“Come play with me.” That line…it’s a cliché for the horror genre, is it not? You all know what I mean, the unsettling apparition of a child, or maybe just the voice, beckoning to you. What is it about children that gives them the ability to be so damn creepy? Maybe…maybe it’s the fact that, generally speaking, children are helpless and anyone with a nurturing side to their personality wants to help them and care for them. I mean, if any one of us saw a child in trouble, I’m sure we’d rush to help in whatever way we could…and in normal circumstances, if a child said “come play with me” someone might just pass a ball around for a minute or two, maybe play hopscotch. Children are innocent, right? Safe enough to play with a child, right? I’m telling you you’re wrong.
This isn’t something I like to tell people, in fact it’s something only my mother and I know, but over the past few months it’s been building up inside of me…this urge to tell…someone. I need to tell someone what happened, even if it was nearly thirteen years ago.
This isn’t a story I’d consider telling people, but not because I’m afraid they’d think me crazy. I couldn’t give a damn about that. I don’t tell people this because it brings back some pretty painful memories for me, and even now as I’m writing this, it’s hard to talk about.
Anyway…I’ve avoided this long enough, it’s time. When I was a small girl, I lived in a trailer park with my mom and dad. I was an only child, and I had a normal life, for the most part. I don’t remember much. As I said, I was a small child. What I do know is that one night, my mother and father got into a big fight over dinner which resulted in my father throwing whatever my mother had cooked outside the back door and yelling at me, kicking me across the room at one point. The man had a temper, that was no secret, but he wasn’t usually like this, at least not around me. I don’t blame him or hate him for any of this, and to this day I’ll do anything to defend him. I love my father. However, this incident was a turning point for my mother. The next night when my father went to work, my mother told me we were going on a trip. She packed a small bag of my clothes, one of hers, and told me to grab anything else I might want. All I took was a small stuffed cat named Buttons that my father had given me for my first birthday. She called a cab and we went to a motel room for a few days. After that, she told me that we’d be moving into a new home called a “shelter.” She said there’d be other kids there, probably some of them around my age, and that I’d like it there.
She was right about there being other kids my age, and the house was beautiful. It was huge, with a playground out back and lots of room to run around. What I remember most though was the staircase.
I made friends quickly with all the kids there, but the one I liked talking to most was Sarah. Sarah was quiet and she always wore a dress and always stood at the top of the stairs and talked to me. She never did anything else really, and she didn’t talk to anyone else. I never went up to her, I just stood at the bottom and we’d talk like that. Sarah didn’t really like the other kids very much because she said they weren’t like us. She said they didn’t know what it was like to think like us. She didn’t really like that I played with the other kids, but she didn’t try to stop me either. She said she only wanted to play with me.
Not long after moving in, I met three kids that lived in the house next door. One of them was my age, the boy, and the two sisters were a little bit older. My mom said it was a good idea to get out of the house and go play with them for a while, so I did. They invited me to come inside and see their playroom, so of course I did. That sounded awesome! I’d never had a “playroom” of my own…a room especially made for playing? It sounded great!
The room itself was fairly empty except for a toy chest in the corner and several toys strewn on the carpeted floor. The walls were bare white, like the rest of the house, and the windows stood without a curtain just opposite the door. When we were in the playroom, the oldest sister walked over to the window and stared out, shaking her head. “Do you know what happened over there?” she asked. I walked over to where she was and looked to where she was pointing. She was pointing at the shelter, right in the window facing the one in the playroom. I shook my head. What did she mean? What happened there? “Do you wanna know?” She asked me, her brother and sister silent now. I simply nodded, keeping quiet so I could hear the story. “A long time ago, there was a little girl named Sarah who lived there…that was her room,” she said, pointing to the room across from where we stood. “Well…one night there was a fire. No body made it out. She almost did…they said they found her body at the top of the stairs, and that’s where she died.” I felt like I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to look out the window anymore. I couldn’t. “They remodeled the building a couple years ago,” she said, matter of fact.
