August 15, 2025 • 49 mins
What's your Scariest Paranormal Encounters that still gives you chills to this day?
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 2 (00:00):
Story one.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
I don't really like talking about this, but I'll write
it out because it's one of those things that never
leaves you alone. I'm twenty seven now living in Texas,
but this happened when I was seventeen. Back when my
friend Casey's family rented this small, beige house at the
end of our street. We'd walk there after school because
her parents worked late and her house was the hangout spot,
even though no one liked being there. I don't know
(00:23):
how to explain it without sounding dramatic, but the air
in that house felt heavy, like you had to push
through it just to walk to the kitchen. You'd hear
small sounds when it was quiet, soft floor creeks, doors
you thought you shut would be open. People would say
it felt off, but we'd just laugh about it.
Speaker 2 (00:40):
Still. I never stayed there alone, and neither did Casey.
Speaker 1 (00:44):
One Thursday, around three point thirty pm, Casey called me
while I was finishing up algebra tutoring. She sounded weird,
her voice tight. She said, can you come over right now?
No explanation, just that. I didn't think much of it
because I knew she hated being in that house alone.
I grabbed my bag, and walked the two blocks over.
When I got there, she was standing across the street,
(01:06):
hugging her arms. She looked pale, and I thought maybe
she was sick. But when I asked what was wrong,
she just said, I need you to come inside with me.
We crossed together. The front door was locked, so she
unlocked it and opened it slowly, poking.
Speaker 2 (01:20):
Her head in first.
Speaker 1 (01:21):
I remember the smell of the place, like old carpet
and something stale, and how the air felt colder inside
than it was outside. We stepped in and it was
so quiet that you could hear the tick of the
kitchen clock. Casey stopped at the bottom of the hallway,
just standing there, staring toward the kitchen. I was about
to ask what was wrong when we heard her mom's
(01:42):
voice call out, Hey, case we're in here. I don't
think I'll ever forget the way Casey's face looked Right
then she just froze, her mouth half open, eyes going wide.
I whispered, is your mom home? Because it was a
Thursday and her parents didn't get off work until six.
She didn't answer. We just stood there listening. It was
(02:02):
her mom's voice, but it was wrong, like she was
reading words from a paper, but the emotion was missing,
and there was a weird flatness to it that made
my skin crawl. Casey, come here, it called again, but quieter.
She turned to me and said, my mom's at work.
I said let's go, but she shook her head, whispering
(02:23):
I just want to see. Before I could grab her
arm to stop her, she stepped forward down the hallway.
She reached for the kitchen door handle, but stopped with
her hand on it. I could hear breathing on the
other side, slow, deep, and it wasn't hers. She pulled
her hand back, shaking. Then we heard her mom again,
but it was like the voice was pressing itself right
(02:45):
up against the door. Low and wrong. Casey, we're just
in here. I felt like my legs were going to
give out. I told her we needed to go, but
she didn't move. Then we heard footsteps inside the kitchen,
soft but steady, like someone pacing slowly. Casey turned and
walked back toward me, her face completely blank, and I
grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the front door. As
(03:07):
we reached it, she turned back for one last look.
I looked too, and that's when we saw it. The
living room was to our right with those big vertical
blinds half open, and standing there looking out through the
window was her mother.
Speaker 2 (03:22):
Except it wasn't her mother.
Speaker 1 (03:23):
It looked like her, same hair, same face, same clothes
her mom would wear to work, but the eyes.
Speaker 2 (03:29):
Were all wrong. They were wide, unblinking, like glass, and
there was no recognition in them at all. The face
was empty, just a face stretched over nothing, and it
didn't move, didn't tilt its head, didn't react to us
at all. Casey let out a noise I can't even describe,
a mix between a scream and a sob, and we
tore out of the house, slamming the door behind us
(03:51):
so hard the windows rattled. We ran, not looking back,
all the way down the street to her mom's work.
Her mom was there in her office exactly or she
was supposed to be, and she looked at us like
we were crazy. When we burst in, crying and gasping.
Speaker 1 (04:06):
They tried to tell us it was probably a squatter
or a trick of the light, but the police found nothing.
All the doors and windows were locked, nothing was missing,
no signs of a break in, no footprints, nothing. Casey's
mom stayed with us at my house that night, and
they moved out within the month.
Speaker 2 (04:23):
They didn't even wait for the least to end.
Speaker 1 (04:26):
I still think about that face in the window, how
it was her mom's face, but somehow not human at all,
like something was wearing her face, trying to be her,
calling out in a voice that sounded almost right but wasn't.
I've never been able to explain it, and I don't
really try anymore.
Speaker 2 (04:42):
All I know is that.
Speaker 1 (04:43):
Something was in that house, and it wanted Casey to
open that kitchen door. I don't know what would have
happened if she had, and I'm glad we didn't stay
to find out.
Speaker 2 (04:52):
Story two.
Speaker 1 (04:53):
I was living with my family in this cramped, single
story house in Modesto, California. It was the kind of
place whe the brown shag carpet and cigarette smoke permanently
stuck in the walls. I was nine and my sister
was eight, and we shared a hallway that smelled like
old laundry and fabuloso depending on the day. We didn't
have a lot, but we had our beds, a stack
(05:14):
of VHS tapes in each other. I guess I wasn't
the kind of kid to scare easy. We'd already seen
cops come through our street and our uncle odide in
the bathroom once, so I knew what real fear was
supposed to look like. And it wasn't ghosts, It wasn't
shadow people. It was your dad yelling in the next room,
or your mom not coming home for a night. But
(05:35):
there was one night I'll never shake. It was hot,
one of those nights where the windows open and the
fans going and the crickets are too loud. I remember
because I was on top of the blanket, sweating, trying
to get comfortable, when my eyes popped open, like someone
had smacked me in the forehead. Just like that, I
was awake. I didn't hear anything, I didn't feel anything.
(05:57):
I just knew I needed to open my eyes. And
when I did, my sister was standing in my doorway.
It wasn't like a maybe it was her thing. It
was her, her messy hair sticking up, her chunky socks
pulled up under that giant new Kids on the Block
shirt she always wore. To bed, her bony arm on
the doorframe, the other on the knob, leaning like she
was deciding whether to come in or not. The moonlight
(06:19):
from the window behind me lit up her face enough
to see her eyes were open, staring right at me.
Speaker 2 (06:24):
I didn't get scared right away.
Speaker 1 (06:26):
We did this all the time, sprinting to each other's
rooms if we had a nightmare, throwing ourselves under the
covers to escape whatever we thought was in the dark.
I was tired, and I remember just letting out this
annoyed sigh. Come on, if you're coming in here, I mumbled,
flipping the blanket open already half turned to make room
for her. But she didn't move, didn't blink, just stood
(06:47):
there holding the door, staring.
Speaker 2 (06:50):
Now. I was getting pissed.
Speaker 1 (06:52):
I had school in the morning, and I didn't feel
like playing weird games. I sat up on the edge
of the bed, the springs creaking under me, and glared
at her.
Speaker 2 (07:00):
What are you doing?
Speaker 1 (07:01):
I snapped, my voice louder than I meant it to be.
She still didn't move, didn't even flinch. I stood up
stomped over to her, planning to smack her arm or
push her back to her room. We did that sometimes, too,
fighting like feral cats. I wasn't scared, I was just mad.
I got about arm's length away from her, and that's
when I realized she wasn't breathing, her chest wasn't moving,
(07:25):
her eyes weren't moving, she wasn't blinking. It was like
staring at a photo or a mannekin wearing my sister's clothes.
I felt something cold crawl up my back, like a
hand sliding under my hair.
Speaker 2 (07:37):
What the hell is wrong with you?
Speaker 1 (07:38):
I yelled, reaching out to shove her, And as soon
as my hand came down, she vanished.
Speaker 2 (07:44):
I don't mean she turned into smoke or floated away.
Speaker 1 (07:47):
I mean she was there one second and then gone
the next, so fast that my hand slapped the doorframe
where her shoulder had been. The air felt empty, like
a vacuum sucked her out of the hallway. I stumbled back,
looking around, blinking hard. The hallway was empty, My room
was empty. The door was still half open, the hallway
(08:07):
light off. I could hear the fan in my room,
the crickets outside, my own breathing, nothing else. And then
the fear hit me all at once, like a punch
in the chest. I remember my knees going weak, and
I almost fell before I caught myself on the doorframe.
I looked down the hall toward her room, and I
don't know why, but I ran. I ran down that hallway,
(08:29):
cold sweat, sticking my shirt to my back, bare feet,
thumping on the carpet because I just knew I had
to get to her. I didn't even think about the
thing I just seen. I just needed to see her
in her bed, to know she was okay, that she
was there. When I pushed her door open, the smell
of her room, old stuffed animals and the weird powder
she put on her skin hit me. She was in
(08:51):
bed under her unicorn blanket, but she was shaking, not
like a shiver, not like she was cold, but violently,
her whole body jerking, her teeth grinding. I screamed. I
didn't even know what I was screaming. I just remember
my voice tearing out of me, high and raw. As
I turned on her light and saw her eyes rolled back,
(09:12):
her hands twisted up near her face. Mom, Dad, something's
wrong with her, I screamed, shaking her shoulder, trying to
wake her up. I didn't know what a seizure was.
I'd never seen one. I just knew something was wrong,
and I was scared, and I couldn't fix it. My
dad came in, half awake and cursing and my mom
(09:32):
was behind him, and then everything turned into chaos, lights on,
people moving, my dad picking her up, my mom calling
nine one one. I just stood there in the corner, crying, shaking,
looking at my sister's face as she foamed at the mouth,
her eyes rolled up, her body thrashing. We went to
the hospital that night. They told us it was epilepsy,
(09:53):
that she'd had a seizure in her sleep. They said
it was lucky we caught it when we did. But
I know what I saw before I ran to her room.
I know what was standing in my doorway, wearing my
sister's clothes, staring at me with dead eyes, not breathing,
not blinking, before it vanished into nothing the moment I
tried to touch it.
Speaker 2 (10:11):
I don't know what it was.
Speaker 1 (10:13):
I don't know if it was part of her or
something else entirely, But every time I close my eyes
at night, I see her standing there again, holding the door, waiting,
like it's still unfinished. I don't tell people this part.
They wouldn't believe me anyway. They just think it's a
weird coincidence, or that my mind made it up because
I was scared. But I wasn't scared until it disappeared.
(10:35):
That was the only time it happened, and I hope
to God it never happens again.
Speaker 2 (10:39):
Story three.
Speaker 1 (10:40):
I was eight the year it happened, but I remember
the day like I'm still sitting in that backseat. We
just moved to a rented townhouse in Aurora, Colorado. Mom
was raising me and my little sister alone, working two jobs,
tired all the time. She picked us up late from
my aunt's place and we hit the interstate while the
sky was turning that dark blue just before it's fully nice.
Speaker 2 (11:00):
We'd only been.
Speaker 1 (11:01):
Driving for about fifteen minutes when the car stuttered. I
heard it first, that choking sound from the engine, and
then we started to slow down. My mom whispered no, no, no,
under her breath. I didn't know much about cars, but
I knew that sound meant something was wrong, and I
saw the gas gage sitting below the red line. We
rolled to a dead stop in the emergency lane while
(11:22):
cars roared past us in the dark, headlights slicing by
the wind from semis, shaking the car each time they passed.
Mom tried her flip phone, but it was dead. She
looked over at me and my sister in the back seat,
and I saw something in her eyes that scared me
more than the dark highway, pure helpless fear. We sat
there for maybe ten minutes, the inside of the car
(11:44):
hot with leftover sunlight, the world outside turning black. My
sister kept asking if we were going to die, and
I told her no, but I didn't really believe it.
