Tell us your real-life tales of terror, and we'll publish the 10 best!
in that I have to turn around to check the six feet between the back of my chair and my apartment wall to make sure some otherworldly thing hasn’t appeared there to haunt or murder me.AKA I will be less likely to pick them. We’re reading these to be scared, not to memorize a map of the neighborhood you grew up in. The only edits these will get will be for the purposes of legibility.
I opened the door and got a better look. The woman was about my age, late 20s, and she had frizzy hair like a perm gone wrong. It was a nondescript brownish blond and looked dry and damaged. All her style choices looked like those of a stereotypical grandmother. She wore a lightweight tan jacket, a white turtleneck that looked like it had been washed many times, a long khaki skirt that buttoned up the front, and loafers styled like moccasins. She was underdressed for a late November day.
I cut her off, panicked, and asked if anyone was at my front door. She said no and I begged her to double check. She asked me why and I explained. Immediately she got Jim on the phone. Jim told me he’d be right over and to go to the interior of the house away from the windows. All this time, the bell rang in the front and there was knocking in the back. Eventually it stopped. Jim yelled at the front door it was him and I could open up.
It wasn’t until a few days after the call I realized it. Jim and Jenny were my parents age. Their first baby is a few years older than me. That means the same thing happened to her in the 1970s. I still don’t understand it.We have never figured this out. And now, the three living witnesses have to be good and fucking druuuunk to discuss the whole thing.
Her house had been empty for several weeks while she’d been visiting us in Florida, but we were all back, spending the weekend with her before trekking back to the Sunshine state. The house is in the foreal country, literally over train-tracks, past a salvage yard and her nearest neighbor ain’t within screamin’ distance. Yes, that seems to be a real system of measurement — “screaming distance.”It’s early in the AM, like just before daybreak.
Then EVERY goddamn door in the house is banging — relentlessly. I can still hear it. Rhythmic and terrifying, like all the doors are about to splinter and crack. There were two doors in the basement beneath us, so the sound is also a reverberation at our feet. The three ground-floor doors are shaking — we can see them trembling and jerking on their hinges from our vantage point on the couch. Finally, mom runs to the window — either from a psychotic break with reality or terror, I have no clue.
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