dead

Scary Story Time #11

Hey guys, I just read some disturbing news. SEVERELY disturbing news. Evidently it's Friday, the 13th. Not only that, but we'll be having ANOTHER Friday, the 13th in 13 weeks! These are dark days, indeed. 2012 is supposedly the year that the world ends, and based on the aforementioned facts, I have to assume that this rumor is true.

Yes.

The fact that there will be two Friday, the 13th's in 13 weeks is UNDENIABLE PROOF that the world is ending.

(Disclaimer: I don't believe in any of that bullshit)

More disturbing than that is the fact that evidently I haven't posted a scary story since Halloween. I used to post these goddamn things too much, but now I find out I haven't done it in nearly a quarter of a year!

So here we go.

I should tell you that at some point I had read so many anonymously written creepy stories, that I began to rediscover stories I'd already read. I was worried that maybe I'd read them all. So I branched out. Via Google Reader, I searched for certain keywords like "creepy," "scary," and "weird." Again, I would just come across new blogs with the same old stories.

Until I found a new source.

Japanese horror stories and Japanese myths.

At first I was reluctant, because I had considered Japanese horror to be a little too bizarre, and less frightening than strange. To be fair, I was basing that assumption on the commercials I had seen for movies like The Ring and The Grudge, which looked like shit.

I decided to give anonymously written Japanese horror stories a try. And I was not disappointed.

Yes, these stories are different from anything else I have read. And no, I don't like all of them. There are urban legends about mythical creatures which are half-man and half-dog. Those stories, I don't like. But the Japanese have a very different approach to stories about ghosts. Their concept of ghosts seems to be wholly different from anything we have in this country (United States). I find it to be bizarre and disturbing. The mental image that the following story creates is both surreal and terrifying. The person who translated and re-posted the story I bring to you today (http://sayainunderworld.blogspot.com/) uses letters in place of character names. Today's story is told about a man called "Y."

So, yes, it's pretty different, but let it wash over you.

Here we go:

Quick disclaimer: I'm a really big fan of horror movies and scary stories. Recently I've been finding a lot of interesting little scary stories written anonymously by people on the internet, so I decided to start sharing some of the ones I like. You should know, before you read on, that I did not write any of these stories, unless otherwise noted. You should also know that I won't always be posting that I enjoy 100%. There could be a ten page story that I post because I like one sentence of it. In that case, I assume I'll explain why I posted horse-shit and what merit I see in it. Sometimes, I'll post "scary" stories that I hate, think are stupid, or maybe even funny. But more than that, you should really know that some of these stories may be somewhat graphic, so just steel yourself for anything, especially poor spelling and grammar (I don't edit these stories). No matter what, though, I hope you enjoy them too, and if you know any stories or sources, please share them with me. Also, if you have any requests, just ask, I have a huge archive of this stuff!
Ooh, is it Y?


This is a story I heard from my friend Y. Y's grandad died about two years ago. Y loved his granddad almost too much, and at the funeral he cried like a baby, not caring that other people were watching.

It happened on the seventh day after his granddad's death. On that day there was a storm warning for the area where Y lived and in spite of the murderous wind Y didn't have enough money on him to take a bus and had to walk home from school. He struggled all the way to keep himself from blown away and it was already past seven in the evening when he finally arrived home. He took out the key from the bag and opened the front door.

As soon as he was in, he saw the door to his own room, which was visible from the front door, open, as if to welcome him. He could see from the opening that the light and the TV had been switched on, as well as the halogen heater, which was the sole source of heat in his room.

It must be mum. She was considerate enough to have my room warmed up before I got home. Y thought happily, and he called out to her in a voice more cheerful than usual.

But strangely, no one answered Y. He looked around the front door and noticed there was only one pair of shoes that belonged to Y (note:Japanese people leave shoes at the front door before entering the house) and neither his mum's nor dad's shoes were there. Then Y remembered everyone in the family apart from Y was going to be home late, due to them attending a memorial service that was being held for his granddad. Who could be home then? Y was afraid that it might be a burglar.

Y tiptoed to his room, and fearfully peeked inside through the door. In the room there sat Y's dead granddad with his back to the door.
The moment Y realized that it was his granddad, his fear vanished into thin air. Y was the sort who could never watch horror movies without having someone beside him, but although he knew he was seeing a ghost it was different when the ghost was his granddad's.