Cars flew by without slowing down, and it felt like
we were invisible, stuck in a bubble while the rest
of the world ignored us. Then out of nowhere, headlights
swung into the emergency lane behind us. In a big
(12:05):
cream colored car, one of those long Lincolns with chrome
around the windows pulled up. I don't know why, but
my heart dropped into my stomach when I saw it.
A man got out, and even from inside the car,
I could see how tall he was. He was black,
with this perfectly trimmed white beard and close cut white hair.
He was wearing a white suit that didn't even look dusty,
(12:27):
even with the highway dust swirling around him. He walked
up to my mom's window and she cracked it just
enough to hear him. You ran out of gas, he asked,
his voice, deep, calm, like it was impossible to feel scared.
When he was talking. My mom nodded, her eyes still wide.
My phone died. I don't have anyone to call. He smiled,
and it wasn't a creepy smile, but it was the
(12:49):
kind of smile that you don't forget. I have a
can in the back. I'll get you some gas. Don't worry.
He walked back to his car, and I twisted in
my seat to watch him open the back door. There
was nothing in the back seat except a bright red
gas can, just sitting there like it was waiting. He
lifted it, checked it, then set it down and got
into his car again. I'll be back in ten minutes,
(13:10):
he said, leaning toward the window, that calm smile still there,
before driving off. The silence after he left was so heavy.
The highway was loud, but inside the car it felt
like we were underwater, listening to the world through glass.
My sister had stopped crying, just staring out the window
at the dark Mom kept glancing at the rear view mirror,
(13:31):
checking the empty road behind us. The minutes crawled by,
and I watched the clock on the dashboard, feeling every
second like a drip of water.
Speaker 2 (13:39):
In a quiet room. Ten minutes felt like forever.
Speaker 1 (13:43):
I started to think he wasn't coming back, that maybe
he wasn't real that maybe we were going to be
stuck there all night. But right at ten minutes, those
same headlights cut across the darkness behind us. I turned
around so fast I almost fell over my sister. The
cream colored Lincoln rolled up, and he pulled over right
in front of us. This time I saw him get out,
carrying the gas can, walking across the shoulder as cars
(14:05):
flew by just a few feet away. He didn't even
look at the traffic as he stepped around the car,
coming up to my mom's window. Pop your gas tank, ma'am,
he said, and she did, her hands shaking. He poured
the gas in calmly, like he'd done it a hundred times,
his white suit almost glowing in the headlights of the
cars that passed, none of them slowing down. When he finished,
(14:27):
he screwed the cap back on, tapped it twice, and
stepped back to the window. That should get you home,
he said. My mom tried to give him some cash,
but he shook his head. Just help someone else when
you can, he told her, still smiling. Can I have
your number at least, my mom asked, digging in her
purse for a pen. I want to pay you back
or send a thank you. He reached into his pocket,
(14:47):
pulled out a business card and handed it to her.
You're welcome, God bless you and your kids. Then he
turned and walked back to his car, getting in and
pulling away into the night like he was never there.
When we finally got home, my mom set the card
on the kitchen counter before dropping into a chair, her
face pale. The card had his name, a church logo,
and a phone number. She said she'd call tomorrow. The
(15:10):
next morning, she dialed the number while I sat at
the table eating cereal. I saw the way her eyes
change when she listened to the deadline, the silence crackling
on the other end. She tried again, pressing the button slowly, carefully,
but it was the same, disconnected. She spent the afternoon
calling around trying to find the church on the card,
(15:30):
asking people in the area if they'd heard of it.
No one had. The address on the card didn't exist.
There was no church, no record of him, nothing. She
never talked about it again, but I saw the card
in her wallet years later, tucked behind her id. It
was faded, but you could still see the name and
that little cross logo. I don't know what we saw
(15:52):
that night on the highway, but sometimes I wake up
remembering the way he crossed four lanes of traffic in
that old Lincoln, how he stepped out in a perfect
white suit while Semis flew by, how calm he was.
When I think about it now as an adult, I
feel cold. Not scared exactly, but cold, like I'm remembering
something I shouldn't be able to remember, something that shouldn't
(16:13):
have happened the way it did. Story four. I was
seventeen that summer, stuck at home in the middle of nowhere, Indiana,
with nothing but fields in a tree line that creaked
at night when the wind moved through it. My parents
worked late, so it was just me, my older brother Liam,
and my younger sister Kayla most nights killing time in
that creaky farmhouse that smelled like old wood and dust.
(16:35):
It was one of those humid evenings when the air
stuck to your skin and cicadas made the air feel loud.
We were in the kitchen washing dishes together, the three
of us crowding around the sink, making fun of each other,
trying to pass the time before we'd go back to
our rooms to scroll through our phones. In the dark,
Liam was rinsing plates, Kayla was drying them, and I
was stacking them in the cabinet. I don't even remember
(16:58):
why we started singing. Kayla randomly started humming Green Sleeves
out of nowhere, off key and soft. Liam joined in,
trying to make her laugh, and I started to mumbling
the words we barely knew, dragging out the melody like
a joke. It was stupid and pointless, but that's what
you do when you're stuck in a dead farmhouse with
(17:18):
nowhere to go. We all stopped at the same time,
laughing at how bad we sounded, and for a second
the room went quiet except for the running tap. Then,
right there in the kitchen, a whistle picked up the
tune exactly where we'd stopped. It wasn't a wind noise
or some creak in the pipes. It was clear, sharp,
a human whistle, carrying the exact notes we'd just been singing,
(17:40):
like someone was standing right in the room finishing what
we started. It kept going for about five seconds, long
enough for us to just stand there frozen, our eyes
locked on each other, trying to figure out who was
doing it, but none of us were. Kayla can't whistle
at all, and her mouth was open, her eyes wide.
Liam's hands were dripping with soap in the air. His
(18:01):
mouth twisted like he was about to curse, but couldn't.
My heart slammed so hard I felt like I was
going to throw up, and the air felt thicker than
it had all summer. The whistle stopped midnoe, like someone
let the air die in their lungs, and that was it.
Speaker 2 (18:15):
We just stood there.
Speaker 1 (18:16):
The faucet kept running, dishwater splashing in the sink, sounding
way too loud in the sudden silence. What the hell
was that, Liam said, his voice cracking which I'd never
heard before. Kayla started shaking her head, backing away toward
the counter, clutching the dish towel to her chest like
it would protect her.
Speaker 2 (18:34):
That wasn't you, she whispered.
Speaker 1 (18:36):
Shut up, I told them both, covering my ears because
I suddenly couldn't stand the sound of the faucet, the cicadas,
the way the house seemed to breathe around us. Liam
ran to the back door and yanked it open, stepping
out onto the porch, scanning the yard. It was empty,
nothing but our rusted swing set swaying a little, the
tall grass moving in the breeze, crickets chirping like nothing happened.
(18:58):
Kayla opened the pantry, looked behind the fridge, called out
hello in a small, trembling voice. Nobody answered. I couldn't move.
My knees felt weak, like something was pressing down on me.
The room felt different, like it wasn't our kitchen anymore,
like we were standing in something else's space. I kept
thinking about how the whistle had been right next to me,
(19:19):
like whoever did it was leaning over my shoulder, waiting
to join in, waiting to be part of what we
were doing. Liam came back in, slamming the screen door
behind him. No one's out there, he said. His face
was pale, and he kept glancing at the window over
the sink, like he expected to see a face looking in.
Kayla started crying, and I wanted to tell her to stop,
(19:41):
but I couldn't talk. I just stood there, staring at
the floor, hearing the whistle again in my head, the
way it had followed our voices so perfectly. The way
it felt intentional. We didn't find anyone. We checked every room,
the basement, the attic, crawl space.
Speaker 2 (19:57):
Nothing.
Speaker 1 (19:58):
The doors were locked, the windows lined, no footprints in
the dirt outside. We tried to convince ourselves it was
some weird draft or maybe Liam messing with us, but
I knew he wasn't. His hands were shaking as he
held his phone flashlight under beds, his voice kept cracking,
and he wouldn't look me in the eyes. That night,
we all slept in the living room with the lights on.
(20:20):
None of us wanted to be alone, even though none
of us said it.
Speaker 2 (20:24):
Story five.
Speaker 1 (20:25):
I don't usually talk about this because it still makes
my handshake when I think about it. But you asked
about the scariest thing that ever happened to me, So
here it is. I was twenty one living in a
rented split level in Flagstaff, Arizona, during college. It wasn't
a creepy house, nothing like that, just a bland rental
with yellowing blinds.
Speaker 2 (20:44):
And a smell of old carpet.
Speaker 1 (20:45):
I'd taken the basement room because it was cheaper and
I could smoke down there without my roommate's complaining. It
was one of those basements with a tiny window near
the ceiling, so a bit of light came in during
the day, but it always felt like late afternoon no
matter the time. I remember it was a Tuesday, because
I had skipped my afternoon classes. I was at my
cheap desk, hunched over my laptop, trying to finish a
(21:08):
boring sociology paper while drinking warm coffee i'd forgotten about.
The basement was dead, silent, except for the soft hum
of the mini fridge next to my bed. That's when
I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.
It wasn't a shadow or a flicker of light. It
was this glowing ball, about the size of a basketball,
hovering near the far wall by the laundry machines. It
(21:29):
was so bright it almost hurt to look at. But
it didn't light up the room. It was just there,
like it had been cut out of another world and
pasted into mine. I just sat there, blinking, trying to
figure out if it was a trick of my eyes
or a reflection from the screen. I turned to face
it fully, and that's when it moved. It floated toward
me fast, like it had decided where it was going.
(21:52):
I remember, I pushed back in my chair so hard
it tipped and I landed on the cold concrete floor
with my elbows slamming down. I scrambled backward until my
back hit the laundry machine, just staring at this thing
as it came right up to me, and then just
before it would have touched me, it veered off to
the side and vanished, like a light being switched off.
Speaker 2 (22:12):
No sound, no smell, just gone.
Speaker 1 (22:15):
The room felt different immediately, like the air had weight
pressing on my chest. And then I realized I could
see the air moving in the room. It's hard to explain,
but it was like ripples in water flowing around me,
around the furniture, bending around corners. It only lasted a
few seconds, but I was hyper aware of every swirl
and twist in the air, like I was seeing something
(22:37):
I was never supposed to see. I don't know how
long I sat there. It was probably only a minute,
but it felt like forever. My breathing was ragged and
I couldn't stand up. Right away, my phone buzzed on
the desk, and that sudden noise nearly made me scream.
I told my roommate about it that night when he
got back from work, and he just laughed it off,
(22:57):
said it was probably a migraine, aura, or some electrical thing.
I wanted to believe him, but the way it moved,
the way it felt like it saw me, I can't
explain that away. I've never had a migraine in my life,
and it wasn't just some light flicker. It was there
that night. I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes,
I saw that ball of light in the darkness behind
(23:19):
my eyelids coming closer, and I was terrified that if
I fell asleep, it would finish.
Speaker 2 (23:24):
What it came for.
Speaker 1 (23:25):
I sat up against the wall with a hoodie pulled
tight around me, watching that dark basement, waiting for it
to come back.
Speaker 2 (23:33):
It didn't.
Speaker 1 (23:34):
I wish I could tell you I found out what
it was that I discovered a logical reason and moved on.
Speaker 2 (23:39):
I didn't.
Speaker 1 (23:40):
It never happened again, and I never saw anything like
it after that day. But sometimes when I sit alone
in a room with the lights off, I get that
same feeling, like the air is shifting, like something is
about to appear, and I can't breathe until I switch
on the light. I moved out of that house at
the end of the semester. Not because of the light,
I told myself, but because the rent went up and
(24:02):
I found a cheaper place. But the truth is I
couldn't sit in that basement without thinking about how close
it got to me, how it felt like it knew
I was there. I've read stories online about orbs and
ball lightning, but they don't match what I saw. This
was solid, like a thing with purpose. It didn't feel
like a weather phenomenon or some floating dust in the light.
