Scary Story Time - March 2012

Hey guys, today is the 13th of the month, so as I promised, here's another scary story from the internet!

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!

Alright, so this month I've got one of the most bizarre, but nontheless plausible stories from my collection. This one is pretty freaky, but instead of being truly scary, it's more unsettling and unnerving. When I picture the man in the story, I basically think of every weird person I've ever met in my life. And there are a lot. I feel like most people are not that far from being completely insane. Think about how many people share a few too many details of their personal lives with you. Think of every person who has cornered you at a party or every clerk at a store who has rambled on and on. Think about every a stranger remembers you from the last time they saw you (We actually discuss it in the podcast I host (click here for part one, click here for part two).

It's incredibly common, and it's not hard to imagine that taken to the extreme. You always hear stories about somebody being stalked. Here's another, I hope you like it:

The Peacoat Man

Last fall I moved up into the city with a bunch of my friends and boyfriend, and took a semester off to do pretty much whatever I wanted and have a job on the side to keep me under a roof. I held a semi-okay-but-not-so-much job in the center of the city, and half of my shifts were until midnight or 1 AM. I am a small girl you see, I am 5' 0" and 108lbs. Wouldnt take too much to scoop me up and run away. One night, my store was really dead, but of course my money hungry manager made me stay and keep the entire building open. I was by myself downstairs working as a cashier, doing nothing except bouncing some glitter ball I snagged from the novelty rack. I heard the west entrance door open, and a man with a black pea coat walked in with his eyes fixated on me with the creepiest half smile I ever saw. He never looked away even walking over, and me, getting nervous kept looking away and every time I'd look back hed still be walking in my direction looking straight at me. Eventually I cracked a smile, but it was more of a nervous smile rather than a welcome. He then seemed to get extremely excited, with the craziest smile across his face and said, "Oh, well good evening miss" I laughed nervously and asked him if he needed help finding anything since it was 11:30 at night, so wandering around at this time wasn't usually the case. People that normally came in at this time usually knew exactly what they wanted. He, did not. He said he did not, but as he walked by me he still had his head turned staring at me smiling like a little kid who just heard the ice cream truck. I had my earpiece in, and let the other employees know there was a bit of a weirdo in the store and I thought it would end at that. About 20 minutes later, he came back around, creepily bouncing in his walk, on his tiptoes to look at me past the shelving with that smile on his face. As I watched him literally skip over to my register, I felt kind of sick. Every so often Id get a random creep, but this guy stuck out for some reason. He came up to me and pushed a red journal in my direction. I tried to avoid making much eye contact with him, but as I was looking down at the journal I could tell he was staring at me. He began telling me I was beautiful, and how I could be stuck working in a store like this, late at night, all by myself. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and asked, "So, you live around here?" I said not really, and work was a bit of a hike for me, and left it at that. He then kept asking about where I lived, and tried to 'sneakily' ask how I got to work everyday. I avoided answering any questions directly, or gave him pretty vague answers, but he just wasnt having it. He then began telling me about things he was going to do to his 'new wife' and I didnt really know what to say. I was all by myself. Eventually he left, and there had been a customer behind a shelf that had heard everything and asked if I was alright. I said I was a little creeped out, but sometimes I'd get people like this, so I didnt want it to bother me very much. But I was certainly wrong about this guy. I got out of work at 1 AM, walked the same 4 blocks to the train like I always do, and waited underground for 25 minutes for the next train. I was all alone, with my oversized messanger bag and my phone in my hand. Nothing really seemed out of the usual, but I was always on my toes when I got out that late because where I was located was full of great people during the day, but as soon as the sun went down it was like the zombies would come out. I told my roommates and boyfriend about the guy as soon as I got home, and that I had to get to bed since I had to work the next day. So anyway, whatever, I wake up really late, get all my shit together and run out the door. I walked about 2 blocks to get to the train, and I realized that I had forgot my phone. I neeeever forget my phone. I fumbled through my purse hoping it was just at the bottom somewhere since it was black and so was the inside of my bag. I groaned and rolled my eyes, and when I looked up, I saw the man in the peacoat across the tracks looking at me. I was 6 miles away from work. Nobody would ever get on or off this stop unless they lived here. My stomach instantly dropped, and I began walking in the opposite direction towards the townline with streets full of people. Alrighty. Well anyway, now I was kind of panicking but I didnt really show it. I just kept walking. Where I was walking towards was a very well-lit area with little shops up and down the street. My favorite Halloween store was only around a 15 minute walk, so I thought I'd head there for the time being. Halfway through, I tripped on a lopsided sidewalk block. I didnt fall flat on my face or anything, but I did look up to see if anyone saw me. I looked across the street, and the peacoat man was there. But when I looked over, he turned around and was pretending to look for something with his back turned towards me. And at the time, I couldnt even think of what was 'the right thing to do'. I was just nervous. And I had no phone. I got to the Halloween store and decided to stay in there for awhile, and put a bunch of baskets together for my family back home when I went to visit them. Halloween is bigger in my family than Christmas. I was probably in there for about an hour and a half, and when I walked out it was nearly dark. I turned the corner in which another train stop was, and the peacoat man was standing in front of the store reading a newspaper. Now I knew I was 100% in trouble. This had been a total of 2 hours now since I had left my house, and it occurred to me that I didnt contact work. And the way I had turned from the first train stop, there was NO WAY this guy 'just so happened' to be going the same direction and be waiting the same amount of time outside of each place. I ran into a drugstore and just looked around a little bit more. I looked at everyone shopping in there and wondered who I should tell. For some reason I felt like if I told somebody what was happening, they wouldnt believe me or take me seriously. I just started thinking negatively while really starting to panic. I walked outside, and there again, across the street was the man waiting on a bench looking straight at me. I started speeding up down the road, and noticed he was doing the same on the opposite side from the corner of my eye. He had that same smile he had the night before, and I let out a little yelp that I tried covering up, and my eyes started swelling up. I ran to the closest building I could find, and it was some sort of closed doctors office. I shook the door handle but it was locked. I saw somebody behind the counter and I started banging on the windows telling them to let me in, as I see the guy getting faster on the other side of the street not that far down from me. Finally I get the guys attention and he lets me in. I ran behind the desk and called 911, and through the blinds I could see the man standing there in front of the building. Two minutes later the police come, and just like that the man is gone. The only way I could describe the man was that he had a black peacoat. He was too generic looking. The first cop I talked to thought I was just some girl who probably met him at a bar, while I'm pleading to get me out of there and Im not even old enough to step foot in a bar, nor do I even drink. I had never seen this man in my life other than him coming into work the night before. I get into one of the cop cars, and he starts driving around in the opposite direction of the other cruisers that split up. We drove around, as did the other cruisers, and nobody of the description was seen. The cop lets me off at a stop and waits until the train comes so I can head to work a few hours late. I get on the train, and it was very obvious I had been crying. 15 minutes pass, and its finally my stop. The peacoat man was sitting on a bench on the outbound. I remember thinking, 'No fucking way is this happening, youve got to be serious'. A good amount of people got off the train with me, and I wasnt sure if he was aware I got off the train. I knew there were only two options, he either had no idea I got off yet, or he watched as each car came in and was now pretending he didn't notice me, hoping Id be dumb enough to just keep going. He looked up turning his head slightly sideways and just grinned at me, knowing exactly what he was doing, and also fully aware I knew what was going on. Again, in a panic, I didn't know what to do. I ran to the closest train possible, which wasn't even my line, and got on it anyway. I was the only one in the car, and I sat on the floor in the back by the stairs by myself and cried. Eventually I had to switch lines to get back home, and I did not see the man. When I got off at my stop, I ran for my life up the street hoping he wasnt already waiting for me like he was the other 3 places. He was always a step ahead of me. I got home, and all the lights were off. I started pouting up the stairs when one of my roommates appeared out of the corner and said all the others had left searching for me since work had called hours before saying I never showed up. Anyway, skipping a bunch of dumb stuff, I still had work the next day, regardless of being completely exhausted. I made sure I had my phone, I was walked to the train stop, and luckily my shift started midday. Work is fine, and then it got dark. The 'employee rotation' made it my turn to be at the front of the store. About an hour in, the stores dead again, and there I am standing and bouncing that same stupid ball blankly staring out the window. And who do I see meeting eyes with me all the way at the end of the street? The peacoat man. My mouth dropped as I watched him look inside to see there were other people working. He had that stupid fucking grin on his face, but shook his head as if he were saying, 'youre lucky'. I told one of the supervisors, and he said he wouldnt call the police if I werent 100% sure. How in gods name would I forget that face by now? I ran out of work, 4 hours into my shift, took a taxi home and never went back. I lost my job, but I didnt even care. Weirdly enough, I was right for the most part what I had thought earlier. Every person I had approached about the man, either didnt believe my story was what I claimed, or 'maybe' it was something else. I never went near that part of the city again, nor did I see the peacoat man ever again. :( Just like last time I left out what the journal said by mistake. It said, 'I married a virgin, isn't that wonderful?'

That story is too fucking awesome. Aside from the last line which sucks and doesn't really make sense, I get completely engrossed in it. It just evokes a sense of paranoia, feeling trapped, and the unexplained that I think is universally understandable. In a lot of ways, actually, it reminds me of the story in THIS POST. You never find out what the guy's deal actually is.

It's enough to make you want to look over your shoulder.

Now I'm getting all spooked. I bet you are too. But calm down. Here, I'll help you. This is a picture of a pig eating an ice cream cone:

And here he is with crumbs on his face!

