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Come Play With Me

September 6, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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Stepping through the doorway I had to hold up a hand to cover my eyes. The sun was incredibly bright and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. This had given me the sad delusion that there would be some semblance of warmth to be had but the bitter cold air shattered that happy thought. I wrapped my coat tighter around me, doing the top button up which I always hated to do. It brought on feelings of claustrophobia, probably linked to the fact that it constricted my neck ever so slightly.

My shoes hit the tarmac and I began to walk out into the playground, a line of excitable children following me out before dispersing among the play equipment. Some sat in small groups on the circular benches, loudly talking about political power within the class. A smile crept over my face. Who knew eleven-year-olds could discuss things in a way to make them sound like teenagers.

Other classes were emerging now and a few more teachers to help keep watch. Jenny caught my eye and smiled and I gave a small nod in reply.

Soon the playground was swarmed with children, running around, playing games, excitedly discussing television shows and which video games they were playing. Plenty felt the need to come and share this information with me and I went along with this, laughing and smiling. Although they could be the cause of a few accidents, the playground in a primary school often felt like one of the happiest places to be. I was content but obviously alert to any potential dangers.

It was then that I noticed her. There was a small girl, younger than the age I taught, maybe six or seven years old from her build but she was slumped in a corner next to a fence, hugging her knees to her chest. She wasn’t wearing a coat, nor was she wearing the school jumper with our logo emblazoned on the front of the chest. She was sat on concrete, huddled in shadow, her dark hair cascading over her face as she looked down.

She must have been freezing!

I assumed she’d had some sort of argument with a friend and was away from the others, either sulking or genuinely upset. Either way, I had to console her and to send her back inside to get her coat.

I walked over and squatted down next to her, getting to the same level as her to make sure she didn’t feel at all threatened.

“Hey there. Are you ok?”

She shook her head, shaking some hair loose from her shoulders so that it covered even more of her face.

“What happened?”


It was at this point that I began feeling uncomfortable. I had no idea why. I’d had conversations just like these a dozen other times. Some children felt like talking, some needed consoling, some just needed space and we gave them that. They usually spoke when they were ready. This situation though, something about it had me on edge to the point I could actually feel the adrenaline kick of a flight or fight response.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Another shaking of the head, then a meek voice came forth from the mass of hair, “I never get cold.”

Some of us never grew out of that bravado, but children almost always responded like that. They were never too cold or tired or anything else that could be perceived as weakness, at least, not when asked.

“Well, I think we need to get you inside to get your coat. Or at least your jumper.”

“No.” The voice was no longer meek. It was commanding and the head shifted slightly so that it was raised more towards me, revealing her face to me.

I tried my best not to, but I recoiled slightly. In this light, the shadow of the fence, her eyes appeared entirely black. No iris, no sclera, just pure black ovals reflecting my own face. She sighed gently and her eyes closed again. “I want to play.”

“Well,” I began, slowing my breathing and keeping the momentary fear out of my voice, “you can play after we get your jumper.”

“Will you play with me?”


She tilted her head back now, the hair falling away as her eyes snapped open suddenly. Again, those eyes…the pure black pools reflecting my own concerned face.

“We have to play. You have to play with me.”

I had stood up and taken a few steps back. She was shaking now, but it didn’t seem to be shivering. There was no fear and nothing about her that suggested she was cold…it literally looked like she was shaking in anger. Her blank, expressionless face had contorted into one of anger, her eyes narrowing and her lips pulling back until her teeth were bared.

I had stumbled back a few more steps and then had frozen. I felt simultaneously terrified and embarrassed. I was a senior teacher in a playground full of children and other staff and was retreating in horror from one infant.

I opened my mouth to speak and then the bell went, the ringing which symbolised the end of playtime. The anger vanished from her face and her eyes closed again as children rushed around me, between us, none of them stopping to look at her as she rose from the ground.

I found my feet and walked towards where my own class were lining up, my eyes locked on her as she stood upright and once more I was shown the darkness behind her eyelids as they opened. Her lips pulled up into a smile that chilled me more than anything I had encountered in my teaching career and then, lost in the throng of running children, I lost sight of her.

Once she was out of my sight it was easy to dismiss what I had seen as just a trick of the light, my own senses tricked, causing me to become afraid which in turn caused my senses to let me down again.

I never saw that girl again, never noticed her so I could confirm or disprove what I had seen and I moved schools not long after that, transferring somewhere closer to home. I had begun to put it out of my mind, dismiss it entirely. Then I stumbled upon a newspaper article, one which spoke of a black eyed girl who had been frequently seen in Staffordshire. Looking into it I found hundreds of accounts of those who had witnessed the black eyed children. All describing the same sense of fear, dread and foreboding which accompanied them and the anger the children displayed when it was discovered they were anything but normal.

Apparently most of these involve these black eyed children asking to come into your home, saying they need help. Or coming up to your car, begging for a ride. I have no idea what happens if you allow them in and the teacher in me would find it difficult to turn them away. All I would say is…

Look them in the eye before saying yes.

Credit To – Pazuzu’s Crypt

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The Fourth Child

August 28, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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My mother, my siblings and I moved into this awesome new house a few months ago. It’s a really cool plantation-style home out in what was once a rural area outside of New Orleans. By now the area is a little more built up, so it’s really more like a spacious suburb.

Anyway, it had been about 9 months since our father died. My mom really wanted us to get away from our old house; it was full of too many memories. She wanted us to have a cool, spacious house to play in and give us a fresh start. Apparently we got this place at a decent deal because the former owner was this old woman who passed away and her family wanted to get the extra house off their hands. She died peacefully in her sleep, but it still made us a little uncomfortable so no one moved into her bedroom. We just let it be a guestroom if anyone had visitors.

