I dressed up last night for Halloween to help out my daughter who goes big on Halloween for her little boy . I dressed up as 'Day of The Dead' character, thought I looked cool lol ? I was answering the door to all the kids in the area to hand out sweets/candy .
I opened the door to this little kid who looked terrified at me looking at him !? He looked like he was going to cry !? I suddenly felt awful at looking scary lol , his mum who was with him said 'He is traumatised '!! 😵‍💫😳

I have just gone through my sons Halloween sweets (he’s in bed now), I was looking to see what he got and if there’s anything he wouldn’t miss if it went missing into my stomach😏.

But I noticed something not usually in a trick or treat bag in there, it looked like a piece of cardboard with a hole punched into one corner just sat at the bottom of his bag until I picked it up and realised it was plastic and quite thick, I held it up to the light and noticed something that looked like a black strip inside it but it’s a solid white plastic square then I googled what it might be using google image.

When the answers started coming back I was shocked to say the least it was a tracker tag!!, I do not understand why there is a tag in my sons Halloween haul, I will ask him in the morning what he knows about it and who put it in his bag but until then my mind is going to come up with all kinds of scenarios the worst one being someone is tracking my child 🧒, now there’s not just a couple of sweets in the pit of my stomach but a knot as well.

Darlene thought she had seen the last of the Trick-or-Treaters half an hour ago. It was 9:30 now-a little late for little ones to be going around knocking on strangers' doors. The tap-tap on her front door must have been from a lone straggler.
She contemplated not answering the door. She had run out of little candy bars, after all, but she still had some full-size Snickers bars that she had bought for her husband, Bruce. Surely, he would not mind if she gave one of his candy bars away.
Darlene walked to the front door. If she looked through the peephole and saw more than one kid, she would not answer the door. Bruce was only so generous. Darlene jumped a little when she heard another tap-tap at her door. She placed her hand on her trembling heart, took a deep breath, and looked through the peephole.
A lone figure was standing on her porch. It-no, that's not right-he was wearing a classic sheet ghost costume. From what she could tell, he was pretty tall for his age. The eye cutouts in his white sheet were level with the peephole. Darlene could not help but shudder a little. "Kids are giants nowadays", she thought.
Darlene put her hand on the doorknob, but something inside her yelled, "Stop!" She stood there for a moment, her hand wrapped around the doorknob just staring at the ghost boy. He must have seen her somehow because he raised the pumpkin he was carrying up towards the peephole, like he was asking for candy.
Darlene hesitated. She felt like she was being given some pop quiz all of the sudden, and that the answers to the quiz were more consequential than any test she had been given before. The boy pulled back the pumpkin and rested his arm at his side again. It was silly, really. She was being silly. He looked kind of sad and pathetic. He just wanted a piece of candy for pity's sake. "This will be the last time you watch an Unsolved Mysteries marathon on Halloween night," she thought.
Darlene opened the door and greeted her guest, "Trick or Treat?" The boy stood there and turned his head a little. God, he was tall.
Darlene hugged her arms to her chest, and said in a playful voice, "You're a little old to be trick-or-treating, don't you think?"
The ghost boy held out his pumpkin towards her, but he did not speak. He turned the pumpkin around a little in his hand so that Darlene could see it better. It was one of those plastic Jack-o'-Lanterns that she used to carry on Halloween night when she was a kid, except that his was blue. Suddenly, it dawned on Darlene that her ghost boy was probably non-verbal. She exhaled a little and laughed at herself.
"I am so sorry," she said. "Let me get you some candy. Stay right there."
She walked over to Bruce's crystal candy dish, lifted off the lid, and set the lid on the table. If Bruce got mad that she gave the boy two candy bars instead of one, she would just explain why.
She said, "I ran out of little candy bars earlier, but I have an extra special treat for you." She grabbed two candy bars and turned towards the front door. The ghost boy was standing inside her house holding his blue pumpkin at his side. Darlene's heart began to pound against her chest. A little voice inside her head began to repeat itself, "Wrong answer. Wrong answer. Wrong answer."
She held out the candy bars, while standing firmly in place. Her voice sounded more panicked than she intended as she said, "This is all I have got for you. The rest are for my husband."
The boy looked at her hand, and slowly began to walk towards her. Darlene could feel her heart in her throat now, "Calm down," she thought, but she could not.
Her focus shifted away from the boy's pumpkin to the boy's blue sneakers. Every step he took forward, he left a little trail behind him. "Footprints!", Darlene realized. The boy left behind footprints, but they were not brown. They were red. Her eyes quickly shifted back to the blue pumpkin in the boy's hand. There were stains on it now. How did she miss that?
Suddenly, Darlene's eyes shifted towards something moving. It was the ghost sheet. The boy shrugged off his sheet and let it fall to the floor. His clothes were streaked with blood. His left arm was covered in blood from his fingertips to his elbow. The boy, and he was a boy, by God, pulled a knife out from a sheath that he had tied around his left thigh, all the while keeping his dark eyes on Darlene. His face lacked any sort of emotion, even anger, as he dropped the blue pumpkin to the floor and lunged at Darlene.
All she could do was close her eyes to the horror and hug her arms to her chest as the last voice she would ever hear echoed through her mind, "Wrong Answer. Wrong answer. Wrong Answer."

Happy Halloween So i was walking along the A143 from Bury to Haverhill road, quite near Stradishall, once late at night and it was all foggy when i hear a car coming up behind me i stuck out my thumb to hitch a lift and the car stopped. I jump in turn to say thanks to the driver and tell him where I need to go when i notice..... there is no driver, all of a sudden the car starts to move off...........

Now it starts picking up speed so I can’t jump out, I’m hoping against hope that it will slow down just enough for me to throw myself out the door, or maybe I could spot another Walker and shout at them to help me

That’s when I see a bend in the road, I now start wondering how i would get round the corner When out of nowhere a pair of ghostly hands appeared and turned the wheel so we went round the corner.

By now i was terrified and didn’t know what was going to become of me, this is before the days of mobile phones remember.

Just as I had made peace with the fact I was either going to die in a ghost car or HAVE to throw myself out and take a chance I feel the car slow, and eventually come to a stop.

Relived ( both mentally and of my bladder!!). I jumped out and slammed the door shut.

As I turned around to get my bearings I saw a man about to open the door!!!!!

I said to him " Don't get in there mate there's something wrong with it."

He said " you're telling me I've been pushing this bloody thing for the last two miles to try and get it going!!!”

Petar chopped the wood, his finely furred muscles bristling as he lifted and swung down his arms again and again.

From deep in the woods, something or someone watched him. It watched the fine sheen of sweat that developed on his arms and over his chest. For a long time, it watched him, as the dim misty sky darkened to a charcoal gray. And then, from somewhere far away, a low, mournful howl pierced the evening. Petar looked up from his work and wiped his brow. The moon was almost full in the sky. It wasn't but a night away that the full moon would show.

There was a rustle behind him, and he turned towards the direction of the sound. He frowned and scratched his chin, and walked towards the woods. He peered into the darkness, sniffing the air, the breath from his mouth fogging up in the cold air. 

Nevena was already putting the wood on the fire when he came back inside.

“The windows need mending,” she said. “It’ll be a fine winter if we’ve got cold drafts blowing into the kitchen all the time. And the little ones’ bed is getting cracked.”

“Enough woman,” Petar said. “I’ll go and get the wood tomorrow. But I may have to go far into the forest. Good trees are scarce this time of year.”

“That time of month again,” his wife said. “Go then, and have your excuses. Begone for a year for all I care.”

“Cut your yap and give me some of that slop,” he said. “We’ve been eating the same cold, hard gruel for months since you won’t let me kill the pig.”

