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This is a question Terrified!

Bathory asks: What was the most scared you've ever been? How brown were your pants?

(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 13:32)
Pages: Popular, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I was once walking home at night behind a woman
She started walking faster in that "trying not to look like you're walking fast" way. I picked up my speed a bit, too. She then started walking even faster and so did I.

Then she broke into what I can only describe as a "gentle jog", and when I did as well she went into an all-out sprint.

By that time we were only about 200 metres from my house, but when I got home I was out of breath and sweating.

To this day I don't know what we were running from.
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 15:02, 8 replies)
Alien War
Back in the mid-1990's there was this interactive exhibition type thing in the Trocadero Centre in Picadilly Circus called ALIEN WAR. As a huge Alien fan, of course I could not resist it. I paid my fiver not knowing what really to expect - some blokes in xenomorph costumes behind glass, clips from the films, etc. NO WAY was I prepared for what was about to come!

I (and about ten other people) are led into a dark room that looks like the medroom set from Aliens and "briefed" by Colonel Hardass, who tells us we we're a group of scientists visiting xenomorphs in captivity that we must be extremely careful, as these things are dangerous, etc etc. Pretty much what I was expecting.

After about two minutes of this, a shrieking alarm blares out and all the lighting goes emergency red, and I shit my pants (not for the first time). Colonel Hardass cuts the alarm, presses the intercom and we hear a garbled message along the lines of "AAAAGHHH! THEY'RE KILLING US! GET US OUT OF HERE AAAAAAAAAAIEEEEE!" and I shit my pants again.

Col H calls for calm whilst telling us that the worst has happened - the aliens have all escaped, and are marauding their way through the space station killing all in sight!

By this point, my legs are actually shaking with fear. NOW I KNOW the xenomorphs aren't real, and I knew so back then; but such is the power of the Alien films (well the first two), and so convincing was the set-up and the acting skills of Col H (really, he could have fitted in right beside Apone, Vasquez et al) that the knowledge that it was all make-believe was USELESS. USELESS. USELESS. However much the rational side of my mind tried to convince me this was all fake, it was shouted down by the (larger) irrational side of my mind which screamed GAME OVER, MAN! GAME OOOO-VER! on a continual loop. From that point on, I and my fellow scientists were, effectively, inside an Aliens film. And we all know what happens in those. Bloody, violent DEATH!

Col Hardass informs us that we have to make our way through the station to the shuttle-bay, there to make our escape. With no time to think we are hustled along a Nostromo-like corridor shrouded in dry ice, with Colonel Hardass urging continual vigilance. Minutes pass, there are nervous giggles and my legs are STILL shaking. NOTREALNOTREAL/GAMEOVERGAMEOVERGAMEOVER. Suddenly a door BUSTS open and Lieutenant Injured falls through, screaming in pain and holding an arm which is covered in blood. So convincing was his acting and the make up that I actually felt cold fear rise up from the soles of my feat to my balls. Lt Injured briefs us on the situation - we're all fucked - before being spirited away somewhere (such was the terror and confusion I can't remember what happened to him).

We are then hustled along another corridor at the end of which suddenly appears - an alien!

I've no idea to this day how they did it (film projection, smoke and mirrors, man in a suit?) To all intents and purposes, we are faced with an actual alien, out of Alien (well, Aliens, it was one of the ones with a ridged carapace). Everyody, EVERYBODY, SCREAMS and immediately runs back the other way! Col H is nowhere to be seen. I still remember the blind panic of those moments, I was shoving people aside to get them behind me so that the alien would get them and not me. It sounds pathetic, but it was so realistic that it felt like the real thing and by now all of us were on such an adrenaline high that we were utterly convinced it was real.

Suddenly Col H re-appear and bundles us into a lift - which I swear to this day I could feel plummeting down at speed. At the bottom the doors open to reveal another alien! This one must have been a man in a suit as he - it - REACHES INTO THE LIFT AND GRABS THIS GIRL'S ARM! I still remember her shrieks of pure terror.

Out the lift the other side - and we find ourselves in a chamber of alien eggs, swimming in dry ice. By now all of use are insane with terror, so we don't have to be told to be careful as we wind our way through the xenomorphic minefield. Thankfully (though rather disappointingly in retrospect) none of the eggs open, and we make it into the shuttle. By this time I was gibbering. "Check under the seats!" I shout before we strap ourselves in. "Good man!" grunts Colonel Hardass and my heart swells with pride. Then the shuttle takes off with a great shuddering and shaking and deafening racket (all effects obviously) and then the doors open to reveal - the gift shop.

"Well done ladies and gentleman you have survived Alien War", say Colonel Hardass and shakes all our hands.

I remember staggering dumbly out into the Spring sunshine of Picadilly Circus, and finding my way to Burger King where I sat, alternately shivering involuntarily and bursting out with laughter. My little mind had been fairly blown. It was two hours before I began to feel even vaguely normal.

I went back again a few years later, but it wasn't as good as the first time (diminishing returns) and it closed in 1996 due to a flood.

I appreciate that at no time was I in mortal danger and that the fear was nothing like that of finding a lump on your balls, but, honestly, I've never been so scared before or since that my legs *actually shook with terror.*

Best fiver I've ever spent!
(, Fri 6 Apr 2012, 18:09, 15 replies)
A Tenuous Tale of Two Types of Terrified…

My good friend, dear Captain Placid, is a massive, hairy, scary grizzly bear of a man. On befriending you, he can be amongst the most warmhearted, soft as shite, generous powderkeg of funnies you are ever likely to meet, but at the merest hint of something that qualifies as an injustice, he can go off like a cheap firework and turn into a snarling, weapons grade, silver backed gorilla.

I’ve known the old scrote for many years – this means I can fortunately get away with certain things (despite the fact that in the pub I still ensure I sit just out of reach of him so I can rapidly bolt should he finally snap to my non-stop piss-taking.)

A couple of weeks ago – the big bugger borked his beloved Blackberry (yup, you guessed it - he was rat-arsed at the time) subsequently denting it a bit and breaking the screen. He was understandably narked a tad, and sought out ways to remedy this tragedy. He checked online and the repair job looked pretty fiddly, and because of his hands like cow’s tits and big sausage-fingers, CP wisely decided to employ a professional to do the job rather than fork out for the parts and make a complete bollock up of it. Good choice I reckon.

He then trawled the ‘tinterwebz’ further and checked out a few places online, but was never fully happy with either the service promised, price, or the fact that they would have to keep his precious phone with them for the next millennium before they would even have a sniff of it.

‘Fuck this for a Jaffa Cake’ Exclaimed the Captain, getting somewhat frustrated.

Fast forward (a bit) to last week…we were in the pub with some friends (including a couple of fellow B3tards), and CP was whinging like a little bitch belligerently bemoaning about what he should do regarding his newly fucked-up-phone predicament, when one of the locals piped up with a friendly voice: “Hey Cap, there are a couple of shops nearby that will sort that for ya”

Monsieur Placid was intrigued. “Do tell” he responded (doing his best effort to smile without looking too intimidating as he was in ‘friendly, yet heavily refreshed mode’ at this point).

He was then given the locations of two shops nearby that he was certain could satisfy CP’s stringent requirements to get the job done – i.e: Cheaper, faster, and significantly better quality than a blowie from a Taiwanese lady boy.

The very next day he set off like an overstuffed whippet, ready to plunge into the magical, enchanting world of shitty mobile repair shops in darkest Coventry.

The first shop was a disappointment; the staff annoyed CP by not giving him assurances with completion times, ‘umm’d and ‘ah’d about whether they had the right parts, and when they said they wouldn’t give him a price until after the work was completed, our hero then promptly told them where they could shove their entire shop, before kindly volunteering to assist with the process.

The next place however, was a different story. The guy seemed professional and courteous, and said he would do it right away, had the parts on site, he would be quick, and for only £35. Result!

Before he handed the patient over he sent me a quick text: ‘Pooflake you preposterous twat. Heavy drinking is still on for 2pm, but don’t try to contact me until then, I’m just handing my phone over now to get it fixed. They’ll have it for the next hour or so.’