Tears rushed to his eyes out of love and gratitude that his granddad cared enough about him to visit him even after death.
Granddad gave a few of his characteristic coughs and clumsily scratched at the back of his head.
"Granddad." When Y called, grandad slowly stood up and turned around.
And as he turned, as if by a trick, the outline of his body became slightly blurred.

Granddad's face looked as if covered in red ink.
"Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?" Granddad called Y's name.
The voice was as he remembered it, but the intonation was somewhat strange. It was too monotonous. Granddad used to speak with a strong accent, but his voice sounded artificial as if it had been computer-generated.
Granddad took one feeble step towards Y.
"What happened to you, granddad?"
Y said, growing anxious because granddad was acting strange.
Granddad again coughed a few times and scratched his head.

"Granddad, did you try to come home?"
When Y asked, grandad looked up at the ceiling as if he was trying to think a little, and said;
"Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?," uttering exactly the same phrase and in the same intonation as before. Y found that disturbing, and began to think maybe what he was seeing in front of him was not his granddad at all.
Granddad was still staring at the ceiling. From his fingers some purplish-red liquid trickled to the floor, making a small pool on the carpet. Moreover, when Y looked at him more closely, he noticed that granddad's arm was bent at an unnatural angle; and the length between the shoulder and the elbow was longer than a normal person's upper arm should be. Granddad wasn't like that at all when he was alive. Maybe this thing was something that was pretending to be his grandad.

Y slowly start to back away, being careful not to make any noises. Despite that the thing that was pretending to be his granddad seemed to have realized Y's intention and, stretching only its neck, he stared at Y.
Oh no, it's looking at me - the moment Y thought it, the thing's face was right in front of him.
Its body was still standing where it was; the only parts that moved were its head and neck. The neck was now like a over-stretched rubber band. Before his eyes, purplish-red bubbles formed around its mouth.
"Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?"
Y screamed.

He ran for his life and took refuge in the nearest bookshop. He was scared to be alone in the house. He couldn't go back until the rest of the family was home, by which time it was past 9pm. He told them what happened to him but none took him seriously.

That night he was forced to sleep in his own room, where the red granddad appeared. Y felt uneasy. Whenever he closed his eyes he feared that he would see that red face the moment he opened his eyes again. But in the end fatigue took the better of him and he fell asleep.

When he woke up the next morning, his face somehow felt itchy. He went to the bathroom and looked himself in the mirror; his face was wet with purplish-red juice.

From then on he stopped sleeping in his room. Because he wasn't sure if he could manage to escape like the last time if the thing appeared to him again.

To this day Y still says, "that was definitely not my granddad."




I don't know about you, but for whatever reason, that description of the grandfather's neck stretching like a rubber band really gets me. It's weird, and oddly nondescript, what is actually happening here. I myself picture the grandfather standing still, across the room from Y, but his neck is stretched, parallel to the floor, so that his face is inches away from Y's. It's terrifying to me, because of how weird it is.

I'm going to go a step further here.

I'm about to get REALLY fucking nerdy. Part of what terrifies me about this story is that, in part, I relate the grandfather's ghost to this character:
This character (enemy) is from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, from both the Nintendo 64 and the Nintendo 3DS, and it's a fucking nightmare.
It pops out of the ground with it's over-long neck stretched out straight up to the ceiling. Once you approach it, it slowly brings it's head down to stare at you, and ultimately attempt to bite you with it's huge mouth.

Bonus points for bullshit: it also has weird long arms that pop out of the ground around it, with sharply nailed hands which will grab you told hold you in place for some goddamn chomping.

Anyway. That's the creepy story for today, Friday, January 13th, 2012.
I don't want to leave you shaking in your boots though, defenseless though. So here's an item to help you:

Take it easy guys.

Daisy the Dog

As I write this, it's Monday, October 10th, and I'm tired. I'm tired because my stupid fucking cat kept waking me up last night. First he was doing some weird meowing/howling thing at the closed door, and then he started pawing at the door with his goofy claw-less oven mitt hands. The sound was surprisingly loud. But let me back up, and explain why I put up with this all night.