“Stop being a know it all with your big words!” her brother said.
“Oh…” I said. That’s all I could say. Lucky for me, it was starting to get dark, and my mom came over to bring me back with her. I didn’t want to tell her because she might not let me play with my new friends again. I didn’t want to tell Sarah either. I stayed as far away from the stairs as I could.
The next night, the other family who lived in the house told us she and the kids would be gone for a couple of days. This meant that mom and I were, more or less, alone. I wasn’t feeling well, so a little break from other people would be nice. I laid down on the couch and mom turned the tv on for me, sitting at the other end of the couch. She asked me if I wanted to go upstairs to our room…I said no. I wanted to stay downstairs.
I must have fallen asleep. I can still remember that breathing was hard, my nostrils feeling crusty from running so much during the day. I woke up in the middle of the night to the fire alarm going off. Mom woke up around the same time I did and picked me up, carrying me outside. I heard sirens of fire trucks in the distance. I was pretty out of it when they got there, but I still remember what they said to my mom after they’d gone inside. They’d said “we couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary…I don’t know why the alarm went off.” How could it have been set off by just nothing? My mom said it was “probably just the weather” and took me back inside. I remember as she carried me back to the couch that I saw Sarah standing at the top of the stairs, watching me. I started to cry.
A week later, my mom said she found a new place for us to live, she said it would be our own apartment, not like the shelter. I was relieved…I hadn’t talked to Sarah since those kids told me about her, and I wouldn’t go upstairs alone. I hadn’t seen her since the incident with the fire alarm. However, I would hear her voice sometimes as I lay in bed at night. It was like she was calling out just to me. “Come play with me.”
The new apartment was close to the school I’d be going to kindergarten at and, like mom said, we had our very own place. There were three floors, each with one apartment per floor, and ours was on the very top. For several months, my mother and I lived peacefully in our new apartment, and I began to forget about Sarah. For several months, we were happy. I missed my father and thought about him all the time, but for the most part I was happy here.
Then the nightmares started. Each and every one were the same. It started as simply me lying in bed at night. This made it initially difficult for me to tell if it was a dream or real. In the dream, I would start to drift off…until the smell of smoke came to my nostrils. At this point, I would jump out of bed, coughing slightly, and looking around. I would cry out for my mom and I could hear her calling for me, but I couldn’t get to her. I stayed in the room for the longest time, waiting for my mom or the firemen to come save me. After a while, it became obvious that no one was coming to get me, and I was starting to get light headed. I managed to get out of my bedroom door to see that most of the apartment was engulfed in flames. In the dreams, I only made it to the top of the stairs before I passed out on the floor from breathing in too much smoke. The last thing I hear over the crackling of the fire before I wake is a voice. “Come play with me. I will find someone to play with me.”
The summer before I was to start first grade, my mother announced that we would be moving, yet again, to another town altogether. I wasn’t excited. This meant I’d have to make new friends and start over again. Secretly, part of me hoped it would make the nightmares go away. Mom said that we had until the end of July to move in to the new apartment, but that she wanted me to see it before we moved in. She took us both on a road trip to a town totally unfamiliar to me, and what seemed to be a long way away from what we called home. The town was bigger than what I was used to, and I remember being excited because we passed three playgrounds on the way to the new apartment. She took me inside and we looked around. This place was my favorite of all of them. It had windows everywhere that made it look bright and sunny and above all, happy. I couldn’t wait to move, and I was sad that we couldn’t move in right then and there. After a while, mom said we had to go back home, so we went and the car and drove back the way we’d come. As we pulled onto our street, it didn’t take long to notice that something was wrong. Lined up in front of our building were two fire trucks and a police car, all with lights flashing. My mom parked on the other side of the road and went over, telling me to stay in the car. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I remember staring up at the black smoke still faintly smearing the sky and feeling my blood turn cold. It was coming from our apartment. When mom came back to the car, her face was drained of all color and she couldn’t speak right away. When she finally spoke, it was more to herself, and she could only get three words out. “Why just ours?” I thought I saw Sarah up in the blackened window of our former home.
