Post your own ghost stories - I dare you!
- Thread starter Holly Gibney
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lol... I find the avatars for both Scratch and Sigmund scaryBut the avatar that sends the most shivers up my spine belongs to Tooly It creeps me out big time.
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Hama mama! It's fright nite!!!
It is kinda embarrassing cuz I was 25 at the time, but o my goodness it was scary. Just came back from otr work and stayed the night at my moms' house. It was about 1am, just an assumption on the time frame by the way. I was fully awake at the time and just peering around the room waiting to doze off ."IT" was about 6ft. outside the entrance to the bedroom door, I couldn't quite see a whole figure. I just tried to keep focusing, frozen with terror also. All I know is it had RED eyes and one fang...which is all I could see. I pulled the little kid move and covered my head slowly, peered back out when I had the nerve and it was gone. I lied there temporarily; got outta bed and woke my mom up!!! whatta a baby right? I'm tellin ya though, SCARY business folks.
bhill , every time I see your username I think of Bill in IT pronouncing his name.
Was this intentional?
Was this intentional?
Ahoy hoy!
I have started this thread for members to tell of their own encounters with our friends from the other side, their own ghost stories or UFO sightings or anything of that nature. I only have one of my own to contribute, and I’m not even certain that it was an encounter with a ghost, but I’ll tell it here, and perhaps this group of horror-lovers will feel a little bit of that chill we all love so much trickling down their spines…
First, a bit of scene setting. When I was a child, there was a field behind our house and a forest on the other side of the field. Standing on the edge of that forest, barely obscured by the trees, was an abandoned, tumble-down old cottage known to everyone in the area as “the haunted house”. As far as I know, there were no ghost stories connected with the haunted house; people just called it that because it was a spooky old place, standing alone with its roof collapsing and the windows smashed, the garden overgrown.
It had not been inhabited in the era of car ownership and there was no road to the house, just a muddy footpath through a dark and steep forest where the sun never seemed to penetrate. Even at the height of summer, you only had to go a few feet into the forest and the temperature would drop and you would be in a dark grey gloom, your only companions rabbits and foxes and owls. I used to take a shortcut through the forest sometimes going to and from the bus stop to work, and it always gave me a quiet and lovely thrill, as though I was briefly in the company of elves or fairies. A magical place…
The garden of this house was full of apple trees and straggling bramble bushes. In the summer, the scent of rotting apples and the gently soporific sound of bees would fill the air, and the overgrown thorny bushes would grab at your ankles as you picked your way along the path, snagging on your clothes and not letting you go…
Naturally, the local children all used to go into the haunted house to play - mostly just creeping around, daring each other to explore a little bit further and then suddenly losing their nerve and coming running out with lots of squeals and nervous laughter. Older kids used to go there too, to drink and smoke and spray the walls. You know the type of place, I’m sure. Most neighbourhoods have one.
Anyway, we are finally getting to the story of my one and only possible brush with the supernatural. When I was about 13 or so, me and my friends discovered the ouija board. We used to go to various places to hold seances - friends’ houses when their parents were out, and even on one occasion a local hotel where one of us had a part-time job. (The hotel itself is a whole other story - an ancient Scottish castle which boasted several ghosts, and was full of tiny little corridors and neglected rooms where curious children could creep in with their ouija boards…
We placed our fingers on the glass and the usual thing happened. The glass began flying around the board wildly, bashing at the letters in no apparent order. We were scared, we were giggling, all a little bit hyper with fear. Then, suddenly, the glass slowed down and a name was spelled out. I forget the name now, but one of the girls in the group was shocked and upset. “That’s someone in my family,” she said. Alive or dead?, we asked her. Dead. We asked this person a few questions, and they answered - I can’t remember what the questions were now, but I don’t think they were important. What was important was that this girl was growing sadder and sadder, and began to cry. She was getting seriously upset, and what had begun as a giggle was turning into quite a disturbing experience. Some members of the group (they were only young children) started getting scared and asked us to stop the seance, crying and saying that they wanted to go home. A few seconds later, the whole group of children were running out of the haunted house faster than we had ever run out of it before, and we didn’t stop running (or crying) until we got beyond that overgrown garden with its thorny bushes grabbing at your ankles and trying to hold you back…
In our rush to get out of there, we had left the ouija board and the glass behind. The girl who they belonged to was desperate to get them back (“My brother’ll kill me!”), but we were all too scared to set foot in that house to go and get them. The next day, myself and a couple of friends went back in to collect them, and we found... the ouija board had been burned. It was still there and still recognisable, but it was as black as charcoal all over… Good grief - I have never been so scared in all my life!
Obviously this is far from being a definite encounter with the paranormal. Some other kids might have been in there overnight and they might have burned it for a prank, or just because they were bored. But I still remember that charred and blackened board after that terrifying seance, and, if I’m lying in bed at night and it comes to mind, the darkness of the room starts to feel a whole lot more threatening and a lot more uncomfortable…
Does anybody here have any ghost stories of their own they would like to share? I love hearing a good real-life ghost story, the uncannier the better!