On Thursday, October 6th, at about 8:15 in the morning, I was about to walk out the door and go to work, so I called my dog Daisy over to me and scratched her behind the ear, saying goodbye. When I came back home that evening at about 6:00, I found out that she had gotten out of our fenced in backyard for what felt like the millionth time. It sucks, but it's not uncommon, and no matter how many times I've patched that fence, she's always found a new way to get out. It's just in her nature. She's big, strong, and determined to run around. She almost always comes back on her own after about 20 minutes. She sits on the front step and waits for us to open the door. It's awful, but it happens all the time. Once, a couple of years ago, she disappeared for 6 days, eventually being returned to us a little skinnier than when she left. It was infuriating. But she seemed pretty bulletproof. Just a goofy animal who wants to run around, but is always okay and means well and wants to see us again. Unfortunately, an hour after she got out of the house, we got a call from a cop. Daisy had been struck by a car. The driver took off, and my dog died.

It was horrible. It was incredibly surreal. I felt woozy. I remember everything I did that night as if it's a story I made up. It still feels unreal today.

I loved my dog. So much. She gave me a sense of responsibility that I never felt before. I felt like she was mine. It was almost a paternal experience. She was such a weaselly pain in the ass, always pushing to get her way. So as much as I got to play with her, I also had to be an authority figure.

And I was always afraid of her in the road. When I walked her, I would make her sit and stay at every street corner, only allowing her to walk again when any cars had passed us. I knew it probably wasn't clear to her what I was trying to teach her, but I always just hoped that she would realize there was a reason why I did that.

I'm getting off-point.

Anyway, in that evening, I was a wreck, but I had a focus on taking care of her. And I did. After all of the necessary my-dog-just-died stuff was through, it was worse.

It was literally done. In a matter of hours. Just over.

I didn't really know what to do. I thought I would be okay. You can hardly be in denial over something you've been actively dealing with, so I figured I would just struggle to stop missing her, and then I'd be okay.

Friday I went to work, and I had enough to do that I was suitably distracted. That evening I crashed on my bed, exhausted from the previous evening. Saturday, I woke up feeling almost catatonic. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to go anywhere or do anything. All I wanted to do was torture myself over Daisy's death. I missed her so much. So much. So goddamn much. So much that I really can't do it justice. I can't really accurately describe how weighted down I felt. My hands were heavy useless anvils, my feet were dragging. And I was dizzy just looking around. It was almost as if I was looking down from the top of a tall building, standing on the ledge. I had that uneasy feeling like I was about to fall. That's probably actually a very accurate comparison. I think we all know that "standing on a ledge" feeling. All I wanted was my dog.

I didn't start feeling better until I was talking about her with other people and discussing what happened, how much we loved her, and how much we'll miss her. It was against all my instincts to share like that. I've always felt like it's some lame cliche that you need to open up with other people. I felt like it was a weak thing to do. But I definitely can't deny it's importance now. I was able to move on just a little bit.

Now I realize that I'm talking about a dog. And believe me, I'm fully aware that there are worse things happening everywhere. People have lost siblings and parents, and I don't at all mean to trivialize the loss of a family member or friend, as extreme as I say I feel about losing Daisy. But I should also say that I spent every day with this dog. She had a distinct personality. She was intelligent and pushy. I know her voice. She used to alternatively get pissy with me if I wasn't waking up early enough for her liking, or try to pretend she didn't hear me if she was still in bed and I was up. Some days she would pounce on me and huff at me for staying in bed. She'd poke her big fat nose into my face to prod me awake. Other days, I'd call her name to get her up and out of bed and I'd see her eyes dart over to where I was standing and then quickly look away again, as if maybe I didn't know she was awake. She was trying to get away with something. She was funny. She was big. She was really really important to me.

She loved my family so much. And she loved our other dog, Harley. And everybody loved her. We're all pretty wrecked. One of my favorite things about Daisy was how much she loved my girlfriend. Daisy would literally tackle Allie, so that she could lick her face. She was so excited all she wanted to do was freak out and great her. I used to joke around and say that if Daisy didn't approve of Allie, we'd have a problem. But it was so the opposite of that joke. Sometimes Daisy seemed more excited to see Allie than she was anytime I came home. I fully expected to be living with Daisy for another 10 years. I'm killing myself writing this. Stupid.

I've got to wrap this up.

So now I come home and I don't have some goofy dog jumping all over me, ecstatic that I'm home. I don't have Daisy lying at my feet, extending her leg at me, trying to get me to hold her paw while I read or watch TV. It's over. Last night, in her absence, I decided I didn't want to sleep alone, so I grabbed one of the cats, Merlin (who seems pretty stoked that she's gone by the way. Now he can do whatever the hell he wants) and brought him into my bedroom. Nothing but bullshit all night.

All this to memorialize a dog and to establish that cats...kind of suck.

Daisy was almost 4: