BOO! I hereby Post my Ghost:

I was walking my friend home…

I was walking my friend home when all of a sudden a lady appeared a  few feet away. When I turned and asked my friend what that lady was doing staring at us, when all of a sudden I turned back and she was actually dissappearing…she vanished. My mate told me i was crazy and there was never anything there.

Now every time I walk down my road I see her!!!!!!!!!!

other-side-of-the-universe:


The One He had Forgotten — Part Six — Archive
The empty wine glass made a soft thunk as Alex placed it on the paper covered coffee table. Normally pushed off to the side against the wall, and normally covered in odds and ends that were constantly making their way in and out of their collective purses and shoulder bags, it felt strange to have it resting in the middle of the room. It felt even stranger to be seated on either side of it, sitting on their folded legs, staring at it expectantly. The room was dim  ̶  the only source of light coming from a particularly obnoxious streetlamp and the muted television.
            In a soft voice, Alex murmured, “You can use a wine glass in the place of a planchette. Really anything that moves across the paper easily will work.”
            They had available to them two choices: go the children’s store a number of blocks away and ask very awkwardly where the brand name Ouija boards were located, or make their own, which was  ̶  like most things  ̶  easy enough to do in the era of quick Internet searches.
            “It just moves where you want it to move,” Margot said in response. She was sober, but she was exhausted. The night before had been…she sighed. It had been one nightmare after the other  ̶  awful faces piled against more awful faces. Ominous voices half screeching, half whispering threats to her. Warnings maybe? 
            She placed a finger on the glass and moved it slowly. “I mean, that’s what I’ve always heard. That’s what my mom told me when I was little. You move it around, but you don’t know you’re moving around because you really, really, really hope it’s someone from beyond the grave trying to talk to you. Or it’s your friend just fucking with you.”
            She looked over their improvisational Ouija board, and  ̶  perhaps because she had just mentioned her  ̶  remembered all the times her mother had encouraged her to improve her lettering. They had gone with a QWERTY format (assuming most ghosts that would bother them in a recent enough apartment building would have learned touch typing), and Margot had just barely managed to squeeze some of the letters in. 
            “Hello” it said to the left  ̶  “Goodbye” to the right. She had doodled in a rather lopsided drawing of the moon in the middle. It had a face, and the eyes were closed. She didn’t read anywhere that she needed that…it just made it feel a bit more right. The numbers zero through nine were on the board, and finally toward the bottom “Yes” and “No.”
            She stared at the board a while, then looked up to Alex. “I don’t really feel like you’re trying to mess with me, and I know I’m not going to intentionally be moving it. I just don’t think I’ve ever heard of any definitive instances of accurate Ouija board usage. Like, come on here, you’re a chemistry major.”
            She rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to figure out if there is a ghost in my apartment, not get a research grant. I don’t need to prove this is real to anyone but myself.” She leaned in across the table. “Besides, I haven’t seen anything yet, and if there’s anything to be seen I want to see it.”
            “What if I’m not seeing anything either? What if I’m going crazy?”
            Alex smiled. “Then I won’t really know that until we try, will I?” In a final sort of way, as if to cut off any further discussion  ̶  through which they would likely talk themselves out of even trying to contact the dead through a makeshift Ouija board  ̶  she placed her fingers delicately on the base of the glass and stared across the table at Margot. “Come on, let’s ask it a question.”
