As I crossed the threshold of the library, I noticed that all sounds of the street stopped. I shrugged it off as being well soundproofed. I slowly weaved my way through the aisles, finding nothing that drew my attention. As I drew deeper into the depths of the building in, the lights grew dimmer until eventually, the onl light came from candles in brackets along the wall. The books grew darker too, though not in the same sense. They grew… more arcane. Scared, I turned around to leave. I walked briskly back the way I came, but the overhead lights never returned. I retraced my steps, and took different turns all to no avail.

Was that…. movement? My gaze tracked to the end of the aisle I was in and saw a shape moving slowly away from me. I chased after it, calling out. As I got closer, the shape sharpened into that of a man. I asked him breathlessly how to get out of the library. He didnt move. Then, out of nowhere, he whipped his head around. I only caught a glimpse of his face before I threw my arms up to protect my own, and he bit me. Caught my arm good. Down I went, and scrambled away from him. I managed to find my footing, and ran like hell.

My lungs felt like they were about to burst when I finally stopped. I had no idea where I was. I was scared, and exhausted. Before I knew what I was doing, I laid down and went to sleep.

I would love to give you a time when I awoke, but I don’t know for sure. I had lost all sense of time. I dragged my aching body to my feet and stumbled down the hallway. I noticed it getting brighter, the books more lighthearted. I looked up, and saw an ancient lightbulb. I started to run down the hall, glancing upwards as I ran. The lights grew brighter until I caught glimpse of the doors. I ran towards them, freedom so close I could taste it. As I stepped up to the doors, they stayed still. They didnt open. I reached my fingers into the crack in the doors and tried to pry them open. They wouldn’t budge. Locked? I thought. But that idea was shattered as an older man walked to the doors and they slid open for him. He threw me a glance, and I thought I recognized his face. As he tipped his hat to me and walked out into the world it hit me. That man in the aisle. He was leaving. I walked to the open doors behind him and tried to walk out. As I strode towards the open doors, I hit something. It was like walking into a wall, but all that was in front of me was air.

I hurried to the librarian to ask for help. No matter how loudly I asked, she ignored me. She glanced up once, but it was like she was looking past me… Through me. I tried to shove a pile of books over to get her attention, but I couldnt move them. Se calmly reached over, and picked the top book off the pile. I had to figure out what was going on. She stood up and began to walk away, and I grabbed her arm, pulled her back. Her arm didn’t move, but she sort of seemed to be looking for something, and followed where I led. I led her to a table,, and let her go. She looked at the table, and under it, but seemed to decide she didn’t find what she was looking for, and went back along her way.

So thats my story. I’m still here today. We haven’t been busy. But you never know. You may come in sometime, looking for a book. I may take your hand and lead you deeper and deeper into the library. You may catch a glimpse of me and ask for help out. I may just get my freedom, at the cost of yours.

I’m waiting for you.

–
Credited to TheCoffinDancer.

In a dilapidated office building somewhere in Connecticut is one of the few elevators in the Western world that has a button labeled ‘13′ amongst its choices of floors. If you enter after midnight, crawling through the loosely boarded up window on the South side of the building, you will find the elevator doors standing open, with soft florescent lighting and muzak spilling from it, even though nothing else in the whole of the building seems to have power.

You can, if you choose, pick through the debris of raucous teenaged parties and office meetings past. The path seems to be mostly cleared through the broken, dirty, stained and vintage office furniture and burned out joints, cigarettes and crushed beer cans, all the way to the light in the door.

All of the buttons work in the elevator, and will take you to its designated floor–despite the creaking of the cables–though there seems to be a layer of grime on their plastic covers. All but the button labeled ‘13′, which seems to glow brightly.

No one’s quite sure if that one goes to the thirteenth floor. But there’s a story about a group of high school teenagers who had a party after their prom there, in the early nineties. A dare was made, and four of them piled into the rickety elevator, taking it to the thirteenth floor. When they came back down again, they were pale and shaking, but all of them swore they’d seen nothing more than a normal office floor, covered in dust and shadows. Two of them died in an accident on the car ride home that night. Another, three weeks later, took a bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet, climbed into a hot bath, slit her wrists and dropped her hair dryer into the water with her. The fourth disappeared from the face of the planet two months later. None of them said anything of what they’d seen on the thirteenth level of the building, and when asked, would only ascertain (loudly, if necessary) that nothing had happened.

But you can, if you so choose, crawl in through the window and see for yourself.

–
Credited to Flea.

I never saw the ocean till I was nineteen, and if I ever see it again it will be too goddamn soon. I was a child, coming out of the train, fresh from Amarillo, into San Diego and all her glory. The sight of it, all that water and the blind crushing power of the surf, filled me with dread. I’d seen water before, lakes, plenty big, but that was nothing like this. I don’t think I can describe what it was like that first time, and further more, I’m not sure I care too.