Now, I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly I concocted a quite blisteringly stupid plan. I left it about 45-50 minutes, thinking that the repair work would be nearing completion and that the phone was probably being tested to see if everything still worked ok. With this in mind, I then sent the following text, hoping that the repair guy would be likely to read it.

“(CP’s real name), you dirty bastard! Big Todj Tony has just let me know how you two broke your phone. How the fuck did you manage to fit it all the way up his arse? Anyway, he says it was ‘great on vibrate…’?

I then waited, wondering if the repair guy would get to read the text whilst holding the now offending item in his hands. I didn’t have to wait too long to find out

Later that day, The Captain dutifully joined me for some drinkiepoos, and I asked him how his experience with the phone fixing had gone.

“A bit odd, to be honest Poofers…”, he declared. “The guy seemed really friendly when I first gave him the phone, but when I went back later, the guy looked…well…different. Sort of ‘scared’, but disgusted at the same time. All I did was smile at him and pay, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I swear he was shaking! Anyway, he then handed the phone to me...in a plastic bag...with his arm outstretched!”

“PFFFT!” I said before regaining some composure. “Erm..I mean, Pah!, some people eh?” I continued, shrugging my shoulders whilst doing a frankly crap attempt at stifling my giggles.

“I suppose…” He continued. “What’s even stranger is I’m sure I heard him say ‘Don’t come back’ under his breath as I left!”

With that, I couldn’t hold it in any more. “Mwuhahahahahahahaaaaa!” I chortled, much to the Captain’s bemusement as I tried to imagine what must’ve been going through the poor repair guy’s mind. Nobody likes being confronted by the sight of a huge bearded rhinoceros of a man who had just been ‘outed’ as to being into kinky bum fun.
.
And the ‘terrified’ bit? Well, obviously he’s since discovered the text and sussed what happened, so now I’m terrified for my life – If you don’t hear from me again then please call the Rozzers, because it’s very likely that Captain Placid has since bumped into me in a dark alley and squished me like a flabby, over-ripe tomato
(, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 12:30, 16 replies)
Teddy Ruxpin will kill you
My younger brother was about 4, I kust have been 7 or 8, and we shared a room (bunk bed actually, fact fans). His favourite toy at that tender age was his Teddy Ruxpin. You'd put a tape in his 'tummy' and he would read you a story - his mouth moved and everything. Dave (for that is my brother's name) could not fall asleep without a tale from his closest pal.

Meantime, I was starting to gain some understanding of technical things one could do to make life easier. The old tippexed phone card to get repeat calls and - crucially - the fact that putting a bit of sellotape over a tape would mean it could be recorded over.

One day, my brother had pissed me off (no idea how) and I snuck upstairs and planned my revenge using my new-found knowledge.

That night, he was being read a story by Teddy Ruxpin (which totally got my parents off the hook; they could go back downstairs and have another beer once Teddy took over story-telling duties) when, halfway through, Teddy just stopped reading and instead said: "No-one can hear you scream, David. Tonight I'm going to kill you" in a scary deep growly voice.

I managed to switch the tapes before my parents were able to investigate this 'nightmare' any further, but Dave would not have Teddy Ruxpin in the same room as him any more, did not sleep for about a week, and began bedwetting again (he eventually even had to go to a special doctor from the problem).

To this day, he half recalls the incident but thinks it was a vivid nightmare. I've never told him the truth.

Length? Running time approx 25 minutes per story.
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 15:16, 3 replies)
Erk...
I'm a journalist and one day I was interviewing Temuera Morrison, the actor who played (among other brilliant roles) Jake The Muss from Once Were Warriors, arguably the scariest character to grace the silver screen.
So I've spent a day on set watching Morrison work, chatting away when we could and being thoroughly charmed by someone who's not only professional but a lovely guy.
At the end I thanked him for his time and confessed I'd been somewhat worried about the interview having watched Once Were Warriors at the weekend as part of my research.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you were so bloody frightening as Jake," I replied.
And in a heartbeat, Morrison's entire demeanor changed.
He went livid with rage, veins popped out on his forehead and leaned across the table until he was about two inches from my face and snarled: "What. The. FUCK! Do you mean by that!!!"
I couldn't speak, I couldn't move, I just sat there thinking "This is how I die".
Then Morrison sat back with a huge grin on his face and said: "See that? That's called acting!"
Give that man an Oscar... and give me a new pair of pants.
(, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 4:16, 1 reply)
Terrifying hotel stay
This is a recent experience and, when I went through it, I wished that the 'creepy' qotw was still open. But, I write it here anyway because you can go check out the hotel for yourselves next time you are in central London and see how you react. I, for one, was shitting myself.

My colleagues at work (feeling in a generous mood) treated me to a weekend at the Lanesborough hotel in Knightsbridge for my Birthday..basically a swanky boys weekend. I had no idea about this hotel, but it's seriously luxurious. When you arrive, a butler in a penguin suit unpacks everything for you and your ’outfit for the evening’ is pressed.. You are given personalized stationary ( complete with business cards) so that when you go shopping, you can leave a card for the packages to be delivered. No minibar, but a range of large crystal decanters..etc etc. Each floor has that butler on standby and I must admit I got used to having my own personal Jeeves quite quickly

The first day and evening, we lapped it up..We sat in the bar drinking martinis and generally behaving like ponces. Went to sleep in a massive bed feeling very good about life.The next day, in the afternoon, I was walking out of my room and as I was locking the door, noticed five middle aged women standing in the corridor looking around them smiling. As I was walking towards them to get to the lift, I thought their manner was a bit odd (no one really hangs about in hotel corridors) and asked if they were lost in a friendly way. They laughed self-consciously and told me that they used to work on this floor when it was a hospital. I must have looked surprised, and so they nattered on, taking out an old photo album to show me, full of b&w photos of themselves in uniforms reminiscent of Carry On Nurse movies... They told me that they had come down to London for the weekend and the management of the hotel had let them walk around for old times sake. I asked them what my floor was and they said it was the ward used when people were in and out of intensive care, and pointed out the window to the curving road where the ambulances would come in. They were reminiscing as much to each other as to me and one of them mentioned ”Wasn't the grey lady on this floor?” and another one said ”no” just as they remembered that I was still standing there. Of course, I had to ask ”who was the grey lady?” and they all went quiet. Realising they had put their foot in it, they started by telling me that it was all ”ok”, there had been a service by a priest when they had started converting it to a hotel and then told me (still standing there, really wishing I hadn't asked the question) that they always knew when a patient in intensive care wasn't going to make it because they would ask the nurses ”who is the kind lady in the grey uniform?”. Many patients had given them several descriptions such that they reckoned that ”she” was wearing the uniform of a nurse in the crimean war, when the hospital was originally built.

So, all excited, I went to join my colleagues in the hotel bar. One of them is mega superstitious, and whilst going a shade of grey himself, he asked for the concierge to come and have a word. I related what the nurses had told me and this concierge spoke quietly and rather seriously that, yes, there had been ”instances” in the 17 years he had been working there. The official line was that there is ”nothing” to worry about, but he said that a number of staff had seen things that had ”really scared them” (his words) resulting in them handing in their notices and just walking out.

I asked what the most recent one was and he told us this:

Two weeks before, a ”well known politician” was in town with his entourage. The concierge was on the night shift and this big shot came downstairs in the middle of the night, in his pajamas, out of breath. He insisted that there was a woman in his room. Being who he was, there was extra security present 24/7 and they immediately went up to investigate. They returned saying the room was empty and the concierge meanwhile tried to reassure the frightened politician that, look, when we look at the computer records of the use of your key-card, no one has entered the room through the door. To which he replied ”she didn't come through the door, she came in through the wall”. He refused to go back upstairs and they had to wake his staff to pack up all his stuff and he checked out immediately.

At this point, I am beginning to get decidedly unsettled. The rational part of me said, ”don't be silly, perfectly simple explanation to all of this”. But, having a casual encounter with the nurses, seeing their photo album made me superimpose the vision of a hospital (and a Victorian one at that) onto the luxury facade that had been built up. Add to that a concierge who seemed to confirm what these strangers had told me was too much of a coincidence.

