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This is a question Tales of the Unexplained

Flying saucers. Big Cats. Men in Black. Satan walking the Earth. Derek Acorah, also walking the Earth...

Tell us your stories of the supernatural. WoooOOOooOO!

suggestion by Kaol

(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 10:03)
Pages: Latest, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, ... 1

This question is now closed.

The landlord and his dog
I once knew a chap called Jim. Jim was a landlord who ran a small village pub with his wife Betty. They were a wonderful couple, always happy to see the locals and welcoming of strangers. The beer was always fresh, the crisps always in date and the beer mats were always clean. They were the perfect people to run a village pub. Betty unfortunately developed cancer some years ago and after a short battle with it, she sadly died.

Jim was devastated and spent the next few weeks inconsolable. He was barely able to function and the pub which he’d previously run like a military operation began to go to ruin. The concerned locals clubbed together to help him out and raised a few hundred pounds, which for the size of the village was quite remarkable. With the money, we purchased a black Labrador puppy.

When we presented the dog to Jim, he was visibly moved. He'd always kept dogs before marrying Betty, but she was allergic to their hair so he wasn't able to have one for nearly thirty years. He quickly grew much attached to Lucy, as he named her, taking her out to the nearby woods for walks at every opportunity. We'd often see him and the dog down by the stream, sitting contentedly, just enjoying each other’s company.

Having Lucy around changed Jim's outlook on life again. The bar returned to its usual state and the locals were all relieved to see him polishing the brasses, changing the drip trays and measuring the optics with his previous aplomb. For the next four years, each night, when the bell rang for last orders, everyone knew he'd be in good company with Lucy watching over him.

Then the accident happened. Jim was returning from his evening stroll with Lucy by his side after closing time one night, as always. He'd noticed a car coming fast along the narrow country lane, but Lucy was fascinated by a squirrel she'd spotted. Jim shouted to Lucy but she didn't hear him, or didn't care. She ran into the road and the car rounded the bend, crushing the dog and killing her instantly.

The locals once again faced a dilemma. Jim was so upset they felt they could perhaps get Lucy’s body stuffed, but the damage from the accident was so severe that the only part of her body that wasn't completely mangled was the tail. Being country folk, we didn't see anything weird or macabre about getting just the tail preserved, so we asked a taxidermist to attach Lucy's tail to a wooden plinth. This grisly trophy was then presented to Jim, who seemed rather touched by the gesture, even if it was a bit strange by some standards...

The first week was fine. Jim returned to his routine of keeping the bar in pristine condition and we all appreciated the return to form. However, after a few weeks, he seemed a little pre-occupied. He kept looking up to the tail, mounted on its stand above the door. The regular customers all noticed that Jim spent as much time staring at the tail as he did serving drinks. It was about that time when he beckoned me over to whisper in my ear "chart cat, that tail... it's bloody haunted!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Here was my lifelong friend, a venerable tower of sensibility, muttering ghostly allusions to me over the bar? It didn't make any sense at all. I laughed at first, but his expression told me he was, quite literally, deadly serious. I asked him what he meant, and he replied "Every night since that thing was hung on my wall, right after the stroke of 11 O’clock, I hear a dreadful howling noise. It's Lucy, for sure. The whining gets louder and louder, until I take the tail down from the wall, then it stops”

I wanted to hear it for myself. I trusted Jim like everyone else in the village, but this was too much to digest. We sat together after the bell for last orders rang and the customers filtered out one by one and we waited.... and waited... then sure enough, a terrible, distant wailing noise began to permeate the pub. The glasses rattled on the shelves as the sound of a dog pining grew louder and louder. I composed myself, unable to reconcile what had just happened. Jim quietly turned to me and said "I think I know what the problem is".

Lucy was buried in the woods near to the road where she died. Jim took down the tail from the wall and asked me to walk with him to the spot where she lay. We walked together, me carrying a torch and Jim carrying Lucy's tail, still mounted on the wooden presentation stand. It would have looked quite ridiculous to anyone noticing us, but it was late and we were in the middle of a sleepy village. We made our way through the thick bracken and spiky hawthorn bushes to a small clearing.

Lucy's grave was still visible, although leaves and branches had since fallen over the disturbed earth. Jim asked me to hold the tail while he started digging. Then I realised what he was going to do. He dug down, deeper and deeper until finally we heard a *thunk* as he hit the wooden box inside which she had been buried.

He lifted the casket out of the ground and brushed away the dirt. The inscription etched into the wood read "my beloved Lucy, faithful companion, dearly missed - Jim". As he kneeled there, looking mournfully at his departed friend, we heard the chilling sound of Lucy's howls penetrate the calm night air once again.

"She wants her tail" he said. I nodded, still unable to believe that we were standing in the woods, listening to the yowls of a dead dog. "I can't do it" he said. I nodded again, trying to empathise with Jim, but I quickly came to the inevitable conclusion staring at both of us. “Look Jim, if that is Lucy howling then it's never going to stop, until you put that tail in the box with the rest of her". He looked at me and gave a look of resignation. "I just can't do it though". I stood there for a moment, considering the emotions he must have been feeling, but the howling was almost deafening at this point. I urged him to put Lucy’s tail in her casket, but with tears in his eyes he croaked “I want to, but I really can’t do this”

"Why not?" I asked, perplexed by his stubborn refusal...



...."because it's illegal to re-tail spirits after 11pm" he replied.

This tale is quite a bit longer than Lucy's. Apologies for length :-D
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 16:46, 18 replies)
You're Gonna DIE.....
After years of lurking, he makes his first post, and this is a fucking sPoOkY one.

About 20 years ago on the long boring summer evenings before we discovered alcohol, myself and a few mates started dabbling in the odd Ouija board. Nothing special, home made out of pieces of paper, A-Z, 0-9, and fours squares saying Yes/No/Bad/Good.

Stick with me here coz this one gets good.

We would kick these off by saying "Spirit of the air, is there anybody there", usually having these sessions at a weekend when my parents or my next door neighbours parents were out.

Anyway, to cut to the chase - these ALWAYS worked, though I was 100% sure that it was one of my mates doing the pushing. We must have done this about 5 times before the shit hit the fan, or in my mind, it finally *REALLY* did work and no one in the circle did any pushing.

We were in the next door neighbours house and we asked the "spirit" a few questions. One of these was my GCSE results. It gave 9 answers moving from B to A. After this, one of my mates asked when I would die which I was NONE too pleased about. The glass moved to 4 letters SAXM or something, we worked out it meant Xmas. It then spelt out the word holiday.

Stick with me.

Holiday, Christmas, myself and my family traditionally NEVER have a holiday as such at Xmas so I was confused. Things started going wrong now, the glass was moving in a fashion that I can only describe as angry. At this stage I pushed as hard as I could on the glass tumbler to stop it moving, still hoping that it was one of my mates pushing it. It kept moving. We we all looking at each other pretty much in disbelief, and we all decided to take our hands off the glass. As we did this the glass lifted about 3 inches from the table as slammed back down. A few things happened next including crying, us chanting spirit get out of this glass and the decision was made to break the glass. We wrapped this in a plastic bag and attempted to smash this around the back of the house. Even full force against a pebbledash wall would not break it. Panic really set in at this stage. There was some rough ground about 200 yards from the house, we ran for that, and threw the glass into that area, and ran back to the house. For the remainder of the night we panicked, prayed (yes prayed!), and *nearly* told our parents.

Anyway, a week later I get my GCSE results. Predicted exactly.

A month later my family received the news from a local newspaper that we had won a holiday in Florida, at (you guessed it), Xmas. The next 5 months I had much discussion with my mates and people at school about this but I decided that I couldn't own up, and I should just get on with it. We were scheduled to fly out on December 21st and return 8th January. Back in those days to get from Belfast to Florida was Belfast, Heathrow, JFK, Orlando.

We're nearly at the "fuck me, no way" part.....

A week before we departed we got the news of an alteration to our holiday plans - we were now departing on 22nd December, coming back 9th January. Nothing really to be concerned about.

I distinctly remember watching the TV the night before we left, the day we were REALLY due to leave. The newsflash came over the telly about the Lockerbie PanAm 103 crash. The flight from LHR to JFK. The original flight we were supposed to be on. Spine chillin eh ?

We got the flight the next day though security was hellish, and the holiday was great. On the 8th January we were watching the TV in Florida, the day before we left. I watched in horror as I saw the news of the British Midland crash at Kegworth, the flight from LHR to BFS, again, the flight that we were booked on.

Could I make a story like this up ?