When I was a kid I encountered my great grandma's ghost twice in the room that she died in, when I tried to tell my mom my mom threatened to put me back in the children's mental ward.
BACK in the children's mental ward? There is a children's mental ward?
Yeah, but they call them "children's medical centers", most of them are horrible horrible places that don't really do anything to help kids. One of the saddest things I saw in one of those places was a girl who claimed she was being visited by spirits; no one believed her and she was ridiculed for her claims, but I could tell just by looking into her eyes that she had seen something and that whatever she had seen was eating at her soul.
I'm a big believer in demons using Tarot cards and Ouija boards as "places of contact/communication" and "doors", if you will, no offense. Even horror movies make mention of it from time to time. I hope that doesn't sound loony, but then again I'm not the one with ghosts flying around my house.
I have stories re Ouija and Tarot. But I have to read all these stories first - my productive day did not start at 5:30 a.m. as planned, or rather, this is research and *boom* successful spin
Dream and Awake
When I was about 9 or 10, I had a weekly nightmare for nigh unto a year.
I’m driving in fog so thick, I can only see the first white dash on the road ahead. I've gone too far. The fog eases just enough to reveal a driveway on the left. I take it.
I hit the gravel, the fog lifts just enough to let me inside the yellow disk thrown down by a bright security light on the side of a white barn to the right. There’s a white house to the left with a nice big porch. White spindle railing, four white spindle posts, a matching screen door - the wood kind with a spring at the top to slam it shut and a hook and eye to latch it. Windows on either side of the door glow yellow. I see someone sitting at a table.
(I know this seems very specific for a dream, but it was a very specific dream, and I did dream it at least 52 times, so the details kinda stuck with me.)
I decide to ask directions. I park in front of the house, climb down from my vehicle, walk through the wet grass, up two steps and across the porch to the door. I knock. I’m in sandals, and grass trimmings stick to my feet. I hate that feeling.
An old woman answers the door. She’s wearing one of those over-the-neck aprons with deep pockets. She’s stooped. Her hair’s in a bun on the back of her neck and grey hairs straggle free all over her head. An old man sits at the table behind her with his back to us. He’s in old fashioned dungarees with suspenders over a faded shirt. The table fills the kitchen. It’s covered with an old, red checked oilcloth.
I ask for directions and the old woman tells me to go on back the way I’d come. She invites me in for a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee sounds good. There’s an old fashioned percolator on the stove. I say yes and thank you. She unlatches the door and holds it open for me.
I walk into the kitchen. It smells funny. The old man turns around and looks at me. He has brilliant blue eyes.
I wake up screaming.
[Fast forward 1980]
My husband calls me. He’s back from a long six weeks cleaning up hazardous waste someplace in the back row of nowhere. He needs me to pick him up. I climb into my 1979 Jeep CJ and head out east on State Route 224. The fog is abysmal. I’m going about zero miles an hour because I can barely see. I have to concentrate on the road, watching for the next white line to tell me I’m not drifting.
I’m having a hard time gauging distance, and I’ve never been good at odometer math. Or any math, for that matter. There are farm houses with security lights every half mile on 224, but I never see a single one. That’s how thick it was - the fog ate all the light. Eventually I realize I must have come too far. I start looking for a place to turn around. I don’t dare pull a u-turn; no visibility. My frustration is peaking when the fog lifts enough to show me a driveway on the left and a faint light.
I pull in. I’m in a lighted bubble surrounded with fog. There's a white barn sporting a security light that casts a halo over the yard and the house to the left. I think it’s sad there’s no chairs on that big porch. Everything’s familiar, but not strangely. I drive 224 all the time.
I can see folks there are still up, so I decide to ask for directions. As I walk through the wet grass in my sandles, I get a strong sense of deja vu. I think I probably have been here before. My daddy took me along when he sheared sheep for a living, so I’ve been on my share of Ohio farms. I wish they had a walk up to the porch. I hate the feeling of grass sticking to my feet.
I knock. An old woman answers. I ask directions. She tells me to go back the way I came. She invites me in for a cup of coffee. I look through the screen at the old man’s back, his suspenders and his crumpled, faded shirt inching out of the back of those old work jeans. I see the checkered oil cloth and the percolator on the white stove. I see the old woman put her hand on the latch.
I remember.
I decline the coffee. I force myself to walk at a normal pace back to my Jeep. I slowly, carefully pull on around the horseshoe drive and back onto 224, back the way I came. When I feel the back tires roll onto the asphalt, I ram through all four gears and tear into the fog at a speed many miles per hour over safe for road conditions. In a matter of minutes I emerge into a crystal clear night.
My husband is extremely miffed that it took me literally hours to make a 15 minute drive. I explain the fog.
“What fog?”
