
It flew low and slightly off target, but shattered with a sickening crunch when it struck the jagged 
glass and concrete at top the wall, showering   the man in shrapnel. The impact and perhaps the 
surprise was enough to make him yelp and lose his footing, disappearing from view with a painful 
crash. Simultaneously, the flood lights at the front of the house blazed to life, illuminating 
the road beyond. A handful of terrified kids scattered, clutching their injured friend, who 
appeared seriously hurt. The thutting of stones against the rear of the house continued unabated, 
accompanied by furious shouting. Kirk, rushing back to where Dorothy and Greg were huddled 
together in a bedroom, yelled over the commotion,   “Make sure they’re not scaling the walls out 
back or charging the main gate.” Convinced the front wall was no longer an immediate threat, 
Elias Thorne returned to the rear bedroom. From the patio, he began gathering the white stones 
that had landed there. Noticing plumes of white smoke beginning to snake upwards from beyond the 
walls, eerily illuminated by the security lights. A few more rocks flew into the yard, but these 
were half-hearted throws, splashing weakly into the pool without effect. With about eight stones 
clutched in his arms, Elias Thorne returned to the main floor. “Kith was engrossed at the al cove, 
toggling between three live security feeds and a blank screen. They got one of the side cameras,” 
he announced, his voice tight. “What are they burning?” Elias Thorne asked, eyeing the smoke. I 
think they’re burning the beach furniture, Keith replied. Half of them ran off, but the older ones 
are still out back. Just then, a fresh assault began. Someone started launching Roman candles at 
the house from the beach. Dorothy’s screams ripped through the air again as a fiery orb slammed 
into the patio overhang and the sliding glass   door. Bottle rockets followed, then an assortment 
of smaller explosives. A couple of quarter sticks landed just inside the wall. their concussive 
force rattling the windows violently. One obliterated a deck chair, turning our small flower 
garden into a smoking crater. Then, as abruptly as it began, it ceased. The security lights 
remained on for another 510 minutes until the prolonged absence of any motion triggered their 
automatic reset, plunging the compound back into   the oppressive darkness. We had to let our eyes 
adjust, and it was a truly frightening moment. Keith diligently scanned the security cameras 
for a long while. There was no sign of them. Kirk speculated they’d either fled up the road 
or escaped via the beach. But then the kid from the intercom, the one who confronted us earlier, 
reappeared at the front gate. A wide, unsettling grin split his face and he was deliberately 
holding a handgun, displaying it clearly for   us to see on the monitor. He shook the camera with 
a casual, menacing gesture, then pushed the talk button. “No, I don’t think you’re going to sleep 
tonight,” he drawled before spitting directly onto the camera lens and casually strolling away. “None 
of us slept a wink that night, save for Dorothy, if you counted passing out from a potent mix 
of tequila and sheer terror. We reckoned we had approximately 7 hours until dawn.” Kirk 
began arguing that everyone, the figures who had launched their assault, must have retreated, 
either to collapse into an exhausted sleep or to   revel in their small victory somewhere deep in the 
night. Elias Thorne, however, found no solace in the lull. Seated around the dining table, the only 
illumination came from a scattering of candles casting dancing shadows as they strained to pierce 
the darkness outside the windows. For a time, Greg patrolled the upper floor. a silent sentinel 
before joining them, his own weariness etched onto his face. The glass doors to the patio remained 
open, the screens tightly shut in hopes that any approaching rustle or whisper would be 
caught by the gentle murmur of the surf,   which now seemed to mock their heightened senses. 
If they return, the flood lights will blaze back to life. Greg asserted, his voice thin in the 
quiet. And perhaps if a patrol car happens by and spots the radio clock still lodged on the 
wall, they might investigate. Elias Thorne knew the truth. Since the gang’s hurried departure, 
the only illumination they’d witnessed was the   distant sheen of moonlight on the ocean. It was a 
beautiful, almost ethereal scene, one that offered a stark contrast to their terror. Elias Thorne 
tried to force a sense of calm, cracking open a few coronas, but true relaxation eluded him. 
Instead, they kept themselves awake with tales of their high school glory days, occasionally 
hushing one another to avoid disturbing Dorothy, who had mercifully passed out in the next room. It 
was just shy of 3:00 in the morning when the front security light flickered back to life. Exhaustion 
had blunted their capacity for surprise, but not their immediate response. Elias Thorne peered at 
the monitor. Two shadowy figures were visible, methodically retrieving the discarded ladder and 
the blanket from a top the wall. The movement itself must have tripped the sensor, for they 
snatched their items and vanished back down the   road, their presence marked only by tiny receding 
pin pricks of light from handheld flashlights. The remaining hours until dawn blurred into a hazy 
memory. Elias Thornne might have drifted off, and he suspected the others had too, but no one 
truly slept. Sunrise brought a fragile sense of renewed courage. Keith, ever the planner, 
immediately began conspiring with Greg and Kirk for a quick power nap before Boloff’s return, 
eager to embark on their inland excursion. Elias Thorne, however, argued vehemently. “We need to 
contact the police and get this phone fixed,” he insisted. The thought of leaving Dorothy and him 
alone in such a vulnerable state, gnawing at him. Shortly after the sun had fully risen, Dorothy 
emerged, silent and resolute, in a swimsuit. She walked past them without a word, entered 
the pool, and began systematically retrieving   the stones from the bottom. Elias Thorne joined 
Keith in the kitchen, the mundane act of making breakfast a temporary anchor to normaly. Keith, 
perhaps swayed by the silent tableau of Dorothy’s meticulous stone retrieval, agreed to postpone 
their trip, prioritizing a police report and a functional phone. As they ate, they resolved 
to enlist Boloff’s help in connecting with the local authorities. Just as they finished, the 
insistent buzz of the intercom shattered the morning’s fragile piece. They all flinched, but it 
was only Boloff. Elias Thorne ushered him into the compound. Their taxi driver, looking remarkably 
unfazed by their ordeal, was dressed for comfort, faded denim shorts, an old golf shirt, and 
sandals. They recounted the harrowing night, and he listened with an almost casual air of 
understanding. His only flicker of surprise came when they mentioned the defunct telephone. 
He and Keith walked to the side of the house, and Bolof quickly confirmed Keith’s suspicion. 
The phone line had been neatly severed just   outside the perimeter wall. He noted it could be 
repaired, but just as easily cut again. This grim assessment delivered. Keith then used Boloff’s 
phone to contact the owner, relaying the events. According to Keith, the owner feigned a great deal 
of concern, promising to leverage his connections in Cancun and Puerto Huarez to increase police 
patrols that night and to turn over the security   footage to any investigating officers. Convinced 
that these assurances would magically resolve all their problems, Keith, Kirk, and Greg eventually 
departed, albeit a little later than planned for their full day at Chichenitaw. As they prepared to 
leave, Bolof pulled Elias Thorne aside. He pressed a small cold metal case into Elias Thorne’s hand, 
offering a brief, knowing pat on the shoulder, as if confident Elias Thorne would inherently 
understand its purpose. Inside, nestled against a velvet lining, lay a handgun with two 
magazines. Startled, Elias Thorne took it inside, conscientiously wiping it for Prince before 
secretreting it away in the kitchen. Dorothy, for her part, remained withdrawn and silent 
throughout the day. She showered, then returned to the patio outside the dining room, engrossed in a 
book, a stoic figure amidst the lingering unease. 4 hours later, a pair of uniformed police 
officers arrived. Elias Thorne ushered them in, painstakingly detailing the events of the previous 
night. One officer, speaking passible English, listened patiently before delivering a 
chilling explanation. The house, he revealed, had once belonged to a local drug trafficker, not 
a kingpin, but successful enough to maintain a lavish residence until his untimely demise. It 
had then been acquired by a local businessman, but tourists, for reasons not entirely clear to 
the officer, seemed to avoid properties so far removed from the protected tourist zone. 
The teenagers, he concluded with a shrug, were likely just local kids with nothing better to 
do than harass Americans. Their advice was simple and unsettling. Relax, have a good time. The local 
authorities, surprisingly nonchalant, seemed to have little interest in reviewing the security 
footage. They simply accepted the VHS tape, wished us well, and offered the vague assurance of 
hourly police patrols overnight. I bit my tongue, refraining from pointing out the substantial 
window of opportunity and hour afforded any   determined intruders. My attention instead 
kept gravitating back to the dead phone line. A constant nagging reminder of our isolation. If 
they could sever the phone, I reasoned cutting the power would be a trivial next step. These 
thoughts, however, remained unspoken, shielded from Dorothy, who spent the day hunched over her 
book in the sitting room and unyielding tension   radiating from her. Lunch went untouched. She 
had no appetite, nor any desire for conversation. I, on the other hand, busied myself with domestic 
tasks, gathering the scattered stones from the pool area into a neat pile by the door, clearing 
away the previous night’s debris. Afterwards, I sought a temporary reprieve, attempting 
to soothe my frayed nerves with a few beers,   the familiar melodies of Jimmy Buffett, and a 
languid float on a raft of pool noodles. The boys, it seemed, had never truly settled on a return 
time. Boloff had cautioned against fixed plans, citing the unpredictability of driving through the 
jungle with its potential for delays and detours. His advice had been simple, aim to be home by 
sundown. But as the sun dipped below the horizon on that second evening, painting the sky in fiery 
streaks, and our friends remained absent, a knot of concern began to tighten in my stomach. There 
had been loose talk of a DND adventure or a card game, suggesting their intention wasn’t to stay 
out late. Dorothy, who had succumbed to a midday nap, never ventured back outside after her swim, 
retreating instead to her chair with another book, her focus absolute. I prepared dinner, hoping 
the enticing aroma might stir her appetite, but she declined it, a stoic refusal. The 
surreal sensation of being a well-ared for captive persisted. A prisoner in a gilded cage. 
Beyond the towering walls, life went on. Locals ambled along the road, occasionally craning their 
necks to glimpse the gringoes through the upstairs   windows. Others relaxed on the beach, oblivious 
to our self-imposed siege. It was likely safe, I knew, to venture out, but neither Dorothy nor 
I were willing to take that chance. Darkness once again enveloped the house, leaving just the two 
of us within its opulent but isolating embrace. Around 8:00 in the evening, the security lights at 
the front of the property flickered off, plunging   us into a familiar unease. I must have drifted 
off because I awoke to find myself disoriented. Approaching the front door, I peered through 
the peepphole. A lone man stood in the yard, illuminated by the ambient glow. I couldn’t 
discern if he was armed, but his unblinking stare, shifting methodically from the front door to the 
unused garage, then to the downstairs bedroom, sent a fresh wave of prickling anxiety through 
me. Dorothy rose. A determined glint in her eyes and made her way to the phone. To our 
astonishment, there was a dial tone, but her attempts to reach 911 were met with a deadline 
time and again. Just as despair began to set in, the piercing buzzer shattered the stillness of the 
night. My heart leaped, fearing another assault, and I instinctively retreated to the security 
monitors. This time, however, a wave of relief washed over me. Boloff’s taxi sat outside the 
gate. I buzzed him through. As the heavy gate groaned open, the man in the yard melted into the 
shadows, bolting towards the rear of the property. I wasted no time rushing to the kitchen to 
retrieve the handgun from its case. Just as I suspected, the back gate, accessible from 
the inside, swung open, and the man vanished into the night, a trail of five other figures 
following in his wake. Yet, almost immediately, the initial man reappeared, frantically, motioning 
his companions to scatter, and they all vanished into the darkness. With the immediate threat 
gone, Boloff, who had been conversing with our returning friends, explained that he’d radioed the 
police the moment he spotted the suspicious group outside the wall. The officers, he added, were 
already on route. Keith, Greg, and Kirk emerged, deeply tanned and somewhat tipsy, recounting their 
own brushes with trouble that day. An adventure, they chuckled, not entirely unlike our own heroing 
night. Soon after, police cruisers arrived. their flashing lights casting a surreal glow on 
the compound. They interviewed Boloff and the rest of us, then presented a series of polaroids 
depicting individuals they’d apprehended near   the marketplace. We positively identified the man 
from our yard and the others attempting to breach our security. This was all the evidence they 
needed, not only to arrest the culprits, but also to round up the teenagers who had harassed 
us the previous night. As the situation settled, I returned the handgun to Boloff. He, with a 
mischievous grin, offered to sell it to me for $50. Whether I accepted his offer or not, the 
lingering uncertainty of that moment is now lost to memory. What remains vividly clear, however, 
is the profound sense of safety that enveloped us for the remaining 12 days of our vacation. With 
the immediate threat behind us, the remaining days of our trip were truly the carefree escape we’d 
imagined. Dorothy visibly relaxed, and after a few nights of undisturbed sleep, the lingering tension 
dissolved. We finally embraced the adventures we’d postponed for 8 years, exploring the sundrrenched 
beaches and Mayan ruins without a shadow of fear. This brings to mind a much earlier, 
deeply unsettling chapter for my life,   dating back to when I was a boy of eight or nine, 
growing up in a modest yet pleasant neighborhood. My bedroom sat directly across a long hallway from 
my parents’ room, nestled beside my sisters. My younger brother and I shared a bunk bed, and for a 
long time, everything was as ordinary as could be. That changed abruptly when my sister entered her 
defiant teenage phase heralded by the arrival of a truly bizarre doll. It was a porcelain figure 
unsettlingly rendered clad in a black tutu and sporting a distinct punk rock aesthetic. She 
adored it, a gift from her godmother, a woman with whom our family has long since lost contact. 
My brother, my mother, and I shared an immediate visceral aversion to the thing. It radiated 
an undeniable creepiness. Yet, it was hers, and we tolerated its presence. Slowly but surely, 
a disturbing transformation began to take hold of my sister. She grew increasingly withdrawn, her 
temper flaring without cause, especially directed at our mother. I even witnessed her deliberately 
cut herself once, a strange and troubling act, though at the time nothing that suggested 
the supernatural. Then came the sleepwalking. Initially, we rationalized it as typical teenage 
stress, a phase perhaps, but it quickly escalated, becoming unnervingly frequent. Her nocturnal 
wanderings instilled a profound unease in me, leading me to routinely lock our bedroom door 
after my brother had drifted off. One particular night, from my perch on the top bunk, I heard 
her stir. Then her footsteps began their slow, deliberate march. Peeking under the door, I saw 
her shadow halt directly in front of my room, then linger for an unnaturally long time before moving 
on, eventually positioning itself outside my parents’ door. The final straw arrived one morning 
when my parents awoke to find a kitchen knife discreetly placed beneath their bedroom door. This 
discovery provoked a near panic, not born of fear for themselves, but of a terrifying concern for 
my sister’s mental state. Her increasingly erratic behavior had them convinced she was on the verge 
of something truly drastic, perhaps even violent. This unsettling period persisted for a while 
until, as abruptly as it began, the doll vanished. My sister erupted in a furious, frustrated 
tantrum, but no one in the house admitted to knowing its whereabouts. Life, however, soon 
returned to a semblance of normal. The doll’s fate remained a mystery to me for years until I 
finally broached the subject with my father. His explanation was eyeopening. It turned out our 
godmother was deeply involved in black magic and Santia. She harbored a profound festering 
resentment towards my mother, stemming from a petty quarrel predating my parents’ marriage. My 
father explained that firstborn females hold a significant almost sacred place in Santaia. Seeing 
an opportunity, the godmother had given my sister that ominous doll, a conduit for ill intent. 
The true end of the doll was, in retrospect, rather comical. My devoutly religious mother at 
some point had secretly doused the cursed thing in holy water and deposited it in the trash, destined 
for the dump the following day. Another curious outcome. My sister never sleepwalked again. Though 
that eerie period eventually passed, it wasn’t the last time the inexplicable shadowed my life. A 
particularly vivid memory surfaces from my senior year of high school, a night that felt far more 
intense than any other unsettling encounter. I was navigating the latest in a string of adolescent 
heartbreaks. desperately seeking any distraction   to avoid retreating to my computer room, a 
common sanctuary in those days. My friend Mia, who lived in a neighboring community, extended an 
invitation to hang out at her place with her and   her brother. Socially awkward by nature, and 
with Mia being a relatively new acquaintance, I accepted on one condition, I had to bring along 
my constant companion, Robert. He was always game for anything, and I knew his availability without 
even asking. Mia was initially hesitant about an extra person, but when I promised we’d set 
off some of Robert’s impressive fireworks,   she readily agreed. She had her own stipulations, 
however, emphasizing the absolute necessity of calling her the moment we arrived at the transit 
station for her to pick us up. I found this request a little peculiar at the time. The short 
distance from the station to Mia’s house was familiar territory to me. A mere stroll, a fact 
that had led me to dismiss her earlier insistence on a pickup as an unnecessary formality. You’ll 
need those fireworks, I’d reminded Robert, who with an uncharacteristic sigh retrieved a 
small arsenal from beneath his bed. We arrived at the transit hub just before 11. My phone, a dying 
relic of a bygone era before ubiquitous charging ports, barely clung to enough power to send a 
single text confirming our arrival. As Robert and I killed time, butchering 80s pop anthems 
with off-key enthusiasm, a menacing black SUV, its windows impenetraably dark, screeched into the 
parking lot. It swerved wildly, blared its horn, and then, with a jolt, shot off into the labyrinth 
and suburban streets that were our destination. Mia appeared soon after and we made our way 
to the nearby schoolyard. Robert, usually the epitome of nonchalant apathy, seemed genuinely 
annoyed about deploying his precious fireworks, a mood so uncharacteristic it caught my attention. 
We lit off a handful, a few fizzling out, but most exploding with impressive flashes 
and loud cracks, successfully accomplishing   their primary purpose, drawing every eye and 
ear in the immediate vicinity. Minutes later, as if on Q, another black SUV roared down the 
street, trailing a chaotic bouquet of balloons that battered against the rear window. It slammed 
to a stop with a jarring screech. Mia’s face, etched with a peculiar mix of recognition and 
alarm I couldn’t quite decipher, softened as   she announced, “I’ll be right back.” I held my 
breath, watching from a distance as a figure emerged from the passenger side, approaching her. 
A heavy sigh of relief escaped me. Their greeting, though muted by the distance, was unmistakably 
warm, devoid of the guarded tension one usually reserves for strangers in the dead of night. 
It was nearing midnight, the surrounding homes gradually succumbing to darkness. Yet Mia, 
with her effortless charm and innate kindness,   seemed to bridge all social divides. She was 
bright, witty, and possessed a rare talent for never- giving offense, treating everyone she met 
with genuine equinimity. This natural disposition had garnered her an eclectic circle of friends, 
a veritable cross-section of every high school   clique imaginable. Among these, I recognized a 
few archetypes I knew all too well. The jocks, the bullies, and the outright troublemakers, the 
last category being particularly prevalent in her district, which bore a notorious reputation. 
By this point in my life, I had come to accept that while most adolescent animosities faded with 
age, a select few never quite outgrew their taste for illicit thrills and casual violence. Their 
youthful indiscretions would inevitably harden into genuine criminal tendencies, their actions 
losing all semblance of excusability in adulthood. At a dimminionive 5’4 in, I, Elias Thorne, was 
and remain a distinctly small man, an easy target. My reputation was that of a mischievous yet 
easygoing slacker, capable of absorbing a punch, but entirely incapable of delivering one. 
I’d always relied on the former trait to navigate tense situations outside my immediate 
circle. And while it didn’t always work, it had, for the most part, kept me relatively unscathed 
throughout my high school years. Mia concluded her brief exchange, pulling the stranger into a 
hug before they separated. He re-entered the SUV, which then peeled away into the night. “What 
was all that about?” I asked as she rejoined us. She explained that it was a friend from St. 
