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Post by Mermaid on Aug 28, 2016 11:00:17 GMT
I believe you can get waterproof wireless headphones so you can leave your phone by the side of the pool and swim while consuming media to your hearts content. The alternative is that BSR's flatmate has a pool and an awesome speaker system. (I'm BSR's flatmate) I wish I had a pool! I use an underwater MP3 player. I make my listening uber-creepy: my swimming is in the Ladies Pond in Hampstead, so I find myself unable to hear anything other than the podcast, the water is greeny-grey with little visibility, and occasionally reeds will brush against me. If you can write the story I might be willing to read it for you. J.
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kea
Member of the Order of the Quill
Posts: 136
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Post by kea on Aug 30, 2016 1:30:19 GMT
I work in a public library and I often feel myself being watched - turning and seeing a pair of eyes looking at you through the space between the shelves is very disconcerting, especially if it takes you a while. You can often put it down to garden-variety creepers, but it's very unsettling.
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Post by samuraifoochs on Sept 17, 2016 7:00:49 GMT
Listening to TMA has both inspired me and made me think about my own fears. I have a myriad of fears and creepy thoughts that I could see making for interesting files, but I'll start with just one. You'll have to forgive me if the way I paint the picture is overly flowery or tryhard, but I do fancy myself a bit of a wordsmith and am feeling a bit inspired myself, so hopefully you all enjoy and/or appreciate it. It's funny to consider the prospect of being afraid of telephones. I mean, it's especially baffling when you consider that I, just like many in 2016, am constantly using and checking and enjoying the various capabilities and conveniences they allow us. But for me, there's something inherently terrifying in getting a call or text from a number I don't know, particularly a call. Answering a phone call from an unknown number is like opening a door. You could find an entirely friendly face and be invited in for a nice cup of coffee, or you could see something you wish you hadn't and want nothing more than to close that door and forget what you'd seen, to have never opened it at all. I particularly get chilled when it's from an unlisted number. About a week or so ago (this is 100% true), I was awake at between 2 and 3 a.m. This is common for me, as I'm very much a night owl and an insomniac. My phone began to vibrate, meaning a call was coming in. I initially thought it was perhaps my ex-girlfriend/current best friend, who frequently calls me around those times because she works late hours (she works in the restaurant industry), and lives in New York City, the so-called city that never sleeps (coincidentally my hometown was very near NYC, though I no longer live there now). I reached somewhat clumsily for my phone, not having expected it. One vibrate. I reach for the phone and see Unlisted on the Caller ID. I hesitate, mildly disturbed. It vibrates a second time and, as I go to answer, it stops. Nothing. No known number. No voicemail. No return call. Surely no telemareter would call me at that hour. So who was it? Why was the number unlisted? Why the oddity of hanging up the call on the second ring? I never got any closure, and almost surely it was someone drunk entering the wrong number, realizing it, and hanging up before I answered to avoid awkwardness. Still, in the darker corners of my mind, I find myself considering more insidious possibilities. I'm getting chills up my spine even now. Funnily enough, it's about 3 a.m., my ex called me as I was typing this (I was expecting her to) and I darn near jumped out of my skin when the phone vibrated.
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DoctorTOC
Travelling Wordsmith
Solving the puzzle, turning the key...
Posts: 49
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Post by DoctorTOC on Sept 23, 2016 12:07:35 GMT
I have been described as "alarming" and "intense" rather than spooky, in that I'm 6'2" and slim, with large eyes and dense, dark eyebrows. I'm shaven bald and have a neatly trimmed goatee with streaks of silver in it (grown in honour of Roger Delgado!).
I've had a few odd experiences, the most recent being with the girl that lives in the flat below mine.
We live in what was the first public subscription orphanage in Britain, built in Bristol by George Müller back in 1849. The exterior of the building is much as it was back then, but the interior was totally refurbished back in 2008, and for a while I was the only person living in the building. Despite it being a Victorian orphanage, the building is the least spooky place you could imagine.