You can imagine the state I was in when a few weeks later they gave me a rifle and put me on a boat. When I stopped vomiting up everything that I ate, I decided that I might not kill myself after all. Not being able to see the land, and that ceaseless chaotic, rocking of the waves; I remember thinking that the war had to be a step up from this. Kids can be so fucking stupid.

I had such a giddy sense of glee when I saw the island, and it’s solid banks. They transferred us to a smaller boat in the middle of the night, just our undersized company with our rucksacks and rifles and not a word. We just took a ride right into it, just because they asked us to. The lieutenants herded us into our platoons on the decks and briefed us: the island had been lost. That was exactly how he put it. Somehow in the grand plan for the Pacific, this one tiny speck of earth, only recently discovered and unmapped, had gotten lost in the shuffle; a singularly perfect clerical error was all it took. It was extremely unlikely, he stressed, that the Japanese had gotten a hold of it, being so far east and south of their current borders, but a recent fly over reported what looked like an airfield in the central plateau.

We hit the beach in the middle of the night. I’d heard talk of landings before, and I’m not ashamed to tell, I was scared shitless. I don’t know quite what I expected, but it wasn’t we got, that thick, heavy silence. Behind the lapping of the waves and the wind in the trees, there was… nothing, no birds, no insects. Just deathly stillness.

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In Corona, California there once was a road known by most locals as the Never Ending Road. Specifically, the road’s true name was Lester Road. Now, over twenty years later, the landscape of Corona has changed, and the Never Ending Road is no more. However, years ago, Lester Road was an unlit road that people claimed became a never ending road when driven at night. The people who made such a drive were never seen from again.

The legend became so well-known that people refused to even drive Lester Road during the day. One night, like many teens my age, I drove up Lester Road, but only a short distance, and in my headlights it did look like it went on forever. Frightened, I quickly turned around, because if I continued up the road, I thought I might never return again.

Perpetuation of the legend convinced local law enforcement to investigate. Lester Road took a sharp left turn at its end, and there were no guard rails. Beyond the curve lay a canyon, and on the other side of the canyon was another road that lined up so well with Lester Road that when viewed from the correct angle, especially at night, the canyon vanished from sight, and the road seemed to continue on up and over the hill on the other side of the canyon. Upon investigation of the canyon, dozens of cars were found, fallen to their doom, with the decomposing bodies of the victims still strapped to their seats.

There is rumor of a great palace unfound deep in the deserts in Egypt. A massive complex of four-thousand rooms protects the single most prized possession of ancient Egypt. The Blood Mirror.

It is said every thousand years, a great hero of mankind must make his way down to this mirror, and stand before it in pick blackness at 19:06 June 6th (6/6 - at 6:66) and behold their own death. Their own image appears to slowly distort, screaming a horrible silent scream as their teeth and skin melt away leaving streams of blood to run down the mirror and pool at the bottom.

Gazing into this pool of blood on the other side of the mirror of their own blood will allow them to view the Antichrist’s birthplace, which they will then scream out in horrible screams of pain for an hour and six minutes, before their heart stops.

If the Antichrist isn’t stopped, all of mankind is doomed to an even worse fate.

it has been exactly 940 years from June 6th since this last happened, the next date is 2066, but the location has been lost. The hero will find this place, but we must be there to hear his screams, or we are lost…

06/06/2006

Deep beneath the New Mexican desert, there is a lost city in a dark cavern. Many have journeyed to the deep city, some have returned, some have not, completely vanished without a trace. As for what happened to the builders of the city, no one knows for sure. What I do know, is that I have walked the rubble strewn streets, and I have heard the cries in the dark, inhuman shrieks. I have no clue what these creatures that make these sounds are. I’ve been told that pictograms in the cavern suggest they were slaves to the builders, but like I said no one knows.

Eventually the random cries in the dark began to take a toll on me and I fled the cavern, returned home, and until today told only a few close friends of what I’d seen, and heard. Now, as I walk down the darkened streets of my hometown, I’ve begun to hear the creatures again. They are calling me back to the cavern.

The time is coming.

In the most deserted part of Wyoming there is a restaurant. There are no roads leading to it, no signs advertising it. It’s just there, in the open. Walk inside however, and you will learn two things. One, it’s jam packed with people talking, eating and enjoying themselves. Two, the entire place looks like it’s a scene from the 50’s including the people, the food, the newspapers, the music, everything. Take a seat, observe the atmosphere, relax.

When the waitress comes to get your order, make it a cheeseburger with mashed potatoes. Afterwards, a red-haired lady should ask you to dance to a tune on the juke-box. Find the song on it that has the same number as your current age, pick it, then dance you heart out. When the song ends, a flash of light with engulf the whole scene, and you will be standing outside your home the following morning. You now should have the power of clairvoyance for the remaining year.

