Poisoned Oak — The Sacred Grove

March 7, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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Bassa was not unlike many of his neighbors in Glevum, a town in the Roman province of Britannia; men who were originally brought to this land by conquest, and who were now settling down to a new life as farmers. The town of Glevum had once been a Roman fort, but over time it had also become a “colonia” of retired legionnaires like Bassa. He was born to a poor farmer and his wife in Thrace. At the age of 17 he joined the Roman army and Romanized his name to Titus Flavius Bassus. He survived the mandatory 25 years of auxiliary service in the Legio II Augusta, and was proud of his service and of the fact that his legion had participated in the Roman conquest of Britain 26 years prior. He was also proud that the new Roman emperor Vespasian had been the legion’s commander at the time of conquest, and had led the campaign against the Durotriges and Dumnonii tribes.
Upon his discharge Bassa had been granted Roman citizenship and enough land to set up a farm and support a family. For the last several years he had been building up a flock of sheep while also growing wheat. He sold wool and mutton as well as wheat in the market in Glevum and was beginning to feel that it was time to find a wife among the local Britons and start a family. During this time the Roman fort had been gradually expanding its footprint beyond its original stone walls with the erection of a wooden palisade. Life was good and getting better.
That was before he noticed that his flock of sheep seemed to be getting smaller.
At first he hoped he was imagining it. He had never learned his numbers so he couldn’t be sure if he was actually losing sheep. He wasn’t stupid, he just couldn’t count, so he hit upon the idea of putting a pebble in a clay jar to represent each of his sheep. In this way, it only took him a couple of days to figure out that he was in fact losing sheep. He couldn’t afford this loss of his flock and determined to find out who was stealing his sheep and put a stop to it.
He spoke to his neighbor—also a former legionnaire—to see if he was facing similar issues, and wasn’t surprised that he was also losing sheep. Bassa was relieved on some level, for it meant that his neighbor wasn’t the thief. The two of them decided they would combine their flocks at evening and together watch over them during the night, taking shifts sleeping. Nothing happened for the first two nights.
Then came the third night.

Cnaeus Pompeius Magnus’s day had started and finished badly. He was the Praefectus Castrorum of the Roman fort at Glevum, meaning he was its commander, so trouble usually landed at his feet. Throughout the day he had nursed a terrible hangover from the night before and was counting the minutes until he could get back into bed. That should have happened hours ago, but now sleep was further delayed by the sudden appearance at the fort of the local Archdruid, Belenos. Cnaeus normally tried to keep his dealings with the druid priests to a minimum. He didn’t completely trust them, believing that they were behind the persistent efforts to sow dissent and rebellion among the native tribes. So when Belenos had shown up demanding to speak with him his initial thought was to simply have him sent away. Instead, he grabbed a cup of watered wine and strode into his office. Belenos and one of Cnaues’s senior commanders awaited him.
Nodding his head in greeting, Belenos got right to the purpose of his visit. “Praefect, have any of your men gone missing recently?” he asked. Belenos was dressed in typical druid priest fashion. He had an unbelted white outer cloak over a course grey woolen robe. His white hair and beard were long, but neatly combed. His left hand rested on a long staff, crowned with a silver cap. On his feet he wore yellow sandals. Once again, Cnaeus was struck by how well the druid spoke Latin.
“We usually lose 1-2 legionnaires a month to desertion. What business is that of yours?” Cnaeus replied. Dressed typically for a Roman officer, he wore a tunic that was made of wool and dyed red. Across his chest was a belt called a baldric from which his sword hung. He wore a linen scarf around his neck which would prevent chafing when he put on his armor. And on his feet were sandal-like footwear made of leather. Lastly, he wore a cloak that was fastened at his shoulder. This was the clearest sign of his senior rank.
The office in which they met was in the older, stone built area of the fort. It was on the second floor and had a view overlooking the parade ground where some of his men could be seen practicing hand-to-hand combat. Lit by torches on this dark winter’s night, it was still an impressive sight whose meaning would not be lost on the old druid priest. A large wooden table served as a desk behind which sat a bench seat topped with a cushion. Cnaeus dropped heavily onto the seat. Belenos remained standing.
“And has that changed recently?” Belenos asked.
Cnaeus nodded at the Centurion who then answered, “Over the last week we have lost 8 men”.
“But that’s not all, is it?” Belenos replied giving Cnaeus a pointed look.
Cnaeus paused a beat before answering the question. Taking a deep breath he said, “The patrols sent out to bring back the deserters found parts of a couple of the men. It looked as if they had been gnawed on by an animal…” He let the words hang in the air, waiting to see how Belenos would react. Only he didn’t react at all. For reasons he couldn’t quite put a finger on, that greatly unnerved Cnaeus. He asked the Centurion to leave the room, and beckoned Belenos to sit.
They sat there facing each other, each in his own thoughts for several minutes. Finally Cnaeus spoke up. “You’re about to tell me this has something to do with the fact that we cut down your ‘sacred grove’ of oaks to build our palisade, aren’t you?” He thought about the large pile of oak logs, cut down the prior week, and now stacked outside the gates of the fort. The local Britons and the Druid priests had protested vehemently against the action. A couple of the locals had to be put to the sword before the work could be completed.
“You think your wooden palisade protects you? You were better protected when the oak wood used to build it was still part of living trees in what you refer to as our sacred grove.” Belenos replied. “Now they are out, and the price in blood will be steep.”
Cnaeus thought again about the condition of the missing men when they were found. “Explain yourself, priest. What’s done is done, and there’s no putting the trees back in the ground!”
Belenos looked thoughtful for a moment. It appeared to Cnaeus that he was torn as to whether or not to speak more about the situation. Finally it looked as if he had come to some kind of decision, and he began to speak.
“It has long been told that many years before the time of the Romans this land was periodically set upon by savage beasts. They would show up without warning and rampage through the countryside for weeks. Entire villages—men, women and children—were devoured by the monsters. It was like a plague of locusts stripping a field of grain. And they were just like locusts except these monsters stripped the flesh from the bodies of their victims as they devoured them. The people started to refer to them as night stalkers, as that’s when they would attack. After a few weeks the creatures would suddenly die, but not without each leaving behind an egg-like object buried in a shallow hole.
It isn’t known when the druid priests first realized that their appearance was actually predictable and that the creatures crawled out of the ground every 25 years. Not so different from the cicadas that come every 17 years, other than the fact that these are man-sized and bloodthirsty. The druid priests back then tried digging up and destroying the eggs before they could hatch, but they were hard as a rock. Burning them did no good; neither did throwing them into a lake. They still hatched after 25 years.
The only solution was to be there when the night stalkers emerged and to try to kill them. But 25 years was a long time to remember exactly where each egg was buried. The priests realized that many of them wouldn’t even be alive 25 years later. So they came up the idea to plant an oak tree over each buried egg. This way, those in the future would know exactly where the next generation of night stalkers would be surfacing. And they would have the chance to kill them as they emerged before they could do any damage. Since the eggs tended to cluster in certain locations, so did the oak trees the priests planted. And this is what led to the creation of what you Romans now refer to as our sacred groves of oaks.
But 25 years later the priests made an extraordinary discovery. Wherever an oak tree had been planted over an egg, nothing came out of the ground. 25 years stretched to 26 years and still no night stalker. At first the priests hoped that simply planting an oak tree had somehow killed the things in the eggs before they could hatch. But then a lightning bolt struck and knocked down one of the marker oak trees. Within nights a stalker rose up from the ground and rampaged through the area. It was only then that the priests realized the oak trees were merely imprisoning the creatures. It was now clear they weren’t killing them.” ______________________________________________________________________

