Most favorited stories

9/9/2010 ... Syrup1292: I think for our final we should go with just a normal trifold. Dangerturnip: Nah, that’d be so boring. Think about it. We’re competing with the bigwigs here. The straight-As are gonna go big. We need to stand out. Syrup1292: But it’s haarrrd. We need ideas. Dangerturnip: Maybe something performative? Syrup1292: We haven’t even chosen a topic yet. Dangerturnip: Well, do you remember anything we learned this year?

This story is based on the chilling true events that inspired A Nightmare on Elm Street the "Asian Death Syndrome" cases of the 1980s, where young men died in their sleep after experiencing petrifying night terrors. Asher hadn't slept in four days. He kept his eyes pried open with caffeine and the sheer terror of what was waiting behind his eyelids.

Tick tock tick tock. The clock chimed midnight. The air feels cool and clammy on my skin. I shiver and draw the covers up around my chin. I can hear the footsteps as they hit the bottom of the stairs slowly ascending to the landing. I feel the fear rising in my chest as I do every night.

The PHEN-228 Incident (The Boiled One) In the late summer of 2003, a broadcast hijacking occurred in Southern Pennsylvania that would change the lives of 530 people forever. This is the story of The Boiled One Phenomenon, a terrifying example of a "cognito-hazard" an idea so dangerous that simply knowing it can destroy you.

I watched as my father coughed and wheezed himself into an early grave. Every breath sounded as though his lungs were densely packed with small stones. He lay on the floor, naked aside from a thin blanket, and did only two things: cough and sleep. By spring, he had found his way deep within the West Virginia earth. My daddy was a coal miner, like his daddy, and his daddy before him.

In the early morning my liquored mind found sleep. It wasn’t restful, but drowning and cruel, as if my own body resented me for finding a moment of respite. I woke after what felt like hours, but found it to be only a few minutes since sprawling across the old, stained couch. I sat upright, and felt my legs protest to yet stand. I thought it better to find the Marlboro man tucked inside the pocket of my pearl snap shirt- the pack crumpled from my restless crash. My hands shakily flicked the…

My friends and I have a hideout, hidden away from all the annoying adults in our lives. It’s a secret place only we know of and it’s really well hidden! There are days we come here and days we don’t come here, because we really don’t want our parents to know. It’s a small, low hut in the middle of the woods close by.

December 10th, 1935. The sound of the aggressive wind blowing the rigged trees to bend like wire.  Little snowflakes drop on the green grass to cover them in nothing but pure white frost, a wooden cabin lives beyond the woods. The roof was drowned in snow, ice sickles hang from the side. A man named Frank Williams and his boy John Williams lives in the wooden cabin in the woods. Frank Williams used to live in the town of Tapperson, where he owned a carpenter shop, selling his handmade furniture…

The year 1985, a year of the things that brought us joy, a year that life was really going somewhere, a year that Dads were Dads, Moms were Moms, children were in process of life, plenty of time to grow. A year most can agree was amazing, but for some, 1985 was the year that turned me into a mad man, my mind tricking from my left and right, but I think I know what I saw.  I was only 12, I lied about where I went. Places that should have been, the school, friends house, ect.  Only instead to…

By WedgeOverPotato

In truth I've always known that the house I live in is haunted. The soft sounds of soft footsteps when you're home alone, the whispers when the house is empty... You know all the signs. All have been told before already after all. We were just lucky that it never got worse than that, yes sometimes small objects would have been placed elsewhere, but we never got the feeling that we were dealing with something that was dangerous or angry. So we just let it be, whatever it was.

I lived in an old cabin in the middle of the forest, a place far from people and noise, which was exactly what I longed for. I didn't like being among people or hearing loud voices, so I only went to town to buy food and a few supplies, then I'd return straight to my quiet cabin. Solitude comforted me, and I found everything I needed in the embrace of nature.

The second event

It's loud and crowded in the office today. I don't know why, but honestly I don't really care and just continue with my work. Suddenly someone taps me on my shoulder and I look up. It's Jimmy, one of my colleagues. I quickly look away again, ignoring him and continuing my work. "Hey, I want to talk to you about something." "Sure." He sighs, seemingly annoyed about my answer: "It's something I would rather discuss in private."

In my hometown, Park City, Utah, things are usually pretty quiet and easygoing due to it being the so called, “Number 1 Ski Town” on Earth by about 15 different ski magazines. Not much happens other than the Sundance Film Festival and ski season. I am telling you this to give you some background and to let you realize that nothing paranormal or odd ever happens here or to any of it’s people.

Back in the woods, in a little ol’ town. There sits a grave on unholy ground. It’s covered in leaves and things that crawl. Buried in weeds and the vines that sprawl. The light is dim and the wind grows cold. Her name was Nellie, she was ten years old. She killed her family and fed on their fat. She killed their dog to feed her cat. She haunted the neighbors with her spells and her tricks. She stabbed at their ankles with nails and sharp sticks.

Moving at the end of my high school career is not what I imagined. My mother and father insisted that we move a few towns a way. Far enough to escape poor memories, yet close enough to the ones we wanted to keep. The town we reside in now has a decent enough track record, and the crime rate seems to be pretty low. My father has become so quiet now, so sallow. I swear, my mother's complexion will never come back.

I have watched enough crime shows to have heard the adage that everyone screams when they fall. More than one mystery has been started with a detective puzzled by the lack of a scream from an apparent jumper. According to the cinema detectives, even a jumper will show a moment of remorse and scream in terror as they plummet. I had never questioned this wisdom until I began having the dream.