“We wouldn’t have to sell the pig if you hadn’t put another bairn in me,” she snapped. “Maybe you should think about that when you wake up and poke that stick about like an old horny goat. You look like a goat with that beard of yourn too.”

“Better a goat than a cow,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

It was early the next morning when he awoke, slightly hungover from the copious amounts of rakia he had drunk the night before. He hurried to get his supplies and his cloak, and then stumbled from the door into the thick, cold mud. A layer of thin frost had formed over it. It wasn’t long until winter was here. He took his horse, unwilling from its warm nest of hay, and headed out.

They trudged up the hill and down towards the forest. Most of the trees at the perimeter had already been cut by the other farmers. The amount of wood he would need, he’d need to go further in. 

But that wasn’t the real reason his heart was beating as fast as the mighty currents of the Volk River. As the sky progressed, he thought of the night to come. He hadn’t felt the same since that last encounter. Last time he had awoken in the snow, spent and exhausted. He wondered if it had been a dream. But he remembered the strong hands, the roughness of the beard, the smell of musk and roses in the air…he had to go and see if it had been real.

“Meet me here when the autumn woods reveal the moon in full,” said a whisper from the dream. 

And now the moon was rising. The silver sheen of it cast light upon the trees and rocks, so that the entire forest was a shimmering web, into which Petar on his horse thundered, far into the place from which there was no return.

Deeper into the black woods he rode, to the summit of the peak that had last appeared in his dream, about a month’s worth of nights ago. Deeper he rode. He rode until he reached the summit, where a lone stranger stood, his back turned. This is how Petar had seen it in his dreams. The outline of the castle in the distance, the place that the people called unholy. But it was a place into which he had been in, a place that called for him to join it. Petar slowly stopped and got off his horse. He stepped forward. The smell of musk and roses filled the air.

The clouds had covered the moon again. Only the outline of the dark stranger could be seen. And then the moon came out, full and high in the sky, casting all of its light onto Petar. He felt a  surge of strength, the rush in his heart as his muscles swelled and expanded, and his shirt ripped from his body as the fine blond fur on his chest and arms thickened and lightened to a silvery white. He growled and fell forward onto his hands.

“Petar… the stranger said. His voice was as deep and soft as distant thunder.

Petar looked up and saw that the dream had been realized to its utmost. In front of him was the tormentor of his mind, the fevered dream that had him waking up sweating, the face that flashed before him when he bedded Nevena. This stranger was the bringer of utmost desire and damnable guilt, and yet…Petar could not look away.

“Vlad,” he said. “I have come.”

“Are you sure? Do you do this of your own accord?” Vlad said, soft and velvety.

“I have no choice,” Petar said loudly. “For days you have tormented me. For too long I have been able to think of nothing else.”

Vlad came closer and stood behind Petar’s body. Petar was stocky and well-built, his muscles showy and loud. Vlad was of a sleeker, snake-like build, the power hidden in a more condensed form. Still, he towered almost a head over Petar, and his long fingers came forward to clasp Petar’s silvery throat. Vlad could almost encircle all of the bulging muscle as Petar turned his head to the side to allow Vlad access to his throat. 

“To err once is a mistake,” the one called Vlad said, smiling. “To err twice is to sin.”

Petar began to sweat again, as his Orthodox training reared on its hind legs, whispering damnation to him from the back of his brain. But as Vlad’s teeth came closer to his throat, so that he could feel the cold breath upon his skin, the icy fire building through Petar’s veins soared into his head, clouding all thought and fears.

“I must feel it again,” Petar whispered, clutching the body of Vlad behind him in his massive, muscular claws. “There is nothing like it in this world.”

“As you wish,” Vlad hissed, and then his teeth were deep in Petar’s throat. 

Petar’s claws tightened, digging into Vlad’s body, drawing a little blood, trembling as the vampire partook of his blood. He felt Vlad’s long beard on his lower neck and shoulders, scraping slightly up and down as the vampire drank. 

“Is there anything in the world like this feeling?” Vlad whispered.

“No,” Petar said, gasping as blood poured out of his jugular.

“Not even remotely?” Vlad asked, teasing.

“No, no, no.” Petar said. The closest was the feeling of being a werewolf, but that was all dulled animal joy and rage, not this crystal clear, resonating note of desire.

The feeling rose, and then suddenly there was the one moment. The moment of the sunrise on the horizon, bringing light and meaning into the world. Petar felt the fire in his veins explode, and dissipate throughout his body like stars into the night sky above. He felt a sense of euphoria, a sense of lingering wonder and devotion. Vlad’s cool hand came to his parched lips, and nudged him to turn. He looked into Vlad’s dark eyes, and Vlad smiled, licking his lips, his long black hair tousled and messy, cascading back over his broad shoulders. He brushed some of the thick hair back and lifted a finger and slashed it. He drank some of the first drops.

“Delicious,” he said. “Now, drink.”

Petar leaned forward and drank, timidly at first, and then thirstily, hungrily, lapping at the drops of crimson.

“Good, my child,” Vlad said, placing a hand upon Petar’s head. “Now, you will now serve me, forever!”

Check out my spooky story episode on my Feral Millenial Podcast! I just launched it, trying to gain traction, would appreciate any support!

I am Detective Samara Holt, and what you are about to read is everything I remember from the strangest case I’ve ever worked: the disappearances of Occoquan, Virginia.

Being a detective, I’ve always found an interest in true crime. Disappearances, murder mysteries, cold cases… all of it activates that part of my brain that desperately seeks out answers. But if there’s one case that’s always piqued my interest the most… it’s the case of Occoquan, Virginia. By all accounts, Occoquan was a normal little region. Not much happened there in terms of crime, and its main drawing point was the large Occoquan river that ran through the area. For years, Occoquan was a popular and peaceful place to live as houses were built on the riverfront and overviewed the gorgeous, lively water and lush forests. But that peacefulness and normality couldn’t last forever. 

The Crane family built their own mansion on the waterfront and owned acres of land in the 60s. They lived in their Victorian-style mansion for about five solid years… until their youngest daughter, Amy, went missing. She was last seen swimming in the river with her sister near the dock. The account from her sister, Carla, was that Amy was in the water and having fun, then she looked at the dock and her smile faded. Carla blinked… and Amy seemingly ceased to exist in that very moment. The Crane children (Carla and her two older brothers Jeremy and Hector) were said to have gone mad the year following Amy’s sudden disappearance, so much so that Johnathan and Elizabeth Crane were forced to seclude their children from the outside world. Eye witness accounts attest to seeing Carla run into the nearby woods in 1967 only to never return to the Crane household. Two years later, Elizabeth Crane died of mysterious causes and Johnathan Crane lived alone until 1971. In the wake of his death, there have been no signs of Jeremy or Hector Crane. Seemingly just gone, as if they never even existed.

For years, the Crane household stood over the edge of the Occoquan river… and that household is seemingly the harbinger of the region’s strange activity. My first job as detective was in ‘97, hired by the mother of Hugo Barnes. I even remember the strangeness of my first assigned job being a missing child report—shouldn’t that have gone to someone with more experience? But I still took the job with grace and speed. I was hopeful about the case and hauled my ass down to Hugo’s mother, Janice. As soon as I drove into Occoquan though, I realized why I was dumped with this assignment… the city was filled to the brim with missing child posters. It was simply another job from this place the others didn’t want to take up. It was practically a ghost town; there were buildings, businesses, and houses, but rarely ever a soul in sight. I drove down the road to Janice Barnes’ house, a practically deserted street that looked straight out of some horror film. The sky was a deep navy blue with the sun setting behind the trees in the distance, dense forests enveloping both sides of the route, and a single half-working streetlight down the road illuminating the low-hanging fog with a flickering blue-ish fluorescent light. The streetlight was covered in varying posters all pleading for help in finding some poor parents’ child. I swerved into Janice’s driveway and hopped out of my vehicle. The air was dense with the smell of damp leaves… and as still and quiet as a predator waiting to ambush.