Bassa awoke with a start. It had been his turn to sleep, and he judged from the position of the moon that he’d been asleep for longer than he should have been. He listened to the night wind softly ruffling the leaves, and sniffed the air. The fire next to him had gone out, and there was no sign of his neighbor. With as much stealth as he could muster, he climbed to his feet. In his hand he held his gladius, a short, stabbing sword that was the primary weapon of Roman foot soldiers. He could tell the sheep were nervous, but then again sheep were always acting nervous.
He scanned the flock for his neighbor, or some sign of him. A voice inside his head was telling him not to call out, not to make any unnecessary sound. He slowly made his way through the flock of sheep, nudging one out of the way with his knee when it didn’t move quickly enough. It was the smell that first alerted him to its presence. Bassa had been on a battlefield too many times to count, and the smell of dead and decaying bodies, while hideous, was something to which he had grown accustomed. Spilt intestines, blood, burnt flesh contributed to a stench that clung to your skin long after you left the field of battle. This smell was more overpowering and more terrible than anything in his experience. It was all he could do not to throw up on the spot.
Bassa looked in the direction from which the smell seemed to be wafting, and that’s when he saw it. He had seen many terrible things in battle, but this was beyond his comprehension. It was man-sized with a wide black body, beady red eyes, and two sets of membranous, transparent wings, the front wings being longer than the rear ones. The creature also had sharp claws on all four of its legs, a blunt head with protruding eyes, and an insect-like mouth full of razor sharp teeth. It was the stuff of nightmares, though Bassa quickly concluded he would probably never sleep again. Most horrifying of all was that its mouth was buried into the stomach of his still moving and moaning neighbor—it was literally eating him alive.
Without thinking, Bassa roared in rage and charged at the beast, his gladius held high over his head

Belenos took a deep breath, before concluding his story. “An oak will reach a good height in 25 years, and we have come to believe it is the root structure and essence of a living oak tree that keeps the creatures imprisoned. The roots grow around the egg as the trees grow. Over time fewer night stalkers emerged in the 25 year cycles. Each time the eggs were marked by trees.
Eventually they stopped showing up entirely. We had trapped them all. Until now. The particular grove you cut last week was at least 150 years old. And it had exactly 21 oaks.”
As Cnaeus chewed on what he had just heard there was a knock on the door and the Centurion entered the office again. “Praefect, excuse me, but you need to come immediately.” he said in a shaky voice. Bidding Belenos to come, Cnaeus left to room and followed the Centurion down a flight of steps and onto the parade ground. There, in the middle of the darkened grounds stood what appeared to be a local Roman farmer. But what immediately drew Cnaeus’s attention was what he was holding up in his right hand. Even in the low light he could see it was the bleeding and battered head of the most horrible looking creature he had ever seen. He quickly realized what he was looking at. “This bastard ate my neighbor and my sheep, but it was no match for a Roman and his sword!” Bassa roared.
Cnaeus turned to Belenos and simply said “Now there are 20…”
Before Belanos could respond, there came from outside the stone walls a chorus of cries of terror and howls of pain accompanied by the sound of terrified horses and cattle….

Credit To – LumaKing

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The Story of Her Holding an Orange: Part Six & Link to the End

March 6, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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If you’re just staring to read my experiences with this horror, you should read my other stories first. You can find them here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Okay guys, a lot has happened since the last time I checked in. Lot of you messaged me asking if I was doing ok. Some of you even went as far as sending me you phone numbers and really reaching out. I thank you for that.

We have not encountered Rose since the last time. Also, we decided to move. I got a decent job on the south of the US and we thought it’d be a good idea to get out of here (any Atl folks, holla at me). My father did go see the priest who baptized me and the story actually become more convoluted, if you can call it that.

Anyways, I got baptized in a church called Ostrog, in Montenegro. Here is the pic of it. I don’t believe in god in any kind of way, but this church is amazing. It was built a long time ago. When the Turkish Empire came to take over, people took it stone by stone and moved it up in the mountain where the Turks couldn’t reach it. It is a magnificent building. Many people of different religions, including Muslims and Buddhists, come to that church in search of a spiritual help. That is the only place I ever felt something “more” than just my non-believer reality.

The Church

So, when I was six, my dad decided to baptize me there. Neither of my parents are particularly religious, but my dad fallows traditions, and baptizing kids is one of them. He decided that baptism should be performed at the most famous church in Balkans, Ostrog. You had to schedule it, and demand was so high that I was going to do it with other kids as a part of a group baptism. When we arrived there, and disappointment awaited (at least for my dad, I couldn’t give any less fucks). At the entrance of the church, the priest stopped me.

“You. You cant go in.” He physically stopped me with his hand. Priests in our country wear long black robes and rock long beards. So I was standing there being held by this batman looking dude. My dad jumped in front of me and asked what the problem was.

“You my child (talking to my dad), I know you. I baptized you. I can tell. (He did baptize him 20 years ago or so). But your son, he can not go in here.”

“And why is that?” My dad asked, shocked.

“I cant really tell you, but it is better for us all if he went elsewhere.”

“But why?”

