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This is a question The Dark

17,000 writes: Everything bad happens in the dark. Tell us your stories of noises and bumps in the night, power cuts, blindfolds and cinema fumbling.

(, Thu 23 Jul 2009, 15:49)
Pages: Popular, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I got nothing this week.
But, while I am here, I have to say, I love driving in the dark when it's snowing.

I pretend I am in the Millenium Falcon
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 13:24, 9 replies)
Having watched and enjoyed The Sixth Sense
Mrs Vagabond and I had something of a disagreement, resulting in huffs all 'round, but we soon made up and repaired to bed.

I realised with dawning horror, however, that Mrs Vagabond had arranged to have me assassinated. What was more, she was going to have it done by an archer, to avoid any noise.

Further to this, I discovered that the code word she would use for the assassination was "Charlie", but I couldn't figure out whether this was the command to commence or to confirm the kill.

I was becoming increasingly frantic trying to find out the answer, and then suddenly - in real life - and while still completely asleep, she reached over, shook me awake, and said, eyes firmly closed, "Vagabond - Vagabond! 'Charly'."

I FLEW out of bed - to my credit rolled across the floor to the window for cover - and crouched there, drooling and staring like a madman. Having been unable to establish the nature of the code, I was unable to acertain whether I was alive or dead.

Mrs Vagabond says she will never, ever forget the look of my face - it was of complete, beastial fear - I had devolved to an animal state.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 13:10, 1 reply)
Dark, Hairy and Very Scary...
Jimbuktu's post here: clicketyclick! reminded me of something that happened to my mum back in the eighties...

~~~ Wavy Lines ~~~

Many years ago (1988-ish) I used to live in Gibraltar, Spain, as my dad was in the army. He was based at South Barracks and as a family, we were situated in some bungalows in front of the barracks, commonly known as 'South Barracks Sheds' due to the the buildings previous use as stables before their refurbishment into living quarters.

Anyway, being a bit of a tropical place, warm all year and all that - we were often witness to all kinds of natural wonders, such as the occasional visit from locusts which had been carried over from Morocco via winds from the Gibraltar straits. I even kept a couple as pets. These were big creatures too - some can grow up to several inches in length.

Amongst some of our other beasties we shared our habitat with, were cockroaches (these too were a bit bigger than your average bug you'd get here in blighty), the odd giant caterpillar and some cool woodlouse things that rolled up into tiny balls when touched.

Such natural delights were usually seldom seen, unless it rained (which was rare in Gibraltar unless it was winter, or a rare summer downpour..) - or more commonly, at night.

To get to the point of this story, we'd been living in 'Gib' for just over a year, I was a chirpy kid, life was great, and I have some great memories of this amazing place.

This memory, however, will stay with me forever..

It had been a very hot, sweaty day, average temperatures in Gibraltar were often in the 30s - even in winter, so let's just say it gets a bit sweaty..

I'd been put to bed (after all, I was only a kid..) mom n dad were tucked up too, and as they say, all was quiet in the house, nothing stirred, not even a mouse.

Well, almost..

The silence was shattered with a piercing scream, I jumped out of my bed, and ran to my mums bedroom door. The room was alive with what can only be described as sheer pandemonium. My old man was running round in his pants, mum was stood in the corner of the bedroom, blanket in hand, shaking like a wet dog, screaming "GET IT AWAY FROM ME!!"

"GET BACK TO BED - NOW!" was all I got from my rather hysterical father, being a kid and fearing a colossal hiding from my old man, I duly obliged.

The next morning, the house is back to normal as if nothing happened, dad's out doing his bit for queen and country at work, and mum's in the kitchen, and I'm sat watching telly in the front room, when something caught my eye on a bookshelf.

There, sat among pictures of the family, the odd ornament and some books was a catering sized glass Nescafe jar, it was full of what appeared to be cotton wool.

"Mum - what's that on the bookshelf? I enquired.."

"Keep that thing where it is, you dad wants to keep it, I dont know why, but keep it away from me." She said.

Apparently - this was the source of all the commotion the night before, turns out that my old dear, was happily snoozing away, and went to scratch an itch on her leg.

It was'nt an itch - it was one of these, and apparently the size of a small kitten..
Don't have nightmares...
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 12:59, 24 replies)
Dead Space
is not a game to be played in the dark. You will physically shit yourself.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 12:47, 6 replies)
I could tell you many tales of the dark...
...and my fiance could tell even more, I imagine, as he has been living in it for the last twenty years, having gone completely blind aged sixteen. The dark is his constant companion, and not in an emo way either. ;)

However this tale involves not him but my first serious boyfriend of teenage years.

Wavy lines back to when womanwhocanonlylivewithdogs
is herself sixteen ...