Francis High celebrating his 18th birthday with a grim tradition, cruising around and assaulting 
unsuspecting pedestrians. “You’re fine if you’re with me,” she assured us, but maybe we should 
head back to my place. “That suited me perfectly. The last thing I wanted was to become an unwilling 
participant in some twisted coming of age ritual   where I’d serve as a punching bag for a kid 
proving his machismo to his equally violent peers. We made our way back to Mia’s house, but the 
earlier light-heartedness had evaporated, replaced by a somber quietude, leaving us little to discuss 
beyond the unsettling reality of the night. The evening’s impromptu movie session had barely 
begun when Mia’s father materialized in the living room, a stern expression on his face. Mia, it’s 
past 12. Time to say good night to your friends. Mia attempted to explain our predicament, but 
the unyielding logic of a high achieving student   with overly protective parents often meant strict 
adherence to household rules, a midnight curfew, and an absolute prohibition against housing 
teenage boys overnight. Christ, I thought, “What had we gotten ourselves into before ushering 
us out?” Mia leaned in conspiratorally, her voice hushed. She warned us about the four black SUVs 
she’d seen cruising the neighborhood. “Be safe,” she implored, her gaze earnest, then closed and 
locked the door behind us. “Robert and I descended the porch steps, the culde-sac stretching before 
us. A disappointing end to what we’d hoped would be a diversion from my earlier scare. Reaching 
into my pocket, I instinctively pulled out my cell phone, intending to call my best friend for 
a lift, only to remember my earlier oversight. The battery, uncharged, was utterly drained. Robert, 
ever the minimalist, never bothered with a mobile phone, relying on MSN Messenger for his sparse 
social interactions. We quickly assessed our remaining assets. My wallet and a few scattered 
coins. Robert, bless his adventurous spirit, still possessed a solitary firework in his trusty 
Zippo. Further down the street, I recalled a house undergoing renovation, an industrial disposal bin 
sitting prominently in front. Without a second thought, I vaulted inside, emerging moments 
later hefting a splintered 2×4, a couple of nails protruding menacingly from its side. Robert 
chuckled at the sight. “Call me Buford Pusser Jr.” I quipped, flexing my arm with a theatrical 
flourish. I’m walking tall, if slightly less wellarmed. Robert, meanwhile, had his lighter 
ready. I’ll shoot this right in their faces, he declared, referring to his last firework. Our 
bravado, I now realize, stem from the fact that the true gravity of our situation hadn’t yet fully 
settled in. We knew the transit station would soon be closing. The train being the final terminal 
on the line offered no escape, but perhaps a bus might still be running. The labyrinth and network 
of walkways, bike lanes, and dense tree cover that characterized me as neighborhood provided a 
temporary reprieve. We deliberately chose the most secluded unlit passages, attempting 
to blend into the shadows. In hindsight, these detours did little to soo our frayed nerves, 
only prolonging the suspense. At one point, we arrived at a familiar daytime intersection. The 
path ahead was briefly illuminated by a solitary, sickly yellow street light before plunging into 
a gaping m of absolute darkness. We stood there for what felt like an eternity, agonizing over 
whether to brave the unseen or backtrack in search of an alternative route, straining our 
ears for any hint of movement beyond the eerie   silence. The thought of simply camping out for 
the rest of the night flashed through our minds. But the oppressive stillness punctuated by the 
occasional shriek of tires, distant shouts, or the sudden roar of an accelerating vehicle 
pushed us onward. Finally, we reached the main thoroughfare. Not just a significant artery in the 
immediate vicinity, but one of the primary roads on our side of town. From this point, all natural 
cover vanished. We were exposed, surrounded only by houses, commercial buildings, and a vast empty 
parking lot, all bathed in the unforgiving glare of street lights. In that moment, they felt less 
like beacons of safety and more like the searing H hallogen flood lights used to track escaped 
prisoners. Traffic was scarce at this late hour, meaning any approaching SUV would spot us 
instantly, and there would be virtually nothing   to impede their sinister intentions. We paused, 
listening intently for the telltale revving of an obnoxious engine before making our dash across the 
road and into the parking lot. Less than a minute later, we reached the transit station. A quick 
glance at the posted bus times and the digital clock confirmed our fears. All buses had completed 
their final runs. We tried the shelter in the train terminal, but its doors were already locked. 
Our only remaining option was to stick to the main road until we reached the bus trap. This bus trap 
was our designated safe haven, a unique feature of the area, a tightly constructed underpass that 
physically divided one community from another. After years of deliberate and sometimes haphazard, 
the movie had barely reached its 20-minute mark when Mia’s father appeared in the living room. 
Mia, it’s past midnight. Time to say good night to your friends. Mia tried to explain our situation, 
but being an honor student with overly involved parents often meant a rigid adherence to house 
rules, a strict midnight bedtime, and absolutely no overnight guests, especially teenage boys. 
Good God, what had we gotten ourselves into? Before closing the door behind us, Mia leaned 
in, her voice low and urgent, to tell us there were four black SUVs still circling. She implored 
us to be safe, then locked the door. Robert and I slowly descended the porch steps, the culde-sac 
stretching before us. A disappointing end to a truly strange night. I pulled my cell phone from 
my pocket, intending to trouble my best friend for a ride, only to remember I hadn’t charged 
it. The battery had long since died. Robert, for his part, never bothered with a cell phone, 
communicating with his sparse circle of friends exclusively through MSN Messenger. We inventoried 
our remaining assets before setting off towards the transit station. My pockets were empty, saved 
for my wallet. Robert still had one firework left along with his Zippo lighter. Down the street, 
I spotted a house undergoing renovation, an industrial disposal bin sitting out front. I 
vaulted inside, re-emerging moments later, hefting a 2×4 plank with a few bent nails protruding 
from it. Robert laughed at the sight. “Call me Buford Pusser Jr.” I declared, summoning a strange 
sense of bravado. “I’m walking large, even if I’m small.” Robert brandished his lighter and the 
firework. “I’ll shoot this in their faces,” he vowed. We might have sounded high-spirited, but 
that was only because the true chilling risk of our situation hadn’t fully registered. We knew the 
transit station would be shutting down soon, and the train, being the final terminal on the line, 
wouldn’t be running. Our last hope was that some of the buses might still be active. The initial 
leg of our journey through Mia’s neighborhood offered a deceptive sense of security. Its ample 
walkways, bike lanes, and dense tree cover allowed us to navigate through the shadows for a while. 
We deliberately took our time, choosing the most secluded and unlit passages, a tactic which, in 
hindsight, did absolutely nothing to calm our escalating nerves. At one point, we arrived at an 
intersecting walkway familiar to us in daylight. The path ahead was briefly illuminated by a single 
sickly yellow street light before dissolving into a cavernous mouth of absolute darkness. We 
stood there paralyzed by indecision for several agonizing minutes, debating whether to seek 
an alternative route or brave the unknown,   listening intently for any sound of movement on 
the other side. We briefly considered hunkering down and camping for the remainder of the night 
before abandoning the thought. The night’s   oppressive silence was punctuated every so often 
by the squealing of tires, distant shouts, or the sudden acceleration of a vehicle. Then we reached 
the main road, not merely a major thoroughfare in the area, but one of the most significant roads 
on our end of town. From this point onward, all natural cover ceased to exist. There was nothing 
but houses, buildings, and a sprawling empty parking lot. All starkly illuminated by street 
lights that in that moment felt more like the blinding H hallogen flood lights shown on escaped 
prisoners rushing across a yard to freedom. There was precious little traffic at this hour, meaning 
if one of the SUVs did drive down the road, we would be instantly exposed and there would be 
virtually nothing to prevent them from enacting   their intentions. We listened intently for any 
obnoxious motor revving before making a dash across the road and into the parking lot. Less 
than a minute later, we arrived at the transit station. We quickly checked the posted bus times, 
but as indicated by the digital clock outside, all buses had completed their final runs. We tried 
to enter the shelter in the train terminal, but the doors were already locked. We had no choice 
but to stick to the main road until we reached the bus trap. This bus trap was our last hope, a 
veritable safe haven. What made this particular bus trap unique was its location directly beneath 
a tightly constructed underpass that served as a clear divider between two communities. After years 
of urban planning and inevitable, despite years of urban planning and inevitable compromises, 
the bus trap stood as our last bastion of hope. This unique underpass, separating two 
distinct communities, had been fortified   with cement blockades and a formidable metal gate, 
accessible only by transit vehicles. This design, we reasoned, would significantly enhance our 
chances of a clean escape should the birthday   boy and his cohort pursue us. With every distant 
rustle or hum, Robert and I flinched, unable to discern whether the sound heralded a weary 
commuter returning home or the sinister approach   of our relentless pursuers. A nent thought began 
to take root. Perhaps we were overreacting. It was plausible, we mused, that someone had 
already alerted the police, prompting our   tormentors to vanish either to another district, 
their own beds, or ideally into police custody. A false sense of security settled upon us as we 
neared our old junior high, convincing ourselves that the worst of our ordeal was behind us. The 
cumbersome plank of wood I now carried seemed a ludicrous affectation, making me feel like a fool, 
and Robert’s solitary firework and Zippo lighter, equally absurd. This momentary reprieve brought 
to mind a network of walkways that snaked directly through the community towards an elementary 
school, eventually leading to the bus trap itself. I traversed these paths countless times, and I 
remembered the street lights spaced roughly 60 ft apart, promising clear visibility for miles 
in either direction. We’d see them coming, but they would see us, too. What greeted us, however, 
was a desolate stretch of burntout street lights, another sparsely illuminated chasm of shadows, and 
potential nightmares. With no other viable option, we began our descent into the gloom. Robert, 
with an almost practiced caution, flicked open his Zippo, careful to conserve its precious fluid 
for an actual confrontation. The walk was brief, the ambient glow from over sensitive porch lights 
offering intermittent pockets of relief. But then, an oppressive darkness enveloped us, so 
profound that my own hand, held before my face, was swallowed by it. The accompanying snap of 
twigs and rustle of unseen branches confirmed an instinctual warning. We needed to get out 
of there. For a terrifying instant, we froze, imagining the birthday boy and his crew lurking in 
the impenetrable shadows, ready to ambush us. Yet, sensing it was merely an animal, we retreated, 
opting for the quieter, more exposed neighborhood streets. Here, though more visible, the risk 
of being cornered felt considerably lessened. We swiftly navigated unfamiliar residential 
lanes, eventually converging with the final walkway that led us to the elementary school. 
And there, in the distance, was the bus trap. A profound wave of relief washed over us. Safety 
at last was within sight. We relaxed our pace, feeling foolish for transforming what should have 
been a 20-minute stroll into an hour-ong ordeal. We crossed the elementary school grounds and 
stepped onto the fully lit streets leading to   the bus trap. It was then, as we rounded a corner, 
that a black SUV came screaming into view from the left nearest the bus trap itself. Balloons, still 
tied to its rear, whipped backward from the sheer velocity as the vehicle accelerated. “Crap!” I 
yelled at Robert. “There’s no way they didn’t see us.” We pivoted, doubling back towards 
the elementary school. We had to think fast. At the speed they were traveling, they’d cover 
the distance to our position in less than 15   seconds. We sprinted down the street adjacent to 
the elementary school, but found no viable cover. The engine’s roar grew closer, now mere seconds 
from turning onto our street. We were out of time. I pointed to the only concealment I could find, 
a lone sideyard fence, unattached to any front fence or neighboring hedge, stark against the 
open lawn. Robert and I threw ourselves onto the grass against the fence, stiff as boards and as 
rigid as corpses, our makeshift weapons clutched tightly. My heart hammered against my ribs with an 
intensity I’d never before experienced. I gripped the 2×4, watching Robert meticulously position his 
firework, unclipping the Zippo. It felt utterly feudal, a pathetic gesture. We truly were chumps. 
The SUV, its headlights sweeping down the road in a searching arc, slowed to a crawl as it turned 
the corner. Convinced we wouldn’t be found within the vehicle, they pulled up to the very edge 
of the property, right beside our hiding spot. The SUV’s headlights cut through the darkness 
just beyond the flimsy fence that separated us from certain doom. We were utterly exposed 
for doors popped open in quick succession, and within moments, the muffled murmurss of the 
birthday gang reached us, their feet crunching   gravel as they began their methodical 
search. I counted at least four distinct sets of footsteps and a couple of disembodied 
voices, confirming our desperate disadvantage. My mind flashed back to countless incidents at 
school. The easygoing persona I’d cultivated, always laughing good-naturedly as I absorbed 
a shove or a taunt, never fighting back. Those bullies knew me. That shared history humanized me 
enough that they never pushed me too far. These people, however, didn’t know me. They weren’t 
privy to my carefully constructed facade. The odd guy who seemed to tolerate pain, who pretended 
to find their antics funny. These guys wanted to hurt us genuinely and deeply. This is it, 
I thought, gripping the 2×4 so tightly tiny splinters dug into my hand. This is the moment 
you stop being a coward, Elias. This is where you earn your own respect. My heart hammered against 
my ribs, a frantic drum beat against the boiling rage that surged through me. I knew our window of 
opportunity for a surprise strike was razor thin before they overwhelmed us. And I prayed Robert 
would deploy his firework swiftly enough to buy us   some precious seconds. If I was only getting one 
swing, I was going to make damn sure it connected. Then, as if an invisible force miraculously 
intervened on our behalf, a voice from the SUV, sharp and irritated, barked, “Screw it!” A 
few seconds later, a car door slammed with a definitive thud. The SUV reversed, executed a 
sharp U-turn, and roared away into the night. All the raw courage I had managed to summon, every 
ounce of fight I had prepared for a losing battle, a primal ferocity I hadn’t known my body 
possessed, slowly receded, settling back into the quiet depths of my being. Robert and 
I took the quiet back route to the bus trap. We arrived at the underpass and walked through it, 
our steps feeling almost casual. We both paused, looking back into the other community, a place we 
had spent so much of our time in without issue, now imbued with a chilling new recognition of 
what we had just narrowly avoided. It felt like a necessary ritual. I wish I could claim this 
nearbrush had some transformative effect on me, that it forced me to re-examine my passive 
tendencies and embark on a new chapter where   I stopped letting myself be treated like everyone 
else’s ragd doll. It didn’t. Not fundamentally. My singular takeaway from that harrowing night was 
this. Despite all my previous assumptions about   my fightor-flight response, it proved that in the 
rare moment when I’m truly backed into a corner, I’ll be prepared to stand my ground. Until then, 
however, I hoped the birthday gang and I would never cross paths again. More than a decade ago, 
during a summer, my friend’s 13-year-old niece, Katie, flew down from Boston, Massachusetts for 
a week-long visit to Florida. Her flight was destined for Jacksonville airport. So, my friend 
and I loaded into my trusty little red four-door Colorado truck and embarked on the 3-hour drive 
from Tallahassee, Florida to collect her. While Tallahassee does indeed have an airport, 
it’s notoriously small and disproportionately   expensive. a roundtrip ticket that might cost 
$300 at a larger hub could easily run $800 from Tallahassee. Consequently, many travelers heading 
our way opt for the longer drive from a more affordable major airport, as it’s simply cheaper 
in the long run. Anyway, upon our arrival in Jacksonville, we successfully met up with Katie. 
I should perhaps preface this next part by saying that I consider myself a good-natured, fun-loving 
prankster. I enjoy teasing people. Never maliciously, but in that classic laugh out loud 
kind of way. So, about 10 minutes into our drive back, after picking up Katie, I turned to her and 
announced, “Just so you know, I’m narcoleptic. If I happen to fall asleep at the wheel, just give 
me a really hard nudge and I’ll snap right awake.” She looked utterly bewildered. “Are you even 
allowed to drive?” she asked. Oh, absolutely. I assured her with a confident nod. It’s no big 
deal at all. My doctor says it’s perfectly fine. I even have a note and everything. At this point, 
my friend Chelsea and I, who had been friends for O. Chelsea, who had been my friend for over 4 
years and knew my mischievous streak well, cast a knowing glance my way, a subtle smirk playing 
on her lips. The drive home from the airport was filled with laughter and easy conversation. This 
was my initial introduction to Katie, so I spent much of the journey asking typical getting to 
know you questions, her favorite school subjects,   hobbies, if she had a boyfriend, the usual 
small talk. Roughly 30 minutes into our drive, right in the middle of a sentence, I fainted a 
sudden narcoleptic episode. My head lulled back and I began to snore dramatically. From the slight 
tilt of my head and barely open eyes, I could just glimpse Katie’s reaction in the rear view mirror. 
The sheer terror that contorted her face was absolutely priceless. She began to poke and nudge 
me with increasing urgency, desperately trying to rouse me from my slumber. Finally, I burst out 
laughing, unable to maintain the act any longer. Chelsea was practically gasping for air, 
laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. Katie, clutching her chest with a look of immense relief 
mixed with a burgeoning smile, soon joined in, her initial horror giving way to peels of laughter. 
Thus, her week-long visit began with a memorable, albeit slightly terrifying prank. Throughout the 
following days, Chelsea and her family ensured Katie experienced the best of Florida. from serene 
canoeing trips and invigorating hikes to relaxing days at the beach. In the evenings after my work 
shift, I would often join them at Chelsea’s house where we’d gather on the back porch for a few 
rounds of dice. But as with all good things, Katie’s visit eventually drew to a close. On the 
day before her departure, Chelsea and I decided to take her on a special outing to St. Augustine. 
St. Augustine held a particular allure for us, especially given its convenient 45-minute 
proximity to Jacksonville, where Katie’s   return flight awaited. For those unfamiliar, St. 
Augustine is an enchanting historical city nestled along Florida’s Atlantic coast, proudly bearing 
the title of the oldest continuously inhabited European established settlement in the United 
States. Founded by Spanish settlers in 1565, the city itself is breathtaking, boasting 
magnificent architecture and a charming town   center dotted with quaint shops. A place where 
you can craft your own candles or delve into your family’s history at a coat of arms store. Beyond 
the shopping, numerous tours invited us to explore its storied past, from the imposing old fort and 
the notorious jail to a plethora of museums. But for Chelsea and me, the true highlight was always 
the ghost tours. We’d embarked on quite a few, each one more fascinating than the last. Our plan 
for Katie’s farewell day was clear. An afternoon of browsing and historical tours, culminating 
in an evening of delightful spookiness. Sunday morning around 9:00, Chelsea, Katie, and I piled 
into Chelsea’s well-worn dark green Dodge Caravan. It offered considerably more leg room than my 
truck. a welcome amenity for our journey to St.   Augustine. We were about an hour and a half 
into our trip when trouble struck. The van’s temperature gauge soared, signaling an alarming 
overheat. Knowing that continuing to drive would risk severe engine damage, we promptly pulled onto 
the shoulder of the interstate. Popping the hood revealed plumes of steam billowing forth, leaving 
us no choice but to wait for the engine to cool before attempting any inspection. After a tense 
30 minutes, we carefully removed the radiator cap. As expected, the reservoir was completely 
dry. We scoured Chelsea’s van for any water, but our only liquids were a few half empty bottles of 
2-day old tea and a partially consumed Coca-Cola, all unusable due to their high sugar content. 
Stranded, we racked our brains, completely disoriented. We had no idea of our precise 
location, unable to recall the last mile marker we’d passed. Now, you might be thinking, why not 
just check your phones? This was an era before smartphones dominated and GPS was simply not a 
feature available on our basic mobile devices. As we pondered our seemingly insurmountable 
predicament, a minor miracle unfolded. The sky opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour, as 
if a tropical storm had suddenly decided to brew directly over us. Anyone familiar with Florida 
summers understands their relentless nature, scorching heat, oppressive humidity, and almost 
daily downpours. We often joke that if you don’t like the weather, just wait 5 minutes and it’ll 
change. So, when the sky opened up above us, Chelsea, Katie, and I exchanged relieved glances, 
scrambling to find anything that could capture the sudden bounty. We unearthed a few stray red 
solo cups and strategically positioned them, two beneath the back bumper where rainwater was 
visibly cascading, and the others on the van’s   hood. We huddled back inside Chelsea’s vehicle, 
already drenched, only for the heavens to abruptly cease their generosity. The rain stopped 
as quickly as it had begun. Stepping out, we assessed our meager harvest. Collectively, 
we’d gathered perhaps two or three ounces, a disheartening amount utterly insufficient for 
our needs. Doubt nodded at us. Should we risk driving without enough water? Or was there another 
solution? An idea sparked in Elias Thorne’s mind, born of desperation. The rumble strips, those 
textured divots designed to startle drowsy drivers back to attention. They were a wash with 
rainwater, but how to collect it? We had cups, but they couldn’t reach the shallow pools. Then 
Chelsea produced a straw. With an almost comical resignation, we began the undignified process 
of Elias Thorne kneeling by the roadside, sucking rainwater through the straw from the 
rumble strips and spitting it into the cups.   It was grotesque but necessary. Interstate 10, 
even in its wooded sections, is rarely quiet, especially on a Sunday. As Elias Thorne continued 
her perilous work, Chelsea became our vigilant lookout. Each time a vehicle approached, Chelsea 
would shout a warning, and Elias Thorne would have to spring back from the very edge of the 
lane. Imagine a 5-ft tall woman in her mid20s, head inches from oncoming traffic on hands 
and knees, meticulously siphoning water. Each shout from Chelsea would send Elias Thornne 
bouncing up then back down, the solo cup clutched in hand. After a grueling 15 minutes of this 
precarious dance, we deemed the risk too great. The water collected from this deathdeying feat 
combined with our initial meager yield amounted to a grand total of 3 and 12 to 4 oz. Still nowhere 
near enough. Our fiercely independent resolve finally crumbled. We admitted defeat and resorted 
to the only option left. Calling for help. Elias Thorne dialed her boyfriend, now husband, a 
mechanic working 10 hours away in Mississippi. He unfortunately didn’t answer. Our next call 
was to Tom, a friend and former army mechanic. Thankfully, Tom picked up. We explained our 
predicament and he confirmed our fears. The amount of water we had was utterly useless. He did 
offer a crucial piece of advice, though. If we did manage to find more water, we’d need to filter 
it to prevent debris from damaging the radiator. We stared at each other, stumped. Filter it with 
what? We asked. Tom’s answer was simple. Use a sock. Chelsea and Elias Thorne, having opted for 
flip flops, were sockless. But Katie, with all her luggage, came to the rescue, graciously offering 
up a pair. With Katie’s borrowed socks serving as a crude filter, we managed to funnel those 
precious 4 oz of rain water into the radiator. It was a disheartening trickle, clearly 
inadequate, and desperation began to set in. Our only remaining liquids were the stale two-day old 
tea and a lukewarm Coca-Cola, both useless. “Are there any puddles by the roadside?” Tom inquired, 
his voice crackling with concern. “No, we’ve already scoured the area,” Elias Thorne replied, 
feeling utterly defeated. Then Chelsea, ever the pragmatist with a rise sense of humor, piped up. 