“Son, please, leave. But remember this, don’t dare not baptizing him. You have to.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nor will you ever. Just do it.”

So my dad took my hand and walked away not knowing what in the fuck was going on. On our way home, he was trying to figure out what happened. He thought that maybe I messed something up, like peed behind the church or something (which sounded like my kind of thing, but I didn’t do it).

When we got home, we got a phone call. It was from that priest. He wanted us to come back. Right away. It was a 35 minute ride back. My dad and I were more confused than ever. We arrived at the church, and all the previous baptisms have been performed already. It was only 3 of us there.

“I decided to baptize your son despite…”

“Despite what?” my dad asked curiously.

“I could not tell you. But it is important we do this fast.”

So we did. I walked in a circle and he went on with his prayers spraying holy water on me. I remember getting bored as hell right before he finally finished. He told us to go away and not to come back unless something out of the ordinary happened to me.

My dad was just glad we got it done. That was 20 years ago. My dad went back there few days ago. Priest was still alive, although retired. He still lived on the church grounds. It took some talking into (and donations) for him to speak up.

I got baptized on February 13th 1992. On the night before my baptism, priest was handling his sheep (back in the day, priests raised sheep and cows and lived mostly off of that) when he saw a figure in the dark. It was strange for someone to stand there that late at night, especially because visits were over and all the clerical staff was already in their designated housing.

“Hey, who is that?” Priest yelled.

“Come, father.” Woman’s voice spoke calmly.

Priest explained that from time to time, he’d get visits from desperate people, begging for blessing or shelter. So he went ahead to see what the woman wanted. He said that when he came there, he saw a woman in white, standing, not moving. She was standing among sheep, but they formed a circle around her, almost like a safe distance. Priest claims that he immediately felt something unholy.

“ What do you want?” he asked in a defensive aggressive voice. At that point he knew it wasn’t a peaceful visitor he was talking to.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow you will encounter a boy. Just like any other. His name will be Milos. You won’t baptize him.”

Priest told my father that he performed several exorcisms before but he was never actually scared. This time, he felt unsafe.

“You and your kind have no place on this holy ground.”

“My kind, father? What would that be?”

“You, demons.” His voice was cracking in fear.

She laughed. “Demons? I realize you’re a man of cloth, but believing in demons? That takes a lot of faith, father.”

“I want you to leave, now.”

“Listen to me you pity priest. I know who you are. I know what you think. I know you feel my strength. Deny my request, and you’ll never sleep in peace again.”

Then, she left. Rest of the story you know. He refused to baptize me than he changed his mind. Apparently, he told my dad that he’d rather be tormented by an unholy spirit than deny god’s child a chance to connect to Jesus. He also said that he has been paying for it since the day he baptized me.

Every single night for two weeks after he baptized me, he has been seeing a woman in white appear on his window. She’d just stand there, looking at him with hand tilted. No smile though, but only a face of anger. He’d say many prayers but it didn’t seem to affect her. Then, his sheep started dying. There were no wolf marks, no sign of force. Just laying dead. Finally, number of exorcisms skyrocketed. He claims that this was a direct consequence of him disobeying woman’s orders. He even showed an exorcism videotape (they started filming in the chapel in the mid 90s) to my dad. My dad says it was unreal. Apparently a 13-year-old girl came in the chapel with her mom. Her mom was sobbing in tears begging for help. Priest started performing his ritual when the little girl started throwing stuff around. Priest called two young guys who came in to pray that day and asked them to hold her. She kept walking in circles, with two grown men holding her. And right before she fell to her knees, she said “You shouldn’t have done it father.” She was cured.

My dad had more than enough of information thrown at him, but he wanted to know what this woman was. Priest said that he originally thought it was a demon, but a lack of prayer efficiency and her freedom of behavior on the holy ground was concerning. He then thought it was some sort of a cult, witchcraft maybe. The problem is, she has been visiting him on February 13th every year. All the livestock he’d have would die on that day. Any sick person coming for help to the church that day would get worse. Number of possessed people would skyrocket abnormally on the 13th. And at the end of the day, she’d come to the window, no matter where he was. He tried talking to her many times, asking what/who she was. She never responded. She never aged. Priest was finally broken down to the point where he quit. He remained living at the grounds, but he couldn’t do his job anymore. He lost faith. He claimed that the god should’ve protected him. My dad says he may be mentally unstable at this point. He was mentioning something about Morana, whatever that meant. It appears to be a goddess of death in some cultures, but I really think this man has gone mad.

I think that this whole story was jabber of an old man gone senile. Goddesses? Demons? Hardly.

That would be the disappointing story of my baptism. I have not had any encounters with any of them since the last time. I am moving away, hoping it helps. I also decided this: if I encounter them again, I am taking the orange. I cant go on like this forever. I just… can’t.

For the ending of this story, go HERE - it will not be posted on Creepypasta. I feel that the final part is most effective when left at its original source.

Credit To – Milos Bogetic

NOTE: This is the sixth in a series of several popular Reddit posts documenting some seriously creepy experiences. We are publishing them here with express permission of Milos Bogetic aka inaaace, the original poster. The story is in multiple parts, and will be published completely over the next few days – much like what I did with the ‘Bedtime’ series earlier this year. After the stories have all gone up, I’ll edit each post with links to the other parts.

The OP has finished the continuation book that he promised during his successful kickstarter project.

You can find the paperback and Kindle e-book versions here: The Story of Her Holding an Orange by Milos Bogetic  - full disclosure: our referral link is included.

I know that this will not be new material for all of you, but for those of you who – like myself – don’t use Reddit, I wanted to post it so that you guys could enjoy it as much as I did after having it brought to my attention. Thanks again to Milos for letting me post it, and enjoy!

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The Story of Her Holding an Orange: Part Five

March 5, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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Formalities first: If you’re just joining my diary of horror, please read part onepart twopart three, and part four.

I have become almost indifferent to what’s going on to me. Since my first story, so much shit happened/was discovered that I became dulled down to the point of almost not giving a fuck. Put that attitude together with the fact that nothing happened (until yesterday) to us since Rose’s break-in, and you have one dude who doesn’t give a shit anymore. I suppose everyone reaches that point at some time. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.