We carried on drinking and enjoying ourselves, but as the day progressed, all three of use were getting more and more quiet, and lost in our thoughts, knowing that at some point we would have to walk upstairs to our rooms in, what was to us now: essentially a haunted house

The irrational side of me took over when I did so. I have to admit I was really scared. I went through the normal routine of getting to bed (brushing teeth, having a piss), in quiet terror, my heart hammering away and I refused to look at any mirrors (or the walls for that matter). I did not sleep a wink but lay under the quilt, every single sound amplified by my imagination

The next day, my colleagues looked as knackered as I felt. We were happy to check out..

I know, they might have all been taking the piss...that thought did not help at the time

When you go visit it, think of a hospital and the layout of the place will make sense. In addition, ask if you can see the special luxury cigar smoking room in the basement. It's at the end of a long corridor and has no windows but set up with leather sofas and industrial strength extractors. The concierge told us it used to be the morgue.
(, Fri 6 Apr 2012, 15:38, 2 replies)
Snakes, spiders, and scorpions...
Anyone who knows me knows my various animals. I've rehomed dozens of exotic pets, often taking on those that others can't or won't look after. I've been bitten many a time, but never been put off.

Some would say I'm a bit of an adrenaline junkie, I've tested motorcycles for a living, raced them and done crazy-stupid adventures. But no matter.

I've kept and handled (and adored) them all. From birdeater spiders to rear-fanged venomous snakes, hand-sized scorpions to big constrictor snakes, I'm happy around any animals.

But there's one creature, which I own, which terrifies me. It's the one I won't handle, won't pick up and, essentially, don't go near except to throw food in and rapidly close the (locked) glass doors.



The tokay gecko.

Now, I know, you're thinking "that cute little thing? It's adorable! Look at its big eyes and happy, smiling face."

Yeah, smiling because it's SATAN!

Let me explain. Tokay geckos are notoriously, insanely brave. Most reptiles will shy away from confrontation, even venomous snakes and big monitor lizards.

Not the tiny, foot-long tokay gecko. Oh, no. They have balls like coconuts. They'll charge at you with their mouth gaping, hissing and honking (they're the only lizard to call, and they shout 'to-kay', hence their name).

Did I mention that they're also lightning fast, they can climb on any surface, including wet glass, and their jaw locks solid for up to an hour when they bite?



Yep. Bright blue and orange lizard-monster which shouts its own name, charges at things a hundred times its size and ignores gravity? It's pretty much a Pokemon isn't it.



And even though it can't do much damage to a person, that damned honk sends a shiver down my spine, and that of most other owners…

It's coming for me. One day...
(, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 12:43, 7 replies)
I was Terrified
This is my first post and I have Captain Placid and Pooflake as my friends so I think I’m pretty brave for writing anything at all to be honest- be gentle with me...

The most terrifying thing happened to me about 20 years ago when living the life of a surf dudette - in fact actually generally bumming around, not doing a lot.

I was living in France and working for various holiday companies, teaching surfing, what a great life, at the start and end of the season we had to set up campsites and take them down again- Montage and Demontage… a great life working in the sun all day drinking beer, partying all night, more beer, Pol Remy (50p a bottle sparkling wine) and the occasional recreational MASSIVE drugs...

At the end of this particular year I was the area manager; god knows how I got that job. Any hoo it was the demontage of our last campsite all the teams had got together for a grand finale clean up but most importantly ‘End of season Party’

I had despatched some of the lads in the van to get alcohol for the pending party whilst I was working with a Scottish girl ‘Nikki’ who was well known for being a raging alcoholic, she would be pissed no matter what time of day or night but she worked hard... it was 90 degrees and we were working inside tents, otherwise known as saunas! the only answer was to drink ice cold kronenbourg to replace what we were sweating out.. It was at this point it happened. We were both on our hands and knees un pegging the bedroom areas of the tent when we saw it.

As we lifted the canvas there it was half poking out from underneath a big black slithering snake with shining eyes looking right up at us, I don’t know who was more scared us or it….

Nikki screamed which made me scream, which in turn caused us to scream some more, our hearts almost burst out of our bodies at the though of being attacked by the ‘Snake’ we grabbed hold of each other and screamed some more whilst falling over each other trying to make our escape, I was so terrified that I actually wet myself in my haste to escape.

As we fell through the tent door the lads in the van arrived back, seeing the look of terror on our faces they obviously came hurrying to our rescue, barely able to speak we told them what had occurred, Paul a big burly rugby playing lad offered to go and take a look…..

…..imagine how terrified we were when he came out of the tent holding our snake, which was in fact a girl’s head band with sparkly bits on…..

Terrified yes more than once that day, I had to host the end of season party knowing everyone knew I had wet myself over a terrifying ‘Head band’
(, Wed 11 Apr 2012, 9:21, 8 replies)
Oh god I've just remembered this...

It was the late 70's / early 80's. I was but a tiny Pooflake, waiting to watch Tiswas or whatever. Occasionally, to pass the time, I would flick through the 2 other channels available...and I would see this:



Something about it used to just scare the living bejeezus out of me. At first I thought it was merely the sinister look of the kid...up to no good that be-atch I reckon...

But then...look closer - There is a nought and a cross on the blackboard. This suggests that the bastard 'freaky clown thing' is not only alive, but has HAD A TURN AT NOUGHTS AND FUCKING CROSSES!

Honestly, I'd prefer to think that the girl (who isn't even looking at what she is doing by the way...EVIL I tells ya) is some sort of loonball schizo, rather than consider the prospect of Chucky's creepier uncle dabbling with board games on TV. *shudders*

What the moistened fuck were they thinking putting this on?
(, Wed 11 Apr 2012, 0:55, 21 replies)
I can hear you...
...I got bashed a few years ago and after the initial king-hit I got repeatedly stomped on, resulting in damage to my liver, kidneys and pancreas.
I remember 'waking up' in A&E although I couldn't open my eyes or let anyone know I could hear them.
I clearly heard the nurses panicking that my systolic blood pressure had dropped to 50 (should be around 125+) and that it was still falling.
I heard the doctor calling my wife and telling her that "it's not looking good". I remember the panic when they couldn't get an IV line in me and I heard them discussing various emergency drug and treatment options.
As a paramedic, I knew exactly what everything they said meant and was quite frankly very bloody scared.
"Is this how it ends?" I thought.
Obviously it didn't end that day, but to hear your own possible impending death discussed and to not be able to respond was terrifying in the extreme (understatement).

I now make a point of assuming that every unconscious patient can hear me, and talk to them as though they are conscious.

The offender was caught and after a sob story about his childhood got a suspended sentence and was ordered to pay me AU$500.
I'll let you know if I ever actually receive one cent of it.
(, Sat 7 Apr 2012, 3:34, 8 replies)
Dirty B3ta Stalker terror-related fun!

Earlier today, a 'pub-buddy' of mine just popped her posting cherry (who from now on shall be known as ‘nikg33’ for that is her username). Please take my word for it that, other than a bit of lurking, she ‘was’ an absolute newbie to b3ta and the general fuckedupness that it entails,

Some of us Coventrian B3tards know her, and upon hearing some of her stories in person, we suggested that she should perhaps post something. Now, I don’t want to admit that we may have put her under any pressure at all. Sure, I may have commented: ‘It would be nice if you posted something’, Todj agreed, and did that ‘grunting thing’ that he does so well. Even Captain Placid took the time out of his busy schedule to glare at her, prod her firmly, yet repeatedly and threaten to ‘snap her like a twig until she pulled her thumb out of her arse and wrote some funny shit down’. You see? No pressure.

Eventually she wrote something.. .it meant a lot to her, I’m properly crap at links, if you want to go look for it, knock yourself out, this isn’t really about the post, we’re moving on….