Today, I sit at my computer writing this and thinking about her. I’m shaking, and I don’t know why. It’s months before my nineteenth birthday and I’m living with my dad, attending a community college in the area. My dad remarried years ago and now has a little girl from his second marriage. She’s quite a bit younger than me—six—and she reminds me a lot of myself at her age.
I guess she’s the reason I started to write this. I haven’t been able to get the events of yesterday out of my head. I was watching her while my dad was at work and I was outside with her while she played on the swing set. I heard the phone ringing inside, so naturally I went to answer it. This isn’t the part I can’t shake off. The thing is…when I went back outside, Rebecca looked at me and said “we have to go inside.” When I asked her why, she only said four little words before running back up the steps and in the house. Four little words, but they were enough to bring chills up my spine.
“Sarah wants to play.”
Credit To – Ashleigh Margaret
When I was young, in the Girl Scouts, I went to summer camp in a remote spot on the Mason Dixon line. It was fameous for being on the route of the South’s retreat from the defeat at Gettysburg.
There was a story that there was a lost patrol that still marched through there, on moonless nights. Anyone they noticed would be conscripted to join them.
It was one of many campfire stories we told, and I might have forgotten all about it, except for or one night. I woke up to the sound of drums in the woods.
The camp was silent. I cracked open the flap and froze. On the path a troop was marching through a low fog. Most were wounded, all wearing civil war uniforms, rucksacks, carrying muskets slung over the shoulder; as they marched a single drummer ticked off the time.
I tried not to even breathe as they marched by. Finally the last soldier came into view, and something about it really sent a chill through me. Just as they were about to go out of sight it’s head whipped around, and I thought our eyes met for a moment.
Soon after my family moved far away from Pennsylvania, and I convinced myself it was all a bad dream. I moved back here last month, and have been hearing drums late at night.
The new moon is soon, and I figured out what was disturbing about that last soldier. He wasn’t wearing a Civil War uniform. She wore a Girl Scout uniform..
not spooky, but I figured i’d give one away for my 500th subscriber appreciation video….and also the meez because i couldnt get ahold of any of the winners lawl….Its a awesome poster…
The Nameless Thing of Berkeley Square
More than 100 years ago, something terrible happened in Berkeley Square.
Nameless Thing of Berkeley Square was a nickname given to the mysterious entity that was encountered in the 18th-19th century in the Victorian era building named 50 Berkeley Square in the UK.
Although most researchers are more inclined to enter this event into the category of the supernatural, many others maintain it was either a known creature, or a mutant or even a cryptid.
Berkeley Square Complex was built in 1740 by an architect named William Kent. This complex was once the residence of prominent figures, among them Winston Churchill 48, who lived in the building. Then, George Canning, British prime minister in 1827. He lived in the building No.50. And in this building, this mystery begins.
Horror on the Second Floor
In 1840 the 20 year old man Sir Robert Warboys heard about eerie rumours in this building. As a student, Warboys laughingly dismissed the tales as urban legend, while his friend disagreed and dared him to spend his night in the haunted 2nd floor room. With arrogance, he accepted the challenge. After successfully convincing the building guard, Warboys was given a room on the second floor, just above the guard room. Later, the room will be referred to as one of the most haunted room in the UK. Warboys climbed into the bed armed with a pistol and a candle. Forty-five minutes later, the guard woke up from sleep. He heard a noise in the room upstairs and a few seconds later, a gunshot sounded. With haste, he immediately got up and ran toward the top. Arriving at the door of the room, he immediately broke it by force. What he saw will never forget for life. Conditions in the room were almost unchanged. However, at the corner of a dimly lit room, Sir Robert Warboys was motionless, dead, still clutching his pistol that still smoke. What is more appalling is the facial expression of Warboys, looking like he had seen something terrible that perhaps fright killed him instantly. The guard found a hole in the wall due to a bullet fired from the gun, but what had been shot? Was it something horrible?