Anyways, yesterday (Wednesday), I had a day off from work. My girlfriend decided that she wanted to get away from everything for a little while. She went to her friend’s house in our town for few days. I like to alleviate my stress by working out. I had a day off and wanted to do a bit more than just lift weights, so I decided to go on a long bike ride. 50 miles to the next city. It was really cloudy in the morning, so I decided to take nothing with me but a couple of bucks for the bus ride back. (also, ATT&T sent me iPhone 5, and I definitely didn’t wanna take that if it was going to rain). So I went on the bike trip with nothing but my Trek and few dollars.

About 30 miles into the trip, I got on this bike trail that led almost to the end of my destination. It is a 22 mile trail. I did this trip once in July and the place was packed. Hundreds of fucking cyclist everywhere, could barely move. This time, the trail looked deserted. Nobody on it. And weather became shittier and shittier. Heavy fog set in. I almost felt as if I were in a cloud, it was so moist, but without the actual rain. My shirt was dripping with water, and visibility was shit, but I decided to keep going. Few miles into the trail, I started noticing benches on the side, something I haven’t noticed before. Cool idea since the road is so long, I guess you need a break sometimes. I kept riding though. Visibility was 15 feet at best. About 7 miles into the track, I thought I heard laughing. I squeezed my breaks and slid for few feet. I listened. Nothing. Well, I know what you think, and you’re right. I’m a fucking idiot. Going for a long trip on a secluded track when I have some crazy cunt following me. Plot of a cliché horror movie. I know. And I regret doing what I did. But my reasoning was that nobody ever physically attacked me, so the worst-case scenario would be I am offered another fucking orange.

I got back on the bike, did few pedal strokes, and heard the laughing again. It was coming from ahead. Fuck it, I’m biking through. Fog decided to have mercy on me and increase the area visibility to about 25 feet. That’s when I saw someone sitting on the bench ahead. I lied to myself saying that its normal for a biker to sit on the side and rest. That’s what it is probably, right? You and I both know that no, it wasn’t a biker sitting there. It was a man. He wore a black suit. No hat or cane though, so I felt a little better. I switched my shit into the highest gear and started pedaling Armstrong style. As I was passing him, he started laughing again. There was nothing around him. No newspapers, no phone, no bike. Just sitting, hands on his knees, not even looking at me. Just looking ahead. And just as I am passing, this fucker starts laughing hysterically. I got fucking scared. It was then that I noticed an orange right next to him on the bench. Then he looked straight at me. Rose encounters were scary as hell, but this man, this man was on a whole new level. I just kept pedaling. I heard the laugh one more time as I was riding away from him. Next 12 miles or so took me about 45 minutes, in other words, I wasn’t slowing down. I got to the town where I wanted to catch a bus and another shock was waiting for me. I arrived at the bus station at 4:10 pm. Last bus was leaving at 4:30. The way these schedules work, this bus would take me to a small town at the beginning of that trail, where I’d catch another bus to home. Well, I come at the bus station and I see that bus only has two bike racks and they’re both taken. Yup, let’s cut the artistic description shit and jump to the point: driver said it was against the rules to put a bike inside the bus. It was the last bus and if I wanted to go back home that night, I’d have to bike to the other town and arrive before 7:00pm, when the last bus for my place leaves. I had 2 and half hours to do 20 miles. Either that or spend the night there. I only had $10 on me so…yea. Bike back you stupid shit. And good luck with that laughing man on the trail.

I wish I could tell you that I persuaded the driver to let me in. I wish I stayed there that night. Could have maybe tried to pay for the hotel by giving them my credit card number? Could’ve tried. No, I decided to bike, and I got what I deserved.

Two miles into the trail, I saw something on the ground about 20 feet ahead. I remember thinking how clean they kept this track, so it was strange that the trash would be just obviously laying around. I slowed down. It was a GI Joe action soldier toy. Looked pretty new. Oh well, some kid dropped it while biking with his family. Keep pedaling son. A mile later, another object ahead. Basketball. I stop. Pick it up. Drop it. Eyes full of tears. When I was in about eight grade, there was a basketball 3 on 3 tournament in my school. I was so fucking excited for that shit, man. I gathered the best team I could find. If we’d win, we’d go to an even bigger tournament and maybe win some money. We arrived at the court and realized that only two teams signed up in our age category. We were full of joy because that meant that even if we lost, we’d win some kind of award. We lost, well actually got destroyed by the other kids. But, since we ended in second place, we got a $50 gift card each for a store equivalent to a Foot Locker here. We all ran to that place. My friends all picked shoes and jerseys, but I picked this basketball. It was so unique: it was painted like a chess board-64 squares, 32 black and 32 white. They called me crazy for spending my gift card on it but I loved it. At least for few days until I realized that the colors on it give me headache when it spun and that designers of this ball were stupid assholes. So I threw it in the river when I crossed one of the bridges near my house. And now, now I was holding that same ball, 5000 miles away from home, in the middle of the woods on some bike trail that only I knew I’d be crossing that day. I froze, dropped the ball, and just wanted to yell. You get mad at some point, you know, you get mad that your life isn’t as normal as other people’s. Why cant I worry about shit like whether my NFL team is gonna go to playoffs or whether I’m gonna get a raise? Why do I have to go through this? What did I do? Well I could contemplate about life or I could get the fuck out of these woods and try to catch that bus. I chose the latter. So I kept biking, carefully. After few miles, another thing. A page out of newspaper. It got wet from a light drizzle. I picked it up. It was an article about me. When I just came to the US, the school I played ball for published an article about my life in their paper. There it was, in my hands. I dropped that shit and decided not to stop anymore. I biked by a bike I owned when I was living in Bosnia, I biked by my old Iron Maiden shirt, and by a picture of my family in a broken frame. I biked by a dead cat that was identical to the cat I had when I was 15. The faster I biked, the items from my life became more and more common on the road.

At this point, my story is becoming more unbelievable than any cheesy movie you’ve seen. Feel free to express all your disbelief, call me a liar. I would. I would call bullshit 3 stories ago. I wish I was fucking with ya’ll. I wish I was doing this for entertainment. I am doing this to get help, advice, to set my mind at ease, at least for a minute.

So I am flying down the trail. About two more miles and I am out of these woods of hell. It’s getting dark. Dark and more foggy. And then, and fucking then, I hear the laugh. Only this time, it is a child. Or not. I slow down, scared of what’s coming. I see a silhouette sitting on the bench ahead. The same bench where that man was. Laughing again. Not the kind where some criminal mastermind laughs at the evilness of his plan. Playful laugh. I guess you can call it giggle. Only it is not a child. It is a woman sitting there. She is dressed in white. It is Rose.