I'm sure my dear old mum still has the ticket stubs somewhere from 20 years ago.

Apologies for the length. It could have been much longer though, I haven't even told you about the spirit that was left in the house.
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 14:12, 8 replies)
The Entity…

I’m a bit uncomfortable posting this after my previous piss taking efforts…

I was in my early twenties and living with my parents. We had moved into a creaky old house and I was ordered to clean the loft out. Begrudgingly, I ventured into the attic and as I cleaned, I discovered a heap of old junk in the corner, which had no doubt been discarded by the previous owner who couldn’t be arsed to bin it.

Being a responsible and sensitive individual, I decided to do the decent thing and hoof all the stuff into a skip. It was our attic now after all.

As I was pawing through the worthless trinkets and knick-knacks, I found a box marked ‘Private’...so you can understand that it was with the utmost respect that I ripped the lid open and peered inside looking for anything of value.

Inside was a 12 inch wooden crucifix, a scarf and a photograph. Although you could tell the photo was very old, the young lady in the picture was very attractive, beautiful even, and she was obviously enamoured with the smartly dressed man stood to her left. I couldn’t help but notice that the man was wearing a scarf just like the one in the box; but more bizarrely, that he bore more than a passing resemblance to myself.

‘That’s a bit strange’ I thought, but put it down to coincidence, left it at that and continued with the cleaning.

Later that day I took the box to the front door with every intention of throwing it away…but as I lifted it up I suddenly felt one of the most unusual sensations I have ever experienced…it was like a surge of energy…consuming me.

Even though I don't believe in this paranormal mumbo jumbo, I changed my mind about throwing the contents of the box away. Instead I put the picture up on my bedroom wall, hung the crucifix above my bed and chucked the scarf in the cloakroom. I instantly felt better. I can’t explain what happened.

A few days later I was about to go out and visit some friends when I noticed it was snowing outside. Without a second thought, I reached into the cloakroom and in the absence of any additional warm clothes I put on the scarf.

Once again and all of a sudden, a strange sensation engulfed me – but stronger this time – I felt as if I was myself, but not myself. I could sense my personality changing as I began to recall memories of a lifetime I had not lived. Visions of a past life…and of a past love.

I was frozen to the spot with fear. But then it felt good. Really good

I began to see flashes...images…of a remarkably stunning woman…so clearly...as if she was stood right before me. I then started to hear whispers. Of course I was scared at first, but they felt so soft, so kind and welcoming, that my heart suddenly skipped a beat and my emotions lifted.

I then felt a strange desire...as if I was being gently beckoned…upstairs to the bedroom.

As I opened the door, I swear I felt myself being flung onto the bed. I first thought I must have tripped...

Yet as I lay there, the warm, sensuous feeling was making my entire body tingle...and I started to harden in the trouser department as the whispers began to make my ears tremble…it was as if they were simultaneously nuzzling me and giving me telepathic instruction on what I was to do.

I couldn’t believe what was happening as my trousers began to unzip…all the time I was entranced by the beautiful but eerie visions of loveliness in my mind’s eye.

In a matter of moments I was totally naked except for the scarf, which was wrapped tightly around me as I lay helpless…watching my body ripple as if delicate hands were massaging me…down…down…lower….

My phallus began swelling and bulging as I felt something remarkably like the tip of a tongue softly rubbing against my throbbing shaft. Everywhere this ‘tongue’ went left a faint trail over my body.

Then the feeling grew more intense. As my penis became tightly gripped I observed a strange ‘rippling’ effect as if something or someone was astride me, and sliding up and down my ever more grateful cock. As we became one, the visions clarified.

I finally understood.

The lady in the picture had been deeply in love with the man, but he had tragically died in the war before they had a chance to consummate their relationship. I was the reincarnation of that man, and she had been waiting patiently for me…all these years…dormant in the house…waiting for my return…and here I was.

I had come home.

I began to softly moan as the momentum began to build – the whispers were now groans…growing louder and harder. I began to arch my back and grind my hips in time to the rhythmic pounding of my swollen manhood. It all felt so right.

Soon, the whole room started to shake, the bed rattled and the furniture vibrated - during the affray the crucifix fell from the wall on to the bed and as I writhed, it lodged itself into my person...yet I was so entranced, so swept away by the force and passion of this entity as I bucked and moved towards the euphoric crescendo of our unified love that I didn’t even notice.

The moment had enveloped me and taken me over…I had lost control and was scarcely aware of my surroundings. I could only focus on the experience.

The intensity increased and increased until I could hold on no longer; and with a final thrust of my loins I abruptly splurged my hot cream into the air. I then watched with silent awe as some of my love seed seemed to simply disappear into space before my very eyes.

And then finally…as swiftly as it had begun, the room was filled with a warm, relaxing aura of purest relief. It was over...

and she was gone.

All that was left was a strange green ectoplasmic residue over my nether regions…and the joy, sweat and memories of two spent lovers finally entwining and achieving their destiny.

I felt whole...complete. I had experienced proof that love never truly dies, and that our souls can live on...to an eternity in harmonious unison.

And that’s the truth.



So you’d think my mum would be a bit more sympathetic when she walked in and found me lying on the bed in the middle of the afternoon, dazed and bollock naked except for an old scarf, with a spunk-dribbly half-stonk covered in ‘mushy peas’, and with a crucifix sticking out of my arse.

But that’s mums for you.
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 12:00, 19 replies)
He just disappeared.
My father, when I was young, was the teacher in charge of school upkeep during the summer holidays. Once a week, we’d stop through to make sure nobody had smeared shit on the walls, then we’d check the meters and go home. For my sister and I, these trips were particularly fun. We could run through the corridors of a school! We could shout in a school! We could do cartwheels in a classroom! Best yet, we could see what the boys’ toilets looked like!

On one nondescript summer day, my dad, my sister and myself made the usual walk to the school. We got up to the usual bumbling about, while my dad got up to his usual duties. Time came to leave.

“C’mon kids! Time to leave!”
“All right, dad!”

We saw him walking towards the front door, then, I swear to Darwin and Tesla, he fucking disappeared. One second, there was a dad. The next, nothing. Right before our bloody eyes. There was no mist, no image dissolving like in the movies. CLICK – he was gone, and the only place he could have gone was through the front door.

My sister and I thought he was playing a joke, a bit of a scary hide-and-seek. We ran through the building, searching every locker and cranny. Nothing. Then we started crying out, scared. Nothing. Surely a father – and my dad was the greatest, at this point would sheepishly emerge to calm us down. Nothing. Three hours passed and we had no sign of our father, we couldn’t go home because we were locked in and we couldn’t get to a phone to call our mother. So we sat in a corridor and waited.

“Are you coming, kids? What are you doing sitting down, I told you to come here!”

And there was dad again, standing in the same spot.

“DAD! WHERE DID YOU GO!! WE WERE SO SCARED!”

“I, well, I didn’t go anywhere, I’ve been standing here the whole time, sillies.”

“NO, DAAAAAAAAAD, you disappeared! We were sad! We cried! We looked everywhere for you!”

“Don’t be stupid, kids. Obviously, I…”

And then he checked his watch. Indeed, three hours has passed. He turned a whiter shade of green, and we walked home in silence.

I had spent the years following assuming that my dad had played a dirty trick on us, that he took it as an opportunity to skip out on his kids so he could go to the bar or something. I brought it up again a few years later.

“I swear on your mother’s life, I didn’t go anywhere. I remember calling out to you kids, then suddenly the two of you were sitting down. Three hours were gone, but not a single second had passed for me.”

“Yeah, sure, dad.”

“I swear on your life, I didn’t hide from you. And in those years since it happened, I lie awake at night wondering what happened to me during those three hours. I – [voice cracking] - don’t know what happened…”

I’m inclined to believe my dad and to believe my own eyes (HE FUCKING DISAPPEARED!!!) But was it a dad playing a particularly devious joke on his kids? Eh, I’m not so certain of that. I certainly can’t explain what happened, and dad’s admitted to all of his other practical jokes by now.

There was only one way he could have run away to hide, and that was through the door. That door was locked. All I know is that he disappeared right before my eyes.
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 10:46, 12 replies)
Uni Days
When I was at uni we had a visiting professor who gave a lecture on supernatural occurrences. Pretty interesting stuff.


First up, he asked "How many of you believe in ghosts?" and about a third of the people put their hand up. So then he said “How many of you think you have seen a ghost?”, and about 20 people put their hand up. He seemed pleased by this and he said "Ok, let’s go one step further: Who here has talked to a ghost?" About 5 people put their hand up. So he says “And how many of you have touched a ghost?” Only 2 people put their hand up this time. So he says “Ok, last question: How many of you have made love to a ghost?” And just one kid right at the back of the lecture theatre sticks his hand up.