(Photo credit: Cute Overload)

All better. I hope you guys enjoyed Scary Story Time this month, look forward to it again in April! If you need more spooky stuff, just click on the "Scary Story Time" category in the sidebar to get previous installments, or if you want more lighthearted spooky stuff, check out the episode of my podcast Will and Bobby Know Everything centered on The Supernatural! You can also find WBKE on iTunes!

Jury Duty and The Stenographer

A month ago I got a summons in the mail stating that I would have to go to the local courthouse for jury duty. Two days ago, I went.

For that month long wait, I probably thought about the upcomming date at least twice a day. I wasn't pumped about missing a day of work, and I definitely wasn't excited about the possibility of being selected for a case.

The night before I went, I found out that they were actively trying to select the jury for the Tyler Clementi case.

I got more nervous.

I asked my girlfriend, Allie, if she would drop me off at the courthouse, and on the way there, we listened to the radio, when, amazingly enough, an NPR reporter brought up the case! He said that they were having a difficult time assembling a jury for the case, because many of the potential juror's had a viewpoint that got them instantly dismissed.

While Allie and I stared at each other in amazement, the reporter elaborated that many of the jurors believe that the existence of the trial itself suggests that the defendant must be guilty of something. Why would they have a trial unless he did something to warrant it?

There it was. The key to my freedom.

We pulled up to the courthouse where a line of half-awake zombies wrapped around the block, and I could see several Court TV news vans gearing up to report on the big trial.

A little more confident of my dismissal, I hopped on the line.

15 minutes later, I sat in a huge room watching a quick instructional video about how we are serving our country by appearing for jury duty. It looked exactly like every dystopian future I've ever seen in a movie. Just footage of a man's head explaining to us how lucky we are for living where we do, and how we must give back to our country.

Another 15 minutes later, a few of us, split off from the massive pool of jurors, are stuffed into an elevator, on the way to a court room to learn what case we'll be interviewed for. I rehersed my story. I practiced the lines in my head.

"Well why are we here unless some of the charges are true?"

The moment I entered the room, everything changed.

First, we weren't being interviewed for the Tyler Clementi case, which made me breath a sigh of relief, and then realize that I would have to come up with a new excuse.

Second, I almost instantly stopped worrying about that the moment I noticed the court stenographer.

She was fascinating.

Either superhuman or subhuman.

Possibly a ghost.

More likely a zombie.

Sunken eyes, sallow skin, long spindly Nosferatu fingers.

I have no idea why her typewriter thing had such a small keyboard, but her frightening goblin fingers flew over the little keys, while paper the width of a standard receipt spewed out of the back. Why don't they use regular paper? Do they have teeny filing cabinets?

As she typed, her empty eyes fluttered around in her hollow skull. They found me, and stayed. She had chosen me.

To be fair I was staring right at her, likely with a mask of horror on my face, so I can't blame her for staring back.

I still don't know what I was really looking at, though.

Her life is based on converting the sounds she hears into words on a page. Without a break. For hours. There's no way that she has a mind. It would get in the way!

She's just a funnel. Sound goes in her ears and becomes an electrical impulse which flows down her arms and out of her fingertips. She can't possibly process all the legal bullshit that's being hurled at her without end.

Why don't they just use a recorder? She's basically a modern equivalent of the birds in The Flintsones movie that are meant to "record" conversations just by remembering everything everyone said!

She's not real! She's an animal who serves a singular purpose.

Speaking of being an animal, she must be completely wild outside of that courthouse, right?!

From 5:00 in the afternoon until 7:00 the next morning, I bet she's chugging whiskey, joy riding, and hitting mailboxes with a baseball bat.

She must have SO much pent up energy.

It's either that, or she's just as hollow outside of work and she walks around staring at everybody, listening in on conversations and reflexively moving her fingers in the air, phantom-typing.

Maybe they roll her chair into a closet at the end of the work day, and she sleeps in there.

Maybe I'm just wrong and that's not a person. She's a very sophisticated machine used to transcribe conversations, and they wanted it to look human.

They almost got it right.

I kind of hope that she has some sort of effect on what she writes. I hope she's able to add something personal. I hope the transcription of my interview went something like this:

"Judge: Can you think of any reason why you would not be right for this case?"

"Fat Moron: I can't afford to miss work."

"Judge: Fair enough, you're dismissed."

"Fat Moron lumbers out of the room."

"Someday I will absorb his soul."

WBKE - Episode 6: Crazy People Part 1

This week on Will and Bobby Know Everything, Bobby and I welcome my sister Kristen Rogers onto the show to discuss Crazy People!

In Part One of the show (which is also our first two-parter) Bobby, Kristen, and I discuss a toothless sandwich maker, a dangerous "pregnant" woman, and a professor Bobby and I had who may have been a ghost!
How can you resist!?
This episode is also a big deal because it's being posted on Bobby Koester's birthday! So give Bobby the gift of listening to this show!
Look for the show on iTunes by clicking here!
Stream it on your iPhone or Android phone by searching for it in the free Stitcher app!
Please subscribe to the show, and please leave any feedback you'd like. You can also get involved in the show by emailing us at WillAndBobby@gmail.com! We're always open to new hosts with new topics.
Also, because the show is free, and because it's just for fun, all Bobby and I ask is that, if you like it, please tell 3 people! No money, no nothing, just tell 3 people if you like the show!
Thanks a lot guys, take it easy, and remember that Part 2 of Crazy People will be online in a week!
And again, happy birthday to Bobby!

Scary Story Time - February, 2012

Hey guys, before we get into the story, I have a quick announcement. In light of finding out how many Friday, the 13ths we'll be experiencing in 2012, and due the the fact that I had decided to post a scary story on each one of them, I've had an idea: Instead of just randomly posting these things whenever I feel like it, I'm going to turn it into a monthly feature.

On the 13th of every month, you can expect a new Scary Story Time! I'm going to stop numbering them though, which will help, because sometimes, instead of posting a long story, I might post several short ones. And that will get clumsy. So now I'll just label each post by it's month and year, as you can see from the title of this post.

Also, at the very base of this post, look for the "Scary Story Time" tag that I'll place on each SST. By clicking on that tag, you'll have a quick consolidated list of every SST I've posted.

And finally, don't forget that JUST YESTERDAY, Bobby and I posted a BRAND NEW episode of our podcast Will and Bobby Know Everything centered on The Supernatural! So basically, once you're done with this creepy story, you should immediately search for the episode on iTunes or Stitcher, click HERE to read my post about the episode, or click HERE to listen right from your browser!
Now on to the story:
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!

From the Peephole

There was a male college student living by himself in an old apartment.  There was a small hole in his room’s wall, and he could peek into the next room from there.  His next-door neighbor was a young woman.  The woman apparently wasn’t aware of the peephole, so the man thought himself lucky and fell into a pattern of peeping on her.

Then, one day…

Around 3am, the man woke up to the sound of shuffling.  Wondering what it was, he realized that it was coming from next door.  Maybe she brought home a guy?  Feeling his excitement mount, the man looked through the peephole.  The room next door also had the lights off so he couldn’t see that well, but he could see two shadows for sure.  The man felt the thrill well inside him, thinking This is it! when he noticed something was off.

The big shadow that he assumed was the man kept moving, but the woman wasn’t moving at all.

When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that the man was punching the woman.  The woman seemed to be be gagged, so even if she wanted to scream all she could do was grunt.  In the end, he couldn’t even hear the groaning anymore.  Then the man’s shadow left the room.

A home intruder!

The man decided to call the police, but he stopped in his tracks with the phone in his hands.  If he reported this to the police, his peephole would be discovered.  Wanting to protect himself, the man wavered.

Within a week the police showed up at the apartment.  Apparently, the woman really was killed.  Inevitably, the police found the peephole and asked the man if he’d seen anything.  

The man replied, “I didn’t even realize there was a hole in the wall.  I never noticed anything unusual that day.”

He was asked several more questions, but it didn’t seem that the police suspected him of anything.  He couldn’t forget having witnessed the murder, but the guilt of not reporting it to the police quickly evaporated.  Even two weeks later, the culprit was still on the loose.

Then, one day…

Around 3am, the man woke up to the sound of shuffling again.  However, ever since the incident next door, no new tenants had come to live there.  Even so, the sound was definitely coming from next door.  Trembling, he peeked through the hole, but he didn’t see anything moving.  Thinking it was his mind playing tricks on him, he began to move away from the hole.

Suddenly, as if trying to fill up the small hole completely, a wide-open bloodshot eye appeared.  The man could only stare back, frozen with fear.

Then, a raspy woman’s voice rang through the silence.

“You saw, didn’t you?”

THE END

Holy shit, that's a hell of a story. My hearts pounding. I want more scary stuff...I WANT to listen to Will And Bobby Know Everything - Episode 5: The Supernatural, but I'm afraid I might have a heart attack! I'm sure you're having the same problem, so here's a good pallet cleanser to calm your nerves before you move on to WBKE:


Phew, that's better. Now on to WBKE Episode 5!
Seeya!

WBKE - Episode 5: The Supernatural

Turn on the lights.

