Four years ago, I found myself in a peculiar living
arrangement. I was staying in my friend's
house while attending a nearby university.
The household consisted of my friend, his sister, and their
parents. Everything seemed normal at the
beginning, but little did I know that this story would take a
chilling turn. Around 2 weeks into my stay, my
friend's sister invited her boyfriend to move in with us.
Initially, he appeared to be a friendly and sociable guy,
always sharing fascinating stories and engaging in lively
conversations. We'd often gather around the
dining table for drinks or unwind in the garden while
puffing on cigarettes. Life seemed pleasant.
However, as time passed, the cracks in his seemingly normal
veneer began to show. He started ranting about
government conspiracies, portraying himself as a
perpetual victim. He was deeply engrossed in the
bizarre concept of Sigma Male and was obsessed with martial
arts. But what was most alarming was
his explosive temper. This guy also had a menacing
dog, which he inexplicably kept locked in a cage.
When he wasn't around, the dog's violent tendencies became
evident. One day it attacked his
girlfriend and the poor creature had to be euthanized.
That's when the guilt tripping and incessant rants against her
began. Around two months later, he
hatched an audacious plan to live in a shipping container.
This wasn't one of those chic, trendy shipping container homes. 00:01:54,320 It was a rented container in a
storage yard on the outskirts of town.
He relentlessly intimidated and threatened the staff there,
which eventually led to the police being called.
Of course, he believed this was yet another conspiracy against
him. His abuse towards his girlfriend
escalated to horrifying levels, prompting her family to
intervene and get her out of that nightmarish situation.
Throughout this ordeal, I had to pretend to be on his side just
to ensure her safety. When they finally broke up, he
blamed me, accusing me of poisoning her against him and
conspiring to make her mine. She eventually found a new
partner and they seemed happy together.
After that ordeal, we all blocked the Psycho X on every
form of communication possible. However, he continued to harass
them relentlessly until eventually he seemed to vanish
from our lives. Fast forward to last year, I
began receiving messages on social media from various
accounts, some friendly and some hostile.
It was only after some digging that I discovered who was behind
these messages. I blocked each account as I
encountered them. One of these profiles, though,
was pretending to be someone I knew from university.
We began chatting about life, reminiscing about old times, and
eventually I was invited to a house party.
The invitation came with the promise of a free house and a
gathering of friends. Excited, I booked time off from
work and made travel plans, all while maintaining my
conversations with this friend. As the date of the party
approached, I mentioned it to my friend's sister, who also
expressed interest in attending. However, when I shared the
address of the supposed party location, she suddenly panicked. 00:03:45,520 The address was a property
belonging to the crazy ex boyfriend's father, which was
scheduled for sale. I decided to wait until the day
of the party and called the police claiming A suspected
break in at that address. What they found sent shivers
down my spine. There were five people inside
the house, including the Sinister X.
Parked out front was a butcher van equipped with food storage
facilities and a collection of knives, hammers and rope.
Let's just say I'm eternally grateful that I didn't attend
that party. It was a nightmarish rendezvous
I never want to experience. In 2019 I lived in the Humble
Park neighborhood of Chicago with my partner and our loyal
German Shepherd. At the time I was 34 years old
and we occupied a fourth floor walk up unit in a typical low
budget Chicago rental In a neighborhood undergoing change.
Our building played a crucial role in the events that
unfolded. It had a total of 15 units, with
mine in the three below sharing a front entrance.
The other units had a separate entrance.
What connected all 15 apartments were the back porches and stairs
that led to a walkway ending at a rear gate which opened into an
alley. The front stairwell had windows
on each landing, allowing you to see the back door of my
apartment when standing at the front door.
Living in our building meant having good relations with our
neighbors, especially those directly below us who shared our
front door. This bond would ultimately
become our lifeline. However, my life was marred by a
dark history in my teens and 20s.
I had been hurt and stalked by my ex, making me live in
constant fear that he might resurface in my life.
A little less than a month before my partner's upcoming
tour, I received a creepy Facebook message from my old
stalker, sent from yet another new account.
About a week later, my car was broken into, though the thief
only took a bag of dog treats, leaving behind some cash in the
glove box. My heightened anxiety led me to
set up cameras and purchase door braces for both my front and
back doors before my partner left for his tour.
I became entirely nocturnal, unable to sleep at night.
My poor German Shepherd also suffered from stress induced
diarrhea, which meant frequent trips down four flights of
stairs during the night. During these late night dog
outings, I often felt a prickly, crawling sensation, as if I were
being watched. But in the midst of my fear and
paranoia, distinguishing between genuine threats and my own
imagination became increasingly difficult.
I also noticed that some of my neighbors weren't closing the
front door properly, leaving the lock unengaged.
I brought this up with my downstairs neighbor one day,
explaining my concerns about the stalker.
He was supportive and promised to mention it to the other
neighbors, and I did notice a positive change.
Then came that fateful Sunday morning when my partner returned
from his tour around 8:30 AM. Our first floor neighbor's
apartment was burglarized. He was a metalhead who collected
instruments and sold drugs, and he lived alone.
Apparently he had left his door unlocked while he went out for
breakfast and the intruder help themselves to his food, a coat,
and a pair of boots, leaving behind a filthy coat in
exchange. Strangely, they took his college
diploma but left $500 and all his expensive musical
instruments and equipment. They also left behind the drugs,
but took a set of keys, including a master key to the
front door and the back gate. My neighbors quickly informed
each other about the break in, especially considering my
stalker history. The Metalhead neighbor came up
to let me know about the incident and my partner had just
returned when he knocked at the front door.
We stood on the stairs chatting for about 15 to 20 minutes when
we suddenly heard the front door open and close below us.
Initially we didn't think much of it, but then we saw a man
climbing the back porch steps toward my apartment.
He had to pass all fourteen other accessible units to reach
mine, and it was evident that he wasn't going to any other
apartment. He wasn't my stalker, but his
image is seared into my memory. The stranger wore flashy black
and white high top sneakers, not the one stolen from downstairs.