            Margot looked around the room, her eyes lingering in the direction of her bedroom, before they returned to the table. Slowly, she placed her fingers on the glass beside Alex’s. The glass was cold. Her jaw felt stuck, and her heart was starting to beat faster. “This is just a stupid game,” she thought to herself before she summoned the will to ask: “Is there a spirit in the room?”
            She wondered what it would feel like. Would the glass dart out from beneath her fingers, flying across the board? Would she be able to hold on, or would she lose her grip? Would the glass then cease to move? Would she be able to tell if it were Alex pulling it along  ̶  a certain slight tug that always seemed to originate from her side of the table?
            “Are you here?” she tried.
            A sudden tug toward the “Yes” in the left corner. And it was a tug  ̶  a definite pull, where if Alex had been responsible for the motion it would have been a push. Her thoughts split suddenly in a panic  ̶  at the same time the realization washed over her that she couldn’t blame Alex for anything that might happen on that board, the fear hit her that Alex had no way of debunking what was happening. For all she could tell, Margot was moving the glass.
            She tried to think of a question quickly, something she couldn’t know the answer to  ̶  
            “Who are you?” Alex asked.
            Silence, immobility. 
            Then: “A  ̶  S  ̶  P  ̶  I  ̶  R  ̶  I  ̶  T”
            “That’s vague,” Margot replied. “Who are you. Why are you bothering me? What do you want?”
            “One question at a time, Mags.”
            “She doesn’t believe me," she decided, then asked: “Who are you?"
            A pause.
            “I  ̶  F  ̶  O  ̶  R  ̶  G  ̶  E  ̶  T”
            Another pause.
            “A  ̶  N  ̶  G  ̶  R  ̶  Y  ̶  No   ̶  C  ̶  O  ̶  N  ̶  F  ̶  U  ̶  S  ̶  E  ̶  D  ̶  No  ̶  A  ̶  W  ̶  O  ̶  M  ̶  A  ̶  N  ̶  A  ̶  P  ̶  E  ̶  R  ̶  S  ̶  O  ̶  N  ̶  A  ̶  N  ̶  G  ̶  R  ̶  Y  ̶  No  ̶  No  ̶  No”
            The wine glass ceased to move. Margot looked up at Alex, expecting a sort of incredulous, accusing glare  ̶  “How dare she move it so obviously?” she expected to hear, expected to see on her face. But instead there was confusion, fear. Seeing something fairly similar to what she was experiencing on Margot’s face, she said very quietly. “I wasn’t moving it either.”
            She was going to reply, but then the glass began to move again, and her eyes darted back to the board. It was moving so quickly now that she had to mouth the letters to herself to keep track of them. It occurred to her only then that they should have found a way to write these messages down as they occurred.
            “I  ̶  D  ̶  I  ̶  D  ̶  N  ̶  T  ̶  W  ̶  A  ̶  N  ̶  T  ̶  T  ̶  O  ̶  D  ̶  I  ̶  E”
            “I didn’t want to die,” Alex said aloud, her voice still quite hushed. Her eyes were wide and starting to water. 
            “I  ̶  T  ̶  R  ̶  U  ̶  S  ̶  T  ̶  E  ̶  D  ̶  No  ̶  No  ̶  No  ̶  D  ̶  O  ̶  N  ̶  T  ̶  T  ̶  R  ̶  U  ̶  S  ̶  T”
            In a thin, wavering voice, Margot whispered, “How did you die?”
            The glass remained still, yet the air was static with an uncomfortable energy. She looked across the table over to Alex, who lifted her gaze. “What’s happening?” she mouthed.
            “I don’t  ̶  “
            Suddenly, the glass began to move again, but this time erratically. It would dart across the board, then pause, then go across and make small circles. Sometimes it landed on letters, and sometimes it didn’t  ̶  the letters that she had time to pay attention to were seemingly gibberish. 
            And then all of the lights went out.
            