I don't know when the girl downstairs moved in - I don't even know what her name is - but I soon started noticing her, and it became clear that she had fairly serious problems. I first came across her hiding in the bushes near the main entrance to the building. She was dressed in a large padded overcoat, with fingerless cloves and a large woollen hat pulled down around her head, as if she wanted to keep her skin as covered up as possible. She was sobbing, curled up in a ball and unable to move. I offered to help, and she just started screaming. Eventually we had to call the police. This became a regular occurrence, and it seemed that she would go out and suddenly find herself unable to cope with the outside world. Every now and then she'd leave little notes around the building - written in tight, meticulous capital letters - asking people to be quiet, or for deliveries to be left by the mailboxes. Her curtains remained drawn at all times, and she had notes on the glass requesting that no-one tap on the window. I couldn't understand how she lived. I never saw her in the local shops, she didn't seem to take delivery of food, and she clearly wasn't capable of going out to work. The flats in my building aren't cheap, so someone must have been looking after her, but I never saw any visitors beyond the occasional care worker trying to have a conversation with her through her front door.
A few days ago I came home early to find two burly, bored-looking policemen in the hallway, carrying forced entry gear, and two care workers trying to talk to her through the door. She was wailing and sobbing on the other side, and it was a truly horrible sound. She was speaking, but the words were unintelligible. Eventually they got her to open the door, and they coaxed her out of the flat. When she reached the hallway and saw the van they were ushering her towards she started screaming again, an awful jagged sound full of utter despair and anguish. I've never heard a sound like it, and I've been unable to get it out of my mind since.
They got her out into the daylight, and she continued to scream and struggle, the pitch of her cries escalating the closer they got her to the van. Finally they got her inside, the policemen got in alongside, the doors closed, and they drove off. I couldn't see any markings on the van. Afterwards I kept thinking about that poor kid, and what I'd seen. The police had refused to talk to anyone in the building, as had the care workers, and when I asked them to show me some ID they'd told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business.
I know there's no paranormal element to this, but I can't get it out of my head. I've had some minor mental health issues myself, and since then I've found the idea of irrational behaviour horribly frightening, as if it might be contagious or could rouse the illness inside my own head. Also, I've come to wonder where she's been taken. There's no evidence that those were real policemen and care workers, after all, and I can't shake the image of one of the policemen glaring out at me from the van as he firmly shut the door and cut off her screams.
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kea
Member of the Order of the Quill
Posts: 136
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Post by kea on Sept 23, 2016 22:02:25 GMT
I have been described as "alarming" and "intense" rather than spooky, in that I'm 6'2" and slim, with large eyes and dense, dark eyebrows. I'm shaven bald and have a neatly trimmed goatee with streaks of silver in it (grown in honour of Roger Delgado!). .... I know there's no paranormal element to this, but I can't get it out of my head. I've had some minor mental health issues myself, and since then I've found the idea of irrational behaviour horribly frightening, as if it might be contagious or could rouse the illness inside my own head. Also, I've come to wonder where she's been taken. There's no evidence that those were real policemen and care workers, after all, and I can't shake the image of one of the policemen glaring out at me from the van as he firmly shut the door and cut off her screams. I have the opposite problem - I'm 5'1 and might be charitably called "skinny" so I tend to get creeped on a lot - but that's pretty much par the course in my life so I don't let it bother me too much That is a terrifying story though, and must have been very distressing for you, not to mention that poor girl. I understand what you mean about the contagious fear as well - we have a few seriously unwell people come into the library (thanks to a lot of closures of the places that would usually support them), and I wonder if I deal with it worse than my other colleagues for this reason. Luckily we know our regulars, who seem to be fairly harmless, but every so often, there'll be something that throws you. A couple of years ago I had a frantic call from a father in another city whose mentally ill underaged son had run away and ended up in our library just before evening closing on a Friday. My supervisor ended up calling the police and I know he was reunited with his family, but it was unsettling. Perhaps he was planning to stay the night in somewhere that he felt was relatively safe. Lost kids are the worst - we get them every so often, and they usually are too young to understand you when you ask them where Mummy or Daddy is. All that they know if Mummy and/or Daddy are gone and there's this stranger trying to talk to them. It's terrifying to think that one day we'll get a kid who we're unable to reunite, or a parent with a lost kid who we can't find. For the record, it's illegal to leave anyone under 14 unsupervised in the library. I suppose my point is that trying to comfort someone who cannot comprehend what comfort is or what exactly you're trying to do. I suppose for a kid that age your parents help you navigate a world where the rules seem to you completely arbitrary and everything is large and frightening. Once you lose that fixed point...well, I can understand why they're practically hysterical once we work out what's going on.