Does anyone need to pee? Tom immediately seized on the idea. “Actually, you can use urine in a 
radiator,” he explained. “It’s far from ideal, but it’s clean and won’t damage the system.” Elias 
Thorne and Chelsea exchanged an incredulous look. Urine, Katie can help, Elias Thorne then stated, 
remembering a crucial detail. There’s something I haven’t mentioned yet. Elias Thorne quickly 
elaborated on Katie’s unique medical history. She had been born with a rare congenital condition, 
essentially lacking external genitalia, making   her lower anatomy as smooth as a doll’s. To manage 
this, she had a surgically implanted port directly into her bladder, allowing her to urinate almost 
on command. “All Katie needs to do is attach a tube to her port,” Elias Thorne concluded. a wave 
of bizarre relief washing over him and our liquid crisis would be averted. We profusely thanked Tom, 
then hung up. A grim determination set in. Chelsea and Elias Thorne began to encourage, or rather 
gently coers Katie into chugging the two-day old tea and lukewarm Coca-Cola. Katie, understandably, 
protested vehemently, grimacing with every sip. Elias Thorne couldn’t blame her. After two days 
baking in the van, the liquids were likely beyond unpalatable. While Katie stoically worked on 
replenishing her bladder with the foultasting beverages, she connected her medical tubing 
to a waiting bottle. Chelsea and Elias Thorne, meanwhile, hastily fashioned a funnel from one of 
the red solo cups. As they began collecting the bottles of golden liquid, a phrase that now felt 
darkly ironic, Elias Thorne was forced to confront a personal truth. He had an extreme aversion 
to certain odors, and concentrated urine was at the top of that list. The mere thought of it 
made his stomach churn. So, the unenviable task of pouring fell to Chelsea. But Elias Thorne, in 
a cruel twist of fate, was relegated to handing her the bottles of warm, pungent fluid. The 
scent hit Elias Thornne in a suffocating wave, and he immediately started gagging, fighting 
back the urge to empty his stomach on the side of the interstate. Between choked gasps and 
involuntary wretches, he urged Chelsea to hurry as she poured the final bottle. Katie was already 
midfill on another when a state police cruiser, its lights silently flashing, pulled up behind 
them. Chelsea’s van door gaped open, revealing Katie in the deeply awkward act of urinating into 
a bottle via her tubing. Thoroughly mortified, Katie instantly slammed the door shut, attempting 
to conceal her activity with the panicked stealth of a junkie hiding their stash. Elias Thorne, 
equally panicked, frantically kicked the discarded medical tubes, which lay like incriminating 
evidence on the ground beneath the van,   fearing the officer would mistake their bizarre 
roadside scene for something illicit. Once they offered a heavily sanitized explanation of their 
predicament, carefully omitting the rumble strip   siphoning and the unconventional radiator fluid, 
the officer, in a slow, reassuring southern draw, revealed a simple truth that made Elias Thorne 
want to groan. Y’all got an exit just a mile down the road, and there’s a gas station with a water 
hose right there. We thanked him profusely and with the van now holding a rather unique blend of 
water and bodily fluid, proceeded towards the gas station, the officer following discreetly behind. 
The entire 5-minute drive felt like an extended lesson in self-inflicted idiocy. If only they 
had paid closer attention. If only they had known their precise location, this entire humiliating, 
stomach churning ordeal could have been avoided. But the story, of course, didn’t end there. After 
refilling the radiator with proper water at the gas station, the immediate crisis was over. But 
the larger problem remained. Chelsea’s van was still undeniably broken. Without a professional 
fix, they wouldn’t be making it anywhere, let alone to the airport with Katie the next 
morning. It was now 6:00 in the evening. After consulting the gas station attendant for the 
nearest service station, they drove a few miles down the road only to be met with the familiar 
dispiriting sight of a closed sign. Just their luck. They sat dejectedly in the empty parking 
lot, the weight of their predicament pressing down. Driving around for a hotel seemed feudal, 
even if they found one. The logistical nightmare of getting Katie to her early morning flight 
without a working vehicle was overwhelming. Just then, a lone figure emerged from the 
service station, presumably a worker, leaving   for the night. He spotted their for Lauren van 
and approached. His name was Bob. Elias Thorne, quickly explaining their predicament, 
out oftowners with a broken down vehicle,   desperate to get Katie to her flight, watched 
as Bob, with a sympathetic nod, readily agreed to inspect the engine. The hood was popped open. 
from the semi-open hood where they sat observing from the van’s interior, Elias Thorne and Chelsea 
watched Bob work. He connected a hose, and as fresh water flowed into the radiator, a bizarre 
beer-like head of foam began to churn and rise, the unmistakable result of Katie’s earlier 
contribution. Bob’s eyes widened in confusion, a perplexed frown creasing his brow. Elias Thorne 
and Chelsea exchanged a horrified silent glance, muttering, “Oh no, the pee!” under their breath. 
Katie, sitting behind them, flushed a deep crimson. Unaware of the true embarrassing nature 
of the frothy concoction, Bob, in an attempt to identify the strange substance, leaned closer, 
then, to their utter dismay, dipped his index and middle fingers into the urinary foam, swirled it, 
and brought it to his nose for a bewildered sniff. He repeated the bizarre ritual a few times, a 
look of profound bewilderment on his face, trying to decipher the unidentifiable liquid. Unable to 
contain the eruption of hysterical laughter, Elias Thorne dropped to his knees on the passenger side 
floorboard, burying his face in the seat cushion,   stifling the sound. Chelsea, leaning against the 
driver’s door, mirrored his reaction, her face pressed into the steering wheel, shaking with 
silent mirth. Between choked gasps and tearful outbursts, they whispered Katie’s pee over and 
over, while Katie, mortified, repeatedly hissed at them to shut up. “It’s so embarrassing.” Tears 
streamed down their faces, laughter stealing their breath as Bob finally completed the repairs. It 
was thankfully a simple fix, just a cracked hose connected to the radiator. He refused payment, 
but Elias Thorne and Chelsea, profoundly grateful, pressed all the cash they had, a meager $20, into 
his hand. They were quickly on their way. As soon as the van pulled away and out of sight, a wave of 
aorious, unrestrained laughter erupted from both Elias Thorne and Chelsea, the sheer absurdity of 
the day’s events washing over them in a cathartic torrent. They recounted every detail, chuckling 
all the way to their hotel in St. Augustine. Though it was too late for the ghost tour, the 
relief was palpable. The following morning, they successfully drove Katie to Jacksonville to 
catch her flight. Despite the bizarre detours, everything concluded without further incident. The 
whole experience remained etched in Elias Thorne’s memory, a peculiar anecdote that still brought a 
smile to his face and a chuckle to his throat. He supposed the key takeaway was to always keep spare 
water in one’s vehicle. And in a truly desperate pinch, well, human ingenuity and bodily fluids 
could indeed save the day. A year spent studying abroad in Mexico had recently wrapped up. As was 
customary for exchange students, Elias Thorne had seized every opportunity to travel extensively. 
During the significant break between semesters, he and his closest companion from the program 
decided to embark on a more extended backpacking   expedition across Mexico. Their journey had 
been loosely mapped out, a flexible itinerary of desired sites and destinations. Crucially, 
they hadn’t yet booked their return flights, nor had they committed to a departure city, 
preferring to keep their options open. The trip was an unqualified success filled with incredible 
experiences. A few days before their adventure concluded, they settled on flying out of a nearby 
city known for its incredibly affordable fairs, despite offering little in the way of tourist 
attractions itself. Consequently, a quick search on Airbnb led them to a promising listing, a 
house with a pool conveniently located near the airport. The idea of a relaxing pool day to 
cap off their trip was too appealing to pass up. The hosts were a family, a Mexican husband and 
his European wife, who to their delight spoke their native tongue. They arranged to take a bus 
to the airport where their hosts would collect them. However, upon their arrival in the city, 
Knight had already fallen, and the bus driver flatly refused to deviate from his route to 
take them directly to the airport. Instead, he simply left them on the side of a highway. 
This was an inospicious start to their final leg. Stranded on a desolate highway shoulder, loaded 
with heavy backpacks in a city in Mexico renowned for its less than stellar safety record, they 
were already in a precarious position. Elias Thorne quickly phoned their hosts, relaying their 
GPS coordinates. “No problem,” they assured him, promising to come to their rescue. Soon, the 
husband arrived to collect them. Climbing into a stranger’s car in the dead of night in the middle 
of nowhere was inherently unnerving. It certainly didn’t alleviate their anxiety that the host, 
a man with a striking resemblance to a younger clean shaven Danny Tjo, offered little in the way 
of conversation. My attempts at casual banter were met with either curt one-word replies or complete 
silence. “Perhaps he’s just a quiet man,” I am mused, clinging to the hope that our destination 
was near. In hindsight, the glaring warning signs were everywhere. Yet at the time, exhaustion and 
a peculiar sense of resignation blinded us. We had no other choice but to continue with him. Our 
arrival should have triggered immediate alarm. We were in the absolute middle of nowhere, surrounded 
by vast open fields dotted with grazing sheep and goats. A solitary gravel path veered off the paved 
road, leading to a cluster of colossal mansions. Each was an imposing fortress encircled by 
towering 2-me walls crowned with razor wire secured by massive steel gates and guarded by at 
least two formidable dogs. Once inside our rented sanctuary, the atmosphere shifted slightly. We 
were met by the wife, a vivacious middle-aged European woman whose effrovescent chatter was a 
stark contrast to her husband’s quiet demeanor. She prepared a delightful dinner, and we 
ate, exchanging pleasantries with her,   while her husband remained conspicuously silent. 
The day’s long journey had taken its toll, and shortly after the meal, we gratefully 
retired to our rooms. The following morning, the weather proved uncooperative, making a pool 
day unappealing. We decided to venture into the nearby town to explore its meager tourist 
offerings instead. By the time we returned, dusk had settled, but the persistent heat and 
humidity drove us to the pool for a refreshing   dip. The wife eventually joined us, and my friend, 
in an ill-advised moment of curiosity, inquired how they managed to afford such an extravagant 
property, given the seemingly modest professions   they’d mentioned. She skillfully sidestepped 
the question, adding somewhat evasively that her husband was exceptionally handy, having grown 
up on the streets and virtually constructed the house himself. The conversation’s awkwardness 
was palpable, and we quickly steered it to safer topics. This was our final evening. Our 
flight back home was scheduled for early the next morning. We had a small quantity of weed left over 
from our travels, and the thought of enjoying it on our last night was tempting. However, conscious 
that this was a family home with children, we decided it best to seek permission from our 
hosts. Later that evening, we broached the subject with the wife, asking if it would be acceptable 
to smoke on the terrace. To our surprise, she found the request immensely amusing, bursting 
into laughter. She then shouted to her husband, who was lounging on the couch watching TV, “My 
love, the boys want to smoke some weed. What do you think?” He merely chuckled without offering an 
answer. We exchanged dumbfounded glances with her, but she simply waved a hand, saying, “Go ahead.” 
So, we retreated to the terrace and lit our joint. A while later, the couple joined us, and the 
conversation took an unsettling turn. They began to ask pointed questions about our weed, 
where we’d acquired it, its cost, our supplier, and even what we’d expect to pay for it back in 
Europe. Their interest felt disturbingly intense. Then with a chilling nonulence, the wife revealed, 
“Oh yes, we thought about selling weed for income, but far too many people die doing that. The 
cartels don’t like it. In fact, my husband used to kill people for doing that.” The words hit 
me like a physical blow, instantly stripping away any lingering buzz. “Did she just say that?” as if 
reading my mind. Her husband calmly interjected. Yes, when I was about 16, I took care of a lot of 
people for the cartel for money. He delivered the statement with the same detached ease one might 
use to recount mowing lawns as a teenager. Still grappling with disbelief, I subtly texted my 
friend, who was seated opposite me, avoiding eye contact, lest we both unravel. He confirmed that 
we had indeed heard correctly. We silently debated our next move. My friend reasoned there was no 
immediate threat, that we had no other recourse, and it was already too late to seek alternative 
accommodation, but the situation was about to escalate even further. We tried to we tried our 
best to maintain a facade of normaly to suppress the spiraling panic while continuing to engage our 
hosts in polite conversation. A few minutes later, the husband, a man whose casual air now 
seemed laced with sinister undertones, rose and disappeared inside. He returned shortly, not 
with refreshments, but a substantial brick of what appeared to be pure, unadulterated cannabis. With 
an unsettling ease, he broke off a generous chunk, expertly rolling it into a joint that could have 
put even the most seasoned connoisseur to sleep.   Easily the size of Elias Thornne’s thumb, packed 
with at least 2 g. Naturally, he extended the offer, but Elias Thorne and his friend politely 
declined, mumbling something about already being sufficiently relaxed. He seemed momentarily put 
out by their refusal, but thankfully accepted their flimsy excuse. Then the situation escalated. 
A few minutes later, two sharp, distinct reports echoed through the night. The wife, a flicker 
of genuine apprehension crossing her face, whispered, “What was that? Her husband, however, 
remained utterly unperturbed. “9 mm,” he stated, as calmly as if, identifying the brand of a soft 
drink. Elias Thornne’s blood ran cold. Five, perhaps seven more shots followed in rapid 
succession, leaving no doubt as to their origin. The wife’s composure completely unraveled. “What 
do you think they’re shooting at?” she pressed, her voice strained. cows or people? Shouldn’t we 
go inside? He merely shrugged and they remained frozen on the terrace. Minutes later, another 
volley of gunfire erupted even closer this time. The wife’s agitation intensified. “We really 
should go inside,” she pleaded. “What are they aiming at?” Elias Thorne would never forget the 
husband’s response, delivered with an unnerving, almost philosophical calm. It’s fine. I haven’t 
heard any screams yet. The sheer chilling detachment of those words, the casual equation of 
silence with safety, sent a profound shiver down Elias Thornne spine, a memory that even now causes 
his heart to pound. After that, they wasted no time, quickly excusing themselves and retreating 
to their room. Once safely behind the closed door, they both completely unraveled, their whispered 
panic filling the air. What in God’s name were they supposed to do? Trapped in a remote house 
with a confessed hitman while a gunfight raged outside. Their only desperate conclusion was to 
stay put. The logic, however flimsy, was that as his guests, the Sicario wouldn’t harm them, 
and the formidable walls, guard dogs, and their terrifying host offered a better barrier against 
the unknown dangers outside than venturing out   into the darkness. So they effectively barricaded 
themselves in, piling furniture against the door, and spent a sleepless, terrifying night until the 
first rays of dawn. Elias Thorne had never been so profoundly grateful for the impersonal scrutiny of 
airport security patowns in his entire life. That harrowing escape from a Mexican cartel associate 
often resurfaces in Elias Thorne’s memory as a benchmark for sheer terror. Yet other inexplicable 
events have left their own indelible marks. The summer of 2017 found Elias Thorne, then a 
19-year-old, working a seasonal gig in Dubravnik, Croatia. His employer, a tourist company, 
had tasked him with booking excursions and moonlighting as a bartender/animator for their 
popular pub crawl boat party. While they covered accommodation, the lodging was far from ideal. 
a tiny hamlet named Usi, some 21.3 km from the bustling city. Usi itself was barely a village, 
comprising just half a dozen houses beyond their own, inhabited by fewer than 15 souls. The 
major drawback was its remote hilltop location. No public transport reached it. The daily 
commute involved a 45-minute trek downhill to a neighboring village with a bus stop followed 
by another 45-minute bus ride to Dubravnik. One night, after a solo shift, Elias Thorne was 
returning around 2:00 a.m. from the boat party. Having disembarked the bus, he began the familiar 
hike from the lower village back to his house. The road on the left side of us was unlit, a mere 
track for vehicles devoid of pedestrian paths. He activated his phone’s flashlight, not just 
for visibility, but as a precaution against the venomous snakes known to frequent the area. About 
halfway home, a chilling howl erupted behind him, deep, guttural, unmistakably wolf-like. Yet, he 
knew with certainty there were no wolves in that part of Croatia. His father, a veterinarian, 
had raised numerous large dogs, mostly German shepherds, so Elias Thorne recognized the 
sound of a truly powerful canine. Slowly, he turned. 20 m away, a massive dog stood, 
silently, observing him. It was growling, barking, and howling all at once, a cacophony 
of menace. Yet, it remained perfectly still. Following its unsettling example, Elias Thorne 
froze, holding his breath, meticulously studying the creature in the dim beam of his flashlight 
for what felt like an eternity. The creature that stood before Elias Thornne was unlike any dog he 
had ever witnessed. It dwarfed a German Shepherd, easily matching the formidable stature of a 
great Dne, yet its head possessed the sharp,   angular lines of a Doberman or a Belgian shepherd. 
Its coat was an unbroken expanse of deepest black. There was an inherent dissonance about this 
animal, a profound wrongness that went beyond   its formidable sides. Elias Thorne wouldn’t 
claim it exuded an evil aura, not believing in such concepts, but a chilling conviction settled 
deep within him. This was something otherworldly, demonic dog, as the thought registered in 
his mind. The terrifying paradox was that for reasons he couldn’t articulate, the thought of 
its teeth sinking into him felt almost secondary   to the sheer unsettling presence it emanated. 
They were in the dead of night on a deserted road where traffic was scarce. Yet Elias 
Thorne desperately wanted off that asphalt. After what felt like an eternity, perhaps a 
full minute of silent, unblinking standoff, Elias Thorne began to retreat. Without turning his 
back on the beast, he slowly, painstakingly began to walk backwards towards his house. After he had 
covered about a 100 m, the monstrous dog finally broke its vigil. Its guttural growl ceased and it 
turned away, disappearing into the encompassing darkness. Elias Thornne quickened his pace, relief 
washing over him, convinced the ordeal was over. He was only a few minutes from home when a low 
ominous growl once again reached him. Startlingly close this time. Elias Thorn whirled around, 
his blood running cold. Less than 3 m separated him from the black dog. A single step forward 
and he could have reached out and touched its menacing form. Once again, it was growling, 
a deep rumble vibrating from its chest. Yet, it made no move to attack. It assumed the classic 
predatory stance, tail rigid and high, legs spled, ears alert, and teeth bared in a silent snarl. 
Another minute stretched into an agonizing eternity as they stared each other down, neither 
moving a muscle. The dog was immense, easily Elias Thornne’s height, and judging by its bulk, perhaps 
even his weight, at least 60 kg. It was every bit as large as a great Dne. Slowly, carefully, Elias 
Thorne resumed his backward walk, the dog holding its position, its eyes tracking his every move, 
but not following. He maintained this torturous retreat until he finally reached his door. The 
moment he closed it behind him, the terrifying growls and howls ceased. He breathlessly recounted 
the experience to his roommates, only for them to look at him in disbelief. They claimed they hadn’t 
heard a single sound despite the dog’s relentless barking and howling originating from a mere 200 
m away and them being awake with no television or radio on. Even the neighbors, when Elias Thorne 
inquired, shared the same bewildering account, adding that no one in the village owned a dog of 
any kind. This led Elias Thorne and his roommates to a solemn agreement. No one would ever walk home 
alone at night again. Subsequent investigations of the surrounding area yielded absolutely nothing, 
not a single trace of the colossal animal. The baffling nature of the incident was compounded by 
the local environment. USIE, with its scorching temperatures often exceeding 40° C, even in the 
shade, offered no natural source of portable water. The landscape was desolate, supporting 
only small lizards, birds, snakes, and insects. A dog of that immense size would require a 
substantial amount of food and water daily,   neither of which could possibly be found in that 
barren wilderness. There was simply no way such a creature could survive in the wild, nor was 
there anyone in US or the neighboring villages   known to own a large dog, as the kind neighbor had 
confirmed. The dog, it seemed, had materialized from thin air, and was never heard from again, a 
silent disappearance Elias Thorne was profoundly grateful for. Given Elias Thorne’s general 
fascination with all things unsettling, and because they held a certain aesthetic appeal, he 
had for a time cultivated a collection of dolls. These weren’t just any dolls. Some were delicate 
porcelain figures. Others were artfully crafted to resemble the chilling characters from horror 
films. While most people found them inherently creepy, Elias Thorne always considered the notion 
of them being haunted a playful joke. In truth, he never experienced anything untored with any of 
them. Quite the opposite, he found them strangely comforting. Each doll had a name, and he had a 
knack for finding them, mostly in antique shops, though two or three had come from a house sale 
after the owner’s passing. Then, on October 28th, 2017, something truly special caught his eye. His 
parents, who were out of town at the time, sent him a picture of the most incredible doll they 
had discovered at a church thrift shop. It was the absolute embodiment of his aesthetic preferences. 
Elias Thorne adored clowns and circuses, and the doll’s soft pastel colors were his absolute 
favorite, so much so that he was actively writing a story at the time that reflected these very 
interests. The doll was perfect. It felt as though it had been made specifically for him, a destined 
find. The creature was unlike any dog Elias Thorne had ever encountered. It was gargantuan, easily 
twice the size of a German Shepherd with the imposing stature of a great Dne. Yet its head 
was strikingly similar to the sleek, formidable appearance of a Doberman or a Belgian shepherd. 
Its coat was an uninterrupted expanse of pure, profound black. There was an unsettling anomaly 
about this animal, a deep sense of wrongness that transcended its sheer size. Elias Thorne wouldn’t 
describe it as possessing an evil aura, not being one to believe in such things, but he felt an 
undeniable, chilling sensation, as if it were some sort of demonic dog. The strangest part was 
a perverse intuition that getting bitten was the least of his concerns. They stood frozen in the 
middle of a desolate road at 2:00 in the morning, where cars were a rarity. Yet, all he wanted was 
to be off that exposed path. After an agonizing minute of silent mutual scrutiny, Elias Thornne 
began a slow, deliberate retreat, always keeping his back to the formidable presence. After he had 
covered approximately a 100 m, the dog finally broke its growling trance. It turned and silently 
vanished into the pervasive darkness. Picking up his pace, Elias Thornne was mere minutes from his 
home when a low, guttural growl ripped through the stillness once more, this time unsettlingly close. 
He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. The black dog stood less than 3 m away. A single 
step, and he could have reached out and touched its flank. It continued to growl, a low rumble, 
but still made no move to attack. Its posture, however, was unmistakably aggressive, 
tail held high, legs braced, ears erect, and teeth bared in a silent, menacing display. 