You B3tards are a wonderful bunch. Before she knew it, she started to receive replies, and they were in the positive. Yay! She thought, possibly not realising that you were all endeavouring to encourage her into the dark, seedy underbelly that is B3ta, masked with a welcoming smile and the odd encouraging comment. (It’s just like what happened to me all those years ago…)

Now, it’s not for me to say that such encouragement went to her head. Oh no. That’s not right. I’m sure her feet were planted firmly on the ground and all that. However, (and this may just be a ‘woman’ thing) when she received replies, she wasn't content with just nice comments…oh no. She wanted to find out who had replied, what they did, and proceeded to dig up as much info as possible on any stranger who happened to have the good taste to like her contribution.

One of the unwitting participants of said replies was none other than The Mock Turtle. Don’t do it yet, but once you’ve finished reading this, check out his profile. (Oh, go on then, do it now, if you promise to come back, because actually it might make more sense in the end)

Before I proceed - Now, I can't state enough, nikg33 is by no means a programmer or coder of any kind. To put it mildly, in computing terms, she is more wet behind the ears than the hair gel on an overly vain haddock in mating season. So...she's feeling all proud and confident and she's checking out the profile of The Mock Turtle. 'Oh that's clever,' she thinks, admiring his skills...'Oooh that's good' she continues...in fact It goes on until: 'Oooh, th...WHAT THE DANGLING HORSE BOLLOCKS IS THAT!?!?!'

Unfortuantely, she has stumbled across the now classic picture with the mongoloid declaring “NIKG33 MAKES ME MOIST”

She pauses, recoiling in her office chair and reminding herself that because she is at work, it’s entirely inappropriate to freak out in the middle of the office. She then disconnects that logic chip and decides to go batshit mental.

Instantly, she starting texting me in a panicked frenzy, convinced that the Mock Turtle was some crazed stalker who had designs on B3ta virgins. It all made sense!

The texts started flying in to everybody: “CHECK HIS PROFILE NOW! “ she ordered, So I did, and upon seeing 'Pooflake makes me moist', I chuckled, and replied 'what about it?' before putting two and two together and realising she thought the worst…that ‘this time…it was personal’

Before I could explain, a veritable barrage of texts began to pour onto my phone. ‘Look at this picture!' 'You think that's fucking normal do you?' ‘Oh, you think it’s funny?’ ‘'Do you know him?' 'What does he want?’*

I don’t use the term ‘officelol’ lightly, but I think I may have ruptured a groin or three howling out loud at the supreme misunderstanding that I was currently bearing witness to. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I managed to explain the situation to her..just before meeting up with every one of the aforementioned B3tards in the pub (apart from The Mock Turtle obv) and engaging in a quite monumental piss-taking session that still hasn’t finished.

Overall, she may say that she was scared, but I firmly believe that she may be suffering that strange mixture of relief combined with that slight stalker disappointment that you get. You know, when you realise that you're not actually being watchedby some mental internet freakbag, but for a brief moment you acknowledge the fact that at least they put a bit of effort into it.

*At this point I Gazzed the Mock Turtle and told him about the situation. His reply was funnier than my entire post, and both he and nikg33 kindly gave me permission to write this story about it.
(, Wed 11 Apr 2012, 17:39, 25 replies)
Mmmm, ghostly bacon . . . (if you're allergic to long posts move along, nothing to see.)
This tale doesn't involve me but rather my good friend "Fred", last seen on this board shagging a 12 year old.

Anyway, paedo-lols aside, this tale is from a few years later. Fred is still living with his folks in their big, rambling, gothic, Victorian house. This particular house has something of a reputation in the village in which it resides as being haunted. Indeed Fred used to regale us with stories of ghostly noises and eerie feelings of being watched. He used to have a dark room set up in the attic and would frequently get such a strong feeling of dread and foreboding that he would have to down tools and leave pretty sharpish.

Things took a distinctly odd turn, however, during one week in which his parents and sister were on holiday. His brother was at university at this point so it was just him in his big, rambling house.

One morning he came downstairs and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. And then he spotted it. On the kitchen counter, next to the fridge. A packet of bacon. He stopped munching his cornflakes and had a closer look. Yep, there it was. A standard packet of bacon such as you find in a supermarket. Smoked, I believe. Puzzled, Fred assumed he had absent-mindedly removed it from the fridge and forgot to put it back. So he placed it back in the fridge and went out to work thinking no more about it.

When he returned that evening he went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He went to the fridge to get the milk out and stopped dead in his tracks. On the counter, next to the fridge - bacon.

"What the fuck?", he mumbled, as you would, really. He remembered putting the bacon away that morning and yet . . . there it was. Wondering if someone was in the house he wondered around a bit calling out to see if anyone was there. No, he was alone. With a growing feeling of misgiving he put the bacon away.

Next morning he again went into the kitchen. This time he spotted it straight away. On the kitchen counter, next to the fridge. Bacon. This time he was angry. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and marched through every room of the house, convinced (somehow) that a ne'er-do-well was hiding in the house, only breaking cover to leave a sinister calling card. Like the guy in "Seven" only, you know, more pork-based.

Exhausted, scared and unhappy Fred could find no evidence of anyone else in the house. Anyway, he reasoned to himself, all doors and windows were locked and the house had a pretty hefty alarm system. No-one could be there.

He had to leave for work, so with a profound un-ease he put the bacon back in the fridge. He was careful on the way out to ensure that all doors were definitely locked and the alarm system activated. But all to no avail. When he returned from work, with a numbing inevitability there it was. Kitchen. Counter. Bacon.

He phoned his friend Paul who came straight over. When Paul arrived Fred said "Right. Watch this", and picked up the bacon.

"You will note that I have a pack of bacon in my hands", said Fred. Paul, puzzled but playing along said "Okaaaay."

"You will also note that I am putting the bacon into the fridge and now I am closing the door."

"Okaaaaaay".

"Right. Let's go to the pub."

"Okay!"

So they went to the pub and Fred filled Paul in on the mysterious goings-on. So it was without much surprise that when they returned from the pub, yep, there it was, on the kitchen counter next to the fridge. Bacon.

Again, they searched the house but no culprit could be found. By this point Fred was pretty much a jibbering wreck, not sure whether he was being haunted, pranked or just suffering the effects of early-onset Alzheimers. He stayed the next several days with Paul, refusing to enter the house on his own. When his parents came back he told them what had happened but the mysterious bacon-mover never made another appearance. But those few days when Fred was being tormented by cured meat products really scared him.

Epilogue:
So come on, B3ta, what do you think was going on here? I know that one or two of you (just one or two, mind) can be slightly cynical. You're thinking that Fred just made it up, that perhaps in telling me this story he was having me on. Maybe, very possibly, but I know Fred and I know when he's telling porkies and he was always deadly serious when he told this story, and ever so slightly freaked out. Plus, we have Paul's testimony. Paul witnessed the said bacon incident and he's one of the worst liars you'll ever meet.

So I believe that something happened. Now, I don't really believe in ghosts - something beyond what we can describe with current physics, maybe, but not hauntings from beyond the grave. But, consider. Fred searched the house, found no-one. The doors were locked and alarmed. Fred is not mad, nor going senile. So what the suffering fuck was going on here?


tl;dr? Pfft, lazy fuckers.
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 22:38, 15 replies)
I've blathered on several times about the spinal surgery I've had but, read on..
I have been shot at more than once, stabbed, had to check out a suspicious package under a car (in the days when certain 'freedom' elements in the Eastern Bloc were targeting western businessmen) and attacked more times than I care to recall but I have only been terrified -I mean bowel wateringly 'what the fuck am I going to do' shit scared once.
I'd had a little niggling pain in my left arm for some time, it flared up occasionally to a deep ache in all the muscles but it was, generally, bearable.
I was driving (on a very busy M6 between J6 &J7) one day when I went to change gear. I swerved into lane 2 and in my 'fuckitI'm going to die' frame of mind I tried to pull the wheel over so I could get back into lane 1.
I couldn't change gear. My left arm didn't work. Don't get me wrong, I was still holding the gearstick but no matter how I tried, my left arm wasn't going anywhere. I managed to get through the traffic, onto the hard shoulder and stall/stop. I still couldn't get my left arm to let go of the gearstick.
I looked at the offending limb and everything went dark - tbh I think I blacked out for a second out of sheer despair. All the things I loved doing, including driving, would be no longer. Playing guitar, picking up and cuddling my kids, all over. My job, which neccesitated being able to drive, gone. I have never been so frightened in my life.
I burst into great racking sobs, which is how the motorway policeman found me, tears streaming down my face and still with my left hand clamped to the gearstick.