(24:24):
It felt like it came into that room looking for me,
and it changed the air, the feeling in the room,
and maybe even me. I don't really believe in ghosts,
or at least I didn't before that day. I don't
know if I do now either, but I can't deny
what I saw. I've never been able to explain it,
and no one I've told really believe me. But that's fine.
(24:45):
It happened. Whether it makes sense or not, that's it.
That's the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. And
even now, years later, when I remember how it felt,
how the air bent, and how the light moved like
it was alive, it still gives me chills story six.
I never liked the way the hallway light flickered when
I came home late. I used to work night shifts
(25:07):
back then, living alone in this old duplex on Jefferson
Street in Akron, Ohio. It was cheap, close to the diner,
and the landlord didn't ask questions. That's all I cared about.
This happened one October night twelve years ago. I had
just gotten home after a long shift, arms smelling like
coffee and friar grease, and I was too tired to shower.
(25:27):
I dumped my keys on the counter, peeled off my shoes,
and crawled into bed without even brushing my teeth. The
heater rattled in the corner, and I remember pulling the
covers up because it was one of those nights where
the cold felt like it got inside your bones.
Speaker 2 (25:41):
I don't know how long i'd.
Speaker 1 (25:42):
Been asleep before I woke up, but it was still dark,
no traffic outside, just the soft ticking of the clock
in the kitchen. My feet were sticking out of the blanket,
and I remember thinking that's why you're cold, dummy, before
rolling over. I was half asleep in that heavy, warm
days where your mind drifts and everything feels heavy. That's
(26:03):
when I felt it, right on my left big toe.
It was like the lightest fingertip, just pressing down, steady,
almost cautious, like someone checking.
Speaker 2 (26:12):
To see if i'd wake up. I froze.
Speaker 1 (26:15):
It was so gentle that for a second I thought
maybe I was imagining it, but it was there, pressing, holding.
My eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, too
afraid to move, and the longer it stayed, the more
awake I became, every part of me tensing. I don't
know how long it went on, but it felt like forever.
I was breathing so quietly, trying not to make a sound,
(26:38):
and I thought about yanking my foot away, but something
inside me was screaming not to move. I wanted to
look down to see what was there, but I couldn't.
It was like my neck refused to obey. Then the
pressure moved from the toe. It slid slightly, like a
small hand shifting its grip, and I felt what I
swear to God was the touch of a thumb on
the side of my foot. My eyes filled with tears
(27:01):
and my mouth was dry. My tongue stuck to the
roof of my mouth because I didn't even want to
swallow and make a noise. I could feel it. I
could feel each tiny finger pressing down like a todler's hand,
too small to wrap around but big enough to grip.
It wasn't cold, it wasn't warm either. It was just there,
and it felt so real that even now I can
(27:23):
still remember the exact weight of it. I don't know
why I whispered it, but I did, please let go.
My voice was barely a breath, and I don't know
if I was talking to God or whatever the hell
was holding my foot. But as soon as I said it,
the pressure changed. It didn't vanish, but it loosened, sliding
off the toe, the thumb lifting last, like it didn't
(27:44):
want to leave. I yanked my foot under the covers,
curled up so tight I thought I might choke, and
I kept whispering please, Please, Please, over and over until
I must have passed out. When I woke up, the
sun was up, and for a second I thought I
had dreamed it. I swung my legs off off the bed,
trying to convince myself I was being stupid. But when
I put my foot down, there was this faint red
(28:06):
mark across the joint of my big toe, like a
child's handprint fading.
Speaker 2 (28:10):
But there. I moved out a few months later.
Speaker 1 (28:13):
I never told my landlord why, just said I needed
to be closer to work. I left most of my
stuff there, including the bed. I didn't want to touch
it again. I slept on a couch for almost a
year after that, never letting my feet hang off the edge,
always pulling the covers over them, no matter how hot
it got. I never saw anything, and that's the part
(28:33):
that gets me. It would almost be easier if I did,
if I could say I saw some ghost kid or
a shadow in the corner. But there was nothing, just
that hand holding my foot in the dark. Story seven.
I don't tell this often, but since you're asking about
the scariest thing that's ever happened to me, here goes.
My name's Eric, and I grew up in a small
(28:54):
farming town in southern Michigan. It's the kind of place
with dirt roads that get muddy after a rain, and
if your car breaks down, you'd better hope you're close
enough to a neighbor's driveway to walk for help. My
family's place was about ten miles outside of town, surrounded
by empty fields and woods that turned black at night.
This was around two thousand and three, maybe two thousand.
Speaker 2 (29:15):
And four, when I was seventeen.
Speaker 1 (29:17):
I'd been over at my girlfriend's house, just hanging out,
watching movies on her tiny TV. Her parents liked me,
but they still wanted me gone before midnight, so I
left around eleven thirty. It was one of those nights
where the sky didn't look like anything, no moon, no stars,
just a heavy black pressing down and I could only
see what my headlights touched. My gaslight was on, and
(29:40):
the village gas station was closed, so I hit the
twenty four hour truck stop off the highway to fill up.
I wasn't thinking about anything scary. I was more worried
about getting home before my dad woke up for work,
so he wouldn't know i'd been out so late. After
I got gas, I decided to take the back road
that cuts behind the fields. It was a faster route,
but it was a road people avoided at night. No lights,
(30:03):
no houses for miles, just a narrow stretch of cracked
asphalt with ditches on either side. About fifteen minutes in
I came up on a t intersection where you have
to yield before turning onto another country road.
Speaker 2 (30:15):
I saw the big yellow yield.
Speaker 1 (30:16):
Sign on the right, reflecting my headlights, you know how
those signs are bright, unmistakable, about a yard wide seven
or eight feet high on the post. I was slowing
down foot easing onto the brake when I noticed something
move on the left side of the road. At first
I thought it was a deer, so I tapped the
brakes a little harder, waiting for it to run across.
(30:37):
But it wasn't like any deer I'd ever seen. It
was low to the ground, broad, dark, and move fast,
like it was crawling, but covering way more ground than
it should. It crossed in front of me, just out
of the reach of my high beams, and went over
to the right side of the road. I let the
car roll forward a few more feet, squinting, trying to
see if it was going to dart back out, but
(30:58):
it didn't. Instead, it stopped near the yield sign. Then
it stood up. I don't even know how to explain
this part without sounding insane. It was tall enough to
block most of the sign, and it was standing on
two legs, hunched forward a bit, covered in hair that
was so black it seemed to swallow the light from
my headlights. Its shoulders were wide, its head was too
(31:19):
big for its body, and it was breathing like I
could see it moving up and down, slow, heavy. But
the worst part was the eyes. They reflected pale like
fog lights in the dark, but they didn't blink, didn't move,
just locked on to me. As I sat there for
a second, I forgot how to move. My hands were
shaking on the wheel and my foot hovered over the break,
(31:41):
not pressing it, not hitting the gas. I could hear
the engine idling, the sound way too loud in that
empty place. I remember saying, what what the hell is
that out loud, just to break the silence, and.
Speaker 2 (31:53):
It was like the thing heard me.
Speaker 1 (31:54):
It tilted its head and I could hear something crack
in its neck, like the sound of ice break in
a pond. Then it took a step toward the road,
toward me, and that's when my body finally woke up.
Speaker 2 (32:06):
I slammed my foot.
Speaker 1 (32:07):
On the gas so hard the tires squealed, and I
shot through that intersection without even looking for cars, which
was stupid, but I didn't care. My heart was pounding
so hard I could barely hear myself thinking, and I
kept checking the mirror to see if it was following me,
but all I saw was darkness swallowing the road behind.
I didn't stop until I reached the driveway of our house,
(32:27):
a gravel path leading to the gate we kept closed
at night to keep the horses in. My hands were
shaking so badly. I dropped the keys trying to open
the lock, and I remember looking back down the road,
expecting to see it standing there under the single street
light near our fence. But there was nothing, just that
thick black night and the sound of the crickets. I
didn't tell my dad, I didn't tell my girlfriend.
Speaker 2 (32:50):
For weeks.
Speaker 1 (32:50):
I didn't even want to leave the house at night,
but I had to help with the horses sometimes, and
every time I walked out there, I could feel those
pale eyes on me from the tree line. I kept
telling myself it was just a bear or a trick
of the shadows. But I know what I saw. It
wasn't a bear, and it wasn't a trick. You know
what's messed up. Sometimes when I'm driving late and see
(33:11):
a yellow yield sign glowing in the dark, I'll get
that tight feeling in my chest again, like I'm about
to see it step out of the ditch, those pale
eyes locking onto mine. It's been over twenty years, but
I can't shake it. It's the reason I don't drive
the back roads at night anymore, the reason I still
feel like I'm being watched when I'm out by the
barn after dark. Whatever it was, I hope I never
(33:32):
see it again. Story eight. I don't really talk about
this anymore, but I can't get it out of my head.
I live in rural Pennsylvania, small town with the same
crack sidewalks and that damp leaf smell year round. People
around here keep their weird stories to themselves, you know,
if you know, you know type. I'm thirty eight now,
(33:53):
but for most of my life this dream followed me
like a stray shadow I could never shake off. It
was the same dream every few months. I'd see a
little girl on a carousel, wearing a pink romper with
white flowers and those jelly sandals that squeaked when you walked.
She'd wave big goofy grin the plastic horse bobbing up
and down under her. She was always looking at me.
(34:14):
I'd feel this huge wave of happiness in the dream,
like something heavy was finally off my chest. But every
time I woke up, i'd feel cold, my hands trembling,
that eerie sense of what the hell did I just see.
For a long time, I thought it was me I
was seeing. I had a rough childhood, and I figured
maybe it was some buried memory or a weird way
of my brain trying to process whatever was messed up
(34:37):
back then. The dream kept coming, though I could never
see who was holding her, but i'd see her waving
the way the sunlight came through the dusty fairground's air,
the laughter in the background always the same. Years passed
and I just learned to ignore it. The dream stopped
when I was around twenty five, which was a relief,
but I never forgot the feeling it left behind, like
(34:58):
a ghost, but in the shape of some something good,
and that's what made it so unnerving. I miscarried when
I was thirty four, and it broke something in me.
I didn't dream much for a while after that, just dark,
empty sleep. When I finally got pregnant again, it felt
like I was holding my breath every day. Every doctor's appointment,
every strange cramp. I was terrified she'd be taken away.
(35:21):
I named her Ivy. She was the light that cracked
through a part of me I thought was dead. You know.
It was a fair in the summer of twenty eighteen
when it happened. Ivy was about two and a half
and we went with my boyfriend's family. It was humid,
the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and
makes the air taste like fried dough and popcorn. I
remember holding the diaper bag in my iced coffee, sweat
(35:44):
trickling down my back, just watching the kids scream and
run around. Take her on the carousel. I told him
I wanted to take pictures. It was something simple, but
I felt that bubbling excitement, almost like I couldn't breathe,
and I didn't know why. He lifted Ivy onto one
of the plastic horses, buckled her in, and she turned
to look for me. I snapped photo after photo on
(36:06):
my phone, trying to capture that tiny grin, the curl
stuck to her forehead from sweat, her chubby hand waving.
It was later that night, when I was sitting on
the couch scrolling through the pictures that I realized I
had stopped breathing. The romper, the pink one with white flowers,
was the same, the jelly sandals on her feet, the
tiny teeth in her big smile, the horse, the light
(36:29):
coming in from the same angle, even the way she waved, God,
it was exactly the same. It was the dream. It
wasn't me I had been seeing all those years. It
was Ivy. I sat there for a long time, staring
at the photo, the room dead, silent around me except
for the ticking of the kitchen clock. My hands were
(36:49):
shaking so badly. I dropped the phone on the floor.