Make sure the door is locked.
This week Will and Bobby Know Everything is delving into the topic of the supernatural.
Death.
Ghosts.
Abandoned factories.
This week's host Alex Silverii brings to Bobby and me tales of the disturbing things left behind by the previous owners of his family's house.
I tell one of the most terrifying stories known to man.
And Bobby is too masculine and rational to entertain such bullshit.
Listen to it, it's a fucking hoot. And a holler. And a SCREAM!!!
Will and Bobby Know Everything - Episode 5: The Supernatural is now available on iTunes (click here) and Stitcher. Load it up in your phone for later, or stream it through your browser right now (by clicking here)!
Please enjoy, please subscribe, and please tell your friends!
And don't forget to leave comments here or send feedback to WillAndBobby@gmail.com
Also don't remember that Bobby and I are always welcome to new hosts for new topics. We don't care who you are, everybody has something interesting to say, and everybody has a topic they care about. Please send all requests to us at that same email address: WillAndBobby@gmail.com.
It doesn't matter where you are, because through the magic of Skype, it'll sound like you're right here in the room with us!
Episode 6 will be online in a week. We recorded it just a few nights ago, and it's fucking magic.
Here are direct links to past episodes:

WBKE - Episode 4: Dating

Let me get this out of the way:

On Episode 4 of Will and Bobby Know Everything, Sara Mercadante joins Bobby and me via Skype. The topic this week is Dating.

Listen as Bobby and I go out of our fucking minds.

Maybe it's because the host isn't with us in person, or maybe it's because Bobby and I had more coffee than usual, but regardless of reason, Bobby and I are out of control this week. It's awesome. Listen close.

Now this is important:

We're all adults here, right? Well in the show this week, we discuss something that might be considered immature and gross, but I say suck it up and let go, and have fun. Yes it's gross, but it's also fucking hilarious.

Look for it on iTunes and Stitcher!

Click here to go directly to the show on iTunes!

Or click here to listen within your browser!

It's a fucking good one, tell your friends, because everyone should hear this horse shit.

Send any comments or questions to WillAndBobby@gmail.com

Bobby and I are always looking for new hosts for the show! You can tell it's pretty laid back and stupid, and this episode is a good example that you don't need to be with us in person, we'll take hosts from anywhere in the world, as long as you have a strong internet connection. So please let us know if you're interested, I don't give a fuck who you are or what the fuck you want to talk about, it's just for fun, so email us!

Episode 5 next week!

WBKE - Episode 3: The Work Force

Hey guys, get to iTunes or run on search on Stitcher, because Episode 3 of Will and Bobby Know Everything is now online!

You can also listen in your browser via this link: WBKE on LibSyn

This week, guest host Samantha Short leads a conversation about what is listed as The Work Force, but is mostly a discussion about an asshole boss she, Bobby, and I have all shared.

Also we discuss a giant baby that Bobby used to live with! Who tried to get me drunk! How can you avoid something so intriguing??

As always, feel free to ask any questions or send any comments to WillAndBobby@gmail.com.

If you're interested in hosting a future episode of Will and Bobby Know Everything, just e-mail us, we're open to anybody, from anywhere! Because Skype exists!

So go ahead and listen, it's a good one!

Episode 4 next week!

A True Blog Post. I'm Not Sorry.

Sleeping is total and absolute bullshit.

Last week I had a minor cold, and because of that, I was sleeping A LOT.
More than I'd care to.
If there was some way I could work this out, I would never sleep. Honestly, if I didn't get so goddamn groggy and messed up due to a lack of rest, I'd stay up 24 hours a day, doing nothing but going to real work, doing my own goofy work (Will and Bobby Know Everything, boom), hanging out, and doing whatever I want.
Sleep is 6-8 hours of completely wasted time.
I don't accomplish a single thing during those hours. 
Worse than that, they're WAY too mandatory:
If I'm sick, like I was, and I sleep for 18 hours of a day, doped up on Nyquil, despite getting more than twice (maybe triple) the amount of sleep that the typical person needs in one night, I'll still wake up with enough energy for about 13 hours of the waking life before I have to fucking sleep again.
It's a weakness. If I sleep for 18 hours, I should be able to stay awake for 3 days.
You can't bank those hours.
However, if I stay up for 48 hours, a typical 8-hour rest won't be enough. I'll need to sleep longer.
What a joke.
Moving on.
I haven't got anything fun to examine, really, but I do want to quickly discuss this:
More than likely, you've heard about how Norway recently has had a shortage of butter.
It sounds weird, just on the surface, but the actual reason why is almost more unreal. There was a diet craze, not unlike the Atkins diet, which says that if you eat a diet with high butter-content, you'll lose weight.
That's all it takes.
In American, whenever the fucking McRib goes on sale, we line up around the block to fucking kill ourselves, but whatever, Norway freaked out over a diet fad.
(Also, in America, we don't need a goddamn excuse to eat butter).
Anyway, in response to all the stupid jokes about the situation, some dude in Norway posted the following video to us, in an effort to shut us up. 
He took a stand and said "NO MORE!"
And trust me, it's WAY fucking worth watching. It's unreal. At first you might feel bad for him, but power through it and keep watching, it's the best. Keep reading when the video ends:
See, I was right.
This is the worst fucking decision this guy could have made. In an effort to make America stop mocking his country's situation, he released a video of his shiny face where he accidentally says the cake they make is called "Pussy Cats," and he generally stumbles and fucks up through the whole video. I have to give him credit for trying, I guess.

Actually, I don't. If we ran out of butter, and fucking Norway started making fun of us, I wouldn't post a video to them. I wouldn't speak broken Norwegian while trying to mock them in accidentally hilarious ways.

Maybe I would, actually, that sounds kind of fun. Especially the threat of eating butter in front of a bunch of  people.

As angry as he is, which makes me want to take him seriously so that this video doesn't COMPLETELY paint him as a fool, I have to point out a few things...
There are edits in this video! I haven't done my research, but I think this is exactly what the guy posted online, himself. Occasionally you'll see the video "jump" as he finishes a point and moves on to another. There was stuff he decided to edit out! Sure, he leaves in all the bumbling missteps, and embarrassing sequences, like when he fakes you out into thinking maybe there's butter in the container he holds up. Speaking of which, I was fooled... But --
I lost my train of thought...
Christ, that pussy cats thing is unreal.
What the hell would you do if this guy actually DID come to your house and went into your refrigerator and ate a bunch of butter right in front of "your family's eyes"?
[Door gets kicked open]
"Whoa, who the fuck are you?"
Tommy storms up the hall, and turns into the kitchen, as your family, sitting on the couch, turns and watches, horrified and confused.
"Honey, do you know this guy?"
Tommy rips open the refrigerator and furiously grabs a stick of butter from the little butter cabinet thing.
Your family's mouths hang open, agape.
Tommy walks into the living room, stands in front of you, and, with great pride, defiantly takes a fucking huge bite out of the butter.
"Kids, cover your eyes!"
Tommy eats the whole thing, while you're mostly just confused. He goes back to the fridge and eats another, and then that little tub of whipped butter. You all just sit in stunned silence.
Then he has to go because he has to catch a plane back to Norway.
I really want that to happen.

I'll pay for the flight.

You have to hand it to him, really. No one actually gave a fuck about this Norway/Butter situation, but he had the guts to release this dramatic/ridiculous/unnecessary video, which got some views.
It takes a real man to draw more attention to a completely absurd situation, while also throwing himself on the fire.
I'm going to try and sleep now.

WBKE - Episode 2: Crime

Boom.

Episode 2 of Will and Bobby Know Everything is online!

In this episode, Bobby and I are joined by special guest host Tommy Becker, who comes by to discuss the state of crime in the world today. Specifically, we try to figure out the best way to murder each other.

It's a lot of fun! I hope you guys like it.

Same rules as last time, find it on:

iTunes for you Mac or PC

The iTunes app for your iPhone, by searching the show's title.

The free Stitcher (podcast directory) app for your iPhone or Android phone, by searching the show's title.

Or just listen through your browser!

No matter what, just enjoy the show!

You can make any comments of love or hate, or send any questions or requests to this blog or to WillAndBobby@gmail.com

Episode 3 in a week!

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.

Here Comes Santa Claus

Last night, from about 9:00pm to about 3:00am, Allie worked on making me a Santa costume:

I looked horrible. 

Fortunately, she wasn't done at all. But I'm getting ahead of myself, here's why this happened:

The "Dan" she mentioned is her boss, by the way. She didn't accidentally call me Dan. I think. Actually I'm not sure. I'll ask her later.

So there you go. I was forced into it...Kind of. I knew this was coming. To be extra careful, I practiced the voice and stayed in character for the past month just to get it right. I'm kind of like Daniel Day Lewis. Anyway, the video we shot came out really well, I actually looked and sounded legitimately like Santa Claus, and hopefully I never have to do this again. 

But here's the thing, take another quick look at how the costume and makeup look in that picture and video. It doesn't look great, but Allie is a freaking genius, because look at what all those weird individual pieces ended up as:

Incredible.

You'll never see the final video though.

Happy Holidays.

Conspiracy Theories

A few minutes ago, I glanced over at my phone and saw that I had gotten a couple of text messages. I tapped on my inbox and saw that I had received both messages at the exact same time from two different phone numbers, neither of which are in my phone book. Just random digits.

I tapped on the first one. It simply said, "Like."

Then I tapped on the second one: "Love."

Weird. Really weird. The likelihood of receiving two anonymous texts from two different numbers with similar messages has got to be slim.

I sat up straight in my chair. It was time to play detective.

I'm always down for a good mystery. Always. I'm not a conspiracy nut, really. I'm just a big fan of having something odd happen, as long as it's harmless. I seek it out.

There's a huge book store in New York called The Strand, which boasts an inventory of "18 miles of new, used and rare books." When I was 18 or 19, I walked into the deepest darkest corners of the store on the off chance that I might find a creepy old tome hidden behind some Sue Graftons. No luck. Bummer.

It's exciting, though. It's fun to think that that there's something taking place that relates to you, but you're not privy to all of the information. I love the idea of Urban Legends that have some basis in reality. Fascinating. Why couldn't there be a magical book laying flat on a low shelf in a dark basement corner of a bookstore? I've seen that shit in movies MANY times. It happens!