I pressed my breaks so hard I was surprised I didn’t fly over the wheel. She was sitting there, legs crossed, looking straight ahead of her, not at me, and laughing. Then she turned towards me, tilted her head, smiled with the many-times-described grin, and said: “Sit.” This was the first time I got scared to the point that my extremities gave up for a second. Other encounters with her, I was in my home, or at least in somewhat of a safe place. This…This was in the woods. And as I type this, I realize even more how fucking stupid it was of me to embark on this trip at a time like this. Maybe subconsciously, I wanted to meet her again. Meet her and bring an end to it. I regained some courage, and got off the bike. I put the bike down slowly and noticed a photo of me and my first girlfriend laying on the road. It was wet and looked burnt. Fuck if I’m stopping now. I’m gonna talk to her. I walked over. She was still smiling, not moving at all.

“Sit.” In my language. In child’s voice.


“ You’ve been a very stubborn boy, Milos”

“I am not a boy. I don’t want to have anything with you people. Why cant you leave me the fuck alone? What do you want from me?” It felt liberating to be able to express all of the frustration and scream at the cunt that caused my girlfriend and me so much pain.

“No need to yell Milos.”

“No, there IS a need to yell. You’re fucking with my life!”

“I only want you to come with me.”

“First tell me what you want. And then I’ll decide.”

She took an orange sitting next to her, and offered it to me.

“It is not your decision to make.” Her voice changed to a more adult one, but still not appropriate for a woman her age.

“It is my life you fucking bitch!”

She lost her smile.

“You know Milos, all this goes far back. You have no power over this. You WILL come.” She yelled that word, “will”. Like yelled it at me. I stepped back, ready to knock her the fuck out. She got up.

“I will fight you people. I’ll call police, I will…”

“You can’t do anything.” She cut me off. “Who do you think I am? You think the police can help you? You think your friends can help?”

“What the fuck are you? A cult? You want me as a sacrifice?”

She started laughing. She laughed while never closing her eyes, never taking them off of me.

“You silly boy.” Her voice switched to a child’s version again. “You have so much to learn about us.” She stepped towards me.

At that point, I honestly believed I was dealing with something other than a human being. I will admit, after I got home and cooled down and thought logically, I went back to my theory of it being a cult. But at that moment, right then, I believed I was encountering something else.

“I will ask for help from others then.” I said, not knowing what I even meant.

“Church maybe?” She said it in a way like when I child is imitating your voice just to irritate you. ”You think your gods will save you? Ask your priest about me. Ask and then decide.”

I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about, but I decided I had enough. It was time to run. At the same moment, she stepped back, sat back down, and started looking at the orange. I ran back to the bike, got on it and started pedaling like the devil himself was behind me. As I passed her, she started laughing uncontrollably, still looking at the orange.

I got on the bus at the last moment. I was a wreck during the ride and when I got home. I called the guy from the police station, told him what happened, and he said he’d contact the local police and ask them to go check the trail out. I expect nothing. I spent the whole day thinking about what happened. How could she/them get all my stuff that I am sure didn’t exist anymore? Was that really the same cat I had 12 years ago? How? And what did she mean by “ask my priest”? So many questions and exactly zero fucking answers. I am mentally drained. I didn’t tell my girlfriend about this, because this would probably cause her to have a nervous breakdown. I might have one myself. I am a broken man tormented by something I am not familiar with. I am lost.

Credit To - Milos Bogetic

NOTE: This is the fifth in a series of several popular Reddit posts documenting some seriously creepy experiences. We are publishing them here with express permission of Milos Bogetic aka inaaace, the original poster. The story is in multiple parts, and will be published completely over the next few days – much like what I did with the ‘Bedtime’ series earlier this year. After the stories have all gone up, I’ll edit each post with links to the other parts.

The OP has finished the book that he promised during his successful kickstarter project.

You can find the paperback and Kindle e-book versions here: The Story of Her Holding an Orange by Milos Bogetic  - full disclosure: our referral link is included.

I know that this will not be new material for all of you, but for those of you who – like myself – don’t use Reddit, I wanted to post it so that you guys could enjoy it as much as I did after having it brought to my attention. Thanks again to Milos for letting me post it, and enjoy!

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The Story of Her Holding an Orange: Part Four

March 4, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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If you haven’t read my previous posts, please read stories onetwo and three.

Hey guys, after many PMs asking for an update, I decided to bring you up to speed on whats going on. But first, here is the screenshot of the desktop picture that Rose/her cult put on my laptop. I haven’t been able to find the original photo or any kind of a hidden file. Woman on the left is my mother holding me, and woman on the right is her friend holding my childhood friend. We do not know who the child on the left or woman way in the back are. None of them remember this picture ever being taken.

Desktop Screenshot

So after I told my mom what was going on, she talked to y grandma. Grandma didn’t tell her much but my mom had a feeling that she got upset after hearing what was happening. I decided to call my grandma and after much begging, I got this story out of her.

My grandma was born in Croatia but grew up in Bosnia. She was the kind of a child who’d spend every waking our outside playing, exploring, etc. Her favorite play spot was down by the river not too far from where she lived. She’d often go there with her friends, but on this particular day, none of her friends came along. She went there anyways. She was doing her traditional build-a-fortress-in-the-sand thing, when she heard someone calling. She looked to the road nearby (the only place where anyone could come from, there was only one path to the beach) but nobody was there. She shrugged it off and kept playing. She heard the call again. “Dana.” She looked around. Nothing. “DANA!” She jumped, terrified, and ran to the road to see what in the fuck was going on, but nobody was there. She thought one of her friends was fucking with her and decided to turn around and go back to the fortress. Then she saw him. It was a man, of above average height, maybe 6’4”, dressed in the suit and one of those hats that gentlemen wore in thirties. He had a dark, dark black suit on with white dress shirt underneath and a black tie. Holding a cane. Thing is, he was standing in the water knee deep. In a suit that probably cost arm and a leg at that time. She was taken aback, but as any curious kid, she decided to check what was going on. She walked up to the border where waves were ending. He was still standing in the water. “Yes, mister?” she asked politely.

“I got something for you.”

“Yea? What’s that?”

Well, as predictable as the story may be getting, it is unfortunately fucking true. It was an orange. My grandma grew up in wealthy-ish family and even in the tough economic times, she had an abundance of fruit, so the orange wasn’t causing a “wow” factor in her.