It made this small sharp sound on the hardwood, but
I didn't even move to pick it up. I was
too busy trying to breathe. You ever have that much
moment when your body feels like it's not yours, Like
the air feels different, heavy charged, like the moment before
a thunderstorm breaks. That's what it felt like in that
(37:09):
living room. I looked up, and I swear to God,
I saw something, just for a second in the hallway,
like a shadow. It was the size of a child,
and it just moved past the doorway, slow.
Speaker 2 (37:21):
Almost like it was gliding.
Speaker 1 (37:23):
I don't know how else to say it, but it
felt like the dream had leaked out of my head
and was standing there in the dark, watching me. Ivy
I called out, but I already knew she was asleep
in her room, door closed, sound machine on safe, the
hallway was empty. I picked up the phone again, heart pounding,
and stared at the photo. I zoomed in on her face,
(37:45):
then the hand waving, then the sandals. I don't know
how long I sat there, but at some point I
started crying, not because I was sad, but because I
was terrified, like something had been following me all my
life and finally caught up. For the next few nights,
I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I
saw that carousel, the way she looked at me, the
(38:06):
way she waved, how happy she was, in that eerie
sense that something was watching from behind the joy like
I wasn't supposed to see it yet, but I had.
I still pull up that photo sometimes, and every time
it's like I'm staring at a piece of a puzzle
that I'm too scared to finish. People tell me it's
just a coincidence that dreams are weird and the mind
(38:27):
plays tricks. But they didn't live with that dream for
twenty years. They didn't see the shadow in the hallway.
They don't feel that cold rush down their spine when
they look at a simple photo of a child on
a carousel. I don't know what it means. I don't
know if it was a glitch, a warning, or something
else I can't explain. But it happened once, exactly as
(38:47):
I saw it, exactly how it was meant to and
I don't think I was ever supposed to understand it.
And maybe that's what makes it so terrifying, because what
if some things are never meant to be understood? What
if they just wait in the corners of our dreams
until they step into the light, just once before disappearing again.
I turned off my phone that night, walked to Ivy's
(39:09):
room and stood there watching her sleep. I remember whispering
I saw you, even though she couldn't hear me, And
for a moment, I swear I felt the air shift,
like something unseen was standing behind me, breathing softly.
Speaker 2 (39:23):
Before it was gone. That was it.
Speaker 1 (39:25):
It never happened again, but that one moment it was
enough to change the way I look at dreams.
Speaker 2 (39:30):
Forever story nine.
Speaker 1 (39:32):
I'm not the type to get spooked easily, and I
don't even like talking about this, but I'll tell it
because it still messes with me when I think about it.
I live in Central Texas in a single story house
that's nothing special, ranch style, brown siding, dusty driveway. My
bedroom faces this open field behind the house where the
neighbors used to let a few cows graze, and most
(39:54):
nights i'd leave my window cracked for air. We don't
get much breeze in July, but when we do, it's
worth it. The house on my left had been empty
for years, and the only neighbor within shouting distance was
Miss Rita, an older lady who keeps to herself and
definitely doesn't have any little kids. I'd been in bed,
scrolling on my phone, nothing fancy, just killing time before
(40:15):
sleep when I heard it the first time, a little
girl's voice, clear as day, right outside my window.
Speaker 2 (40:21):
Said come outside please.
Speaker 1 (40:24):
It was so casual that I just froze, trying to
figure out if it was a video on my phone,
but I wasn't watching anything, and the voice came from outside,
not the phone speaker. I even sat up, tilted my head,
listening hard, nothing but the cicadas and the faint lowing
of a cow in the dark somewhere across the field.
I told myself maybe i'd drifted off for a second
(40:44):
and imagined it. About three minutes later, I heard it again,
same voice, exactly the same tone, like a recording, Please
come outside. I didn't move for a full minute, just listening.
I don't know how to explain the way it felt,
but the air in the room changed, like it got thicker.
I kept telling myself it had to be a neighbor's TV,
(41:06):
or maybe Miss Rita had visitors, but I couldn't make
that make sense. It was after midnight, and I know
how dead this place gets at night. I slid out
of bed as quietly as I could. My knees were
actually shaking, which pissed me off because I didn't want
to be scared. I eased up to the window and
peered through the screen, but all I saw was the
faint moonlight on the field and the fence posts lined
(41:28):
up like dark teeth in the grass. No movement, no shadows,
no kid. Then it came a third time, right up
against the window, like the kid's mouth was inches from
the screen. I heard please come outside. Each word was slow, careful,
like it was learning how to say them. I can't
describe how cold it felt in that moment. My heart
(41:50):
was hammering so hard I thought i'd pass out. I
reached up and slammed the window shut so fast the
frame rattled, and I locked it immediately. I backed away,
almost over the chair near my bed, and I just
stood there, waiting to hear it again.
Speaker 2 (42:04):
But it didn't come again.
Speaker 1 (42:06):
Instead, I heard something scrape along the outside of the
house under the window, like fingernails dragging across the siding,
just once, slow, and then it stopped. I wanted to
call someone, but who the hell do you call about
something like that? The police, and tell them a kid's
voice is outside your window in the middle of the night,
(42:26):
asking you to come out. They'd think I was drunk
or high, and I wasn't. I was as sober as
I've ever been in my life. I stood there for
at least fifteen minutes, breathing shallow, straining to hear anything else.
The cows in the field were dead silent, which was
weird because they're usually making noise at night. I didn't
hear the voice again and I didn't hear footsteps walking away,
(42:49):
just that thick silence, like the world was holding its breath.
I didn't sleep that night. I kept every light in
my room on, and I kept glancing at the window,
waiting to see a shadow pass by.
Speaker 2 (43:00):
I don't know if it was a kid.
Speaker 1 (43:01):
I don't know if it was something else, but I've
never heard a kid's voice sound so empty before, like
it was a voice trying to sound like a kid,
but there was nothing behind it. In the morning, I
went outside, even though it was the last thing I
wanted to do. I had to know if there were
any footprints or maybe a stray dog that could explain
the scraping sound. There was nothing, no footprints in the
(43:22):
dirt under the window, no sign of anything, just the
same dusty ground in the field, stretching out calm under
the sun.
Speaker 2 (43:30):
I talked to Miss.
Speaker 1 (43:30):
Rita that afternoon, just to see if maybe she'd heard anything,
or if someone had been visiting with a kid. She
looked at me like I was crazy and said she
hadn't heard anything and no one had been over. She
told me she'd lived there for twenty years and she'd
never seen any kids playing out there.
Speaker 2 (43:46):
Day or night.
Speaker 1 (43:47):
That was three years ago, and I still think about
it almost every night before I go to bed. I
never leave that window open anymore, no matter how hot
it gets. I moved a heavy dresser in front of it,
just to feel like there's something between me and that field.
Speaker 2 (44:01):
Story ten.
Speaker 1 (44:02):
I've lived in Albuquerque my whole life, and I used
to think I knew what empty felt like until that
day in the desert with my dad.
Speaker 2 (44:10):
I was seventeen.
Speaker 1 (44:11):
It was March, and we were heading down I twenty
five to check out New Mexico State because it was
cheaper than you and m and my dad kept saying
I needed to see the campus before I made any decisions.
We had been driving for hours through nothing but red
dirt and low brush, that flat heat pressing against the windows,
and I was half asleep with my hoodie tied around
my eyes. When he said we're low on gas. He
(44:33):
pulled off onto this single lane road I didn't even
see coming, and after maybe five minutes of rattling over
washboard dirt, we saw a small gas station, no sign,
just a white building with chipped paint and two old
pumps sitting under a rusted canopy.
Speaker 2 (44:47):
It was too quiet there, even with the wind blowing.
I remember that.
Speaker 1 (44:52):
No insects, no birds, just that dry air buzzing in
your ears, like you've been underwater too long. My dad
parked by the pump and I got out, stretching. There
was a piece of duct taped paper flapping on the pump.
That's set in black marker see cashier for payment. My
dad said, well, that's helpful, and we both looked at
the building. There was one silver Ford sedan parked on
(45:13):
the side, dust free, clean, like it had just pulled in,
But there was nobody in it, no keys in the ignition,
and the windows.
Speaker 2 (45:22):
Were rolled up.
Speaker 1 (45:23):
I could see our reflections in the glass bent in ghostly.
We walked to the door of the building and it
was locked. I could see inside through the dusty glass
and it was empty, like completely empty. No drinks in
the fridge, no snacks, just a bunch of empty shelves.
There was a boxed up soda fridge in the middle
of the floor, unopened. The walls were yellowed where shelves
(45:45):
used to be, and it smelled like hot dust. When
I pressed my nose to the crack in the door,
my dad rattled the handle and knocked. Hello, anyone here,
he called, but his voice just dropped dead in that heat.
Maybe they're in the back, I said. We walked around
to the back of the building, our shoes crunching on gravel,
and there was a metal door with a dent in it,
(46:06):
like someone had kicked it. In front of the door
was a giant deep freezer, the kind you see in
butcher shops, blocking it completely. It wasn't just sitting there,
It was pushed up tight, scratching the paint off the door,
as if someone had moved it there in a hurry.
I tried to make a joke about it. Maybe they're
hiding a choop of caabra in there, but my dad
(46:27):
didn't laugh. He just squinted at the door, frowning. Then
we heard it, a thump. It came from inside the building,
close to that back door, like something hitting the wall.
My dad looked at me and I looked back, trying
to grin, but I could feel every hair on my
arm standing up. Did you hear that, I asked, already
(46:47):
knowing he did. He put his finger to his lips, listening.
We stood there, sweat running down our backs, the sun
so bright on the white wall.
Speaker 2 (46:54):
It hurt to look at it.
Speaker 1 (46:55):
Another thumb louder, then a dragging sound, like something heavy
being pulled across the floor. It stopped right behind the door,
behind the deep freezer. We both took a step back,
and I remember the dry, metallic taste in my mouth,
like I'd bitten my tongue. Let's go, my dad said, quietly,
already turning. Then something slammed against the door from the inside,
(47:18):
hard enough that the deep freezer rocked forward an inch,
and I swear to god, I saw the metal bend
outward like a dent from the inside. I jumped back
and my dad grabbed my arm. Go get in the car,
he yelled, pulling me. We ran, gravel spitting under our shoes.
The air felt wrong, like it was thicker, buzzing. I
remember looking back once as we ran and seeing that
(47:40):
deep freezer inch forward again, like something was ramming the
door from the inside. We got into the car and
my dad's hands were shaking as he turned the key,
the engine coughing before it caught. I couldn't stop looking
at the building. There was nothing there, no one, but
I felt like something was watching us from that back door,
something that was so close to getting out. As we
(48:02):
pulled away, I saw the silver Ford still sitting there,
still spotless, the dirt tracks around it, undisturbed. I will
never forget that image, how clean it looked in the
middle of all that dust. We didn't say a word
for miles, the gas light blinking on the dash as
we drove until we found another station closer to Las Crusis.
My dad tried to brush it off, saying it was
(48:23):
probably a coyote or something that got stuck inside. I
didn't argue, but I knew that wasn't what we heard.
It's been years and I still think about that place.
I looked for it once on Google Maps, trying to
trace back where we would have turned off, but I
couldn't find it. I even asked my dad if he
remembered the name of the road, but he just shook
his head, saying it must have been demolished or something.
(48:45):
But that's the thing. I don't think that place was
ever really there. I still get chills thinking about how
close we were to that door, how close we were
to seeing what was behind it. It felt like it
wanted us to open it, like it needed someone to
move that deep freezer.