One of the biggest events of modern history to be enshrouded in mystery was the JFK assassination. Thousands of people believe and investigate numerous theories as to how and why he was killed, as well as who did it, and whether or not the government was involved. There's even a theory which suggests that after he died, his body was taken, and his wounds were modified to make it appear as if he were shot from a particular angle. Why? Well who knows. We'll find out the truth in 2017 when the documents regarding the event are released.

I should say, before I get back to the mystery of the friendly texts, that I'm no stranger to high stakes intrigue.

About four years ago, I was leaving a class at Rutgers with my messenger bag over my shoulder. It held a few notebooks, a pair of headphones, and my Sony PSP (one of the most advanced handheld gaming systems the world has ever known [it kind of sucks]). I walked to my parking space, and put my bag on top of my car while fumbling with my keys. Ten minutes later, I pulled into my driveway and realized I had driven home with my bag on the roof of the car.

OH NO!

I got out of the car, but obviously, the bag wasn't there anymore. I quickly drove back to Rutgers, and looked around my parking spot. No luck. I then took the same route home as I had earlier, desperately looking for my bag. It was gone. Maybe for good.

The next day I was sitting in one of my classes which took place in a large lecture hall. About ten minutes into the lesson, the professor was interrupted by a student who addressed the room and held up a bag. My bag. He said he had found it on the side of the road the previous night, and based on a schedule inside one of the notebooks, he figured out that the owner must be in the room. Excited, I claimed the bag, thanked the guy, and he left. I walked back to my seat and checked the bags contents.

As I expected. the PSP was gone. Being that I had expected to lose everything however, I was pretty fine with it. Especially considering the PSP kind of sucks (as I mentioned).

So there I was sitting in class with my stuff again, talking to a friend about how lucky it was that the guy thought to check for a schedule, and how it was cool that he actually bothered to do a decent thing such as bring the bag back to it's owner. I assumed that he wasn't the one to steal the PSP, based on how helpful he was, and that someone else probably found the bag first. Realizing that, I said this:

And seriously, I actually said this. Honestly. I swear. Here's what I said:

"Y'know, it's weird, but how cool would it be if there was a message scrawled on a page of one of my notebooks, like an old detective story."

My friend basically rolled her eyes at my geekiness. So I just sat there. But then my curiosity got the better of me, and like how I actually looked for an old cursed book in The Strand, I childishly checked my notebook for a secret message.

And I found one.

As of when I'm writing this, I can't post the proof, but rest assured that I'll update this post TONIGHT with a picture of the message.

But anyway, what I found was a message lightly written in pencil on the last page of a marble notebook. It was a phone number with the instructions to "Coll Pedro" written beneath it.

EDIT:

I told you I'd give you proof. I just took a picture of the page and the message, but I scribbled out the guy's address and phone number:

I was stunned. And really fucking excited. This was exactly what I was hoping for.

So obviously I pretended I didn't care for a couple of days. Because as much as it was thrilling, it was also kind of scary.

Eventually, my curiosity go the better of me, and I called the number. Pedro answered. I explained that I was the guy who had lost the bag. I said I got his message.

He told me he had something that belonged to me.

Like a fucking film noir! Awesome/terrifying!

He asked me if I knew what it was. Also scary.

I said it was a Sony PSP, and he confirmed that was what he had, he just needed to verify that I was the owner.

Now I realize that this whole thing doesn't make any goddamn sense, but I hope the insanity of this story is itself proof that the tale I'm telling is true. Truth is stranger than fiction.

I know that it's illogical that somebody should find a bag, take the expensive gadget out, leave a scrawled message, and go. How would he know the bag would ever get back to me? How would he know that somebody else would find the bag and be smart enough to check for a schedule? How would he know that same person would also be decent enough to go looking for it's owner? Finally, how would he know the owner would be a goofy man-child who goes looking for secret messages?

 There are so many variables at play there that you can't truly expect those events to play out properly. It's incredible.

But fortunately they played out EXACTLY right for me to be on the phone, getting quizzed about what he had in his possession. This means that he also thought it likely that someone would find a bag and go looking for secret messages and phone numbers, and care enough to call. Mind you, the message in the book said nothing about recovering a lost item. It merely said to "coll" Pedro! Very bizarre.

But I passed the test. He gave me his address and told me when I could come by to pick it up. I questioned whether or not it was worth it. His house wasn't exactly in a bad neighborhood, but it was certainly a strange enough situation that I was considering letting him keep it. After all, I had already thought it to be gone forever.

Then I realized I was only half way through Crash Bandicoot. I grabbed my coat and ran out the door.

(That's a joke, I actually talked about it with a friend who said he'd come with me. Curiosity got the better of me once again so we went.)

I called Pedro from outside his house, and he told me to come right in.

Fuck no.

I said I was running late for a class, and so I wasn't coming in. Instead asked if he could meet us outside. A couple minutes later, who I can only describe as a human version of Super Mario walks out of the house, with a dirty grocery bag bunched up in his hands, which, by the way, are completely covered in white powder up to his elbows. Got the image? Mario. Short, fat, mustachioed. Arms covered in white powder. Dirty grocery bag.

He quizzes me again to confirm that I'm the owner of the bag. The odds of me being some crook who correctly guessed that he had a PSP are unreasonable, but whatever, I confirm who I am, and he hands me the dirty bag. My PSP. Great. Let me get the fuck out of here now.

He explains that he found the bag in the street, looked inside, and took the PSP because he didn't want anybody to steal it. It doesn't make much sense, but I just want to get out of there, so I thank him again, take the PSP (battery completely drained...I hope you enjoyed Crash Bandicoot, Mario!), and my buddy and I take off.

Mystery solved, although I had to wonder why that guy's arms were covered in white powder. I asked my friend what he thought, he quickly answered, "He's probably a professional gymnast. He was in great shape."

Another riddle un-riddled. And it's this experience that has made me a master detective.

So now all that's left is to reveal who those texts ("Like," "Love") were from. Well it's simple, really. They were messages accidentally copied to me intended as responses to a picture Bobby had mass texted to his friends. This is the picture:

All this bullshit because of a picture of a cat. An awesome cat, yeah, but all this crap I wrote is because of a picture of a cat. Sorry.

Case closed.

The Buddy System

On October 6th, 2011 (I give the year because it's almost over), my dog Daisy died. If you have any concept of who I am, you likely know that because I haven't stopped talking about it. Based on the past couple of months, I don't think I ever will. I've written previously about how talking has helped me cope with her death. And I have to take that previous point of view for what it's worth, because now I'm a month and a half removed from saying it, and I can tell you now, on December 6th, 2011, that I can hardly stand to think about my girl, let alone talk about her.

I'm still very upset. And I'm very angry. Not in general, I should say. In general, I think I'm pretty okay, but when it comes to my dog, I'm very, very angry.

Being that I aspire to someday have a career based on my writing, I usually try to revel in ANY extreme emotion, and given how extreme I become when thinking about Daisy, I've tried to write from this mindset. I can't do it. It's too much. I'm so overwhelmed by how much I'm hurt. If that weren't enough, I'm actually annoyed at myself for letting my hurt turn into anger.

We adopted a new dog, partly because the house was too empty without my big goofy girl, partly because we needed someone new to focus on, and partly because of our OTHER dog, Harley.

Lately, out of the blue, I've begun to slip. I'm calling people by the wrong name. More specifically I've been calling our new dog Daisy. Her name is Penny. I slip and call her Daisy. Somethings wrong. I've lost a girl who should have been a long term family member. She was my pet, my friend, and my family. And my brain is trying to reintroduce her, because I can't quite stand life without that stupid fucking dog pouncing on me.

Worse than my interpretation of her death, which is inherently more informed because of my human brain (and because I was there), is what seems to be happening to poor Harley.

Harley is approximately 12 years old. And I have to approximate that age, because, just like all of our pets, he was a rescue. I don't intend to get on a high horse here, but I kind of do, because I'm proud of my family for always adopting a pet who NEEDS our help. There will always be people who buy from breeders, and there will always be people who just shop at puppy stores, but not as many people will welcome an older, potentially abused dog into their house. But those are the dogs who need a home. Daisy was one of them. Harley is one. We don't know what happened to him, but when we got him, he was approximately 3 years old, and was very nervous around men. I have to assume that he was hit by a man.

To take a quick tangent: If you are a human, and you are reading this, and you have EVER abused an animal, you are actually an inhuman fucking monster. One time I was at a party with my friend Bobby, where we saw a guy put his foot down on his cat's neck in some bizarre joking/frustrated manner, and we were inches from fucking killing him. Don't abuse animals. I'm going to turn into a real-life Batman who defends animals. My story parallels Bruce Wayne's: His parents were murdered in front of him. I had a doggy who died and I found out later. Chilling similarity.

Anyway, Harley has been in our family for 9 years, and in that time, he has seen many animals come and go. And he's always been a great dog, but he's been aging. When Daisy showed up 3 years ago, he suddenly got a good burst of speed, and somehow he seemed to be really interested in that girl. He kept step and pace with her, running around in the backyard, despite the fact that Daisy was 4 times his size. She kept him young. Now that she's gone, he's slow, sluggish, and man does he look old.

With any luck:

We're born into a world where we have an established family. We're born into a world where we have parents, siblings, and extended family, all of whom have a distinct love and interest in us. We're coddled as babies (because there's no such thing as some weird, self-sufficient baby), and then during our formative years, our families take care of everything for us. We have homes, clothes, food, an education, and in the unfortunate circumstance that a member of our family dies, magically a funeral has been planned, and all we have to do is show up. Maybe. If we're too young, we probably don't even have to go. Basically, we're accounted for.