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DoctorTOC
Travelling Wordsmith
Solving the puzzle, turning the key...
Posts: 49
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Post by DoctorTOC on Sept 25, 2016 13:37:18 GMT
I've been pondering whether or not to share this experience for the last few days, and I've come to the conclusion that I need to. Fair warning; it's not paranormal in anyway, and it deals with suicide. If that bothers you, please don't read it. Last summer my best friend started having anxiety attacks. He was a writer of horror fiction, self-published but reasonably successful, and specialised in writing tales that combined the cyberpunk thriller format with elements of the Cthulhu Mythos. He was also a role-playing game designer, like me, and we used to brainstorm off each other all the time. He used to call me "Mr Sardonic" and implied that I was actually an avatar of Nyarlathotep, which naturally pleased me no end. He used to refer to me as his "spare brain" and his "plot doctor", and just knowing him made me a better writer. He was funny, perverse, incredibly smart, and frequently a massive pain in the arse. I'm not ashamed to say I loved him like a brother. Still do.
Anyway, his anxiety attacks started getting worse, developing into clinical depression. He sought help and was medicated, but it didn't seem to help. He could seem quite chilled, and then would start to tremble and breath heavily, as if he was desperate for air. I've been medicated for depression for years, and I'm no stranger to panic attacks, so I did what I could to help him through these periods, but he became more and more convinced he was going to die. Nothing seemed to help shift this idea that his life was ending. Eventually he checked himself in to a private hospital for a few weeks, but when I visited him I realised that he was minimising his symptoms when talking to the staff. I have some suspicions why, but that's irrelevant here.
There's something truly awful about watching the gradual disintegration of a mind. As I mentioned in my earlier post, I have something of a horror of irrationality, and to see an intellect like his fall apart like that was both pitiful and terrifying.
In October of last year I had my 50th birthday, and some friends of mine in the States paid for me to go out there and celebrate with them (I lived over there for about ten years). When I came back after a couple of weeks, it was clear that my friend had gotten much - much - worse. In November he started drinking and had become verbally abusive to his partner, to the point that she'd gone to stay with her family. As soon as I heard that, I knew we had to intervene.
We'd tried before to get him some proper, supervised help (yes, that means committed), but the system in the UK is glacially slow and he could appear quite plausible when he wanted to. His girlfriend had called the police in an attempt to have him sectioned the previous night, but they brushed it off as a "domestic". Hearing this, I decided that enough was enough. I called his girlfriend, and together we went to their house to try and persuade him to voluntarily commit himself.
As soon as we arrived at the house, I knew something was wrong. The place was quiet, and no-one responded to my calls. I told his girlfriend to stay downstairs and headed up to the attic, where my friend had his writing space.
I found him in the stairwell. He'd hung himself. I called for his girlfriend to call the emergency services while I checked him for signs of life, but I already knew he was dead. I've been unlucky enough to see a few corpses in my time, and you just know when you're looking at a body instead of a person. I can't really explain how. Apart from the ligature around his neck that held him upright, there was nothing odd about his appearance. He looked as if he were asleep, but he was cold, and stiff. No pulse, no respiration.
The 999 dispatcher told me to cut him down to make sure he was really dead, and I had to get his girlfriend to find me some scissors. I didn't let her see the body. I cut the ligature from his neck and lowered him as best I could. I remember his stubble scraping against my face as I did. He groaned as I lowered him, and for a moment I dared to hope he was alive. It was just escaping air, or course. Rigor had already begun to set in. He must have done it early that morning at the latest.
There's not much else to tell. His girlfriend was, of course, distraught. She's still broken, though she carries on. She's lost so much weight that when I hug her I worry she's going to snap. He'd left a note attempting to absolve her, but she still blames herself. His funeral was packed, full of friends who loved him and couldn't believe that he was gone. People kept coming up to me and thanking me for being the one to find him, as if I'd done them or him some sort of service. I still don't understand that.
I've been treated for PTSD since then. I have flashbacks, usually when I've allowed my stubble to grow and I feel it against my skin. I brush against the bristles and suddenly I'm there in the stairwell again, feeling the blood rush out of my face as I see him hanging there. I've become something of a recluse, but my friends have been incredibly patient with me, so I force myself to be sociable even though seeing them reminds me of him.