Speaker 2 (48:59):
So it could get out
Story one.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
I don't really like talking about this, but I'll write
it out because it's one of those things that never
leaves you alone. I'm twenty seven now living in Texas,
but this happened when I was seventeen. Back when my
friend Casey's family rented this small, beige house at the
end of our street. We'd walk there after school because
her parents worked late and her house was the hangout spot,
even though no one liked being there. I don't know
(00:23):
how to explain it without sounding dramatic, but the air
in that house felt heavy, like you had to push
through it just to walk to the kitchen. You'd hear
small sounds when it was quiet, soft floor creeks, doors
you thought you shut would be open. People would say
it felt off, but we'd just laugh about it.
Speaker 2 (00:40):
Still. I never stayed there alone, and neither did Casey.
Speaker 1 (00:44):
One Thursday, around three point thirty pm, Casey called me
while I was finishing up algebra tutoring. She sounded weird,
her voice tight. She said, can you come over right now?
No explanation, just that. I didn't think much of it
because I knew she hated being in that house alone.
I grabbed my bag, and walked the two blocks over.
When I got there, she was standing across the street,
(01:06):
hugging her arms. She looked pale, and I thought maybe
she was sick. But when I asked what was wrong,
she just said, I need you to come inside with me.
We crossed together. The front door was locked, so she
unlocked it and opened it slowly, poking.
Speaker 2 (01:20):
Her head in first.
Speaker 1 (01:21):
I remember the smell of the place, like old carpet
and something stale, and how the air felt colder inside
than it was outside. We stepped in and it was
so quiet that you could hear the tick of the
kitchen clock. Casey stopped at the bottom of the hallway,
just standing there, staring toward the kitchen. I was about
to ask what was wrong when we heard her mom's
(01:42):
voice call out, Hey, case we're in here. I don't
think I'll ever forget the way Casey's face looked Right
then she just froze, her mouth half open, eyes going wide.
I whispered, is your mom home? Because it was a
Thursday and her parents didn't get off work until six.
She didn't answer. We just stood there listening. It was
(02:02):
her mom's voice, but it was wrong, like she was
reading words from a paper, but the emotion was missing,
and there was a weird flatness to it that made
my skin crawl. Casey, come here, it called again, but quieter.
She turned to me and said, my mom's at work.
I said let's go, but she shook her head, whispering
(02:23):
I just want to see. Before I could grab her
arm to stop her, she stepped forward down the hallway.
She reached for the kitchen door handle, but stopped with
her hand on it. I could hear breathing on the
other side, slow, deep, and it wasn't hers. She pulled
her hand back, shaking. Then we heard her mom again,
but it was like the voice was pressing itself right
(02:45):
up against the door. Low and wrong. Casey, we're just
in here. I felt like my legs were going to
give out. I told her we needed to go, but
she didn't move. Then we heard footsteps inside the kitchen,
soft but steady, like someone pacing slowly. Casey turned and
walked back toward me, her face completely blank, and I
grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the front door. As
(03:07):
we reached it, she turned back for one last look.
I looked too, and that's when we saw it. The
living room was to our right with those big vertical
blinds half open, and standing there looking out through the
window was her mother.
Speaker 2 (03:22):
Except it wasn't her mother.
Speaker 1 (03:23):
It looked like her, same hair, same face, same clothes
her mom would wear to work, but the eyes.
Speaker 2 (03:29):
Were all wrong. They were wide, unblinking, like glass, and
there was no recognition in them at all. The face
was empty, just a face stretched over nothing, and it
didn't move, didn't tilt its head, didn't react to us
at all. Casey let out a noise I can't even describe,
a mix between a scream and a sob, and we
tore out of the house, slamming the door behind us
(03:51):
so hard the windows rattled. We ran, not looking back,
all the way down the street to her mom's work.
Her mom was there in her office exactly or she
was supposed to be, and she looked at us like
we were crazy. When we burst in, crying and gasping.
Speaker 1 (04:06):
They tried to tell us it was probably a squatter
or a trick of the light, but the police found nothing.
All the doors and windows were locked, nothing was missing,
no signs of a break in, no footprints, nothing. Casey's
mom stayed with us at my house that night, and
they moved out within the month.
Speaker 2 (04:23):
They didn't even wait for the least to end.
Speaker 1 (04:26):
I still think about that face in the window, how
it was her mom's face, but somehow not human at all,
like something was wearing her face, trying to be her,
calling out in a voice that sounded almost right but wasn't.
I've never been able to explain it, and I don't
really try anymore.
Speaker 2 (04:42):
All I know is that.
Speaker 1 (04:43):
Something was in that house, and it wanted Casey to
open that kitchen door. I don't know what would have
happened if she had, and I'm glad we didn't stay
to find out.
Speaker 2 (04:52):
Story two.
Speaker 1 (04:53):
I was living with my family in this cramped, single
story house in Modesto, California. It was the kind of
place whe the brown shag carpet and cigarette smoke permanently
stuck in the walls. I was nine and my sister
was eight, and we shared a hallway that smelled like
old laundry and fabuloso depending on the day. We didn't
have a lot, but we had our beds, a stack
(05:14):
of VHS tapes in each other. I guess I wasn't
the kind of kid to scare easy. We'd already seen
cops come through our street and our uncle odide in
the bathroom once, so I knew what real fear was
supposed to look like. And it wasn't ghosts, It wasn't
shadow people. It was your dad yelling in the next room,
or your mom not coming home for a night. But
(05:35):
there was one night I'll never shake. It was hot,
one of those nights where the windows open and the
fans going and the crickets are too loud. I remember
because I was on top of the blanket, sweating, trying
to get comfortable, when my eyes popped open, like someone
had smacked me in the forehead. Just like that, I
was awake. I didn't hear anything, I didn't feel anything.
(05:57):
I just knew I needed to open my eyes. And
when I did, my sister was standing in my doorway.
It wasn't like a maybe it was her thing. It
was her, her messy hair sticking up, her chunky socks
pulled up under that giant new Kids on the Block
shirt she always wore. To bed, her bony arm on
the doorframe, the other on the knob, leaning like she
was deciding whether to come in or not. The moonlight
(06:19):
from the window behind me lit up her face enough
to see her eyes were open, staring right at me.
Speaker 2 (06:24):
I didn't get scared right away.
Speaker 1 (06:26):
We did this all the time, sprinting to each other's
rooms if we had a nightmare, throwing ourselves under the
covers to escape whatever we thought was in the dark.
I was tired, and I remember just letting out this
annoyed sigh. Come on, if you're coming in here, I mumbled,
flipping the blanket open already half turned to make room
for her. But she didn't move, didn't blink, just stood
(06:47):
there holding the door, staring.
Speaker 2 (06:50):
Now. I was getting pissed.
Speaker 1 (06:52):
I had school in the morning, and I didn't feel
like playing weird games. I sat up on the edge
of the bed, the springs creaking under me, and glared
at her.
Speaker 2 (07:00):
What are you doing?
Speaker 1 (07:01):
I snapped, my voice louder than I meant it to be.
She still didn't move, didn't even flinch. I stood up
stomped over to her, planning to smack her arm or
push her back to her room. We did that sometimes, too,
fighting like feral cats. I wasn't scared, I was just mad.
I got about arm's length away from her, and that's
when I realized she wasn't breathing, her chest wasn't moving,
(07:25):
her eyes weren't moving, she wasn't blinking. It was like
staring at a photo or a mannekin wearing my sister's clothes.
I felt something cold crawl up my back, like a
hand sliding under my hair.
Speaker 2 (07:37):
What the hell is wrong with you?
Speaker 1 (07:38):
I yelled, reaching out to shove her, And as soon
as my hand came down, she vanished.
Speaker 2 (07:44):
I don't mean she turned into smoke or floated away.
Speaker 1 (07:47):
I mean she was there one second and then gone
the next, so fast that my hand slapped the doorframe
where her shoulder had been. The air felt empty, like
a vacuum sucked her out of the hallway. I stumbled back,
looking around, blinking hard. The hallway was empty, My room
was empty. The door was still half open, the hallway
(08:07):
light off. I could hear the fan in my room,
the crickets outside, my own breathing, nothing else. And then
the fear hit me all at once, like a punch
in the chest. I remember my knees going weak, and
I almost fell before I caught myself on the doorframe.
I looked down the hall toward her room, and I
don't know why, but I ran. I ran down that hallway,
(08:29):
cold sweat, sticking my shirt to my back, bare feet,
thumping on the carpet because I just knew I had
to get to her. I didn't even think about the
thing I just seen. I just needed to see her
in her bed, to know she was okay, that she
was there. When I pushed her door open, the smell
of her room, old stuffed animals and the weird powder
she put on her skin hit me. She was in
(08:51):
bed under her unicorn blanket, but she was shaking, not
like a shiver, not like she was cold, but violently,
her whole body jerking, her teeth grinding. I screamed. I
didn't even know what I was screaming. I just remember
my voice tearing out of me, high and raw. As
I turned on her light and saw her eyes rolled back,
(09:12):
her hands twisted up near her face. Mom, Dad, something's
wrong with her, I screamed, shaking her shoulder, trying to
wake her up. I didn't know what a seizure was.
I'd never seen one. I just knew something was wrong,
and I was scared, and I couldn't fix it. My
dad came in, half awake and cursing and my mom
(09:32):
was behind him, and then everything turned into chaos, lights on,
people moving, my dad picking her up, my mom calling
nine one one. I just stood there in the corner, crying, shaking,
looking at my sister's face as she foamed at the mouth,
her eyes rolled up, her body thrashing. We went to
the hospital that night. They told us it was epilepsy,
(09:53):
that she'd had a seizure in her sleep. They said
it was lucky we caught it when we did. But
I know what I saw before I ran to her room.
I know what was standing in my doorway, wearing my
sister's clothes, staring at me with dead eyes, not breathing,
not blinking, before it vanished into nothing the moment I
tried to touch it.
Speaker 2 (10:11):
I don't know what it was.
Speaker 1 (10:13):
I don't know if it was part of her or
something else entirely, But every time I close my eyes
at night, I see her standing there again, holding the door, waiting,
like it's still unfinished. I don't tell people this part.
They wouldn't believe me anyway. They just think it's a
weird coincidence, or that my mind made it up because
I was scared. But I wasn't scared until it disappeared.
(10:35):
That was the only time it happened, and I hope
to God it never happens again.
Speaker 2 (10:39):
Story three.
Speaker 1 (10:40):
I was eight the year it happened, but I remember
the day like I'm still sitting in that backseat. We
just moved to a rented townhouse in Aurora, Colorado. Mom
was raising me and my little sister alone, working two jobs,
tired all the time. She picked us up late from
my aunt's place and we hit the interstate while the
sky was turning that dark blue just before it's fully nice.
Speaker 2 (11:00):
We'd only been.
Speaker 1 (11:01):
Driving for about fifteen minutes when the car stuttered. I
heard it first, that choking sound from the engine, and
then we started to slow down. My mom whispered no, no, no,
under her breath. I didn't know much about cars, but
I knew that sound meant something was wrong, and I
saw the gas gage sitting below the red line. We
rolled to a dead stop in the emergency lane while
(11:22):
cars roared past us in the dark, headlights slicing by
the wind from semis, shaking the car each time they passed.
Mom tried her flip phone, but it was dead. She
looked over at me and my sister in the back seat,
and I saw something in her eyes that scared me
more than the dark highway, pure helpless fear. We sat
there for maybe ten minutes, the inside of the car
(11:44):
hot with leftover sunlight, the world outside turning black. My
sister kept asking if we were going to die, and
I told her no, but I didn't really believe it.