His oversized black coat hung loosely from his shoulders, our
eyes locked through the window, and he froze on the porch
stairs. Slowly, he pulled out a cell
phone and made a call while turning halfway up the steps.
Then he began descending with artificial nonchalance before
sprinting as soon as he reached the porch below mine.
My neighbor immediately dialed 911, and my partner and I rushed
through the apartment to the back porch.
We spotted a sedan and a windowless van speeding out of a
sketchy building 2 doors down. Unfortunately, we didn't get
their license plate numbers and the police later explained that
they couldn't intervene as no crime had been committed.
The police condescendingly reasoned that there was nothing
concrete to justify stopping the vehicles.
My neighbor made the call and had the police report, while my
partner and I were merely considered witnesses.
But what haunted me the most was the tool my neighbor found when
he went downstairs. A 2 by 4 piece of wood cut to
about two feet in length, with about 6 inches turned into a
handle resembling A paddle. It puzzled me for a while until
I realized it was likely a ram used to force open doors and jam
locks. Examining my door, it seemed
like it had been repaired, as if someone had broken in before it
became apparent that they had intended to use that one master
key to place their ram and catch me at the back door while
someone else would break in through the front.
Luckily we caught them before they could execute their plan,
and I believe they had been closely watching my movements,
waiting for an opportunity. It was sheer luck that my
partner had arrived home just 30 minutes before this terrifying
ordeal unfolded. In hindsight, we could have been
seriously injured or worse had they managed to trap us inside.
No further incidents occurred, but my landlord refused to
change the locks. Nevertheless, he agreed to let
us out of our lease, and I decided to leave Chicago behind,
moving to a new place equipped with cameras, floodlights, and
vigilant neighbors. Now I've also added a younger
dog trained in bite work to my life, ensuring that I'm better
prepared to protect myself and my home.
It's been about 12 years since that chilling incident, but the
memory still lingers vividly in my mind.
I should mention that this story is recounted from my
perspective, and while I've tried to get my mother's
perspective on it, her recollection of the events isn't
as clear as mine. For context, we lived in a mid
size city in the southern United States where the main pastime
was going to the mall. Sure, we had movie theaters and
a couple of bowling alleys, but besides that, there wasn't much
else to do in the city. My mother worked at a department
store located within the mall and since I had nothing better
to do, I would regularly accompany her to work.
It gave me a reason to get out of the house, and if I wanted
to, I was allowed to walk around the mall or grab a snack in the
food court. However, I was quite shy and
preferred to stay cooped up in the break room, losing myself in
video games on my trusty Nintendo DS.
My mother's Co workers were generally very kind to me.
They often popped into the break room to say hello or check on me
during their downtime. If I was lucky enough to go with
my mom on weekends, I could usually convince her to pick up
my friend. Well, we were actually dating,
but since we were both girls, I didn't want that to become
public knowledge. Going to the mall meant I was
free from doing chores at home, and it was a cheap way to sneak
in a secret date every now and then.
My girlfriend, however, never really liked staying in the
break room with me. She always wanted to walk around
the mall. Now, I should note that she
really enjoyed taking walks, so it wasn't unusual for her to
want to do so at the mall as well.
I, on the other hand, wasn't as fond of walking, so I tried to
avoid it whenever I could. I could usually convince her to
browse a nearby store or grab something from the food court
instead of walking. However, I quickly noticed that
she wasn't trying to get me to walk, she just didn't want me in
the break room. My girlfriend was more
perceptive than I was, and I assumed she just didn't like the
ambiance of the break room for some reason.
After a while, my frustration got the better of me and I
finally asked her directly what was bothering her about the
break room. I thought she might mention the
cramped space or the erratic lighting, both of which bothered
me too. However, her response was far
more unsettling. She said she heard things in the
ceiling, as if someone was walking around up there.
I recalled from my conversations with my mother that there was
indeed a space in the ceiling, but it was meant for maintenance
purposes. It contained wiring and
insulation, but technically someone could access it.
I tried to reassure my girlfriend that it was probably
just an employee up there fixing something, but her discomfort
remained. Later that day, I mentioned what
my girlfriend had told me to my mother.
She looked distressed and informed me that no one had been
up there fixing anything that day.
Still, she wanted me to see something.
She led me to the receiving room of the department store, a room
filled with boxes and assorted items the store was preparing to
put up for sale. The layout of the room was an L
shape, with one part used for receiving merchandise and the
other part serving as an entry point to the ceiling.
To clarify, to access the ceiling, the store would need to
call the mall's maintenance team, since they didn't have a
ladder or equipment on hand for such tasks.
Due to safety concerns in this particular area, there was only
a hatch leading into the ceiling.
What I saw next sent shivers down my spine, claw marks that
appeared to lead up the wall towards the Hatch.
I can still remember the way those marks looked, brown gashes
gouged into the concrete wall of the receiving room.
My initial thought was that it might be some sort of prank, but
my mother assured me that it wasn't.
These strange markings had appeared several times over the
course of a few months. Each time the store would call
in mall security and the maintenance team to clean the
wall and investigate the ceiling.
However, nothing ever came of their searches, and they
eventually gave up dealing with the enigmatic marks.
Mall Security's only explanation was that it was likely a
homeless individual who had somehow made their way into the
ceiling, displaying an uncanny ability to hide during the
searches. The revelation left me deeply
unsettled. I stopped staying at the mall
with my mom after that, and when my girlfriend wanted to meet, we
found alternative places to go during the day.
Sometimes she'd come over to my house to watch TV or do other
activities, but I couldn't bring myself to return to that break
room. Nothing had happened up until
that point, but I simply didn't want to take the risk.
So to whoever or whatever was walking around in the ceiling at
my mom's workplace, I sincerely hope our paths never cross
again. The mystery of those claw marks
still haunts me to this day, a chilling reminder of the
unsettling events that transpired in that mid size
southern city mall. I've spent my whole life in the
mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania, immersing myself
in the Wilds, hunting, fishing, and camping.
