Most read stories

Our trip started in late February as my three friends, John, Steve, Max, and I drove in my truck deep into the backwoods of Boxwood Gulch to follow the North Fork of the South Platte River. Steve owns a cabin up in the backcountry so we left my truck there and began our 57 mile hike into the wooded terrain following the river.

My cousin recently moved here from Secunderabad, India. On a recent road trip exploring America, we were shootin shit and exchanging ghost stories and laughing at similarities and differences between American ghost stories and Indian ghost stories when I asked her if she’s ever experienced anything supernatural. Her eyes widened as she averted her eyes to the window. Just when the silence was about to be too much for me, she softly responded “Yes. A few. One is troubling.”

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when the sobbing echoed through the apartment complex. Everyone rushed outside to find Jacob, kneeling in front of the leafless birch tree, crying. They stared in awe, unsure of what to do. After all, no one knew anything about him. The tenants stood shocked and confused as Jacob's fingers dug into the soil at the base of the tree - scooping handfuls of dirt into his pockets. He continued until his pockets were full, then the crying ceased, just like that. The…

The flames are in full force now. Glass is shattering from the heat generated from this inferno. Even the charred wood is beginning to splinter, unable to withstand the weight of the 2nd and 3rd floors above. You know, it is fires like these that made me want to become a fireman. To see raging death dance across the floors, walls and ceilings is an incredibly beautiful and mystical sight. Don’t you agree?

“You're making a mistake.” “I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Monahan. Our decision has been made.” “But...” “There's nothing more to be said. Your final check will be in the mail tomorrow. Molly and I thank you for your services.” --click--

I am awake. I don’t recall falling asleep and am not real sure how I got into bed, but I am awake now. There is a very distant ringing in my ears, sort of like the aftermath of a concussive blast that makes you deaf, only this ringing seems far off inside my head. Must have had a rough night I suppose, although honestly I can’t really recall the previous evening or any evening for that matter. Yep, must have been one hell of a night.

I was only 12 at the time. I was playing in the scrap yard with some of my best buddies. My father was good at all different kinds of things, but flourished on vehicles and motorized machines of any type. He was always hauling in a new broken down truck, or an old busted up washing machine, and had no problem with letting my buddies and me play in the scrap piles that lay in the back yard. We were out one day just messing around, shooting Jon's new BB gun, which he had just been given for his…

Thoughts of Thai food from the place around the corner cluttered my concentration as lunchtime crept ever closer. No one makes hotel reservations in December. By now, virtually all rooms were booked and the best rates were a Summer memory. Still, there is always a chance for a last minute booking so I waited, at the ready, for anything resembling a call. Two clear tones signaled an incoming call. I glance at the clock. "Of course, just before I clocked out," I thought to myself.

I've been working at a police station in Massachussets for the past ten years. No, I'm not an officer but rather a First Responder. It's...not such a big job, or at least to me anyway, because my family lives in mid-sized city. Average 20,000 people. The most important calls I get include robberies and house fires. And then there are the pranks that teenagers play on Halloween and such like that. I'm recording all of this. The reason why is because I'm scared like hell. Still scared.

“Sit, Terry. We have a long summer ahead of us.” His voice seems almost to reach out and touch me as he speaks. But this is not a pleasant touch. It is a touch which turns the skin cold wherever felt, and it causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. His words seem hollow and faint, and float to my ears like a whisper. I have no proof they were ever spoken at all, save for the chill which they force down my spine.

There’s a reason I won’t go to Mockingbird Park, Not just ‘cause it’s creepy, not just ‘cause it’s dark; There are twisty twined trees, there are weeds and neglect, But worse than all that is the “mocking” effect. As you walk the park paths, you’ll hear a faint echo – Footfalls – your own? – in that dim and grim ghetto, Coming closer and closer as if someone’s there... You whirl and see no one, just fog on the air. So you whistle – it whistles. You cough – and it coughs.

A few weeks ago, my parents were driving up to see my cousins. We always visit them during the summer. On the way there, we drove through a little village. Some church by the road was having a car boot sale. A massive banner told us it was in aid of charity.

Please, I don't know what to do. I've tried to tell my wife about this, but she's a science teacher and thanks to my history of practical jokes, she thinks I'm just kidding. There is something stalking me. I don't know what it wants, but almost every night since I started seeing it, it has terrorized me. It doesn't touch me, it doesn't communicate in any sort of way, it just fills me with horror. If what I seem to ramble, please forgive me... I haven't slept in several days.

I wake up feeling a small pain on my upper back. It’s tiny, but noticeable. I know what to expect now. It’s going to be yet another small scratch that seemingly came out of nowhere. My logical mind tells me that it was only me scratching my back while asleep, or my skin just being too sensitive for the sheets and getting cut. I believe my mind, but I still have an eerie feeling about these small scratches. I get up, hobbling over to my bathroom door, sliding it open, hopping up on the counter,…

Fingers trembling with excitement I opened the package. Just as I had hoped, it was the camera I won on ebay. With mild delight I realized I had received a better deal than I had realized because the previous owner had left the memory card in the slot.

Finally, I’m home. After working a late night, I finally finished a project that my boss pushed on me. It was all worth it though, because I had a great day ahead of me. The part I was most excited for though, was seeing my son. I finally won the custody battle against my ex-wife, so now I actually get to see him. I fixed up my old spare bedroom for him, although it looked bland in all white. I figured we would have some spare time later and we could make any changes he wanted. I lumbered up…

Until my mid-teens I hadn’t lived in one house for more than I year. Though I’ve now been living in this house the longest, and my family thinks of it as home since we pay mortgage on it, I’ve always felt that my earlier houses were home. The “Yellow House” wasn’t one of those. I lived there before I entered school so my memory of the pale yellow house fuzzy, but almost all of my memories in that house took place upstairs in the converted attic where my siblings and I had our rooms. The house…

A few months ago a friend of mine, who is an up-and-coming nature photographer, decided to spend a day and night alone in the woods outside of our town. She wanted to get photos of the woods and wildlife as naturally as she could for her portfolio. She wasn’t afraid of being alone, as she had camped by herself many times before.

I’m what you could call a collector of bootleg Pokémon games. Pokémon Diamond & Jade, Chaos Black, etc. It’s amazing the frequency with which you can find them at pawnshops, Goodwill, flea markets, and such. They’re generally fun; even if they are unplayable (which they often are), the mistranslations and poor quality make them unintentionally humorous.

Around me are the sounds of panic and horror. Gunshots fill the once silence air and people in white lab coats are screaming and running past my room. I know they are because I can see them through the reflective wall that shows my own reflection. How is this possible you might ask? Well, I was once the hope for humanity. This is how it began. I was thirteen and still had some sort of life stitched together if you could call it that. My father was nonexistent and my mother trying to form a…