The other day, my girlfriend reminded me of the day I found him. She told me that she thought I already knew he was dead. She told me that, as I left the flat to go to his place, I'd told her "the only way this is going to end today is if he's already dead," and that the way I'd said it suggested that I thought it was already too late. I don't remember that, but I do remember that when I found him I wasn't surprised that he'd done it.
I miss him every single day.
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Post by Brave Sir Robin on Sept 25, 2016 20:08:15 GMT
DoctorTOC I edited the previous post to include spoiler tags, thank you for including a trigger warning. Sharing that story is quite a big thing to do, and I think you're very brave to do so. Thank you. I also want people to have the option to avoid this post, as I know people that would find it very, very difficult to read, due to similar experiences that they have had.
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Post by Alex Newall on Sept 25, 2016 20:10:51 GMT
Hey doctordoc that is genuinely awful. I'm in no position to give advice so all I can say is I wish you and all parties concerned the best. I hope things pick up.
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DoctorTOC
Travelling Wordsmith
Solving the puzzle, turning the key...
Posts: 49
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Post by DoctorTOC on Sept 25, 2016 20:28:33 GMT
Thanks Alex and Brave Sir Robin. I'm still a bit of a newbie in these boards and didn't realise I could use a spoiler tag on it. Apologies if it's not appropriate, but it felt like the right place to share this (I know that won't sound right!). The funny thing was that as soon as I'd heard the first couple of episodes of The Magnus Archives, I thought of sharing with my friend. He'd have loved it!
Promise the next post won't be a downer, honest!
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Post by seelingkat on Sept 26, 2016 23:25:57 GMT
Thank you for sharing your stories doctortoc, Sometimes I think its real life that can be scarier than ghosts.
I don't live in a converted orphanage, but i do live in a Murder House (capitals my own). It was something that happened 10 years ago in the garage of the house and when the owners came to do a house check when I first moved in and signed the rental papers they asked if I had heard anything spooky there. I said no as I'd only been in a couple of weeks and the wife said that there had been nuns and a priest living there since so I shouldn't worry. In fact they lived there before the event, tho not part of it, so if they did bless the house it wasn't really a success. I have two other housemates, one in the upstairs and one across the hall. The upstairs one is away a lot which isn't helpful when you hear the upper floor creak when you know he's not in the country, There is definitely something living in the roof, my housemate and I have heard it attempt to dig through the livingroom ceiling - something too big to be a mouse. Sometimes its birds on the roof, sometimes its...something else. I don't like that the garage ceiling hatch hasn't got a cover over it so i always check the garage door into the house is locked. The next time my housemates are both away I'll record what sound DO relate to him walking around upstairs ... just in case.
and no, i will not be playing that augmented reality horror game in the house. Just in case.
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DoctorTOC
Travelling Wordsmith
Solving the puzzle, turning the key...
Posts: 49
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Post by DoctorTOC on Sept 28, 2016 15:03:56 GMT
I was talking to my mum yesterday, and mentioned this thread in passing. She reminded me that I was born in what she felt was a haunted house!
I was born in a certain Midlands spa town, where my parents lived in a good-sized Victorian terrace. My mum really didn't like hospitals, and she'd made up her mind that I was going to be born at home, so she faked out the mid-wife when her contractions started, and I entered the world in the master bedroom of our family home.
I loved that house as a child, but there were bits of it that absolutely terrified me, most notably the cellar, which was huge and ran under the entire house, and the upstairs bathroom. The cellar I can totally understand as an adult; it was very large, and very dark and had these arches that made it look like a tomb. The upstairs bathroom is harder to understand; it was bright and cheerful, with clean black and white tiles. At night, however, it seemed to change. The quality of the light in there seemed...wrong, as if the light-bulb was weak and flickering, but when you looked at it the bulb seemed fine. I remember having what was later called waking dreams in there, where I was trapped by the black tiles suddenly liquefying and spilling inky blackness out across the white tiles. I knew in these "waking dreams" that the blackness wasn't a liquid, even though it moved like one. It was a sort of hole, and that if I touched it I'd fall in and drop forever. It still gives me the shivers now.
I had horrible dreams in that house (actually I have nightmares almost every night and have had my whole life). One particular recurring dream was of waking up to see two dark shapes at the foot of my bed, like columns of inky-black shadow. One was tall, the other much shorter. Both had little sparks of red, like glowing embers, where their eyes should have been. In these dreams I knew absolutely that whatever these shapes were, they hated me utterly. My mum reminded me last night of the time, shortly before we moved out, of the time I woke the house up screaming because the shorter shadow had bitten me, and that when she'd reached my room to check on me, my foot did indeed look as if something had tried to take a chunk out of me.