I've encountered almost all the wildlife this state has to
offer, but I've always believed there are many mysterious things
out there lurking beyond our understanding.
It was late summer in 2016 when this eerie incident took place,
a memory that still sends shivers down my spine.
My ex-wife, who shall remain nameless, had grown up in the
streets of Trenton, NJ and had never experienced the joys of
camping. My family decided to introduce
her to our rural lifestyle with a weekend camping trip in my
parents backyard. To be clear, it wasn't exactly
roughing it since we'd be staying in a pop up camper just
25 yards from my parents cottage.
Most of the weekend was delightful, filled with fishing,
hiking, swimming and campfires with toasted marshmallows.
It was just the four of us, my family, my ex-wife, and our two
lab mixes, Cosmo and Max. We had already spent two nights
in that cozy camper, and this was supposed to be the last
night my father, Assault of the earth kind of guy had warned us
about an incoming rainstorm, but we chuckled it off, excited at
the prospect of sleeping through a thunderstorm.
The idea of the rain drumming on the camper's roof sounded
pleasant. We said our good nights, tucked
the dogs in and prepared for sleep.
My ex-wife and I briefly reminisced about the wonderful
weekend before drifting into slumber.
We had spent the day swimming and were utterly exhausted.
Sometime around midnight I awoke, but it was hard to
pinpoint the exact time. The camper rocked gently and
distant Thunder rumbled ominously.
I closed my eyes, attempting to go back to sleep, but I was
abruptly yanked from slumber by a deafening crack of Thunder.
It rattled the camper, shaking it violently.
My wife and I both bolted upright, and the dog started
barking frantically as rain pounded down on us like bullets. 00:18:07,200 We began discussing our next
steps, assuming my parents were coming to wake us and advise us
to seek shelter in the house. We're on our way, my ex-wife
yelled out over the cacophony. The dogs, especially Cosmo, who
weighed a solid 125 lbs in his prime, had already cowered under
the table, joining the skittish Max.
Suddenly, something struck the camper door with an incredible
force, rocking the little pop up.
We both screamed as the camper tilted to one side, as though
something was trying to pull it down.
A loud bang came from the roof, suggesting that something had
landed on it. It was pitch black outside,
which struck me as odd because the yard light sensors should
have activated it. The dogs were barking
ferociously as my wife began sobbing uncontrollably in the
darkness. I whispered to my wife, I'll
send the dogs out first, then you follow.
Run to the house for dad and don't stop for anything.
She continued to cry, but I could barely see her nod in
agreement. I flung the camper door open and
yelled Cosmo Max go. They obeyed without hesitation.
Bolting into the night, I stepped out unarmed.
But then I remembered the hatchet my father used for the
campfire. It lay just a few feet away and
I grabbed it as my wife ran towards the house screaming.
Finally, the motion sensing lights illuminated the yard,
revealing the downpour and the surrounding area.
I looked around in horror, but there was nothing there, just
rain and wind. My father had been roused from
his sleep and had rushed to the back porch in his underwear, but
whatever had attacked the camper and leaped onto the roof had
mysteriously vanished. The camper itself was surrounded
by a small patch of trees and there were no low hanging
branches. I would have heard or seen
something drop from a tree, but there was nothing.
Shaken, I went inside to tell my dad and mom what had happened.
My dad, a firm non believer in the supernatural or paranormal,
dismissed my fears, suggesting it was probably just large
raccoons. He admonished me for getting so
worked up over what he assumed were tree rodents.
However, he promised to investigate in the morning.
Needless to say, none of us got any sleep that night.
As the first light of dawn broke, we ventured outside.
I recounted my story, trying to convey the sheer terror we had
experienced. I demonstrated how the camper
remained solid as I jumped up and down on it with no sway
whatsoever. It couldn't have been the wind.
I even tried to rock it myself and I'm a sturdy 6 foot one
weighing 230 lbs. But still it remained rock
solid. The most chilling discovery was
when my dad fetched a ladder to inspect the roof.
Above the door we found four long fingerprints etched into
the algae covered surface. Dad, I said, pointing at the
Prince. Look at these.
Those fingers are at least 7 inches long.
He just shook his head and returned to the safety of the
house. Now, I know it wasn't the wind,
and it certainly wasn't a raccoon.
To this day, I have no idea what paid us that mysterious visit on
that summer night, but I'm grateful whatever it was didn't
stick around to reveal its true nature.
Five years ago in the dense Ozark forest of Missouri, I
embarked on a hunting expedition during the rifle season of 2018. 00:21:57,120 I was a 20 year old, just on the
brink of turning 21, and my father had decided to join me as
a birthday present. It was a rare occasion for us to
spend quality time together because he was always occupied
with work. I had eagerly prepared for the
trip the week before, and on that fateful morning I was
filled with anticipation. However, my excitement was
abruptly shattered by a phone call from my mother.
She informed me that my dad had fallen sick and wouldn't be able
to make it to our hunting trip. I was devastated by the news,
but after some contemplation, I decided to go ahead with the
hunt. After all, I had invested so
much time and effort into preparing for it, and it seemed
like a waste to back out Now. I readied myself, grabbed my
trusty rifle, and hopped into my pickup truck.
The sky was pitch black when I arrived at my designated hunting
stand. It was crucial for hunters like
me to reach their stands before dawn to avoid startling any deer
that might be lurking nearby. As I settled into my stand, the
world around me was shrouded in darkness.
The crisp, cold air nipped at my skin and I could hear the
distant sounds of the forest coming to life.
In an attempt to pass the time, I decided to close my eyes
briefly. But in the world of hunting,
every sense must remain alert. It was during this momentary
lapse that I heard something that sent a chill down my spine. 00:23:23,360 Footsteps.
They were slow and deliberate, and more alarmingly, they
sounded distinctly by pedal. My heart quickened as I strained
to listen. The footsteps were heavy,
unnatural, and wholly unsettling.