I explain again. He tells me I’m insane - there’s no fog, he’s been star gazing and cussing me. He would have noticed fog.
A few weeks later, I have reason to drive that same stretch of 224 during daylight. I watch for that house. I watch for it again on my way back.
There is no house like that on the north side of State Route 224. There is no house with a spindle porch and a horseshoe driveway and a white barn anywhere on 224 between Tiffin and Findlay, Ohio.
I can make this stuff up, but I didn’t.
When I was about 9 or 10, I had a weekly nightmare for nigh unto a year.
I’m driving in fog so thick, I can only see the first white dash on the road ahead. I've gone too far. The fog eases just enough to reveal a driveway on the left. I take it.
I hit the gravel, the fog lifts just enough to let me inside the yellow disk thrown down by a bright security light on the side of a white barn to the right. There’s a white house to the left with a nice big porch. White spindle railing, four white spindle posts, a matching screen door - the wood kind with a spring at the top to slam it shut and a hook and eye to latch it. Windows on either side of the door glow yellow. I see someone sitting at a table.
(I know this seems very specific for a dream, but it was a very specific dream, and I did dream it at least 52 times, so the details kinda stuck with me.)
I decide to ask directions. I park in front of the house, climb down from my vehicle, walk through the wet grass, up two steps and across the porch to the door. I knock. I’m in sandals, and grass trimmings stick to my feet. I hate that feeling.
An old woman answers the door. She’s wearing one of those over-the-neck aprons with deep pockets. She’s stooped. Her hair’s in a bun on the back of her neck and grey hairs straggle free all over her head. An old man sits at the table behind her with his back to us. He’s in old fashioned dungarees with suspenders over a faded shirt. The table fills the kitchen. It’s covered with an old, red checked oilcloth.
I ask for directions and the old woman tells me to go on back the way I’d come. She invites me in for a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee sounds good. There’s an old fashioned percolator on the stove. I say yes and thank you. She unlatches the door and holds it open for me.
I walk into the kitchen. It smells funny. The old man turns around and looks at me. He has brilliant blue eyes.
I wake up screaming.
[Fast forward 1980]
My husband calls me. He’s back from a long six weeks cleaning up hazardous waste someplace in the back row of nowhere. He needs me to pick him up. I climb into my 1979 Jeep CJ and head out east on State Route 224. The fog is abysmal. I’m going about zero miles an hour because I can barely see. I have to concentrate on the road, watching for the next white line to tell me I’m not drifting.
I’m having a hard time gauging distance, and I’ve never been good at odometer math. Or any math, for that matter. There are farm houses with security lights every half mile on 224, but I never see a single one. That’s how thick it was - the fog ate all the light. Eventually I realize I must have come too far. I start looking for a place to turn around. I don’t dare pull a u-turn; no visibility. My frustration is peaking when the fog lifts enough to show me a driveway on the left and a faint light.
I pull in. I’m in a lighted bubble surrounded with fog. There's a white barn sporting a security light that casts a halo over the yard and the house to the left. I think it’s sad there’s no chairs on that big porch. Everything’s familiar, but not strangely. I drive 224 all the time.
I can see folks there are still up, so I decide to ask for directions. As I walk through the wet grass in my sandles, I get a strong sense of deja vu. I think I probably have been here before. My daddy took me along when he sheared sheep for a living, so I’ve been on my share of Ohio farms. I wish they had a walk up to the porch. I hate the feeling of grass sticking to my feet.
I knock. An old woman answers. I ask directions. She tells me to go back the way I came. She invites me in for a cup of coffee. I look through the screen at the old man’s back, his suspenders and his crumpled, faded shirt inching out of the back of those old work jeans. I see the checkered oil cloth and the percolator on the white stove. I see the old woman put her hand on the latch.
I remember.
I decline the coffee. I force myself to walk at a normal pace back to my Jeep. I slowly, carefully pull on around the horseshoe drive and back onto 224, back the way I came. When I feel the back tires roll onto the asphalt, I ram through all four gears and tear into the fog at a speed many miles per hour over safe for road conditions. In a matter of minutes I emerge into a crystal clear night.
My husband is extremely miffed that it took me literally hours to make a 15 minute drive. I explain the fog.
“What fog?”
I explain again. He tells me I’m insane - there’s no fog, he’s been star gazing and cussing me. He would have noticed fog.
A few weeks later, I have reason to drive that same stretch of 224 during daylight. I watch for that house. I watch for it again on my way back.
There is no house like that on the north side of State Route 224. There is no house with a spindle porch and a horseshoe driveway and a white barn anywhere on 224 between Tiffin and Findlay, Ohio.
I can make this stuff up, but I didn’t.
I was freaking out so bad today. I thought our house was haunted but it was actually my mother who moved all my teddy bears.
My father visited me twice just after he passed away. Will give the details another day but right now I made the mistake of browsing this thread just before going to bed and some of you people scare me.