If you didn’t do this correctly, then woe is you. For you also missed out on the best meal you’ll ever eat.

There is a village somewhere in England that has not been inhabited for over 20 years. It has long since been forgotten off of most maps, and only has one road in and out of it. If you manage to find it, it will seem a peaceable enough place, the derelict buildings being overgrown and nature taking back the land for herself. However somewhere within the village is a vending machine which still has power. it will still have it’s original look and sell ordinary brands of drink (though with 20 year old packaging) however the one at the very bottom will be marked “E”. Pay only in 10p pieces to buy this drink.

Before drinking the mysterious beverage, peer inside the can to check it’s colour (do not try to pour some out. it will refuse to leave the can despite any vigorous shaking you may attempt). If it is green in color, drink heartily, as it will give you an unnaturally long lifespan and good luck in everything you do. If it is red, however, drinking it will spread a horrific pestilence over you, claiming one of your senses every 10 years after the date that you first imbibed.

In the hills surrounding the town of Bodega Bay in California, there is a tree, sitting right in the crook of two hills. Scattered 10 paces around it are 7 different fresh-water springs. It is said that one of them cures any disease, another grants immortal life, 4 will kill you instantly and cause your body to dissolve into powder. But the last spring is special. If you bottle water from this one and take it to a small cave hidden in the hills north of the tree, you will find a single large stone at the back of the cave. If you then splash the water on the stone, it will dissolve, leaving you a baseball-sized red stone. As long as you have this stone in your possession, you will always be in the right place at the right time. If you pour water from any of the other 6 springs on the rock, the cave will seal up, and you will be lost forever under the earth.

There’s a movie theater in downtown Phoenix, Arizona that only plays movies from 1987. If you pay for 3 tickets and buy a large popcorn, they will play a film that shows you your future. If you watch the entire film completely, you will have sleeping problems for the rest of your life.

In the small town of Stull, Kansas, there once stood an old one room chapel on top of a hill, surrounded by graves. Beside the church was a cellar that was very difficult to find, as its doors had grass grown upon them. In front of it church was great tree that was always bare. None of the towns members could recall ever having seen a leaf upon its branches.

In the towns earliest years, well before the civil war, there were several farming families that lived there. The minister’s daughter had fallen madly in love with a boy from nearby, but had her heart broken when that young man was discovered to have impregnated a certain flirtatious townsgirl. The two were married, and all the while the reverend’s daughter saw them, happy together, and her hatred brewed until after 9 months of painful endurance, that despise boiled over. Shortly after the young couples child was born the minister’s daughter went to their house.

They greeted her cheerfully but noticed, all too late, how she eyed the child blood-thirstily. She slit the throats of those two who’d made her life so miserable and then dragged their bodies, along with the newborn child, up the hill to the church. She put the bodies in the cellar and left the baby there, between their bodies, to starve to death. She locked the cellar shut and hung herself on the tree in front of the church. The bodies in the cellar were not found for three weeks.

From that day on leaves never grew on that tree. If you walk the graveyard late at night you can just hear the sound of a baby’s chilling cry. The towns people burnt down the tree many years ago, in the hopes of putting the ministers daughter’s spirit to rest. And more recently the church collapsed onto itself, burying the already difficult to find cellar.

Many have looked for its doors, but the few who have found them and ventured beneath its depths have seldom returned, with the exception of a few who came back to the sunlight after 3 weeks beneath- starved nearly to death and covered in blood that was not their own.

If you visit France’s Cote d’Azur in your lifetime, do everything you can to avoid a small town called “Blanche”. I was in the country once with my parents, around 8 years ago (I was 12 at that time; we were on a family vacation), and we found ourselves looking for a place to get some rest and enjoy some of the local color. We were getting really hungry on the road, so it was with some luck that a town, unmarked on our map, rose unexpectedly on the horizon. This was the town of Blanche.

Immediately after we entered Blanche, we noticed that the colors of the houses were darker than anything I had seen in my entire life - it’s not like they were black or grey, they were normal colors for walls - they just look… not right. It’s hard to explain; almost like it was a color that we don’t even have a word for because it’s so dark and strange.
A few minutes after driving around the town, we all began to notice the fishy stench - like a Friday market, except for the fact that no fish were being sold. The people in the town also had a really weird skin tone, almost frostbitten and tinged a deep blue - if I recall correctly, my father said something like “These guys sure look like the sea.” We had originally planned to stay in the town for a while, but my mother and my sister were so disturbed by the creepy atmosphere and the town’s denizens that they insisted that we keep driving and find a different town to stay the night.

