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5 Creepy Tales for Your Halloween

  • I just share the stories
  • Oct 30, 2017
  • 10 min read

There are plenty of movies and videos you can  watch this Halloween. Leprechaun, Hocus Pocus, Chucky... all the oldies but goodies. But, there's nothing quite like reading a creepy story to make your bonfires more festive, your sleeping kind of difficult, and your dreams a little bit more interesting.

Besides, a good Halloween party isn't complete until you make a little kid

too scared to go to sleep

 The Little Girl Who Wasn't - Author Unknown

     I lived in a house from hell for four years as a teenager. There was always something happening. Doors flying open and shut, voices, footsteps. Nothing ever stayed where you put it. I was alone there a lot because both of my parents worked and I was terrified.

     One of the most gut-level disturbing things was the little girl in my bathroom. Every time I walked past my bathroom (which was a lot because it was right outside my room) I saw a little girl with blonde curly hair and a rose colored dress. She just stood there staring, looking like a photograph from 1905. I started keeping the door closed so I didn't have to see her so much but she was always right there when I opened it. Once I stepped in past her, I couldn't see her anymore but I could feel her there. She scared the shit out of me, but I felt sorry for her at the same time. It was like she was stuck there, like me, but probably forever.

As the years went by and things in the house got worse, she started seeming....darker. I started feeling like she wasn't really a little girl at all. I knew there was something ugly in the house, and I felt like it was just presenting the little girl image to me. Then I started believing I was losing my damn mind. 

 One day when I was 14, I had a friend from out of town come stay with me for a week. I hadn't told her anything about the house because I don't think she would come if I did. Right after she got there, we were sitting in my room and she left to go to the bathroom. About a minute later, she walked back in with a puzzled look on her face and said "soooo, there's a little girl in your bathroom". "Yea, she hangs out there. Blond hair? Curls? Pink dress?". She shakes her head and says "you know that's not really a little girl, don't you?" I almost threw up. I was so relieved that she saw it too, excited, and ready to run out of the house screaming. She wouldn't use my bathroom the rest of the week and I started using it as little as possible without pissing my pants. 

     We eventually moved out and I could not have been happier. I distanced myself mentally as much as I could. Then, when I was 18, I took another friend on a road trip to pack up a few things I left in the house. (my parents hadn't managed to sell it and wouldn't for 5 more years). The minute we got to the property, my friend seemed uncomfortable. When we came around the bend up the long driveway, he went completely white. I could tell there was something wrong but he insisted he was okay so we got to work.     After awhile, he asked to use the bathroom and I directed him to mine. Not 20 seconds after, he came running back out gasping for breath and slamming the door behind him. He started babbling about a little blond girl who isn't really a little girl. All of a sudden, he went dead still, looked me in the eye, and very solemnly said "she's not happy with you. You left and weren't supposed to". We threw whatever we could grab in a single trip to my car and got the fuck out of there.....after he let his piss out outside. 

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When Charlie Has to Go Away -Author Unknown

    My parents constantly try to explain to me how sick he is. That I am lucky for having a brain where all the chemicals flow properly to their destinations like un-dammed rivers. When I complain about how bored I am without a little brother to play with, they try to make me feel bad by pointing out that his boredom likely far surpasses mine, considering his confine to a dark room in an institution. 

 I always beg for them to give him one last chance. Of course, they did at first. Charlie has been back home several times, each shorter in duration than the last. Every time without fail, it all starts again. The neighborhood cats with gouged out eyes showing up in his toy chest, my dad's razors found dropped on the baby slide in the park across the street, mom's vitamins replaced by bits of dishwasher tablets. My parents are hesitant now, using "last chances " sparingly. They say his disorder makes him charming, makes it easy for him to fake normalcy, and to trick doctors who care for him into thinking he is ready for rehabilitation. That I will just have to put up with my boredom if it means staying safe from him.

   I hate it when Charlie has to go away. It makes me have to pretend to be good until he is back. 

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The Licked Hand - Author Unknown

    A young girl named Lisa had to spend time alone at home at night often, as her parents worked late. They bought her a dog to keep her company and to protect her.

    One night, Lisa was awakened by a dripping sound. She got up and went to the kitchen to make sure the faucet was turned correctly. As she was getting back into bed, she stuck her hand underneath the frame and the dog licked her palm.

   The dripping continued, so she went to the bathroom and checked that faucet. Went back to bed, let her hand hang, and the dog licked it again.

     The dripping continued, drip drip drip, and it was driving her nuts. She went outside and checked all of the faucets there. Back to her room she went, and another lick from underneath the bed on her palm.

   The dripping still continued, this time listening for a source, she heard it coming from her closet! She opened the door and there she found her poor dog hanging upside down with a sliced neck. Written on the inside of the door in blood was "humans have tongues, too"

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The Chair - by Reddit Reader ScoopWhoop

   When my sister Betsy and I were kids, our family lived for awhile in a charming old farmhouse. We loved exploring its dusty corners and climbing the apple tree in the backyard. But our favorite thing was the ghost. We called her Mother, because she seemed so kind and nurturing. 

   Some mornings, Betsy and I would wake up, and on each of our nightstands we'd find a cup that hadn't been there the night before. Mother put them there, worried that we'd get thirsty during the night. She just wanted to take care of us. 

    Among the home’s original furnishings was an antique wooden chair which we kept against the back wall of the living room. Whenever we were preoccupied, watching TV or playing a game, Mother would inch that chair forward, across the room, towards us. Sometimes she'd manage to move it all the way to the center of the room. We always felt sad putting it back against the wall. Mother just wanted to be near us. 