Another minute stretched into an eternity of a motionless standoff. The beast was as tall as 
Elias Thornne, easily as massive as a Great Dane, and he estimated its weight at a solid 60 kg. 
Slowly, Elias Thorne resumed his backward retreat, the dog unwavering in its gaze, but it did not 
follow. He finally reached the sanctuary of his house. And as the door clicked shut behind him, 
the unsettling barks and growls abruptly ceased. Later, when Elias Thorne recounted the harrowing 
experience to his roommates, their response was baffling. They claimed to have heard nothing 
despite the dog’s relentless vocalizations coming from just 200 m away and them being awake 
with neither the television nor radio on. Even the neighbors, when questioned, echoed the same 
bewilderment, adding that no one in the village   owned a dog of any kind. Elias Thorne and his 
roommates came to a stark agreement. No one would walk home alone at night again. Their subsequent 
search of the surrounding area yielded no trace of the mysterious animal. What made the encounter all 
the more perplexing was the environmental context. The region was a harsh, unforgiving landscape 
where summer temperatures soared above 40° C, even in the shade. There was no natural portable 
water source, and the wildlife was limited to snakes, small lizards, birds, and insects. A dog 
of that immense size would require a substantial diet and constant access to water, neither of 
which the environment could provide. It simply couldn’t survive in the wild. And as confirmed 
by his neighbors inquiries, no one nearby, nor in the adjacent village owned such a large dog. The 
creature seemed to have materialized from nothing, and just as mysteriously, it was never seen again. 
A fact Elias Thorne was profoundly relieved about. This inexplicable event often resurfaced. But 
other peculiar facets of Elias Thorne’s life also stood out. His interest in the uncanny had, for 
a period, extended to collecting dolls. He wasn’t particular about the type. He owned delicate 
porcelain figures as well as aesthetically creepy dolls that looked straight out of a horror film. 
While most found them unsettling, Elias Thorne often joked about them being haunted, but he never 
had any negative experiences. In fact, he found them quite comforting, each one named, typically 
acquired from antique shops or on a few occasions from estate sales after an owner’s passing. On 
October 28th, 2017, a day etched in his memory, a new addition to his collection presented 
itself. His parents, out of town at the time, sent him a picture of what they described as the 
coolest doll they’d ever seen at a church thrift   shop. It was a perfect storm of his enthusiasms. 
He adored clowns and everything circus related, and the doll’s soft pastel colors were his 
absolute favorite. A palette so dear to him that he was at that very moment crafting a story 
infused with these precise visual interests. The doll felt tailor made an almost faded discovery. 
Instead of mirroring my own unsettling preference for the macob, this particular specimen 
felt less like a kindred spirit and more   like something nobody else could possibly have 
wanted. Honestly, I doubted my father would ever pick such a thing. Yet, to my surprise, 
when my parents returned from their trip,   a peculiar new addition awaited my collection. 
This was the first doll I hadn’t personally chosen or purchased. But I didn’t expect that detail to 
carry any weight. As these events unfolded, more strange facts about the doll came to light. My 
parents, for instance, mentioned how the cashier at the thrift store had visibly recoiled from 
the object, barely touching it, and had uttered, “Oh, you’re buying him.” Such reactions weren’t 
entirely new to me. I’d even been given dolls for free before because they were in such 
deplorable condition. Truly, one man’s trash   is another man’s treasure. So, initial aversion 
to a creepy doll was hardly a novel experience. What truly stood out, however, was my father’s 
reaction. A staunchly factual man who dismisses even the slightest hint of the supernatural, 
he confessed to feeling a strange presence   from the doll even before he laid eyes on it. My 
mother, to say the least, was not pleased when she learned he’d gone through with the purchase. 
I remember the sheer excitement of holding it for the first time. I felt no negative energy from it. 
It was just another doll. One of the first things I noticed was its lack of eyes. I assumed it was 
simply an old piece and they had fallen out over time. If anything, this made me like it more. The 
creepy clown doll, which I never formally named, quickly found its place on my shelf, and for a 
while, everything was perfectly fine. I can’t pinpoint exactly when the unease began, but 
it started subtly with minor things. I’d feel inexplicably uncomfortable around them, or I’d 
get a prickle of anxiety if they were facing   me while I lay in bed at night. I had always 
been comfortable with my dolls, and even when I wouldn’t admit it, I embraced the idea of being 
the weird girl who collected peculiar figures. But suddenly, their presence induced a palpable 
anxiety. The only way I can describe it is a deep, unsettling vibration in my chest, a persistent 
hum of discomfort whenever I was alone in my room. I ignored it for as long as I could, but being 
in that space began to trigger an anxiety unlike anything I had experienced before or since. 
At some point, the nightmares began growing progressively worse. A recurring theme was their 
unnerving proximity to reality. They almost always took place in my immediate surroundings, whether 
I was in my bed or on the couch. These dreams were so vivid, so convincing that I’d often wake up 
unsure if I had truly returned to consciousness or merely entered another layer of the nightmare. 
I recall two in particular. In one, I was lying in bed, the room dark, but not entirely impenetrable. 
I was on my side, facing away from the dolls and towards my closet. The closet door slowly creaked 
open, and a truly enormous doll emerged, towering, larger than a human. It stared at me, but only its 
eyes moved. For a moment, that’s all I saw before I jolted awake. This was my first experience 
that I can only liken to sleep paralysis, though I’m still unsure if I was physically 
unable to move or simply too terrified of what   might happen if I did. Of course, nothing was in 
my closet. It sounds like a generic horror cliche, but at the time, it was utterly terrifying, making 
it difficult to breathe and churning my stomach. The other nightmare occurred when I 
was napping on the couch. In the dream,   I woke up and went to my room. Inside, I looked 
at the dolls and they had been moved. Then I woke up again and this cycle repeated. Each time, the 
dolls becoming more scattered, lying on the floor or completely broken. Something was moving them. 
It couldn’t have been an accidental nudge. Before I finally awoke, it looked as if an angry force 
had violently swept them all off the shelf. When I eventually did wake up, the fear I felt as I 
slowly made my way to my room was unlike anything I had ever known. I walked as slowly as humanly 
possible, as if that could somehow mitigate what I feared. The possibility that they might have been 
moved was chilling. I knew with absolute certainty that if I entered my room and those dolls were out 
of place, something was profoundly, terrifyingly wrong. Every switch in the room was flipped, every 
light blazing. Yet the frantic illumination did nothing to dispel the creeping dread. I stood 
there trembling visibly, my eyes darting about, searching for any sign of disturbance, but nothing 
was a miss. It felt like an insidious taunt, an invisible hand mocking my terror. The 
nightmares persisted, relentless and unyielding, each one worse than the last. In my desperate 
attempts to escape them, I only exacerbated the problem, consciously avoiding the REM sleep 
cycle, convinced that by doing so, I could outrun the terror. This, of course, led to profound sleep 
deprivation. I can’t recall the specifics of many dreams, but a pervasive sense of fear and anxiety 
defined them. a suffocating aura that clung to my room, the doll, and my very proximity to it. 
Even my father, a man of unwavering skepticism, had a peculiar incident. He’d once entered my room 
to retrieve a pair of headphones, and his hip, broken since my early childhood, suddenly flared 
with an excruciating shooting pain. The agony, he reported, vanished the moment he left the room. 
It was these small, inexplicable occurrences that pushed the doll beyond ordinary, creepy, into 
something profoundly unsettling. My subconscious, it seemed, had begun to scream for escape, urging 
me away from my own personal sanctuary. It was an instinct I usually heeded, a primal warning that 
my space was no longer safe. The turning point came shortly after New Year’s. I resolved to clear 
my room of all the dolls, not focusing on anyone in particular, but simply on the collective 
unease they engender. I moved them all out that night. Yet, an hour or so later, I awoke 
with an overpowering compulsion. It felt wrong, deeply wrong, to leave them displaced. I had to 
put them back. I don’t know why, but I felt a visceral need for their return. The next morning, 
my mother observed my strange, agitated demeanor. Eventually, after I broke down, tearfully 
confessing the profound fear the dolls had lately   instilled in me, she took action. My mother, 
being a very spiritual person, was receptive to my distress and readily agreed to help. Together, 
we carefully placed all the dolls into a box and relegated them to the attic. Since that day, 
the nightmares and the oppressive anxiety have ceased entirely. Months later, the persistent 
questions about the doll led me to conduct further research. For a long time, the mere thought 
or discussion of them had been too disturbing, so I hadn’t even looked at pictures. What I 
discovered much later was profoundly unnerving. Scrolling through two years of old messages, I 
found the photo my father had sent me of the doll. It clearly had eyes. Yet, when I received it, 
the eyes were gone. While it’s possible they fell out during the drive, I couldn’t shake the 
unsettling discrepancy. Furthermore, my girlfriend and I searched extensively online, but could 
find no other dolls that perfectly matched it. The colors were always off, the face shape 
subtly different, and despite reaching out to   manufacturers of similar dolls, hoping for a clue, 
I never found a viable contact or explanation. To this day, the thought of that doll deeply 
disturbs me. Switching gears to another memory, my family and I were returning from spring break 
in Florida when I was in 8th grade. Our flight home was a two-legg journey, Tampa to Houston, 
then Houston to our hometown. We arrived in Houston at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday, expecting a 
3-hour layover. However, a massive storm sweeping across half the continental US grounded flights, 
including ours. Airline policy meant putting passengers from canceled flights on standby 
for alternative routes. As you can imagine, securing five seats for my entire family on a 
single flight, particularly when so many others were also stranded, proved incredibly difficult. 
We spent the entire afternoon at the airport, finally boarding a plane only for the flight to 
be cancelled at the very last minute. The reason, a shortage of pilots who had already maxed out 
their flight hours by the end of the month. Now, with two canceled flights and still on standby, 
my father’s patience began to wear thin. He grew increasingly angry and frustrated. The arduous 
journey home was far from over. My father, after an intense discussion with an airline manager, 
finally secured us actual seats on a connecting flight to a town in North Carolina. This glimmer 
of hope, however, was quickly snuffed out when around 9:00 p.m. that Saturday, this flight 
too was cancelled. My mother, usually composed, now reached her breaking point, her frustration 
escalating into a heated exchange with a desk   attendant, almost prompting a call to the TSA. 
My father, by then utterly exasperated, declared he no longer cared where we went, only that we 
needed to leave Houston. This desperate plea inexplicably resulted in an offer for a flight 
to Seattle, geographically the polar opposite of our hometown. My father, seeing the blatant 
absurdity, erupted in protest. We were left on standby for a redeye flight, a final gamble for 
the night. The cruel twist. There were only three seats available for our family of five. My father 
along with my two younger sisters made their way down the walkway only to be informed by a flight 
attendant that the plane was in fact full. Thus, our family was forced to spend the night sleeping 
in the Houston airport. It wasn’t until 10:00 a.m. the following morning, a full day after our 
initially scheduled departure, that we finally   boarded the very flight we were supposed to have 
taken. All told, we endured a grueling 27 hours in the Houston airport, plagued by uncertainty over 
whether we would even make it home in time for   school to resume. For our troubles, the airline 
offered a rather insulting compensation, a mere $40 in food vouchers to be split among five people 
and two candy bars each. My parents, who had owned a bustling tavern restaurant in our small town 
for 14 years, were well-known figures. My father in particular was famed for his entrepreneurial 
spirit and penchant for embarking on ambitious new projects. One day a local realtor recognizing this 
drive approached him with a unique proposition, a private viewing of a historical hotel that had 
been on the market. This venerable establishment had stood for decades, cycling through various 
owners who, despite their best efforts, failed to sustain its operations as a hotel, restaurant, 
or bar. Each owner, it seemed, put it back on the market within a year. The bank now held the 
title, and the realtor delivered a stark warning. If my father didn’t buy it and undertake its 
restoration, they intended to demolish it. Many towns people believed my father was the only one 
who could save such an iconic local landmark. So, he bought the hotel. My parents retained the 
downstairs as a bar and meticulously renovated the upstairs into apartments. It was then that 
the truly odd things began to happen. Almost every night, my father would come home from the 
hotel, clutching the security camera footage,   eager to show my mother and me. The recordings 
consistently displayed an empty pool room, saved for a single ethereal orb that would drift across 
the foreground. My father, a firm believer in the paranormal, found it captivating. My mother and 
I, both skeptics, dismissed it as dust or insects. Yet even we had to concede the peculiar almost 
deliberate zigzagging patterns of these orbs were unnerving. About a month into this routine, 
my father arrived home early one Saturday, visibly spooked. A rare sight indeed. He recounted 
being behind the bar, diligently checking the previous night’s receipts when he heard 
footsteps approaching from the hallway entrance. They didn’t open on Sundays, but if someone my 
dad knew spotted his truck in the parking lot, they might just walk in, so he initially didn’t 
find the footsteps alarming. Without looking up from his receipts, he called out, “We aren’t open, 
but give me a second.” The footsteps entered the barroom, taking six distinct paces towards him 
before stopping abruptly. After finishing his last bit of paperwork, he finally looked up, 
peering around the sturdy wooden support beam, only to find the room utterly empty. No one was 
there. He claimed he fled the place so fast he didn’t even remember locking the door behind him. 
My mother predictably thought he was imagining things, but I was genuinely terrified. That 
place had always given me an inexplicable chill, and my father’s confirmation only deepened my 
apprehension. I swore I would never step foot in that building again. Just two days ago, my mother 
had an experience there that sent her bolting out the door even faster than my dad. She was in the 
bar room before opening hours, collecting the shift money from the night before. She hadn’t 
been in there for more than 5 minutes when she started to hear the faint sound of music drifting 
from the entrance hallway. She tried to ignore it, assuming it was. Upon finishing her duties 
and collecting the day’s earnings, my mother made her way towards the exit. As she traversed 
the dim hallway, a peculiar sound began to seep through the silence. A faint piano-based melody 
reminiscent of an old waltz. With each step she took towards the restroom, the music intensified, 
growing clearer, as if being played directly from within. Standing before the women’s bathroom door, 
the sound was so distinct, she assumed the guest had left their phone playing inside. By now, a 
profound unease had settled over her, stripping away any logical explanation. Just as her hand 
reached for the door knob, she heard the faucet within cycle on and off twice with a chilling 
deliberateness. That was her breaking point. She bolted from the building, rushing into the parking 
lot where she immediately called my father,   convinced someone had been inside with her. He 
arrived promptly to investigate, but found the room, and indeed the entire floor utterly vacant. 
Until then, my mother had been a staunch skeptic, but that night transformed her. Now, we both share 
a deep, abiding fear of that unsettling old hotel. I sincerely hope that marks the final chapter 
of that particular haunt. On a related note, as of just a week ago, the hotel inexplicably 
burned to the ground. The cause, I’m told, remains officially undetermined. Shifting to a 
different memory from years past, my boyfriend and I once vacationed in Mexico. During one of 
our tours of the ancient pyramids, as our group began the return trek to the hotel, he discreetly 
pulled me aside, a mischievous glint in his eye, clearly bursting to share a secret he’d been 
itching to reveal. I’d noticed him acting strangely throughout the day, and now he finally 
revealed the cause, a small rock which he produced from his pocket. I eyed it with little enthusiasm. 
My attention drifted back to the gu’s droning monologue, but he tugged me back, his voice low 
and conspiratorial. I found this at the ruins, he whispered. I shot him a bewildered look. Why on 
earth would you take a random rock? I questioned. He shrugged. I just thought it would be cool. A 
little piece of history to keep forever for our house. I offered a weak smile, still unsure of 
the impulse, but dismissing it as harmless. That night, however, was anything but. I was plunged 
into the most vivid, terrifying dream of my life. My dearest friend, Abby, appeared before me, but 
only one of her arms remained. She thrashed as if submerged, trying desperately to communicate, 
her lone arm and stump flailing in silent panic. I awoke in a cold sweat, thoroughly rattled. My 
first instinct was to call her, but back home, Abby was still asleep. As expected, 
I attempted to drift back to slumber, but a profound visceral dread had taken root, 
making true rest impossible. I twisted and turned, battling the unsettling anxiety until a gentle 
poke from my boyfriend jolted me. I instantly turned to him, asking what was wrong. His voice 
wasoaro as he recounted a horrifying dream. My friend Abby had only one arm. The word sent a 
fresh jolt of fear through me. I hadn’t uttered a single word about my nightmare aloud. Not even 
when I tried calling Abby. No voicemail, no text. There was no conceivable way he could have known. 
I tried to dismiss it as an uncanny coincidence, but the incident hung heavy in the air. For 
the next three nights, restful sleep eluded me, replaced by a pervasive sense of disqu. We still 
had several days remaining of our vacation, and one afternoon, feeling under the weather, I 
lay in our room awaiting room service. Suddenly, a shadow roughly half the size of a normal 
person, darted from the edge of our bed   towards the bathroom. I was engrossed in a book 
and the sudden impossible movement nearly made me jump out of my skin. Paralyzed by fear, 
I remained absolutely still, feeling utterly exposed. My eyes were fixed on the bathroom 
entrance, straining to hear or see anything, but the silence was absolute. Minutes crawled by, 
each one amplifying my terror. Finally, with a profound sense of trepidation, I slowly edged off 
the bed and peered cautiously around the corner. nothing. The bathroom was empty. Relief 
began to mingle with a rising panic. Was I imagining things? That’s when my gaze fell upon 
the rock my boyfriend had pilered from the ruins, sitting innocuously on the glass table in front 
of the TV. A chilling realization dawned. Had all these unsettling occurrences begun when he brought 
that rock into our lives? Could this seemingly innocent souvenir be the source of our distress? 
A while later, I joined my boyfriend downstairs, determined to get answers. I questioned him about 
the rock, pressing him on his reasons for bringing it back. He simply reiterated that he thought 
it was cool, a novel trinket to impress his friends. I let out a dismissive snort, then turned 
away to order another drink from the bartender, the weight of my growing suspicions left 
unresolved. My unease about the souvenir festered, and at the first opportune moment, I initiated a 
subtle inquiry, artfully weaving our conversation from cultural nuances to the rich history of the 
ancient ruins. Then, feigning casual curiosity, I mentioned hearing tales of individuals who 
sometimes took small momentos like rocks from such sacred sites. My boyfriend’s affable demeanor 
shifted instantly, his expression clouding over. He fixed me with a penetrating gaze. “Did 
you take something from the ruins?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion. “I swiftly 
lied, a categorical no, hoping my deceit was convincing.” “Good,” he responded, a sigh of 
relief escaping him. “They say those who disturb sacred places become targets of illusions.” I 
pressed him, asking about this unusual word. He explained that in Mexican folklore, illusions were 
dimminionative, impish spirits capable of dragging a soul into the earth and bringing about one’s 
demise if provoked. They were not to be trifled with, he stressed, something between a malevolent 
ghost and a sinister bogeyman. Given my earlier unsettling encounter with the half-human shadow, 
his warning resonated with profound intensity. That evening, I confessed my deep misgivings to my 
boyfriend, arguing vehemently that the rock had to be returned. Though he initially grumbled, 
he eventually conceded. The following day, we booked another tour, carefully choosing a 
different company to avoid any suspicious overlap, and he clandestinely replaced the stone exactly 
where he’d found it. I’m relieved to say that the rest of our vacation was blessedly 
free of any further spectral disturbances,   and the pervasive sense of dread that had clung 
to me simply dissolved. Whether that feeling was purely psychological or a genuine reprieve 
from the paranormal, I cannot definitively say, but I will never forget the chilling sight of that 
shadow darting from our bed to the bathroom. Take heed, fellow travelers. Never piler from sacred 
sights. You truly never know what invisible baggage you might inadvertently carry home. 
Switching to a different, equally strange memory, I recall a quiet, perpetually damp night in 
Aikita, California. It was a sleepy town, virtually crime-free, where everyone knew 
everyone else’s business. Any hint of a burgeoning party would ripple through every 
clique, and newcomers were instantly detected,   their unfamiliarity ascent on the air. That 
particular evening, however, was unnaturally dark, the usual ambient glow of the town utterly absent. 
My friends and I had spent the entire day on our makeshift playground. And as the full moon, my 
favorite celestial spectacle, cast its pale light, it felt undeniably close to midnight. Elias 
Thorne, come on. We’re playing hide and seek. Vanessa’s voice pierced the stillness from across 
the field, pulling me from my moonlit revery. Our playground abuted a dense patch of woods, which in 
turn gave way to a neighbor’s property. A steep, imposing hill formed a natural divide, a 
verdant wall between our childhood sanctuary   and the adjacent yards. As kids, we’d often 
dare each other to scale it, to see who had the courage to conquer the wall and descend into 
the forbidden territory beyond. Vanessa and I, inseparable like Tom and Jerry, were always the 
victors. Coming. I called back to her. Then, as our younger friend Jackson, barely eight, darted 
off, I cast one last glance at the hill, the usual shortcut to the other side. My gaze, however, 
snagged on something far more unsettling. A pair of human feet appeared, slowly ascending the 
incline. A low-hanging branch obscured the face, making it impossible to identify the climber. 
Initially, I dismissed it. People often used the hill as a convenient path to the neighbors. But an 
inexplicable sense of wrongness prickled at me. My eyes remained fixed on the strange ascending form. 