Small child in old house has bad dreams, film at eleven, right? Not exactly news worthy.
Here's the weird bit. As an adult I re-visited my birthplace, and realised that - while everyone's first home seems big in their memories - mine actually was big. My dad was at the time a lecturer in fine art, my mum was a full-time mother. There's no way they should have been able to afford a house that size on my dad's salary. So I asked the old man about it. He got a bit shifty about it, but I pressed him on it and eventually he told me. He'd got the place cheap because no-one wanted to live in it. A few people had tried over the years, but they'd all moved out within a month. It was, apparently, haunted. When I asked him if he knew anything about the haunting, he hmmm'd and haaaa'd about it for a bit, and then said he did.
Apparently the trouble had started nearly ten years before we'd moved in. A previous owner had been left alone when he wife ran off with another man, leaving him with his dog for companionship. The dog was apparently fiercely loyal, but hated pretty much everyone else. The owner went into a spiral of depression, and started drinking heavily. Then people just stopped seeing him around the place. Eventually the police broke in to the house, and that's when they found him. He'd taken a bath upstairs and slit his wrists, but not before he'd strangled his dog in the cellar...
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DoctorTOC
Travelling Wordsmith
Solving the puzzle, turning the key...
Posts: 49
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Post by DoctorTOC on Sept 29, 2016 11:24:14 GMT
Just remembered another one (I think this is the last one!)
I was married for about 17 years, until things ended rather spectacularly and messily back in 2008. I went a little loopy after that, and began what I think of as my "wilderness years", wandering about the country going from job to job as I tried to get my head back together. Eventually I ended up living in a flat in a lovely converted Georgian house in Gloucester, while I worked for the local University. The house was big, beautiful and slightly run-down, but it was close to the city-centre, quiet and my fellow tenants were nice.
I like to explore the places I live, and I'm a night owl, so I tend to go for late night walks to get a sense of the place and map it all out in my head. Aside from a preponderance of charity shops and a large number of locals with the "Innsmouth look", Gloucester's not a bad place to live, and there are some really nice Victorian and Georgian terraces there. It was while I was walking down one of them that I found an odd little cut-through/park. It looked as if two houses had simply been cut out of the terrace, and a small park put in their place. It looked very nice; bit of grass, couple of benches. The sort of place you'd sit and eat sandwiches or catch a few rays on a sunny afternoon.
But for some reason it creeped me the heck out. I simply couldn't bring myself to walk into it.
Anyway, fast forward a few weeks, and I got a rather unexpected phone call from my ex-wife. She was in the area and thought it'd be nice to have a catch-up. My heart was still a little raw over our break-up, but I agreed and we arranged to meet up at a local coffee shop. The meeting was pleasant, and after we'd chatted a while and caught up on things my ex asked me to show her a little of where I lived, so we linked arms and walked around the area a little. We were having a nice time, enjoying the locals and the historical bits of Gloucester, chatting about the architecture. Then we came to the little park I'd discovered a few weeks before.
A brief note of explanation about the ex. She was as mad as a box of frogs (in a good way) and is "sensitive" in a sort of "New-Age, crystals and healing energy" sort of way. I'm quite sceptical normally, but I've actually seen her do some very weird things in my time that I'm hard pressed to explain, and I genuinely believe she can perceive things that most people can't.
Anyway, we were walking past the little park when she stopped, stared and with a look of utter disgust on her face asked if we could go back. I asked what was wrong, but then I noticed she'd gone completely white. She was trembling and starting to sweat, and looked as if she was going to be physically sick. I hurried her away from the area, and sat her down with a cup of tea to sooth her nerves. Eventually she managed to explain to me that something in that park felt bad. Really, really bad, and it had sickened her. She said that it felt like decay, like when you find something unexpectedly rotten and it turns your stomach.
Anyway, she eventually left and I went back to the park to try and figure out what was going on. I'll question my own instincts, but my ex's had been on the money so many times before that they were hard to ignore.
The street that the park was in was a nice, quiet road. Cromwell Road, Gloucester. I started to realise that I'd heard that name before, so I went back to the flat and looked it up on the internet. Apparently the park had been built a few years before, when the houses that had stood there previously had been torn down and the bricks pulverised. You see, the folks living there had done some terrible things.