    Years later, after we had moved out, I found an old newspaper article about the farmhouse's original occupant, a widow. She had murdered her two children by giving them each a cup of poisoned milk before bed. The she hung herself. The article included a photo of the farmhouse's living room, with a woman's body hanging from the beam. Beneath her, knocked over, was that old wooden chair, placed exactly in the center of the room.

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Sleep Talking - by Christopher Maxim

   My wife and I moved in to our new apartment just a few months ago. It was a downgrade from our previous home, as we had lived in a large cottage. It had been my wife's dream home for the three years that we lived there. We hadn't wanted to leave, but it was a necessary step for us.

   You see, Jessica and I used to live down south. Everything was going well for awhile, but my law firm decided to promote me out of the blue. It was unexpected, but very much appreciated. Unfortunately, the job entailed transferring to another one of our many locations. The one in question was located in New England. We spoke long and hard on the matter and after much deliberation, Jess agreed to move.

     It's important to note that the dollar doesn't stretch as far up north as it does down south. It’s also harder to find employment. that's why we were downgrading our living space. Until Jess could find another job, we would have to suffer. At least, that's the way she looked at it. 

   Tensions were high the first few weeks after the move. I could tell Jess was irritable. She missed our old house, our old friends, and working a steady job. She had nothing to do with her time, so she was bored out of her mind. This led to many fights. For awhile, it seemed like we would never settle in. 

    About a month after the move, things started looking up. Jess found temporary work as a part-time editor at the local TV station. She loved the work and couldn't have been happier with her co-workers. It seemed like everything was going fine. Not perfect, but fine. 

   This is when the sleep talking began. It was to be expected and honestly, I'm surprised it didn't start up sooner. You see, my wife is a restless sleeper whenever there's a big change in her life, good or bad. It happened when we got married, when we moved into our first home, and when she had the miscarriage (which I'll touch on more later). 

    Jess knows she sleep talks, as I used to bring it up from time to time. I would laugh each morning, recalling the weird things she said the night before. This always made her uncomfortable. She seemed to be embarrassed by it. That’s why, after her first night of sleep talking in our new apartment, I didn't tell her. 

     One night, her scream turned into tears. As she was crying, she said something I'll never forget. "I wish you were dead". I knew my wife was asleep but as I sat there by her side, calming her the best I could, I felt the need to press the matter. 

    "You wish who were dead, hon?"

    To my surprise, she responded... "You"

    This caught me off guard. It's a strange thing to want your husband dead, and even stranger while you're asleep. 

   "Why?" I asked

   "You're ruining my life"

   Those four words cut deep. Whether they were meant or merely the product of a tired mind, they were the kind of words that demanded self-reflection. I wondered for a moment if I really was ruining her life. Or at least if I were to blame for her night terrors. 

    My wife remained silent for the rest of the night. I know this because I stayed up. Contemplation and worry kept me from a good night's rest. I didn't believe for a second that my wife actually wanted me dead, but her late-night antics were certainly a cause for concern. Between the screaming episodes and the morbid dialogue, this was the worse her condition had ever been. 

      The next morning, I came pretty damn close to telling her about what had happened. But I kept thinking about how she would react and what she would say. It was too much. I didn't want to burden her anymore than I already had, especially after she'd just been laid off. In light of this, I kept my mouth shut. 

    The following night, the screams were gone. This was a comfort, but a fleeting one. Out of the blue, just as I was about to shut my eyes and call it a night, the sleep talking commenced once again.

     "Sometimes I think about how I'd do it..."

      I chalked this statement up to pure, dream-induced nonsense, but then she continued. 

    "While you're asleep in bed, I'll get up and go to the kitchen"

    I didn't know what she was talking about, but as she kept speaking, it dawned on me. There were some moments of inaudible gibberish, but from the bits and pieces that were clear, I could paint a pretty good picture of what she was saying. 

    "reach into....grab knife...over and over again...blood oozing off the bed...can't ruin my life anymore..."

    My wife was describing her plan to murder me. As deeply unsettling as this was, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. It was just a dream, after all, nothing more. I can't say I haven't done some weird things in my own dreams...things I would never do in real life. Jess was mad at me over the move, and she was working out her frustrations while she slept. At least that's what I convinced myself.

    The sleep talking continued for a few weeks. I hoped that her midnight venting sessions were doing her some good, but without a degree in psychology, I couldn't' be certain. All I could do was listen to her ramble about offing me each night and wait for her condition to run its course. The longest her sleep talking had ever lasted was a month, so it was safe to say it would be over soon.

    A month passed, then two. Jess didn't let up. Every night, it was the same routine. Either incoherent nonsense, or babblings about how she'd like to hurt me. It was getting old, but one night changed everything. As my wife slept, she uttered some words that tore right through my heart. 

    "I lost my baby because of you"

    My emotions swirled about and formed a sour concoction that rested in the pit of my stomach. This time, I had to know what she meant.

   "what do you mean?" I quietly asked

    There was a brief moment of silence, but eventually Jess offered me an answer. There was some more gibberish mixed in, but she was able to get her point across. "...you made me want kids...you put life in me...now I'm alone.."

    This struck a nerve and caused a few tears to roll down my cheek. It was my idea to try and have a kid. Jess never wanted children, but she made herself want to for me. That's why, after the miscarriage, I was surprised to find her absolutely devastated. I had no clue how much she'd warmed up to the idea of having a baby.

   "I will kill you. I promise"

   That was the last thing she said all night. It's been roughly a week since my wife made that promise. As disturbing as that threat was, I could have easily brushed it off with the rest, assuming it, too, was the product of stress and was nothing for me to worry about. Unfortunately, I can't stop worrying bout it. Jess is scaring the crap out of me. I'm now taking short naps and sleeping with one eye open, and it's all because of one thing.

    Now she is sleepwalking


 
 
 

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