Cars flew by without slowing down, and it felt like
we were invisible, stuck in a bubble while the rest
of the world ignored us. Then out of nowhere, headlights
swung into the emergency lane behind us. In a big
(12:05):
cream colored car, one of those long Lincolns with chrome
around the windows pulled up. I don't know why, but
my heart dropped into my stomach when I saw it.
A man got out, and even from inside the car,
I could see how tall he was. He was black,
with this perfectly trimmed white beard and close cut white hair.
He was wearing a white suit that didn't even look dusty,
(12:27):
even with the highway dust swirling around him. He walked
up to my mom's window and she cracked it just
enough to hear him. You ran out of gas, he asked,
his voice, deep, calm, like it was impossible to feel scared.
When he was talking. My mom nodded, her eyes still wide.
My phone died. I don't have anyone to call. He smiled,
and it wasn't a creepy smile, but it was the
(12:49):
kind of smile that you don't forget. I have a
can in the back. I'll get you some gas. Don't worry.
He walked back to his car, and I twisted in
my seat to watch him open the back door. There
was nothing in the back seat except a bright red
gas can, just sitting there like it was waiting. He
lifted it, checked it, then set it down and got
into his car again. I'll be back in ten minutes,
(13:10):
he said, leaning toward the window, that calm smile still there,
before driving off. The silence after he left was so heavy.
The highway was loud, but inside the car it felt
like we were underwater, listening to the world through glass.
My sister had stopped crying, just staring out the window
at the dark Mom kept glancing at the rear view mirror,
(13:31):
checking the empty road behind us. The minutes crawled by,
and I watched the clock on the dashboard, feeling every
second like a drip of water.
Speaker 2 (13:39):
In a quiet room. Ten minutes felt like forever.
Speaker 1 (13:43):
I started to think he wasn't coming back, that maybe
he wasn't real that maybe we were going to be
stuck there all night. But right at ten minutes, those
same headlights cut across the darkness behind us. I turned
around so fast I almost fell over my sister. The
cream colored Lincoln rolled up, and he pulled over right
in front of us. This time I saw him get out,
carrying the gas can, walking across the shoulder as cars
(14:05):
flew by just a few feet away. He didn't even
look at the traffic as he stepped around the car,
coming up to my mom's window. Pop your gas tank, ma'am,
he said, and she did, her hands shaking. He poured
the gas in calmly, like he'd done it a hundred times,
his white suit almost glowing in the headlights of the
cars that passed, none of them slowing down. When he finished,
(14:27):
he screwed the cap back on, tapped it twice, and
stepped back to the window. That should get you home,
he said. My mom tried to give him some cash,
but he shook his head. Just help someone else when
you can, he told her, still smiling. Can I have
your number at least, my mom asked, digging in her
purse for a pen. I want to pay you back
or send a thank you. He reached into his pocket,
(14:47):
pulled out a business card and handed it to her.
You're welcome, God bless you and your kids. Then he
turned and walked back to his car, getting in and
pulling away into the night like he was never there.
When we finally got home, my mom set the card
on the kitchen counter before dropping into a chair, her
face pale. The card had his name, a church logo,
and a phone number. She said she'd call tomorrow. The
(15:10):
next morning, she dialed the number while I sat at
the table eating cereal. I saw the way her eyes
change when she listened to the deadline, the silence crackling
on the other end. She tried again, pressing the button slowly, carefully,
but it was the same, disconnected. She spent the afternoon
calling around trying to find the church on the card,
(15:30):
asking people in the area if they'd heard of it.
No one had. The address on the card didn't exist.
There was no church, no record of him, nothing. She
never talked about it again, but I saw the card
in her wallet years later, tucked behind her id. It
was faded, but you could still see the name and
that little cross logo. I don't know what we saw
(15:52):
that night on the highway, but sometimes I wake up
remembering the way he crossed four lanes of traffic in
that old Lincoln, how he stepped out in a perfect
white suit while Semis flew by, how calm he was.
When I think about it now as an adult, I
feel cold. Not scared exactly, but cold, like I'm remembering
something I shouldn't be able to remember, something that shouldn't
(16:13):
have happened the way it did. Story four. I was
seventeen that summer, stuck at home in the middle of nowhere, Indiana,
with nothing but fields in a tree line that creaked
at night when the wind moved through it. My parents
worked late, so it was just me, my older brother Liam,
and my younger sister Kayla most nights killing time in
that creaky farmhouse that smelled like old wood and dust.
(16:35):
It was one of those humid evenings when the air
stuck to your skin and cicadas made the air feel loud.
We were in the kitchen washing dishes together, the three
of us crowding around the sink, making fun of each other,
trying to pass the time before we'd go back to
our rooms to scroll through our phones. In the dark,
Liam was rinsing plates, Kayla was drying them, and I
was stacking them in the cabinet. I don't even remember
(16:58):
why we started singing. Kayla randomly started humming Green Sleeves
out of nowhere, off key and soft. Liam joined in,
trying to make her laugh, and I started to mumbling
the words we barely knew, dragging out the melody like
a joke. It was stupid and pointless, but that's what
you do when you're stuck in a dead farmhouse with
(17:18):
nowhere to go. We all stopped at the same time,
laughing at how bad we sounded, and for a second
the room went quiet except for the running tap. Then,
right there in the kitchen, a whistle picked up the
tune exactly where we'd stopped. It wasn't a wind noise
or some creak in the pipes. It was clear, sharp,
a human whistle, carrying the exact notes we'd just been singing,
(17:40):
like someone was standing right in the room finishing what
we started. It kept going for about five seconds, long
enough for us to just stand there frozen, our eyes
locked on each other, trying to figure out who was
doing it, but none of us were. Kayla can't whistle
at all, and her mouth was open, her eyes wide.
Liam's hands were dripping with soap in the air. His
(18:01):
mouth twisted like he was about to curse, but couldn't.
My heart slammed so hard I felt like I was
going to throw up, and the air felt thicker than
it had all summer. The whistle stopped midnoe, like someone
let the air die in their lungs, and that was it.
Speaker 2 (18:15):
We just stood there.
Speaker 1 (18:16):
The faucet kept running, dishwater splashing in the sink, sounding
way too loud in the sudden silence. What the hell
was that, Liam said, his voice cracking which I'd never
heard before. Kayla started shaking her head, backing away toward
the counter, clutching the dish towel to her chest like
it would protect her.
Speaker 2 (18:34):
That wasn't you, she whispered.
Speaker 1 (18:36):
Shut up, I told them both, covering my ears because
I suddenly couldn't stand the sound of the faucet, the cicadas,
the way the house seemed to breathe around us. Liam
ran to the back door and yanked it open, stepping
out onto the porch, scanning the yard. It was empty,
nothing but our rusted swing set swaying a little, the
tall grass moving in the breeze, crickets chirping like nothing happened.
(18:58):
Kayla opened the pantry, looked behind the fridge, called out
hello in a small, trembling voice. Nobody answered. I couldn't move.
My knees felt weak, like something was pressing down on me.
The room felt different, like it wasn't our kitchen anymore,
like we were standing in something else's space. I kept
thinking about how the whistle had been right next to me,
(19:19):
like whoever did it was leaning over my shoulder, waiting
to join in, waiting to be part of what we
were doing. Liam came back in, slamming the screen door
behind him. No one's out there, he said. His face
was pale, and he kept glancing at the window over
the sink, like he expected to see a face looking in.
Kayla started crying, and I wanted to tell her to stop,
(19:41):
but I couldn't talk. I just stood there, staring at
the floor, hearing the whistle again in my head, the
way it had followed our voices so perfectly. The way
it felt intentional. We didn't find anyone. We checked every room,
the basement, the attic, crawl space.
Speaker 2 (19:57):
Nothing.
Speaker 1 (19:58):
The doors were locked, the windows lined, no footprints in
the dirt outside. We tried to convince ourselves it was
some weird draft or maybe Liam messing with us, but
I knew he wasn't. His hands were shaking as he
held his phone flashlight under beds, his voice kept cracking,
and he wouldn't look me in the eyes. That night,
we all slept in the living room with the lights on.
(20:20):
None of us wanted to be alone, even though none
of us said it.
Speaker 2 (20:24):
Story five.
Speaker 1 (20:25):
I don't usually talk about this because it still makes
my handshake when I think about it. But you asked
about the scariest thing that ever happened to me, So
here it is. I was twenty one living in a
rented split level in Flagstaff, Arizona, during college. It wasn't
a creepy house, nothing like that, just a bland rental
with yellowing blinds.
Speaker 2 (20:44):
And a smell of old carpet.
Speaker 1 (20:45):
I'd taken the basement room because it was cheaper and
I could smoke down there without my roommate's complaining. It
was one of those basements with a tiny window near
the ceiling, so a bit of light came in during
the day, but it always felt like late afternoon no
matter the time. I remember it was a Tuesday, because
I had skipped my afternoon classes. I was at my
cheap desk, hunched over my laptop, trying to finish a
(21:08):
boring sociology paper while drinking warm coffee i'd forgotten about.
The basement was dead, silent, except for the soft hum
of the mini fridge next to my bed. That's when
I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.
It wasn't a shadow or a flicker of light. It
was this glowing ball, about the size of a basketball,
hovering near the far wall by the laundry machines. It
(21:29):
was so bright it almost hurt to look at. But
it didn't light up the room. It was just there,
like it had been cut out of another world and
pasted into mine. I just sat there, blinking, trying to
figure out if it was a trick of my eyes
or a reflection from the screen. I turned to face
it fully, and that's when it moved. It floated toward
me fast, like it had decided where it was going.
(21:52):
I remember, I pushed back in my chair so hard
it tipped and I landed on the cold concrete floor
with my elbows slamming down. I scrambled backward until my
back hit the laundry machine, just staring at this thing
as it came right up to me, and then just
before it would have touched me, it veered off to
the side and vanished, like a light being switched off.
Speaker 2 (22:12):
No sound, no smell, just gone.
Speaker 1 (22:15):
The room felt different immediately, like the air had weight
pressing on my chest. And then I realized I could
see the air moving in the room. It's hard to explain,
but it was like ripples in water flowing around me,
around the furniture, bending around corners. It only lasted a
few seconds, but I was hyper aware of every swirl
and twist in the air, like I was seeing something
(22:37):
I was never supposed to see. I don't know how
long I sat there. It was probably only a minute,
but it felt like forever. My breathing was ragged and
I couldn't stand up. Right away, my phone buzzed on
the desk, and that sudden noise nearly made me scream.
I told my roommate about it that night when he
got back from work, and he just laughed it off,
(22:57):
said it was probably a migraine, aura, or some electrical thing.
I wanted to believe him, but the way it moved,
the way it felt like it saw me, I can't
explain that away. I've never had a migraine in my life,
and it wasn't just some light flicker. It was there
that night. I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes,
I saw that ball of light in the darkness behind
(23:19):
my eyelids coming closer, and I was terrified that if
I fell asleep, it would finish.
Speaker 2 (23:24):
What it came for.
Speaker 1 (23:25):
I sat up against the wall with a hoodie pulled
tight around me, watching that dark basement, waiting for it
to come back.
Speaker 2 (23:33):
It didn't.
Speaker 1 (23:34):
I wish I could tell you I found out what
it was that I discovered a logical reason and moved on.
Speaker 2 (23:39):
I didn't.
Speaker 1 (23:40):
It never happened again, and I never saw anything like
it after that day. But sometimes when I sit alone
in a room with the lights off, I get that
same feeling, like the air is shifting, like something is
about to appear, and I can't breathe until I switch
on the light. I moved out of that house at
the end of the semester. Not because of the light,
I told myself, but because the rent went up and
(24:02):
I found a cheaper place. But the truth is I
couldn't sit in that basement without thinking about how close
it got to me, how it felt like it knew
I was there. I've read stories online about orbs and
ball lightning, but they don't match what I saw. This
was solid, like a thing with purpose. It didn't feel
like a weather phenomenon or some floating dust in the light.