Vanessa and Jackson, noticing my unblinking stare, gravitated towards me, curiosity etched on 
their faces. In a blink, the visible feet abruptly paused. Instinctively, I shoved Vanessa 
and Jackson behind me, slowly retreating towards the house entrance. “Guys, run!” I yelled, and 
we burst into a frantic sprint towards the door. My fingers fumbled for the keys, but they slipped 
from my grasp, clattering to the ground. A sharp gasp from Vanessa made me snap my head up. There 
it was, a creature, immense and shadowy, staring directly at us. I suddenly slipped the keys into 
Vanessa’s hand, stepping forward into a protective stance. Its fur, dark as coal, was matted with 
dew, and a guttural growl rumbled deep in its chest. Its sharp teeth vanished into the bristly 
grass, but its eyes, those burning crimson orbs, remained fixed on me. They felt like they 
were drinking a piece of my very essence. Yet to my utter astonishment, I wasn’t afraid. 
Instead, I felt an inexplicable pull, a paralysis, as if I never wanted to move from that spot. 
But the primal instinct to protect my friends, to ensure their safety, overruled any strange 
fascination. You want them, I declared, my voice surprisingly steady. You’re going to have to go 
through me. The creature perceived the challenge in my gaze. I half expected it to lunge, to 
unleash its formidable power. But it simply stood there, its blood red eyes never once leaving my 
brown ones. It was drawn to me. I could sense it, almost tasted in the humid air. Then a sharp tug 
on the back of my shirt. Before I could process it, I found myself standing inside my house 
facing Vanessa and Jackson. They looked absolutely petrified. A profound silence had fallen and we 
were safe. But in my mind, I was still out there, locked in that chilling stare. I wanted to 
see those eyes again. I rushed to the window, but the creature was gone. A pang, a deep ache of 
disappointment and rejection settled in my heart. My friends and I scrambled upstairs, needing to 
calm our frayed nerves. Our mothers thankfully gave permission for a sleepover, allowing us 
to stay together until morning. The next day, my mother walked Vanessa and Jackson home, and 
that night was never spoken of again. A decade has passed, and still, in the cold grip of night, 
I dream of those crimson eyes. I’ve had more than my fair share of paranormal encounters since 
then. Come face to face with countless oddities, but none quite like that. Now at 20, I’ve delved 
deep into research, and the only thing that accurately describes what I saw that night is a 
hellhound. My family, you see, hails from Hungary, though we currently reside in Rio de Janeiro, 
Brazil. Life here is a stark contrast. The crime rate is astronomically high. I recall Mike 
Ponmith once labeling Rio the most cyberpunk city in the world, referencing reports of police 
battling cartels armed with rocket launchers. Even in my relatively affluent neighborhood, I 
hear gunshots daily, pistols, revolvers, rifles. It often feels eerily similar to a war zone. 
Police ascend into the fllas, leaving the dead in the streets, and cartels burn people alive. 
These are disturbingly considered light skirmishes in the city’s broader narrative of violence. 
There are countless other grim realities I could touch upon, but they stray from our tale. Despite 
our simple attire and unacented Portuguese, one glance at my father or me, and our foreignness is 
undeniable. There was one particular incident with my father. He was driving a company car alone, 
heading to the docks to inspect some containers of equipment shipped to Brazil for a major 
business deal. When I say he was dressed simply, I mean truly simply. A short-sleeved shirt, 
linen pants, shoes, and his father’s old watch. No ostentatious suits, no unnecessary flash. 
He was driving through a particularly dense treelined area known to be dangerous when he fell 
victim to the oldest trick in the book. A boy, perhaps 12 or 13, lay in the middle of the street. 
With no room to swerve, my father stopped. That’s when five thugs armed with guns emerged from the 
bushes. He sincerely doubted their pistols were real. He described them more as greenhorns than 
seasoned criminals. Visibly nervous, they piled into the car, searched the glove compartment 
fruitlessly, then ordered my father to drive   to the bank. Inside with my father, they forced 
him to empty his account, taking what amounted to roughly €1,000, a substantial sum for us, as we 
weren’t wealthy. To this day, he wonders why the guards did nothing. But perhaps it was for the 
best. If those pistols had been real, it would have escalated into a hostage situation, and those 
in Rio almost invariably end in a bloody showdown. They then made him drive to a remote area, took 
the car, and left him. My father was incredibly lucky, emerging physically unscathed, saved for 
a profound shock. Following the harrowing ordeal, Elias Thorne’s father, still reeling from the 
shock, immediately reported the incident to   the local police. In Rio, there’s a particular 
difference shown to foreign nationals who become victims of crime, and his account was taken with 
grave seriousness. The authorities acted swiftly. They recovered the stolen money from the bank, and 
from what we gathered, the six culprits didn’t get to enjoy their illicit gains for long. Within 
a short time, the police managed to apprehend four of them, including the young man who had 
brandished the pistol and the boy who had fainted   injury in the street. Unable to strip the stolen 
company car for parts, the remaining members of the gang had resorted to burning it, rendering it 
a total loss. One of the apprehended individuals, a minor like two others among the group, had 
sustained injuries during the pursuit and   later succumbed to them, joining four others in 
a tragic end. Just another Tuesday, so to speak, in the relentless churn of Rio’s daily life. On 
a completely different note, a while back, Elias Thorne found himself entangled with a woman named 
Cheryl. They’d connected through a dating app, and in the early messages, she projected an image 
of charm and vivacity. Their first few dates, however, revealed a starkly different reality. 
Cheryl was intensely volatile. She was loud, often obnoxious, and possessed a remarkable 
talent for rudeness. Yet Elias Thorne confessed she was stunningly attractive, a fact that in his 
younger, more naive years, allowed him to overlook her more abrasive qualities. He remembered one 
particular evening at a restaurant. The waiter, a young man doing his best, brought her pizza. 
It was admittedly not quite what she’d ordered, perhaps half the toppings were missing, and Elias 
Thorne recalled a bizarre detail like anchovies being absent. But her reaction was utterly 
disproportionate. She launched into a screaming tirade, berating him as incompetent and useless, 
demanding to know how he dared to botch her order so spectacularly. It was genuinely offensive to 
witness. Yet Elias Thorne’s youthful infatuation still held him captive. Still, the incident left 
a bitter taste. The initial spark had dwindled, replaced by a growing discomfort. Despite the 
occasional fun moments, Elias Thorne began to see that the relationship was doomed, and he knew 
he had to end it. His plan was to soften the blow with a romantic night away. Elias Thorne reasoned 
a secluded campsite would be the ideal setting. She loved camping, and the idea of a night under 
the stars, just them in a single tent, filled her with enthusiasm. His naive strategy was to ensure 
a lovely evening, allowing the positive glow of a romantic date to cushion the eventual breakup the 
following morning. Oh, the folly of youth. As the evening unfolded, they settled by the campfire, 
sharing stories and roasting esmores, a picture of idllic tranquility. Then, without warning, she 
shifted, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Elias’s thorn with an unnerving intensity, as 
if she could peer directly into his intentions. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” she 
asked, her voice laced with suspicion. “No, babe,” Elias Thorne lied, a sick feeling twisting 
in his gut. He knew she’d caught on, but he wasn’t about to let his carefully constructed plan 
unravel. He was determined to salvage the night, so he insisted, “No, no, let’s just enjoy 
the evening.” She offered a weak smile, a flicker of doubt still in her eyes, and ascented. They 
continued their conversation and snacking until inevitably their beer supply ran dry. She, having 
consumed far less than Elias Thorne, declared, “I’ll go get more, honey. Just a little more to 
make this night perfect.” There was a peculiar glint in her eye, one Elias Thorne couldn’t 
quite decipher, but he simply smiled, nodded, and handed her his car keys. “I shouldn’t be more 
than 20 minutes,” she promised. “Their campsite wasn’t remote. It was a mere 5-minute walk to 
the car and a 10-minute drive to the nearest gas station. She truly shouldn’t be long at all.” 
Elias Thornne settled back, absently scrolling through his phone. 10 minutes passed, then 20, 
with no hint of concern. Half an hour later, he started to wonder if there was an unexpected 
queue at the station. When an entire hour ticked by and she still hadn’t returned, he began to 
call her phone. No answer. His calls continued, a growing knot of worry tightening in his stomach. 
Was she in trouble or had she simply taken off with his car? The uncertainty was agonizing. 
3 hours bled into the night, pushing midnight, and Elias Thorne was on the verge of outright 
panic. Then a single stark message flashed across his screen. I don’t like that you lied to me. It’s 
over. That was it. Nothing more. He immediately replied, “Babe, is everything all right? What’s 
going on?” He waited, heart pounding, until around 1:00 a.m. when another brief, chilling 
message arrived. We’re over. Her silence after that was absolute. Elias Thorne texted and called 
frantically throughout the remainder of the night, but she never responded. Exhaustion eventually 
claimed him, and when he finally woke up, his phone battery was completely drained 
from the relentless barrage of calls and   messages. With my phone rendered useless, its 
battery completely dead. I was truly stranded. The portable charging pack, a crucial oversight, 
sat ironically in the car that Cheryl had driven off with. Annoyance simmered into a full-blown 
rage. Admittedly, I wasn’t in the wilderness, but her abrupt departure had left me isolated. I 
knew her address, so my car’s general whereabouts weren’t the issue. It was extricating myself 
from this deserted campsite that nodded me. So, I packed my tent and gear with a heavy 
heart, then began the long haul towards the   campsite’s entrance. Upon reaching the parking 
lot, the sheer impracticality of carrying all my belongings for any significant distance 
became painfully clear. I scoured the empty lot, desperate for a soul who might lend a phone to 
call an Uber. My home was a mere 25 minutes away, and I had $15, hoping any Samaritan wouldn’t mind 
helping someone in a bind. But there was no one. Desperation tightened its grip. The nearest 
gas station was a 2-hour walk away. I decided to leave my things stashed in a dense bush by the 
roadside and set off on foot. The walk felt even longer than anticipated. When I finally stumbled 
into the gas station, the attendant was unhelpful, only offering to call the police. It took 
an agonizing hour for an officer to arrive, and he was clearly irritated, grumbling about not 
being a taxi service. Thankfully, he did allow me to use his phone to order an Uber home. Reaching 
my house, a fresh wave of panic washed over me. My house keys were attached to my car keys, which 
Cheryl still possessed. I embarked on another long walk, an hour this time, to her house. I 
pounded on her door, but she wasn’t there. My fury intensified. She had left me utterly marooned with 
nowhere to go and without a word of explanation. I spent five agonizing hours waiting outside, 
eventually hiding behind a recycling bin when I saw her pull up in my car, accompanied by another 
man. As they walked hand in hand towards her door, I jumped out demanding to know what was going on. 
With a disconcerting nonchilence, she simply said, “Go inside, Dave. I’ll be there in a minute.” 
Unlocking her door for him. I confronted her, my voice strained with anger, threatening to call the 
police if she didn’t hand over my car keys and an explanation. She sighed, a small unsettling smile 
playing on her lips. “I’m not stupid. I knew you were going to break up with me, so I had to teach 
you a lesson. This is what you get for leading me on and lying. In that moment, absurdly, I almost 
felt she was right. But the rage quickly returned. I snatched my keys from her hand, twisted off her 
two house keys, and flung them at her. Without another word, I spun on my heel, and stomped away, 
heading home. That girl had utterly derailed my day, leaving me vulnerable and stranded. Anything 
could have happened. What a truly horrible person. Admittedly, my own intentions hadn’t been 
entirely noble, planning to break up with her   after a romantic night, but I still felt I hadn’t 
deserved such a cruel turn. In any case, Cheryl, I’ve long since moved on, and I sincerely hope 
our paths never cross again. Shifting gears to a different chapter. I once held a contract security 
position at the emergency room entrance of a   downtown hospital pulling the graveyard shift. 
My post was a kiosk just inside the main entrance where I monitored all incoming and outgoing 
traffic. Directly across from me were two banks of elevators. The first on the right only ascended 
to the third floor, servicing administrative offices that were always secured and closed for 
the night during my shift. The second elevator to the left required specialized training to 
operate. It accessed the same lower floors but also provided direct passage to the helipad 
on the hospital’s roof. This was the critical lifeline for lifelight helicopters delivering 
patients in dire often life or death conditions directly to the emergency room below. Security 
protocols for a life flight were stringent. Upon notification of an incoming helicopter, we 
would activate the special elevator using our access key to ascend to the helipad. Once there, 
we would lock the elevator in the open position, ensuring it remained exclusively dedicated 
to the lifeflight crew and their patient,   preventing any calls from other floors until the 
critical transfer to the ER was complete. My role once the helellipad elevator was secured, was 
to take the stairs back down to my kiosk. It was impressed upon us that precision in handling 
critical medical transports was paramount,   given the tragic instances of fatalities occurring 
both on the pad and during the descent. Despite my usual skepticism regarding the supernatural, 
I’d never personally experienced a haunting, that particular elevator began to behave in profoundly 
unsettling ways every night I was on duty. The elevator bank to my right, which only serviced 
the three administrative floors, was always a static presence, sitting idly on the first floor 
since those offices were closed after hours. My nightly rounds included a quick check of the 
second and third floors, and I never had to wait   for that elevator. It was reliably waiting on the 
ground floor. The elevator on the left, however, the one designated for the helellipad and floors 
two and three, truly seemed to possess a mind of its own. All night long, its floor indicator would 
bounce erratically, traveling up and down with no discernable passenger. I’d watch it descend to 
the main floor, its doors opening to an empty car, only to close and then ascend to the helellipad or 
one of the upper floors. This constant, unprompted activity was deeply baffling. The custodial staff 
had finished their work on floors 2 and 3 by 10 p.m. well before my shift even began, leaving 
no one around to use those lifts. During my own nightly checks, I never encountered a soul on 
those floors, the lights always off. Even more unnerving, the left elevator would inexplicably 
travel all the way to the helellipad by itself, an option that explicitly required an access key. 
My fellow security officers offered no coherent explanation, and hospital employees, clearly keen 
to avoid any association with a haunted elevator, would quickly change the subject or brush off my 
inquiries. Nevertheless, from my security kiosk, I remained a nocturnal witness, watching that 
erratic lift f itself from floor to floor all shift, its doors perpetually opening on the first 
floor to reveal nothing but an empty cabin across from me. The other elevator, the one that only 
went up to the second and third floors, remained stubbornly still, moving only if another security 
officer genuinely needed it. In a completely different vein, there’s a family legend, a deeply 
sensitive topic about my father’s sister. She passed away before I was born, so I never had 
the chance to meet her. As you can imagine, it’s a subject rarely, if ever, broached. But one 
evening, my grandmother, having enjoyed a few too many drinks, brought up the story unprompted. 
I later confronted my father about it, and he, with a reluctant nod, confirmed its veracity, 
though he cautioned me never to speak of it   again. The tale goes like this. Many years 
ago, my father and his sister, then around 17, were tending to their duties on the family ranch. 
My father, being a bit younger, went inside for dinner, leaving his sister to finish trimming 
some bushes. After a couple of hours passed and she still hadn’t returned, my father, feeling a 
strange unease, went out to look for her. He found her huddled by a tree, sobbing uncontrollably as 
dusk settled and darkness began to creep across the land. He asked what was wrong, and through her 
tears, she explained that as she was about to head inside, shears in hand, she glanced up and saw 
it, a colossal black dog with burning red eyes. She described it as easily reaching her chest in 
height, its silent appearance instantly freezing her in terror. For a few agonizing seconds, the 
creature simply glared at her, utterly still, before inexplicably dissolving into a smoky mist. 
Overwhelmed, she’d panicked, running to hide behind the tree, too paralyzed by fear to move, 
and too terrified to go home, as that would mean walking past the very spot where it had vanished. 
My father, attempting to soothe her, told her it was likely just her imagination. But deep down, he 
knew she couldn’t have conjured something so vivid and terrifying. He led her back to the house, 
and they tried to put the incident behind them. However, his sister, unable to keep such 
a profound experience to herself, confided in my grandparents. My grandfather, a stern and 
pragmatic man, simply dismissed it as nonsense. While his father had tried to convince her that 
her mind was playing tricks, my grandmother,   a woman of greater empathy, struggled to believe 
such an outlandish story, a spectral dog appearing from thin air, only to vanish. Yet, she offered 
what comfort she could. Not even three days later, as Elias Thorne’s father and his sister 
worked together in the yard, chatting   idly, the sister suddenly froze. Elias Thorne’s 
father, startled, followed her gaze. There, in the distance, was the very same black dog. Terror 
seized his sister, rooting her to the spot, and as the creature dissipated once more, a guttural 
shriek tore from her throat. her face contorted in an expression of unimaginable agony. Elias 
Thorne’s father would later say her eyes nearly rolled back into her head before she crumpled to 
the ground. They rushed her to the hospital where doctors delivered a devastating diagnosis, 
an unknown aneurysm in her brain had burst, killing her. The family was left to wonder if the 
sheer stress of seeing the dog had triggered the fatal rupture, or if its appearance had been 
a grim omen of her imminent end. The tragedy, as expected, exacted a profound and lasting 
toll on the family. Elias Thorne’s grandfather, unable to bear the weight of his grief, spiraled 
back into alcoholism, eventually entering rehab from which he never returned, taking his own 
life. My grandmother, still with us today, rarely speaks of her daughter, but the enduring 
pain is palpable. And for very understandable reasons, Elias Thorne’s father never allowed 
them to have a dog. Decades later, a quieter, less somber mystery unfolded within Elias Thorne’s 
own home. He and his wife were in their daughter’s room, engaged in the familiar nightly ritual. His 
wife sat on the bed, meticulously braiding their daughter’s hair, while Elias Thorne waited to tuck 
her in and bid her good night. His gaze fell upon a pristine boxed 2010 holiday Barbie doll, a gift 
from their neighbor. He casually wondered aloud if their daughter had finally unboxed it. His wife, 
ever practical, replied that she had, adding that dolls were, after all, meant to be played with. 
Elias Thorne then remarked to his daughter that he and her mother also possessed collectible 
dolls safely stored in their respective closets, still in their original packaging. He listed 
his own, a Bruce Lee action figure, a Jesse, the body wrestling doll, and a 95th anniversary 
collectible raggedy. his wife swiftly interjected, correcting him. No, she insisted. Her doll 
was a cabbage patch kid, and one of them, she recalled, was even tanned. Elias Thorne, 
having just meticulously reorganized his closet the day before, was certain it was a raggedy, 
but his wife vehemently denied ever owning such a thing. Driven by a sudden, peculiar curiosity, 
Elias Thorne retrieved the box from the closet. He returned to the room and held it up for her 
to see. His wife paused, her hand midbrush on their daughter’s hair, and slowly, deliberately 
shook her head. Her lips formed silent words, careful not to alarm their daughter. It’s not 
mine. I’ve never seen it before. Her eyes held a chilling gravity. Elias Thorne knew his wife 
possessed an almost terrifyingly precise memory. She wasn’t trying to trick him. He quickly phoned 
her sister wondering if it might have been a gift, but her sister confirmed she had not. She had, 
however, once given his wife a collectible Mary Poppins doll, a detail both women distinctly 
remembered. So there it was, a doll in their home, its origin utterly unknown. Elias Thorne already 
felt a profound chill creeping down his spine, but then a far more unsettling realization struck him. 
The doll bore an uncanny resemblance to Annabelle, the infamous haunted doll from horror films, now 
famously enshrined in Ed and Lorraine Warren’s occult museum. It’s probably nothing Elias Thorne 
had told himself, but the truth was they were both utterly unnerved. His wife did, in fact, own a 
cabbage patch kid, but it was safely tucked away in another closet, and it was decidedly not this 
doll. The sudden, inexplicable presence of the Annabelle-like doll left a lingering unease. That 
disconcerting incident now resurfaces whenever Elias Thorne thinks of the hotel where he works, 
particularly the section dedicated to long-term guests, those who stay more than a single night. 
at the very end of that particular hallway. For rooms were tucked away in an almost invisible 
corner. Two on one side, two on the other. Their doors only truly visible once you reached the 
hallways terminus. Elias Thorne was gathering supplies for these rooms, heading into the I was 
performing my rounds in the long-term guest wing, heading to attend to one of the four rooms tucked 
away at the corridor’s end when a man emerged. He was a colossal figure, easily three times my 
size, towering over my own slight frame of 5’3” in and barely 125. He politely inquired about the 
operation of the coffee machine. As an outgoing and generally friendly person, I offered a quick 
demonstration, then returned to my other tasks. A little later, he reappeared, reiterating that 
his room wouldn’t require further service. Marcus, my manager, was stripping a nearby room that 
had just checked out. I turned to go attend to another, but the man stepped out of his room once 
more. Assuming he had another query, I turned back only for him to fix me with an unnerving stare. 
“Aren’t you scared doing your job?” he asked, his voice low. I responded that as a housekeeper, 
I rarely had direct interactions with guests, so not really. He then commented that I was quite 
delicate and easily taken, suggesting I needed some form of protection. I instinctively showed 
him my car keys, which I always kept in my pocket for that very reason. The initial exchange wasn’t 
overtly threatening, but as his words sunk in, a wave of profound anxiety washed over me. “I 
don’t think car keys are enough,” he continued, his gaze lingering. “You’re small. Someone could 
easily snatch you up. In that instant, I ducked into the room Marcus was occupying across the 
hall, figning a need to speak with him. I waited, my heart hammering, until I heard the heavy 
thud of the man’s door closing. I then tried to resume my duties as normally as possible, but the 
experience had shaken me to my core. Later, alone in another room down the hall, I collapsed, crying 
and experiencing a full-blown anxiety attack. I was convinced this man would seek me out, find 
me in whatever room I was in, and simply abduct me. The memory of that guest, and the chilling 
implications of his predatory assessment made me hope I would never cross paths with someone so 
truly unsettling again. This incident, however, wasn’t my only brush with disquing encounters. 
