The Sons of Ben. Number Three.

It always happened at the craggy precipice of sleep, so I never knew if it was a dream or a memory. I was swimming in brown water, terrified I might be swimming down...away from the surface. But then I would emerge, bellowing out breath, the water crumbling to dust around me, a flat steel sky with black-painted clouds above. I would crawl, then, through an askew city of rounded, flat, windowless buildings carved with unfathomable graffiti.

My elementary school, a few flat, one-story buildings connected by windowed corridors, lay across a narrow access road from the cemetery. A modest playground was situated by the inner curve of the road. I was making swirlies in the sandbox with my fingers when I first saw the tall man standing at the wrought iron fence. He was bald on top, long-haired, the hair a flat brown, damp. He wore tiny wire glasses that sat crookedly across a substantial and accusatory nose. A white shirt that showed shadowed ribs from under a dark grey waistcoat. He did not have to beckon with his long finger; his eyes, a brilliant blue, called me across the road. I was six. He could have been forty; he could have been fifty.

How did I know that he was my father? I had known only that my mother was my mother and had been so for eternity. I had known forever that the man who lived with her could not have been my real father, though that was the charade. He treated me like a baffling stranger, and I was grateful for it.

He was vaguely unpleasant, and one sensed he was The armpits of his white striped shirts were perpetually stained. He spoke bumblingly, in a dopey and sing-song voice. He worked at and for the church in some capacity I never understood, and The Lord came first for him. Perhaps only for him. He seemed removed. His conversations with my mother were hushed and muted and few. They would read most nights; she her romances and he his worn Bible.

But the man at the cemetery was a vital man, a man who looked at the world with fire and at me with only embers, which I regarded as warmth. Warmth and excited recognition. The first time I saw him, as I said, I went to him across the road. He knelt and regarded me, grinning widely. I noted that behind his yellowed teeth was another full set of teeth--top and bottom, also yellow, also pointing this way and that. His gums were red and, below and above his canines, split to the bone.

He said to me that day the following: You must always take what you want, however you can. You'll find, he said, that once you are known for taking what you want, you won't have to anymore. It will be given to you freely.

Then he rose, not without effort, and strode away. I went back across the street and Mrs. Wisert looked at me quizzically and with trepidation. I shrugged and went in to fetch my coat and go home.

The next time I saw the man was not more than a week later. It was drizzling rain. He was by the fence again, and I rushed to his side. He told me I knew who he was. He said, I have some history for you. Listen carefully and do not speak. You were not born alone. You had a twin. I knew that one of you was good and one of you was evil. Like in a fairy tale. I buried the evil boy next to the mausoleum.

He gestured. The mausoleum was a small, windowless brick house with a pointed roof and a small crooked spire.

I only saw him once more, years later, as I was showing my new wife my old school. She was in using the bathroom, and I turned and there he was. He was grinning at me, but he turned and strode away when I approached. He looked like a giant bird to me, somehow, as though black wings would sprout from his back, and he would leap into the air, blotting out everything. He didn't. He merged with the fog.

I walked to where he had stood, and there was a transistor radio leaning up against the fence, rusted with age. A window revealed squarish white numbers along a gray line, a red line bisecting the 8s most of the way to the left. I turned it on and his voice spoke through a squeal of static. "It's an an-teek," he said, drawing out and tasting the word.

When I was fifteen I went to the mausoleum and next to it found a patch of lighter colored grass. I had brought with me a shovel, and I dug as the crickets chirped all around me. The blade hit wood, and I pulled up a small box. I lifted the twisted, torn black clasp and raised the lid. The box was empty. But I remembered from long ago the inside of the box, the smell of varnish and the lines of light that glowed, glowed more faintly, and then disappeared.

I was not the good one.


Mind Controlled "Zombie" Ants

Too creepy not to post:

Scientists discover Zombie ants in Brazil

A newly discovered fungus takes control of the minds of ants and forces them to spread its spores.

'Zombie ants' may sound like the title of an Ed Wood movie, but, according to National Geographic, they are quite real. Oddly, there's nothing very zombie-like about the actual ants. It's only when a particular fungus takes over the ant's brain that things get weird.