Now the professor wasn’t expecting anyone to respond to that question and it threw him off balance. So he says “I’ve been giving this lecture of many years, and no one has ever claimed to have made love to a ghost. Can you please come forward and share your experience”. So this kid comes walking all the way up to the front and stands at the podium, looking nervous and embarrassed. So the professor says “So, please, tell us all what it was like to make love with a ghost”. And the kid said “Er, bugger, from way back there I could have sworn you said goat”.
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 10:34, 7 replies)
Exterminate!
*Whooooooorp! Whoooooooorp!*

A blue telephone box materializes, bearing the legend "Police". The door opens slightly and out steps a friendly, slightly eccentric chap (who bears an uncanny resemblance to a well known Newcastle based B3tan) in a red waistcoat and long flappy coat, followed by his lovely assistant, originally from the planet Swearo, who stubs her foot unseen on the door and yells "Ouch! I've just cunted my toe in the fuck!"

Who are these mysterious, yet comfortingly familiar strangers? Do they have any relevance to this story?

Of course they do, they're here to pad out a repost from one of my first ever QOTW efforts.

Read on...


A few years back I got chatting to a friend of a friend at a wedding, who told me the most harrowing tale.

He'd been an enthusiastic user of psychedelic drugs in his younger years, but one fateful night out proved to be his final dalliance with LSD.

The long and short (if only!) of this introduction was that he ended up dragged along to a nightclub after imbibing acid and was seriously not enjoying himself. In the throes of a bad trip he cuts his losses and wisely, he decided to ditch the club and head home as quickly as possible.

However, the closer to home he got, the worse the trip and he eventually fell into a complete psychedelic meltdown.

He witnessed some terrifying visions, the worst of which was when he was chased into an alleyway by a horde of marauding Daleks. Faced with a brick wall dead end, he drops to his knees and pleads for his life, but still the evil Daleks kept coming for him.

He arrived at his flat, soaked in sweat before bolting the front door and closing the curtains. So shaken up was he that he didn't leave his flat until the following Monday morning when he left for work, still traumatised.

Funny thing was, that the Dalek episode seemed so real... Must have been bad acid.

Our hero's confusion is resolved when he picks up the local newspaper on his way to the office.

Upon reading the headline it all became clearer.... The shortcut past the back of the town hall... Being trapped in an alleyway by Daleks...

Turned out he'd had the misfortune to be running past the back of the town hall, just as the exhibits from the weekend's Dr Who convention were being unloaded from the back of a van.
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 16:47, 6 replies)
You never forget...
You never forget your first experience with death; No, I am not speaking from beyond the grave, but talking about that very first instance where death jumps out from behind the safety of the evening news, the newspaper, the stories from friends etc. Hitting you in the stomach with such ferocity you are left with that sinking feeling, the insatiable hunger, the black void and you can't actually understand that this is actually happening to you.

Some four years ago I was a dramatically 'younger' little dalai and was one of the few lucky people to have lived to the age of 18 without having lost anybody special to me. No Great Great Aunt, no school friend in an accident, no neighbour I knew of: life was sweet and I had spent my years enjoying my wonderful family, friends and scarpering about on the gert lush fields of Somerset doing the varied and enjoyable things boys do in 18 years of life.

One of these people who made my upbringing so special was Grandad. A man who despite being born with debilitating condition and spent the first few years of life in hospital, struggled against all odds and grew up to live a totally unpredicted 'normal' life.

This man was loved by all and gave all he could to bring cheer and happiness to those around him: he would think nothing of the difficult, long working day shift in the motor factory and the additional nightshift at the bakery as this brought his son (my Uncle) the option to travel to the boarding college the family could otherwise never afford.

When I came into the world I was blessed enough for this man to have taken a particular shine to me. Growing up I was treated (Read: Spoiled) with trips to the zoo, days out at the beach with ice-cream and candyfloss and adventures to far away adventure parks alike. Sometimes amazing evenings were had through the simple event of a playground visit and then watching Dad's Army together as he stroked my back. As I grew up into a young teen, the support and love through my education was always felt despite this old gentleman strictly sticking to his title of 'a man of few words'.

He didn't really need words though for what he did for me: the quiet smile when I showed him my achievements, the open door and fresh lemonade poured when I arrived for a visit, that cheeky wink when I was meant to be 'told off'; all were more powerful to me than the deepest conversations from others.

So when his age and all of its accompanying demons became more powerful than the tired will of this once great man, I found myself and close family surrounding his bed; timing the ever increasing gap between breaths, and watching the rosy-pink blood vessels on his cheek retreating to leave a waxy, white reflection of our truly beloved head of the family.

He was gone. He couldn't be gone- he's always been there, how can he be gone? I knew about death, I knew the science and the biology of it, but this couldn't actually happen to MY Grandad, no matter what happens in my life, he would always be there in his home to offer the ever-present company and lemonade surely?

I couldn't actually understand that he could possibly be gone until *THUD*... this huge combine hammer of death & reality kicked me deep in the stomach, and all of a sudden, the thousand things I wanted to say, the stories I wanted to tell him and the future I wanted to show him were all impossible.

He was gone, and I had encountered my first dealing with the selfish and unforgiving death.

Later that afternoon following the doctor’s visits and endless phone calls I felt a sudden wave of claustrophobia and this house, under the dark cloud of death was too much. I escaped to the garden to 'Grandad's bench' and had a bit of a sob.

My uncle popped out and sat down next to me, gave me a hug and said a few comforting words. He gave my back a loving stroke which instantly reminded me of the days with Grandad watching Dad's Army, and then walked off leaving me in peace. I remember giving way to the tears and feeling the heat of the sun on my neck as I sat head in hands expressing my moment of grief.

Moments later I popped back inside to see everyone for more 'group' comfort only to find my mother, auntie & grandmother inside.

"Where's Uncle Paul?" I enquired, wishing to thank him for a good set of comforting words.

"Oh he's popped over to see the Reverend" answered mother.

"OK, I was just chatting to him in the garden and he made me realise something about...."

Looking up somewhat alarmed, mother, auntie & grandmother rushed to inform me he had left well over an hour ago.

At that highly confusing point, and following a minutes' intense conversation, I had a realisation that has changed my opinion on death to this day:

When we lose somebody at the end of their life, our grief is derived from a purely selfish origin- the fact that we can see them no longer and undertake all that we would like to do and share with them.

When death visits, he isn't delivering the dreaded blow to the stomach described earlier, but whisking away the tired and used-up contents of our friends and loved ones so they may suffer no longer. When we realise death is just another part of life, we are able to accept people leaving us and let them live on in the memories and stories we share to those around us.

This view upon the subject of death is indeed questionable and no doubt won't be shared by everyone, but those few minutes in the garden on Grandad's bench were more questionable than I as a sceptic and science-lover would ever have believed, yet I have drawn comfort from them both ever since.

Thank you.
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 19:55, 9 replies)
My neighbour is a mystery.
He's an old fellah - must be in his 90's but seems friendly enough.

Every day for years, he has always had just one bottle of milk delivered.
Then, just the other day, there was two bottles stood outside his house. Nothing strange there but, the day after... three.
Then four the day after that and then five...

This morning, as I passed his house there was 8 or 9 bottles stood on his step. I've no idea what he's up to, but I haven't seen him since he developed this intense thirst for milk.

I don't think it's doing him much good either - there's a terrible smell coming from his house.
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 10:36, 3 replies)
Dad's Sister
My family used to have the village shop in a tiny farming village in rural Lincolnshire. And because it was so distributed, my dad used to do deliveries in the van. Farmers and their families would phone through their orders, and make a date for delivery. On weekends, as a young Sasquatch, I'd go with my Dad and help him carry boxes and bags. This was great, as I got to go round all the farms, play with all the kids and be shown all the animals.

One day, we were visiting a farm, and the farmer's wife introduced my dad to her mum, who was visiting. She said her mum was the local fortune-teller, at which my dad smiled politely and said "How interesting." or some such. He didn't believe in any of that rubbish. A more mundane and normal setting could not be imagined - a workday farmhouse kitchen, plain wooden table, muddy boots by the door.

Then this woman looks up at my dad and says "I've got a message for you." Her face crumpled, and she was clearly confused. "It's your sister, but it's a man. He's in a greenhouse in the sky, but it's falling and it's on fire. How can a greenhouse be in the sky...? How can a man be your sister?"

To my total surprise, my Dad's face was wet with tears. He thanked her for the message and said he understood perfectly. Things returned to normality; tea was made, drunk, and we left. In the van, I was bursting to know what that had all been about. When my Dad had been a teenager, his best pal was a lad called Peter, and they looked very similar in height and facial features. People used to ask them if they were brothers, and their stock reply was "No, we're sisters!" Peter had gone into the RAF during the war, and had flown in an Anson light bomber, which was nicknamed the Flying Greenhouse. His plane had been lost over the Channel.
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 9:15, 3 replies)
Possible Possession?
My mate at work told me this one and has had it feature on Castle of Spirits It’s a little long, so please bear with me.

Wavey Lines

It all started when I bumped into some guys (let’s call them Dave and Andy) who I kind of knew through some friends in my local pub. It was a slow night and my friends hadn't arrived and these two guys started talking to me about the party they were arranging for that night. They'd apparently taken a break from organizing it and had decided to head for the pub for an hour. Anyway, before you know it, I'm heading back to their place (Andy’s parents were on holiday overseas at the time) as a newly invited guest and proceeded to have a drink and chat with some of the ladies there.

After an hour or two the party is slowing down and although there are about 20 people there, it’s kind of fizzling out, so some people went upstairs to chill and others went home. I was about to make my own way home when Dave suggested we 'do a Ouija board.' Now, although I have an open mind, I am extremely sceptical about the paranormal and things of this nature and thought 'why not?'

I got the impression these guys had perhaps done this only once or twice before as they didn't have a proper board, but instead used cut out bits of paper with letters and numbers etc handwritten on them. When it got to this point, I assumed I was having my leg pulled or at least the victim of a half-baked practical joke. I mean, cut out bits of paper for goodness sake!

Anyway, about 5 of us sat around the table with the bits of paper in front of us and a small shot glass upturned in the centre of the table. Andy told me that he would be the 'controller' of the board and would be the one the spirits directed things through. Everyone touched the glass gently with the tip of their right forefinger and Andy closed his eyes and asked for any spirits to speak to us. What follows is what happened to the best of my memory and I apologise for the length of it, but I feel it is all relevant:

Almost immediately the glass began to slowly rotate. No one was pressing down on it, nor did anyone seem to be pushing it but there it was right in front on me moving in a circular motion. Andy asked if there was anyone there and the glass shot to YES. Not moved slowly, but it moved as if someone had dragged it across the table very quickly. This was impossible for any of the 5 of us as we were all merely touching the glass very lightly; however at this time I was still convinced I was the victim of a joke. Andy asked who we were talking to and the glass immediately spelt out H-I-T-L-E-R.

By now I was even more convinced that it was a joke and I laughed. As soon as I laughed the glass flew off the table and hit the wall and I stopped laughing. Dave and Andy were quite indignant at this and insisted that if wanted to continue I had to take it seriously. I agreed and we resumed. We once again obtained 'Hitler' and began asking him all sorts of questions to which the answers seemed a bit dubious. Dave and Andy seemed to think we were actually speaking with a spirit called 'The Joker' whom they said they'd spoken to many times and who takes on the guise of whomever you wish to speak, thus making you think you've got someone in particular when in reality you are speaking with him. We spoke to The Joker for about half an hour and then we ended the session and had a drink.

About half an hour later one of the guys asked me if there was someone I wanted to contact, and seeing as my Grandfather had died the previous year and I was fascinated and determined to know if I was indeed being wound up, we set the 'board' up again and resumed, this time asking to speak with my Grandfather. After about five minutes of absolutely nothing happening apart from boredom I was convinced that the guys were joking with me and was about to take my finger off the glass when it started vibrating. Not moving or rotating but vibrating. Andy asked if my Grandfather was there and the reply came YES. This was my chance to really test them and I asked for proof that we were talking to him. I asked for my Grandmother's first name which was Deborah. The glass went straight to the letter D and I swear I nearly fell off my chair and I started to get a bit scared when it then went to E. My fellow Ouija pals asked me if this was correct so far but I don't think they needed to ask me as I must have been white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. Then it went to N and eventually spelt D-E-N-I-S-E and I relaxed again but it was a bit close for comfort. What happened in the next ten minutes I will never forget.

Dave was really angry that we seemed to have found The Joker again and swore at him and told him to leave the board. This really seemed to inflame the spirit and the glass started rotating round and round very fast. Our fingers had to be quick to keep up with it. Andy asked who we were talking to again and the glass kept on rotating. He asked again and it vibrated stronger than before and kept on rotating. Eventually after several requests for the spirit to reveal its identity it suddenly went to the letter S and stopped. We kept our fingers on the glass for several seconds without anything happening and then it very suddenly moved and spelt A-T-A-N. Dave suggested we end the session immediately and everyone except Andy took their finger off the glass. Andy’s eyes had rolled up in his head and he was mumbling to himself. I was now half way between thinking this was either a very good wind up or that it was indeed real.

Suddenly Andy stood up, violently shoving his chair across the room into his Mother's fireplace and ran out of the room. Everyone else sat there looking at each other wondering what to do. Then we heard a scream from upstairs and ran up to see what was going on. We opened one of the doors and we saw Andy with his hands wrapped very tightly round the throat of one of the female party guests and two of her friends were trying to drag him off with no success. He was a big guy anyway but they couldn't even move him. The four of us who were at the table ran in and just managed to drag him off and I swear that girl had massive red finger marks round her throat. This was no joke I was experiencing – he meant to hurt her. Andy was snorting and swearing as we dragged him off and his face was bright red and he looked furious. He even tried to bite our fingers as we dragged him down the stairs. The next thing I witnessed finally convinced me that this was no joke. As we pulled him down the stairs his jeans came down and he “fell out” of his boxer shorts, but he did nothing to protect his modesty even though there were several women present. If this was a joke, he was willing to embarrass himself in order for it to work. He was more concerned at trying to hurt us than adjusting his clothing.

By now there were about six people holding him down while he writhed and spat at us, swearing profusely. We threw water over him and slapped his face but still he fought us with all his strength. Dave decided the only way to stop him doing this was to break the glass which still sat on the table. We grabbed it and took it outside to the patio and he threw it as hard as he could at the concrete and IT BOUNCED! Three or four more times he did it until someone found a hammer and we broke the glass with it. Immediately the noise stopped and there was Andy lying on the floor asking why everyone was holding him down.

I know that all sounds like the script from a bad horror movie but it happened just as I told it. I realise this experience began in a pub and continued at a party where alcohol was being drunk but nobody was visibly drunk in my opinion and although I thought so for a while, I am now convinced it was not a joke.

Occasionally I bump into Dave in the same pub and I try to get him to admit it was a joke, telling him I'm not angry and I admired them keeping up the gag for so long but he just chuckles and says he can't believe I still think it was a joke. He says Andy moved away soon after and he never sees him anymore. Why would he keep up the pretence? Suffice it to say I have never used a Ouija board since.

/Wavey Lines

Now I know I've only got his word for it, but he's convinced that it was real!
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 11:03, 13 replies)
Chased by a coffin....
This happened a few years ago and it's true!

I left the local pub at about 11pm, got to the top of my road and I could hear a tap tap tap behind me....

Looked back and there was a coffin! I stopped and the coffin was still there....I took one step forward and the copped hopped forward!

I started to run for my life but the bloody coffin was behind me, I reached my front door and managed to open it and shut it before it could get me....

Then the coffin started to knock the door down!

As it crashed through my front door I ran upstairs in terror and hid in the bathroom....

I could hear the coffin hopping up the stairs and looking in all the bedrooms.....

Then it tried the door handle, realising it was locked it started to try and break through the door....I was shitting myself so much my ring was goatse size!

It broke through the door and in my desperation I started to throw things at it....

I was throwing everything I could find, towels, tampons, cotton wool balls, shaving foam and nothing would stop it!

It slowly started hopping towards me and in my desperation I started to throw the contents on the medicine cupboard at it....

Strepsils....no good

Aspirin....no good

And in my desperation I threw a bottle of Benylin at it!

And the coffin stopped.
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 12:49, 9 replies)
Psychic Medium
I know there've been a few stories on here about people who claim to be able to speak to the dead. Some positive, some negative. Well, I had an extraordinary experience with a psychic a few years ago, and I'm going to share it with you only if you promise not to poke holes in it, as I still have strong feelings about it.

There was a group of people around, and the medium was up on a stage. "Okay, I have contacted a spirit," she said. "I'm getting a name. Something that starts with M or N."