(24:24):
It felt like it came into that room looking for me,
and it changed the air, the feeling in the room,
and maybe even me. I don't really believe in ghosts,
or at least I didn't before that day. I don't
know if I do now either, but I can't deny
what I saw. I've never been able to explain it,
and no one I've told really believe me. But that's fine.
(24:45):
It happened. Whether it makes sense or not, that's it.
That's the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. And
even now, years later, when I remember how it felt,
how the air bent, and how the light moved like
it was alive, it still gives me chills story six.
I never liked the way the hallway light flickered when
I came home late. I used to work night shifts
(25:07):
back then, living alone in this old duplex on Jefferson
Street in Akron, Ohio. It was cheap, close to the diner,
and the landlord didn't ask questions. That's all I cared about.
This happened one October night twelve years ago. I had
just gotten home after a long shift, arms smelling like
coffee and friar grease, and I was too tired to shower.
(25:27):
I dumped my keys on the counter, peeled off my shoes,
and crawled into bed without even brushing my teeth. The
heater rattled in the corner, and I remember pulling the
covers up because it was one of those nights where
the cold felt like it got inside your bones.
Speaker 2 (25:41):
I don't know how long i'd.
Speaker 1 (25:42):
Been asleep before I woke up, but it was still dark,
no traffic outside, just the soft ticking of the clock
in the kitchen. My feet were sticking out of the blanket,
and I remember thinking that's why you're cold, dummy, before
rolling over. I was half asleep in that heavy, warm
days where your mind drifts and everything feels heavy. That's
(26:03):
when I felt it, right on my left big toe.
It was like the lightest fingertip, just pressing down, steady,
almost cautious, like someone checking.
Speaker 2 (26:12):
To see if i'd wake up. I froze.
Speaker 1 (26:15):
It was so gentle that for a second I thought
maybe I was imagining it, but it was there, pressing, holding.
My eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, too
afraid to move, and the longer it stayed, the more
awake I became, every part of me tensing. I don't
know how long it went on, but it felt like forever.
I was breathing so quietly, trying not to make a sound,
(26:38):
and I thought about yanking my foot away, but something
inside me was screaming not to move. I wanted to
look down to see what was there, but I couldn't.
It was like my neck refused to obey. Then the
pressure moved from the toe. It slid slightly, like a
small hand shifting its grip, and I felt what I
swear to God was the touch of a thumb on
the side of my foot. My eyes filled with tears
(27:01):
and my mouth was dry. My tongue stuck to the
roof of my mouth because I didn't even want to
swallow and make a noise. I could feel it. I
could feel each tiny finger pressing down like a todler's hand,
too small to wrap around but big enough to grip.
It wasn't cold, it wasn't warm either. It was just there,
and it felt so real that even now I can
(27:23):
still remember the exact weight of it. I don't know
why I whispered it, but I did, please let go.
My voice was barely a breath, and I don't know
if I was talking to God or whatever the hell
was holding my foot. But as soon as I said it,
the pressure changed. It didn't vanish, but it loosened, sliding
off the toe, the thumb lifting last, like it didn't
(27:44):
want to leave. I yanked my foot under the covers,
curled up so tight I thought I might choke, and
I kept whispering please, Please, Please, over and over until
I must have passed out. When I woke up, the
sun was up, and for a second I thought I
had dreamed it. I swung my legs off off the bed,
trying to convince myself I was being stupid. But when
I put my foot down, there was this faint red
(28:06):
mark across the joint of my big toe, like a
child's handprint fading.
Speaker 2 (28:10):
But there. I moved out a few months later.
Speaker 1 (28:13):
I never told my landlord why, just said I needed
to be closer to work. I left most of my
stuff there, including the bed. I didn't want to touch
it again. I slept on a couch for almost a
year after that, never letting my feet hang off the edge,
always pulling the covers over them, no matter how hot
it got. I never saw anything, and that's the part
(28:33):
that gets me. It would almost be easier if I did,
if I could say I saw some ghost kid or
a shadow in the corner. But there was nothing, just
that hand holding my foot in the dark. Story seven.
I don't tell this often, but since you're asking about
the scariest thing that's ever happened to me, here goes.
My name's Eric, and I grew up in a small
(28:54):
farming town in southern Michigan. It's the kind of place
with dirt roads that get muddy after a rain, and
if your car breaks down, you'd better hope you're close
enough to a neighbor's driveway to walk for help. My
family's place was about ten miles outside of town, surrounded
by empty fields and woods that turned black at night.
This was around two thousand and three, maybe two thousand.
Speaker 2 (29:15):
And four, when I was seventeen.
Speaker 1 (29:17):
I'd been over at my girlfriend's house, just hanging out,
watching movies on her tiny TV. Her parents liked me,
but they still wanted me gone before midnight, so I
left around eleven thirty. It was one of those nights
where the sky didn't look like anything, no moon, no stars,
just a heavy black pressing down and I could only
see what my headlights touched. My gaslight was on, and
(29:40):
the village gas station was closed, so I hit the
twenty four hour truck stop off the highway to fill up.
I wasn't thinking about anything scary. I was more worried
about getting home before my dad woke up for work,
so he wouldn't know i'd been out so late. After
I got gas, I decided to take the back road
that cuts behind the fields. It was a faster route,
but it was a road people avoided at night. No lights,
(30:03):
no houses for miles, just a narrow stretch of cracked
asphalt with ditches on either side. About fifteen minutes in
I came up on a t intersection where you have
to yield before turning onto another country road.
Speaker 2 (30:15):
I saw the big yellow yield.
Speaker 1 (30:16):
Sign on the right, reflecting my headlights, you know how
those signs are bright, unmistakable, about a yard wide seven
or eight feet high on the post. I was slowing
down foot easing onto the brake when I noticed something
move on the left side of the road. At first
I thought it was a deer, so I tapped the
brakes a little harder, waiting for it to run across.
(30:37):
But it wasn't like any deer I'd ever seen. It
was low to the ground, broad, dark, and move fast,
like it was crawling, but covering way more ground than
it should. It crossed in front of me, just out
of the reach of my high beams, and went over
to the right side of the road. I let the
car roll forward a few more feet, squinting, trying to
see if it was going to dart back out, but
(30:58):
it didn't. Instead, it stopped near the yield sign. Then
it stood up. I don't even know how to explain
this part without sounding insane. It was tall enough to
block most of the sign, and it was standing on
two legs, hunched forward a bit, covered in hair that
was so black it seemed to swallow the light from
my headlights. Its shoulders were wide, its head was too
(31:19):
big for its body, and it was breathing like I
could see it moving up and down, slow, heavy. But
the worst part was the eyes. They reflected pale like
fog lights in the dark, but they didn't blink, didn't move,
just locked on to me. As I sat there for
a second, I forgot how to move. My hands were
shaking on the wheel and my foot hovered over the break,
(31:41):
not pressing it, not hitting the gas. I could hear
the engine idling, the sound way too loud in that
empty place. I remember saying, what what the hell is
that out loud, just to break the silence, and.
Speaker 2 (31:53):
It was like the thing heard me.
Speaker 1 (31:54):
It tilted its head and I could hear something crack
in its neck, like the sound of ice break in
a pond. Then it took a step toward the road,
toward me, and that's when my body finally woke up.
Speaker 2 (32:06):
I slammed my foot.
Speaker 1 (32:07):
On the gas so hard the tires squealed, and I
shot through that intersection without even looking for cars, which
was stupid, but I didn't care. My heart was pounding
so hard I could barely hear myself thinking, and I
kept checking the mirror to see if it was following me,
but all I saw was darkness swallowing the road behind.
I didn't stop until I reached the driveway of our house,
(32:27):
a gravel path leading to the gate we kept closed
at night to keep the horses in. My hands were
shaking so badly. I dropped the keys trying to open
the lock, and I remember looking back down the road,
expecting to see it standing there under the single street
light near our fence. But there was nothing, just that
thick black night and the sound of the crickets. I
didn't tell my dad, I didn't tell my girlfriend.
Speaker 2 (32:50):
For weeks.
Speaker 1 (32:50):
I didn't even want to leave the house at night,
but I had to help with the horses sometimes, and
every time I walked out there, I could feel those
pale eyes on me from the tree line. I kept
telling myself it was just a bear or a trick
of the shadows. But I know what I saw. It
wasn't a bear, and it wasn't a trick. You know
what's messed up. Sometimes when I'm driving late and see
(33:11):
a yellow yield sign glowing in the dark, I'll get
that tight feeling in my chest again, like I'm about
to see it step out of the ditch, those pale
eyes locking onto mine. It's been over twenty years, but
I can't shake it. It's the reason I don't drive
the back roads at night anymore, the reason I still
feel like I'm being watched when I'm out by the
barn after dark. Whatever it was, I hope I never
(33:32):
see it again. Story eight. I don't really talk about
this anymore, but I can't get it out of my head.
I live in rural Pennsylvania, small town with the same
crack sidewalks and that damp leaf smell year round. People
around here keep their weird stories to themselves, you know,
if you know, you know type. I'm thirty eight now,
(33:53):
but for most of my life this dream followed me
like a stray shadow I could never shake off. It
was the same dream every few months. I'd see a
little girl on a carousel, wearing a pink romper with
white flowers and those jelly sandals that squeaked when you walked.
She'd wave big goofy grin the plastic horse bobbing up
and down under her. She was always looking at me.
(34:14):
I'd feel this huge wave of happiness in the dream,
like something heavy was finally off my chest. But every
time I woke up, i'd feel cold, my hands trembling,
that eerie sense of what the hell did I just see.
For a long time, I thought it was me I
was seeing. I had a rough childhood, and I figured
maybe it was some buried memory or a weird way
of my brain trying to process whatever was messed up
(34:37):
back then. The dream kept coming, though I could never
see who was holding her, but i'd see her waving
the way the sunlight came through the dusty fairground's air,
the laughter in the background always the same. Years passed
and I just learned to ignore it. The dream stopped
when I was around twenty five, which was a relief,
but I never forgot the feeling it left behind, like
(34:58):
a ghost, but in the shape of some something good,
and that's what made it so unnerving. I miscarried when
I was thirty four, and it broke something in me.
I didn't dream much for a while after that, just dark,
empty sleep. When I finally got pregnant again, it felt
like I was holding my breath every day. Every doctor's appointment,
every strange cramp. I was terrified she'd be taken away.
(35:21):
I named her Ivy. She was the light that cracked
through a part of me I thought was dead. You know.
It was a fair in the summer of twenty eighteen
when it happened. Ivy was about two and a half
and we went with my boyfriend's family. It was humid,
the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and
makes the air taste like fried dough and popcorn. I
remember holding the diaper bag in my iced coffee, sweat
(35:44):
trickling down my back, just watching the kids scream and
run around. Take her on the carousel. I told him
I wanted to take pictures. It was something simple, but
I felt that bubbling excitement, almost like I couldn't breathe,
and I didn't know why. He lifted Ivy onto one
of the plastic horses, buckled her in, and she turned
to look for me. I snapped photo after photo on
(36:06):
my phone, trying to capture that tiny grin, the curl
stuck to her forehead from sweat, her chubby hand waving.
It was later that night, when I was sitting on
the couch scrolling through the pictures that I realized I
had stopped breathing. The romper, the pink one with white flowers,
was the same, the jelly sandals on her feet, the
tiny teeth in her big smile, the horse, the light
(36:29):
coming in from the same angle, even the way she waved, God,
it was exactly the same. It was the dream. It
wasn't me I had been seeing all those years. It
was Ivy. I sat there for a long time, staring
at the photo, the room dead, silent around me except
for the ticking of the kitchen clock. My hands were
(36:49):
shaking so badly. I dropped the phone on the floor.