All is now good due to some phenomenal surgeons and some (psycopathically sadistic) physiotherapists.
There are lots of great stories on here about frightening occurences but, think about what your life would be like if YOU lost the use of a limb.
That's terror.
(, Wed 11 Apr 2012, 18:40, 13 replies)
Well, here goes...

The SECONDMOST scared I've ever been was when I was about nine or ten, being pulled along on roller blades on the back of a mate's BMX. He pulled me along the wrong side of the road, around a corner in front of a car. He cycled out of the way, leaving me - arms flailing - to trip and fall over the kerb so that my head went underneath the car. I was led with my cheek to the ground, looking at the car's back wheel coming towards me and expecting iminent death. The reason this was the second scariest moment of my life is that even at that age, in a split second I went from absolute fear to 'well, there's nothing you can do about it, just accept it'. I closed my eyes, and the car wheel stopped half an inch in front of my face.

Moving on, I was working in Sainsbury's when I was sixteen. It was a Sunday, the shop closed at four, and most of the staff were away by six. I was asked to stay on until eight as for some reason there was a lot to do in preparation for the next day. All the doors were locked and there were just four of us in the store - me, the supervisor, another guy out the front and one in the back sorting out the freezers.
I was given some keys and asked to take a DVD player and put it back in the electrical cage. The cage was right at the deepest darkest region of the storeroom, especially as it was very low-lit due to most people already being home. I walked past the two guys out front as well as the one at the freezers - therefore I knew that even though it was eerie walking to the back of this usually busy huge storeroom, I was quite safe.
I found the electrical cage which was too small for itself and quite claustrophobic, brimming over with various electrical items. I fumbled in the dark with the key and eventually managed to find the lock, and, holding the DVD player still under my left arm, went inside.
I reached around in the dark for the lightswitch and eventually found it and flicked the switch. Computer games and CD's were in front of me. As I turned around, I didn't see more electrical stuff, but a man, about 6'2" and quite stocky, stood only a couple of feet behind me. Now with the roller blading incident, I thought to myself, 'don't panic, there's nothing you can do about this'. Here however, again in a split second, I thought, 'panic. He's going to kill you. Do whatever you can to get out of there'. So, as I was holding a DVD player, I launched it at his head before doing a 180 and got the fuck out of there.
I was at this moment - only a second or two after seeing the man, that I realised it was in fact a life-sized cardboard cutout of David Seaman, grinning and holding a football. I had to explain that I'd 'slipped' and dropped the DVD player. I've always had a massive distrust for David Seaman after that.
(, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 15:34, 1 reply)
Further to my post about my own injuries...
...I feel a bit guilty posting that story before this one.
In 1998 my wife gave birth to our daughter. The delivery went very badly, with my daughter put into ICU and my wife haemorrhaging really badly and rushed into theatre.
I was advised that my daughter was not expected to survive and that my wife "might" be okay.
My daughter did survive and my wife recovered well. The mixed emotions of seeing your first (and only) child born and then being resuscitated and not expected to live, whilst your wife has lost so much blood that she was as pale as an albino snowman was bloody terrifying.

I count myself as a very lucky man indeed.
(, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 11:50, 3 replies)
A moment of stupidity
There are already more than a reasonable amount of car-based terror stories, so I apologise for adding to them, but this is probably the most concentrated sixty seconds of terror I've ever experienced.

It took place during a hungover trip back from an excellent weekend visiting friends in Bristol - it was the sort of hangover that you can grudgingly accept as reasonable payment for the fantastic night before. I felt awful, but also happy. It was Sunday morning, Lemon Jelly was playing on the car stereo, and there were, mercifully as it turned out, few other cars on the M4. My girlfriend was driving, and I was heroically trying to stay awake in the passenger seat so as to make the trip less of a chore for her. Halfway home we stopped into a service station to fill up on water. Not an urgent requirement, but it was a lazy day and it needed to be done.

This was when things went wrong, although we didn't realise it at the time. We pulled up next to the water and air machine and I jumped out. My girlfriend popped the bonnet and I staggered over to the machine. Only to find that it wanted money. And not just a token 20p, it wanted a whole quid for a bit of water. "Fuck that," we both agreed. I climbed back into the car, and we pulled out back onto the motorway.

Careful readers might have spotted our mistake here. We didn't. We sped off, eager to get back home to a cup of tea and a lazy afternoon in the sun, and I drifted back into a semi-conscious haze. It wasn't for another ten minutes that everything went wrong.

I was staring listlessly ahead, my mind empty of thoughts, when suddenly the world went insane. There was an ear-shattering crash, and everything went dark. There were a couple of seconds of blind panic, and I first thought we'd crashed, but somehow we were still moving forwards. Then I realised what had happened - the bonnet had lifted, slamming back against the windscreen at 70 miles per hour. The force of the blow punted the rear-view mirror into our laps, and the windscreen shattered. I shouted: as I remember, my carefully chosen words were "SHIT! JESUS FUCK!" My initial relief that we hadn't crashed was replaced by terror: We were still hurtling along at 70mph, but now we were blind. Luckily, the curvature of the top edge of the bonnet meant that there was a three-inch gap at the bottom of the windscreen, and by leaning across we could just about see ahead. I carried on swearing as hard as I could, but when I looked over to my girlfriend, now in charge of a near-blind ton of metal hurtling through space, she wasn't panicking at all. In fact there was no visible emotion at all on her face - just a pale, overwhelming concentration.

She eventually got us over to the hard shoulder and we got out, waiting, shaking, for the RAC to turn up and take us home. You never know how you're going to react in a sudden life-or-death situation, but that day I learned two things: 1) My girlfriend is pretty good at panic, and 2) I'd have fucking killed us both.

Oh, and 3) - For the love of Christ, if you pop the bonnet, fucking well make sure you push it closed again before heading out onto a motorway.
(, Sat 7 Apr 2012, 1:43, 4 replies)
About 10 years ago I was travelling around New Zealand......
and at one point I was working nights as a forklift truck driver in a massive frozen warehouse that processed frozen veg.

Everything was stored in wooden sided pallets- about seven foot high they were, and they were stored one on top of another until they got up to the roof. The stacks were five high.

One day I was sent to get some frozen peas for the mixed veg mixer (a machine, rather than a job title) and in my haste I accidentally clipped another pallet as I reversed out of that row. I thought to myself 'Phew, no one was around to see me clip that pallet- that's avoided a piss take or two.' It was then that I decided to look up.

Through the flimsy chicken wire roof of the forklift I could see that the tiny knock on the bottom pallet behind me had become a bloody massive wobble by the time it got up to the roof. I believe I may have used the F word before there was a massive bang and everything went dark.

It took 5 men with shovels about 10 minutes to reach a position where I could get out from beneath what I was later told was 'about 3 tonnes' of frozen sweetcorn kernels. Within those 10 minutes I had convinced myself that there was no way I was dead, despite being cold and unable to move, because that would be a stupid way to die, and I doubt St Peter and his angels would be calling me a dopey cunt in a Kiwi accent.

After extraction I was sent for a cup of tea to calm down whilst everyone else filled two skips with the sweetcorn I had ruined. I was later joined by them on their teabreak and we had a good joke about it- how the newspapers would have reported my death and just how the British embassy in Auckland would phrase the letter that informed my parents of demise. I hadn't been scared at all so far. If anything it was too surreal to be scary.

That is until someone sitting on the other side of the room loudly announced. 'It wouldn't have been the sweetcorn that would have killed you. It would have been the wood. Or the nails. They'd have killed you outright I reckon, one of them to the skull. You're lucky it was sweetcorn though- could have been diced carrots. They all freeze together into a big lump and you'd have been crushed to death.'

