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.
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