Having spent my entire life in the Ozarks, I considered myself
a seasoned woodsman. I had grown up in these forests,
often accompanying my parents on outdoor adventures.
Yet what I was hearing now was far from ordinary.
This was no animal or fellow hunter.
This was something altogether eerie and unnatural.
Suddenly my father's voice pierced through the darkness,
calling out to me. Daughter, I've come to hunt with
you. Where are you?
The voice was wrong in so many ways.
My father was known for his jovial and carefree nature.
He wouldn't simply call out like that, especially since he knew
the exact location of our Deer Stand, a spot we had never
changed due to its consistent success.
What unsettled me most was the emotionless, monotone quality of
his voice. It sounded robotic, almost as if
it were a recording. My heart pounded in my chest as
I sat there, eyes wide open, scanning the inky blackness of
the forest. A dreadful feeling gnawed at me
as I began to entertain a haunting possibility.
I had heard stories, chilling tales of Wendigo's Skinwalkers
and other supernatural entities that could mimic the voices of
loved ones. Panic clawed at my insides as I
realized the perilous situation I might be in.
I remained motionless, trying to control my breathing while my
eyes darted nervously through the dark.
Every rustle of leaves and every snap of a twig sent shivers down
my spine. I was trapped in my stand,
helpless, and my trusty rifle suddenly felt like a frail
defense. Then I gasped softly, my breath
catching in my throat. A shadowy figure emerged from
the blackness. Its form was indistinct, but I
could make out unnaturally long arms that brushed against the
forest floor. With each heavy step it moved
with a strange, almost mechanical gait, repeating the
same eerie refrain. Daughter, I've come to hunt with
you. Can you tell me where you are?
I remained in my tree stand, frozen in terror until the first
faint hints of dawn began to break the darkness.
It felt like an eternity before I dared to climb down from my
perch. Even then, every step I took
through the forest felt like an eternity.
I had an overpowering sense of being watched, of unseen eyes
tracking my every move, every snap of a twig, every rustle of
leaves intensified my anxiety. Finally, I reached my pickup
truck. My heart still raced as I fumble
for my keys and started the engine.
I glanced into the rearview mirror and what I saw seared
into my memory. A tall, pale figure leaned out
from behind a tree, observing me with a malevolent gaze.
It emitted an angry, otherworldly scream that chilled
me to the bone. Instinctively, I let go of the
steering wheel, covering my ears before regaining control and
swerving to avoid colliding with a tree.
My heart hammered in my chest as I drove home as fast as I could. 00:26:44,480 When I arrived, I recounted the
harrowing events in my mind, trying to make sense of what had
happened. This experience didn't diminish
my love for the woods, but it did open my eyes to the fact
that there are mysterious and malevolent forces lurking within
the familiar wilderness. Thankfully, my dad recovered
from his illness and we returned to hunting together the
following year. I've kept this story to myself
for years, as my parents had always dismissed such cryptic
topics with laughter. Now, as I share this tale, it
feels like a heavy burden lifted from my shoulders.
Regardless of how well one thinks they know their hunting
grounds, there are entities in the wild that can challenge even
the most seasoned outdoorsman's perception of the world they
thought they knew. Nestled in the uncharted depths
of Tennessee's rugged mountains, my home is a realm of secrets
unknown to many. Vast hills, imposing cliffs, and
seemingly endless hollows stretch far beyond state
borders, concealing a rich tapestry of history unbeknownst
to most outsiders. The story I'm about to share
delves into one such concealed narrative.
In this remote expanse, there exists a section of forest
blanketed mountains, known to the locals as Hoboken Mountain.
Yet to the natives entrenched in the region they refer to it as.
The forest that takes this place is shrouded in mystique, echoing
a tale that transcends mere names and taps into a hidden
history. Veiled beneath the shadows of
ancient hills and cliffs that seemed to stretch into eternity
long ago, colonists venture deeper into unexplored
territories, their aspirations fixated on the coveted expanse
now currently known as Hoboken Mountain.
Extensive surveys of the region unveiled a panorama of allure, a
wealth of animals, abundant resources, and fertile grounds.
Promising bountiful harvests, this mountainous haven not only
satisfied their immediate needs, but strategically positioned,
became a linchpin for further settlements.
The colonists, driven by dreams of prosperity, saw in Hoboken
Mountain not merely a plot of land, but a key to unlocking the
untold potential of their burgeoning community.
During this era, the indigenous people and the newly arrived
colonists existed in a state of mutual coexistence.
However, as news spread of the colonists intentions to settle
in the foothills of Hoboken Mountain, a shift in the
delicate cohabitation occurred. The native inhabitants, rather
than adopting A hostile stance, chose a path of caution and
concern. Sensing an impending
disturbance, they earnestly warned the newcomers to steer
clear of that particular terrain, their voices carrying
wisdom rooted in fear and superstition.
For the darkness that lingered in Hoboken Mountain, unfazed by
warnings and superstitions, the resolute colonists, driven by
prospects forged ahead with their settlement construction.
Occasional skirmishes with native groups and sabotage,
motivated by fear of the ominous consequences of trespassing on
the cursed ground, failed to impede their progress.
Undeterred, the settlers successfully constructed their
settlement, laying the foundation for the founding of a
town. Numerous tales shroud the
generations during which this settlement endured, none of them
positive and all Lacking any corroborating evidence.
The lore weaves A dense narrative of misfortune,
otherworldly affliction, and mysterious disappearances.
Depending on the storyteller, the consensus emerges that the
settlement was ultimately abandoned, surrendered to the
relentless embrace of the encroaching forest.
Presently, locals caution against venturing near those
woods. While not everyone heeds the
warning, any seasoned hunter understands the unspoken wisdom. 00:30:47,960 Avoid those woods, and if you
go, do so in a group. The unwritten rule for Hoboken
Mountain is clear. Never defy the rule of two.
Always ensure you're in a pair or more, never fewer.