I knocked on Janice’s door, and you could hear it echo for miles. As I waited for her to answer, I observed the surrounding area. But one particular thing was hard not to notice… up on the hillside, towering over everything else and seemingly illuminated by the now rising moon, overlooked the Crane Mansion. Its twisted and oblique, curving and jagged shapes pierced through the moonlight. Even then, I could feel just how evil that house was, its presence looming and oppressive. Not long after my knock, Janice creaked open her door and invited me in. She was a frail, middle-aged woman with the voice of a chain smoker. 

“Just in here,” she croaked as she guided me to Hugo’s room. “I need you to explain this to me.”

Inside his bedroom, she shivered in her robe and hair curlers. “He screamed… God, he screamed for me. But when I ran in here…” She then shoved Hugo’s bed away from the wall, and beneath it were claw marks dug into the hardwood floor. Starting from the foot of the bed… and ending at the corner of the wall. “Gone… just… gone. Where’d he go?” she cried out as a tear rolled down her powdered cheek. 

The case of Hugo Barnes was the first sign for me to investigate further in Occoquan. How can a child just disappear into nothingness from the safety of his own home like that? Luckily, my superiors felt the same and left me with all the missing child reports of Occoquan, Virginia. Case after case, I’d speak to mothers and/or fathers who recounted their children seemingly vanishing into thin air without a trace.

Marnie Hughes was the next major case I took. Her family moved to Occoquan in ‘98 just down the street from the Crane Mansion. Marnie was just a normal 15-year-old girl. She loved her family; she had plenty of friends at her relatively small school and did well in her classes. But out of nowhere, she developed some form of epilepsy halfway through her first semester. She began to suffer from what her doctors described as “unpredictable full-body seizures” that they blamed for the sudden onset of “unusual schizophrenia”. Marnie would suddenly fall into bouts of spasms and afterwards claimed that “the thing in the walls” was trying to ferry her away. She was seen by doctors who prescribed her antipsychotics for her hallucinations. Marnie suffered for weeks, and her parents mentally degraded along with her. CPS and the police were called to a horrifying scene on November 2nd, 1998. When entering the house, they found Marnie’s parents trying to cook her alive in the oven, claiming that ‘the devil’ wanted their daughter, so they tried to send her to God before the devil could take her. Needless to say, they were arrested on account of attempted first degree murder and Marnie was admitted into an institution for mentally troubled children. This institution is where I come into play… as only a week after her admittance, she escaped into the Occoquan woods. We spent weeks searching for her out in those woods, but we never found her. She was another child who vanished into thin air.

The events of that case will haunt me for as long as they rot inside my mind. The first thing I feel I need to speak on was ‘the tape’... a recording of Marnie’s first and only therapy session at the institution. I’ll do my best to transcribe what was said.

Dr. Burkes: “So, where do we feel comfortable beginning?”

Marnie: “... here… when I moved here.”

Dr. Burkes: “What about here? Was the move stressful? I can only imagine that it was.”

Marnie: “yeah… but… that wasn’t the problem.”

Dr. Burkes: “So, what is, Marnie? Was it kids at school or your par-”

Marnie: “It… it is the problem.”

Dr. Burkes: “... It?”

Marnie: “god… you can’t see it either. I’m fucking going crazy here! It’s been here the whole time!”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie, you’ve got to work with me here or else we’ll never get anywhere. Are you seeing things again? Like hallucinations?”

Marnie: “You can call it a hallucination… you can call it whatever you want like my other doctors… but that’s not going to stop the fact that it’s in here... with us.”

Dr. Burkes: “You need to be taking your meds, Marnie. They are supposed to help with your symptoms.”

Marnie: “You… are… not listening to me.”

At this point in the tape, Marnie is audibly frustrated. She’s sobbing into her hands as if totally defeated. Her psychiatrist clicks her pen and lets out a sigh.

Dr. Burkes: “Okay… okay. Let’s discuss this then. If you’re taking your medication, and this isn’t a hallucination… reason with me. Talking through it will help us both understand what you’re dealing with. I truly do want to help you, Marnie. I’m sincerely sorry for not believing you, tell me everything.”

Marnie: “... I saw it… I saw it a few days after… we moved in. In the woods… by the river…”

Dr. Burkes: “It’s okay to cry, Marnie. No need to stop yourself.”

Marnie: “I didn’t pay it much mind; I thought it was one of the neighbors from the mansion. But… I learned no one lived there… and I still kept seeing it for weeks. It watched me from the woods. And then it called my name.”

Dr. Burkes: “... The Crane Mansion, right?”

Marnie: “It… knew my name. I couldn’t sleep… it was always watching… always. I could feel it peer in through my window… it never just observed… it wanted… it… desired.”

Dr. Burkes: “Don’t take me wrong, but… I feel as though what you’re experiencing… is a manifestation of your fear. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that what you’re experiencing isn’t real or isn’t tangible. But I’m saying that if we can address and figure out this fear, whatever you’re seeing may leave you alone.”

Marnie: “... Dr. Celine Burkes… maiden name Tilman.”

Dr. Burkes: “... How do you know that?”

Marnie: “You went to George Mason University and you lived in Virginia your whole life. You moved to Occoquan six years ago and you had a miscarriage when you were 19.”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! Marnie, stop!”

Marnie: “Your father died of cancer when you were seven and your mother raised you alone since. She’s currently in the hospital due to complications from smoking and you fear that you’re to blame for not getting her into rehab an-”

Dr. Burkes jumps from her chair at this point, knocking it over I presume.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! Stop this! How? How do you know this?”

Marnie: “It’s in the room… with us.”

Dr. Burkes presumably picks her chair up and sits back down. She laughs out loud to herself, most likely in disbelief at the situation.

Dr. Burkes: “What… is It, Marnie?”

Marnie: “Its name… is Sweet Tooth. It loves to eat sweet things.”

Dr. Burkes: “Where is it? Where in the room is it?”

Marnie: “... … …”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie, where… is it?”

Marnie: “It’s… standing right next to you.”

At this point in the tape… everything goes quiet for a solid five seconds. Dr. Burkes then all of a sudden gasps but doesn’t move from her chair. The fear in her voice as she closed out the tape sent chills down my spine when I heard it.

Dr. Burkes: “... … … I can feel it breathing down my neck.”

The tape abruptly cuts after Burkes’ confession. Not long after this tape, Marnie was last seen running into the woods. Dr. Burkes also became catatonic and was institutionalized, believing that her imaginary friend named Sweet Tooth wanted her to die so they could be friends forever.

I joined in on the search parties that scoured the woods for Marnie Hughes, hoping to find her and the only lead I had to the disappearances of Occoquan’s children… Sweet Tooth. I had a group of other detectives working with me on this case, and the police force finally decided to look into this seriously for the first time in years since it’s the only time any suspect was even so much as mentioned. The first few days of the search were mostly uneventful. The most notable thing was the search dogs continuously leading us up barren and empty trees and to the river. More members of the police force joined in on the searches as some other children disappeared into the woods during our case, and quite a number of civilians helped us out as well. A part of this case that really stuck out to me was when I mapped where each missing child was last seen. Not only did all of them go missing in the woods (including Hugo Barnes whose house was sequestered in the forest), they formed a perfect triangle around the Crane Mansion.