Two years ago, over a Memorial Day weekend, a friend and I, both of us young men, 24 at the 
time, faced the grueling drive from Las Vegas back to Los Angeles. Fresh off a solid weekend of 
partying, the typical 5-hour desert journey was already daunting. But on a busy holiday, it could 
stretch to 7 or even 9 hours, and a multi-day hangover made every minute in agony. Our other 
friends, who were flying out, had wisely convinced one of our group to wait out the worst of the 
traffic. We opted for a more aggressive schedule, lingering for a buffet and a bit more poolside 
recovery before finally setting off at 300 p.m., optimistically aiming to be home by 8. We were 
terribly mistaken. Two major accidents and an endless torrent of holiday traffic brought our 
progress to a crawl. It took us a staggering 6 hours just to reach Barstow, a segment that 
usually took two. We refilled with gas and coffee, a pit stop that consumed another hour due to the 
sheer volume of travelers. Back on the road at 1000 p.m., we hit more traffic, made a wrong 
turn, and by 2:30 a.m., found ourselves only passing through Santa Clarita, barely 45 minutes 
from our destination. Then, a horrific noise erupted from beneath the car. a sound like steel 
ripping apart like paper followed by an explosion. I managed to pull the vehicle off the freeway and 
onto a side street. A quick call to AAA promised a halfhour wait. It was a terrible situation, but 
a 30-minute delay didn’t seem insurmountable. The neighborhood, while featuring multiple gated 
communities, felt desolate on the arterial road we were on. We all tried to nap. About 15 minutes 
later, I was jolted awake by a car driving in the opposite direction. It was an SUV, perhaps a 
Toyota 4Erunner with four occupants. I couldn’t discern their faces in the dim light, but their 
intent gaze lingered on our disabled vehicle. Minutes after they passed, my phone ranga. 
Apparently, in my panicked call, they’d misheard Santa Clarita as Santa Clara, a city 6 hours 
north near San Francisco. It would be another hour before they could reroute a tow truck to our 
actual location. We tried to sleep again, but the quiet hum of the desolate road was punctuated by 
the unsettling thought of that SUV. Roughly half an hour later, the same vehicle roared by, this 
time on our side of the road, moving much faster. As they passed, they deliberately flashed their 
brights directly into our car. The message was clear. We were seeing and we were exposed. The 
chilling realization that we were being watched amplified my unease. I kept a Bowie knife and a 
miniature bat tucked beneath my seat. A childish habit perhaps, but one that offered a sliver 
of comfort. I snatched the knife, thrusting the bat into my friend’s hand. He was half asleep, 
groggy and confused. So I quickly whispered an explanation. Before I could finish, exhaustion 
claimed him again, leaving me alone with my escalating dread. A quarter of an hour later, the 
SUV reappeared, parking a disconcerting 300 ft behind us, its headlights still off. The sun had 
now risen, casting a harsh, inescapable glare on our predicament, and true panic began to set in. I 
roused my two friends, careful that our movements wouldn’t betray our wakefulness to the figures in 
the SUV. We began to whisper frantic strategies, a palpable fear gripping us. Stranded and vastly 
outnumbered, our situation felt truly dire. The SUV’s lights remained off, and through its dark 
windows, I could just make out intense, animated discussion. We watched, paralyzed by apprehension, 
waiting to see what their next move would be. Desperate, I called AAA again. They promised a tow 
truck within 15 minutes. Then, simultaneously, the driver and passenger doors of the SUV swung open. 
Two men, built like linebackers and clad entirely in black hoodies, emerged. The driver leaned 
against the grill, calmly lighting a cigarette, his gaze unwavering on our car. The passenger, 
with unnerving nonchulence, relieved himself on the sidewalk. It felt like a deliberate 
psychological torment, perhaps a response to the faint glow of my phone screen they might 
have spotted earlier. His prolonged urination seemed an eternity. The three of us stowed in our 
fear, utterly helpless. He eventually zipped up, exchanging a few words with the driver before the 
other two SUV doors opened. A small beanieclad figure and another large hooded man stepped 
out. The quartet began to walk towards us, a casual, terrifying advance. I gripped my knife, 
my friend readied his bat, and our other companion clenched his fists, adopting a ridiculous but 
earnest fighting stance. They stopped halfway, their approach halted by the sudden appearance 
of a tow truck’s distant lights. I glanced back, watching them pile hastily back into the 
SUV. As the tow truck operator disembarked, the SUV sped off with surprising elacrity. We 
didn’t reach home until 5 in the morning. I’ll never truly know their intentions. Perhaps they 
mistook our vehicle for abandoned or worse saw my long-haired friend in the back seat and assumed we 
were a group of vulnerable girls. Whatever their motive, it was a night of profound and unsettling 
intensity. My brother, a few years younger, once spent a period living with our aunt. His youngest 
cousin’s room, which he temporarily occupied, was a veritable museum of dolls. They filled every 
available surface. The only unadorned space was the bed itself and the few steps leading up to it. 
Predictably, this unnerved him constantly. He’d painstakingly arranged them each night, turning 
their backs to him, hoping for a peaceful night’s   rest. Yet, without fail, every morning he awoke to 
find every single doll facing him again. Even more bizarrely, three or four particular dolls would 
consistently reappear sitting right beside his   head, regardless of whether he’d meticulously 
placed them in a cabinet or even locked them out of the room entirely. Initially, we dismissed 
it, convinced his cousins were playing elaborate pranks. But the phenomenon continued even during 
his extended stays when he was the sole occupant of the house. He eventually grew accustomed to 
it. the constant repositioning and reappearance becoming a strange nightly ritual that no 
longer bothered him. This continued for months, right up until the day he moved out two years 
later. Both my aunt and cousin vehemently denied ever experiencing anything remotely unusual in 
that room, making it starkly clear that the doll’s peculiar attentions were reserved exclusively for 
my brother. This next memory takes me back to when I was 12, a time when I firmly dismissed anything 
remotely paranormal. I was living with my aunt and her children in Jacksonville, Florida, when 
a truly ferocious rainstorm erupted one night. Around 3:00 in the morning, the entire building 
plunged into darkness as the power completely   failed. I had no fear of the dark, so I simply 
drifted back to sleep. However, I was violently wrenched from slumber by the piercing screams of 
my cousin, who was frantically calling for me and   my sister to wake up and come downstairs. Being 
a child, I naturally his piercing cries, however, made no sense to me. I was barely older than him, 
yet I considered myself fearless, while my cousin, a towering six-footer who usually played the tough 
guy, was balling like a frightened toddler. My sister and I, new to Florida, might have had 
reason to be scared, but he certainly didn’t. I slowly roused, irritated by the commotion just 
as I heard the front door creek open downstairs. His terrified whimpers grew louder, confirming he 
was cowering right by the stairwell directly below the room my sister and I shared. From my top bunk, 
I rolled over, my gaze settling on the sliding closet doors. Beyond the window, the world was 
a canvas of gray, rendered almost opaque by the torrential downpour. Though the rumble of thunder 
and flash of lightning always sent a shiver down my spine, the rhythmic drumming of rain had a 
peculiar way of soothing me, especially when I was stressed or reeling from a nightmare. I was often 
plagued by vivid dreams, dreams where featureless figures, not blank, but utter voids where eyes 
and mouth should be, pursued me relentlessly. These nightmares were so potent I’d often wake up 
in tears. Staring out at the storm swept world, I wished I was anywhere but here. My eyes 
drifted to the dresser clock. 3:05 a.m. That’s when I caught a flicker of movement by the closet 
doorway. A towering black shadow as tall as the doorframe itself stood there, its form indistinct, 
save for two piercing, glowing red eyes. My first thought was a familiar one, a hallucination. My 
history of childhood abuse had left me with a constellation of mental health struggles, PTSD, 
psychosis, and borderline personality disorder, all of which occasionally manifested as vivid 
hallucinations. It would have been easy to dismiss it as just another episode, making me uneasy, but 
ultimately harmless. But this was different. My hallucinations usually vanished within a second or 
two. This entity persisted, a silent, unblinking sentinel in my doorway. I lay there, utterly 
frozen by terror, my eyes locked on the creature, my mind racing. Asterisk, what was it? What did it 
want? asterisk. I tried to summon the courage to ask, to raise a hand towards where a mouth should 
be. But it had no face, only those twin red orbs. Yet somehow it communicated. It commanded me not 
to speak. asterisk. Could it read my thoughts? Did it know what I was about to ask? My question, 
a desperate plea to know if I was going to die, remained unvoiced. The creature simply shook its 
head. A sliver of relief, fleeting and profound, washed over me. Then, as quickly as it had 
appeared, it dissolved into the shadows. Tears welled in my eyes. You might call it bizarre, but 
the encounter left me with a profound sadness, a crushing sense of rejection. It felt as though 
death itself had come for me, only to decide I wasn’t worth taking, as if no one, not even 
the reaper, truly wanted me. That was the desolate feeling that clung to me. Then I finally 
forced myself out of bed, wiping away my tears, a fierce resolve hardening within me. Who cared if 
no one wanted me? I’d prove I didn’t need anyone. Asterisk I woke my sister, whispering that our 
cousin was terrified downstairs. As we exited the room, I cast one last glance back. It was empty. 
Downstairs, I immediately asked my cousin if he’d seen anyone in the house. To my astonishment, he 
simply mumbled that he didn’t like the dark. We decided to seek refuge at our neighbors, waiting 
until my aunt’s mother returned around 6:00 a.m. She arrived home to an empty apartment only to 
find us next door and predictably was displeased, expressing her general aversion to me making 
friends. A week later, the memory of the shadow figure had begun to fade into the background of a 
routine morning. My younger sister and I, as was our daily custom, were racing down the stairs, 
vying for the first shower spot before school. As I rounded the final banister, a monstrous 
black dog, its eyes glowing crimson sprang out from nowhere, a terrifying snarl on its face, its 
massive teeth bared in an open mall. I stumbled backward, landing hard on my backside. The sheer 
force of the impact made my sister stop laughing, her cheer dissolving into a puzzled frown. “What’s 
wrong?” she asked. “Did you see it?” “The dog, the one that just sprang at me.” Her eyes widened 
in surprise, then confusion. “She hadn’t seen a thing. How could she not have seen it? It had 
materialized directly in front of me. I’d felt the undeniable weight of its leap, the rough 
texture of its fur as it brushed against me. It had been terrifyingly real. The realization that 
she saw nothing, that to her I was merely reacting to thin air, made me feel utterly insane. She just 
stared as if I’d truly lost my grasp on reality. My sister, still bewildered, won the race for the 
shower, a small victory I barely registered. The dog consumed my thoughts. The next morning at 
school, driven by an urgent need for answers, I rushed to the library. The few resources I 
could find described the creature as a hellhound, a terrifying beast, an entity one hoped never 
to cross paths with. According to ancient lore, hell hounds were not mere animals, but 
primordial demons, harbingers of demise. Legends claimed a single encounter spelled a 
person’s ultimate end, though other accounts   suggested a grizzly tally of three sightings 
was required for the curse to fully manifest and claim its victim. This made the hellhound 
a feared symbol justly earning its title as a bearer of death. Having already encountered the 
enigmatic death guy, and now this spectral hound, a chilling certainty settled over me, I was 
marked. I had told myself I didn’t want to die anymore after the first encounter. But with the 
hellhounds appearance, who knew what fate awaited   me? Since that night, an irrational yet profound 
fear of all black dogs has clung to me. Now, let me share a different recollection. Not long 
after those unsettling events, my sister, who was 21 at the time, and I embarked on a cross-country 
road trip, heading to the West Coast to begin a new chapter. It was midJune and to break up the 
two-day drive, we planned an overnight stop at a hotel. Our traveling companion was her beloved 
but formidable black Britney/Pitbull mix pup, a dog as friendly as he was intimidating. 
I should perhaps explain that at 17, I was and still am a rather feminine-looking 
guy. My slight build and features often led people to mistake me for a girl, a detail that, 
as you’ll see, plays a role in what happened next. We arrived at the hotel around 7:00 p.m., checked 
in without issue, and made our way up to our room on the second floor. Everything seemed perfectly 
routine. We were ravenous from the long hours on the road, but my sister’s back was aching, 
so I ever the beautiful younger sibling, volunteered to walk the two blocks to grab some 
sandwiches. The errand was quick and uneventful, and I returned to the hotel, famished and eager 
to eat. My hopes for a quiet meal, however, were dashed when my sister, with a sigh, mentioned 
she’d forgotten a few essential items in her car. “Could you quickly fetch them for me?” she asked. 
With a groan, I took her keys, joged to the car, and was back at the hotel’s entrance in under 5 
minutes. This particular hotel was designed with open air balcony walkways leading to the rooms, 
and its elevator, a common security measure, required a key card for access. As I approached 
the lift, my sister’s car keys still in hand, I noticed two men. One had his hand on a car door 
in the parking lot, seemingly preparing to leave, but the moment their eyes met mine, their 
trajectory shifted. They both turned and headed directly for the elevator. My mind, unfortunately, 
had been primed by too many chilling anecdotes. I instantly recognized the sinister pattern of this 
unfolding scenario. Retreating seemed feudal, a direct invitation for them to follow me through 
an unfamiliar city. Resigned, I swiped my key card, pressed the button, and stepped inside the 
elevator. Predictably, they followed. Now what? I frantically thought. Then, a surge of adrenaline, 
I remembered my sister always kept a canister of pepper spray attached to her key lanyard. I 
quickly found it, my hand closing around the cool metal, my thumb resting on the activator, ready 
to deploy. Mercifully, our room was situated just around a right turn from the elevator. A straight 
shot down the corridor. As the doors opened, I hesitated, subtly, trying to let them exit 
first, hoping to avoid having them directly at my back. But they insisted, gesturing for me to 
proceed. My heart hammering, I quickened my pace. key card in one hand, pepper spray clutched 
tightly in the other, mentally rehearsing,   slamming the door shut the instant I was inside. 
I fumbled with the lock, pushed the door open, and they were right there, barely 5 in behind me, 
their presence a palpable threat. Hey, I got the stuff from the car, I announced, my voice perhaps 
a little too loud, pushing past my sister’s dog, who was lying just inside the door and into the 
room. I quickly pulled the door shut behind me just as they would have caught sight of my sister 
who was on the bed, her back to the door scrolling on her phone. They lingered for a second, then 
without a word, walked past our room to the right, where only one other suite existed. I exchanged 
a wideeyed, disbelieving look with my sister, a silent message that said, “You wouldn’t believe 
what just happened.” I swiftly locked the door. I was certain that if my sister and 
her protective dog hadn’t been visible,   those men would have followed me inside. And the 
outcome, well, I preferred not to speculate on what their true intentions might have been. My 
sister later recounted seeing their silhouettes pass our room, peering through the slight gap in 
our blinds. We suspected they weren’t even guests, given the distinct goodbye we overheard them 
utter to a woman in the hall as they left. The relief of their departure was palpable, 
but the encounter left an unsettling mark. That feeling resurfaced intensely during a more recent 
solo ordeal. Just a few months ago, my sister, who resides a 3-hour drive away, faced an urgent 
situation, compelling me to offer to stay the night with her. I packed quickly and set off at 
9:00 p.m. About an hour into the journey, my car’s temperature gauge began to climb alarmingly. Not 
wanting to risk a breakdown in a desolate area, I turned back. 15 minutes from my apartment, 
around 11:30 p.m., the car finally gave out, overheating on an exit ramp. I pulled over, 
waited for it to cool, and managed to get back on the highway, only for it to overheat 
again. This time, after pulling to the shoulder, it refused to restart at all. Alone, a 23-year-old 
in a new town with my partner out of state. A wave of panic washed over me, fueled by too many 
unsettling stories read online. I managed to calm myself enough to call my stepfather, informing 
him of my location and my intention to call a tow truck. As I spoke, two vehicles abruptly pulled 
off the highway directly in front of me, followed by a third pulling in right behind. My initial 
thought was that they were either stopping to help or were traveling together. Still, it struck 
me as profoundly odd that all three had chosen the exact same spot to stop, with one intentionally 
positioning itself behind my disabled car. They remained in their vehicles for what felt like an 
eternity, but was likely no more than 3 minutes. Then, a man emerged from the lead car and began 
walking towards me. I described him intently to my stepfather just in case. He reached my passenger 
side door, paused briefly, then continued to the car behind me. After another short while in that 
car, he returned to my vehicle, and as he passed my window, he wrapped on it once with his knuckle, 
a sharp, singular knock before continuing on his way. He then sat in his car for a few minutes 
before all three vehicles departed simultaneously. Recalling it now, it might not sound as bizarre, 
but being stranded on a deserted highway with three cars pulling up ahead and behind creates 
a suffocating sense of vulnerability. I still can’t fathom why he felt the need to knock 
on my window as he walked by. I won’t lie, it brought me to tears. I desperately hoped they 
were just stopping to chat amongst themselves and I was overreacting, but I pray our paths never 
cross again. Speaking of unsettling encounters, my mother has recounted numerous strange and 
paranormal experiences throughout her life,   even meeting her own doppelganger as a child. 
I grew up hearing stories of flying cups in her bedroom and a vacuum cleaner that would 
inexplicably operate by itself. But there’s one particular incident that still baffles me, and 
I often wonder if anyone else has ever witnessed such a creature. Years ago, before I was born, 
my mother was staying at her best friend’s house. Her friend was married, and though her husband 
was present, he and my mother rarely interacted, always keeping to himself, as he still does 
today. My mother was waiting alone in her car in the driveway for her friend to come out so they 
could leave. She was idly fiddling with the car’s buttons when she happened to glance in her rear 
view mirror. What she saw there horrified her, a large black dog walking upright on its hind 
legs. Being a profoundly skeptical person, I pressed her, asking if it was just a large dog 
that had stood up and was perhaps leaning against   the car for support. She adamantly insisted that 
no, it was walking entirely independently like a human along the sidewalk without touching her 
vehicle at all. My mother’s conviction was unwavering. This creature never once dropped to 
all fours. It stroed on two legs like a person. The genuine terror still etched in her eyes, even 
years later, left no doubt in my mind about the truth of her account. Just as quickly as it 
appeared, it vanished, dissolving into thin air as she turned her head around. There wasn’t a 
living soul or a single dog in sight. But for me, that wasn’t the most disturbing part. Years 
after that initial chilling encounter, my mother found herself visiting her best 
friend again. She has since developed an intense   aversion to that particular house. The topic of 
unexplained phenomena surfaced and my mother, never having told anyone before, recounted the 
story of the bipeedal canine in the driveway. Her friend’s face pald. My husband told me he saw 
that too, she whispered, her voice barely audible. It walked on two legs. Two separate individuals in 
the same spot at different times had witnessed the exact same impossible creature. I’ve always heard 
the old legends about dogs appearing as omens of fate or fortune. But what on earth was this? I 
still wonder if anyone out there has ever glimpsed anything similar. Now that I’ve recently passed 
my driving test, the thought is truly unnerving. I’m certain if I ever catch sight of that thing 
or anything remotely unnatural in my rear view mirror, I’ll have a heart attack. Before I 
learned to drive, when I was much younger, my family often took vacations, and my 
cousins and I, all of similar ages, frequently accompanied each other. One such trip was in 2008, 
a memorable visit to Universal Studios in Orlando. I was the youngest of nine cousins, a group 
almost entirely made up of girls with me as the sole boy. Our ages spanned from my 10 years 
to my eldest cousins 15. At that stage of my life, I was particularly prone to paranoia, influenced 
by too many scary movies and disturbing news reports. My perspective, you could say, was easily 
skewed. Our large Italian family was staying at the Hard Rock Hotel, a sprawling complex featuring 
restaurants, bars, pools, and shops. One evening, after the parents, likely a little tipsy, handed 
us some cash, we headed to the resort’s ice cream parlor. “Stick together,” they instructed. The 
moment I stepped inside, my eyes landed on him, and I instantly recognized him. I still recall 
his face with chilling clarity to this day. He was the spitting image of the killer from the 
movie Disturbia. And that fact alone set me on edge. I remember being at the end of the line with 
one of my cousins. My gaze fixated on this man. Even though I was the youngest, I felt a peculiar 
sense of responsibility as the only boy. I watched him make an inaudible comment to one of my other 
cousins before he placed his ice cream order. Keep in mind, this place was teeming with people, 
kids darting around, maps unfolded, a kaleidoscope of distractions. Yet, my attention remained locked 
on him. Next, I distinctly saw him lean back slightly, craning his neck to peer at the legs of 
two of my girl cousins, both around 13 years old. This parlor was incredibly crowded with a long 
line of people standing shoulderto-shoulder. That’s when things really took a turn. As he paid 
with his left hand, his right hand hovered almost imperceptibly just above my cousin’s backside, 
barely making contact. With all the commotion, they didn’t notice a thing. I nudged my sister, 
who was next to me, and urgently whispered what I’d seen. Two heads are better than one, and 
I needed to confirm I wasn’t just imagining things. Her face instantly contorted into 
a horrified grimace as she understood. Two of my cousins had already placed their orders. 