In the summer of 1998, I foolishly defied the cardinal
rule. While the Amazon is dubbed the
Green Inferno, those acquainted with the Tennessee mountains in
summer would argue it's the true Green Inferno, an expansive
realm of mountains and trees. Once inside, the sky vanishes
and orientation fades. Raised in these woods, I'd
haunted them for years. Familiar with the Hoboken
Mountain range, however, that summer marked my first solo
expedition. Originally planned with three
fellow hunters, unforeseen circumstances left me alone.
Ignoring better judgement and swayed by misplaced confidence,
I ventured into the woods alone, driving my truck down the Dirt
Rd. leading to the Hoboken Forest entry.
I left it at the road's end, commencing my trek standing at
the precipice where dirt met tree line.
The forest seemed to hold its breath in anticipation as I
crossed the threshold into the woods, embarking on the track to
a familiar hunting spot, a location of past success that
required a 2 hour hike. Initially the forest teamed with
life birds, bugs, squirrels, the vibrant Symphony of nature.
However, as I delve deeper and unsettling unease settled in.
Despite knowing the terrain well, I felt an unnatural
disconnect with my surroundings. The cliche sensation of being
watched manifested profoundly on this hike.
With about 30 minutes remaining, I decided to pause.
Settling on a rock for a sip of coffee from my thermos, I
glanced down and discovered several drops of blood on a
leaf. Realization struck as I
recognized the source, a cut on my arm.
The scene took an eerie turn as a flock of butterflies
gracefully descended, landing on the leaf and engaging in a
bizarre struggle over probing the blood droplets with their
proboscis Lost in a surreal trance, I gazed at the bizarre
butterflies. A sudden snap jolted me, but as
I turned, there was nothing. When I looked back, both the
butterflies and the blood droplets had vanished.
Shrugging off the ominous feeling, I pressed on with my
hike. Reaching the spot where we had
set up a deer stand years earlier, I found myself
overlooking A picturesque clearing cut through by a stream
flowing down from the mountain. The scene was enchanting, a
perfect spot to patiently await a deer.
Within an hour, a massive buck emerged into the clearing,
slowly raising my rifle and peering through the scope.
I had him in my crosshairs when he abruptly jerked his head
towards the tree line. Something had spooked him and he
bolted before I could take the shot.
Swinging my scope towards the disturbance, I observed movement
in the bushes, A pinkish blur that gradually revealed itself.
What emerged was beyond horror. My heart and lungs seem to halt
in fear. In the clearing stood a naked,
dirt covered duplicate of myself, staring directly up at
me with a malevolent gaping smile of rotted, blackened
teeth. Lowering my gun, I aim to
scrutinize the naked figure of myself with my own eyes, without
the distance of the scope, potentially distorting my
observation. However, in the brief span it
took for me to lower the scope and my eyes to adjust, it simply
vanished. Disturbed and disoriented, I sat
frozen. The forest, once filled with the
lively chorus of nature, now felt oppressive and eerily
silent. The unsettling encounter left me
grappling with my own sanity. I cautiously descended into the
clearing with my rifle in hand. Where the bizarre apparition had
stood. The air seemed charged with an
otherworldly energy. Every hair on my body stood on
end, a primal fear enveloping me.
I felt haunted, akin to the buck.
Suddenly a human like guttural roar echoed from beyond the tree
line. Without hesitation, I turned and
sprinted. The dense forest, once familiar
now felt like an ominous labyrinth closing in on me as I
covered the two hour hike in. Nearly half the time, Gasping
for breath, I emerged from the trees onto the dirt Rd. my hands
planted on my truck's hood as if seeking refuge in a twisted game
of tag. In my peripheral vision, a
massive black form shifted behind a tree in the direction
I'd exited the woods. Glancing back, I saw a single
hand, grotesquely human in form, clung to the bark before
vanishing behind the tree. I hastily climbed into my truck,
leaving a trail of dust in my wake, putting Hoboken Mountain
in my rearview mirror. The encounter was unlike
anything I've ever faced before or since that day.
While I struggle to fully comprehend or accept what
happened, I'll share this insight.
The world harbors ancient mysteries even still in modern
times, and in those aged corners, relics of a long
forgotten world may stir and come to life.
Beware of old places with old tales, for those stories may
linger on very much alive. I'm a mid 20s female, and
tonight I found myself at the local grocery store at around
5:00 PM The winter evening was already starting to cast long
shadows, and the darkness was creeping in faster than I'd
anticipated. I was leisurely strolling
through one of the store's narrow aisles, trying to decide
between various product options. As I peruse the shelves, a sense
of unease began to settle in the pit of my stomach.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man who appeared to be
in his late 20s or early 30s. He had light features, glasses
perched on his nose and a scruffy beard.
He had casually sidled up right next to me, and at first I
dismissed it as mere coincidence.
People often shared the same shopping aisles, after all.
However, what struck me as peculiar was the fact that he
wasn't moving or reaching for any items on the shelves.
He was just standing there, uncomfortably close.
I decided to steal a quick glance in his direction and to
my surprise, our eyes locked. It was as if he had been
watching me all along, and my heart skipped a beat.
For a moment I entertained the thought that he might speak to
me, but when he remained silent, I felt an inexplicable chill run
down my spine. Without wasting another second,
I hastily turned and walked away from the strange man.
My mind raced with questions and anxiety, trying to dismiss the
encounter as mere awkwardness on his part.
Perhaps he didn't know how to initiate a conversation with a
woman. That was the narrative I told
myself. However, my relief was short
lived. Barely 30 seconds later, as I
had moved on to another aisle, I caught a glimpse of him out of
the corner of my eye. He was once again approaching,
his eyes fixated on me. Panic surged through my veins as
I realized that this couldn't be mere coincidence.
I increased my pace, feeling his unwavering gaze.
Follow me. I decided to head straight to
the self checkout area, hoping to escape his unsettling
presence. As I scanned my items, I
couldn't help but glance over my shoulder repeatedly, fearing
that he might be lurking nearby. As I finally made my way towards
the store's exit, my guard was somewhat lowered.