I'm not sure if I vomited and then passed out, or passed out then came round to vomit- Those next few minutes were a little hazy. The pants remained 'unbrowned', but I'd be lying if I said a little bit of wee didn't come out. At least they let me go home early though.
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 16:33, 1 reply)
Pearost...
As a young uncurcumcised boy with perhaps one pubic hair, I remember being told about wanking and had a little fumbling fiddle in bed one night. Problem was that I always had a rather tight foreskin (threeskin maybe?) and after a few minutes of fiddling my foreskin retracted and out popped the bell end. I'd never seen it before and so I thought I'd broken my penis. To my terrified young mind it was like an internal organ such as a kidney finding it's way out of my body. I cried myself to sleep convinced God was punishing this little Catholic for his sins. Woke up the next morning and found "it" was back to normal.
(, Wed 11 Apr 2012, 5:10, 8 replies)
Getting my wisdom teeth removed
It's worse than it sounds.

I was born three months premature, and that's a fascinating story in and of itself, but I'm only mentioning it because I think it's somehow related to why all this happened.
See, I was about 17 when that fateful visit to the dentist told me that my wisdom teeth looked like they were impacting. I shrugged and said I'd wait and see what happens, thinking nothing of it.

Two years later I was sitting in that chair in the surgery going under global anaesthetic. I was reassured that I'd be asleep for the entire procedure and wouldn't feel a thing.

Sure enough, I went to sleep, and woke up in exactly the same room.
I remember being surrounded by scientist types, some looking exactly like the anaesthetist and aide that had accompanied me into the room, but I knew that it wasn't really them. I don't remember their technobabble, but I do remember a golden robotic arm coming out of the wall with some vial in it that I knew would be used to impregnate me with some horrible monster. I screamed and screamed begging them not to, and in the end the arm retreated back into the wall.
I tried to get up from the chair, but was immediately pushed down by a strong arm.
Time seemed to freeze then. I attempted to get up multiple times only to be pushed back down by some unseen force. I couldn't summon the strength to do so. I was trapped in this chair for eternity.
It seemed like hours. I wasn't sure what was happening was real- I knew somehow that it wasn't, but it was so lucid. I eventually resigned myself to my fate, assuming I would be stuck here forever.
I kept lifting my arms and legs, wiggling them around, clicking my heels together, just to check. It felt completely real.

Some time later, I came to feeling utterly horrible. My mouth was numb.
"You had an allergic reaction to the valium. You were shaking. We were so worried about you, we couldn't complete the procedure; we could only remove one of your teeth."
I remember looking at my hand. I still wasn't sure whether this was real or still part of the nightmare.
"Is this real? Am I awake?" I slobbered in typical anaesthetic talk.
"Yes, you're awake now."
"I had a nightmare."
"A nightmare? Well, people who are allergic to valium usually have hallucinations. You're okay now."
I sat up. No force pushed me back down. I looked around the room for a little bit at all the concerned faces and the machinery which I'd spent the last eternity being forced to stare at and examining the reflections.
"You're going to be a little groggy from the anaesthetic."
Fuck that. I was walking. I got out of the chair and immediately fell to the floor.
I couldn't walk.
My granny came in, and she was very worried. I had to lean on my brother and summon the strength to walk to the car.
I felt completely helpless. I couldn't walk, I couldn't talk properly, I couldn't even open my mouth very far. And on the whole ride home I still wasn't sure whether I was still dreaming.

I had to get my other teeth out individually every week or so under local anaesthetic. The next time I went into the surgery, I was afraid it would happen all over again. And while the other procedures were trivial, I still felt worthless being unable to eat properly. I was depressed for weeks. And the pain from having your wisdom teeth out is horrifying. I spent hours curled up in my bed begging for the pain to stop.

I'll never forget how I felt in that nightmare. I don't know whether it was a hallucination, or what, but it seemed completely real to me. I was terrified at first, but in the end I gave up and figured I would just be there forever. It was the worst thing I've ever been through.

Length: I think it took a few days for me to accept I was in the real world.
(, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 4:33, 1 reply)
:(
I had a mate, Clive, who went through a bit of a rough patch, OK a full paranoid schizophrenic break down. He stopped going to work, let himself go and generally declined along with the odd talk about suicide. I’d been away with work for a couple of weeks and when I got back a mutual friend said my nutter mate had ‘disappeared’ for at least 10 days.

I went round his house, it was December and fucking freezing, let myself in and was immediately struck by;
1. The place smelt of rotten meat.
2. It was just as cold inside the place as it was outside
3. There was a pile of post on the floor.

I called out a couple of times. No reply.

Headed upstairs to his bedroom. The door was shut.

On opening the door the smell hit me like a punch in the face. I took a few seconds to steady myself and went in. The bedroom was no warmer than the rest of the house. The duvet was in a mound on the bed with just a little tuft of hair poking out the top.

I knew from the smell it was going to be grim, really grim but I still wasn’t ready for it, even as I gently moved the top of the duvet to uncover more of the hair.
“Oh! Hello RoF. I thought I heard some one come in.” said Clive. I called him a dumb fuck there and then, I can tell you.
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 18:09, Reply)
Fear
Take a look at yourselves. At ourselves. At the world around us.

We live in a world not of our making, where people's worth is judged not by their actions, but by the fucking clothes they wear, the car they drive, the TV shows they watch, the music they listen to...

No-one ever tries to take a step back and see it for what it is; too content to live within the thin, artifical veneer created for us by soulless corporate entities whose grasp on society tightens with every penny they lever out of our pockets. They dress it up as a privilege and trick you into thinking that buying their products and living your life the way they make you live it somehow equates to expressing yourselves in a meaningful way. It doesn't. I'm not a fucking T-shirt. I'm not my phone, my car, my computer, or any of the other intrinsically worthless pieces of shit I've bought over the years.

That's right, I'm just as guilty as all of you. I've bought into that lifestyle as much as you. I own a phone. I own a computer. But I can't help it. None of us can. We're born into it. 'How would I live without it?' - We don't see any alternatives, because there are none presented to us. And we assume that's right, just because it's the way things have always been.

But scratch away at the veneer, and you reveal a warped and rotten core. A society where people feel so alienated and downtrodden they will riot in the streets. But even that act of rebellion is massively overshadowed by the inherent greed sown into fallow fields of people's desire. Confused, and incapable of turning their anger into anything other than a palpable violent rage, people expressed themselves in the only way they could: they took to the streets and stole designer clothing, televisions and all the other trappings of a modern life.

That's right: while the streets literally burned around them, in the face of violence, arrests and death, the overwhelming greed in people prevailed over every single other emotion on display that night. Shops were smashed, their contents looted in what you called “mob mentality” afterwards.

Of course it's a fucking mob mentality. You create it yourselves. It permeates every single aspect of human existance. And in the modern world you try and manipulate it. Control it. Wield it as power and reap the financial rewards that come with it. And then you act surprised when people act on it when the muzzle comes off.

Many years ago, scientists looking into human mob mentalities conducted an experiment: Five monkeys were locked in a cage together, with some bananas placed at the top of a ladder. Whenever any of the monkeys tried to get the bananas, they were all sprayed with water. Soon enough, the five monkeys learnt not to go up the ladder, for fear of being sprayed.

After a while, one of the monkeys was removed, and a new one put in it's place. It immediately went to get the banana from the ladder, and was attacked by the other monkeys without knowing why. Soon enough, it learned that going near the ladder would result in being attacked, and so it stopped trying.

This pattern was repeated until none of the original five monkeys were left in the cage. But whenever a new monkey was introduced, and it went near the ladder, it was attacked by the others. Not because they feared being sprayed – none of the monkeys now in the cage had ever been sprayed – but because it was 'the done thing'.

And that's us. We're nothing but a bunch of fucking monkeys, locked in a cage, and we attack anyone or anything that might try and do things differently. If someone doesn't fit into our predefined set of bullshit rules and expectations, we attack. We seperate and segregate, label and deride, because that's the way it's always been.

But there is always an alternative, and we could have chosen it at any time but we are so terrified of being attacked that no-one wants to be the monkey that goes to the ladder. We could have just stopped it all, but we won't. We could turn off the television. We could reject this shallow consumer society, but we won't because we won't open our fucking eyes and see what it's doing to us all.