At some point, though, we start to expand our interest outside of our families. And I should say that I don't limit "family" to blood. Our family is whoever takes care of us. At some point, we expand our interest outside of those who take care of us out of a sense of duty. And if we're lucky, we meet someone who will take care of us because they want to.

Think about it for a couple minutes, and you'll realize that your parents are nothing more, and have never been anything more than two people who like each other. It's a basic analysis, but it's true. Our parents are two people who like each other so much they wanted to spend most of their time with each other. They liked each other so much that they had children. They maybe liked each other so much that they decided to live in the same house, and forever sleep in the same bed.

Our parents are not obligated to each other necessarily. They just really really like each other. They're what we aspire to not only because they are our reference point for how we're meant to structure our lives, but because family can only go so far.

I love and respect my family. Every member. And in my family, each and every member is particularly interesting (or I'm bullshitting), but the world we're born into is limited. Most of the people we meet the moment we're born are already adults. As we grow up, they're getting older. I don't mean to be grim (which is to say that I'm not being grim for the sake of being grim, I'm being grim because the concept I want to explore is inherently grim), but these people are likely going to die before we do. It happens generation after generation. We should know that. I've tried to. It's fascinating and inescapable, and the fact that it can truly happen at any moment is major bullshit.

When we get to the point that we are expanding our interests outside of our family, we're met with absurd trepidation and apprehension, and rejection. We accidentally make new friends and form complex relationships, and we stumble into traditions and layers of responsibility toward each other. We date a lot, and we try each other out. And it's awkward and dramatic and fun, but eventually we get to the point where we truly want/need to settle down. We build a group of people with whom we hope to share our time in the future, and it's because the world we've always known inevitably has to fall away at some point. In all of these relationships though, most of us obviously hope to have a relationship with somebody that we can create a family with. We want to have children who can one day theorize that their parents are just really tight friends. It's nature. It's ethereal and spiritual. It's evolution. It's done out of love and fear. I can safely say that without the woman I love and without the family and friends I love, I'm an old man. I'm an old man yelling at you to get off my lawn.

Everybody who I care about and who cares back keeps me young and sane. I've seen what happens when you lose your anchor.

It can ruin you. It can turn you into a shell of who you were because you were so invested in their life, and they were so invested in yours. It's disheartening to watch. It's heart breaking. But it's a true testament to the power we can create and share with each other. And it should be comforting to know that people can be so capable of loving one another. I can love all my friends as much as I can stand to, but no matter how much I pour out, I'll still be a shadow if I lose it all.

Have a big satisfying meal. But in a few hours, you're still going to need breakfast. Does it cheapen the meal you enjoyed?

I hope not. But I'm feeling differently. I've mentioned that when I walked my girl, I made her pause and sit at each intersection. The truth is that I really hoped she would connect the street corner with the sound a car makes. I hoped that when those two pieces of stimuli occurred at once, she would respond by sitting and waiting, as I made her do. I was invested in her future. I enjoyed her at the time. I loved her without end at the time. But here two months later I feel less than empty. I feel vacuous. It isn't that there is "nothingness" in my heart as a result of her loss, it's that the space in which she once resided is actively yearning and trying to fill the space. It can't be filled.

I come back to Harley. I am able to intellectualize my loss. I am able to question why my pain is here. I can write a repulsively long blog post dedicated to the feeling. But my poor old Harley is simply vaguely aware that there used to be another animal around. Maybe. Who knows how a dog's mind works, let alone that sad abused boy. Maybe he doesn't remember feeling so happy running through the grass with Daisy. Maybe he doesn't remember rolling and playing with her, but I'll bet that the opposite of those feelings is registering heavily with him.

Daisy was a dog. And she was a good one. But she was a dog. And as hurt as I am, I can reason out the pain. I can riddle out the reasons. I can think. But for Harley, she was there when he woke up and went to sleep. She focused on him. She loved him. She played with him. And he loved her. And without her, he's reeling. Harley lost his buddy.

It's all just some kindergarten buddy system on a global scale. Harley needed Daisy and without her, he's falling. I loved her, and I wanted her forever, but she was always going to get away from me. If life had played out the ideal way, Harley would never have to know a future without his friend.

I don't know where this is going. I can't cap off this theory in a nice clean way. I'm 25 years old, which is a short span of time when gauged against the time of the people around me. I'm inexperienced. I'm a child. But simultaneously these 25 years have been an enternity, because they're all I have known. I'm lucky. I love my family. And I've picked my friends carefully. But I'm still trying to stand up after having been sucker punched by the car that hit my Daisy.

We all need our buddy. We need someone to check in with. No one is obligated to care for us, and I'm one of those who has been lucky enough to find someone who is invested in my happiness and in my health. I hope I don't take it for granted.

I'm sorry that I'm not being very funny right now. But this is a massive side of my personality that I don't want to shelf in favor of writing quippy, sarcastic posts about people I hate. I'll get back to that soon enough. I haven't written a single blog post in over a month, but it's about time that I should try to "speak" again. This is what I have to say right now.

I wish I could say that this is the last time I'll talk about Daisy, but I know for a fact that isn't true. Someday I still have to tell the full story of the night she died. It's a story that I need to tell and which needs to be told for how shocking, horrible and FUNNY it was. It was all those things. But I will say here that I owe a significant debt of gratitude to Bobby Koester, Michael Costa, Allie, and my whole family for helping me to survive it.

I'll put that off for a while.

I guess if there's anything I truly want to say with this post, it's that I think it's okay to need someone's help. And it's okay to talk. And that as much as I talk about how you need the people in your life, the flip side of the coin is that those same people will likely need you one day.

I also want to say that, across the board, I think women are stronger than men.

Coming soon: jokes.

Sorry guys.

Happy Halloween! It's Scary Story Times #8, #9, and #10!!!

Hey guys, it's Halloween, so even though I typically try to space out when I post my favorite scary stories, I figured today I'd definitely have to make an exception. 


Because it's supposed to be the most frightening day of the year, I'm posting not one...not two, but THREE different scary stories from the internet! I think I'll try to take a few weeks off from scary stories, so enjoy these three! That's right, turn off the lights, hop in bed, and get scared! 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!

Across the Border


There was a couple from Texas who were planning a weekend trip across the Mexican border for a shopping spree.. At the last minute, their baby-sitter canceled, so they had to bring along their two year old son with them. They had been across the border for an hour when the baby got free and ran around the corner. The mother tried to find him, but he disappeared. The mother found a police officer who told her to go to the gate and wait.
Not really understanding the instructions, she did as she was told.
About 45 minutes later, a man approached the border, carrying the boy. The mother ran to him, grateful that he had been found. When the man realized it was the boy's mother, he dropped him and ran. The police were waiting for him. The boy was dead, and in less than 45 minutes he was missing, he was cut open, all of his organs removed, and was stuffed with cocaine. The man was going to carry him across the border as if he were asleep.



NEXT:




Bad Dream


"Daddy, I had a bad dream."
You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness - It's 3:23am.
"Do you want to climb into bed and tell me about it?"
"No, Daddy."
The oddness of the situation wakes you up more fully. You can barely make out your daughter's pale form in the darkness of your room. "Why not, sweetie?"
"Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy's skin sat up."
For a moment, you feel paralyzed; you can't take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.



And finally, one of my favorites:




Always With You


I am always with you.
I was there from the time you were born. I stood in the delivery room, staring down at you before you could even open your eyes to see me. Your parents, relatives and doctors couldn't see me there, in the corner, watching you with cloudy eyes, but I was there from the time you were born. 
And I followed you home.
I was with you always, your constant companion. You played with your toys alone while I stared from all angles in nearby mirrors; my matted, clotted hair with oily sweat that hung off my dented forehead like glue. I was always your constant companion, drifting behind your mother's car on your ride to preschool. You alone in the bathroom, but I was on the other side of the door, wind whistling through the bruised hole in my throat. My arms twisted and hanging in their sockets as I stood hunched on the other side of the shower curtain. I wait and follow you. I follow and drift behind you.
I'm not seen. I'm almost not-there in light. You never saw me that morning as I sat across from you at the breakfast table, a shiny red clot hanging from an empty tooth socket as I gaped grotesquely at you. I wonder sometimes if you know I'm there. I think you are aware, but you'll never understand just how close I am.
I spend hours of your day doing nothing more than breathing in your ear.
Breathing - gagging, really.
I crave to be close to you, to always wrap my crippled arms around your neck. I lie near you every single night, cloudy eyes starting at your ceiling, underneath your bed, at your sleeping face in the dark.
Yes. You caught me staring occasionally.
Your parents came running to your room one night when you screamed. You were just beginning to talk, so you were only able to cry out "Man! Man in my room!"\
You thought you'd never forget the sight of me, with my collapsed jaw hanging to my chest, swinging back and forth. I sank back into your closet and your mother was unable to see me though you pointed and pointed and pointed. You thought you'd never forget when they left that same night. You saw the closet door crack so softly and me crawling across the floor to your bed on all fours, shambling in jerking movements as I pushed myself under your bed on disjointed limbs.
You learned a new word for me: boogeyman. Not quite the monster you thought I was. I'm just waiting and following you always, touching your face with my knotted fingers as you sleep.
You'll see me again soon. Any day now, I'm coming, blunt and brutal. One day you'll walk across the road and - I believe I'll plow into you with a loud roar and a screech.
You rolling on the pavement, rolling under wheels, bluntforce metal fenders and my fingers touching your face again and again.
As you stare up from the cold pavement with cloudy eyes; your matted, clotted hair hanging in your face and your jaw unhinged and swinging to your chest.
You'll see me approaching.
No one else will see me.
You will stare past them into my eyes and I'll leer down at you. For the first time in our life, something like a smile will come over my face. You'll swear you're looking into a mirror as clotted red bubbles form from our mouths.
I'll lean down, past the doctors and the ogling people and pick you up in my crooked arms.
Our faces will touch. My wings will unfurl. And then you'll have to follow me.
And I am always with you.