I was going out with the bloke wot dj'ed at my sixteenth birthday party. He was, to my teenage still-at-school eyes, cool as fuck cos he had a job, a business (said mobile dj'ing outfit), and a car. A blood red Ford Sierra estate at the time to be precise.
Having let some other ne'r do well into my pants the year before I wasn't exactly grass green, but this bloke did have a car and David Bowie hair do, which made him acceptable in my book. Unfortunately my arsehole radar was not yet fully developed and I didn't see the "knocking yer bitch about" festivities that were to shortly commence after a few months together. Ho hum.

So here's me, going out still with the total tool, getting my face rearranged a couple of times a month, not knowing any better than to stay with he-man woman hater who bullied the shit out of me. This is relevant, honest.

He used to like to go to the local lovers lane and park up the Sierra of a week night (it even had our names on the plastic sun visor strip at the top of the windscreen, oh yes), fumble gracelessly at yours truly's clothing for abit, then stab me with the pork sword until he had had his idea of satisfaction. Same old story for many a teenage girl down at Quaker's Lane (anyone living in Norwich may know of the place). I put up with it because Quaker's Lane runs under the flight path of the airport and I liked to watch the planes come in, a la Wayne's World, and sometimes I'd get bought a rather wonderful pizza from a place called Bill's Pizzas. When a plane was due, the lights on the flight path would suddenly come on, dim at first then full when the plane was within earshot, which was spooky, but pretty.

However, his lordship did have one peculiarity which I suspect is not the same as most couples who frequent such places - he liked to take all his clothes off in the car during such interludes, every single stitch, shoes included. He liked me to do the same (not keen, but hey, what can you do when you're young and stupid.)
So one night, there we are, having consumed excellent pizza, some Flite Nite cd playing on the stereo, getting down to it, utterly, utterly starkers. It is black as Newgate's knocker outside, I mean black as a black cat in a mine shaft. Himself has managed to install me in the back seat, legs akimbo, and is grunting his way to happy land on top of me like a man possessed. Outside, the inky blackness is complete, with not so much as a pin prick of light to penetrate it. On this occassion we seem to have the lane to ourselves, though even if you didn't, as all the parking laybys run parallel to the road and are bordered on the other side by the high wire fence of the airport, you were usually guaranteed some privacy. This is before dogging took hold and one actually wanted privacy, rather than to invite participants.

He's nearing his happy release, when suddenly there is a bang on the roof the car - a double bang, as if someone has knocked on it. We shriek, he exits my venus at high speed- and in that instant we both look up, to be completely blinded by a flash from a camera pressed up against the window, then the car begins to rock as what must have been several people start setting about it, shoving it from either side. They try the doors, which we have thankfully locked. We have no idea how many there are or where they are, other than outside trying to get in, because it's so fucking dark. We haven't kept even so much as the dash lights on, as we hardly wanted to be lit up from within like a couple of (rather unusual) ornaments in a display case.
Himself absolutely wails in terror and scrambles madly for the driver's seat, wedding vegetables swinging, drops of shag nasty from our union flying about and spattering the upholstery like his wang has suddenly developed a watering can rose, suddenly utterly disoriented. I'm amazed he didn't do himself an injury of friction burns, the way he shot between the front seats, bouncing off them like a pinball. He moved as if his hair was on fire and his arse was catching, screaming like a stuck pig.
Then, once installed in the driver's seat, he remembers he is totally naked and has done something sensible for once in his life - he's taken the keys out of the ignition in case of car jacking (in the middle of nowhere, possible, but unlikely) or attack by rabid badgers or something - possibly something like what is happening currently. The keys are in the pocket of his jeans, which are somewhere on the floor of the car, which is of course bathed in darkness blacker than Satan's arsehole. Cue him scrabbling about on the floor, screaming, "Help me, you bitch !"
Well, thankyou Sir Gallahad, but I am trying to cover my modesty as several unknown perverts of undetermined intention rock the car about and press their faces up against the window, if it's all the same to you.

In the end he found his car keys, shoved them in the ignition and started the car, but was unable to drive it away as he had no shoes on and couldn't keep his feet on the pedals. I imagine the total panic he was in didn't help. Three times he stalled it, until eventually he managed to coordinate himself enough to drive us away, leaving a trail of burnt rubber and several whooping and laughing people behind. However, in his alarm he neglected to put the headlights on, and as we shot out of the layby, we narrowly missed being hit by a car coming the other way. No traffic for hours and then the second we're making our escape - yuppers, there's a fucking Land Rover. Excellent.

He drove into town quite a way before he dared stop. Still gibbering and naked as the day he was born - I had managed to dress myself in the back during the hoo-hah, and am abit disturbed but otherwise ok.

I will never forget his pallid features as he shakingly put his clothes back on, and I will never forget the screaming he did when it all kicked off either - big man that he was. Happy to hit women, but screams like a girl at people playing silly buggers in the dark in a country lane.

We never parked there again.

Length? - not as impressive as he thought, though I would have liked to have seen it caught on camera.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 12:41, 7 replies)
Midnight, in the graveyard on Hallowe'en, with my cock.
One of the times I have been genuinely concerned about other-worldly entities.

I'm sure many of you know the score, walking home after a good drink, finding you and your good (ex thankfully) partner in need of some naughtyness RIGHT NOW and stopping where you can.

Well it happened that I lived one house away from a dark graveyard. Our route home naturally taking us past it and our inability to wait, coupled with the frisson of outdoor sex led to us finding a quite spot inside the graveyard to do it.
As I pulled out my wilting fella, I glanced at my watch to see it was midnight exactly. At this moment, a tombstone fell towards me, missing my toes and ankle by millemetres.
I'd like to think it was a friendly reminder that we were breaking some golden rule about mixing with the dead on hallowe'en. Needless to say, I haven't found myself in that position again. (The graveyard situ ok? (It was doggy actually)).

I'm still not afraid of the dark though. More afraid of the ex.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 12:35, Reply)
"Daddy, I'm scared of the dark!"
...said my daughter as I switched the light out one evening. Perfectly reasonable behaviour from a three-year-old, and it rested with me to do something about it.

I - like a fool - tried to reason with her.

"What," I asked, "are you scared of?"

She looked at me, abject fear written across her face and said: "Wigglewig coming."


"Yeah," she repeated vewy vewy softly "Wigglewig coming"

"Who... what.. is Wigglewig?"

"He big an' fuzzy an' scary wiv a big tail an' he got sharp teeth an' HE COMING"

"So, where does he live? Under your bed?"

She pointed.

She pointed over my shoulder, out of her bedroom to the room over the landing. The bathroom.

"He lives in the bathroom."

"Yeh. Wigglewig coming."


She jumped out of bed, clutched Kung Fu Bunny to her chest, said "Shhh! Don't wake him up!" and led me by the hand.

"There he is. Is Wigglewig."

"That's the bog brush."

"Yeah. Wigglewig. He coming to get me."

She is nearly fifteen now. I can't wait until - one day - the Father-of-the-Bride speech.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 12:07, 9 replies)
Night night!
Child: I'm afraid of the dark.

Me: But it's dark when you close your eyes.

Child: *head explodes*
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 11:54, 1 reply)
The Fog

this film made my arse make buttons back in the day
its funny what time does to a man , these days i find my wife's DIY projects scarier than anything John carpenter could rustle up

jesus christ on a bike here she comes now...
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 11:46, 2 replies)
The miniature wall of DOOM
After a long night of drinking and a short kebab house queue, myself and two mates were making our way home. Amidst the munching of chips and mystery meat, A suggests a quick shortcut through the graveyard, even in my drunken state I knew it wasn't a shortcut, moreover a long detour, "It's an adventure" proclaims he, and we remaining two follow him.

It'd only been a small walk into the dense foliage before I realised it was dark, really, really, dark. We'd managed to form a walking group, which helped navigation, but this was more to keep each other upright as we walked along than anything else.

At this point my version of the story differs from the story of our third member D, he maintains that he warned me a number of times of an impending obstacle. My own version simply involves me walking along with nary a worry, walking into something and going down, hard & fast (fnar), and trying valiantly in vain to preserve my chips and burger.

Despite howling with laughter, my mates helped me up (eventually) and we carried on on our way, escaped the dark graveyard and got home.

I walked past the graveyard a few days later, and in the colder light of day I saw where I'd had the mishap. Turns out I'd been lucky to only lose some artery clogging food, because in the dark I'd fallen onto a grave and missed any number of death-by-head-injury bits of stone around it.

Whenever this story is regaled by my mate D, I am invariably doing some sort of amazing backflip into a freshly dug grave. But that's creative license for you.

The more cringeworthy part of this episode was that I'd managed to inadvertently dump chips and burger over a grave the night before rememberance sunday. I remain hopeful that I didn't desecrate some Generals final plot.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 11:45, Reply)
Dark Horse
After drinking ourselves silly whilst at a friends house, we decided at 3am that we should go and try to steal a small tree from the local tree nursery. (random and cuntish i know)

We took the main road for about half a mile to the nursery, and on arrival I hopped the fence and set about cutting the chain on the nearest small tree. It broke loose and I swung it back over the fence to my friend. Neither of us wanted to be caught carrying a medium sized tree along a main road, so we took a shortcut through the fields, sharing the weight of it.

Absolute darkness surrounded us, as we staggered through the really muddy field, and then out of the gloom, a fucking huge white horse came past us at full speed. After a couple more horse passes we legged it, leaving the tree. My shoe came off, and i fell over, but we made it back.

My mate went back for it the next morning, and the tree is now growing in the pub carpark near his house.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 11:35, Reply)
Heterosexual Manoeuvres in the Dark
I was in the Air Cadets. Because we were so hard and straight and cool, we would go on weekend exercises which essentially involved running about in the dark shouting "Na na na na nana!" like Private Pike with a Tommy Gun.

Our Commanding Officer was also hard and straight and cool, and would often lead the charge, chucking thunderflashes around in a way that made a complete mockery of the firework code.

That was, alas, until he fell deeply in love.

All of a sudden, he was no longer leading from the front because he'd brought his bird with him, and they were canoodling somewhere in the car park.

Night would fall, and instead of bivvying with the rest of us, he set up a disgustingly luxurious tent a discrete distance away from the main camp.

It's amazing how well you can sleep under an old parachute, in a field in the middle of nowhere, shrouded in the dark of a clouded, moonless night.

It's also amazing how well sound travels. Particularly when it is the sound of our CO and his lady friend going at it, doggy-style in their tent, not fifty yards away.

We knew this because they had a torch in their palace of luxury, and they were lit up like a Chinese shadow theatre, the only thing visible for miles around as he plunged his beef bayonet home into her willing ...er... yes.

Being a charitable sort of chap, I roused my comrades from their slumber and watched – as rapt as teenagers could be – the act of two consenting adults doing the actual sex with each other.

They finished.

We cheered.

We got called a "shower of bastards" and the light went out, plunging the entire campsite into darkness.

Across the field came the words "Where's the fucking tissues?" before silence once again ruled.

It was sausages for breakfast.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 11:33, 4 replies)
A sudden attack of the shits
The dark doesn't scare me, but it has caused one or two run-ins, one of which I'll describe to you in all its glory here.

Allow me to begin by setting the scene for you. My bedroom is on the first floor, at the front of the house. To get to the bathroom from my room, one has to walk through the bedroom door, down the hall, down two steps, through a 'doorway' (which doesn't actually contain a door), and the bathroom door is immediately to the right. I've lived in this house for long enough to have memorised this route, so that when nature calls in the night, I can safely find my way to the toilet without the need for lights or any other new-fangled technology.

And now onto the story. Just around the corner from my house is a fish and chip shop which I happen to frequent. I seriously cannot emphasise through the medium of writing just how fucking good this place is. The newspaper cuttings — all from national broadsheets — which adorn the walls would suggest that I'm not alone in thinking this. And it's cheap as well — £1.90 for battered sausage and chips? Yes please. So there you have it, Albany Fish Bar, or 'AFB' in a nutshell.

One night when I was feeling particularly lazy and unadventurous I took the decision to dine on the aforementioned meal instead of going to the trouble of cooking something myself. The quality of food wasn't as good as normal; the sausage was particularly cardboard-like in both taste and texture, and that night I went to bed feeling a little nauseous, but convinced myself not to worry; that a lie down would make it all go away.

The next thing I knew, it was some unspecified time in the small hours and I was awake. You know when you're just waking up and something's not quite right, but you're not quite conscious enough to work out what it is? Like when you've stayed at a friend's house and you're trying to make sense of your surroundings and there's a brief moment's panic as you try and work out where the fuck you are? Yeah, just like that, but on this occasion the panic was caused by the realisation that I really needed a shit. Whatever the liquid form of turtle-heading is, that's what I was experiencing. Sitting bolt upright, I felt a sudden wave of nausea. My body was covered in sweat. Not to worry, I told myself, I'll just make the routine trip to the bathroom.

As I began the walk down the pitch-black hallway towards the toilet, the pain in my bowel area increased somewhat. "This is showtime," I thought to myself, and my walk turned into a run. Down the hall, down the two steps, and then... nothing.

I woke up what could have been a few hours later (in reality probably only a minute or two), looking up at the ceiling of the hall. I was soaking, and there was a pretty appalling smell coming from somewhere. Ah, that would be the big pool of shit that I'm lying in then. My head was killing me, and a strong urge to vomit got the better of me, so I duly added to the already sizeable pool covering the floor.

Dazed, I looked upwards towards the doorway, and saw what had caused all this. My housemate had elected to install a chin-up bar in the mysterious doorway. Running at full pelt, I had clearly smacked my head on this thick metal bar and knocked myself out cold. This in turn had caused my muscles to relax, provoking the sudden gushing of bodily secretions from my rear end.

I hastily managed to find some carpet cleaner and an old t-shirt with which I frantically scrubbed the entire area, trying to get rid of any and all evidence that I possibly could. If the worst came to the worst and anyone noticed a peculiar smell or odd looking stain on the carpet the next day, I'd just say I was sick and would neglect to mention my head-on encounter with the chin-up bar or my sudden explosive attack of the shits. But nobody even mentioned it, presumably because that particular carpet was pretty much one big stain anyway. I had a quick shower and went back to bed, feeling a little bit dizzy and about a stone lighter.

I honestly can't remember if I was alone in the house that night, or if my housemates were all heavy enough sleepers not to notice the commotion going on in the hallway, but I am very thankful that nobody came to investigate. It would have made a very embarrassing and painful situation a whole lot worse.

Apologies for length, depth, and shittiness.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 11:31, 5 replies)
The cloudless night sky, pebble-dashed with a veritable cornucopia of bright twinkling silent stars would take my breath away. It was a truly awsome sight and I’d spend hours sat up on the garden roof of my parents place in Lesina, Southern Italy, every summer simply star gazing, figuring out the constellations, deliberating on my position in the universe and other such weighty issues. OK, occasionally I’d glance over to the house opposite to see if the fit woman who lived there was doing her calisthenics in the buff after her nightime shower, but for the most part my brain was filled with the breathtaking wonder and clarity of the jewelled sky above.

And there was something else to keep me interested, while my parents entertained Mario and Luigi and Mr Rossi downstairs...

The bats.

The house was a street along from the old church tower. At dusk an army of big fuck-off bats, like winged badgers (well, ok, maybe not THAT big), would swoop and arch through the air, catching insects and generally astounding the absolute bollocks out of me. I was and always will be facinated by bats. Bruce Wayne? Fucking pussy! Nothing scary at all about your average Southern European bat. I’d often stand perfectly still, arms outstretched, and feel the little buggers as they hurtled past, displacing the hot Italian air but never actually hitting me. It was pretty damn incredible.

Then one night I hit on an idea. I’d been relegated to the roof garden after an unfortunate incident involving a phallic-shaped condiment bottle and my old Auntie Maria, so I was camped out on the roof while my parents and the extended family did the whole Sopranos thing downstairs. The bats – facinating little furry buggers that they are – were just waking up as the gloom decended on this sleepy little fishing village. And I, in my ultimate nine-year-old wisdom, was going to catch a few of the fuckers and keep them as pets.

I rigged up a series of sheets on the washing line to divert the little fuckers towards me, opened the roof garden door wide, turned off the light and waited, stood perfectly still with another sheet in my hands, resembling a statue of a matador (only wearing a really rather dashing stormtrooper t-shirt, shorts, and my best Primark flip flops). Didn’t take long for a load of bats to fly my way – there were literally thousands of the fuckers in the sky; probably more flying rodents knocking about over Lesina than Nazi bombers over London during the blitz. It was hard to make out – the thing about your average common or garden bat is that they’re black, and the thing about your avearge common or garden night is- you get the idea.

But I could hear them, chirping away, I could sense them. I was BATMAN!!! In the most heroic way possible I legged it forward flapping the sheet, whooping like a twat on acid, while squeezing my eyes tightly shut, running quickly towards the open doorway; essentially bat herding.

It happened in a second. Bugger. Nothing. No bats trapped inside the small shed-like structure built ontop of the roof garden that led down to the rest of the house. Deflated, I dropped the sheet.
Shitty arse wipe...



It was my dad. I had a strange sense, an inkling you could call it, that he was a just a little bit angry... (My dad very rarely swore unless he was a little bit peeved).

I heard a shitload of crashing and banging about, I heard my ancient Auntie wail like a fucking banshee, I heard my sister burst into tears. There was a really fucking loud CRASH as the kitchen table appeard to be knocked over, pots and pans rattling.


Eventually it went quiet... Then: THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD!!! My dad storming up the stairs.

He found me sitting innocently on the sun lounger, doing a bit of star gazing. My dad appeared to have scratches over his face: “Keep this fucking door closed!” he said between laboured breaths. He could see the look of guilt and terror on my face. My dad also knew I was a devious little shit, so he went on: “Did this have anything to do with you?”

I thought for a moment, I could still hear wailing and crying seeping up from downstairs, the sounds of a major clean up operation in progress. I said: “No, dad. Absolutely not.”

“You sure - swear on your life?”


Happy days - I reckon if I ever tell my dad about my bat herding exploits now, over twenty years later, he'd still belt me. Apparently my Auntie Maria nearly died from the shock of having a toothy flying rodent the size of a large grapefruit mauling at her face.

No sense of adventure, my family...
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 11:14, 12 replies)
Everything bad happens in the Dark...
...Indeed it can do, but it can also have its little upsides as well. As some b3tans know, I suffer from these bastards which can occur in 2-3 month cycles usually twice a year.

The worst part about having them is when they wake you up in excrutiating agony at night. In one of the last series of 'attacks' they woke me up at 2:10am on the dot every night (yes, every night) for a little over 9 straight weeks. Of course, at 2:10am it's generally pitch black and every night I'd have to scramble my way around trying to find my medication, even when it was put in the same place every night I'd still not be fully able to concentrate through the pain to remember where I'd put it. Putting the light on in such attacks is a complete 'no-no' as well, as the sudden intensity of any light can make things much much worse.

So, for approx. half the year I'll be waking up at exactly the same time every night in pitch darkness, and usually the only sounds are me whimpering in pain like some demented spirit from the other world, and the only bumps are generally me either hitting my shins/arms/elbows on nearby furniture trying to find the medication, or indeed (in the worst case attacks) me 'bumping' my head against the wall repeatedly to try and eradicate the pain.

Thankfully, the latter doesn't happen every time, and I have little recollection of it the morning after, save for - you guessed it - a splitting headache where I was bumping my head, and my better half telling me about how she dealt with it to try and calm me down.

Not a funny post in the slightest, but the Dark can be a good thing (believe it or not) as I generally get between 8-12 'attacks' during a 24 hour period, and the medication always kicks in and works better when it's pitch black, sometimes as much as halving the time it can take for the symptoms to ease, and for that - at least - I'm very thankful for the dark.

Nightmares be buggered.

/And for those wondering what all the fuss is about, or interested, here's a link to a well-known sufferer of CH called 'Chuck' having an attack. It's not pleasant and it is as painful as it looks :(
It's safe for work, but uncomfortable viewing

There will now probably follow a funny story about the dark from someone else which might be a bit cheerier :)
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 11:05, 7 replies)
I sometimes like to see what it would be like typing in the dark by closing my eyes, turning the monitor off and trying to write a message without going back to correct mistakes or look at the keyboard if I forget where the letter I need is situated. I know, it’s a geeky thing to do but it amuses me to look at my terrible typing skills also really helps pass a dull day at work

or as my first attempt said:

I sometimes like ri rus whsy it vould ne like tyopuov= in ryg darj by xlosinv ny eyes, tyrnind rhw monitoy idd too and tryicnde to wrhue ths messata without sopjne dscjh ro dirrffet hudtsjers ir look su the keyboars ri i fogrude whrwre tje jeyyrt i nwws os sutuayrd. I know, ica a gwwku thsng to du bur fir amusws me wirh mu tertricbfy tyoisbf skilee vdsh helps dass a dyuu dsy st wiej.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:57, 7 replies)
Continuing an earlier theme...

St Joan, whom we've come to know somewhat poetically as the Maid of Orleans, had a peculiar characteristic which contributed to her being condemned as a witch - she displayed signs of sacrococcygeal teratoma.

This was a mutation that had also been displayed by her father, one of her paternal uncles, and paternal grandfather; one can only assume that she had inherited a gene that gave her this physiological quirk from her male ancestors.

You could say it was her tail of the d'Arc side.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:38, 3 replies)
Walking back from a pub in Wales one night with a few mates. It was pitch "can't see your own hand" black so we obviously started winding up one of my friends who was scared of the dark. Running off and screaming for help etc etc.
Then one of my mates REALLY screams and runs off into the night. Then another. By now my mate is freaking out and asking us to stop. Suddenly, one of the girls gets something tangled in her hair causing her to scream like a banshee and run off into the darkness. Cue all of us running across the fields screaming, leaving my poor mate begging us to stop. His screams in the distance as he got attacked and pleading to be saved were a thing to behold. We realised that it was just a few bats getting confused when we calmed down a bit but my mate wouldn't go out after dark for the rest of the trip :)
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:38, Reply)
I used to live in the Lake District....
....Nether Wasdale to be precise.

I was only 15 at the time, so of course I was living with my parents. I'm an odd sort though, I like the countryside, the quiet, the views, the pace. I love it all, I'm an old man before my time. Anyway, I digress.

So, let me set the scene. Nether Wasdale is a tiny hamlet of a place, two pubs and a disproportionate 15 or so houses. That's it though, the nearest whiff of civilisation was Gosforth, some 6 miles away (and even then it wasn't much bigger than Nether).

It was a Saturday night and my folks had gone to the pub, leaving me, the three cats and my Jack Russell alone in the house to watch TV, eat crap food and steal my Step dads beer, 15 year-old heaven. Until the storm came.

I like a storm, but not like this. The house backed on to the woods, so with each terrifying clap of thunder and flash of lightening my imaginative 15 year old eyes were seeing terrifying, horrible things which weren't even there. There were faces, shapes, movements in the shadows. I was tense, but not afraid. I decided to grab my dog by force and make him sit on the couch with me and watch TV, he was a Jack Russell after all so his potential levels of protection were immense. Well, we didn't have a proper dog, so he'd have to do.

Then it happened. The lightening struck (we later assumed) the copper church bell behind our house. Everything went out, no lights at all. And let me tell you, in the Lakes there is no residual sulpher burn in the sky, there are no streetlights, no nothing, just darkness. Can't see your hand in front of your face darkness at that.

Drunk on stolen beer, and squeezing my dog to within an inch of his life I sat, huddled on the couch, cowering at every flash of lightening. Near hysteria had set in by this point. I have no idea why, I like storms, but all the contributing factors to this one just made all too much to take.

I decided to make a bold move and find a torch, I'd been on the couch for some time now, and the situation wasn't getting any better. As I could see nothing I crawled across the floor, still somehow clutching my canine, tentatively feeling for obstructions and obstacles. I just had to get to the dresser, I knew there was a torch in there. I reached it, put my hand atop to pull myself up. I clipped the ash-tray though, flipping it over the edge, hitting me in the head and putting me into an ash covered daze. I lay on the floor, reeling in the pain while adopting the fetal position, still clutching a disgruntled dog.

Then the light came on....

When my eyes focused I saw 6 or 7 people stood at the door. It was my mum, step dad and their friends who had opted to come back to ours for a few tipples. They were baffled as to my situation, I explained everything in detail, while still trying to be manly....

....they burst out laughing, the lot of them.

It transpired the power-cut was only for a minute or so. I had been basking in a sole source of illumination prior to the strike of lightning, the TV. So when the power came on the TV went on standby. I assumed that everything had died. I was wrong.

I spent the best part of two hours rolling round in the dark, upsetting my dog because I was too stupid to realise what was going on.

I still get teased about it today, some 11 years on. I'm not afraid of the dark anymore, not unless I'm totally sure that dark is the only option anyway....
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:31, 3 replies)
I went to the cinema to watch the original Japanese version of The Grudge
I genuinely thought I was desensitized to horror films until I saw this one, it scared the SHIT out of me. For the next week I couldn't sleep properly, just thinking about that bit where the woman's in bed, opens her eyes and there's that freaky kid standing over her, and the crazy ghost woman staring down at her.. aaaaaaaaargghh..
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:29, Reply)
Not the popularist movement for disaffected teenage retards.

The stand-up from the 90s.

"I heard something moving when I was in bed the other night and it was dark, so I did what my mom told me to do when I was scared and that was whistle. So, I whistled. Then I heard a voice say 'thanks for whistling emo, I'd never have found your neck otherwise'
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:27, Reply)
Drink plus dark equals disaster
I am an odd sleeper. As a child I would wake up in the corridor, on the floor of my bedroom or even downstairs having made myself a sandwich. Sometimes if I have been very deeply asleep and I wake up somewhere very dark I will not have the first fucking clue where I am, which is both terrifying and massively disorientating.

As with most QOTW answers this one begins with alcohol and a lot of it ingested by me, who was at the time an 11 stone slip of a teenager whose drinking prowess was purely fictional.

On this particular night I was completely smashed by the time I went to bed and I hate the dark when I’m battered because I spin, spin like Satan’s tea cups. The chap I was sharing a room with however was not keen on sleeping with the light on so he called me a poof and flicked the switch. The darkness flowed over me and bored into my eyes as I searched desperately for the smallest chink of light that I could hold onto in my fragile mental sleep. All I wanted was a sliver from the curtains, a crack under the door or even the cold hard stare of a LED on an electrical item. Alas there was none.

I rode the spin feeling more and more nauseous, but against all odds I eventually fell into a deep drunken slumber. Tradition would dictate that this would be the end of my woes as I would wake in the morning tired, headachy and feeling like a rabid racoon had made a home in my mouth and had an orgy with other diseased woodland creatures. This was not to be…

I awoke in the middle of the night, my guts churning, I knew the feeling all too well, I needed to get to a toilet and fast. I sat up quickly and looked around and it dawned on me, I hadn’t the slightest fucking clue where I was, it was pitch pitch black I was about to ralph and I had no idea how to escape my inky dungeon. Panic hit me.

There was only one thing for it, I leapt out of bed as I felt the first surge of acid up my oesophagus and made a run for it hoping against hope that I would find the door, what I actually found was a seriously fucking solid wall that I ran into at full drunken pelt. I bounced back off the wall and fell onto my arse and promptly threw up all over myself. Unsurprisingly this woke my friend who popped on the light to find me sat on the floor, dazed, naked and covered in vomit like some kind of auto-scatological perverted fuck wit.

He laughed a lot, and then turned off the light.

(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:17, 3 replies)
When I was 9
This was (and still is) a spooky thing that happened to me and my mates.

We were staying over at a mates house, he was a little weird but we hung around with him as he was a spoilt bugger who had so much crap you would never get bored (Seriously each time we called round he always had some new toys etc etc and that’s all that matters to kids).

One night after our usual routine of getting hyped up on sugar, watching crappy films and telling ghost stories I woke up in the middle of the night to a strange sound. At first I thought it was just a noise from the air con unit but for some reason I could not fall back to sleep. Then I heard an unearthly scream.

In a corner stood a pale skeletal ghostly figure, with features that didn’t resemble anything human. The temperature in the room fell (My guess nowadays is that the air con just kicked in but at the time I was scared shitless and so I stayed extra still). I sat there wide eyed as the figure glided slowly across the dark room, towards the bed we were sleeping on.

Terror had gripped me fully now as I saw the figure go over to my other mate Toby and run his hands all over his body. Luckily Toby didn’t wake up, or if he did he didn’t make any indication of it. The figure then did the same to both me and my mates before moonwalking out the door.

Now I think of it to say it was a ghost it did have a solid touch and the ectoplasm that appeared on Shawns face had gone all crusty in the morning.......

That was the last time I ever stayed overnight at Neverland, despite Micheals offer of me playing a game of pirates next time I popped round (I don’t know either, something about Roger the cabin boy).
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:15, Reply)
While he was planning his voyage, Noah had a range of possible designs for his big boat; he called these the "A" Ark, "B" Ark, and so on through to the "F" Ark.

However, it was design number 4 that eventually got built.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:10, 5 replies)
Catatonic Pipkins love duet
kitescreech reminded me of this one.

From a very early age I had decided that I wasn't going to be afraid of the dark. One night I dared them to come, out all the ghosts and goulies, witches and no face hooded monks and nuns. Nowt happened, I was right, they didn't exist (unlike santa), until one night:

As I lay sung in my Buck Rodgers 'jarmas under my Fred Basset quilt in the dark I suddenly felt a presence in the room. Opening my eyes I glimpsed through the dimness that fucking rabbit from the pipkins just an inch away from my face holding up the severed head of a monkey with splashes of yellow and blue spray paint dripping off it's cold dead features. What's more I couldn't move, couldn't cry out. Tony Arthur and Brian Cant were holding me down singing the theme tune to Play Away. Summoning up all my strength I managed to break loose and awoke in the dark and ran screaming into mum and dads bed.

Fast forward 13 years and I'm in my bedsitting room in student digs after a particularly wild party week following a particularly whirlwind exam season. It happened again.

Except this time it was that witch off the hammer house of horror - the one who was transported through time to the 1970's and flashed her norks on Channel 4. Same sensation of being held down, not able to move except my eyes, as she rode cowgirl screaming with ecstasy as she bared down on me in her coat and wizards hat.

It happens from time to time, these days I just close my eyes (it helps if there is no light on) and drift off. Even being eaten alive by giant maggots doesn't phase me. Fact is it's better than some of the crap on late night TV and it's in 3D.

I just think myself lucky that I'm not some Yankee redneck recounting my tale of alien abduction like a twat on KYTV evening news.

Funny how Angels, Ghosts and Aliens always appear at night in the dark when you are drifting off to sleep in bed. - It's called "Hypnagogia" and is quite common. Way for the interwebs: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep_paralysis
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 10:02, 6 replies)
Things that go 'bump' in the night
Should not really give one a fright.
It's the hole in each ear
That lets in the fear,
That, and the absence of light!


By Spike Milligan
from Silly Verse for Kids.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 9:54, 3 replies)
was a dark and stormy night, suddenly a shot rang out, a maid screamed, a door slammed.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 9:52, Reply)
The caravan of fear
We were 16 years old and had pulled the usual trick in order to stay out all night telling each of our parents that we were staying at a friend's house. We wandered the streets of Letchworth Garden City until the early hours, it was dark and it was getting cold so we looked for a place to stay until the morning brought the warmth and comfort of a cup of tea and a fry-up at the greasy spoon.

We found a caravan in a car park next to some houses presumably one of which housed the owner of said box on wheels. We tried the door, it was unlocked, we entered.

The caravan was fitted at one end with one of those u-shaped benches designed to provide an uncomfortable night's sleep for up to 3 people. There were seven of us. We sat on the bench drinking the rest of our stash of beer.

John was a nervous boy, he was scared of moths. We set about trying to make him wet himself by making up stories of ghosts, vampires, big black dogs with glowing red eyes and immigrants. Pretty soon we had succeeded in scaring ourselves to the point where no one would set foot into the black unknown outside.

Did I mention that we were drinking cans of beer? Cans of beer equals need to piss and our former outside toilet, a hedge, was now mentally out of bounds. An inspection of the caravan with the help of a cigarette lighter revealed that there was no toilet facility however there was a small wardrobe with a sealed bottom that formed a bowl a few inches in height. So we all pissed in that.

When we left in the morning the puddle of piss was just about trickling over the top of the bowl.

Apologies if that was your caravan.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 9:43, Reply)
To the pub!
I've just finished 6 years as a bar supervisor, during my time there there were loads of power cuts, which would affect my house as well usually because I only lived round the corner.

However, the pub, (aka my workplace!) had emergency lights, the beer taps were gas powered, so that kept the flow going and the till didn't work.

On the slate? What slate? ;)

Good times.
(, Fri 24 Jul 2009, 9:37, Reply)

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