Once the "stalk of the newfound fungus species Ophiocordyceps camponoti-balzani infects an ant, the ant gives up control over its own body. After the fungus is in control, it forces the ant to scamper toward "a location ideal for the fungi to grow and spread their spores." Then, it's lights out for the ant. Who knew a fungus could be so diabolical?

These wild discoveries were made by a group in Brazil headed by entomologist David Hughes. National Geographic published a series of pictures of ants that have "lost their minds" to the fungus. You can check out a sample of them below. Not for the squeamish.

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source 1
source 2

(Now with a slow-motion video of an ant... again don't come in this post if you can't stand this stuff. ;))
dean like myself is a pure virginal ange

Missing and Found Again

I was going to post this in the Personal Experiences post but I kind of just wanted to make my own post anyways haha cause I haven't yet...anyways, to the point.

I use my cellphone for an alarm clock. Everynight I set it on my way to bed (even though half the time I wake up before it goes off unless I'm really tired or something) and I plug it in right next to my bed. There will be the odd time that I leave it downstairs by accident and have to go back down and get it after I'm all snuggled in and almost asleep, but that happens very rarely. I DISTINCTLY remember plugging it in last night because I was I had to move my big ass Italian mastiff out of the way and I was telling him what a doofus he is sometimes while he was busy slobbering all over my arm and acting all non aware and stuff.

This morning, I heard it going off but it was very faint, like it had fallen off of the night table and under the bed or something, or that i had unplugged it in my sleep, hit snooze and put it under my pillow or something...which both of these things have happened before. So, I turned on the little light and looked all around behind the bed table and undert the bed, under some pillows that were on the ground, under my pillows, under the blankets under my dogs ect. Nothing, no cell phone anywhere.

The phone is still going off and i realize it's OUTSIDE of my bed room somehow. So, I go and I look and the phone is sitting on the ground dead center right at the top of the stairs. Its still kind of dark in the hallway and the thing is also on vibrate as well as sound and it seemed like something so totally right out of a horror movie I can't even tell you. So, I ran and I grabbed it and ran back into my room, half slammed the door and got back into bed.

Here's where it gets even weirder and i dont know if you'll believe this or not but I swear on my life the ringtone that was playing when it was sitting there on the floor is NOT the ring tone I have set for any alarm clock or even any ring that I have set for contacts on my phone and i find it so creepy / bizarre. Even weirder, the phone was going off at 5:24 and the earliest alarm I had set on it was 6:45.

This house is haunted by something, and things have gone missing and put back two seconds later or show up in another room but not like this....this seemed creepier...almost like it was a taunt or something.

I know it probably could be explained that i just took it with me when sleep walking or something but I'm just SO creeped out by this.

anyone else had something like this happen?

Home Invasions


One subject that terrifies me is the subject of home invasions. I know many of us have said this repeatedly in this comm, but I do believe people are capable of the scariest and most horrible things, and terrify me much more than the paranormal (remember this post ?).

One of the most recent home invasions that drew nation-wide attention occurred in my state. Known as the Cheshire Home Invasion (wiki article), it occurred in 2007 and resulted in the death of 3 individuals (a mother and two daughters) while the father survived. The entire incident is devastatingly brutal, and suffice to say, watching The Strangers with my friends didn't help placating my paranoia much regarding them.

So creepies, have there been any home invasions that have occurred near you? What are your thoughts?

Ps. If you don't want to read the wiki article (tl;dr), Oprah recently interviewed the father and the short introduction of the crime/case can be found here



INSTRUCTIONS: so, you click to leave a comment. in the box, there is one box on the bottom left for "post comment". on the right is "more options". click that then click "anonymous" and you will be more invisible than slenderman!








The Gathering in the Deep Wood, Part 3

I entered into a cramped area with a carpet piled with shoes of all varieties: oil-stained sneakers; bent high heels; flattened boat shoes; bedroom slippers; boots, some impossibly tall; slingbacks, clogs, and mules; sandals, birkenstocks, and flip-flops. To the pile I added my ancient bluchers. I opened a white, graffiti littered door and entered

Bay 1

In the center of the first bay were sprawled Chevrolets whose roofs had been sheared off. I looked up and saw that the roofs had been stapled to the upper walls and ceiling with huge, industrial sized bolts. Painted on the car roofs was artwork whose quality ranged from toilet stall stick figures with ungrammatical captions to stark, colorful, obscene Raphaelian frescoes to elaborate Carravagistian murals.