I am your guardian angel.





There you go, three creepy ass stories to freak you out. That one with the kid in Mexico is almost nauseating. God...Anyway...

Happy Halloween, everybody. Go crazy!


Trip to Salem Part 2: Hunting a Ghost

I don't believe in ghosts. I never have.
They are nothing more than an invention by people who can't let go and people who are afraid of death.
The only situation in which I believe in any sort of communication with the dead is when you're asleep. Sometimes people say that their dead relative, friend, or whoever has visited them in a dream, and I can definitely buy into that, though I would amend the statement to be that the sleeper causes the lost person's appearance. Example:
If you read my blog, you're probably aware that a couple of weeks ago, my dog Daisy died. Well guess what, she visited me in a dream! In the dream, I was sitting in my family's living room, when, with no prompting, I went to open the front door, and Daisy came inside! 
I knew it was her, and that there must have been some mistake a couple weeks ago. I must have mistaken another dog for her, and now here she is and everything is okay again!
From that point on, the entire dream consisted of Daisy laying at my side with her paw in my hand as I sat in a chair. Eventually the dream ended. I woke up and had to remember remember the truth. It sucked.
However, here's the bright side. Being that nothing occurred to made me question her appearance and nothing completely absurd happened after that, I had a dream of something she and I would do in real life. I remember it vividly, and I take away from the dream exactly what I would have if it actually happened, so, for all intents and purposes, I got another evening with my dog.
This happened because I conjured an image of the dog in my mind while I slept. And that's the point. We create ghosts for personal reasons. Daisy appeared to me as healthy as happy as she did when she was alive; she didn't "visit" me as some zombified monster version of herself, the way that most ghost-lore seems to present the dead. You never hear that. You never hear some nut-bag talking about how their dead lover visited them and it was horrifying. It's always presented as a comforting presence. 
The scary angry ghosts are always the ones from legends from ages ago, the ones that no one knows personally. It will usually be that someone horrible died, and a person they had no affectionate connection with tells a story of that dead guy coming back from the grave for some brand of revenge. The story passes from person to person, like a game of telephone, until enough people know the story to be part of the public consciousness. From there you have your average paranoid people obsessing on the story, claiming sightings, and your insecure people claiming to have seen the ghost for attention.
I believe this is where ghosts come from. Nothing more than worry or rumor.
You can't actually think that if there were signs that life continued after death, the worlds top scientific minds wouldn't be all over it. And wouldn't there be ghosts absolutely everywhere? Think about how many millions of people have died in the history of the planet. Billions of creatures, and the only people to ever see ghosts are the people you cross the street to get away from. I would love for ghosts to exist, it would be incredible. It would fundamentally change everything we understand about the world, and sadly I have never seen one.
Maybe.
This weekend I was in Salem, Massachusetts with my family, when we were chosen to join a group attempting to make contact with the dead.
The hunt was particularly interesting though. We met up outside of a Harry Potter themed gift shop at 11:00pm on Saturday the 22nd. We stood around with our guide Tim for a while, and he explained that we were just waiting for the rest of our group to arrive before we'd get started. I wondered what sort of place we'd be investigating. Maybe the Hawthorne hotel that we had learned about earlier in the tour? Finally, with the last couple of people arriving, we were about to start. Tim ushered us all into the gift shop and closed the door. We were going to investigate their basement. 
I was already psyching myself up to remain skeptical no matter what happened, but when I realized that we were about to spend our time in the basement of a store that sells novelty stuff including something called Witch Poop (not kidding), I knew nothing was going to happen. Tim explained to us the history of the building while I shifted my weight from foot to foot, started getting hot, took off my jacket, and wondered how much the Witch Poop would cost. He assured us that, for his whole life, he has been in tune with the spiritual world, and has been a psychic. He explained that he has a photographic memory, and even if we come back to the shop in a matter of years, he will remember us. I definitely don't believe any of that, but it's hard not to get intrigued by the concept of it all. Then he told us that, when he was a kid, he was lying in bed when his closet door opened and a pair of tube socks walked out of his room, down the hall, came back, and the closet door closed behind them. At this point, I almost completely shut off.
Fortunately, he began to explain the situation. When he moved to town about six years ago, he and his business partner decided to open up a shop. After buying that particular shop, Tim created an office for himself at the end of a hallway in the basement. He was working late one night when he fell asleep. In the middle of the night, Tim woke up because he heard a sound in the hallway. Nervously, he investigated, but found nothing, though he was always uneasy about the basement, perhaps rightfully so.

There have been numerous sightings of a young girl in the basement, usually by someone unfamiliar with the place. One time a delivery man was dropping of a shipment of merchandise. He went into the basement, put down a few boxes, and came upstairs, asking Tim if he knew there was a young girl down there. Having heard about the girl before, Tim simply said he knew, and he has had say it to many more people since. She is just a harmless kid who haunts the place, but there is another spirit who is more troublesome. Tim's basement office no longer exists thanks to this spirit who once threw the door shut and ripped all of the shelving off the walls and knocked down all the ceiling tiles. Furthermore, Tim feels this spirit standing directly behind him whenever he goes down there, so he mostly tries not to.

Back to us. As Tim is explaining the equipment to the room, such as the EMF reader for any electromagnetic changes, and a temperature gauge, my girlfriend Allie, my sisters Karen, Lynne, and Kristen, my nephew Robbie, my niece Audrey, our family friend Janet, and I decided to volunteer to check out the basement before the other group. We were told by Tim that he specifically picked us for the hunt because, as a family, we had a better chance of contacting a spirit due to our shared energy. Ok, sure, let's find a ghost.
Down in the basement, Tim took us into a primary room, which we all squeezed into. He told us that an average reading on our EMF's ought to be an orange light, yet our lights were green, which he said was abnormal. In the darkness, my family and I stood cramped together as Tim twisted a small flashlight on. Then off. Then back on. Gently off. He set up the flashlight so that it would require just the faintest twist for the light to come on, and then he placed it across the room from us, with an EMF reader beside it. He backed up to stand with us. He didn't speak for a moment, and I did my best to look around the room, though I could hardly see anything aside from the shadows that were my family members. Being the scary story enthusiast that I am, I started imagining how awesome it would be if I saw the shape of a child down the long dark hallway, but I started to creep myself out, and more than that, I suddenly remembered how staunchly scientific I wanted to be for this. I steeled myself, and glared at the flashlight, ready to doubt anything. When Tim spoke, it was in his usual Boston accent, and he asked the air if there were any spirits present, and if so, "Could you please turn on the light? Could you just twist the end of that the flashlight -- that black thing? ... ... ... I know it's hard, but could you just --"
The light turned on. I won't extrapolate what that means right now, but the flashlight turned on. My family gasped, and I stared at my EMF: orange. Normal. Why? The flashlight had to have been coincidence. And the platform it was situated on was not even. I assume it was just slowly sliding down it, and while sliding the head twisted and it turned on.
Tim asked if the spirit would please turn the light off. It turned off.
The lights on the EMF reader in my nephew Robbie's hand all began to flash. I wondered if maybe he only just turned it on, because I noticed the lights on mine doing the same thing when I first turned mine on. I pressed the power button and it made a loud clicking sound as the unit turned off. I turned it back on and the lights flashed the way Robbie's did, but it also clicked loudly again, which his had not.
Tim, the platform, or a ghost proceeded to turn the flashlight on and off a second time. At this point I didn't know whether to be impressed by the uncertainty of this display or annoyed at the intricacy of the trick. All I can say is that I noticed when Tim picked the flashlight up again, even though he didn't touch the head, it flickered on. I stowed this observation away for later.
We moved on to the chair room, an even smaller area with a child's rolling chair in the center of it. Tim told us that when they first bought the store, he noticed that the chair would move from room to room on its own. One night it would be in one room, the next another. No explanation. Except that after a little while, one of his associates admitted he'd been moving the chair himself. Chilling stuff.
To prove that the flashlight was not a trick or prop, he had one of us set it up this time, and then he placed it on the chair beside an EMF reader. This time, it did not turn on at all. However, Tim informed us that he felt a presence standing directly behind him, the same negative presence he had described earlier. In addition to that, all of our EMF readers started flashing green, orange and red, clearly there was something in there with us! No, wait, Tim asked if any of us had our cell phones on. We all did. When we turned them off, the lights went back to normal.
The final room was Tim's former office, though you would never be able to tell. The smallest of the three areas, I was not able to really get a good look at it, as I was standing in the doorway of it, due to lack of room. Tim mostly just explained that they now call this room "the bad room," after a spirit destroyed it. There wasn't much of anything to look at or do in that room. It wasn't very scary, except at one point Allie shouted and twitched, because she felt something touch her arm. It was me. I'm her boyfriend.
We went upstairs while the other group took their turn. We tried on several hats. When the second group returned, Tim brought us back down, this time with a digital recorder to try and get an EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomenon). We started in the main room again, but unfortunately the flashlight wouldn't turn on for Tim at all, and our EMF readers didn't pick up on anything significant. He seemed almost disappointed, but went ahead and asked some questions to the voice recorder nonetheless, being sure to note any explainable sound (such as footsteps from upstairs) so that when he goes back through the recording, he can eliminate those sounds from the investigation. We moved back to the chair room, when Tim asked us if any of us felt anything. My sister Karen sincerely offered, "Well I don't really feel anything, but I kind of think I smell something." My niece Audrey replied, "Not to be funny, but I think somebody farted."
Maybe it was the ghost.
We ended it there, because Tim didn't want to record in the bad room, and so we went back upstairs and waited while the other team tried their luck.
The only thing I know about ghost hunting is what I've seen on shitty reality shows like Paranormal State. I hate that they never come up with any concrete evidence, but whenever something occurs that they can't personally explain, they suggest it may have been a paranormal event. I certainly can't explain what happened with the flashlight, but just because I don't know why it happened doesn't mean that it had no cause other than that a ghost turned it on and off. It may have just had such a hair trigger that it wavered between both states, although I must admit that, if that is the case, the timing of the lights against Tim's requests was remarkable. So I don't know what happened down there, but I certainly don't explain the flashlights as being ghostly anymore than I blame that fart on a ghost. I'm annoyed at myself for writing that. 
I walked out of the Harry Potter store feeling thoroughly entertained, but certainly not enlightened. Even Tim admitted to us that he does not truly believe there to be the spirit of a child down there. I was shocked to hear him admit it all to be a hoax, but he followed up very genuinely with, "but I do believe there is a presence down there."
What is the distinction? What is the difference between the ghost of a girl and a general presence? Does one have motivation and the other doesn't? Is one a human imprint and the other just a floating emotion? Tim seems to think there is something down there, certainly, and I think that even some of my family left there thinking "what if." Am I the odd one out? If the majority believes, and I don't, am I on the wrong track?
There's something very comforting about the idea of ghosts. They suggest that not only can we interact with our lost loved ones again, but maybe we also don't have to be afraid of dying ourselves. They suggest that there is something after life, not necessarily a heaven or hell, but just that death is not so final. I think it's a pleasant notion, but one that's dangerous to get carried away with. I'd love for Daisy to be able to float around and visit me, but I'm also afraid that to concern myself with the afterlife of my loved ones is to build a sort of apprehension of where they are and what they're doing. ...And why aren't they here? In that way, the method of coping with death can become unrest and obsession. How do you live, being so concerned with the dead?