Some years later, “something” came back. This time, he was seen by witnesses who survived the encounter.Experience of Two SailorsIn 1887, two sailors from HMS Penelope in Portsmouth named Robert Martin and Edward Blunden who had just spent money to get drunk come to Berkeley Square complex to rest.
At that time, 50 Berkeley Street has been uninhabited and empty.
Then they had found their way into the basement and broke into it. Upon their break-in they discovered moist ground conditions, so both decided to head upstairs to find a dryer place. Incidentally they chose the building No.50 and slept in the same room once occupied by Warboys.
When entering the room, Blunden who seemed more sober than Martin soon realized that the atmosphere in the room made him uneasy. He said if he felt the presence of “something”. But Martin immediately reassured by opening the bedroom window to let the night wind blows inside. About an hour later, around midnight, Blunden awakened by the sound of creaking door. As he rubbed his eyes, he saw the bedroom door was open and upon wandering to check around, suddenly saw something.
In dim conditions, Blunden saw a strange gray thing creeping slowly on the wooden floor. Along with the creature’s movement, Blunden could hear the friction across the floor, which made him shudder.
Gripped by fear, Blunden ran to wake Martin, who awoke immediately; realizing what was happening in the room. The creature was seen standing in front of them while behind it was the door that was their only hope of escape.
Blunden glanced at the rifle that lay near the window and when he tried to reach for it, the creature suddenly jumped up and extended itself or “landed on the neck” at Blunden. Blunden panicked and began to scream and struggle with the creature. Seeing the opportunity, Martin quickly ran out of the room, down the stairs, out of the building and immediately shouted for help, getting the attention of a policeman who was on patrol. When they returned to the building, they found the room empty, with no sign of Blunden. They began to search the entire building and when they reached the basement, they found Blunden. However, he was lifeless and had been dismembered. On his face was a similar expression of fright as seen at the death of Sir Robert Warboys; Blunden’s face showed an expression of profound fear.
In another version, Blunden was not killed in the basement, but was killed by a fall from the window due to fear.Thomas Lyttleton’s ExperienceSightings of this creatured were not limited to Robert Martin who might be considered a drunk sailor with a false story, there were additional encounters of this creature also experienced by community leaders who seemed to have no reason to lie. One of them was a member of parliament named Thomas Lyttelton who had lived in the same building for some time.One night, when preparing to go to bed, Lyttelton encountered a creature in his own room. He immediately took his rifle and fired. He believed that the creature was shot because he saw it fall. But he could not find any trace or the carcass.According to other witnesses who claimed to have seen it, the creature was nearly out of shape and looked like sticky liquid. When it moved, it produced strange sounds. Descriptions given were sometimes varied, but at least one witness claimed that the creature had a set of tentacles like an octopus.Because of this description, some researchers later concluded that the creature was a type of octopus or other water creature that had mutated and successfully migrated from the river Thames into London’s underground canal which eventually makes it up to Berkeley Square ‘s building through plumbing.It has been suggested that this creature may have been targeting a n ample population of mice or rats that lived in the building when it came across the drunken sailors. However, no satisfactory explanation has been given about the range of appearances over that timeframe.
Source Credit(s): despadanicom.blogspot.com/2011/01/mystery-nameless-thing-of-berkeley.html, cryptidz.wikia.com/wiki/Nameless_Thing_of_Berkeley_Square
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submitted 5 hours ago by blargnog
It’s hard to explain without sounding crazy, I keep trying but I just know I sound like one of those crystal waving loonies. I can sense, and sometimes see, paranormal entities. They aren’t well-defined, mostly hazy figures or unnatural shadows, but sometimes, if they are strong and angry enough they can look nearly as real as any person. The only reason I’m not knocking down the doors of the nearest insane asylum is because I’m not the only member of my family that can do it. My dad and I are the strongest, I guess, but my brother isn’t exactly blind to them either. My mom and sister have nothing, and I’m glad for that. With the talent of “seeing” comes, sometimes, a gift for driving things away, exorcism if you will. And these things don’t like being forced away. But, I digress.