On one, a goat lay on his back in a lightning-veined thundercloud high above a vast, brown Mideastern city. The goat's navel was a dome light. Its jaw was slack, revealing long, wood-like teeth; its sinewy, muscled limbs were akimbo, its jutting sex about to be set upon by seven goggle-eyed cherubim with pink, pudgy, clutching hands.

At the corners, aged angels averted or covered their eyes, their expressions betraying distress or disgust. One had yellow streams of vomit shooting from her nostrils, her liver spotted, heavily veined fingers entwined tightly over her mouth.

I made my way along the edge of the room toward a passage marked with bright blue duct tape. Through the doorway I thought I caught a furtive movement. My wife, leading me forward? The proprietor of the garage, delighted or repelled at its condition? The organizer of the heretofore missing "gathering" hinted at in the flier? I ducked through into

Bay 2

whose floor was piled high with discarded piles of clothing. Jeans dropped, forming a pair of empty eyes. Skirts and brassieres and crumpled tops, corsets, waistcoats, vests and undershirts. The walls here were lined with books whose spines spoke their titles in languages unknown to me. The few English titles appeared to be collections of aphorisms and/or instruction manuals by an Abrecan Geist. Moving toward the next doorway, opposite the last, I marked a few other upsetting titles in English.

Bastions of Disquiet, by Rangel Bantam
Violent Rigor, by Phillip Rippingcoat
Systems of Savagery, by Skelton Tornweather
Vistas of Carrion, by Carp Tarscallion
Aligning the Architectures of Deviltry, by Vasterian Cull

Suddenly a light finger touched my shoulder and I whirled 'round. No one was there. I tucked in my chin and glanced rightward, and on my shoulder spied a house centipede the length of an unsharpened pencil on my shoulder. Its long leg danced as it scuttled toward my neck and I brushed it away with disgust. I looked up, and the ceiling was writhing with the foul creatures, a field of elongated, living burrs crawling on and over and around one another. I fled into

Bay 3

where finally I saw people--but these were children. None appeared to be over the age of five. Two boys were engaged in a solemn game of towering and then toppling blood-red blocks. A girl crawled over a large, flat book with blank pages, leaving blue ink hand and foot prints. An expansive crib rocked wildly, crowded with cooing babies. Strangely, the room was fairly quiet.

Across I saw a boy of about four in a striped shirt who looked vaguely familiar. He had wide-set eyes, light brown bangs drawing a fiercely straight line across his forehead, and small mouth set in concentration to match his furrowed brow. He was arranging on a green plastic podium an eight-limbed stuffed bear.

"What is his name," I asked.

"Tickles," the boy said. A line of pink drool swung between his lover lip and the bear's round, gray ear.

"RUG-UH-HUM," a voice bellowed out over the diminutive crowd. "RUG-ugh-ugh-ugh-HEM," and I saw a boy of about 9--older by far than most in the room--hawk up a mass onto the white plastic table at which he sat, his knees up at his chin.

I set off in his direction, clamoring over children, toy dinosaurs, and navigating around a good sized pile of turds topped with a conical yellow party hat, rakishly tilted.

The boy looked up at me expectantly, eyes wide. The mass he had expectorated trembled on the table. It was pale gray and lined with what appeared to be pinkish veins. Though I addressed the boy, it seemed wise to keep a careful eye fixed on the thing on the table. This I did.

"Erm," I said, and then I stopped, unsure of precisely how to continue.

"Are you looking," the boy grinned toothlessly, "for a good time?"

I gaped at him.

"They are outside," he said. "The grown-ups. In the wood."

I looked back down at the table. The mass was gone. The lights seemed to brighten.

All the children, except for the sleeping ones, were looking at me, their eyes swimming with secrets.

I stood and headed for the exit.
Me: Illustrated

Haunted Gettysburg!

Every year, my husband and I take trips to Gettysburg for the Ghost Tours. This year, we actually stayed at the Farnsworth House Inn, which is purported to be one of the most haunted houses in the US. It was occupied by Confederate sharpshooters during the battle, a few of whom were killed in the attic, then stored in the cellar. The first floor was used as a field hospital. The staff has reported somewhere around 14 distinct spirits. We were not disappointed. We had a super freaky experience on the Farnsworth's 11pm "Mature Tour" last night.