Not to be heartless or blunt, but the dead are gone, and the memory they've left with us is more than enough. It's all we can have from them.

Better to just leave it alone.

I'm back in New Jersey a few days removed from the hunt, and I still don't believe in ghosts, but I'm thinking about them.

The company the hosted the ghost hunt is Salem Ghost Tours, and they can be found at www.SalemGhostTours.com and on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Salem-Night-Tour/106653419408752 and I definitely recommend both the tour and the hunt, they were both great, sincerely.

Trip to Salem: Part 1 AND Scary Story Time #7: The Big Guns

Just this evening, on October 23rd, 2011 (Parents' 28th anniversary, by the way!), I got back home from a weekend away in Salem, Massachusetts with my girlfriend, my three sisters, two nephews, one niece, and friends. It was a hell of a trip.



I'll be honest with you, I did absolutely no research heading into the trip, and my only knowledge of the place was the obvious: The Salem Witch Trials took place there, and The Crucible was written about them. That's really about it. In my mind, I had created some sort of Colonial Williamsburg type place, with people in period clothing talking about witches and teaching you how to churn butter and shit. 


Fortunately, I'm an idiot. 


The place is totally witch obsessed, but in a way that there are statues and Halloween decorations everywhere, and even a legitimate honest-to-god graveyard is a novelty. There are PLENTY of Salem, MA shirts/mugs/jackets to buy with the silhouette of a witch on them. And while there are actual houses that are supposedly haunted (more later) there are also plenty of buy-a-ticket Haunted Houses filled with people dressed up like monsters and crap. I went through one with my niece Audrey, my nephew Kenny, and his buddy Mike. $7.00 each. Not bad. Let's do it.


You walk in, and it's nearly pitch black. And obviously the way in which it's scary is simply that people pop out from behind false-walls and scream at you. Simple. That being said, I reflexively went to brace myself a couple of times. More than that, I then reflexively tried to pretend I hadn't done that.

I am a nearly 25 year old man.

My favorite parts of the short "ride" included when we all turned right at a corner, into a hallway. I happened to look to the left as we turned, however, and could see a girl dressed like some bloody monster getting ready to scream at us. I calmly pointed at her, and jokingly commanded her, "don't scare me." she put her hands on her hips, annoyed. Then she got bored and walked away. Not too shabby. Later, some killer guy was ordered by his "master" via radio to kill us. He revved up a drill, and screamed at us. I quickly made peace with my time on earth and prepared to die. But the craziest thing happened!! He screamed more and told us to get out of his face. We survived! But surely his master is going to fire him.

Oh also, and my nephew Kenny told me that one of the crazy monster guys was yelling at him, and that when he (Kenny) reached out and touched something on the wall, the guy stopped yelling, and, sounding whiney, pleaded, "Hey, don't touch that."

Chilling.
We later went on a ghost tour hosted by a guy named Tim in a tri-cornered hat. He gave us an interesting bit of information about Nathaniel Hawthorne, some local landmarks and lore, and then an interesting bit of information about himself: He is both a medium and a psychic, and some nights he hosts ghost hunts. He then hand-chose my family and me to accompany him on such a ghost hunt that very night. We immediately signed up. 
At 11:00pm on October 22, 2011, the Rogers family made contact with a ghost.
To be continued.
Now, being that it's getting close to Halloween, I'm pulling out the big guns. Here is a scary story that I've always been a pretty big fan of. It's very odd, very creative, and very unsettling. Definitely not meant to be read by anyone who isn't feeling well, or anybody squeamish. But enjoy one of my favorite weird horror stories:


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!

Mail

It all started as a message in my mailbox one morning. Having my morning coffee and cigarette, I decided to walk out to the mailbox and check my mail. I had bought this house from an auction for a very low price. It was out in the quiet country. Me being a city kid, I had no idea what country life was like until I had made a few friends around the area. With the purchase of the house came 100 acres of crop land that, in the autumn, blossomed into golden produce that swayed beautifully in the wind.

I slipped on my shoes and headed out to the road, still slightly groggy. Upon opening the mailbox, I found a dead bird inside; at first, I thought it was those stupid kids playing pranks again - last week, they decided to toilet paper my lawn. I pulled the dead bird out and threw it on the ground; it was mangled to a pulp, almost as if a dog had gotten hold of it.


Inside was nothing. 

I started to think that maybe the kids had stole my mail, but eventually I brushed it off and told myself I'd get up early in the morning and watch the mail come so I could catch the jerks in the act. The next morning came and the mailman came as usual. I walked out and got my mail, not thinking anything of it. the next morning was the same.The next week came and I walked out to get my mail once again. This time, I was horrified at the sight; my white mailbox had blood smeared all over it. I opened the mailbox cautiously. Inside was a mangled cat. 

I gasped and covered my mouth, quickly choking back the vomit raising to my throat. I rushed to my garage, put on my gloves, and pulled the poor animal out. Stapled to it was a note, fairly legible, but crude nonetheless. On the note was a simple smiley face. I was disgusted at that; whoever did it thought it was funny. I gave the cat a proper burial and continued with my day.The next morning, I woke up around 5:00 AM, walked out, and checked my mailbox again to see if it had been tampered with. The cat I had just buried in my backyard was stuffed inside yet again, this time another note attached to it. This one had a frowning face and under it, "You don't like my present?"Pissed off and finally fed up, I decided to bury it yet again and stay up all night to watch my mailbox to find out who was doing this. The time rolled by - 12:00 am, 1:00 am, 2:00 am, nothing at all....then, at 3:00 am, I finally saw movement across the road and out of the cornfield there came a figure into my yard. 

I watched it until it finally came under the security light I have in the middle of my yard. What I saw I cannot begin to explain. It was a man...or at least I think it was. It was hunched over like an old man with long gangly arms that went farther than the average human and its head bent downwards as if it was looking for something it had dropped on the ground.The man looked frail and weak, but it moved with great speed. I quickly and quietly moved to the back window and peered out as I saw it dig up the cat once again and hold it in its arms; it stroked the cat as if it were alive and quickly hurried around to the front of my house. Back at my front window again and watching it as it made its way to my mailbox and put the cat inside, it disappeared into the night. That day I didn't leave my house; I was too shocked of what happened. I slept a bit then decided to take a trip to the store; when I came back, I checked the mailbox again and there it was, the same cat I just buried. I went to take the dead cat out of my mailbox once again and bury it in a different spot, then proceeded to stay up again that night and what to see what happened.

A flashlight in hand and watching my front window again, I saw the long, spindly man come out of the field and jog into my yard, to the spot where I just buried the cat that day and started to dig it up with his hands. I slid open the back sliding glass door and stepped outside, turned on the flashlight at the man, and yelled "What in the hell are you doing?!" The man turned around to face me, and that's when I saw the thing for the first time, in plain sight. Its body looked like it had been mauled by a bear - clothes ripped, rotting skin shown through, its teeth completely exposed and jagged, and the eyes sunken in. I quickly ran back inside as it gave a shrieking sound and hopped over in my direction.I slid the glass door shut and locked it, and grabbed the pistol I had bought for self-defense from under my couch. Sending a bullet into the chamber, I shined the light at the door and waited. I accidentally fired off a shot in fear when a glob of something smacked against the glass and slid down it. I walked to the glass door and shined the light down to see what it was: a mess of entrails were scattered across the bottom and blood smeared across the glass. 