When we arrived in the next town, it was like we all gave a gigantic sigh of relief at once - we felt that we were back in normal civilization. However, the people who ran the inn that we stayed at in the second town did tell us some very freaky stories about Blanche - stories that made us really glad that we didn’t stay there…

It wasn’t until I broke down in front of my sister that it occurred to me to use the word ‘haunted’. When I tried to explain what was happening to me, finally articulating the weeks of dread and utter dislocation, I found that no other word would come. Haunted. There’s still a part of me that scoffs and glowers at this, to use the language of folklore; it seems to compress what I’d experienced into a simple banality, a prisoner of language.

I paid cash upfront for the house in West Toluca Lake. Something about the 1930’s Spanish architecture tucked behind the grove of weeping willows triggered a strong association with my childhood ideal of what it meant to be famous and successful in Los Angeles. It was far more than I needed, and I struggled to fill the extra rooms with bedroom sets and elaborate smoking lounges; more out of an obligation to keep up appearances when guests were over than to satisfy myself. I was happy there, for a short while.

My friends stop visiting a few months after I moved in. Increasingly elaborate excuses were spun, and I soon stopped asking. It only occurs to me now that I was doing the same, finding every reason to stay in the house.

There was such a gentle descent into the insanity of it all, that I hardly felt it happening. The unusually stormy winter hit me hard, and long hours in front of the sun lamp seemed to do little to halt my growing feeling of melancholy and nameless unease. I started sleeping later and I abandoned even the pretense of writing, spending long hours in silence on the back porch, listening to the dry rasping of the dead leaves in the cold breeze.

It was the middle of the night when I first saw him. After a long time of lying motionless in the dark, I slowly pulled myself out of bed from an Ambien fog at the sharp urging of my bladder, and shuffled towards the bathroom.

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There is a dead mall somewhere in Virginia that is in an advanced state of decay. For one reason or another, the mall still stands — there have been several plans, some of them quite elaborate, to revitalise the area, many of them calling for the original building’s demolition…but none of them have ever come to pass.

It is quite a shame, a sorry thing to look at today. In its heyday in the 1970’s and early 80’s, the mall was jampacked, the place to be on the weekends, especially Saturday nights. It was upscale, fashionable, and always a happy place to go.

Years went by, and bigger, better malls opened around the city. The mall slowly started losing tenants, until today it is completely empty. If you go in it nowadays, you will be astounded by the vast emptiness — every step you make and every word you speak will echo loudly. Where once scores of people did their shopping, met for lunch, and got together, there is now only eerie silence. Over the years, the happy, upbeat feeling of the place has darkened, more and more, until now many people avoid it — but can never tell you exactly why.

The story would end here, were it not for a very curious rumour: it is said on certain Saturday nights throughout the year, something very strange happens. If you go to one of the entrances of this mall, it will be unlocked. Push open the door, and it will give way — and you may enter.

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The Dyatlov Pass Accident refers to an incident that resulted in the death of nine ski hikers in the northern Ural mountains. The incident happened on the night of February 2, 1959 on the east shoulder of the mountain Kholat Syakhl(a Mansi name, meaning Mountain of the Dead). The mountain pass where the accident occurred has been named Dyatlov Pass after the group’s leader, Igor Dyatlov.

The mysterious circumstances of the hikers’ deaths have inspired much speculation. Investigations of the deaths suggest that the hikers tore open their tent from within, departing barefoot in heavy snow; while the corpses show no signs of struggle, one victim had a fractured skull, two had broken ribs, and one was missing her tongue. The victims’ clothing contained high levels of radiation. Soviet investigators determined only that “a compelling unknown force” had caused the deaths, barring entry to the area for years thereafter. The causes of the accident remain unclear.

It had been agreed beforehand that Dyatlov would send a telegraph to their sports club as soon as the group returned to Vizhai. It was expected that this would happen no later than February 12, but when this date had passed and no messages had been received, there was no reaction, delays of a few days were common in such expeditions. Only after the relatives of the travelers demanded a rescue operation did the head of the institute send the first rescue groups, consisting of volunteer students and teachers, on February 20. Later, the army and police forces became involved, with planes and helicopters being ordered to join the rescue operation.

On February 26, the searchers found the abandoned camp on Kholat Syakhl. The tent was badly damaged. A chain of footsteps could be followed, leading down towards the edge of nearby woods (on the opposite side of the pass, 1.5km north-east), but after 500 meters they were covered with snow. At the forest edge, under a large old pine, the searchers found the remains of a fire, along with the first two dead bodies, those of Krivonischenko and Doroshenko, shoeless and dressed only in their underwear. Between the pine and the camp the searchers found three more corpses - Dyatlov, Kolmogorova and Slobodin - who seemed to have died in poses suggesting that they were attempting to return to the camp. They were found separately at distances of 300, 480 and 630 meters from the pine tree.

Searching for the remaining four travelers took more than two months. They were finally found on May 4, under four meters of snow, in a stream valley further into the wood from the pine tree.

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