Posts filed under ‘Scary’
I served a Mormon mission in Tijuana, Mexico. We were switching partners that day, so I put my old partner on a bus to Tecate and waited for my new one to arrive on a hill by our house next to the freeway. I planned things so I’d be by myself for like 30 minutes.
Anyways, there was a huge wreck on the freeway and my new partner was 2 hours late. I was sitting there minding my Mormon business, my legs dangling over a ledge that overlooked a 30 foot drop onto the side of the freeway, when this cholo guy came and sat down by me. “Uh, oh. This guy is going to be trouble.”
He offered me a cigarette.
We sat there in silence for a few minutes.
Then out of no where, the guy pulls a freaking ice pick out of his pocket and brings it towards my gut. I grabbed his wrist before he was able to poke me with it.
“Dame tu wallete!” he cried. (Give me your wallet!)
Source: Strange Experience: The Autobiography of a Hexenmeister, by Lee R. Gandee
This was written in 1971, before Keel’s book was published. I felt a chill run down my spine when I realized this excerpt makes mention of the same events, including the Mothman (by a different name) and the collapse of the Silver Bridge in Point Pleasant.
In the Spiritualist vocabulary … familiar spirits are called “guides.” James Andrew knew his guides by name, and came to know as much about their background and personalities as he knew of his neighbors’. One was Elenipsico, who was murdered (along with his uncle, the great chief Cornstalk, and another great Shawnee chief) by treacherous whites at Point Pleasant, West Virginia, while on a peace mission.
About fifteen years ago I was a 19 year old backpacker. I was staying the night at a rural castle hostel in Ireland with a few Philadelphians I had met. The night progressed uneventfully – stone sober, a cheese sandwich for dinner – until the three of us lay down to sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw row upon row of women staring at me. They weren’t angry. They weren’t menacing. Just there. Dozens of them. Staring at me. No irises in their eyes. Just white. Staring at me.
In the Steven Spielberg movie Schindler’s List, Plaszow death camp commandant Amon Goeth was played by British actor Ralph Fiennes.
[Spielberg] met Fiennes and tested him for Goeth. “Ralph did three takes. I still, to this day, haven’t seen Take 2 or 3. He was absolutely brilliant,” the director says. “After seeing Take 1, I knew he was Amon.” In Fiennes’ eyes, Spielberg says, “I saw sexual evil. It is all about subtlety: there were moments of kindness that would move across his eyes and then instantly run cold.”
I was sitting on a subway later than I should have in NYC, and one other guy (a stranger) and I were the only people on. Two guys walk on to the train supporting a woman between them who I assume is passed-out drunk.
The guy who was originally on the train with me immediately turns to me and (as discretely as possible) says, “Get off the train right now.” I don’t know what the hell was going on, but something in the way he said it made me just obey and get off.
Once we were off the train he turns to me and says, “I’m a paramedic and that girl was dead.”
I am a person who lived through the L.A. riots and saw people accosted, burned and murdered.
I was 18, working a job in Inglewood/Southern Los Angeles border when the riots broke out around 2pm (ish?). I had to travel by car to my apartment in Long Beach where riots also broke out massively.
It was a non-stop 7 day, chaotic fuckwad of violence. When I left work that day, I was the first to leave the office because I KNEW shit would go down. My boss just shrugged.
I get on the 405 freeway at Manchester to find it at a standstill and I kid you NOT, rioters were CLIMBING the freeway embankments down ONTO the freeway and busting in windows of cars, pulling them out!!!
I am a survivor of human trafficking.
I was born in America and given up for adoption at birth. I was adopted by a couple I have no recollection of. From the one photograph I was able to obtain of my adopted mother, she was beautiful with kind eyes. She died from cancer when I was four. My adopted father either could not or would not keep me in his grief, so I was given back up for adoption. At the age of four, I was put in the foster care system. I was in three different foster homes from the ages of four- six. I have little recollection of them. I was transferred to my third foster home when I was five years old. I was abducted when I was newly six years old. I remember very little about my abduction, only that there was some sort of barbeque party- maybe a birthday, going on that day- and the house was full of people. I remember suddenly feeling very nauseous and very tired. I searched for my foster mother, asked if I could go to bed, and headed up the stairs to the bedroom. I remember tripping up the stairs, and I remember desperately trying not to vomit on her cream-coloured carpeting. When I reached the second floor I remembering trying to decide between going to the bathroom to vomit or laying down- I was afraid that I would pass out on the way to the bathroom, so I went to lay down.