Nobody responded, so she went on.

"Or R."

I immediately leapt to my feet, as my dear grandfather's first name started with R. "Robert?" I cried.

"Yes," said the medium. "Okay, I'm getting the impression that Robert is someone you look up to. Possibly an older relative, or teacher..."

"Robert was my grandfather's name!" I exclaimed.

"And I'm getting that your grandfather has passed on?" the medium asked.

"Yes!" I cried, to gasps and applause from the audience.

"Was his death very sudden?" the medium asked.

"No, he suffered for several years," I replied.

"-Because he's telling me that he suffered for quite some time," the medium continued. "I'm getting that your grandfather was a very humorous man. He really was full of life."

"He was a miserable old man when he was alive," I replied. But I was glad to hear that in death, he had finally found happiness.

"He says he's okay now," the medium told me. "He is very happy, and he is proud of you. Okay, over here now. I'm getting a J? G? John. Joe. George..."

Laugh all you want, but you can't answer this: how did she know that my grandfather was happy? How could she find out he was proud of me if she can't really speak to the dead? I rest my case.
(, Tue 8 Jul 2008, 8:28, 18 replies)
I spoke to a ghost once
When I was about fourteen, my grandmother took me on a week's holiday visiting relatives in Inverness, during which we seemed to spend every day driving to visit various touristy attractions around Loch Ness. The last day before going home, we went to visit a smallish castle (I have no idea which one), and being a sprightly young teen who by now was fed up of being dragged around by an OAP, I scooted off to visit the dungeons. Having discovered that these consisted of nothing more than a big empty stone room with a few metal railings bolted around the place for Health and Safety, I turned around to go back upstairs, but my blood turned cold when I realised I was standing face to face with the vision of a young lady in shabby heavy-looking clothes.

I can't remember details, but I instantly knew what she was, and at the same time had the intense assuredness that she was "friendly", even though my heart was racing faster than I thought possible. I managed to engage her in conversation, even though we had real trouble understanding each other's strange dialect, and then it struck me that I was holding my gran's instant camera in my clammy left hand. She didn't really know what I was asking, but seemed perfectly happy to pose and smile, so I manically finished off the roll of film before she turned and walked up the stone staircase.

My feet seemed pinned to the floor for an eternity, but I finally managed to leave and rushed back to the car park where my grandmother was waiting for me. I don't know whether she believed my story or was just humouring me, but was happy to listen to it, and I couldn't think of anything else for the next few days, especially as I had to wait until we returned home before I could take the film to the chemist for processing. Two days later I went back to pick up the prints, and practically ripped the packet open trying to get to the photographic evidence of my supernatural encounter. I couldnt believe my luck when I couldn't see anything - it wasn't so much that my ghostly friend was invisible to photography, but the prints themselves were woefully underexposed. Sadly for me, the spirit was willing but the flash was weak.
(, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 17:17, 10 replies)
ESP
.
How many of you believe in Ghosts? Put your hands up. Hmm. Quite a few.

How many of you believe in telepathy? Put your hands up. Again, quite a few.

And those of you that believe in telekinesis? - Put my hand up.

Cheers
(, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 3:36, 3 replies)
Shop haunting
When he was a bit younger, my brother got a part time job at a fishmonger's. Really unpleasant work - gutting fish, throwing away the guts and making them look presentable for the customers. The owner of the shop used to pay well though, purely because the job sucked and that was the only way he'd get someone to stay there long enough. Fish gutting and scaling is an art, and you need practice in order to stay good at it.

Now, having spent a bit too much on beer one week, brother dear was needing some overtime pay. And stayed late for three nights in a row, catching up on fish gutting. Nothing happened on the first two nights. On the third night, so I'm told, it was creepy. It was summer, but the inside of the shop was cold. Not just the fish storage or the counter but the whole shop. This wasn't solved even by turning the heating on.

He kept hearing whispers. Fragments of words in the background, always coming from the shop front. Every time he went out there, no-one was there. Obviously, after a while you'd get a bit creeped out.

After finishing up, he heard the whisper one last time, saying something like "hello?". He went out to check... and saw something there. A thing, in a black robe, transparent. Like the stereotypical image you have of Death. But stinking of fish.

It stuck a finger out at him and said in a loud clear voice.

"I'VE COME FOR YOUR SOLE"

(I am so so sorry)
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 18:00, 6 replies)
In 1899 John Hewey,
founder of the Rationalist Society of Melbourne (now the Rationalist Society of Australia) hung himself. His ghost is said to still haunt the Society's headquarters. Many people have reported seeing his spectral form, looking embarrassed and trying to hide.
(, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 17:48, 3 replies)
Antietam National Battlefield
Sorry in advance for the length, but it's worth it, at least I think it is:

Sharpsburg, Maryland. September 17,1862

Federal and Confederate forces clash at a sleep town in western Maryland as Robert E Lee takes the fight to the North.

So, four years ago, I am working on a PBS project (television docudrama on) on the French and Indian War. WAY WAY out in Western Pennsylvania. I am driving home after a weekend out there and my air conditioning in my truck fails. It is something like 96 degrees outside with near 70% humidity. MISERABLE day. AND I have a 165 lb English Mastiff in the truck with panting like Gary Glitter at a pre-school graduation ceremony.

Goose the dog is probably THE easiest going animal on the planet. On the set we were coming from a black bear strode into the clearing where we were building a full-sized French and Indian war fort and Goose just sat there staring at it. It was about 50 yds away and he never barked or growled, he just checked it out. When it turned and trotted back into the woods, he layed back down and went to sleep. THE easy goingest dog alive.

So he was terrifically hot so I decided to stop at the next stop/exit and get him some water.

The next stop: Sharpsburg. Site of the single bloodiest day in American history. Over 23,000 casualties in one single day of battle.

There is a creek that runs through the battlefield and it is called Antietam Creek...so, being the frugal git that I am I figure: Hey, the dog doesnt need bottled water, the water from that Creek will do!

So we drive through the abandoned park (it was too hot, even for historian types) to the site of some of the nastiest fighting of the day, Burnside Bridge. We walk from the Confederate side to the Yankee or Union side and Goose (the dogs name) goes down to the water to drink. He takes a couple laps of water and then his head snaps up looking over at the Confederate side of the bridge and starts going absolutely BALLISTIC! Hair on his neck standing up, head ducked in the Mastiff attack stance and growling, hissing and straining at the leash...looking intensely at the far side of the creek...the Confederate side. There is not one single solitary soul there. NOONE. The park is as empty as the condom dispenser in Elton John's guest bedroom.

Goose is literally going nuts. I am thinking: "Great, my air conditioning not working has just baked my dogs brain and he is losing it right in front of me!"

He stops just as suddenly as he started (about 30 seconds of that behaviour) and then drops his snout into the water and starts lapping away again as if nothing happened.

About 10 laps of water later, it all starts up again. And he is looking at the EXACT same spot he was looking at before. Only breaking that staring contest with NOTHING long enough to glance down at the river/creek bank where it was as if something were hitting the ground near him. Then he would return to the hideous 'hound of hell' growl/screech/whatever the hell it was.

I was TERRIFIED!

He's 165 lbs...only about 25 lbs lighter than me!

So I pull on his leash and get him back up the river bank and the whole time, he is walking towards me but looking over his shoulder, growling at whatever he was seeing.

I get him into the truck and guess what? The air conditioning starts working. We drive to the visitors center and I approach the desk where the Park Ranger is sat. I relate the story to him and all the while, he has this knowing smile on his face.

His comment after I was done?

"Um, yeah...well Mr. Citadel, your Dog and you were at the spot at the precise time of day the fiercest piece of the attack on Burnside Bridge happened. Your dog was, in my opinion, seeing the Georgian troops of Toomb's command firing on the opposing Union forces. This happens about once a week when someone will walk their dog down there. For some reason, ocasionally little children will see it too, but I've only talked to pet owners. Your dog was seeing ghosts."

I have been back twice since. Once about 2 hours before the battle began at that spot and Goose was a spry, happy dog. The second time, we went back about 20 minutes before the attack began and Goose was acting very odd. About 20 minutes AFTER the battle was supposed to have started, he started the entire sequence up again but with less anger..see, he was already getting used to seeing those Confederate shooting at him.

The above story is 100% true.

Cheers,

Citadel
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 20:26, 6 replies)
A serious story
I've been debating posting this all week, and finally decided to, what with this being about the closest I can imagine to a QOTW topic that'll draw this story out of me.
This is long by the way, and not funny, just to warn you.