“Uh… Thanks mister, but I just had lunch. You can give it to someone else.”

“No, no Dana, this one is specially for you.” He tilted his head to the side and for a second she thought his hat would fall into the river. It didn’t. He still held an orange in his other hand, offering it.

“But I don’t want it.”

“You take it, and you take it now.” My grandma’s been through a lot of shit. World war II and Bosnian war. She’s seen shit man. But she said she’s never seen something as scary as that man’s face that day. She was a child and therefore very impressionable with vivid imagination, but she swears that when he said that, his eyes (the white part not the pupils) got much darker and she could see the anger on his face, although he had somewhat of a grin on.

She started running away. She stopped and turned around to look if he was chasing her. He was just standing there, looking after her. She said she could see the darkness going away from his eyes. He put the orange back into his pocket, turned to the side, and started walking away. Through the fucking river. Like step by step, with his cane, just walking like he was on the street.

My grandma was scared for a while, but after few years, he was just a memory that was rarely recalled.

My grandma gave birth to my mom in ’52. It was a happy day because my mom was her first child. Birth went fairly easily, but she was kept in the hospital for few days. Last night before she was released, the man in the black suit came back. Almost 20 years later. She was sleeping (she had a room to herself). She woke up because light came on in her room. In scary movies, you hear the noise but there is nobody there, then suddenly they jump you from behind. Yea, that didn’t happen. She opened her eyes, and he was just standing there in the middle of the room. The same man, same suit, same hat. Not a day older than how he looked 20 years ago.

Orange in his hand.

“You did good.”

“What…what do you want from me?”

“You brought her.”

“Who? What do you want?”

“You only now have to take this, and it will all be over.” He was showing an orange, smiling. It wasn’t a crazy grin, just an almost friendly smile.

“I don’t want anything from you. Leave or I’ll scream.”

Well, that’s when he pulled the Rose shit. He tilted his head to the side, put the scariest grin on his face revealing the whitest teeth you’ll ever see. He started speaking in the voice of a 10-12 year old child.

“But Dana, you don’t know.”


“He will take it.” As he said that with his child voice, he lost the grin, put his head back in normal position, turned around and walked away. Before he got out of the room, he turned the light off. She never told anyone about this man until I pulled it out of her.

It’s been little more than 30 years since then until she saw him one last time. It was war in Bosnia. Country demolished by politician assholes who just wanted money. You know how wars work. Anyways, times were tough. Food supply was extremely limited. My grandma and grandpa would go days without eating. They’d hunt pigeons on the balcony and shit. That bad. But then, an orange started appearing on their doorstep every day. One orange, in the center of the welcome rug. She remembers how bright it was compared to the grayness surrounding them. She’d throw every single one of those fuckers out. My grandpa was confused as to why she’d throw away perfectly good food in times like these, but she wouldn’t tell him. Until they showed up. Yes, they. The man in black and…well, Rose. It was ’93. They were bombing the shit out of their town that day and nobody would even so much as stick their head through the window, let alone walk out. But my grandparents heard knocking. They thought someone had finally come to take care of them. Knowing that intruder would enter anyways if they really wanted to, they opened. On their left, the same man was standing. Same black suit, same hat, same cane. Same age. More than 50 years later. Next to him was a woman in red shoes, white dress, long black hair, extremely pale skin color, and a lipstick so bright it would make you nostalgic for the grayness of wartime. She had her head tilted too, smiling ear to ear.

“Hello Dana.” She spoke in a voice my grandma says could only belong to a very, very young girl.

“What the fuck is this?” My grandpa asked. Immediately, both of these people’s (I still call them people) faces lost grins and looked at my grandpa.

“You may want to be silent.” Rose spoke in her original, adult voice (or what my grandma assumes would be her natural voice.)

My grandpa had been shot at, tortured, starved, but he never felt the fear like that. He lost his voice and shut the hell up.

Their grins returned, head tilted, teeth popped out shiny as ever.

“Where is he?” Rose asked her in her childish version of a voice.

“Who? What do you want from us? We have nothing!”

“Don’t do this. Just tell us where.” Seemed like Rose was losing patience.

“But who?”

“Your grandson.” Her eyes pierced my grandma’s soul. She felt blood freeze in her veins.

“He…he is not here. He is in Montenegro.” She though that whoever these people are, they’d give up once they found that her grandson (presumably me) has moved away hundreds of miles away.

They produced even wider smiles, if that was actually possible. They turned around almost synchronized, and walked away. My grandparent watched them leave over the balcony. Bullets were flying around, bombs falling everywhere, and they were just walking down the street with no fucks given. Heads still tilted. They could see them smiling.

So, I’ll be the first to call it. Bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit. This is becoming a fairy tale. This ain’t happening man. Yea. I’m with you. Had I read it here or anywhere else, I’d enjoy the story then tell OP to go fuck himself for trying to convince me this shit is real.

But, this shit is real.

I have no logical explanation for it. Are they a cult? Maybe. Why don’t they age? Why are they everywhere? Why are they following everyone I know? Fuck me if I know.


Credit To - Milos Bogetic

NOTE: This is the fourth in a series of several popular Reddit posts documenting some seriously creepy experiences. We are publishing them here with express permission of Milos Bogetic aka inaaace, the original poster. The story is in multiple parts, and will be published completely over the next few days – much like what I did with the ‘Bedtime’ series earlier this year. After the stories have all gone up, I’ll edit each post with links to the other parts.

The OP has finished the book that he promised during his successful kickstarter project.

You can find the paperback and Kindle e-book versions here: The Story of Her Holding an Orange by Milos Bogetic  - full disclosure: our referral link is included.

I know that this will not be new material for all of you, but for those of you who – like myself – don’t use Reddit, I wanted to post it so that you guys could enjoy it as much as I did after having it brought to my attention. Thanks again to Milos for letting me post it, and enjoy!

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The Story of Her Holding an Orange: Part Three

March 3, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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Anyone who hasn’t read my story should do so before looking in this thread. My first story had some updates to it too. My second story is my girlfriend’s account of the events.

