• The Little Girl Who Wasn’t

    I lived in a house from hell for four years, from age eleven to almost sixteen. There was constantly something happening. Doors flying open and shut, voices, footsteps. Nothing ever stayed where you put it. I was alone there a lot because both my parents worked and I was constantly terrified.
    One of the most gut-level disturbing things, though, was the little girl in my bathroom.

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  • Dispatched

    There was something odd in the tone of the dispatcher’s voice when he called to tell me a person needed picking up at Bramlett Road late one summer night in 1947. I shuddered when I heard the name of the street. I did not want to go anywhere near that area, especially at midnight. But I drove a Yellow Cab, and it was my job to pick up a call when it came. So I swallowed and headed toward Bramlett Road and the slaughter yards.

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  • It’s Ghost Week.

    It’s Ghost Week.

  • The Couch

    Ok, disclaimer: to the very best of my knowledge, this story is true. I don’t expect to convince you - truth be told, I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with it myself. Cliche as it may be, I really am a rational person, and if not for this, I would probably be the most stone-faced atheist you’d ever meet.
    But, after much internal struggle and debate, I have come to the conclusion that there are things in life that simply can’t be explained with reason, at least in the form in which we know it.
    Logic, for all the trust we place in it, is really nothing more than a candle, all too easily snuffed out. And when it is gone, we are left alone in the dark, and everything we would scoff at by daylight suddenly becomes very believable.
    Alright, before I get too melodramatic, here’s my story.

    I was very young; only four or five, at most, before either of my siblings were born. It was just mommy and daddy and me, living in our little house in Great Bend, Kansas. Very quaint. We were a young family, without much money, and most of our furniture was second-hand.
    It was the middle of the day: summer, hot, boring. I was playing marbles by myself on the thin carpet beside the huge old flower-patterned couch. Mom was down the hall in the kitchen, and dad was at work.

    Why I was trying to roll marbles around on the carpet I don’t know - we had a perfectly good linoleum floor, after all. But there I was, swishing the marbles back and forth, happily bouncing them into each other. Then, in my overzealous enthusiasm, I rolled too hard. My favorite marble - the clear, ruby-red one, zipped into the dark space under the couch and was lost. Dammit. Dad wasn’t home, and he was the only one strong enough to move that huge old couch for me. I’d have to get my marble back myself.

    I reached my hand under the couch, tentatively at first, then deeper. Encountering no marbles, I pulled my hand out in disappointment.
    Then, a hand reached out from under the couch back at me.

    I remember the image vividly, and I expect I always will. It was a slim hand, with tapered fingers - a woman’s hand. It was gnarled and wrinkled, as if aged, and it was dead black. Not black as in African, black as in dead. Of course, back then, I didn’t know that corpses blacken as they decompose, so I didn’t know what the black meant.
    The hand reached out to me as far as it could, which was just up to the wrist. Then it retreated under the couch.
    Then it emerged again, this time pushing with it a little crumpled up plastic bag with a logo on it I didn’t recognize. It waited, as if expecting me to take the bag. Then, when I didn’t, it pulled the bag back under the couch and was gone.

    I got up, walked down to the kitchen, and told my mom what had happened.

    Why didn’t I run screaming, or at least run? I don’t really know. All I can say is, I was a little kid; a hand reaching out from under the couch at me didn’t seem like that huge a deal. I hadn’t yet learned what was and was not permissible in reality. I had no worldview.
    Mom was skeptical, but walked me back to the couch and explained how I was probably imagining things. She even reached her hand under the couch to convince me that nothing was down there. Later, Dad lifted the couch up for me, and the only thing under it was, of course, my missing marble, plus a few more marbles I didn’t even remember losing.
    But here’s the scary part…

    For years, I remembered this - I even developed a weird fantasy of little hand-people living under the couch, and I, in my childlike innocence, believed that they would catch me and take me away if I ever reached into their domain again. Then, as I grew older, I wrote the memory off as a dream I had had as a child - cute, but silly.

    Then, a few years ago, I recounted the story to my mother.

    She gave me a funny look, and told me she remembered it, because, after all, she had been there. She told me that she remembered me coming to her in the middle of the day and telling her about the hand under the couch, and remembered being highly disturbed by my story, since I was an extremely quiet, well-behaved kid who didn’t ever lie.
    Then she told me about the couch itself. According to her, she and Dad had gotten the couch from the estate of an old woman who had actually died on it. This was the first time I had heard about this, but it sure explained why they got rid of the couch within a month of my story.

    But here’s part that truly frightens me, even to this day. The part that I have to try so hard to get out of my mind some nights. Remember that bag the hand pushed towards me? I’ve never forgotten the logo that was on it. And, recently, (as in a few years ago), I saw the same logo again, on what looked like the same type of bag, in a hardware store.

    It was a bag of utility razor-blades.

  • WOW

    I just logged in today for the first time in a while long ass time and there’s over a thousand of you guys now. :o like, whoa.

    I’m sorry I suck but there will be more spookypastas soon :D promise!
    REMEMBER, I’m always taking submissions if you have one!
    Thank you!!!!!!! <3

  • Keepsake

    "What’s this?" Pamela asked, running her hands over the verdant green cloth. Whatever it covered stood nearly a foot taller than her. It was roughly rectangular shaped and she could feel what felt like molded metal underneath her fingers.

    "An old family heirloom," Shauna answered. Her skin glowed milky white in the soft moonlight that filtered into the room. She reached out and touched it fondly, caressing it. "It’s the only thing I kept. It’s a reminder of where I came from and who I used to be." She put a hand on Pamela’s shoulder and smiled. "Go ahead, you can look at it."

    Pamela pulled the cloth and it fell in ripples to the ground. She gasped at the full length mirror before her. Ornate designs of winged angels ran up and down the gold plating surrounding the mirror that now reflected the dim room back at Pamela. She squinted her eyes as she looked in the mirror, feeling Shauna lower her head next to Pamela’s own. And as she looked she realized that in the mirror she stood alone even as the hand on her shoulder tightened.

  • The Wrong Room

    You get back to your apartment after a long day’s work and you want to get inside and rest. You were about to pull out your keys and unlock the door, but you notice it’s open. Turning the doorknob and stepping inside, you notice something different. You stand in the doorway trying to figure it out. Then it hits you. This isn’t your room. As you turn and leave, something catches your eye. There is a man hunched over a dish of flesh, eating it with his bare hands, tearing into it as a wild animal would its prey. Red dripped down the sides of his mouth, and the smell that emanated from it was sickening. You are paralyzed by the sight. 

    Unconsciously, you start to cover your nose and mouth. This accidentally bumps your elbow against the doorway. You freeze. The man has stopped eating, sensing something wrong. He looks up and starts searching for the source of the noise.
    His eyes scan the room till he finds you.
    Your legs start moving on their own, and you find yourself running, running away from that room, and the horrors within it.

    The man silently stands up, locks the door, sits back down, grabs another slice of pizza, and mutters quietly to himself,
    "Crazy vegans."

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