The Tale of Kaol and the Haunted House

My parents have lived in the same house for my whole life, and so did I until I was 18.
This house is in a tiny hamlet, in the middle of the countryside, next door to a church. The other side of the garden hedge is a grave yard, and there was an abbey in the field behind the house, until it was "Dissolused" by Henry VIII, forcibly, with several of the monks being killed in the struggle.
There are several local legends about headless monks haunting the ruins, along with more recent stories of a big black cat (ie. escaped puma) that had been seen taking chickens, attacking dogs and so on.

The house itself was built in 1640, and is pretty creaky, but I was used to it.
I'd never seen a ghost, never seen the cat, never had anything strange happen to me.
Part of the deal with living in that house is that you have a key to the church, and lock it up at night, and unlock it in the morning.
Wandering through a pitch black graveyard at night, into a dark church? Not a problem.

Then around my seventeenth birthday things started to get odd.

I would hear indistinct voices whispering in my house when I was there on my own. This worried me, so I told my parents, who said "It's just the house creaking, or the wind in the trees."
It wasn't, and I knew damn fucking well it wasn't.
Then I started seeing dark, flickery shadows. They would move quickly, close to the walls, in the corners of my vision.
It was at this point that I had to stop going to lock the church up at night. What had once been a peaceful place to me had become a terrifying ordeal that I had no wish to go through with.

Things in the house then got worse, and the shadows became indistinct figures, who seemed, disturbingly, to be very aware of my existance.
I remember sitting down for a family meal when a dark, person-shaped shadow walked across the room, through the table and stopped in front of me, pointing at me accusingly.

It was around this time that I started drinking heavily to make these kind of horrible things easier to deal with. It helped quite a lot, as it turned out.

The scary apparitions and voices didn't stop though, and I became quieter and more withdrawn. I'm not going into to much detail here, as I'm still not comfortable with it myself, but suffice to say I was a very unhappy young man.

To cut this story to the conclusion, the drinking got worse, to the point that I ended up in hospital, where I was psychiatrically evaluated, and diagnosed with a wonderful combination of mental health issues.

After a few years of crappy medication and some half-arsed counciling I decided that the only person who could sort me out was me, and I got my fuckin' act together, giving you the lovely young man that you have, writing this, today.

I still get odd things happen to me, but being able to rationalise is one of the most powerful aspects of the human mind.

So, in my opinion, ghosts don't exist, but the human mind isn't perfect and can make a lot of convincing mistakes.
(, Tue 8 Jul 2008, 16:34, 12 replies)
Apologies to Scotland...Germany…Environmentalists…and pretty much everybody else...

I used to date a German girl. Attractive, but mental, she used to actually enjoy being called disrespectful, outdated wartime references (like ‘Kraut’ and ‘Bosch’ etc)

Anyhoo, she once showed me a script she had written for a piece of theatre drama. It was a pile of utter cocksnot, but here is a quick summary of the plot…

It centred around the longest river in Scotland, and how the people of Perth and Dundee lamented the river’s heavy levels of oil pollution.

(riveting eh?)

However, the ‘twist’ was that upon closer inspection, the ‘oil’ was actually just thousands of cups of discarded tea, chucked in by staff at a nearby café.

So everything was alright.

She left this ‘bombshell’ until the very last line.

Upon reading the script, I immediately dumped the dizzy-arsed German bint, and never saw her again.

All these years later, I do have some happy memories of her, but even now I shudder when I think of the…



‘Tay-oils of tea’ Hun-ex play-end
(, Tue 8 Jul 2008, 12:02, 11 replies)
Damn you, brain..
Let me first say, like quite a few people who have posted already, that i am rather a terrible cynic. I don't believe in the paranormal (although it is extremely interesting in a cultural/psychological kind of way). I don't believe in Beardy McSkyface, fate, luck, homeopathy, acupuncture, chi, ectoplasm (even though I find THAT on a regular basis... Call it plausible deniability), the bermuda triangle, crop circles, UFOs (I'll get to that later), ouija boards, any kind of religion. You can tell I am a blast at parties...

Alot of the stories this week have been about unexplained sightings / experiences (funny that). I used to think (back when I was seventeen, knew everything and didn't use quite so many parentheses) that anyone who believed in things of this nature were mistaken, deluded or just plain idiots. Then I had an experience that made me realise something. It was a weekend trip to Amsterdam. 'What? This is a drug story! Nothing to do with the paranormal!', you shout, but hear me out.

Thing is, during the course of a long weekend in Amsterdam, I accidentally (okay, not entirely) ate a huge bunch of mushrooms. I'm talking, a little bit more than you're meant to take in one go, at least your first time. A few of my friends had rather adverse reactions to the stuff, but I escaped relatively unscathed. I did spend an entire night in the dark in our motel room (everyone else had to leave to chase one of our friends who wet himself and ran away to jump in a canal, they had to fish him out), but the experience was like nothing else I had ever had before.

It was that night I realised just how powerful the human brain is, what incredible ability it has to decieve. To put it in a really nerdy context, it's like a GeForce 99millionXT in terms of graphics processing power. People who haven't been on drugs can't really describe it - I saw things that night, not like some drunk guy who can't see properly - I actually saw the carpet turning into water, swallowing the furniture. I saw the walls bend into spirals, the door turn circular like Frodo's house in LOTR. The funny thing was that through all of this all I could think about was how amazing my brain was to be able to create these things for me - what kind of a computer would it take to be able to render the kinds of things I was seeing? And not some fuzzy, half remembered drunken antics, this was vivid. And I still remember it. I have since had similar experiences (on drugs) and these have confirmed what i thought - I'm not saying drugs are great or anything like that, they just give you a striking glimpse of what the human brain is capable of visualising. You can say that the drugs create these things, but they don't. All the drugs are doing is releasing chemicals in the brain which trigger certain parts of it to become active (or over-active).

Which brings me to my point (eventually). It's not surprising at all that so many people have paranormal, religious and spiritual experiences. In all of this, no-one really gives the brain its due credit - it is an insanely powerful machine, capable of visulising things that no-one could ever dream of - and we don't know the half of what it can do. The brain remains one of the biggest mysteries to science (one of the few things I have total faith in, if you can call it that). Be it sleep deprivation, stress, drugs, whatever trigger, the brain can, and will, do amazing things whether you ask for them or not, and often without warning.

I don't want to sound preachy or weird, but I have seen what my brain can do, and how utterly convincing it was, and it has made me a lot more understanding towards people who have had weird things happen to them, be it on drugs or not. The brain really just is the greatest liar of them all.

People who attribute their extraordinary experiences to ghosts, the almighty, or UFOs should stop and think about the most amazing thing of all... that squashy pink thing sitting between their ears. It holds all the answers. And someday, hopefully, we will learn them.

But then, do we really want to?

ooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOOOO

Its about six inches long and sits in your head, at the controls!
(, Tue 8 Jul 2008, 0:22, 6 replies)
Years ago...
Just after my grandfather passed away, I was up in Scotland visiting my Nan. They had lived most of their lives in this crumbling, Victorian, red-brick, mid terrace house, and I was going through some of his old things in the attic, when I came across some of his old Journals.
Most of the entries were fairly innocuous, there isn’t a lot to write about when you’ve spent most of your life working in a Whiskey the Chivas Regal distillery, but in some of his earlier journals there were a few harrowing, disturbing stories from the time he’d served as a medic in the army during WWII. Most notably, there was a particularly shocking description of the time he’d had to hold his friend’s intestines with his bare hands. An experience that he, as anyone would, found extremely upsetting.

They weren’t the most eye-catching tales in his dusty old journals though; the ones that really grabbed me were the ones he’d written shortly after he had moved into the old, Victorian house in the late fifties…

I carefully opened a musty smelling book that I’d found under a pile of well-worn clothes, and flicked through most of the pages without really looking. Until I found some of the later entries for that year, where for some reason his normally quite reserved style of writing seemed to take a nervous, slightly more panicked slant.
I’ve edited the entries to how I remember them, as he was a strong Scotsman, and I want for you to be able to hear these words how I remembered his voice, if possible.

November 12th 1958
The day, work was as it a’ways is, Jean’s looking as lovely as ever, and the wee one in her belly only seemed to add to just how lovely and peaceful life seems to be.
I couldnae get any sleep at aw the night though, there was this strange, scratching noise comin’ fi’ the attic aw night, an’ ev’ry time ah went ti investigate there was nothin’ there, not a mouse, pigeon, squirrel, or owt tae be seen.