Long story short: there is a thirteen year old entity who lurks at the base of Cemetery Hill. We have encountered her two years in a row. She made one woman on our tour last night completely lose it.

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We had a few other strange experiences during our stay-- during one storytelling session, a name was spoken to me very clearly from the empty seat next to me. When I asked the storyteller who "Abraham" was, I was told that he was a Confederate who had been found dead in the cellar, not too far behind where I was sitting. However, as he is not a very active spirit in the house (where several of their other spirits are very active), he's rarely ever spoken of and almost never named. That was cool.

Anyhow-- I love Gettysburg and its energy. So much got imprinted there by the heaviness of what happened there-- both on the battlefield and in the civilian experience.

Has anyone else had a Haunted Gettysburg story they'd like to share?
  • jaysus

(no subject)

What was the creepiest/scariest non-supernatural thing that's ever happened to you?

When I was around 11 or 12 years old, a man used to come to my window every night and stare at me. He would masturbate while looking into my room. My blinds were broken so I couldn't really close them, and every time I called my parents into my room the man would run away and they wouldn't see him there. They would get really angry at me for waking them up. I started thinking that I was going crazy because nobody ever saw or heard him but me. I'd sit in the corner of my room not knowing what to do -- if I ran to my parents, they'd just yell at me. Sometimes I was too scared to move. I started sleeping in the living room but I was terrified because I thought the man would break in and try to rape me. I stayed up many nights just staring at my bedroom door, waiting for him to burst into the living room and kill me or something. But one time he left a chair near my window. When my parents saw it they finally believed me and we called the police, but they couldn't find him. He didn't come back after that.

Creepy Coincidences

I just came across a list of the top twenty coincidences. It's from 2007, but decided to post the list anyways. So, does anyone have any creepy coincidences to share? I apologize if this is really bad formatting. I'm new here and trying to get the hang of it.

James Dean's car curse
In September 1955, James Dean was killed in a horrific car accident whilst he was driving his Porsche sports car. After the crash the car was seen as very unlucky.
a) When the car was towed away from accident scene and taken to a garage, the engine slipped out and fell onto a mechanic, shattering both of his legs.
b) Eventually the engine was bought by a doctor, who put it into his racing car and was killed shortly afterwards, during a race. Another racing driver, in the same race, was killed in his car, which had James Dean's driveshaft fitted to it.
c) When James Dean's Porsche was later repaired, the garage it was in was destroyed by fire.
d) Later the car was displayed in Sacramento, but it fell off it's mount and broke a teenager's hip.
e) In Oregon, the trailer that the car was mounted on slipped from it's towbar and smashed through the front of a shop.
f) Finally, in 1959, the car mysteriously broke into 11 pieces while it was sitting on steel supports.

A falling baby, saved twice by the same man
In Detroit sometime in the 1930s, a young (if incredibly careless) mother must have been eternally grateful to a man named Joseph Figlock. As Figlock was walking down the street, the mother's baby fell from a high window onto Figlock. The baby's fall was broken and both man and baby were unharmed. A stroke of luck on its own, but a year later, the very same baby fell from the very same window onto poor, unsuspecting Joseph Figlock as he was again passing beneath. And again, they both survived the event. (Source: Mysteries of the Unexplained)

A bullet that reached its destiny years later
Henry Ziegland thought he had dodged fate. In 1883, he broke off a relationship with his girlfriend who, out of distress, committed suicide. The girl's brother was so enraged that he hunted down Ziegland and shot him. The brother, believing he had killed Ziegland, then turned his gun on himself and took his own life. But Ziegland had not been killed. The bullet, in fact, had only grazed his face and then lodged in a tree. Ziegland surely thought himself a lucky man. Some years later, however, Ziegland decided to cut down the large tree, which still had the bullet in it. The task seemed so formidable that he decided to blow it up with a few sticks of dynamite. The explosion propelled the bullet into Ziegland's head, killing him. (Source: Ripley's Believe It or Not!)

Mark Twain and Halley's Comet
Mark Twain was born on the day of the appearance of Halley's Comet in 1835, and died on the day of its next appearance in 1910. He himself predicted this in 1909, when he said: "I came in with Halley's Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it."

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