Now we live in this festering cesspool we call society – where we can't walk ten yards down the street without seeing an advert for something we don't fucking need. Where disgusting, collagen-injected, silicone-implanted fakeries and perma-tanned, self-obssessed degenerates with money are held up as aspirational figures to our children. As though these are people we should look up to. As though the lifestyles they lead are in any way conducive to being a decent human being. What kind of future are we building for ourselves?

This is what happens when you build a society on the foundations of greed, accumulation and personal gain, as opposed to any of the things that make you a fundamentally worthwhile person. The whole thing is so fucked it hurts.

We're fucked, because we have fear. Fear that we won't survive if we change. Fear that others will reject us if we go against the grain.


*EDIT*


These aren't (necessarily) my views. Well, some of them are, but not all of them. This is actually a monologue from a short story I'm writing that I thought I'd stick on QOTW to see what kind of reaction it would get. And it was pretty much exactly what I thought - Some people agree, some people start foaming at the mouth.

Not that you give a shit, but the story is about a terrorist who has a bomb that makes people see the world for what it is. The build up to him setting the bomb off deals with different people's reactions to his point of view.

So cheers! You can all calm down now.

Incidentally, I liked the "very trainspotting" comment. That's one of the things I'm trying to take inspiration from (ripping off).
(, Wed 11 Apr 2012, 1:44, 36 replies)
Sleep paralysis. The one and only time I’ve genuinely been terrified.
In my late teens, I was a bit of a raver. A social partier, shall we say. I’d go out once or twice a week and do my bit to earn my place in the chemical generation. And to poorly paraphrase the late, great Bill Hicks “didn’t lose a job, didn’t hurt anyone, had a great time”.

But there was one unforeseen consequence: sleep paralysis. I didn’t notice it at first, encroaching like a tide. Every now and then, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and wouldn’t be able to move for a few seconds. But it’d pass and I thought no more of it. Hell, I was 19, nothing worried me.

But… it happened more. And more. And more. Until every week, often several times, I’d wake up a prisoner in my own body. Utterly frozen, locked down, unable to lift a finger, twitch a muscle… or even breathe.

But that’s not the terrifying part. That I could just about deal with. It was the others that scared me. The hooded, shadowy figures moving on the edge of vision.

Ever woken up surrounded by things which your brain screams out are going to do you unspeakable harm? I have. More than I care to remember. More than I can forget. Being utterly unable to breathe, speak, move, escape as you realise you’re about to die… wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Or perhaps I would. But nobody else.

It came to a crux one night, the worst night, the one I remember vividly, yet barely comprehend. I woke up, utterly choking. Unable to breathe. All I do remember is a weight on my chest, a black figure, wraithlike, choking my throat. I felt every kilogram pushing down on me, felt myself slipping away, looked into its eyes and saw my own death.

I concentrated on a fingertip, willing it to move, flexing my will with the drive of the almost-dead. Move, damn it! Move! MOVE! MOVE OR DIE!

Slowly, it woke. My finger twitched, curled, twisted towards my palm. The others followed, balled into a fist. In my mind, I summoned my strength and anger and swing for the creature. In reality, my brain came out of standby, purged my body of the melatonin which keeps us paralysed when we’re in deep sleep and my brain stopped dreaming. The figure turned incorporeal, into dust. Disappeared.

I sat up shivering and with ice-cold veins, afraid of what my head told me couldn’t exist, but my heart told me couldn’t possibly not.

I slept with the lights on.

Soon after I stopped the partying, stopped the recreational Es and, I believe, that was the last time I have ever felt or experienced sleep paralysis.

In my mind, the two are utterly linked. Either way, I don’t plan on kicking the sleeping bear.

I never want to experience that again.

(Fun fact: sleep paralysis is widely believed to be the basis for the folklore stories of the succubus and incubus; demons which copulate with the sleeping and sire half-human offspring. It’s also believed to be the phenomena which explains people’s experiences of alien abduction, as it holds all the same signs: dark figures, being paralysed, fear and lack of control… spooky innit.)
(, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 17:51, 2 replies)
I took a bit ill in August 2010. Sorry about the words...
Started at the weekend with some flu-like symptoms; fever, sweating, tiredness, neck ache, leg ache and a cough but I just got the fuck on with it and kept going to work (I work with teenagers who have behavioural problems so this mostly meant sitting playing PS3 and watching films).

Friday morning I wake up busting for a piss and off to the toilet I go. Only... There's something wrong... something that in my half-asleep haze it takes me a moment to realise... then it hits me... WHY THE FUCK ARE MY NUTS THE SIZE OF GRAPEFRUITS?! I did what any man would do and panicked. Called the Dr, got an appointment and got told I had a virus which had caused some swelling (no shit) and home with pills.

That night I'm in the bath and I see all these spots running from my feet to my knees. The Dr had said any changes to call NHS24 so that's what I did. The lady on the phone was lovely but more concerned that I was having pains when breathing (something I hadn't really registered until she asked) than my spotty legs and giant testicles. Ambulance is called for me and off to hospital.

Turns out I had swelling, not just around the legs and balls, but around my heart too. Viral Myocarditis. The infection had caused the lining of my Heart to swell, causing it to beat oddly. I had a group of student Doctors all listen to my heartbeat one after the other as it had a triple rhythm. This had caused my lungs and chest cavity to fill with fluid, causing the difficulty breathing. This wasn't aided by the Hospital believing I was dehydrated and putting 3 IV units of fluid into me. Apparently my Chest X-ray over that weekend were completely white due to the amount of fluid in me.

On Sunday I was told that, IF I stabilized, I would require a left ventricle assist device or a Heart transplant so they wanted to move me to Glasgow as they were better equipped to do the procedures if it came to it. Only problem was I wasn't stable enough to move, at that point I was on 19 litres of Oxygen a minute and the Ambulance could only provide a maximum of 15. I was told (but I don't remember it) that I was Gravely ill and my Mum was told that I was a very, very sick man and to be prepared for the worst.

On Tuesday the decision was made to move me anyway, I had improved slightly due to me spending hours on a CPAP but my Blood Oxygen level was still in the low 70%'s. My heart rate had been 150+ for 3 or 4 days now and I was on an intake of 1.2 litres of fluid a day and pissing out 4.5L. I got a sexy yellow Aeroplane to fly my from Aberdeen to Glasgow.

Once in Glasgow things changed quickly. For the best. I got all the excess liquid out, lots of injections, MRI's, X-rays, lots of pills to drain fluids, regulate heart beats etc. And spent a total of 2 weeks in Hospital. No transplants or anything. In 20+ years of being a Cardiac consultant my Doctor says it's the quickest, fullest recovery he has ever seen and he was still astounded to see me walking around after 2 weeks as most people in my condition ended up in bed for 6 months and would be very lucky to go back to a "normal" lifestyle again.

This wasn't my most terrifying thing, as most of it passed me by in a blur. My most terrifying thing happened about a week after I got home and the full reality of it all hit me. I was just sitting watching TV and then I was lying on the floor sobbing my eyes out, shaking like a leaf. The next few months were shit too... I felt weak and scared to go to busy places, every time I had a cough or felt under the weather I would start to get one up. "Is it happening again?", checking my pulse and freaking myself out. My pills made me lethargic and tired out easily. Even climbing the stairs left my breathless and dizzy, which didn't help as by that stage I was "sick of feeling sick".

I still get freaked out by it all, especially when I think about my daughter and what could have happened, but I'm better now. No pills; heart rate of 82 beats a minute, reasonable blood pressure; my own heart; still alive lol.
(, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 11:23, 22 replies)
When about twelve or thirteen the family cat (a Maine coon)
used to wander into my room and sleep on my bed but was never allowed to sleep in there overnight with me. Unbeknownst to me she had learned how to open the door using the handle and one night she crept in and decided to take up a comfy sleeping position on the warmest spot she could find. The terror experienced when waking to discover that your eyes don't appear to be working and your face is being unexpectedly crushed by a warm heaving mass is not something I would choose to repeat. Adding insult to injury she did not take well to being forcibly removed and used her talons and the softer parts of my cheeks to resist.
(, Fri 6 Apr 2012, 14:15, Reply)
Hold the line.
You know how you will sometimes read or hear about men in war standing to the last man? They could run or surrender, but they don't? Ever wonder what makes them stand and accept the horrible fate? So did I, until fate called upon me.