A few unremarkable entries followed, and life seemed to be good for my grandparents. They both worked hard, and enjoyed their simple existence in their quiet little Scottish town.

November 23rd 1958
That feynyin’ bastard scratching returned the night, the noise seems tae travel from one side o’ the house tae the other, and back again. Every bloody time I went up they stairs, the noise stopped, and every bloody time ah went back tae mah bed, it started again.
Ah’m laying some traps the morrow, I’ll catch that buckin’ wee shite any way I have tae.


I have to admit, that at this point the hairs on the back of my neck raised, but I wasn’t scared. It was a little strange, but I wasn’t frightened. Over the next couple of weeks my grandfather wrote entries about his traps always turning up empty, and the scratching noises returning more frequently than before. The sleep deprivation was starting to take its toll, his work was slipping, his handwriting became messier, but all the while my grandmother slept through it all, not once did he mention any of this waking her.

December 9th 1958
Last night the scratching was worse than ever, ah couldnae get a moment’s peace. At one point, just as I could finally feel myself falling asleep, the room was FREEZIN’. When ah opened me eyes, the bloody bedroom windae was wide open. Ah cannae tell if the latch is broken, it wisnae even windy oot last night. Ah cannae ken how that windae was opened.

December 10th 1958
I have got tae get masel’ some sleep, this is really driving me crazy. How does the noise no keep Jean awake? Why only me? The night ahm stayin’ oot o’ the hoose, she’ll be awright for the night by hersel’. I just need to get some rest.

December 11th 1958
Last night I got masel’ plenty of sleep roond at Tom’s hoose, ah feel much stronger, healthier and fitter for it. I know that all o’ this silly nonsense is just in mah mind, the night I know I’ll get plenty of sleep wi’ Jean.

December 12th 1958
Ah really dunnae ken wit tae write. Ah dinnae ken what ah saw. Anyb’dy readin’ this is going to think that I’m goin’ completely oot o’ my mind.
Last night there wisnae any scratching noise, at least, no at first.
I woke up in the middle a they night, the attic was thumpin’. Ahm sure that there was somethin’ movin’ aboot up there, an’ the windae was open again. Jesus Christ, Ah’ve never been so scared in my life. I wis fair sweatin’ like a pig, but ah wis freezin’, I’ve never felt cold like that before.
Then, in the murky darkness o’ they room, there wis a light, and they light, it just got bigger, and bigger. It looked like a woman, but ah cannae be sure. She, it, just appeared, and it stayed there, standin’ at the bottom o’ the bed, and I wis frozen to the spot. I couldnae scream, speak, or move. I jus’ stared, and stared, and after wit felt like an age, it was gone again.

December 13th 1958
Ah couldnae speak to Jean aboot what happened the other night, I couldnae speak tae anyone aboot it, they’d all think I was mad. I just thank God that the apparition didnae appear again last night, but just the worry is enough tae keep me awake now.
Jean’s taking me to church the morrow, I know that she’s worried about me, but whatever it was that ah saw, I doubt that a trip to church is going to help.

December 14th 1958



December 15th 1958

The last two nights have been the worst. She appeared again last night. I know that it’s a she now. She materialised exactly as she did before, I could feel her, looking at me.
She waited at the bottom of the bed for hours, the windae was open, but the cold was coming from her. I was frostbitten on the face and fingers, and this time she approached me. I could make out the callous look in her eyes, and her face was gnarled intae a deeply wrinkled look of pure pain. As she approached me, her mouth opened wide, and her hair flowed as though she were floatin’ in watter. I was sure that she was aboot tae tell me something, but the first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon, and she disappeared as quickly as she had materialised that first night.
Ah’ve got tae find out what she wants, it’s the only way tae get my sanity back. Tonight I’ll stay awake, and ah’m going tae find out what she needs to tell me.

December 16th 1958
I don’t think I’ll be seeing the white lady ghost again.
She appeared last night, a freezing wind howled through the open window, I sat up in bed, and Jean didnae stir even once.
The white lady approached mah bed, the pained look in her eyes turned my insides to cold stane, and ah gripped mah quilt so tight that the blood disappeared from my fingers. She leaned close to my cheek, the side of my face burned from the cold, and I felt as though her pointed teeth were chewing on my ear. She didnae speak at first, she just waited there, and I gulped. Ah was truly terrified, in ways that ah don’t think anyb’dy could ever understand. Her ghostly arm raised itsel’, and a bony finger pointed to the open window, where, another small light was slowly starting to appear.
I could feel her face, she was almost kissing mine, I was petrified of what would happen next. Then she spoke slowly, her voice was rasped and weary,
‘Over there…. you see him…?’
I looked to the light that was appearing by the window, it was taking a form, smaller than the white lady, but a definite, recognisable shape.
It was a small animal, a horned, furry animal. A Goat, a symbol of the guardian of the underworld.
‘You see him?’ She said, ‘I’ve had him.’


The End

I’d just like to point out that all of this is fiction, and that my granddad is actually very much alive. He was a medic in the Army, and the story about him holding his friend’s intestines is true. My granddad is a great bloke, a crazy, old, chauvinistic, misogynistic bigot, but definitely a great bloke.

(, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:02, 15 replies)
Unusual auction
I was on ebay today and I came across an interesting auction. A famous, spooky street magician had been caught cheating on his wife, so she'd chucked him out, forcing him to live in the guest apartment at the side of their home.

Being cooped up in that tiny flat reminded the levitating conjuror of the weeks he spent trapped in a glass cage without any food. The anguish was too much and he ripped out the floor of his kitchen and his bathroom in frustration.

The result was this pile of debris, put up for sale. It was the...

"Tiles of the annexed Blaine"
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 19:03, 9 replies)
Oh yeah....
This old Victorian house we used to live in drove us mad with weird noises, stuff being moved about and stuff like that. It got to the point where we actually had a priest in to perform an exorcism! The weird stuff went away for a couple of years after that. But then I got into some financial difficulty, and defaulted on the mortgage. True to form, stuff started going missing again, cold chills in some of the rooms, horrible noises like children crying... it turned out the house had been repossessed.
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 14:33, 1 reply)
3 from my work in a loony bin
1. Doing 2:00 am round with another nurse in a "veggie" ward, open the door to one of the bedrooms and see a man syanding next to the bed. He turned and smiled at us at which point we both screamed and ran to the next ward. Came back about 10 mins later with 4 other staff to find man dead on the floor. Weird part was that for 62 years, since birth, he had been a quad with very little brain function.

2. Same place, trying to get an old duck to go inside and go to bed but she refused to go in the building. Kept saying "I won't go in while the white ladies are there". Tried dragging her, threatening her and drugging her, wouldn't move - ended up spending the night sleeping on the verandah. In the morning we found one of the oldies dead. Over the next 5 years that i worked that ward she did it 8 times, dead one the next morning every time. Still does it apparently.

3. I was supervisor one night, got a phone call saying get here quick, we have trouble. Took 2 other staff with me, opened the ward door, place looked like a slaughterhouse, blood on walls, ceiling and floor. In one corner there was a body laying in a pool of blood with a kid squatting down by the head. I asked the staff what the fuck was going on and they just stood there pointing at the body. Looked back and the kid has got one hand inside the skull and sucking the other hand with a look of glee on his face. Turns out the "body" had had a fall against a window and smashed his head. The eater was a little blind kid i'd known for years who just used to sit in a chair and rock all day, never interacted with anyone. It was one of the most gruesome things i've ever seen, big red smile - even the police that showed up all vomitted.

Lots of weird shit happens here, they reckon it's cos of all the "tortured souls" that have died.
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 14:14, 10 replies)
No need to get spooked
I don't know what you lot are worried about. Why, exactly a year ago today I ran over an old gypsy woman in a dark forest on a stormy night. Her dying words were ominous and frightening, yes, but the woman was obviously in pain and raving a bit.

I mean, a moment ago I thought I saw a hooded figure pass by my hall window but that's not possible since the window is at least eight feet off the ground. See? Science says no.

And that noise, the one that sounds like long fingernails scraping along the door? That's obviously my tomato plants swaying in this rather sudden wind. There's always a rational explanation for these things.

The power has gone off but that's okay - the jagged, forked lightning that splits the sky provides ample illumination. The strobing effect this has does make it look like a figure is moving through the hallway, heh heh, but I suppose it's a bit like a disco really.

I was delighted when I got this house so cheap. Not everyone wants to live on an old burial ground. I was very pleased - I'd never seen any evidence of Native Americans in the West of England before.