Their names were Fred and Rosemary West...
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Post by rosie93 on Oct 6, 2016 2:25:52 GMT
I have a story! It's not supernatural but it used to creep me out for a while. I had forgotten all about it until I heard the story with the doll heads found in the trash. This is pretty similar and I'm surprise it didn't come to me sooner.
I live in a (sort of) rural suburban area just outside of Santiago, my country's capital. Because of this I have to drive a lot to get to uni (UC), and my usual route includes one of Santiago's main freeways, Autopista Central. Since there are a lot of UC students that live in my neighborhood, I used to carpool with some of them. When I was in my first year, one of the older students I carpooled with asked me if I had seen the apartment with the hanging dolls. At first I thought he was trying to mess with me, until he pointed at one of the buildings we were passing by. It was rush hour, so traffic was slow, allowing me to take a good look at what this guy was showing me. There was a window in one of the apartments that had a bunch of dolls hanging from a string that stretched along the glass. Sort of like a curtain, but creepier. We never knew what was that about, but every time we passed that building I would stare at the hanging dolls, trying to imagine who could live inside that apartment. A few times I tried to take a photograph with my phone, but since we were on a freeway, we were usually going too fast to get a good picture. Besides, it was one of the top floor apartments, so the angle wasn't good enough to get a clear image. If I was riding with somebody I didn't know, I would ask them if they knew about the hanging dolls. It became sort of an "urban legend" among our small group of carpoolers. We were all fascinated by the hanging dolls, though nobody ever tried to investigate further.
This lasted for about three years, and then the dolls were gone. I never saw them again, and without them I wasn't able to identify the apartment they had belonged to anymore. So the "legend" died out and I forgot all about it. Until I came across this podcast.
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Post by seelingkat on Oct 6, 2016 4:10:46 GMT
a bunch of dolls hanging from a string that stretched along the glass. Sort of like a curtain, but creepier. ok.. well... I think I know how MY house is gonna get decorated for Halloween! that IS so very very creepy
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Post by samuraifoochs on Oct 6, 2016 6:43:01 GMT
These stories are chilling, awesome, and in some cases gut-wrenching (notably DoctorTOC's contributions; stay strong, brother). I just wanted to add, before I share another, Jonny, you have my permission to use any of my contributions for future files if you wish, just send me a message if you want to and I'll give you my actual name for acknowledgment purposes.
I'm a man with an extensive medical history. Everything's fine now, generally speaking, I just have cerebral palsy which has forced me to have surgeries in the past. Anyway, when I had a complete spinal fusion in October 2003, coming out of it was unlike anything I've experienced, until of course the bilateral hip replacement I had less than a year later. The point is that I was in so much pain that they drugged me to the point of hallucination, and it was at times cool and other times horrifying. I recall waking from sleep and calling for my mother to help me move to a more comfortable position, and when she came to me, I would see her come to me via an upside-down staircase, like in the drawings of MC Escher. Keep in mind I was awake, it was actually happening, my eyes were just...playing tricks on me.
The longest-standing hallucination I had was extremely subtle, though, and it persisted until I literally was off morphine and all the other weirdness had long since vanished. I was staying in a room that, when otherwise unoccupied, was used to tutor children who lived in the hospital (I had the surgery done in a children's hospital despite being 18 because it was the best place to get the procedure done). The tiles on the ceiling were the kind with the random lines and dots in them; you know, the ones in office buildings and whatnot. When I looked up at them, I'd see algebraic equations. It wasn't that disturbing in the sense that in my inebriated brain I just figured a kid had carved them in the tiles with a pen to cheat on a test. It seems mad now, but at the time it made perfect sense, and I saw it for at least a week. My mother would insist I was hallucinating, and I'd angrily insist she just didn't see it.
Once I was off the morphine I looked up at the ceiling above my bed one morning and my jaw dropped. The equations and symbols were no longer there, just the typical randomness of the ceiling tiles. Still though, I couldn't shake the twofold creepiness of my eyes so clearly seeing something false, and the idea that a child who had lived and learned in that room could have unintentionally left a message. When I saw it and believed it to be there, I always wondered: had the "author" left the message and gone home? Or were they no longer in the room because they were gone altogether...?
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