Picture the scene, early 2000's, it's a P.E lesson, the boys are 14-15 most too young to have felt a woman's touch, yet we were deemed old enough to risk life and limb. That week we had the trampoline out. An out dated monstrosity, criss crossed elastic strips on a steel frame. A few mats had been thrown around for safty, but our P.E teacher decides that while one person is jumping, the rest of the group surround the trampoline to form a safty barrier. Seemed wise at the time, until it comes the turn of the heavy set boy, who we will call B. B was not just large, but very large, unusualy, he wasn't a soft fat, but had an unusualy solid bulk, like rubber. B is bouncing, and doing pretty well, untill suddenly he lands funny and his next bounce sends him lurching forward.

Straight towards our end of the trampoline. Ever seen 20 stone (280 lb) of human sail towards you through the air? You can almost feel the gravity yanking the bulk down, anticipate the impact and every bone in your body prepairs to shatter. Every fiber of your body screams to move, but you don't. Self presivation beg's you to do somthing, but it's not an option. You have your orders, you're going to hold the line.there were 5 of us in the shadow, but a sense of duty, and more importantly, not wanting too look a coward held us in place. Well, all but one of us. The boy next to me, good lad, his nerves give. "Fuck this!" he cries, jumping back. B lands an inch shy of the edge, we all breath a sign of relief, until the whistle blows. "What the hell are you playing at son?!" demands the teacher, before slapping a detention on the poor boy who's nerve went for a split second. I knew it wasn't fair, we all did. We all wanted to do it, but we didn't.

We held the line.
(, Fri 6 Apr 2012, 2:23, 1 reply)
A couple both in hospital and both involving others.
1st was while my missus was in surgery for a mastectomy.
The fact that she might not make it or that the cancer might get her anyway ate me up and left me with that bowel loosening feeling everytime I thought about it. EDIT: still does now tbh, but it's usually period lumps in her boob. I was like a polite, well behaved-but-likley-to-snap-at-anything caged animal. When I went up to see her in recovery I understood that thing about having your heart in your mouth. The sheer sense of sadness mixed with relief was almost overwhelming.

The 2nd was the birth of my daughter. The missus had been admitted a week earlier due to high blood pressure. On the day she was induced they started at 0930. Eventually I convinced he to have an epidural - which failed, it only worked on one side. Eventually after a day of huffing and puffing to no avail (every time they upped the oxytocin(?) hormone thingy the sprog had "fetal heartrate distress" so at about 1700 they rushed us off to theatre (to the trainspotters this was the point my mum tried to hand me a magazine & sandwich!). There they tried suction, vacuum and forceps. Nada.
So they said emergency caesar and tried to kick me out - there I was bawling in fear for my missus and unborn sprog both in some distress and danger. I told them with tears streaming down my face that they could call the cops, as far as I was concerned I was going to be there for the birth of my daughter. They didn't & I was. But that sense of abject terror when you're stood in a room full of medico boffins who all know their jobs well and you knowing there is abso-fucking-lutely nothing you can do to help protect your loved ones is not a nice feeling.
As I'm sure every parent will attest nothing comes close to that feeling when you first hold your own progeny. Now I just have to spoil her and wrap her in cotton wool until I can be sure that she will outlive me and be safe & secure.
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 22:36, Reply)
Living in rural Hawaii is not usually so terrifying
Has to be the time I was at a neighbor's to be the child minder when said child's mum went into labor, attended by a lay midwife, a white woman from somewhere in the US midwest.

The baby was born with the caul over his face, and emerged greyish-blue, limp, and not breathing. The couple (also white) didn't recognize that the midwife's loud calls of "Ha!" meant "breathe!" in Hawaiian, but I did and it terrified me. The couple and I were in stunned, petrified silence, and long, terrifying moments passed and still the baby did not breathe.

The midwife ordered us to pray. I felt a palpable evil in the room, a malevolent presence, suffocating us as we tried to remember the words to the Lord's Prayer. Our voices trailed off as we watched the midwife performing infant resuscitation, and I fought the feeling that someone or something nearby did NOT want us to pray. I struggled to breathe too, and for the sake of the couple and their baby, I remembered some of the words and prayed loudly, their voices joining mine as we gained confidence and comfort in the ritual. "Again! Louder!" commanded the midwife, and we prayed again. It seemed to lift the sense of heaviness and evil, and calmed the parents as we watched the midwife work on their son.

Finally, finally, the baby inhaled sharply, and started to cry. With each cry, he got less blue and more pink. We nearly collapsed with relief as the midwife handed the angry, squalling baby to his mum.

He's nearly 15 years old now, and I still remember the abject terror and evil presence I felt on the night he was born. And I still cannot feel anything but patience, gratitude, and joy when I hear a baby crying.
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 19:12, Reply)
Most internet-friendly scared I've ever been...
Age: 9
Location: VERY steep hill at the edge of town. Road leads into seawall promenade at the bottom.
Purpose: cycle down hill faster than 10 year old brother.
Variable: 6 women with pushchairs, who hadn't realized that the bit going up the hill with the road markings was actually, y'know, a road. Despite all the cars. And lots of signs saying "THIS IS A ROAD".
Events: Having beaten my brother to the base of the hill I had to skid to a stop to avoid the aforementioned silly biddies with biddy buggies. Now sideways-on to the hill, my ability to cycle off was hampered by the 6 women, who all started screaming at me for nearly hitting their babies. I was just about to point out that they were walking across the ENTIRE road in their line of buggies when I heard my brother screaming.

I looked up at the hill.

The biddies looked up at the hill.

My brother streamed DOWN the hill, clutching the handlebars of his bike in sheer terror. "I can't reach the braaaaaakes!" he screamed in a not-very-manly ten year old way.

Staring up at him, I knew that I was going to die. Heading towards me, faster than an atom in a hadron collider, was a ginger idiot who couldn't find the brakes on the bike. Obviously smart enough to want to miss the huge wall of babies and biddies, he instead opted for the safer option.... and steered straight into me.

For a brief moment, I knew what it felt like to fly. Then, for a longer moment, I knew what it felt like to powerslide on my nose for 3 meters of gutter. Retrospectively, flying was more fun.

Bike frame bent almost in half, his wheel buckled, I emerged from sniffing gravel through a broken nose to find out that the biddies, in the spirit of true kindness and concern, were helpfully... screaming at my brother for nearly hitting their babies.

It never occurred to any of them to move.

At the time it scared me that I was going to be hit by my brother at several million miles per hour... in hindsight, it scares me more that a group of (apparently) responsible adults would walk down the middle of a road with buggies, and then react to an accident by complaining rather than phoning an ambulance. Is this now a normal human reaction?
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 18:20, 2 replies)
Late one night...
I told this one a while ago, but it was terrifying, so...

I was about eight or nine years old, and it was a cold and dark night. It had been a hard day, and I had hit the orange juice hard that evening after a grueling day of timestables and spellings. At about 12am I awoke, my bladder decided enough was enough and that it needed to be emptied.

I clambered out of my bed and fumbled my way to the door, careful to be quiet, so as not to wake my parents, or my sister as I walked past their rooms. I made it to the toilet without incident, and relieved myself. Feeling much better, I made my way back to my room in the dark.

I carefully opened my door half way, and crept back inside...

Suddenly the door swung shut behind me and my mum burst out with a blood-curdling scream!

She HAD heard me get up, and decided it would be a fanciful jape to scare the living shit out of me.

All I can say, is thank the good lord I had just emptied my bladder 20 seconds earlier...
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 16:21, 2 replies)
When my wife was pregnant with our first Daughter
she was rushed in to hospital after passing out and going in to labour at 21 weeks.

I thought I was going to lose them both.
(, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 15:22, 9 replies)

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