The ability to see these demons, ghosts, fey, whatever you want to call them truly is a freakin’ curse. Because it makes you stand out, it draws a target for creepy shit right on your back. It never stops, never goes away. And believe me, trying to work any job when you can see the skeletons hiding in people’s closets are not a fun thing, let alone trying to be a minimum wage checkout clerk in a major grocery store.
Here, let me explain what I mean. There is the older guy who comes in; he’s probably in his mid-fifties to early-sixties, and he looks like he’s somebody’s grandpa, albeit a Vietnam veteran, soldier of fortune battle-grandpa. He’s got silvered brown hair, tanned skin, a tall and trim physique, a jovial soft-spoken voice and friendly seeming eyes. He kinda reminds me of that one neighbor we’ve all had at one time or another, the one that is nice as hell but just a little too in to the patriotic expressions of any holiday. The guy that has an American flag on every piece of clothing he owns, has more guns than a National Guard armory but buys all the little kids on the block snow cones from the ice cream truck if he sees it go past. Yeah, him. He’s in every day it seems, just buying a few groceries for the day and talking to us employees. Just a nice seeming guy.
It’s what follows him around that really gets to me.
He has a hitchhiker, you see. Well, hitchhikers to be more accurate. They are ghosts that latch on to you because you meant something to them. Little kids usually have them if a parent dies or people who’ve had a spouse die; hell I’ve seen people with their best friends clinging to them if they were close enough. But hitchhikers sometimes cling for other reasons.
I’ll never forget when I noticed him and his passengers. I was just about to come on shift after my lunch break and I was turning the corner from the backroom of the store and onto the main sales floor when I bumped him. He reached out a hand to steady me because I nearly ass-planted like the graceless wonder I am with a small chuckle. When he did I saw her, his hitchhiker. This girl was, at that time, the most visible, real and tangible entity I’d ever seen.
She was a beautiful twenty year-old Vietnamese girl when she had died, and she died hard. Her naked body was bruised and stained with what I think, hell what I still desperately hope, was dirt. Blackened blood leaked from the gaping wound in her neck and stained her thighs as well. My mind shut down and I went into autopilot, mumbling some apology and scurrying towards the front end of the store. I firmly decided not to even think on what I had seen and to just pretend that nothing had happened.
I should have quit right then.
You see, like I said, he comes in every day. And every day for the past two months the hitchhiker has been a different girl. They are always naked, always beaten and they are always visible around him. I’ve tried to pretend that I don’t see them, but I can’t help but stare in horror as he walks around the store chatting with the other employees in his neighborly way. Last night he came in just before the store closed and I recognized the girl following him, she was an Amber Alert two weeks ago, a seventeen year-old junior from a nearby town who vanished while jogging. As he loaded his purchases onto the conveyer belt he leaned forward so that only I could hear his voice.
“She’s the prettiest one yet, isn’t she? But not as pretty as you.”
He gave that friendly grandfather-like smile and paid for his groceries.
I don’t want to go into work today.
Haunted House Used to Train China’s SWAT Teams
For China’s elite police cadets, it is the ultimate test of their psychological pluck.
Left alone in the dead of night in an abandoned driving school, the prospective SWAT teams are expected to show they can remain calm even in the face of the paranormal.
I thought this story was super creepy for some reason, i dont know why it effected me the way it did….there is a section where i was having a little trouble holding in my emotions there…..and there is a strange Budweiser frog noise that happens in there…i’m not sure if its a ghost frog or my throat….either way….