Sick to my stomach, I chocked back the vomit that was rising from my stomach.I quickly rushed back to the couch that was against the wall and sat there with my eyes fixed upon the glass door, my flashlight off. Outside, I could see the moonlight through the gruesome mess that was plastered upon the glass. I saw a figure approach the door, then its hands smeared the blood across the window. I was frozen with fear, waiting for it to break the glass and try to take my life from me.After smearing the blood, it turned around and walked away. I swear I could hear a faint chuckle, like a smoker's lungs laugh, but more raspy. I sat in the sofa and didn't budge; I don't know how long I waited, but after a while the room became light as the sun rose in the sky. I looked around the house - everything was so quiet - then fixed my eyes on the window and smeared across it were hand prints with very unusually long fingers and a smiley, the same one on the letter. I sighed and tried to make myself comfortable, but, still alert, I laid down and rested my eyes. 

A few hours later, I awoke from a nightmare and propped myself up on the couch.I was, apparently, pissing whatever it was off, and I was getting more scared by the second just thinking of whatever was out there, lurking. I cleaned up the entrails off the ground and went out to check my mail, then I came across a plain letter. Curious, I opened it up and felt a chill shoot up my spine.The letter had no words - only a smile, the same, crude smile that was on the letter stapled to the cat and on my sliding glass door.I quickly crumbled it up and tossed it on the ground. I left that night; I went to stay with my parents up in the city for a few weeks. Not explaining my situation to them, I just simply told them that I had been sick of country life and needed a change for a few weeks. They happily agreed. 

When I returned to my home three weeks later, horror was stricken across my face, for my house was not as I left it. As soon as I walked in, the stench of rotting carcass hit my nostrils and I vomited on the floor. Covering my nose with my shirt, I proceeded to the light switch.Turning on the light made me shriek in terror. Scattered throughout my house were entrails and carcasses of dead animals; some were propped up like humans on my couch, and all were staring at me as I stood, horrified, in the doorway. All over the white walls were smiley faces and the same writing over and over, "I'm very angry with you," written in blood. I lifted up the couch seat to look for my pistol, but it was gone.I saw something in the hallway moving steadily back and forth. Flipping on the hall light, there it was again: the creature who had almost killed me the night before I had left. It snapped its gaze to me and moved its mouth into a sickening smile. It jumped up and started to walk in my direction. I quickly turned around and ran outside, slamming the door behind me. 

I got into my car, started it up, and proceeded to back out of the driveway and onto the road as fast as I could. Behind me, I saw a figure in my rear-view mirror running up to my car; its arms slammed into the trunk and it proceeded to hop onto the roof of my car.I shifted into drive and slammed on the gas; I drove all night as far as I could away from the house, those dead animals, that thing. As soon as I was in the city limits, I decided to buy some gas, seeing as I was almost on empty. I pulled into a gas station and got out of my car. My eyes widened as I saw the trunk had been completely bashed in. I quickly pumped the gas and left for my parents' house. 

Four months later, I am living in my apartment, dealing with occasional nightmares at times, but could never be happier to get away from that house and that monster that lives there.I just checked my mail this morning and received a letter with no return address. Inside, written on crumpled up paper, was a crudely draw smiley face and the words, "You can't hide," scribbled underneath it.


Terrifying and disgusting. I don't know what your mental image is for the way the monster looks and the way it sounds, but what I've got cooking in my imagination leaves me pretty unsettled. So this picture of another awesome animal is not just to help calm you down, it's also for me:

Alright, take it easy guys, I plan to have the ghost-hunting story up in the next couple days!

Movie Review: Scream 4

Before the review starts, I want to quickly say that my interest in the Scream franchise isn't just some bullshit, kitschy interest. I genuinely enjoy these movies as a sort of classic "whodunnit" story. I've been a fan of these movies since I was 10, and while I'll readily admit that maybe part of my enjoyment is based on nostalgia, I also really believe that these movies have a lot of potential. Also, what I'm posting now is a modification of a review I wrote just after the movie hit theaters, you can find a variation of this review on most movie sites. Anyway, here we go, my review of Scream 4: I can't believe just how bad this movie turned out to be, but more than that, I can't believe all the appropriately negative reviews I'm seeing that are missing the reason why this movie fails. Forget all the claims of "the series is starting to show it's age." If that's true, it's only because the writer(s) can't seem to get his (their) crap together. At it's core, this series is about a masked killer with a knife. He's watching you, and no one knows who he is. Evidence suggest it's someone you know.  That should be able to work.  It worked in the first two (mostly).  Here's a good reason to give for why this movie sucks: No one in this movie cares. About anything. Not each other and not the circumstances they find themselves in. I can buy that this series is set in a world where everyone is obsessed with horror movies. It's contrived, but that's fine with me. I just can't understand why it is that, in a group of friends, when one person gets murdered, the others go to a party just after they're done screaming.  I should say, though, that I'm being a bit unfair to Neve Campbell (Sidney), Courtney Cox (Gail), and David Arquette (Dewey), whose characters remain fairly consistent with the earlier movies. You do get the idea that these characters truly exist for one another. When one of them is in trouble, the other two come running. The supplemental (they never really take hold) cast, however, are the worst example of expendable 2D nameless victims as I've ever seen. They're all young and pretty (with the exception of Raury Culkin...His lips and eyebrows...Jesus...), but they're all too clever for their own good and lack charisma. They're not interesting or captivating! There are only two new characters in the whole movie (which is PACKED with new faces), who come across as reasonable and interesting in any way, and they aren't given enough to do. The film is also suffering horribly from what used to be the series' defining factor: it's wit.  All of a sudden, every damn character that walks onto the screen has some quip to make about horror movie clichés. It's no longer clever to make fun of yourself if that's ALL you do, in the same way that George Lucas' overuse of CG reduces the intrigue of CG. Too much is too much! And not only that, but we're subjected again to the movie-within-a-movie Stab, which was once used by the film makers to show why they're good at making horror movies. In the Stab series, characters are attractive and dull and the writing is unrealistic and goofy.  Scream 4 suffers from every stupid b-movie hiccups that the Stab movie wanted to point out as being a mistake.  So here we have a "real world" horror movie where, for some reason, characters are quipping as they're bleeding out. Far too many characters have a quick little insult or joke they'd like Ghostface to hear just before they die. It's gruesome to watch, especially one absolutely cringe-worthy moment about midway through the film where a boring character whose hardly been used dies from what might be a physically impossible stab, but not before blurting out a great little reminder of a previous joke. Barf. The wit of the series is gone, replaced with characters who faint with perfect comic timing, and who just won't shut the hell up. Everyone is a horror movie expert, and everyone knows all about Sidney, Dewey, and Gail. To illustrate that point, 18 year old kids refer to Sydney Prescott as "Syd," as if they've known her for years. It's annoying. There's no mystery here. People are dying on screen, but they don't seem to mind, and possibly worse, the world around them doesn't seem to either.  So why should I?  I got lost in the plot. I've been a very dorky fan of the series for years, watching Scream 3 without hesitation (if you know the series at all, you know how significant that is).  I don't watch these movies to watch people die in funny clever ways. The humor isn't supposed to be at the fore front, it's not meant to intrude on the human life-or-death situations these kids find themselves in. It's meant to be human and natural, establishing who these people are and why I should care. For these reasons, the reveal to the killer(s) falls flat.  I will say, though, that moments after falling flat, it blows up into one of the most embarrassingly overacted sequences I've seen of any movie.  I've read a lot of reviewers talking about how the ending to the movie is very modern. They're right, to be sure, but modern doesn't mean clever or creative. I do think there's some merit to the general idea, but ultimately, it comes across as corny and contrived. I'm a big fan of this series, and if you are as well, then I say without hesitation go see it, but if you're just in the mood for a good movie, you won't find it in Scream 4. You deserve better. TL;DR Scream 4 sucks. Don't see it unless you want to spend the following hour picking apart how the mistakes could have been avoided.

Scary Story Time #5 and #6

Well, I haven't posted anything here for a really long time, so I'm going to get back into the swing of it by posting a couple of quick scary stories. I'll post some of my own crap soon.

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!

New Cell Phone

A couple of months ago, my friend's cousin (a single mother) bought a new cell phone. After a long day of work, she came home, placed her phone on the counter, and went watch to TV; her son came to her and asked if he could play with her new phone. She told him not to call anyone or mess with text messages, and he agreed. At around 11:20, she was drowsy, so she decided to tuck her son in and go to bed. She walked to his room and saw that he wasn't there. She then ran over to her room to find him sleeping on her bed with the phone in his hand. Relieved, she picked her phone back up from his hand to inspect it. Browsing through it, she noticed only minor changes such as a new background, banner, etc., but then she opened up her saved pictures. She began deleting the pictures he had taken, unril only one new picture remained. When she first saw it, she was in disbelief. It was her son sleeping on her bed, but the picture was taken by someone else above him... and it showed the left half of an elderly woman's face.

This one constantly gets me, even though Allie pointed out that this woman looks like Liza Minelli. Final story for now:

Across the Border

There was a couple from Texas who were planning a weekend trip across the Mexican border for a shopping spree. At the last minute, their baby-sitter canceled, so they had to bring along their two year old son with them. They had been across the border for an hour when the baby got free and ran around the corner. The mother tried to find him, but he disappeared. The mother found a police officer who told her to go to the gate and wait. Not really understanding the instructions, she did as she was told. About 45 minutes later, a man approached the border, carrying the boy. The mother ran to him, grateful that he had been found. When the man realized it was the boy's mother, he dropped him and ran. The police were waiting for him. The boy was dead, and in less than the 45 minutes he was missing, he was cut open, all of his organs removed, and was stuffed with cocaine. The man was going to carry him across the border as if he were asleep.
Aaand here's a picture of a monkey to reverse the effects of the horror:
(Image from http://monkeyislandpanama.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/CapuchinMonkey011.jpg)
Take it easy guys.