Hey guys, I promised pictures and updates, so here we go. I will also respond to some questions. So first’s things first, let me bring you up to speed:

  • We have not had any encounters with Rose since last night’s “break-in.”
  • Police called this morning to check on us and told us to stay careful and call should anything happen.
  • I talked to my mother on Skype and it was, well, disappointing. She only knew Rose as a normal person. She actually doesn’t even remember Rose asking about me much. She never got the hint that Rose may be a crazy cunt. My parents are now really worried. Not sure if they think I’m going crazy or they are legitimately afraid for my well-being.
  • Lila hasn’t gotten a hold of her mom at this point (her mom is in England).
  • We’ve been talking a lot. We decided that it must be some cult in action since neither of us are believers in the spiritual side. It is hard to explain how Rose would know us both before we met each other.
  • I got tons of PMs asking me about how we met. That’s a good question, an I forgot to include that part in my story. Basically, last summer, I was out with my best friend in a club. Club closes at 1:00am and then everyone gets in front of it and sort of chills for a while. We were standing outside when this older man came up to us. He started openly hitting on me (in a homosexual way). I am far from a homophobe but this man was persistent. Then I heard Lila’s voice: “Hey baby, what are you doing?” I turned around and saw her sitting at the nearby bench with two of her girlfriends. I realized she was talking to me. The look on her face told me everything. She was saving me from the man. I said “excuse me, my girlfriend is waiting” and walked away and sat with Lila. He came after me. Lila and I had an immediate chemistry. Man didn’t believe us that we were together and kept asking questions about us, but Lila and I played off each other so well that he finally decided we were telling the truth and left. We kissed that night. She was visiting that town for only two days, but promised to come back and see me. And she did two weeks later. We’ve been together since.

I realize that some may suggest that the man was part of the cult and tried to “force” us onto each other, but it still took free will from both of us to do what we did, so I doubt the possibility of that conspiracy.

  • Lila is in a bad mental shape right now. She is terrified and jumps on every little noise. I don’t know how to help. I am scared myself, but am trying to appear strong for her.
  • Some of you have suggested that this story is fake. I will say this: I am fully aware of how incredible this all sounds and this is exactly why I posted it here. Many of you helped with advice and kind words and I thank you guys. Others that don’t believe me, you can view the story as a piece of shitty fiction. I never said it’d be good, just true.
  • If you guys feel that the story of my baptism may have something to do with this, I will find time to write it, although I have to note, you are an inpatient bunch. Please realize that we are going through a lot right now. Thanks.

Some updates regarding the pictures I am posting here:

8 So, I snapped a few pics before the police came. Also, after they left (and left the orange), I noticed something engraved/written on the peel. I took a photo of that too. Bottom word I was able to decipher: It says “OTVORI” which means “open” in my language. Top word I cant tell what it is.

  • I don’t know what to do with the orange. I still have it. Will throw it out soon.

Enough bullshiting.

Picture 1  is of our staircase leading to the room.

Picture 1 is of our staircase leading to the room.

Picture 2  is the view from the door of our room.

Picture 2 is the view from the door of our room.

Picture 3  is closeup of oranges.

Picture 3 is closeup of oranges.

Picture 4  is a closer look at oranges. Notice the peel.

Picture 4 is a closer look at oranges. Notice the peel.

Picture 5  is another blow-up of the fucking thing.

Picture 5 is another blow-up of the fucking thing.

Picture 6  is of the message written/engraved in the peel.

Picture 6 is of the message written/engraved in the peel.

Picture 7  As I said, someone changed it to the picture from my childhood that I didn't have on my laptop.

Picture 7 As I said, someone changed it to the picture from my childhood that I didn’t have on my laptop.

If anyone can make any sense out of this, I’d appreciate any help at this point. Polaroid picture is at the police station, but the cop I know told me that if nothing happens within few days, I’d be able to at least come and make a copy of it if I really wanted to.

That’s all for now.

Edit: I blurred out part of the last image to protect my privacy, it was revealing my name. Kind Redditor discovered it and messaged me.

So, here’s another update: (also, do I update on these posts or create new ones?)

I told my mother what’s going on and she asked to see the picture. She recognized it. The woman in the picture is her friend from when I was a child and the kid in the picture is her son. She doesn’t know where the pic came from, or that it was ever taken for that matter. My mom said she spoke to my grandma who still lives in Bosnia and my grandma seems to know something. I will have to call her tomorrow. Later on, I will upload the desktop pic that was put on my lap top. Still in search of original files and/or hidden folders.

Credit To - Milos Bogetic

NOTE: This is the third in a series of several popular Reddit posts documenting some seriously creepy experiences. We are publishing them here with express permission of Milos Bogetic aka inaaace, the original poster. The story is in multiple parts, and will be published completely over the next few days – much like what I did with the ‘Bedtime’ series earlier this year. After the stories have all gone up, I’ll edit each post with links to the other parts.

The OP has finished the book that he promised during his successful kickstarter project.

You can find the paperback and Kindle e-book versions here: The Story of Her Holding an Orange by Milos Bogetic  - full disclosure: our referral link is included.

I know that this will not be new material for all of you, but for those of you who – like myself – don’t use Reddit, I wanted to post it so that you guys could enjoy it as much as I did after having it brought to my attention. Thanks again to Milos for letting me post it, and enjoy!

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The Story of Her Holding an Orange: Part Two

March 2, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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Before you read my girlfriend’s side of the story, you may want to read my first post that also contains last night’s unfortunate update. Here is the update copy/pasted:

Okay guys, I realize I am a bit late with my girlfriend’s story, but when you read my latest update, you’ll see that I was quite consumed with what was happening to us. Nothing happened since the incident last night. Police called to check in with us this morning; they still have no clue what is going on really.

So her story… Let me begin by telling you a bit about us. As I said before, I was born in Bosnia, moved to a nearby country in Balkans where I grew up. I came to the US over 6 years ago. My girlfriend was born in India, grew up in Kenya until she was 3, when she moved to Canada. I met her little over a year ago, and we’ve been together since.

So, my girl, let’s call her Lila, did have few encounters with Rose. First one that she remembers was on the plane. She was a flight attendant for Air Canada for several years. One day, about 6 years ago, she was flying her regular flight, but she can’t remember what destination it was. It lasted maybe two hours. Once they took off and seat-belt signs went away, she got up to serve complimentary drinks. Halfway through her section, she met Rose. She didn’t know it at the time, of course. She said that something was terribly off about the woman; she had this creepy grin on her face, was really pale and kept staring at her. When Lila offered her a drink and some snacks, she got no answer, only a wider and creepier fucking smile. Then, Rose spoke.