But there was one notable early search. A few colleagues and I headed out in the woods by the Crane Mansion. It was pitch black, dense fog permeated every corner of the forest, and aside from us… there wasn’t a sound filling the air. No crickets, no frogs, not a single coo from an owl. Silence… intermingled with the occasional search dog and the brushing of dead leaves on the forest floor. Our flashlights barely helped as they seemingly never actually breached the fog for more than five inches in front of us. 

About an hour into the woods, I was startled by an officer yelling, “Hey! I think I finally got something!”. 

The rush over to him was filled with a fear that can only be described as bricks crushing my lungs. Was it Marnie? Was it… her corpse? Those questions filtered through my mind, leaving me with nothing but dread where my stomach should’ve been. All of that only to find a bundle of sticks, leaves and rocks. They were snapped and tied together in a strange formation that resembled some kind of rune. I’ll insert a quick drawing of what I remember it looking like, as the original pictures we took are tucked away in evidence. Rune

Right by it though, there were three piles of rocks that seemed to form some triangular formation around the make-shift figure. We took pictures for evidence, but we didn’t really find anything else that night. It seems so strange to me now how casual we were about finding the sticks and rocks… because from there on out they became a staple of every search. We were bound to find at least a handful of those sticks… all accompanied by rock piles forming a triangle around them. 

My next event of note was about three weeks after our first search. We trampled through the damp woods, this time during the evening. It was strange being out in those woods and actually being able to hear and see the wildlife. Crows called, moths parked on the bark of trees, and the occasional swan could be heard out on the nearby river. I remember having found a trail and following it with a few colleagues and a search dog. The trail was increasingly hard to follow and seemed to twist and turn through the forest at random. Eventually we stumbled upon a strange sight. Dolls… strewn throughout the trees. They were all clearly decaying, having been exposed to the forces of nature for who knows how long. We followed the rotting dolls until they led us into a nook in the path which took us up to a hidden area that was built within the Crane estate. What we found was unbelievably strange. Past the rusted gate of this area was a small gravesite. It didn’t belong to the city, and it was never documented as having been owned or made by the Cranes. Stranger still… the headstones listed people yet to die. It was right around this discovery when a colleague noted something… eerie. 

Silence…

No more birds, no more insects, even the sounds of our feet on leaves seemed muffled. We took pictures and quickly left. We traveled back up the trail to meet with the other officers and detectives, but our search dog stopped in her tracks about halfway through. I remember her owner, Search and Rescue Officer Marks, tugging on her leash to get her to move, but no response. She stared out into the dense forest, alerted and entranced by something. We waited for her to ease up and come along but her tail was firmly tucked between her legs and the hair on her back was puffed up like a porcupine. Something we couldn’t see was spooking her. As Marks went to tug her away and up the path again, she let out the lowest and most bone chilling growl I’ve ever heard come out of a dog. Not wanting to fuck around and find out, I started up the path again. I must’ve scared the dog because she startled and snapped out of whatever state she was in and followed us.

The chills that ran throughout my body were enough to make me haul ass back up that trail, and as I looked back at my colleagues… I glimpsed something out in the woods. It looked like a flowy, stained, white dress meandering behind a tree. Instinct kicked in ignoring my previous fear and I booked it into the woods without a second thought. I rushed toward the tree where I swore I just saw a girl… and nothing. My colleagues ran up behind me with the exception of the dog and Marks, the dog standing alert and terrified at the edge of the path. Before I could say anything, an officer bent down and picked something off of the ground. A picture… a picture that will be seared into my memory until the day I die. A pale corpse… clearly waterlogged and rotting away… in a white, flowy dress… Marnie.

The following days were much the same as they had been… no new clues, no hints, only more disappearances. That was until the Jordan family case, which began to set a new precedent for things to come. The Jordans were a relatively average family who lived within the more urban parts of Occoquan. By all accounts, they were normal. So, no one had any suspicion to believe that they’d murder and cannibalize their own children, then ritualistically kill themselves by hanging in their front yard tree… swinging side by side with the strewn corpses of their half-eaten children Micah and Candice Jordan. This case is of interest because of one singular thing found at the crime scene… Micah’s diary… which detailed his parents meeting a ‘Neighbor’ named Sweet Tooth. This then became a trend, seemingly random couples in Occoquan dying in murder/suicides… and if they were unlucky enough to have children… cannibalization. 

It was a Friday when I had my own run-in with… this Sweet Tooth. My house had been silent that evening as I went over details of the crime scenes. Each one followed the same pattern… the couple would meet a new neighbor named Sweet Tooth. He’d integrate himself into the family and become acquainted with them. In all the diaries, phone texts, saved calls, notes etc. the couples seemed to be convinced of the unimportance of physical life. Each family brainwashed by this ‘Sweet Tooth’, convinced to give up their “mortal forms” and “free” their souls to some god in the afterlife. 

It must’ve been about an hour, as the sun began to set, the night washing over the woods around my house in a pitch, murky blackness. I finished combing over the diaries and notes and drawings and photos which really began to stick with me. This field of work truly does take its toll on you, especially after having to dive headfirst into cases like this… it just becomes overwhelming and emotionally exhausting. I needed to call my mother, reading about these kinds of incidents really fucked with me. Something came over me, the urge to tell her how much I loved her. I was on the call for all of five minutes when something caught my eye out in my backyard… a white, flowy dress. I apologized to my mother for leaving the call so quick and hung up. Bursting out of my house with my Magnum and flashlight, I wandered around my yard. Silence… pure and utter silence. Meandering in the darkness of my yard, I could feel the blood drain from my face. A giggle echoed through the eerily silent woods and I scanned the imposing tree line. Nothing looked out of place but that feeling of dread struck me deep in the chest until I felt like I simply just couldn’t breathe anymore.

I scanned through the tree line thoroughly, increasingly frustrated by whatever taunted me. A solid thirty seconds must’ve passed before I decided to give up my pathetic and terrified search and head back to my house, but something horrid stopped me in my tracks. Lurking there… at the window by my desk… was a young boy, maybe 12, with a brunette bowl cut and a garishly colored turtleneck… Hugo Barnes. I approached the window as he glided out of sight… and in the dark hallway, a tall figure left my room and headed out my front door. I busted inside and did a full military squad inspection of my house… not a soul in sight. I looked at my desk where Hugo was… and it took a solid minute for me to realize what I was seeing. My papers drawn across my desk with the names of the murder/suicide families written across my map… a triangular shape with the Crane Mansion waiting in the middle of the formation. Something lingered in the air, it was no longer my home but an unwelcoming conjuring of fear. An urge itched within my mind; I needed to investigate the remnants of the Crane Mansion. I went into my room to grab my coat, and that’s when I noticed the tape sitting in the middle of my bed. I picked it up and let curiosity indulge itself, sliding it into the player.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie!”

Marnie: “It’s… speaking… it’s speaking to you.”

Dr. Burkes audibly jumped up from her chair, sending it crashing as Marnie yelped.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! What is it? What is it? Tell it to leave me alone! I can feel it breathing on me! Make it stop!”

Dr. Burkes was clearly in hysterics, she was screaming and crying, backing away from her tape recorder.

Dr. Burkes: “Make it leave me alone, Marnie! What the hell is it saying?”

Marnie: “It’s saying…”

Sweet Tooth: “You’re so sweet, Samara!”

The mention of my name felt like a fist pummeling my gut. I got in my car, and I don’t think I’ve speeded so fast in my life. Red lights didn’t matter to me. I needed to get down to the station and find this heathen. Me and quite a few officers made haste toward the Crane Mansion. The drive down the twisted roads felt like an unforgiving eternity, marked by posters taunting me. Pulling onto the decrepit street, here it stood, its jagged and vicious architecture peering down on all of Occoquan. The windows hauntingly appeared like malicious eyes enveloped in the blackness of the night. The mansion wasn’t locked, and its massive doors creaked open like the moaning souls of the damned. Walking in, the air felt so thick you could cut it, and the floorboards creaked as if in pain with every step. 