other-side-of-the-universe:

The One He had Forgotten — Part Six — Archive

The empty wine glass made a soft thunk as Alex placed it on the paper covered coffee table. Normally pushed off to the side against the wall, and normally covered in odds and ends that were constantly making their way in and out of their collective purses and shoulder bags, it felt strange to have it resting in the middle of the room. It felt even stranger to be seated on either side of it, sitting on their folded legs, staring at it expectantly. The room was dim  ̶  the only source of light coming from a particularly obnoxious streetlamp and the muted television.

            In a soft voice, Alex murmured, “You can use a wine glass in the place of a planchette. Really anything that moves across the paper easily will work.”

            They had available to them two choices: go the children’s store a number of blocks away and ask very awkwardly where the brand name Ouija boards were located, or make their own, which was  ̶  like most things  ̶  easy enough to do in the era of quick Internet searches.

            “It just moves where you want it to move,” Margot said in response. She was sober, but she was exhausted. The night before had been…she sighed. It had been one nightmare after the other  ̶  awful faces piled against more awful faces. Ominous voices half screeching, half whispering threats to her. Warnings maybe?

            She placed a finger on the glass and moved it slowly. “I mean, that’s what I’ve always heard. That’s what my mom told me when I was little. You move it around, but you don’t know you’re moving around because you really, really, really hope it’s someone from beyond the grave trying to talk to you. Or it’s your friend just fucking with you.”

            She looked over their improvisational Ouija board, and  ̶  perhaps because she had just mentioned her  ̶  remembered all the times her mother had encouraged her to improve her lettering. They had gone with a QWERTY format (assuming most ghosts that would bother them in a recent enough apartment building would have learned touch typing), and Margot had just barely managed to squeeze some of the letters in.

            “Hello” it said to the left  ̶  “Goodbye” to the right. She had doodled in a rather lopsided drawing of the moon in the middle. It had a face, and the eyes were closed. She didn’t read anywhere that she needed that…it just made it feel a bit more right. The numbers zero through nine were on the board, and finally toward the bottom “Yes” and “No.”

            She stared at the board a while, then looked up to Alex. “I don’t really feel like you’re trying to mess with me, and I know I’m not going to intentionally be moving it. I just don’t think I’ve ever heard of any definitive instances of accurate Ouija board usage. Like, come on here, you’re a chemistry major.”

            She rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to figure out if there is a ghost in my apartment, not get a research grant. I don’t need to prove this is real to anyone but myself.” She leaned in across the table. “Besides, I haven’t seen anything yet, and if there’s anything to be seen I want to see it.”

            “What if I’m not seeing anything either? What if I’m going crazy?”

            Alex smiled. “Then I won’t really know that until we try, will I?” In a final sort of way, as if to cut off any further discussion  ̶  through which they would likely talk themselves out of even trying to contact the dead through a makeshift Ouija board  ̶  she placed her fingers delicately on the base of the glass and stared across the table at Margot. “Come on, let’s ask it a question.”

            Margot looked around the room, her eyes lingering in the direction of her bedroom, before they returned to the table. Slowly, she placed her fingers on the glass beside Alex’s. The glass was cold. Her jaw felt stuck, and her heart was starting to beat faster. “This is just a stupid game,” she thought to herself before she summoned the will to ask: “Is there a spirit in the room?”

            She wondered what it would feel like. Would the glass dart out from beneath her fingers, flying across the board? Would she be able to hold on, or would she lose her grip? Would the glass then cease to move? Would she be able to tell if it were Alex pulling it along  ̶  a certain slight tug that always seemed to originate from her side of the table?

            “Are you here?” she tried.

            A sudden tug toward the “Yes” in the left corner. And it was a tug  ̶  a definite pull, where if Alex had been responsible for the motion it would have been a push. Her thoughts split suddenly in a panic  ̶  at the same time the realization washed over her that she couldn’t blame Alex for anything that might happen on that board, the fear hit her that Alex had no way of debunking what was happening. For all she could tell, Margot was moving the glass.

            She tried to think of a question quickly, something she couldn’t know the answer to  ̶ 

            “Who are you?” Alex asked.

            Silence, immobility.

            Then: “A  ̶  S  ̶  P  ̶  I  ̶  R  ̶  I  ̶  T”

            “That’s vague,” Margot replied. “Who are you. Why are you bothering me? What do you want?”

            “One question at a time, Mags.”