“I have something for you.” She said in a voice that definitely wasn’t natural for a woman her age. Her voice belonged more to a teenager than an adult. There was something playful but terrifying in it.

Now, Lila has seen some shit while flying, so she wasn’t taken back by this interaction.

“Yea? What would that be, ma’am?”

“Don’t patronize me, you bitch.” She said that fast. Like really fast. Her jaw was closed while saying that. Then she started grinding her teeth, never letting go of that fucking smile. This was a red flag for Lila. When passengers get aggressive, attendants walk away unless there is physical contact.

“Alright, well, you have a pleasant rest of the flight ma’am, okay?”

“I have this for you.” She whispered it holding taking an orange from behind her back. Never moving a muscle on her face. Still a teenage voice. Like when a 12 year old hits puberty kind of voice.

“No, thanks.” Lila decided to call it a day with the crazy cunt and walk away.

“Oh, but you should. Or one day, you know, one day.”

And that’s that. Lila gave her the fuck off look and walked away. Lady never bothered her again during that flight. During that flight.

Lila went home few days later and didn’t think much of what had happened. When her mom asked her how her flight was, Lila smiled and said “Good, other than one really crazy lady.” Mom wanted to hear more, so Lila started telling her about what happened. By the time she said the word “orange”, her mom started crying. Lila was in shock. It was story time. Well, apparently, when my girlfriend was a baby in Kenya, she had woken her parents up a few times with loud crying. When they’d walk into her room, she’d have an orange next to her in her crib. Everything in the house would be locked though. Windows, doors, everything. It got to the point where her parents moved the crib into their room and installed security cameras. Well, on Lila’s third birthday, that morning, when they woke up, they saw an orange laying on Lila’s chest. They were absolutely taken over by horror. They called the police; police came and looked over the camera footage. Cameras clearly showed a woman opening the front door (that was locked), walking into their room, placing an orange on Lila and just standing there. For like an hour. Just standing there, with her head tilted to the left, looking at her. By this point, it is unnecessary to say that Lila was completely horrified. Her mom wasn’t doing much better either. Anyways, to keep the story going, her parents didn’t know what to do. Police couldn’t find the mysterious woman, and no security measure (other than 24/7 bodyguards which they couldn’t afford) was enough. Some of their family was already in Canada and were pressuring them to move, so this incident was a final push. They moved and left this creature with an orange behind. Until that day, on that flight.

Lila was completely unable to do anything for the next few days after that conversation. She didn’t eat much, didn’t communicate with anyone. After a while, she got better. There was no sign of further horror, so she started believing it was all a fucked up coincidence. And she went on with her life. She hasn’t seen Rose in years after that. Last time she encountered Rose was one month before she (Lila) met me.

Lila did many transatlantic flights. She loved those. Long travels, decent money, seeing the world. She had it all. One month before we met, she was coming back from a Hong Kong trip. She flew to Toronto I believe (she’s asleep, and I don’t remember exactly, I believe it was Toronto though). Crew had a nice hotel, everyone had their own room. Lila was on the third floor. She loved drinking at that time, and got pretty drunk that night. She passed out at about 1:00 am. At around 4am, she heard a knock on the door. Then another one, and then another one. But they weren’t loud or fast knocks. No, they were slow and silent, yet loud enough to wake her drunk ass up. She rolled out of bed thinking it was one of her equally drunk crew members. Not thinking much, she opened the door and there she stood. Lila said that lights in her room were off, but TV was on. Light from the screen was shinning on Rose’s face. Shining on the grin. Shinning on the pearly white teeth, bright red lipstick and a white face paired up with tilted head. You know how when you’re drunk and some scary shit (accident, cops, etc.) happens and you sober the fuck up immediately? Yea. She just let out this helpless sound of horror. They both stood there. Rose started rocking back and forth. Every time she’d rock back, she’d reveal red shoes hidden underneath her white dress. Her teeth were grinding. Then she pulled out an orange.

“Wh…what do you want from me?” Lila begged.

Rose kept rocking with a smile.

“Please, just leave me alone. I don’t have anything.”

“You take it. You take it now. He will too.” She said that with that same teenager voice, only a little more playful tone was used this time. Like a happy-ish child.

Don’t know if it was her defense mechanism activating, but Lila took the fucking orange and threw it over Rose’s head and screamed “Get the fuck out of here, and take this shit with you, you freak!”

That was the first time either of us saw Rose lose her smile. White teeth disappeared underneath the thick red lips. Head went back from a gentle tilt into its natural position.

“I will see you two soon.” She said it in adult voice. And this voice was scarier than the teenager one. Lila says its because it sounded real. Like a conscious, normal person making a threat. Of course, at that time Lila didn’t know me and had no idea who “you two” were. She assumed it’d be her mom.

That brings us to today. Yea. If you read the update from my previous story, you saw that our room was broken into by Rose (logical assumption). Pictures of the break-in were taken before police came. They will be up on here today. Some stuff in our room was moved around. We are scared as fuck, clueless as to what’s going on. I will be skyping with my mom soon to see if she has any answers. Lila will talk to her mom as well.

I am personally just shocked at these developments. I never believed anything like this was even possible. Quite honestly, if one of you wrote this story here, I wouldn’t believe shit you said. And I cant blame you if you don’t believe me. But if you have any idea about what this might be, I’m all ears. I assume it’s some sort of a cult, but the only thing that fucks with my head is the fact that Rose knew my girlfriend before I did. Everything so far could’ve been explained in a logical way, but this took it to a super-fucking-natural level. Were they putting an effort into getting us together? How’d they do that? And more importantly, why? For what possible benefit? Fuck this man, fuck this.

Credit To - Milos Bogetic

NOTE: This is the second in a series of several popular Reddit posts documenting some seriously creepy experiences. We are publishing them here with express permission of Milos Bogetic aka inaaace, the original poster. The story is in multiple parts, and will be published completely over the next few days – much like what I did with the ‘Bedtime’ series earlier this year. After the stories have all gone up, I’ll edit each post with links to the other parts.

The OP has finished the book that he promised during his successful kickstarter project.

You can find the paperback and Kindle e-book versions here: The Story of Her Holding an Orange by Milos Bogetic  - full disclosure: our referral link is included.

I know that this will not be new material for all of you, but for those of you who – like myself – don’t use Reddit, I wanted to post it so that you guys could enjoy it as much as I did after having it brought to my attention. Thanks again to Milos for letting me post it, and enjoy!

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