I convinced myself that I had overreacted and that the man was
probably gone. But just before I reached the
automatic doors, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me.
Instinctively, I turned around one last time.
There he was, right behind me, mere inches away.
What struck me as even more unsettling was that he had
nothing in his hands, no groceries, nothing to suggest a
reason for being there. I came to a sudden halt, locking
eyes with him once again. He didn't break his gaze either,
and my heart pounded in my chest.
Then, in a bizarre twist, he lowered his head, pretending to
be engrossed in his phone, and walked past me out the door.
It was at this moment that I felt sheer terror.
He had never intended to buy anything.
His sole focus had been on me. Fear overtook me completely.
My head spun as I thought about what could have motivated his
actions. Was he just socially awkward, or
did he have more sinister intentions?
Maybe he saw me as an easy target for a robbery.
I could see my car not too far away, having parked near the
exit, thank goodness. I immediately dialed my fiance
and without thinking, sprinted towards my car.
I jumped inside, locked the doors and scanned the parking
lot for any sign of the strange man.
He was still there, aimlessly wandering among the parked cars. 00:40:17,240 With my fiance on the phone, I
started to feel a bit safer. I watched the man for a few more
seconds. Making sure he wasn't getting
any closer before finally leaving the scene.
I couldn't fathom his motives, and that was perhaps the most
unnerving part of it all. Each time I had noticed him, he
had been blatantly staring at me.
Far from being discreet, this lack of subtlety puzzled me.
It didn't align with what I'd expect from a dangerous
predator. Furthermore, the fact that he
hadn't purchased anything in the store added to the confusion.
As I drove away, I couldn't shake the feeling that something
was terribly wrong about that encounter.
It was a chilling and unsettling experience, and even now I find
it difficult to rationalize what happened that evening.
I used to work night shifts in the desolate heart of Arizona,
far from civilization, at an old Pueblo that had been transformed
into a hotel. It was without a doubt, one of
the easiest jobs I'd ever had, but it came with the heavy
drawback of a grueling hour and a half commute each way.
Initially, I loathed the drive. It sliced a significant chunk
out of my precious free time, leaving me to contemplate the
idea of relocating to AO or seeking employment closer to
Yuma. But then, on a fateful night,
during what I think was my third or maybe 4th shift, everything
changed. I spotted a random Taco truck
parked outside the Copper Sands RV Park.
It had been there before, silently beckoning to passers
by, but I had always resisted the temptation to stop.
After all, I had over 100 miles ahead of me, and making a pit
stop seemed impractical. Yet that night, my stomach
growled with such ferocity that I feared I might start speeding
just to get home sooner. So as the truck came into view
on my left, I swerved off the road and pulled into the RV
parks entrance. Stepping out of my car, I
approached the Taco truck. Its owner seemed to be either a
resident of the RV park or someone who diligently drove out
here every night to conduct his business.
The first thing that struck me was the savory aroma wafting
from the truck. It was impossible to resist.
I didn't just grab the tacos to go.
Instead, I stayed by the truck, reveling in the flavorful bites. 00:42:47,120 After devouring my meal, I
engaged in conversation with the truck's owner over a soda and a
cigarette. He even offered those handy
lemon scented hand wipes for free, preventing me from
greasing up my steering wheel on the way home.
Over the next few months, I made this pit stop around 40 or 50
times. It became a regular part of my
nightly routine, and yet I never bothered to ask the Taco guy's
name. It didn't seem necessary at the
time, and he didn't inquire about mine either.
We were just two people sharing a fleeting interaction in the
darkness of the night. However, in hindsight I regret
not asking as it would become a crucial detail in the eerie
events that unfolded. 1 evening. As I rolled up to the usual spot
outside Copper Sands, the Taco truck was conspicuously absent.
I parked my car, stepped out, and approached the truck, hoping
to enjoy my usual meal. Everything appeared normal at
first, not unusual for the times when the Taco guy was briefly
occupied elsewhere. But then the ominous silence
settled in. There was no one on the highway,
and it seemed as though the entire RV park was asleep,
shrouded in an eerie calmness. While I scanned the
surroundings, waiting for the Taco guy to reappear, a peculiar
scent reached my nostrils. Something burning.
I stretched up on my tip, toes straining to peer over the
grill's counter, and there it was, a thin wisp of smoke rising
from the grill's surface. I called out, my voice
trembling. Hey, I think there's something
burning over here. Yet silence persisted, broken
only by the unsettling sizzle emanating from the grill above
me. With cautious steps, I made my
way around the truck to its narrow entrance door.
I climbed the retractable stairs and gripped the door handle,
pushing it open. My eyes were met with an empty
cash register. It's drawer up, turned on the
counter, loose change scattered around it.
The word robbery immediately came to mind, but the lack of
signs of a violent struggle baffled me.
Perhaps the Taco guy had been forced to empty the cash drawer
himself. My anxiety grew as I advanced
toward the grill, which was still alight.
I had to ascend a few more steps to reach the cooking area, and
when I finally gazed upon the grill's surface, my world
crumbled. There, scorched onto the grill,
was a perfect jet black outline of a person's hand.
I recoiled, gasping, my heart pounding in my chest.
I muttered aloud. Oh my God.
Without looking again at the macabre imprint, I reached down
and turned off the flame beneath the grill descending the stairs,
I hastily closed the door and walked back to my car.
Trembling with fear and uncertainty, I dialed 911,
trying to explain the situation to the dispatcher.
A robbery had occurred and someone had been severely hurt.
That much I knew, but where had they gone?
Why hadn't the police arrived with sirens blaring?
Despite my anxiety, I decided to wait, hoping that the Taco guy
might return. Bandaged but alive, I waited for
what felt like an eternity, 30 maybe 40 minutes, But no one
showed up. Eventually, I drove home, my
mind in a whirlwind of confusion and guilt.