            “She doesn’t believe me," she decided, then asked: “Who are you?"

            A pause.

            “I  ̶  F  ̶  O  ̶  R  ̶  G  ̶  E  ̶  T”

            Another pause.

            “A  ̶  N  ̶  G  ̶  R  ̶  Y  ̶  No   ̶  C  ̶  O  ̶  N  ̶  F  ̶  U  ̶  S  ̶  E  ̶  D  ̶  No  ̶  A  ̶  W  ̶  O  ̶  M  ̶  A  ̶  N  ̶  A  ̶  P  ̶  E  ̶  R  ̶  S  ̶  O  ̶  N  ̶  A  ̶  N  ̶  G  ̶  R  ̶  Y  ̶  No  ̶  No  ̶  No”

            The wine glass ceased to move. Margot looked up at Alex, expecting a sort of incredulous, accusing glare  ̶  “How dare she move it so obviously?” she expected to hear, expected to see on her face. But instead there was confusion, fear. Seeing something fairly similar to what she was experiencing on Margot’s face, she said very quietly. “I wasn’t moving it either.”

            She was going to reply, but then the glass began to move again, and her eyes darted back to the board. It was moving so quickly now that she had to mouth the letters to herself to keep track of them. It occurred to her only then that they should have found a way to write these messages down as they occurred.

            “I  ̶  D  ̶  I  ̶  D  ̶  N  ̶  T  ̶  W  ̶  A  ̶  N  ̶  T  ̶  T  ̶  O  ̶  D  ̶  I  ̶  E”

            “I didn’t want to die,” Alex said aloud, her voice still quite hushed. Her eyes were wide and starting to water.

            “I  ̶  T  ̶  R  ̶  U  ̶  S  ̶  T  ̶  E  ̶  D  ̶  No  ̶  No  ̶  No  ̶  D  ̶  O  ̶  N  ̶  T  ̶  T  ̶  R  ̶  U  ̶  S  ̶  T”

            In a thin, wavering voice, Margot whispered, “How did you die?”

            The glass remained still, yet the air was static with an uncomfortable energy. She looked across the table over to Alex, who lifted her gaze. “What’s happening?” she mouthed.

            “I don’t  ̶  “

            Suddenly, the glass began to move again, but this time erratically. It would dart across the board, then pause, then go across and make small circles. Sometimes it landed on letters, and sometimes it didn’t  ̶  the letters that she had time to pay attention to were seemingly gibberish.

            And then all of the lights went out.

            

alexanderchee:

The first building I lived in in Brooklyn, the Adams Family mansion, is up for sale. 5,990,000, currently divided into ten apartments. In 1996 I sublet the attic apartment overlooking Carroll Street.
The house is famously haunted by the ghosts of the Irish servants who died there in an elevator accident, and the landlady used to say the ghosts required that residents be Irish. I’d recently been told my grandmother’s last name was Flood—and when I checked, it was an Irish name (from the New York City Floods even—she’d run off to Maine to marry a farmer, my grandfather). That the ghosts never bothered me confirmed for me then, in my own weird way, that I was a little Irish, later actually confirmed by the genealogist my brother hired to trace my mother’s family’s roots. But definitely the strangest moment was the first, when I did as I was told and walked into the empty apartment, set down my bags and said “Hello, my name is Alexander Chee, and my grandmother was a Flood,” to either the ghosts or the empty room.
I’ll never know.
(via Building of the Day: 119 Eighth Avenue)

alexanderchee:

The first building I lived in in Brooklyn, the Adams Family mansion, is up for sale. 5,990,000, currently divided into ten apartments. In 1996 I sublet the attic apartment overlooking Carroll Street.