My sister, thinking quickly, pretended to get a call on her flip phone. It was the presmartphone 
era, so these were mostly for emergencies, meaning only our parents would be calling. She announced 
with figned urgency that we needed to leave the line immediately. It was brilliant quick thinking 
on her part. The two cousins whose orders had been taken were understandably furious. My other 
cousin, the one I’ve been observing, sadly walked past all the eager ice cream customers. I later 
asked her what the man had said. She replied that he’d asked if we were all together. For a minute, 
and sometimes even now, I wonder if I overreacted, if my fear was merely a product of his resemblance 
to a cinematic villain. But his cold, long, hard stare fixed on me as I ushered my cousin 
safely away from the parlor will forever send a shiver down my spine. My tenure with the 
US military in Japan meant a constant eb and flow across continents. After a much anticipated 
Christmas visit back home, I found myself on the return leg, an ostensibly routine flight that 
swiftly devolved into chaos. Our trans-pacific connection to the mainland US was delayed for a 
grueling 3 hours due to persistent engine trouble. This unforeseen mechanical snag caused me to miss 
my critical connecting flight from Tokyo to my base city in Japan. No matter, I thought with 
a soldier’s adaptability, I’d simply catch the next Shinkansen, the bullet train, and be home 
in a matter of hours. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. By the time I navigated the sprawling 
Tokyo station, the final shinkansen had already departed, its metallic roar a distant memory. As 
the station staff began their nightly routine, hurting passengers out with an almost aggressive 
efficiency, I assumed I could just find a quiet   bench and wait until the morning. I was quickly 
disabused of that notion. With stern directives and clanging metal, they swept through the entire 
terminal, meticulously clearing every soul. Soon, the immense steel gates clanged shut, 
sealing me out onto the biting winter streets   of Tokyo. I was stranded, utterly unfamiliar with 
the urban labyrinth, with nowhere to go until the station’s doors reopened at 4:00 a.m. I tried a 
few nearby hotels, but my weary appearance and lack of Japanese currency, most places wanted cash 
up front, which I hadn’t prepared for after the unexpected delay, earned me curt dismissals. With 
options exhausted, I resigned myself to my fate. I found a dimly lit street corner, ironically 
near the very station that had ejected me, and pulled out a book, determined to read my 
way through the long night. Sleeping on an unfamiliar street laden with my heavy backpack and 
suitcase was simply not an option. Then, a truly surreal transformation began. As if summoned 
by an unseen queue, figures emerged from the periphery. a community of homeless individuals. 
What unfolded next was astonishing. They weren’t just settling in. They were cleaning. Within the 
hour, every scrap of litter vanished, the pavement becoming remarkably pristine, swept free of dust 
and debris. The street once for lawn, now shown under the sparse city lights. Afterwards, several 
of them retrieved ingeniously folded cardboard shelters from behind vending machines, unfolding 
them into makeshift beds. Two of these men approached the vending machine directly in front 
of me. One fumbled with a small change purse, extracting a handful of coins. From the machine, a 
marvel of Japanese convenience, offering both hot and cold beverages, he purchased a steaming can of 
coffee. He warmed his hands with it, then offered it to his companion, who gratefully accepted the 
fleeting warmth. Then, in an act of unexpected generosity, they extended the can to me. I 
politely declined, a knot forming in my throat. I knew I would be back to my comfortable life the 
next day, and I couldn’t bear to diminish their   only source of heat on such a chilly winter night. 
As the first faint streaks of dawn appeared, signaling the imminent reopening of the station, 
the homeless community began their silent retreat. They meticulously folded their cardboard beds, 
tucked them away behind the vending machines, and one by one dispersed into the waking city, leaving 
no visible trace of their overnight existence. At 4:00 a.m. sharp, the station gates creaked open. I 
rushed to the ticket counter, secured a ticket for the 9:00 a.m. Shinkansen, and patiently waited on 
the platform. By noon, I was rolling into my local station. The bizarre events of my unexpected night 
in Tokyo already a vivid memory. When I was a boy, somewhere between the ages of 7 and 10, our family 
lived in a modest house in a quiet Missouri town. Most things were ordinary enough, save for the 
usual creeks and groans of an old house settling, which often fueled my overactive imagination with 
nightmares. The only truly odd recurring event was the disappearance of our keys. We had a large 
old metalwood stove right by the door where we always placed them. For weeks, they would vanish, 
turning our home upside down in frantic searches, only to mysteriously reappear one day, their 
return as inexplicable as their departure. No one ever knew where they went or how they 
came back, but that was a minor prelude to a different kind of strangeness. I owned 
a doll then, a cherished possession that   I called Whisper Grace. She was one of those 
interactive toys with tiny sensors in her ears, designed to turn her head toward sounds and utter 
a simple programmed mama. I absolutely adored her. I vividly recall one afternoon tidying my room 
when I carefully propped Whisper Grace against the wall, ensuring she was sitting upright. I 
then settled onto my bed, a book open in my lap, ready to read. Suddenly, I heard the distinct 
worring click that accompanied her head turning. I looked up, my eyes meeting her vacant stare, and 
then, as expected, she softly in toned, “Mama.” I tossed my book aside, picked her up, and flipped 
the small switch on her back. She was already in the off position. Puzzled, I toggled the switch to 
on, and then immediately back to off, assuming it was just a strange malfunction. I returned her to 
her spot, settling back down to resume my reading, only for the same scenario to repeat. Her head 
clicked and she whispered mama once more. This time a prickle of genuine unease began to crawl 
up my spine. I’d reached my breaking point with whisper grace. With a sigh of frustration, I 
simply dropped her to the floor and returned to my book. Immediately, her head began to were a 
frantic rhythmic clicking swiveling back and forth as she monotonously chanted, “Mama, mama, mama.” 
Spooked, I bolted from the room, racing to find my father. He witnessed the doll’s bizarre display 
and without hesitation agreed it had to go. We burned the small figure, and to my knowledge, that 
was the end of its overt manifestations. However, the relief was short-lived, as my nightmares only 
intensified. I was still a devout child then, convinced that surrounding myself with 
stuffed animals in a protective circle   along with my turquoise dream catcher would ward 
off the nocturnal terrors. I prayed nightly for their sessation, but they remained a constant 
harrowing presence recurring several times a week until we finally moved from that house. 
Years later, in 2013, I found myself a drift, navigating the uncertain waters of homelessness 
and residing in a local women’s shelter. The director, a man named Dan, was a truly unsettling 
individual, an embodiment of shady, sleazy energy, whose long history of abusive behavior towards 
the shelter’s clients was widely known. though his darker exploits are a tale for another 
time. Dan typically vanished by 5:00 p.m., a phantom presence rarely seen past 7. Yet, one 
crisp October evening, he was still lingering at 9:00. A few of the other women and I were chatting 
outside when we witnessed him peel out of the back driveway, his car kicking up gravel as it roared 
down the street as if the devil himself were at his heels. The instant his vehicle vanished, 
an enormous black dog, or perhaps a wolf-like creature materialized with an impossible 
leap through the brick wall of his office. It covered the front yard in three powerful strides, 
heading directly towards the road Dan had taken, then simply dissipated into a wisp of smoke. 
A profound silence descended upon us. “Did anyone else just see that?” I finally managed to 
gasp. One of the ladies, wideeyed, simply nodded, and we scrambled back inside, our hearts pounding. 
I have never felt such a raw, visceral dread. That night, I cocooned myself in so many blankets on 
my bunk, creating a makeshift cave, desperate for some semblance of security to allow me to sleep. 
Months later, in December, we had a new resident in our room. We were up late working on small 
Christmas gifts and quietly exchanging ghost stories. I recounted the baffling incident from 
October. And as I finished my tale, two things happened simultaneously. The room’s temperature 
plummeted. An icy blast that sliced through the already chilly air. Dan ever the cheapskate 
rarely bothered to turn up the heat. It felt as if a window had been flung open. And then the baby 
in the adjacent room, who had been sound asleep, let out the most blood curdling shriek I have 
ever heard, as if in immense pain. Her screams and cries were so loud they woke every soul in the 
women’s shelter. To this day, I can’t definitively say what I saw, but I am left with an indelible 
impression of evil somehow intrinsically linked to Dan. It was always a dark joke that he’d sold 
his soul to the devil to maintain his unnerving untouchability. A different chapter unfolds in 
the last house my mother, sister, and I rented. The property had a peculiar history of frequent 
turnover, owned by a rental company rather than a   private landlord, leaving us with no information 
about its previous inhabitants. Despite this, it was in a respectable neighborhood, so we 
gave it little thought. Then, about 8 months after we moved in, one Saturday night last 
January, I was engrossed in video games in the office around midnight. The stillness of the 
house was violently shattered by an aggressively loud pounding on the front door. The blows were 
so forceful it sounded as if the door itself would splinter from its hinges, the reverberations 
echoing through the entire house. My mother, despite having her door closed and music playing, 
heard it clearly in her room. We all instinctively know that such a furious late night assault 
on one’s door is never a harbinger of good.   Yet my mother, driven by an inexplicable urgency, 
raced downstairs, beating me to the entrance, intent on discovering who or what was on the other 
side. My mother, her heart pounding with a mixture of anger and apprehension, flung open the blinds 
of the adjacent window. A young man, barely in his mid20s, stood pressed against our front door. 
His eyes, cold and demanding, searched her face. We’re looking for Jamal, he stated, his voice 
devoid of politeness. My mother, bewildered, told him no one by that name resided there. He 
persisted, a stony refusal to accept her answer, and my mother, equally resolute, reiterated 
her denial. Moments later, a second figure materialized from the side of the house, his 
silhouette briefly framed by the office window. It became chillingly clear while his accomplice 
grilled my mother, he was systematically peering into every downstairs room, a scout confirming 
whether her words held true. The realization was terrifying. Finally, after what felt like 
an eternity, they retreated into the darkness, leaving a profound and unsettling silence in 
their wake. The following morning, as I pulled the car out for my commute, an immediate sense of 
wrongness gripped me. The vehicle felt sluggish, almost unwieldy, veering precariously in 
the lane. I dismissed it as black ice, a lingering menace from the recent snowfall. It 
wasn’t until a colleague flagged me down in the grocery store parking lot, pointing to two rapidly 
deflating tires, that the chilling truth settled in. The aggressive knocking, the ominous search 
for Jamal, the scout surveillance around our home, it all coalesed into a terrifying certainty. 
They hadn’t just been looking. They’d vandalized our car, leaving us stranded. The realization 
that they were lightly armed and that we had been utterly defenseless. The prospect of them 
returning and forcing their way in still sends a shiver down my spine. That incident remains the 
first time I truly felt completely helpless. Weeks later, a package arrived addressed to a former 
tenant. Soon after, a man appeared at our door, hoping it had been misdelivered to his brother’s 
old address. He introduced himself as Jamal’s older brother. My mother, with a blend of relief 
and indignation, recounted the harrowing midnight visit and the subsequent damage to our tires. 
Jamal’s brother seemed utterly shell shocked, as if this was the first inkling he had that his 
sibling might be running with a dangerous crowd. I never learned the aftermath, but I hoped that 
revelation spurred Jamal to seek help. On a slightly brighter note, we did eventually receive 
a set of new tires from the brother, so it wasn’t a total financial loss. Still, the memory of those 
two menacing figures, especially their late night presence, is one I’d rather never revisit. My 
long-standing passion for collecting vintage and antique artifacts often leads me to fascinating 
finds, particularly mid-century fashion dolls. My usual hunting grounds are thrift stores, estate 
sales, or the occasional online listing. Recently, I stumbled upon an incredible deal. A lot of 
1960s Barbie dolls priced so unbelievably low they were practically a steal. The seller, a woman 
with evident expertise in vintage dolls, she’d even sold them on eBay, clearly understood their 
market value. Yet, I, delighted by the unexpected bargain, never once questioned her motives for 
such a generous discount. I was simply ecstatic with my purchase, eager to restore them to their 
former glory and integrate them into my treasured   collection. Days after bringing the Barbies home, 
my bedroom underwent a grotesque transformation. It became inexplicably infested with flies, 
not just a few stragglers, but a swarming, maddening horde of the grimy insects. Their 
constant, incessant buzzing around my face, their unsettling habit of landing directly on me, felt 
like a deliberate campaign to drive me insane. I’d heard old wives tales about flies being harbingers 
of ill fortune, portending difficult times. This infestation was of biblical proportions, 
a baffling enigma as to its sudden appearance, and eerily coincident with their arrival, I 
succumbed to a debilitating illness, presenting with all the classic flu-l like symptoms. The 
most disturbing aspect of this malady wasn’t the typical aches or chills, but a peculiar sensation 
as if my brain were physically burning. This was accompanied by relentless, excruciating headaches 
and an overwhelming, torturous brain fog. It’s difficult to articulate the exact nature 
of this unprecedented cranial discomfort,   but its intensity was so profound it chillingly 
led my thoughts to a desperate end. Adding another layer of strangeness, my dreams, typically 
vibrant and characterized by recurring elements, had morphed into dark, muddled tapestries 
since the doll acquisition. Each morning I woke feeling utterly drained, as if sleep had 
entirely eluded me. Why, I kept asking myself, were these disperate, unsettling events so 
tightly intertwined? These mysterious occurrences, the relentless flies, my debilitating illness, and 
the encroaching nightmares all seem to converge with the recent acquisition of those dolls. I know 
it sounds illogical, but an undeniable intuition nodded at me. Could an inanimate object be cursed 
or imbue its surroundings with misfortune? Perhaps that’s why the previous owner parted with them so 
cheaply. I want to be clear, I don’t dabble in the occult, nor do I entertain beliefs in ghosts. My 
skepticism, in fact, is rather profound. My father passed away quite recently, and before that, my 
best friend took his own life years ago. Had there ever been a moment for a spiritual visitation, a 
sign from the beyond, surely it would have come from them. I long to believe, but my experiences 
have afforded me no such comfort. It was during my usual 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. shift that these 
particular hotel events unfolded. That weekend, a lively wedding party had booked out a significant 
portion of the hotel. By the time my shift began on Saturday night, the wedding guests, many of 
them merily intoxicated, had already retired to their rooms. I caught glimpses of a few as the 
previous shift departed, and they all seemed remarkably friendly and jubilant. Once I was alone 
for the night, I settled in behind the front desk, preparing for the eight long hours of quiet work 
ahead. Then the hotel phone rang. I answered in my most professional customer service voice, 
“Good evening. This is the Strand Hotel.” A man’s voice responded, but it was garbled, as if 
he were speaking from underwater. the connection incredibly poor. When I finally managed to 
decipher his words, our conversation became unnervingly clear. I need 10 towels delivered to 
room 401. Of course, I replied, “I can do that for you. It should only take a few minutes.” Then 
he added, “My girlfriend isn’t here.” Silence stretched between us. I had absolutely no idea 
how to respond. he continued, his voice taking on a disturbing edge. I want to have some fun 
with you, baby. I felt a bolt of pure terror, and then he hung up. I frantically tried calling 
my manager multiple times, but she didn’t answer. I ended up locking myself in the staff bathroom, 
calling my mother, who eventually managed to calm me down. Still on edge, I returned to the desk. 
When I heard the elevators begin their descent, I’ll admit I panicked and hid. I crouched behind 
some storage boxes, clamping a hand over my mouth. I heard footsteps but couldn’t discern their 
origin or destination, though they seemed to   drift towards the kitchen area. I stayed put for 
about five agonizing minutes. Just as I was about to emerge, I heard a distinct cough. I froze. 
His footsteps receded, heading back towards the elevator, and I remained hidden until the sounds 
completely vanished. I can’t know for certain that it was the man who called me, but who else 
would come down the elevator in the dead of night,   stand around silently for 5 minutes, and then 
just leave? And here’s the detail that chilled me to the bone. Hotel room 401, the one he requested 
towels for, was completely unoccupied that night. On a different note, I want to preface this by 
saying that Native American culture and history   are incredibly important to me. My father grew 
up on the Alaskan border of a reservation and was adopted into an Inuit family and I’ve spent 
considerable time with a Lakota friend. At the time of this particular incident, my friend and I 
were concluding a 6-week stay at Standing Rock and were making the long drive back home to Texas. For 
some reason, we decided to make a detour to see Mount Rushmore. After our time at Standing Rock, 
seeing the faces of American presidents carved into mountains, literally stolen from native lands 
left a profoundly bitter taste in our mouths. My friend then suggested we go to Wounded Knee. 
It was only a few hours out of our way, and it felt like a vital pilgrimage to pay our respects, 
especially after Rushmore. It was already around 11 p.m., but we shrugged it off. I was planning 
to drive straight through to Texas anyway. We set our GPS and it guided us directly 
to the main area of gravestones, monuments, and descriptive signs. I had never believed in 
ghosts, spirits, or any form of the supernatural. But the moment we parked, an overwhelming terror 
seized me. I couldn’t move. I refused to get out of the car, grappling with a burgeoning panic 
attack. That primal terror, however, was quickly amplified by a profound visual. Peering through 
the window, my gaze met two colossal black dogs, their eyes burning crimson, fixed directly on me. 
An oppressive, almost telepathic message washed over me. We didn’t belong here. The unspoken word, 
leave, resonated in my mind. Our eyes locked, and I felt an uncontrollable tremor begin in my hands. 
A profound sense of dread seeping into my very bones unlike anything I had ever experienced. For 
the record, I consider myself a resilient woman, not easily rattled, but this was a visceral, 
soul-shaking fear. I slammed my hand on the horn, a desperate blare that finally brought my 
friend rushing back to the car. “We need to go now,” I insisted, my voice tight with urgency, 
offering no explanation. With shaking hands, I punched Texas into the GPS, and following its 
insistent directions, I sped away, navigating a bewildering series of turns and unfamiliar 
roads. Yet, after what felt like an eternity, perhaps 5 minutes, we found ourselves right back 
at the exact spot within Wounded Knee where we had started. Overwhelmed by legitimate, unadulterated 
terror and fighting a creeping sense of madness, I finally confessed to my friend what I had seen 
and felt. She, a free-spirited individual with a pension for spirits and crystals, took my story 
with grave seriousness. She pulled out her own phone, and her GPS, mirroring mine, inexplicably 
led us back to the same harrowing location. The pervasive dread was suffocating. Those piercing 
red eyes were seared into my mind. At that moment, I trusted my deepest instinct, my hound dog 
sense, and simply drove as far away as possible. My friend, convinced we were being pursued by 
something malevolent, insisted we jettisoned all the jewelry we were wearing, a desperate 
offering to whatever entity we had disturbed. I drove for at least an hour in clammy terror before 
I felt capable of coherent speech. To this day, the precise nature of that encounter remains 
a mystery, yet it still sends shivers down my   spine. The memory alone gives me goosebumps. Let 
me rewind to a different chapter. The year 2002. I was a student at a nationwide residential high 
school in Washington DC. And as anyone knows, DC or any major city can present its own dangers. 
That year, I was invited to spend spring break at a friend’s home in Phoenix. While there, 
I connected with some local students, a rather charming group who invited me out 
for a night on the town. One of the boys had borrowed his mother’s old white Dodge van, eager 
to cruise around Phoenix and show me the sights. I was the sole girl in the group, hunkered 
down with eight boys in a cramped vehicle. Someone had the brilliant idea to embark on a 
drive-by egging spree. They bought a dozen eggs, and as we drove, they kept the van’s side door 
open, launching eggs at unsuspecting pedestrians. This particular escapade surprisingly wasn’t what 
landed us in real trouble. After exhausting our supply of eggs, we shut the van door, preparing 
to head home. That’s when everything escalated. I was in the back of the van when we pulled up 
to a red light. A silver Honda Accord glided to a stop beside us, and I immediately noticed two men 
inside, their gazes fixed intently on our vehicle. Without hesitation, one of them rolled down 
his window and overtly displayed a firearm, shouting something I couldn’t understand. The 
light turned green. The boy driving our van desperately tried to pull ahead or swerve, but 
with nine high school students packed inside, we were too cumbersome to evade them. The silver 
Honda Accord was immediately in pursuit. We tried every maneuver, slowing down, speeding 
up, making abrupt turns, but to no avail. The Honda easily kept pace and the empty streets 
only amplified our vulnerability. In a moment of panic, we accidentally cornered ourselves, 
turning into a dead-end entrance for a water   reservoir. The Honda’s headlights flooded our van, 
blinding us as the two men emerged from their car, weapons drawn. Each carried two firearms, 
their shaved heads obscured by bandanas. They seemed genuinely taken aback by the sheer 
number of teenagers spilling out of our van,   and even more so when they realized we were all 
deaf and communicating through sign language. The misinterpretation became clear. They had assumed 
we were a rival gang, perhaps throwing gang signs instead of simply signing. A moment of stunned 
silence. Then one of them muttered, “My bad.” And they swiftly returned to their car and drove off. 
For once, my deafness had truly saved my life. So, to the dudes in bandanas and Honda Accords in 
Phoenix, Arizona, let’s hope our paths never cross again. And a lesson for all, maybe don’t throw 
eggs at people. We were just stupid high school kids. The dolls, safely tucked away in the attic, 
had indeed brought a measure of peace back to my nights. Yet the memory of that specific unsettling 
clown doll, the one with the vanished eyes, still clawed at the edges of my thoughts. It would 
resurface at random, a fleeting chill despite its removal from my immediate space. The quiet anxiety 
it had once fostered had morphed into a persistent low-grade dread. Then, a few days passed. While 
burning a pile of old branches and logs in my backyard, a potent, inexplicable urge seized me. I 
needed to destroy it completely. I headed inside, my heart immediately beginning a frantic rhythm 
the moment my hand brushed against the doll in its   dusty box. Each step back towards the fire pit was 
an accelerating thump against my ribs. Finally, I reached the blaze and without a second 
thought tossed the thing into the licking   flames. Within seconds, a thin tendril of smoke 
curled upwards from its form. And just as swiftly, the frantic pounding in my chest quieted, 
replaced by an unnerving calm. 30 seconds later, its synthetic hair and tattered clothes were fully 
alike, transforming it into a grotesque figure, a scene ripped from a horror film. Its ceramic 
eyes, or where they once were, liquefied and sank into its head, leaving charred indentations 
as its form was consumed by black soot. Only the blackened head, arms, and legs remained, 
skeletal reminders of what it once was. I kept the fire going until every last piece of wood 
and the doll’s remnants had turned to ash. My lingering question, even now, is whether it was 
truly wise to burn something that felt so deeply, inexplicably imbued with an unsettling energy. 