I replayed the events over and over, wondering what had
transpired and why the authorities hadn't come to our
aid. And as the days passed, I
couldn't shake the thought that I should have asked for the Taco
guy's name. I tried Googling various phrases
like Taco truck owner burned by robber, hoping for any lead, but
the results only yielded unrelated violent incidents.
I remain haunted by the night I discovered that horrifying
handprint on the grill, desperately hoping that the Taco
guy somehow managed to recover from the ordeal.
My name's Will and I'm from a place called Handsworth in
Birmingham, UK. Yes, the same city as Peaky
Blinders. I'm a big fan of the show and
since Christmas is coming up, it reminded me of a story my dad
told me a few years ago. It's a story of two parts in a
way. The first part is US finding out
what happened in the 1st place, which was a big drama but not as
interesting as the event itself. So I'll dive in and I think
you'll see what I mean. Back in 1984, my mom and dad
were still brand new parents and I wasn't even out of nappies
yet, so my mom mostly stayed at home to look after me.
Mom couldn't work and dad was still on crap money, so he ended
up getting a part time job as a DJ.
You wouldn't think to look at him, but my dad has a sick taste
in music. Her family has a Jamaican
background and his parents are first generation, so he loves
everything from Rocksteady and Roots to Dub and Dance hall.
I've got a lot of happy memories of being a kid going through his
record collection and pretending it was me that was the selector. 00:48:09,520 Anyways, he gets offered this
gig playing a party over in West Brom, which is only a couple of
miles down the road. So he accepts, drives over, does
the gig, and then starts driving back.
It's about 1:00 in the morning and he's just gone past the
roundabout on Kenrick Way when he sees a flashing blue light
behind him. He looks up in his rear view and
sees a copper on a police bike behind him.
White helmet hive, his jacket, all that stuff.
So he pulls over to the side of the road, turns his car off and
waits for the copper to come up to his window and tell him why
he's been stopped. My dad's sitting there looking
into his right hand wing mirror watching as the copper parks up
behind him, gets off his bike and then starts walking towards
his window. But the closer the copper gets
to my dad's window, the more my dad starts thinking that
something isn't quite right. For starters, motorbike cops
like that mostly stuck to motorways so they could respond
to big car crashes faster. Then secondly, cops are supposed
to have something on the front and the back of their uniforms
that make it clear that they're policemen.
But instead of a little patch over his heart saying police,
there was nothing there. It looked like the kind of
jacket a builder might wear or something.
Then on this guy's feet, he didn't have boots on.
He had all white trainers by the time he clocked all that about
the bloke, My dad's thinking, Hang on, this isn't right at
all. But then, right as that thought
pops into his head, he sees this copper who's not a cop at all,
reaching into his pocket and pulls out what looked an awful
lot like a gun. My dad said that he did the only
thing that came to mind. He reached for his keys, started
his engine and while sinking as far down into his seat as he
could, he put his foot down as he's taking off.
He says the front seats just exploded in a shower of glass as
his front and driver side windows got taken out by the
guys bullets. He only sits up again when he's
almost at the turn off to Birmingham Road.
It's only when he turns right off of Kenrick and has to turn
his steering wheel all the way and back again that he can just
feel there's something wrong with his shoulder.
He makes it all the way to the Hawthorne's before he has to
pull over, because by that point he's noticed how badly he's
bleeding from the bullet that's gone through his shoulder.
He's terrified that he's going to bleed to death or something.
He ended up getting out of his car, flagging down the next one
that passed him, and getting a lift to A&E at Sandwell
Hospital, which is where he found out just how lucky he'd
been. If the bullet had hit him a few
inches further down, it could have done fatal damage to his
heart, or he'd probably have bled to death before he could
even get out of his car to flag another one down.
Obviously, because he needed surgery, the hospital kept him
for a few nights and the police asked him questions from his
hospital bed. The first visit was all
questions. The second one included telling
him that his car, which he basically just abandoned near
the Hawthorne's, had been found. Someone had found it and set it
on fire. Because of that, the coppers who
came to ask him questions started asking things like are
you involved in organized crime and is there anyone you've
angered recently enough for them to want to hurt you?
To each of these quite accusing questions, his answer was no.
Every time. Something you've got to know
about my dad for this to all make sense is that apart from
his taste in music, he's basically a massive nerd.
He was interested in computers growing up, got an IT job and
kept himself squeaky clean when he was a teenager.
He was never involved in any kind of gangs or drug dealing or
anything like that. Which, to be fair, Handsworth
has got quite a bad reputation for.
The only thing he could think of which could have possibly rubbed
anyone up the wrong way was having to turn down a song
request at the party he'd been playing that night.
Dad said a fella had come up to him, asked for some proper aggro
dub track, and when my dad told him that he didn't have it, the
bloke started giving him this death stare before he finally
walked off. Dad continued without any
further confrontation, but he said he caught the bloke staring
at him across the hall a few times, just staring and kissing
his teeth and all this other hard man stuff.
Dad finishes his set, packs up his gear, and the bloke had
plenty of opportunities to come up and have a go, but he didn't. 00:52:42,040 Then the next thing, Dad's
getting pulled over by a fake cop and gets shot in the
shoulder. My dad said that he only really
put it together then, and that was only because the police
seemed very interested in the details of what Dad believed was
nothing more than a minor confrontation.
Dad gave them a description of the bloke he'd been a Jamaican
guy, about 5-10, with a blue and white striped shirt, white
jeans, and lots of gold chains. Dad also said that he was still
in the dance hall when he packed up and left, and he looked
legless drunk too, so there was no way that he was hopping on a
motorcycle and following him. What were the chances of him
having a fake motorbike cop outfit just stashed nearby in
case of an emergency? But like I said, the penny
started to drop as he described the guy from the dance hall.
A few days later, one of the coppers all but confirmed his
worst fears. Basically, the police thought
that the bloke that he'd had that little confrontation with
in the dance hall was a Yardie. Lots of people know about
Yardies because of Grand Theft Auto.
Nico's made Jacob as a Yardy and he does some missions for them.