The house is famously haunted by the ghosts of the Irish servants who died there in an elevator accident, and the landlady used to say the ghosts required that residents be Irish. I’d recently been told my grandmother’s last name was Flood—and when I checked, it was an Irish name (from the New York City Floods even—she’d run off to Maine to marry a farmer, my grandfather). That the ghosts never bothered me confirmed for me then, in my own weird way, that I was a little Irish, later actually confirmed by the genealogist my brother hired to trace my mother’s family’s roots. But definitely the strangest moment was the first, when I did as I was told and walked into the empty apartment, set down my bags and said “Hello, my name is Alexander Chee, and my grandmother was a Flood,” to either the ghosts or the empty room.

I’ll never know.

(via Building of the Day: 119 Eighth Avenue)

(via alexanderchee)

The Revenge of Pablo

There once was a little boy named Frank who lived nextdoor to an old lady named Mrs. Butters. The old lady had a little dog named Pablo and he was extremely annoying. Frank also happened to be very mischievous. 

One day the dog irritated Frank to his limit, so he took Pablo for a walk. He didn’t plan to bring Pablo back. When they reached a lonely street, Frank opened a manhole cover and threw the dog in. As the dog hit the ground, you could hear the bones of the dog breaking and he howled for help.

When Frank returned, he covered himself in mud and made a small cut in his arm. He told the old lady that another dog saw them and attacked Pablo. The dog had taken Pablo away.

When Frank was getting ready for bed, he began to hear a strange noise. It was oddly familiar to him. He couldn’t identify it clearly. Then he recognized it. It was the dog howling. It was coming from the toilet and it sounded mad.

Frank ran out of the bathroom and closed the door. Then he heard a large thumping sound on the door and water was coming from under the door. The dog broke through and started chasing Frank.

Pablo had lost all of its fur and has a psycho look in his eye. The dog tripped Frank and pulled him outside. He took him into a manhole never to be seen again.

—Sebastian C.

The House Next to the Store

When my dad was a little boy my age, he had to go to the store because his sister was thirsty. Well, the only bad thing is that he didn’t really like going to the store alone because next to it was a really old house that people believe was haunted. Still, he went and as he passed the house he heard a little girl crying in the back yard. He went to look for her, but no one was there. All he saw was dry, yellow grass and an old tree with a tire swing on one of its branches. He couldn’t believe it, so he just stood there, baffled, because he could still hear the little girl crying.

He then noticed that it was coming from the house, but as he got closer, the atmosphere changed. It got colder. The cold breeze sent chills down his spine, which was strange to him because when he left his house, it was warm. Then the door started opening and closing, opening and closing, but still he was headed to the house. All of a sudden, as he was half way to the porch, the door flew open and a really strong breeze came flying out. He almost lost his balance, but regained it and out of nowhere, he heard a loud, high pitched scream coming from inside the house. As the scream got louder and louder, the window curtains started opening and closing and the lights started flickering on and off.

As he stared at the door, the little girl appeared out of nowhere. She was pale, had long black hair that covered her face and she was wearing a white gown. She stood there screaming and then slowly moved her hair from her face. My dad saw her and he just backed away because she looked like a demon. Her eyes were missng, her face looked burnt and her mouth opened wider and wider until it passed her neck. Her scream was so high and loud that it made the window pop into tiny pieces of glass. After that, she disintegrated and her high pitched scream faded away.

My dad told me that after what happened, the atmosphere got normal again. He later told me that he ran as fast as he could to his house and told his brother, “I am never going to the store alone, ever!” Ever since that day, he never did, but every time he passes that house, he can still see that little girl through one of the broken windows, staring out at him.

—Crystal A.

One More Thing To Be Scared Of

It was a windy and gloomy Halloween night in New Orleans. The dark sky was covered in gray clouds, the streets were lonely with only the leaves moving across the ground. The room was chilly and abandoned. The wind was blowing and whistling, the trees were swaying and knocking on walls. The house creaked and the wind blew through the open space. The stench of wet cement and damp dirt filled the air. It was a typical day for the city of second chances and voodoo.