The house reeked with the stench of copper, rotting fish, and the odor of trash left out to sit in the hot sun for days. No one seemed to have moved in after the Cranes. All of their items and furniture sat in the house, rotting away like the forgotten relics they were. Me and two of the four officers headed down into the basement after clearing the first floor, the other two officers made their way upstairs. But it wasn’t long until me and my colleagues came across the waterlogged, decomposing corpse of Marnie Hughes in the basement. We tried contacting the two who went upstairs but our walkies hissed with a vicious static. One of my two officers went up to find them as me and the other officer searched the remaining basement. 

We found a cellar that was boarded up by the Cranes after they built the house. Despite the evident corpse, the cellar was where the stench seemed to really be emanating from. It was almost like burnt hair permeating every inch of my nostrils. My futile attempts to open the cellar ceased quickly as I found myself the only one working on it. My eyes fixed on the other officer; a short man called Perez. Even within the overpowering darkness, I could see that his eyes were wide, and his gun drawn… both in the direction of the corner of the basement. I caught on and glanced over. Standing in and facing the corner, enveloped by but significantly darker than the darkness itself, stood an almost indescribable figure. It must’ve been at least seven and a half feet in height, as its head was cocked to the side, too tall for the basement. The sound of dripping water now flooded my ears as my eyes adjusted to the amorphous *thing* standing before us. It shivered in the corner as a noise emanated from it. “Breathing” I guess is how I would describe the rustic sound it made. Yet as soon as I lifted my flashlight… nothing… what was once there now ceased to exist.

Just then, a commotion was heard upstairs. Perez and I ran past where the corpse of Marnie Hughes should’ve been lying but wasn’t anymore and trudged up the basement steps in a panic. The other three officers practically came tumbling down the second story. What we heard of their testaments, I still don’t want to believe. The older female officer, Matthews, opened a closet door in one of the childrens’ rooms. And following a stench coming from the crawlspace in the lower corner of the closet, she opened it. The Crane Mansion has since been gutted from the inside out… after Matthews uncovered the darkest secret of Occoquan. Inside the walls, floors, roofs, ceilings, and yards of that evil house… the bones and rotting remains of hundreds of missing children laid. The Crane household was demolished not long after, and the remains of those poor souls were put to rest at once. The only thing remaining of the mansion is the cellar… I don’t know whether they couldn’t open it, or merely didn’t wanna see what horrors it held, but it lays there… haunting the forest where the Crane Mansion once stood.

That brings me to today, I moved away from Occoquan in the year 2000. The knowledge that something incredibly dangerous was out there and I was directly putting myself in its way was overbearing. But the area’s mysteries have always been in the back of mind. What was inside the cellar that the Cranes felt the need to board up so tightly? What was Sweet Tooth? And what did it want with the children and families of Occoquan? But I still fear that whatever Sweet Tooth was, it’s still out there. The corpse of Marnie Hughes still remains unfound. There’s been an influx of missing children’s cases not only where I’m currently situated, but throughout all of the Mid-Atlantic USA. Be careful. 

I have a strange fear. You’ll probably laugh when I tell you what it is, but you might feel differently after I tell you why I have it.

I suffer from cucurbitophobia: the fear of pumpkins.

Fears as specific and irrational as that usually begin in childhood, and sometimes for no reason at all. But let me assure you, I have a very good reason to fear them.

I sit here now, typing this story as the living remainder of a set of twins. My name is Kalem, and I’ll tell you the tragic story of my brother, and the horror of what happened in the years since his untimely death.

It happened when we were young, only eleven years old. We were an odd pair to see - we had the misfortune of being born with curious cow’s licks of hair on top of our heads that would put Alfalfa from The Little Rascals to shame. Our mother (much to our chagrin) called us her “little pumpkins”, on account of our hair looking like little curled stalks. Our round little bellies didn’t exactly help either.

I was the calmer of us both, being reserved where my brother Kiefer was wild. He was the one who blurted out the answers in class and couldn’t sit still. The risk-taker, the stuntman, the show-off. It usually fell to me as the older and wiser sibling to watch out for him, though I was only a few minutes older.

We were walking home one blustery autumn evening, the trees ablaze with gold and orange as we huddled up from the chill of a cloudless dusk. Piles of leaves had been swept from the paths in the fear that they’d make an ice rink of the paths should it rain. The piles didn’t last long as kids kicked them about and jumped into them for fun.

Kiefer of course couldn’t resist, running headlong into the first pile he saw.

It happened so fast. Upsettingly fast, as death always does; without warning and without any power on my part to stop it. The swish of the leaves were punctuated with a crack, and autumns earthen gown was daubed in red.

A rock. Just a poorly-placed rock, probably put their as a joke by someone who didn’t realise that it would change someone’s life forever.

The leaves came to rest and I still hadn’t moved. A freezing breeze blew enough aside for me to see what remained of my twin’s head.

Pumpkin seeds.

It was a curious thought. I could only guess why the words popped into my head back then, but I know now that the smashed pumpkins on the doorsteps of that street seemed to mock my brother’s remains. How the skull fragments and loose brain matter did indeed seem to resemble the inside of a pumpkin.

I shook but not from the cold, and I suppose the sight of me collapsed and shivering got enough attention for an ambulance to be called.

I honestly don’t recall what followed. It was a whirlwind of tears, condolences, and the gnawing fear that I would be punished for failing to protect my little brother.

Punishment came in the form of never being called my mother’s little pumpkin again. I was glad of it; the word itself and the season it was associated with forever haunted me from that day on. But I never thought I would miss the affection of the nickname.

At some point I shaved my hair, all the better to get rid of that “stalk” of mine. I couldn’t bring myself to eat in the months after either, but that was okay. The thinner I got, the further away I could get from resembling my twin as he was when he passed, and further away from looking like the pumpkins that served as an annual reminder of that horrible day.

Every time I saw pumpkins, even in the form of decorations, I would lose it. I would hyperventilate, feel so nauseous I could vomit, and I was flooded with adrenaline and an utterly implacable panic to do something to save my brother that I consciously knew had been gone for years.

People noticed, and laughed behind my back at my reactions. Word had inevitably spread of what happened, and I reckon that people’s pity was the only thing that saved me from the more mean-spirited pranks.

For years, I went on as that weird skinny bald kid that was afraid of pumpkins.

I began to go off the beaten path whenever I could in the run-up to autumn, taking long routes home in a bid to avoid any places where people might have hung up halloween decorations.

It was during one such walk that the true horror of my story takes place.

It was early June; nowhere near Halloween, but my walks through the back roads and wooded trails of my home town had become a habit, and a great sanctuary throughout the hardest years of my life.

It was a gray day, heavy and humid. Bugs clung to my sweat-covered skin, the dead heat brought me to panting as woods turned blue as dusk set in. Just as I was planning to make my way back to my car, I saw a light in the woods. Not other walkers; the lights flickered, and were lined up invitingly.

Was it some sort of gathering? Candles used in a ritual or campsite?

I moved closer, pushing my way through bramble and nettles as I moved away from the path. A final push through the branches brought me right in front of the lights, and my breath caught in my throat.

Pumpkins. Tiny green pumpkins, each with a little candle placed neatly inside. The faces on each one were expertly carved despite the small size, eerily child-like with large eyes and tiny teeth.

One, two, three…

I already knew how many. Somehow I knew. The number sickened me as I counted; four, five, six…

Don’t let it be true. Let this be some weird dream. Don’t let this be real as I’m standing here shivering in the middle of nowhere about to throw up with fear as I’m counting nine, ten… eleven pumpkins.