Next door's cat must have gotten into the kitchen - sounds like the little rascal is in the knife drawer. I'd better go and check it out. Back in a tick. I'll just-
(, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 9:14, 6 replies)
On behalf of a friend....
I was just chatting to a company contact on the phone, telling her about this question. She was incredibly shocked, and went quite quiet for a few seconds, freaking me out a little bit.

She records music in her spare time, mostly covers, but some of her own stuff.

Last night she was recording using a microphone and wavepad, when the doorbell went, she ran to get it and there was no-one there. Just passed it off as being kids or something.

Anyway, as she went back upstairs she noticed that wavepad was still recording, and that there was a small, consistent sound showing up along the recording, so she rewound, increased the volume, and had a listen. The sound seems to have really spooked her, but I can't make hide nor hair of it.

She's uploaded it, and sent me the link.

Can anyone here help?
Warning, still pretty scary
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 13:21, 9 replies)
Why you shouldn't mess with Ouija Boards
Way back when I was a teenage ScousersPet, I was somewhat desperate to get into the pants of a cute gothy chick called Naomi. Woo had been pitched for some time, with no success. During our long, deep and meaningful (yeah right, we mostly talked about Iron Maiden) conversations it had emerged that she was into the occult and I had claimed to be as well, in a pathetic attempt at seeming cool.

One day, she suggested that we should try to "contact the other side" using a Ouija board. Thing is, she said we need four people for it to work. She could bring her mate so I needed to find a willing fourth. At that point, my best mate wa sa lad called Ben, he was from a strict Evangelical familly from a very supersticious part of Nigeria, so he took some persuading to come along, but I told him Naomi's mate was fit and that seemed to change his mind. It was on.

The "seance" was due to take place in my bedroom, so I prepared a suitable atmosphere by puttinf red crepe paper (i think that's what it's called) over the lightshade, to bathe the room in an eerie, Satanic glow. Top.

All parties arrived, the board was produced, blessed (!?) and spirits were invoked. We quickly established contact with the ghost of a woman who had lived in the house 100 years previously. Despite m6y skepticism, there didn't seem to be any pressure being applied to the planchette (the pointer thingy), yet very clear answers were being given to our inane questions. Things were getting a touch spooky.

Then things started taking a turn for the freaky. The answers started getting a bit angry and, unprompted, the spirit asked to be allowed to leave, which we refused, wanting more answers. The room chilled and it seemed that the birds outside the window had stopped singing.

Suddenly, there was a flash and flames started falling on the board, as if from nowhere.

I shit out and bolted for the door, which opened inwards. As I went to open it, all 6'4", 15-stone of muscle, part time bouncr of Ben barreled into me, screaming like a banshee. He pinned me between himself and the door and I heard a nasty splintering sound. I thought it was the door at first, but the massive pain in my wrist revealed that it was actually my wrist that had splintered. It my turn to scream.

Behind us, we heard a nearly hysterical laughter. We both turned and saw the girls pissing themselves and pointing upwards. We looked towards the ceiling, terrified as to what we might see. Remember that red crepe paper? Well it turns out that you shouldn't tape it next to a 100w bulb, as it tends to catch fire and fall on anyone underneath it.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is why you shouldn't mess with the occult...
(, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 11:36, Reply)
The ghost in the garden
I woke up early in the morning about 3 a.m. Something just didn't seem right in the house. I lay there awake for a while and then decided to go downstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

It had been raining the night before and I could see outside through our sliding glass door that looks out onto the back lawn that it was a little misty or even foggy out. I poured myself a glass of water from the tap and then sat down at the kitchen table. I was looking outside at the lawn through the sliding glass doors. I could see our big sycamore tree next to the fence; just beyond it was barely visible through the fog. That's when I saw it. That's when I saw the ghost.

I could tell that it was a human figure. It was so white that it seemed to glow. It was kind of billowing, too, like seeing a person who was swimming underwater. You can see them, but you can't really make out the edges. It didn't have legs – it’s body just sort of dissolved away toward the ground. It floated there for a moment or two and then I guess it must have sensed that I was looking at it because it turned a little toward me and then... and then... it just ascended straight up into the sky.

I stood there for what seemed like an hour, just waiting for it to come back. I didn't even realize that I had been standing. I must have stood up when I saw it fly up into the air.

The next morning I was telling my mother about it and she got this look in her face. I could tell that the story had got her scared. She said "You're moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel-air"

I whistled for a cab, and when it came near, The license plate said "fresh" and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare, But I thought "Nah forget it, Yo homes to Bel Air."

I pulled up to the house about seven or eight, and I yelled to the cabby "Yo homes, smell ya later!" Looked at my kingdom, I was finally there, To sit on my throne as the Prince of Bel Air.
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 12:20, 5 replies)
Explain this if you can…

Only the other day I was invited to a small social gathering with a couple of friends in the happy borough of Nuneaton.

As I turned up at my mate’s house, he presented me with a 3 litre bottle of cider and told my to ‘start the early drinking’

Once despatched, the three of us walked into town whereupon we visited several pubs…

…and here’s where it gets spooky…

~~~~~~~~ Wavy lines ~~~~ woooooo ~~~~~~~

I have absolutely NO MEMORY OF THE NEXT 12 HOURS!

Based on the subsequent investigation I have drawn up a shortlist of possible explanations:

Alien Abduction: On waking I had an overpowering sense of dizziness and nausea (and my arse certainly did smart a bit the next day). I also discovered strange green lettuce-like ‘vegetation’ over my clothes and odd stains similar to chilli sauce down my frontage. Perhaps in my transportational state the aliens had attempted to pass communication for my return to Earth – This would explain the strange code scrawled on my hand next to the name ‘Chesty’.

Demonic possession: Witness statements mention my ‘speaking in tongues’, and people not being able to understand a ‘single fucking word’ I said. This could also explain the strange red marks all over my neck and inner thigh, and the reported lack of control over my bodily functions which apparently led to the ectoplasmic gloop I later discovered in my undercrackers.

Conspiracy Theory: Perhaps sometime during the night I witnessed a government 'hit' – or inadvertently overheard the royals laughing it up about how they bumped off Diana or something; so subsequently MI5 were despatched to ‘zap’ my mind in a ‘Men In Black’ stylie. This would solve the mystery of why my head felt like a baboon had shat in it.

Well there’s the evidence but I am still at a loss to explain exactly what happened that fateful night.

I’ll leave you to form your own opinion.
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 11:26, 7 replies)
Fan Death
It's not ghosts and it's not aliens, but in my opinion it could easily be classified as paranormal.

Over here in South Korea, you are warned every summer not to sleep with an electric fan on, and if you use a fan, make sure a window is open. Or you could die. Every year, there are a few dozen reports of people who die due to electric fans.

Last year, a group of men entered into a suicide pact and slept in a hotel room with the fan running. The next morning they were all alive so they tried again the next night. One of them decided he wanted to live and he unplugged the fan, so he was credited by the media for saving their lives.

This is seriously something that everyone believes. Intelligent, educated, informed people, even doctors. I remember having a conversation with a doctor about fan death, and he was trying to explain to me the numerous theories about how fans kill you in your sleep. They are:
-the fan blowing on your bare skin cools your body too fast and you die of hypothermia
-the fan creates a vortex over your mouth and nose, vacuuming out all the air from your lungs and suffocating you
-using up or pushing away all the oxygen and giving you carbon dioxide poisoning
-chopping up the oxygen molecules so there is no breathable O2

To me, all of these suggestions seem counterintuitive. When I sleep, I have the fan on, and I've been doing that my whole life, summer and winter. If the fan's not on, I feel like the air's stuffy, probably as the air expelling from my lungs lingers over my face. So fans help me breathe easier. Also, if I ever get too cold, I just move a bit or cover up with a blanket.

In all of this insanity, who would you expect to be the most anti-fan death? Not the media obviously as they're the ones fueling it. Not the cops, because if they don't want to investigate a death too closely, it's easy to just write down "fan death." Well, what about the damn fan manufacturers themselves? Don't they have a vested interest in educating people that they do not manufacture lethal home appliances? Nope, they believe in fan death too. If you buy an electric fan, it contains a warning that you shouldn't fall asleep with the fan on. Also, all fans come with timers, so you can set them to turn off before morning.

My wife believed in fan death at first, and she used to yell at me that there's a scientific reason for it. She gave up complaining after we slept with the fan on all through the summer.

If you don't believe a whole country is capable of thinking this, just click on this link and read point number 1. This is a press release put out by a government agency in 2006.
(, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 11:24, 7 replies)

This question is now closed.

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