I was on my bed listening to my iPod and I heard someone call my name. There was just one problem—I was alone. I went around the house to see who it was and suddenly I felt a cool breeze running down my spine and goosebumps all over my body. I looked around and all the windows and doors were closed. I went back to the room, thinking I had just heard something and I was going to get a cold. I was lying down, listening to my iPod, and out of nowhere I heard a screech on my earphones saying “I’m coming!” and my screen went completely black. I got scared, so I walked into the living room to get my iPod charger thinking it had died and as I walked across the room, I looked out the window and saw a man holding a head. I blinked and it wasn’t there anymore.

As I walked down the hall to my room, I saw a light and it started to move toward me. I dropped everything and started to run as fast as I could out the door to my yard and then it stopped. THe light was getting darker and bigger. I started walking toward it and as I reached out to touch it, a scream came out with a hand that grabbed me and pulled me in. Right as I was going in, it dropped me and disappeared.

With all I had been through I went back inside and the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, my cousin came in and said, “Hello, cousin” in a mischievous way. I looked up and saw her hands full of blood and she had a knife. She walked in and got closer and closer.

I was scared and said, “Stop playing!”

She looked at me and started chasing me. I slipped and landed on my back. As I tried to get up, she pushed me down and aimed the knife at my chest. With all the fear in my life I said a prayer. 

Her face turned pale and she fell to the ground, twisting and turning and screaming in pain. I got up and she stopped breathing. I took the knife away from her. 

Then she came around and asked what happened. I replied, “nothing,” but I knew that there was one more thing to be scared of in this world.

—Cecilia G.

Passive Aggressive Ghost

As he reached for the handle his fingers slowly froze. He wanted to move them but control wasn’t on his side any more. They felt swollen—stiff and clumsy. He told himself it was only fear, and that fear is just an emotion. He tried to distance himself, but in the end he lay his hand on his stomach, far from the knife, and just focused on breathing. The knife stayed resolutely in his chest.

“Pick it up”

The voice again, but each time his fear only intensified. His shoulders shook, his vision blurred and the knife remained in his chest.

“Pick it up”

“I’ll bleed out”

“Yes”

He wasn’t even sure he had managed to speak, but she had answered. Was bleeding out even real? It happened all the time in American TV dramas. There was a knife in his chest. His chest. There was a knife in his chest. The voice spoke on but he didn’t know what it said because the knife stayed resolutely in his chest. If he took it out he would die, but wouldn’t he die if it stayed in? Why wasn’t he already dead? Was he dead?

“Pick it up. If you want us to be together you have to pick it up. You do want us to be together, don’t you?”

Get up. Get up, get up, get up. He could see her now, hovering over him, excited, expectant, dead; the blood from her dramatic injuries and her floating transparency completely at odds with her eager expression. He had to get up, he had to get out, he had to survive. But then he’d look at her face, so simple and so timeless, and he knew; knew that he could never leave her side. Why would he ever want anything else? He needed to show her he could finish what he started.

Evil Given Life

It all began because of one act of jealousy. A painter named Anna was known for her life-like paintings. They were magnificent works of art and she was also known to be the fairest in the land. Her cousin, Mary intended to paint like Anna, but ended up making a splatter of mud. They had both lived in a small town called Ogtanville. But both were from the rich side of town.

The mayor came to visit Anna and wanted to buy her paintings. Anna was very excited and the mayor said he would pay $30,000 for all of the paintings. Word spread like wildfire.

Mary had enough. So when Anna put away her paintings in the shed, later that night it became very stormy. Mary planted everything that could attract lightning and it struck down the shed. But it only activated the materials Anna’s father had left in there. Since Mary left a hair strand where it hit, a puppet painting came to life. IT snuck into Anna’s room and killed her, When her parents heard her screams for help, it was too late. 

The puppet then slit the Dad’s throat and stabbed him 15 times.

Since then no one has seen the puppet. So keep an eye out for him or you’ll be next. Mwahahahahaha!

—Saul