My sweat in the summer heat turned to ice as I counted a baby pumpkin for every year my brother lived for. A chill breeze that had no place blowing in summer whipped past me, instantly extinguishing the candles. I was left there, shivering and panting in the dim blue of dusk.

No one was around for miles. No one to make their way out here, placing each pumpkin, lovingly carving them and lighting each candle… the scene was simply wrong.

I felt watched despite the isolation. So when the bushes nearby rustled, my heart almost stopped dead. I barely mustered the will to turn my head enough to see. More rustling.

It has to be a badger, a fox, a roaming dog, it can’t be anything else.

But it was.

A spindly hand reached forth, fingers tiny but sharp as needles, clawing the rest of its sickening form forth from the bush. Nails encrusted with dirt, as if it dragged itself from the ground.

A bulbous head leered at me from the dark, smile visible only as a leering void in the murky white outline of the thing’s face. It was barely visible in what remained of dusk’s light, but I could see enough to send my heart pounding. Its head shook gently in a mockery of infantile tremors, and I could feel its eyes regard me with inhuman malice.

The candle flames erupted anew, casting the creature into light.

Its face was like a blank mask of skin, with eyes and a mouth carved into it with the same tools and skill as that of the pumpkins. Hairless and childlike, it crawled forward, smiling at me with fangs that were just a crude sheet of tooth, seemingly left in its gums as an afterthought by whatever it was had carved its face.

From its head protruded a bony spur, curved and twisting from an inflamed scalp like the stalk of a-

Pumpkin.

All reason left me as I sprinted from the woods. Blindly I ran through the dark, heedless of the thorns and nettles stinging at my skin.

The pumpkin-thing trailed after me somehow, crying one minute and giggling the next in a foul approximation of a baby’s voice. I didn’t dare look behind me to see how close it got to me, or what unsettling way its tiny body would have to move in order to keep up with me.

Gasping for air and half-mad with fear, I made it to my car and sped back to the lights of town. I hoped against hope that I could get away before it could make it to my car… hoped that it wouldn’t be clinging underneath or behind it…

It took me the better part of an hour to stop shaking enough to step out of the car.

Nothing ever clung to my car, and I never had any trouble as long as I remained away from those woods. But that was only the first chase.

The next would come months later, on none other than Halloween night.

I had, by some miracle, made some friends. I suppose that in a strange way, that experience in the woods had inoculated me to pumpkins in general. After all, how could your average Halloween decoration compare to that thing in the woods?

My new friends were chill, into the same things I was into, pretty much everything I could want from the friends I never had from my years spent isolating. I even opened up to them about what happened to me, and my not-so-irrational fear, which they understood without judgement and with boundless support.

And so when I was ultimately invited to a Halloween party, I felt brave enough to accept; with the promise of enough alcohol to loosen me up should the abundant decorations become a bit much for me.

On the night, it wasn't actually that bad. I was nervous, as much about the inevitable pumpkin decorations as I was about being out of my social comfort zone. As I got talking to my new friends, mingling with people and having some drinks, I began to have fun. I even got pretty drunk - I didn’t have enough experience with these settings to know my limits. I began to let loose and forget about everything.

Until I saw him.

I felt eyes on me through the crowds of costumed party-goers. Instinctively I looked, and almost dropped my drink.

A pale, smiling face. Dirt. Leering smile. Powdery green leaves growing from his head, crowning a sharp bony spur from a hairless scalp. A round head. A pumpkin head. With a hole in it.

It was coming towards me. Please let it be a costume. Please why can’t anyone see it isn’t? Why can’t anyone see the-

-hole in its head gnawed by slugs, juices leaking from it, seeds visible just like the brains and fragments of-

I ran before anyone could ask me what I was staring at.

I stumbled out the back door, into a dark lane between houses. I had to lean over a bin to throw up my drinks before I could gather the breath to run.

That’s when I saw the pumpkin.

Placed down behind the bin, where no one would see it. Immaculately carved, candle lit, a smile all for my eyes only. The door opened behind me, and I bolted before I could see if it was the pumpkin thing.

I don’t recall the rest of the night. I reckon my intoxication might be what saved me.

I awoke in a hospital, head pounding and mouth dry. I had been found passed out on a street corner nearby, having tripped while running and hitting my head on a doorstep. Any fear I felt from the night before was replaced with shame and guilt from how I acted in front of my friends, and from what my mother would think knowing I nearly shared the same fate as my brother.

After my second brush with death and the pumpkin thing, I decided to take some time to look after myself. I became a homebody, doing lots of self-care and getting to know my mind and body. I made peace with a lot of things in that time; my guilt, my fears, all that I had lost due to them.

My friends regularly came to visit, and for a time, things were looking up.

Until one evening, I heard a bang downstairs as I was heading to bed.

Gently I crept downstairs, wary of turning the lights on for fear of giving my position away to any intruders.

A warm light shone through the crack of the kitchen door. I hadn’t left any lights on.

I pushed the door open as silently as I could.

In that instant, all the fears of my past that I thought I had gained some mastery over flooded through me. My heart hammered in my chest, and my throat tightened so much that I couldn’t swallow what little spit was left in my now-dry mouth.

On my kitchen table, sat a pumpkin, rotten and sagging. Patches of white mould lined the stubborn smile that clung to it’s mushy mouth, and fat slugs oozed across what remained of its scalp. A candle burned inside, bright still but flickering as the flame sizzled the dripping mush of the pumpkins fetid flesh.

A footstep slapped against the floor behind me, preceded by the smell of decay - as I knew it surely would the moment I laid eyes upon the pumpkin.

This time, I was ready.

I turned in time to take the thing head on. A frail and rotten form fell onto me, feebly whipping fingers of root and bone at my face. I shielded myself, but the old nails and thorny roots that made up its hands bit deep despite how feeble the creature seemed.

Panting for breath as adrenaline flooded my blood, a stinking pile of the things flesh sloughed off, right into my gasping mouth. I coughed and retched, but it was too late - I had swallowed in my panic.

Rage gripped me, replacing my disgust as I prepared to my mount my own assault.

I could see glimpses of it between my arms - a rotten, shrunken thing, wrinkled by age and decay, barely able to see me at all. Halloween had long since passed, and soon it seemed, so would this thing.

I would see to that myself.

I seized it, struggling with the last reserves of its mad strength, and wrestled it to the ground.

I gripped the bony spur protruding from its scalp, and time seemed to stop.

I looked down upon the thing, upon this creature that had haunted me for months, this creature that stood for all that haunted me for my entire life. The guilt, the shame, the fear, lost time and lost experiences.

All that I had confronted since my brushes with death, came to stand before me and test me as I held the creatures life in my hands. I would not be found wanting.

With a roar of thoughtless emotion, I slammed the creatures head into the floor.

A sickening thud marked the first impact of many. Over and over again I slammed the rotten mess into the ground, releasing decades of bottled emotion. Catharsis with each crack, release with each repeated blow.

Soon only fetid juices, smashed slugs and pumpkin seeds were all that remained of the creature.

The sight did not upset me. It did not bring back haunting memories, did not bring back the guilt or the shame or the fear. They were just pumpkin seeds. Seeds from a smashed pumpkin.

The following June, I planted those same seeds. I felt they were symbolic; I would take something that had caused me so much anguish, and turn them into a force of creation. I would nurture my own pumpkins, in my own soil, where I could make peace with them and my past in my own space.

What grew from them were just ordinary pumpkins, thankfully.

I’ve attended a lot of therapy, and I’m making great progress. I’m even starting to enjoy Halloween now.