Aside from that, I suppose they're famous for the same way
the Yakuza and triad are famous. They're not as famous as the
Italian or Russian mafias, not by any stretch, but I suppose
crime families get a reputation all over the world for a reason. 00:54:06,880 Anyway, back in the early 80s,
lots of Jamaicans started coming over to the UK.
There had been a trickle since the 1950s, which is when my
grandparents came over. But the late 70s and early 80s
saw loads more unemployed Jamaicans coming over to the UK
to make better lives for themselves.
The trouble was, not all of them were honest, hard working people
just looking to get along. The Yardies got their name
because they tended to hang around what were basically
council estates or what they called in Jamaica, government
yards. If you were a known criminal,
you couldn't get a job, so instead you hung around the
yards with the other Yardies, who were always up to no good.
Gang life in Jamaica is brutal and there's hardly any money to
go around. So when the Yardies heard that
they could get over to the UK on forged documents or jump a ship
once it arrived in Bristol or London, they came over and
hundreds were looking to make their fortune.
And make it they did. London and Bristol got saturated
fairly quickly, so the yardies that arrived later ended up
moving N to the likes of Nottingham and Manchester but
especially Birmingham, with it being the second biggest city in
the UK and they brought all their Yardy bad man brutality
with them. Ask anyone around here and
they'll tell you Bad Man is fairly recent slang, but ask my
granddad and my dad and they'll tell you the whole Bad man Ting
had been around forever. Jamaican culture is very macho
as it is, and the Yardies took the whole culture and ran with
it. Until the whole point of being a
bad man, Yardy was being the coldest, cruelest.
I've heard stories of Yardy shooting people dead just for
giving them a funny look, so it made sense that the one my dad
ran into would want to have him shot for being disrespectful.
And to a Yardy, anything that wasn't perfectly to their liking
could be seen as disrespectful. One of the policemen my dad
dealt with basically told him that they thought his shooting
was connected to a handful of others that happened around
Handsworth and West Brom, and that any help my dad might be
able to give him would potentially bring them a step
closer to solving quite a few other unsolved shootings.
Dad told them everything he could more than once too, but
weeks turned into months and we never heard from the police
again. As far as my dad knows, they
never caught The Who shot him, and for a while he was worried
they'd come back for him. Police advised him not to go
around W Brom for a while, but without his car, he wasn't going
anywhere. That wasn't on a bus route
anytime soon. Time went on, and after a while
dad stopped looking over his shoulder and his wounds healed.
He still can't lift his left arm above his head, but other than
that he's perfectly mobile. Crazily enough, this whole story
came out one Christmas when my mom, who was completely smashed,
let slip that my dad knew what it was like to be shot.
My granddad and I had been watching some terrible old war
film, laughing about how awful the acting was.
Whenever someone got shot, Granddad says something like
they can't act because they don't know how it feels.
And Nana goes, your dad does. Basically.
All hell broke loose after that, and it ended with our dad
telling us that story you just heard.
It got a bit emotional toward the end because we inevitably
got to the part where it hit us, how lucky we were to even still
have him around, and in my sister's case, how she wouldn't
have even been born yet if the shooter's aim had been a bit
better. Now, I won't lie.
The thought still gets me sometimes thinking someone could
be so petty as to want to end another man's life just over a
freaking dub track. The single scariest thing that's
ever happened to me occurred on a routine drive home from work
back in 2010. I used to work in a kind of
Speakeasy down in Shreveport, sort of a hipster place that
specialized in Prohibition era drinks.
It was a pretty cool job, but the scheduling sucked, and
sometimes we didn't get out of there until 3:00, and
occasionally as late as 3:30 in the morning.
On this particular night, we finished around 3:00, and I
found myself driving down W Shreveport with nothing but the
street lights to guide my way. Out of nowhere, I suddenly
spotted someone lying right in the middle of the street.
From what I could tell, it was a guy splayed out like a starfish
on the blacktop. I instinctively slowed down and
swerved to avoid hitting him as I peered out of my driver's side
window to get a better look. I couldn't see any blood or
obvious injuries, but the guy's eyes were wide open in a really
creepy way that made me think that he was in some real
trouble. Or worse, maybe he was dead.
Realizing I should probably do something, I reached for my door
handle. I swear I was halfway out of my
car before this inexplicable feeling overcame me.
I can't quite put it into words, but it was like I got a tap on
my shoulder and something in my head urged me to look behind me. 00:59:19,120 When I did, my blood turned to
ice. For those familiar with
Shreveport, you'll know what I'm talking about as I gazed in the
direction of Joella Street near the strip mall near the Office
Depot. There was a row of trees on the
left hand side where Forest Park and Wildwoods, or whatever it's
called, we're located. Pure instinct led me to spot two
guys, their faces covered, creeping through the trees in my
direction. Realization hit me like a
freight train. I was about to get carjacked.
Panic set in, and I jumped back into my car, slamming the door
shut. But as soon as I did, the guy I
had initially thought was either dead or unconscious, the same
one I had contemplated offering help to suddenly sprang up from
the ground and lunged for my door handle before I could speed
off. My heart pounded like a
jackhammer. The entire rest of the ride
home, I was maybe a mile away before I could muster the
courage to slow down. They weren't going to catch me.
Not if I drove like I had been, if I hadn't snapped back to
reality. I might have gotten a ticket, or
worse, been involved in a horrific car accident.
It may seem unrelated, but I always look back and think about
how I could have escaped 1 dangerous situation only to meet
another fate in a blind panic, thinking they might be following
me in another car or something. That gut feeling I had when I
stepped out of the car haunts me.
If I had been a little more tired or slower in sensing the
danger, I might not be here today to recount this chilling
tale. I don't think they had a gun or
anything, or if they did, they didn't fire any shots as I drove
away. But a knife, or even the
possibility of them running me over while trying to escape,
raced through my mind. I could have ended up on the
street just like that guy had been when I rolled up, but with
me it might not have been so easy to get up again.