It made this small sharp sound on the hardwood, but
I didn't even move to pick it up. I was
too busy trying to breathe. You ever have that much
moment when your body feels like it's not yours, Like
the air feels different, heavy charged, like the moment before
a thunderstorm breaks. That's what it felt like in that
(37:09):
living room. I looked up, and I swear to God,
I saw something, just for a second in the hallway,
like a shadow. It was the size of a child,
and it just moved past the doorway, slow.
Speaker 2 (37:21):
Almost like it was gliding.
Speaker 1 (37:23):
I don't know how else to say it, but it
felt like the dream had leaked out of my head
and was standing there in the dark, watching me. Ivy
I called out, but I already knew she was asleep
in her room, door closed, sound machine on safe, the
hallway was empty. I picked up the phone again, heart pounding,
and stared at the photo. I zoomed in on her face,
(37:45):
then the hand waving, then the sandals. I don't know
how long I sat there, but at some point I
started crying, not because I was sad, but because I
was terrified, like something had been following me all my
life and finally caught up. For the next few nights,
I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I
saw that carousel, the way she looked at me, the
(38:06):
way she waved, how happy she was, in that eerie
sense that something was watching from behind the joy like
I wasn't supposed to see it yet, but I had.
I still pull up that photo sometimes, and every time
it's like I'm staring at a piece of a puzzle
that I'm too scared to finish. People tell me it's
just a coincidence that dreams are weird and the mind
(38:27):
plays tricks. But they didn't live with that dream for
twenty years. They didn't see the shadow in the hallway.
They don't feel that cold rush down their spine when
they look at a simple photo of a child on
a carousel. I don't know what it means. I don't
know if it was a glitch, a warning, or something
else I can't explain. But it happened once, exactly as
(38:47):
I saw it, exactly how it was meant to and
I don't think I was ever supposed to understand it.
And maybe that's what makes it so terrifying, because what
if some things are never meant to be understood? What
if they just wait in the corners of our dreams
until they step into the light, just once before disappearing again.
I turned off my phone that night, walked to Ivy's
(39:09):
room and stood there watching her sleep. I remember whispering
I saw you, even though she couldn't hear me, And
for a moment, I swear I felt the air shift,
like something unseen was standing behind me, breathing softly.
Speaker 2 (39:23):
Before it was gone. That was it.
Speaker 1 (39:25):
It never happened again, but that one moment it was
enough to change the way I look at dreams.
Speaker 2 (39:30):
Forever story nine.
Speaker 1 (39:32):
I'm not the type to get spooked easily, and I
don't even like talking about this, but I'll tell it
because it still messes with me when I think about it.
I live in Central Texas in a single story house
that's nothing special, ranch style, brown siding, dusty driveway. My
bedroom faces this open field behind the house where the
neighbors used to let a few cows graze, and most
(39:54):
nights i'd leave my window cracked for air. We don't
get much breeze in July, but when we do, it's
worth it. The house on my left had been empty
for years, and the only neighbor within shouting distance was
Miss Rita, an older lady who keeps to herself and
definitely doesn't have any little kids. I'd been in bed,
scrolling on my phone, nothing fancy, just killing time before
(40:15):
sleep when I heard it the first time, a little
girl's voice, clear as day, right outside my window.
Speaker 2 (40:21):
Said come outside please.
Speaker 1 (40:24):
It was so casual that I just froze, trying to
figure out if it was a video on my phone,
but I wasn't watching anything, and the voice came from outside,
not the phone speaker. I even sat up, tilted my head,
listening hard, nothing but the cicadas and the faint lowing
of a cow in the dark somewhere across the field.
I told myself maybe i'd drifted off for a second
(40:44):
and imagined it. About three minutes later, I heard it again,
same voice, exactly the same tone, like a recording, Please
come outside. I didn't move for a full minute, just listening.
I don't know how to explain the way it felt,
but the air in the room changed, like it got thicker.
I kept telling myself it had to be a neighbor's TV,
(41:06):
or maybe Miss Rita had visitors, but I couldn't make
that make sense. It was after midnight, and I know
how dead this place gets at night. I slid out
of bed as quietly as I could. My knees were
actually shaking, which pissed me off because I didn't want
to be scared. I eased up to the window and
peered through the screen, but all I saw was the
faint moonlight on the field and the fence posts lined
(41:28):
up like dark teeth in the grass. No movement, no shadows,
no kid. Then it came a third time, right up
against the window, like the kid's mouth was inches from
the screen. I heard please come outside. Each word was slow, careful,
like it was learning how to say them. I can't
describe how cold it felt in that moment. My heart
(41:50):
was hammering so hard I thought i'd pass out. I
reached up and slammed the window shut so fast the
frame rattled, and I locked it immediately. I backed away,
almost over the chair near my bed, and I just
stood there, waiting to hear it again.
Speaker 2 (42:04):
But it didn't come again.
Speaker 1 (42:06):
Instead, I heard something scrape along the outside of the
house under the window, like fingernails dragging across the siding,
just once, slow, and then it stopped. I wanted to
call someone, but who the hell do you call about
something like that? The police, and tell them a kid's
voice is outside your window in the middle of the night,
(42:26):
asking you to come out. They'd think I was drunk
or high, and I wasn't. I was as sober as
I've ever been in my life. I stood there for
at least fifteen minutes, breathing shallow, straining to hear anything else.
The cows in the field were dead silent, which was
weird because they're usually making noise at night. I didn't
hear the voice again and I didn't hear footsteps walking away,
(42:49):
just that thick silence, like the world was holding its breath.
I didn't sleep that night. I kept every light in
my room on, and I kept glancing at the window,
waiting to see a shadow pass by.
Speaker 2 (43:00):
I don't know if it was a kid.
Speaker 1 (43:01):
I don't know if it was something else, but I've
never heard a kid's voice sound so empty before, like
it was a voice trying to sound like a kid,
but there was nothing behind it. In the morning, I
went outside, even though it was the last thing I
wanted to do. I had to know if there were
any footprints or maybe a stray dog that could explain
the scraping sound. There was nothing, no footprints in the
(43:22):
dirt under the window, no sign of anything, just the
same dusty ground in the field, stretching out calm under
the sun.
Speaker 2 (43:30):
I talked to Miss.
Speaker 1 (43:30):
Rita that afternoon, just to see if maybe she'd heard anything,
or if someone had been visiting with a kid. She
looked at me like I was crazy and said she
hadn't heard anything and no one had been over. She
told me she'd lived there for twenty years and she'd
never seen any kids playing out there.
Speaker 2 (43:46):
Day or night.
Speaker 1 (43:47):
That was three years ago, and I still think about
it almost every night before I go to bed. I
never leave that window open anymore, no matter how hot
it gets. I moved a heavy dresser in front of it,
just to feel like there's something between me and that field.
Speaker 2 (44:01):
Story ten.
Speaker 1 (44:02):
I've lived in Albuquerque my whole life, and I used
to think I knew what empty felt like until that
day in the desert with my dad.
Speaker 2 (44:10):
I was seventeen.
Speaker 1 (44:11):
It was March, and we were heading down I twenty
five to check out New Mexico State because it was
cheaper than you and m and my dad kept saying
I needed to see the campus before I made any decisions.
We had been driving for hours through nothing but red
dirt and low brush, that flat heat pressing against the windows,
and I was half asleep with my hoodie tied around
my eyes. When he said we're low on gas. He
(44:33):
pulled off onto this single lane road I didn't even
see coming, and after maybe five minutes of rattling over
washboard dirt, we saw a small gas station, no sign,
just a white building with chipped paint and two old
pumps sitting under a rusted canopy.
Speaker 2 (44:47):
It was too quiet there, even with the wind blowing.
I remember that.
Speaker 1 (44:52):
No insects, no birds, just that dry air buzzing in
your ears, like you've been underwater too long. My dad
parked by the pump and I got out, stretching. There
was a piece of duct taped paper flapping on the pump.
That's set in black marker see cashier for payment. My
dad said, well, that's helpful, and we both looked at
the building. There was one silver Ford sedan parked on
(45:13):
the side, dust free, clean, like it had just pulled in,
But there was nobody in it, no keys in the ignition,
and the windows.
Speaker 2 (45:22):
Were rolled up.
Speaker 1 (45:23):
I could see our reflections in the glass bent in ghostly.
We walked to the door of the building and it
was locked. I could see inside through the dusty glass
and it was empty, like completely empty. No drinks in
the fridge, no snacks, just a bunch of empty shelves.
There was a boxed up soda fridge in the middle
of the floor, unopened. The walls were yellowed where shelves
(45:45):
used to be, and it smelled like hot dust. When
I pressed my nose to the crack in the door,
my dad rattled the handle and knocked. Hello, anyone here,
he called, but his voice just dropped dead in that heat.
Maybe they're in the back, I said. We walked around
to the back of the building, our shoes crunching on gravel,
and there was a metal door with a dent in it,
(46:06):
like someone had kicked it. In front of the door
was a giant deep freezer, the kind you see in
butcher shops, blocking it completely. It wasn't just sitting there,
It was pushed up tight, scratching the paint off the door,
as if someone had moved it there in a hurry.
I tried to make a joke about it. Maybe they're
hiding a choop of caabra in there, but my dad
(46:27):
didn't laugh. He just squinted at the door, frowning. Then
we heard it, a thump. It came from inside the building,
close to that back door, like something hitting the wall.
My dad looked at me and I looked back, trying
to grin, but I could feel every hair on my
arm standing up. Did you hear that, I asked, already
(46:47):
knowing he did. He put his finger to his lips, listening.
We stood there, sweat running down our backs, the sun
so bright on the white wall.
Speaker 2 (46:54):
It hurt to look at it.
Speaker 1 (46:55):
Another thumb louder, then a dragging sound, like something heavy
being pulled across the floor. It stopped right behind the door,
behind the deep freezer. We both took a step back,
and I remember the dry, metallic taste in my mouth,
like I'd bitten my tongue. Let's go, my dad said, quietly,
already turning. Then something slammed against the door from the inside,
(47:18):
hard enough that the deep freezer rocked forward an inch,
and I swear to god, I saw the metal bend
outward like a dent from the inside. I jumped back
and my dad grabbed my arm. Go get in the car,
he yelled, pulling me. We ran, gravel spitting under our shoes.
The air felt wrong, like it was thicker, buzzing. I
remember looking back once as we ran and seeing that
(47:40):
deep freezer inch forward again, like something was ramming the
door from the inside. We got into the car and
my dad's hands were shaking as he turned the key,
the engine coughing before it caught. I couldn't stop looking
at the building. There was nothing there, no one, but
I felt like something was watching us from that back door,
something that was so close to getting out. As we
(48:02):
pulled away, I saw the silver Ford still sitting there,
still spotless, the dirt tracks around it, undisturbed. I will
never forget that image, how clean it looked in the
middle of all that dust. We didn't say a word
for miles, the gas light blinking on the dash as
we drove until we found another station closer to Las Crusis.
My dad tried to brush it off, saying it was
(48:23):
probably a coyote or something that got stuck inside. I
didn't argue, but I knew that wasn't what we heard.
It's been years and I still think about that place.
I looked for it once on Google Maps, trying to
trace back where we would have turned off, but I
couldn't find it. I even asked my dad if he
remembered the name of the road, but he just shook
his head, saying it must have been demolished or something.
(48:45):
But that's the thing. I don't think that place was
ever really there. I still get chills thinking about how
close we were to that door, how close we were
to seeing what was behind it. It felt like it
wanted us to open it, like it needed someone to
move that deep freezer.
Speaker 2 (48:59):
So it could get out
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