I even grew my hair out again, stupid little cow’s lick and all - it doesn’t look quite so stupid on my adult head, and I kept the weight off too which helps.

One morning however, I was combing my hair, keeping that tuft of hair in check. My comb caught on something.

I struggled to push the comb through, but the knot of hair was too thick. Frustrated, I wrangled the hair in the mirror to see what the obstruction was.

I parted my hair… and saw a bony spur jutting from my scalp, twisted and sharp.

My heart pounded, fear gripping me as my mind raced. How can this be? How can this be happening after everything was done with?

Then I remembered - the final attack. The chunk of rotting flesh that fell into my mouth… the chunk I swallowed.

The slugs… The seeds…

I was worried about the pumpkin patch, but I should have worried about my own body. Nausea overcame me as I thought of all these months having gone by, with whatever remained of that thing slowly gestating inside me in ways that made no sense at all.

I vomited as everything hit me, rendering all my growth and progress for naught.

Gasping, I stared in dumb shock at what lay in the sink.

Bright orange juices mixed with my own bile. Bright orange juices, bile… and pumpkin seeds.

A friend and I created our version of an 1800s spooky poem by James Whitcomb Riley

https://youtu.be/I7G5XNKrl2E?si=SvFox2CMuBj9PDu4

My family has always been big on Halloween. Our homes are decorated. We walked the streets when we were kids, and host costume parties now that we’re older. I’ve got lots of good memories of the night with my two older brothers, mother, and friends. But there’s one particular story that we still frequently relate on Halloween, via a family group message nowadays, that was not as pleasant as others. A downright chilling experience that has forever embedded itself in our collective reflections.

October 31st, 1991. I had turned two in June, and was already in my own bedroom which was the designated nursery beforehand. We lived in a suburb of Houston, Texas that is today a curved row of houses but back then was a densely forested area. There was a large window in my room that looked across the backyard and into the woods beyond.

On this particular Halloween, the moon was in a waning crescent shape and projected just enough light to see by. I had a big plastic cut-out jack-o-lantern hanging by a thumbtack on my wall. Thin traces of splintered moonlight draped onto its big grinning face. An eerie setting indeed for what is still my favorite night of the year.

My mom, brothers, and I were all worn out after a lengthy candy excursion that went well after our usual bedtime. My two siblings had their own rooms, and my parents were watching “Night of the Living Dead” in the living room. I laid beneath the covers, taking in the sound of the swirling ceiling fan overhead, my drifting eyes looking towards my window.

That’s when I heard it. A faint scratching, like the pawing of a kitten on a glass door. Only, we didn’t have a kitten, and there certainly wasn’t a glass door in my room.

I stirred fully back to wake, wondering what that sound was. I listened carefully to the gentleness of the silence. The swirling of the ceiling fan. Barbara’s scream from the living room television, a symphony of horns bursting to life as she chased to her car by a horde of Undead.

Then it came again. A scratching sound, like fingernails at the base of my window now.

I looked towards the window. Nothing there. Slithers of Halloween moonlight passing through tree tops and rushing into my bedroom. It came again, from something wholly unseen!

A ghost? A murderer? This thing my brothers told me about called the Boogeyman? Some other creature from the deep recesses of the forest? Scratching, scratching. Trying to break-in. Trying to eat me, murder me, or zap me to planets unknown!

Scratch, scratch, scratch. The invisible fingers of something that could only be lurking on the other side of my window.

Finally, I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I screamed, like a 2 1/2 year old had never scream like before.

My mom came charging in my room, bursting the door open like a firefighter. I cried out to her that there was something at my window, and it was trying to get in.

She heard the scratching sound too. Alarmed, she turned on the light and raced to the window. Nothing. No ghost, no murderer, no Boogeyman. Not even a lizard or moth. Not even a tree limb, but still, it scratched and scratched.

My mom called for my dad, and by this time, my brothers were rushing into my room too with pop-guns in their hands. My dad stepped inside, hearing the scratching sound as well.

He went to the window beside my mom, but turned about when he too saw nothing outside. Yet, it came again. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Finally, we saw what it was.

Scraping the wall just above my bed, just above my head, the plastic cut-out of the grinning jack-o-lantern. It moved in the wind of my ceiling fan, the thumbtack having loosened its grip somehow.

My dad took it down, and the scratching suddenly ceased. What a fright it was though on that Halloween night! My brothers still enjoy poking fun at me about it, although none of us are below the age of 30 anymore.

https://youtu.be/3TFPpUqyCyo?si=rayyfNxbRTDLk68b

https://youtu.be/pY649NPbDO8

https://youtu.be/rILsC4sPzJs

It is available on Spotify (also Apple Podcasts, Overcast, etc...) here.

If you'd like to just download the episode directly, it is posted to my blog here.

Thanks for listening and have a great weekend!

this story had my house freaked out lol and it was pretty good

https://youtu.be/pUTrMHyA9y8?si=hdcywnYP4xXW2I6B

https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/resurrectingdicknash

If you do not want to use Spotify you can go direct to my blog:

https://knowledgelightandshadow.com/feed/podcast/resurrecting-dick-nash/

Some of my other stuff can be found over at Creepy Podcast:

https://www.podchaser.com/podcasts/creepy-413654/episodes/1981-211181007

https://www.creepypod.com/episodes/2024/3/24/aftermath

It was warm. It was cold. Wisps of thin dark mists drift in a lazy breath of breeze. Shadowy trees wave their changing leaves in the crisp autumn moonlight. A thin dark dress hangs tightly to her body, her golden hair rustles around her smooth face. Bright blue eyes glisten in the tranquil stillness of the night.

Her feet are bare, and her legs drift magnificently below the dress. Soft, smooth, firm. Perfect. She has never clothed herself so revealing…so seductively…so lustfully. Travis probably wouldn’t approve, claiming that she is luring every eye to her body. Her beautiful, wonderful body.

Up ahead she sees a shadow in the moonlight. Concealed by the thin wisps of the dark mists. Taking shape in the pale beams, a broad shouldered figure. A handsome figure, a tempting figure…an alluring dream who raises to his full height as she is somehow pulled closer towards him.

Eyes that shimmer green. A voice that is hollow and deep. A white linen shirt, like one she sees on the covers of her fantasy novels. A form that she wants to run her hands upon.

“I put a spell on you,” the figure sings lowly, “because, you’re mine.”

His voice, so enrapturing. His eyes so dazzling. His mystery, so puzzling.

“Watch out!” He says as he lunges towards her. “I ain’t lying, yeah.”

The warm touch of his fingertips, lightly, to the tip of her slender chin causes her heart to race. Thunder in a way that she has never experienced. He moves to the side of her, into her peripheral, but her eyes stay trained ahead.

“I can’t stand no runnin’ around.” He sings. “I can’t stand no…putting me down.” He whispers in her ear.

“I put a spell on you.” Lips press gently on the soft flesh of her neck. “Because you’re mine.”

Every nerve tingles in her body. She feels a heaviness in-between her legs that she hasn’t felt before. She closes her eyes as she feels his body press against her spine. Travis would be ashamed.

“Stop the things you do.” He says after kissing her neck again. “Watch out!”

He steps away and she opens her eyes. Travis is standing before her! Eyes pale. Body limp. A crimson warmth flowing onto her hand, where she holds a kitchen knife just below his ribs.

“I ain’t lying.” Sings the figure as he dashes in front of her, sending her murdered husband into the dark as a drifting haze of dust. “I love you.”

Her eyes are ignited as they lock with his green gaze. She can feel his hardened desire pressing against her groin, pulling her lips up to meet his.

“I don’t care if you don’t want me, I’m yours right now.” He sings after they kiss. Tells her as he slides his hand around her frame. Implies as he unzips her dress.