Perhaps it’s best not to dwell on such things. Separately, I recall a story from my own 
life that, while less overtly terrifying,   left an impression of profound mystery. I’m 22 
now, but the memory dates back to when I was seven or eight. My grandfather passed away from 
lung cancer before I was born, and the only thing he ever left me was a small clown doll designed 
to hang above my crib. This wasn’t just any doll. If you pulled its leg down, it would slowly 
reel itself back up, playing a gentle music box rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. 
One night, when I was asleep, my mother heard the distinct tinkling melody coming from my room. She 
walked upstairs to investigate, finding the clown doll playing its tune, its leg inexplicably pulled 
down. She told me it played for a full 5 minutes, and I distinctly remember her recording it on her 
old flip phone, showing me the video. The next   morning, later that day, we received devastating 
news. My great-grandmother, my grandfather’s mother, had passed away during the night. My 
mother is absolutely convinced it was her father, my grandfather, sending a final signal, a poignant 
goodbye. I’ve often wondered if others have interpretations for such an uncanny coincidence. 
Around 15 years ago, when I was 13 or 14, my best friend and I joined her family on a cross-country 
road trip. The family consisted of her parents, her brother, who was a year or two older, and the 
two of us girls. One of the hotels we stayed at featured a pleasant courtyard with a pool. We all 
went for a swim, and the pool area was moderately busy with other families, kids splashing around, 
adults lounging on chairs. My attention, however, was drawn to a single man in his 50s. He sat by 
himself, not interacting with anyone, his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses. We all assumed he was 
with one of the families, just taking a moment to relax. The next day, my friend’s parents decided 
to go out on a date, leaving the three of us kids alone in the hotel room. We were good kids, 
not prone to mischief, so they weren’t overly concerned. Our room had a window that offered 
a clear view of the pool. As I peered out, I saw him again, the same man, still seated, still 
wearing his sunglasses, watching a group of young women swimming. Later, I checked again. He was 
still there, observing a different family, this time with young children. It wasn’t sunny out, so 
he wasn’t sunbathing, nor was he reading a book or engaged with a phone. He was simply staring. The 
persistent sight of that man, still present in the parking lot as darkness fully settled, continued 
to gnaw at me. He remained clad in his sunglasses, a spectral figure systematically scrutinizing 
the license plates of every car, including ours, as we made our way from the vehicle. My friend’s 
father, an imposing man with a military bearing and fiercely protective of his family and 
property, immediately confronted the stranger. The man, without a hint of hesitation, declared 
himself a parking lot attendant. Skeptical, we headed into the hotel lobby and asked the desk 
clerk to verify his claim. Her words still echo clearly in my memory, delivered with an air of 
mild bewilderment. We don’t have a parking lot   attendant. The revelation sent a fresh wave of 
chills down my spine. The following day, after a night filled with unease, we departed. My personal 
escape, however, often involves horses. I lease a mare at a barn nestled deep in rural Ohio, a place 
I know intimately. The owners are close friends, and with my own key, I frequently ride late 
into the evening after lessons conclude and my schoolwork is done. On one particular night, I had 
a non-rider friend accompanying me, simply there to hang out. The indoor arena, flanked by two 
large garage doors, needed air flow, so I propped them open while tacking up my horse. In the dimly 
lit aisle, with darkness beyond, a fleeting shadow darted past the open door at the far end of the 
breezeway. Coyote, I assumed, shrugging it off. I mentioned it casually to my friend as we moved 
from the stalls into the arena, beginning our   warm-up. My mayor is a bit older, and the evening 
air was crisp. The next 30 minutes passed without incident. It was only as I dismounted that same 
shape, unmistakably larger than any coyote, streaked past the open garage doors once more. My 
mare, usually placid, nickered nervously, shifting her weight uneasily. Sensing her agitation, I 
led her back to the aisle. Hey, I told my friend, can you go close those doors for the night? She 
looked wideeyed, clearly spooked. No way,” she protested. “I’m not going alone. I’ll wait for 
you.” After untacking my horse, we walked to the arena and secured those doors. We then proceeded 
to the final door leading back to the main aisle. Just outside, standing motionless in the barn 
lights, was a truly massive dog. Shaggy-haired and easily reaching my waist, I’m 5′ 9″ in. Its 
eyes weren’t glowing with an internal fire, but they reflected the barn lights with an unsettling 
red gleam. My friend instantly clutched my arm, pulling me back, but the dog remained still, 
simply staring. Strangely, despite its size and the eerie red reflection in its eyes, I felt no 
malevolence. Coming from a superstitious oldworld Italian family, I like to think I’d sense true ill 
intent. Abruptly, it turned and amble back towards the treeine. My friend, however, was in hysterics, 
sobbing and begging me to call her father to pick her up, absolutely refusing to leave with just 
me. A month has passed, and I haven’t seen the dog since. But the most baffling detail, even now, is 
that none of the other horses in the barn reacted. Any horse person knows they sense danger acutely. 
A strange dog, particularly one so large, should have sent them into a frenzy. The entire encounter 
remains profoundly perplexing. My experiences with peculiar objects sometimes veer into the realm 
of the truly unsettling, much like a forum post I stumbled upon a few years back. A woman claimed 
to possess a haunted photograph, a picture of herself with a ghostly girl visible beside her, 
a presence not there when the photo was taken. More chillingly, she warned that misfortune 
befell anyone who looked at it. Naturally, my curiosity was peaked. She sent me the link. The 
image was exactly as she described, but it struck me as more intriguing than terrifying. Nothing 
untored happened, and eventually the photo faded from my mind. Not long ago, while sifting through 
old messages, I rediscovered the link. I clicked, staring at the image once more, meticulously 
scrutinizing the spectral figure for a good 2   minutes. Then I closed the tab, dismissing it 
again. Less than 2 hours later, my stepmother called with distressing news. My father had 
suffered a pulmonary embolism. Thankfully, he survived. That same day, my husband on his drive 
home hit a deer and completely totaled his car. And that very night, my daughter was struck 
down by a virulent stomach bug that left her   so severely dehydrated, we had to rush her to 
the emergency room. A chilling coincidence, perhaps. But I’ll tell you one thing. I am 
never ever looking at that photograph again. An inexplicable string of oddities plagued that 
time in my life. But one particular night, the strangest of them all began. It was 3:00 a.m. when 
an irresistible urge pulled me from my slumber, drawing me to the window. As I parted the blinds, 
two blazing yellow eyes stared back from the darkness. A gaze so intense it felt as though 
it pierced the very core of my being. A wave of profound despair and terror washed over me, and 
I retreated, heart pounding, back to the false solace of my bed. I am absolutely certain I wasn’t 
dreaming. When morning came, I inspected the area where I had seen the eyes, but found not a single 
footprint. The very next evening, standing on my porch, a sickening stench assaulted me. The putrid 
smell of rotting flesh, a smell so vile it seared itself into my memory. Then, from the periphery 
of my vision, I heard the rustle of leaves growing louder with each passing second. My head snapped 
left, where a colossal black canine was steadily advancing towards our home. A primal scream tore 
from my throat. I dashed inside, slamming the door, and spent the rest of the night listening 
to an unnerving scratching sound emanating from   the exterior walls. The next morning, a chilling 
discovery awaited me. A sizable patch of fur, roughly 4×4 in, lay precisely where I’d seen 
the creature. Oddly, it wasn’t black like the dog I’d glimpsed, but a mix of white and 
gray. Though I referred to it as a dog, its sheer size and the limited visibility of that 
night made definitive identification impossible, save for the certainty that it was no dear. The 
image of its upright stature, clearly taller than any creature moving on all fours, haunted 
me. We remained in that house for another year, and the accurate scent of decay would occasionally 
return, a sinister reminder of that night. Even speaking about this incident now, my phone 
often glitches or the line mysteriously cuts out. Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but it’s unsettling 
nonetheless. It was only recently, a few months prior, while sharing drinks with friends, that a 
chilling piece of information clicked into place. One friend began recounting a story detailing 
encounters with skinwalkers, and a profound, terrifying recognition dawned on me. Who knows? 
This all occurred when I was about 11, roughly 12 years ago. The day after Christmas, my mother, 
stepfather, and I were relaxing in the living room watching television. It was well past 9 in the 
evening, and my younger brother was already tucked into bed. For Christmas, my brother and I had each 
received remote controlled cars, the kind with rechargeable batteries for both the vehicle and 
the controller. As we sat engrossed in the screen, the remotec controlled car I’d left in the middle 
of the living room floor suddenly word to life. All three of us watched dumbfounded as it executed 
two precise circles, then performed a flawless three-point turn before coming to a complete stop 
against the wall. We exchanged bewildered glances, and my mother went to check on my brother. She 
returned moments later, a concerned expression on her face, confirming he was sound asleep, the kind 
of deep sleep accompanied by his characteristic bear snores. There was no faking it. She then 
turned to my stepfather and me, asking if we were playing a prank. We both vehemently denied it, my 
stepfather pointing out that both controllers had been left on the side table, precisely where 
my brother and I had put them after playing   earlier that evening. My mother proceeded 
to check both the controllers and the cars themselves for batteries. To our astonishment, 
all the batteries were in their charging docks, plugged into the wall. We had, in fact, completely 
drained them earlier that day. My mother, brother, and I had experienced several strange occurrences 
in that house, but this particular event was by far the most inexplicable. I can’t conjure a 
single logical explanation for it. I’ve always attributed it to a ghostly presence. This incident 
happened over 10 years ago, and I still remember it with vivid clarity. At that time, I had just 
emerged from an emotionally abusive relationship and was grappling with an unprecedented level 
of depression, a darkness I found incredibly   difficult to escape. The situation at home wasn’t 
much better. So, as a small escape, my sister and I would often take late night walks. We never 
ventured far and oddly the police never stopped us or questioned why we were out at 2 or 3 in the 
morning. It was strange, but we felt a peculiar sense of safety. One evening, we decided to walk 
to the local 7-Eleven just a few blocks away. To get there, we had to cross a short bridge spanning 
an irrigation canal. This canal was notorious for the bats that roost underneath, and we would 
occasionally see them emerge to hunt insects. We were just chatting about various things, my 
sister and I. Our expedition to the 7-Eleven was for sustenance, a large shared drink being the 
most our meager funds could afford. On the return journey, as we approached the bridge once more, my 
gaze drifted upwards. There, silhouetted against the dim overhead lighting, was the colossal form 
of a canine, far exceeding the size of any German Shepherd or Siberian husky I’d ever encountered. 
It moved towards us, yet its passage was utterly silent. No telltale scrape of claws on pavement, 
no whisper of footfalls disturbed the night. Having never witnessed a spirit before, and noting 
the complete absence of any light reflecting from its eyes as it neared a street lamp, my sister, 
ever the pragmatist, steered us towards the   median. We were the soul souls on that deserted 
street. And since the sidewalk on our side was occupied by this silent spectre, we elected to 
continue our walk amidst the traffic lanes. “Don’t look,” she urged, her voice low. “It won’t bother 
us if you leave it be.” I walked several paces, but the compulsion was too strong. When I glanced 
back, the enormous dog had simply vanished. Had it bolted, I should have heard the thud of its 
paws, but there was nothing. Whatever I had seen, it etched itself deeply into my memory, and it was 
a long while before we dared another late night stroll. My next encounter with the inexplicable 
unfolded within the mundane confines of my hotel workplace. I was at the front desk, settling 
into my morning shift, when a guest descended, ostensibly to purchase a beverage from our 
small market. I offered the usual pleasantries, a polite good morning and how are you, but his 
only response was a silent, unwavering stare. I dismissed it, attributing it to the early hour, 
and returned to my tasks. 10 minutes later, I glanced towards the breakfast area and noticed the 
same man, now seated with an unnerving intensity, his eyes fixed directly on me. When our gazes met, 
he averted his, and I again rationalized it as a momentary lapse, perhaps a days before his morning 
coffee. A few minutes more, however, and I looked up to find his stare hadn’t wavered. Needing to 
count the cash drawer, I purposefully wheeled my chair to a spot that conveniently would obscure 
me from his view. But as I resumed my counting, I looked up again. He was still staring, but 
now he had shifted, moving to a taller stool that afforded him an unobstructed, direct line of 
sight to me at the desk. No matter where I moved, his eyes followed, his scrutiny neither hidden 
nor disguised. While not as outwardly menacing as some of my past experiences, this relentless 
surveillance was profoundly unsettling, raising a prickle of genuine fear. My shift’s end brought 
little relief. I power walked to my car, locking myself inside with a jolt of adrenaline. As I 
drove past the hotel entrance, he was still there, standing by the door, simply watching me depart. 
I hit the gas, opting for a ciruitous route home, constantly checking my rear view mirror. For 
anyone fortunate enough never to have experienced it, let me attest that kind of persistent, 
unblinking attention breeds a profound, lingering dread. Beyond these recent unsettling experiences, 
a much older memory from my early childhood often resurfaces. We were all crammed into a single room 
then, my siblings sharing two bunk beds and my own small cot nestled beneath the window. I vividly 
recall waking one night, perhaps 5 or 6 years old, to a suffocating shroud of darkness. As I lay in 
bed, gripped by a primal terror of the unknown, an overwhelming compulsion forced me to look 
out the window. And there, beneath the solitary working street lamp on our road, stood a 
massive black dog. As I stared, transfixed, its head slowly swiveled towards me, and its eyes, 
burning like smoldering embers, fixed themselves on mine. What felt like an eternity passed in that 
silent communion before it turned away. The street light then flickered and died, extinguishing 
the glow of its eyes. Less than a minute later, the lamp flared back to life, but the dog was 
gone. In its place stood a man, impossibly tall, easily 7 ft, his features utterly obscured by the 
pervasive darkness, save for two piercing red eyes that locked onto me with unnerving intensity. 
He lingered for an age, his gaze unwavering, before he slowly, almost imperceptibly, began 
to walk away, gradually fading into the gloom of the road. The towering figure had gradually 
contracted, its form contorting until it resolved once more into the monstrous black dog. This 
chilling metamorphosis, that silent transition from man to beast, remains one of the most vivid 
and confounding memories I carry. For years, I’ve recounted this tale precisely as it unfolded, 
searching desperately for any corroboration, any shred of information that might explain such 
an impossible event. To this day, it remains an enigma. My father passed away when I was 11, 
a loss that occurred in December. And perhaps it was this profound personal shift that made me 
more susceptible to the world’s hidden stranges. Every summer, our family would journey to a quaint 
little town, home to a charming porcelain doll museum. I adored those visits, cherishing the 
quiet moments spent there with my father. My own collection included several dolls, but none 
held my affection quite like the one depicting   an indigenous girl, her hair meticulously braided. 
It resided on a shelf positioned in a corner of my room, its serene face turned towards my bed. 
For three or four years, I never so much as touched it. Its beauty was for admiration 
alone. 6 months after my father’s death, in the warmth of a June summer holiday, I was 
unwinding on my bed, chatting with friends on my laptop around midnight. My dorm room windows were 
open, yet the night was perfectly still, devoid of even a whisper of wind. Suddenly, a sharp 
clatter broke the silence. The doll had fallen. I was startled, but also confused. The shelf, 
nearly 2 m high, offered ample height for a destructive drop. Yet, the sound wasn’t that of 
shattering porcelain. A prickle of unease stirred. I switched off the light, pulled my blanket high, 
and attempted to sleep, though true rest eluded me. The next morning, the doll lay face down on 
the floor. I began to puzzle over its fall. There was no wind to dislodge it, and a clear 40cm space 
separated it from the shelf’s edge. Trembling, I slowly rose and approached. I knelt, picking 
it up, expecting to find it broken, but it was perfectly intact, save for one chilling detail. 
The left braid, meticulously crafted, was cleanly severed, not torn, but cut in half. I hastily 
placed it back on the shelf, my gaze averted, and I never touched it again. To this day, the 
incident remains an open wound in my memory. I once tried to rationalize it as a comforting 
gesture from my father, a spectral touch from   beyond. But as I’ve matured, that explanation 
feels increasingly illogical. Why would my loving father, who knew how much I cherished that doll, 
choose to damage it in such a way? The other day, an incident far stranger and more frightening 
unfolded. My wife and I were taking our dog for her weekly run at the cemetery. I know it sounds 
peculiar, but it’s one of the most tranquil and beautiful spots in town, and we always ensure 
she stays well clear of the graves. We arrived, let her out, and parked in our usual spot. 
Moments later, our dog came tearing back, moving with an unprecedented speed, her entire 
demeanor conveying sheer panic. This was utterly uncharacteristic. Usually, she’d drag her feet, 
sniffing every tree, making our departure a chore. Her distress was a clear sign that something was 
a miss. Deciding a change of scenery was in order, we began to drive out. As we neared the cemetery’s 
exit, just beyond the perimeter, we spotted an unusually shaped rock perched at top a ridge. My 
wife slowed the car so we could get a better look, but an inexplicable sense of wrongness 
permeated the air. She let out a soft whistle, a casual attempt to confirm it was nothing. But 
to our horror, the rock slowly lifted its head. She whistled again, a little louder this time, 
and it turned its entire body, fixing its gaze directly upon us. This thing, whatever it was, sat 
there, its head tilted in our direction. Its face, no exaggeration, was that of a large brown dog 
with a long snout. Yet it possessed humanlike arms and was clearly holding and seemingly operating 
a smartphone. A primal wave of terror washed over me. Drive. Get out of here fast. I urged my wife, 
my voice barely a whisper. I swear on my life. I witnessed this with my own eyes. The sheer 
paralyzing fear that grips you when confronted with something utterly inexplicable is unlike 
anything else. I plan to return on my next day off, determined to find some tangible evidence. I 
don’t know what’s happening, but our home has been plagued by a bizarre string of incidents lately. 
My cousin jokingly suggested it might be a ghost, but his words only echoed my own unsettling 
thoughts. Our refrigerator, set at a perfectly normal 36° Fahrenheit, has seen everything expire 
and mold over despite nothing being due to spoil until the end of next year. The dishwasher, to my 
utter disgust, was recently crawling with maggots, a sight that nearly sent me to my knees wretching. 
And when I’m alone, soft phantom footsteps echo through the living room, even though our walls are 
soundproof, ruling out neighbors. And my two cats, for God’s sake, who are normally glued to my 
bedroom, have been hissing at unseen entities. The cats, usually so bold, would bolt as soon as I 
approached the pantry, scattering like frightened shadows whenever I dared to open it or remove 
anything. This unnerving behavior, along with the other bizarre incidents plaguing our home, started 
roughly 2 weeks prior. It coincided precisely with my mother’s latest acquisition, a collection 
of antique dolls from a local thrift store. I know logically it sounds like a leap to blame 
inanimate objects and perhaps it’s merely a string of unfortunate coincidences, but I refuse to 
dismiss the possibility. This entire unsettling shift feels inextricably linked to those dolls. 
I’m utterly bewildered by why this is happening now, and the pervasive sense of dread makes my own 
home feel alien and unwelcoming. Moving isn’t an option for us currently. We simply can’t afford 
it. All I want is to understand what is truly going on. This sense of the inexplicable brings to 
mind a particularly chilling memory from about 2 years ago. My best friend and I were making our 
usual drive home after late night classes. We lived in a rather secluded rural area, traversing 
these familiar roads daily, and while we’d certainly had our share of strange encounters, 
this one remained vividly etched in my mind. The night was exceptionally dark, and I was 
driving at a cautious 40 mph, a speed I adhered to religiously on these routes, wary of deer and 
other wildlife. Though not entirely enveloped by trees, the road had long stretches of heavy 
woodland interspersed with a few isolated houses. As I drove, my friend dozing lightly beside me, I 
saw them, two glowing eyes accompanied by a dark, slender figure that I initially mistook for a dog. 
I instinctively slowed the car, preparing to let it cross. It darted across the asphalt. Then, as 
it reached the slight embankment at the roadside, it did something that sent a jolt of pure horror 
through me. It rose onto its hind legs, running with an unnerving bipeedal gate before vanishing 
into the dense woods. My friend and I were utterly speechless, the sheer creepiness of the sight 
leaving us shaken. We tried in vain to process what we had just witnessed. It was too small and 
gaunt to be a bear, too alien in its movement to be a conventional animal. The only conclusion 
we could reach was that we had seen a skinny canine-like creature sprint across the road, 
then stand and run on two legs into the forest.

50 TRUE Horror Stories So Terrifying You Can’t Sleep
Get ready for a terrifying journey into the depths of the wild – where no one can hear your screams.
True horror stories from the dark forests will make you shiver, questioning every crack of a branch and every shadow among the trees.
From mysterious disappearances to chilling encounters with unseen creatures, these stories are not for the faint of heart.
🌙 Become a channel member to unlock exclusive horror stories available only for members.
🎁 Your support through gifts or donations will be the driving force that helps us create even more spine-chilling videos.
#Lets Read Horror
#letsreadhorror
#Lets Read
#lets read
#scary
#creepy
#mortisMedia
#horror stories
#true horror stories 2025
#scary stories
#creepy stories
#true scary stories
#ghost stories
#true ghost storie
#paranormal stories
#true paranormal stories
#stories from reddit
#stories told in the dark
#horror
#creepy
#scary
#true scary stories
#narrative stories
#unexplained
#true stories
#ASMR Sleep
#Audiobook Narration
#scary asmr

Write A Comment