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Normally you sleep soundly, but the thunderstorm raging outside is stirring you from your sleep. You begin to doze, then another crash jolts you awake. The cycle lasts most of the night. So you lay there, eyes open and outward, looking at your room stretching out before you in oblong shadows. Your eyes move from nameless object, to object, until you reach your mirror, sitting adjacent to you across the room.

It had been a long, tiring day at work. It was quiet as I waited alone for the train. It was a bit after midnight, and so dark that I could only see the square foot around me that the small light illuminated. Fortunately, I wasn’t stuck waiting long for the train. Eagerly, I ran in the second the doors opened.

NOTE: This story involves the racism encountered by African Americans in the rural United States, particularly during the 19th and early 20th centuries. As such, this story may be offensive to some. Please proceed with discretion.

My son and I often play games, he's five years old so our games can range from pirate battles in the middle of the ocean to simple board games like snakes and ladders. Today we decided to play hide and seek. I counted to fifty while he went to hide in one of the three hiding places that he always picks. 'Ready or not, here I come' I called, as I slowly made my way to the sofa. I looked down and there he was two little feet sticking out from behind the sofa, accompanied by muffled laughter.

At about the age of ten, I saw him once but not again. The man who came from out of town, The man who wore the blood-soaked crown. It was the night of Friday eve, Which from my bed I did not leave. Out my window I stole a glance, And saw him there just by chance. He was tall and thin and made of dark, His mere presence made dogs bark. For from his shape he whistled high, A tune so eerie I can’t deny.

The scene: An idyllic houshold, with no peculiarities. The cast: A traditional nuclear family, living caricatures from a Norman Rockwell piece. The parents make small talk as they all eat a breakfast of bacon and eggs. The children hurriedly scarf down the meal, eager for school. The mother picks up the dishes and together they walk out the door to begin the day. Their footsteps make no noise as they walk on the black dirt where grass grew once upon a time. The father takes a whiff of the…

In Minneapolis Minnesota a long abandoned hospital was under reconstruction. The hospital, St Anne's Mercy, was original founded in 1802. The hospital housed the quarantined patients suffering from illnesses such Yellow Fever, smallpox and leprosy. It also housed the mentally ill and abandoned of all ages for many years.

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.

Rose Hill Place April 11th Rose Hill Place was a rather indefinable place, all things considered. Nothing about it made it stand out to passersby, nothing in its halls to make it appeal to those who came and visited. It was exactly what it appeared to be: a single-floor complex with over a hundred rooms and three dining halls, enough to fit all who lived there and the occasional guest.

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.

April 12th, 2013 I’ve always considered myself very logical. I never put myself into uncomfortable situations nor do I let emotions get the best of me. It wasn’t until today where I felt the stable structure of my mind shift a bit. It was all because of her, I’m sure of it. I only saw her for a brief moment in the crowded hallway of my school but what I did see was enough to make my heart skip a beat.

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?

Bedtime is supposed to be a happy event for a tired child; for me it was terrifying. While some children might complain about being put to bed before they have finished watching a film or playing their favourite video game, when I was a child, night time was something to truly fear. Somewhere in the back of my mind it still is.

This isn't actually my story. It was related to me, a while ago, by an elderly gentleman that frequented a convenience store I worked at. I think back to that night where I followed him to the junkyard, and my hair still stands, along with that quiver of gooseflesh that has nothing to do with the temperature.

“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…

The following are transcripted entries from the journal of a Soldier that didn't survive the trip home from a deployment in Iraq. Content was provided via the victim's relatives. This might be disturbing for some people to see. Proceed with caution. - 17-MAY-2008 Fort Huachuca, Arizona -