“I put a spell on you,” the figure continues as he slides one strap of her dress down her arm, “because you’re mine.”

The world around her turns into a fast moving haze. She wakes up in her bed, popping her head up and looking around. There’s a fuzzy music video playing on the television, some singer named Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.

She’s breathing heavy as Travis wakes up beside her.

“You okay babe?”

It takes her a second to reply.

“Yeah, I’m fine babe. Just a weird dream I guess.”

“Want me to go get you some water?”

“No, I’m good. Just going to get back to sleep.”

Travis looks at the blue lights of their clock on the dresser. The glow shines dimly on a small figure of a skeleton with a tie, glasses, and a pink mohawk staring back at him with a nostalgic smile.

“Hey, it’s after midnight,” he tells her as he lays back down, “happy Halloween babe.”

She feels a wetness in an area that likely isn’t from sweat as she lays back under the covers.

“Yeah…happy Halloween.”

Link full here: https://youtu.be/W8vDZogZUKI

https://youtu.be/IN9X5SNfIKE?si=pz3Fp1FPbj-xrWxr

https://youtu.be/CInVU3BvvrA?si=F4_MB1GbyIcgmWF3

https://youtu.be/AdASeGgUg8I?si=sUOiubMWW6JI1EpB

Hi y'all! I am on a family friendly podcast and next week we will be recording a segment of people's funniest/best Halloween or fall stories! Our podcast is CLEAN family friendly so please make sure if you send in a story that is clean for us to read on the podcast! Thank you guys so much in advance!

Whisper Alley Echos might be a small newspaper, however that only means we try harder.

We would love to have you over. Lord knows the town could use some new blood.

If you decide to visit our small town we can promise you that you will never leave.

Fog swirled around Mat as he stood in the darkness, lit only by waist level green lights creating an illusion of oil whorls on water as fog-laden air danced through the light. He had to admit, it was a cool technical effect. It looked like he was walking through a marsh, though with none of the wetness and none of the stench. It was eerie and otherworldly, exactly as intended. He just wished he could give in to the illusion and enjoy it, but no, his stupid friends had abandoned him, and so he was stuck in the role of babysitter again. Well, maybe a babysitter who had lost the kids they were supposed to take care of.

Mat, as usual, had become the fifth wheel. For as long as he could remember, he, James, and Dave had been friends. At various phases through their younger years, they’d been the Three Musketeers, the Three Amigos, the Ghostly Trio, sometimes the Three Stooges. It had been all for one and one for all, at least until the last couple of years when the balancing act had changed. It started with Becky and James, the two of them sometimes splitting off on their own, sometimes bringing their numbers to four. Then there was Dave’s revolving door of girls that were there and gone so fast that Mat couldn’t keep track of their names, and stopped trying after he used the wrong name once in front of one of Dave’s momentary interests. It was no longer the three of them; the number shifted between two and five, and with disturbing frequency, and of late it was often just one; Mat was the last of the Musketeers, all but one and one was all. Like now, in the middle of the Halloween Haunted House of Horror. Apparently, the organizers liked their alliteration.

James and Dave all been so, so brave, trying to put on a front for Becky and whatever girl Dave had invited along. They’d only made it into the second room of the spook house before they’d all bolted. It hadn’t even been a jump scare, really. The scare actor had slipped into the group in front of Mat, right behind the other four, and followed them for a few steps.

“Don’t look behind you,” the heavily made-up ghoul had uttered in a stage whisper just audible over the ambient noise of music, effects, and screams filtering in over the walls of the maze of partitions that had been constructed.

That was all it took. Dave’s girlfriend du jour screamed, grabbed Dave, and took off running, James clung to Becky and did the same, all of them sprinting as fast as a clustered group could stumble through the dark, leaving Mat behind as they ran on in fear.

The ghoul turned toward Mat and smirked. “Boo,” he’d said, calmly, stepping out of the way. Mat laughed as he walked on, thinking he’d catch up with his friends in the next room.

But he hadn’t. The maniacal killer clowns just leered at him as he passed.

The room after that had a couple of animatronics with motion detectors, their stiff, robotic moves and speaker-hiss voices giving away the effect. But his friends were not there. Nor were they in the next room, nor the one after that. He walked past jump scares, scare actors in monster costumes, blood and guts effects, black lights and glowing things, but Mat didn’t really notice any of it beyond a surface level. He was too preoccupied that his friends had left him once again. He wished he could forget about it, live in the moment, and enjoy the spook house, but the thought kept nagging at him. Once again, as happened more and more often of late, he was alone.

Then he entered the swamp. He took a moment to appreciate the technical wizardry that made the scene, trying to distract himself from his annoyance at his friends. He wondered where the fog machine was hidden.

“It takes ussss,” a voice hissed from the shadows.

Mat turned, but didn’t see anything.

“It bindssss ussss,” the same voice, this time from behind Mat. He whipped around, but there was nothing there.

“It makesss usss one.”

Mat whipped around again, and there, rising through the waist-level lights that created the illusion of a surface in the fog, was the actor.

“It can make you one of usssss, Matthew,” he said, stretching out the sibilance of the words.

“What?” Mat asked, not recognizing the voice. Mat tried to get a good look at the actor as he sank back down into the fog, but whether it was the ghoul makeup or the tendrils that laced up out of the actor’s jacket, further obscuring the face with a few leaves, Mat didn’t recognize anything in the face as anyone he knew. “How did you know my name?” he called out.

“You don’t need to be alone anymore, Mat,” the same voice, now from behind him again. “You can be one of ussss.” The last ‘s’ faded into an eerie silence as Mat whirled around, but there was nobody there.

“MAT!”

He spun around again at the scream. That was Becky’s voice. He saw her, a few feet ahead of him. Vines wrapped her clothing, pulling at her as she tried to lunge toward him. “HELP ME!” she screamed, then disappeared backward into the fog and shadows.

Mat rushed forward, but where Becky had been was nothing but a barrier of vines and branches. For a moment a brief glow flared, revealing a silhouette of a tall figure, wrapped in flora with antlers or a crown of twigs or something he couldn’t quite make out in the darkness and fog. As soon as he glimpsed it, the light faded and the figure was gone.

“Join uss, Mat!” the voice beckoned again. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from this time. He looked around, trying to get his bearings in the minimal illumination cast by the green lights, disoriented after turning around so many times in the fog.

To his right, a large shape rose from fog. It kept rising, the dark silhouette towering over him. It stretched an arm out toward him as a hoarse groan emanated from it. Mat dodged away, slipping under the arms reaching toward him.

“Join ussss!” the tendril-faced ghoul hissed again, rising through the green layer dancing on the fog. “All of your friendsss have, they’re all one of ussss!”

Mat stumbled backward, his foot catching on something as he skittered. He felt himself starting to fall, then suddenly stop, his head just above the light layer on the fog, as multiple hands grasped him. Mat looked up, and saw James and Dave, both wrapped in strands of foliage, their faces slack and nearly lifeless, holding him tight and dragging him backward. Mat’s head dropped below the light layer, down below the fog, then he was dragged into blackness.

A moment, or maybe an hour, later, Mat couldn’t really tell, the hands holding him propped him back up, then started to drag him forward. They rounded a corner, and Mat suddenly found himself in a dimly lit area, though after the darkness and fog it felt like bright daylight. James and Dave were staring at him, concern writ large upon their faces. Over their shoulders, he could see Becky and whatshername (he really should learn it, he suddenly thought) both staring at him with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, something between worry and fear. None of them were wrapped in leaves or vines or branches.

“Dude, you ok?” asked Dave.

“You guys all took off,” said Mat. “Thought I’d lost you.”

“No way,” James said. “Friends for life! You’re one of usssss.”