We have a wonderful neighbor named Miss Leah who lives next door to us (about a half mile away). She’s a small but powerfully built woman who welcomed us to the area with open arms. The former owner of the house was an old friend of hers who she visited all the time, and my own mother soon took on the role of her new friend. They immediately became best friends, always giggling in our kitchen on the weekends.

Miss Leah loves telling tales of Voodoo and even practices it herself (many people in New Orleans do). She mostly practices the “light” voodoo, like charms for good luck and protection. She told me that you can talk to spirits if you write them letters and put them in a place where they know to find them.

I started seeing her every now and then, late at night when I can’t sleep, sticking envelopes into our mailbox (I can see it from my window). When I’d go out in the morning, though, no envelopes would be there. One night I saw her doing the usual mailbox routine, and as soon as she walked far enough away, I ran out to see what she was putting in our mailboxes. I saw a little, silvery, unaddressed letter to Maggie, which turns out to be the name of the old lady who lived in our house before us. I always thought Miss Leah was joking about talking to the dead, but it’s clear she practices it herself. Just to test things out, I stood at that mailbox, watching it for a few hours. Eventually, the sun began to break over the horizon so I figured I had waited ample time. I opened the mailbox.

The letter was gone.

At first I was in complete disbelief, but then I was overcome with excitement. If Miss Leah could talk to Maggie, maybe I could talk to my dad!
I keep a little shoebox under my own bed. It’s full of little trinkets and pictures that remind me of my dad. I go through it every now and then, when I miss him most, as a sort of therapy.
A few nights after trying to rationalize what had happened with the note to Maggie, I decided the best way to test it out was to try it myself. I wrote a letter to my dad, which felt silly at first because I don’t know what dead people like to talk about. I wrote:

“Dear Daddy,
Miss you! How are things on the other side? Mom bought this cool house for us and we have a fun neighbor lady named Miss Leah. We’re all doing ok over here but I especially miss waking up every morning to the sounds of your loud singing in the shower. I hated it back then, but now I realize how funny and charming it was.

I placed the note into my special shoebox and slipped it back under the bed. When I woke up in the morning, it wasn’t there. I wasn’t sure how to handle it. Did he really get the message? Does he write back? What do I do now?

Well, I still needed to go to school that day so the excitement of my supernatural letter-writing subsided and I headed over to the bathroom to get ready. My older brother was singing his lungs out in the shower, something unusual for him, but I figured he was trying to become more like our dad.

I knocked on the door, “hurry up in there! I need to pee!”
The singing continued.
“Jay, how much longer are you going to take?”
The singing continued. Then someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Jay. He said, “Calm down Julia. I’m not in the bathroom. Is the door locked? Lemme see if I can jimmy it open for you”
He opened the door with ease. The bathroom was empty. No singing. The shower wasn’t running, but the tub was wet. I walked in and started brushing my teeth, amused by what had just happened. I noticed the mirror was a little bit foggy, as though from shower steam. There was a message written in the mirror. It said “How bad do you miss me?”

I walked the fine line between being totally freaked out and super elated that my dad was communicating with me. I wrote another letter that night.

“Haha I miss you more than you can possibly imagine, Daddy! Don’t ever doubt that. But tell me, how are things on the other side?”

That morning I woke up. The letter in the shoebox was gone, but I noticed a new letter near my door. It looked like someone slipped it under there. I opened it up. It said, “what do you want most from me?” I found it weird that my dad wasn’t really carrying the conversation well, but I decided I’d write a quick response and go to school. I wrote:

“Well, I guess what I want most is for you to come back and play with me like old times. But I know that’s silly.”

When I got back from school, I went straight to my room to check on the letter. I opened my door and my dollhouse, which we stored in the attic, was smack in the middle of my floor. My mom had been at work all day, my brother was still at swim practice and my sister went to the mall with her friend after dropping me off at home. I don’t know who could have moved it…except maybe my dad. I saw a note next to the dollhouse. It said, “PLAY WITH ME.”

My body froze. Something was unsettling about this whole setup. I didn’t feel like I was in danger or anything, but I just wasn’t comfortable. I walked to Miss Leah’s house and she was sitting in her rocking chair on the front porch with her cat, Rufus, in her lap. I told her I knew about the letters she wrote to Maggie.

“Ah yes, sweetheart,” she said. “Even though she’s passed, I haven’t stopped talking to Miss Maggie one bit. She’s was my best friend, and I want her to know how much I love her and how much Rufus misses the little tuna treats she’d give him. I write her almost every day, just updating her on my life so that when I pass, too, it’ll be like she didn’t miss a beat.” She asked me if I was thinking about writing to the dead, too.

For some reason I didn’t feel comfortable telling Miss Leah that I had been writing to my dad already. I told her I was “considering” writing a letter to my dad and that I would try it out that night. She laughed, “OK honey. You’ll have to let me know how it goes tomorrow.” I played with Rufus for a little while as Miss Leah talked on the phone with her nephew. The sun started going down and I figured it was about time for dinner so I said goodbye to Miss Leah and Rufus and walked back over to my home.

My mom and everyone else were already back.

“My god where have you been!” my mom yelled. I told her I was hanging out with Miss Leah, which eased her nerves a little bit since she knew I had been home alone for a while, which scared her. My sister was grounded for abandoning me for the afternoon, but she said it was smart for me to go to Miss Leah’s. She then said, “You know that dollhouse was expensive, right?” which seemed like an odd question but I answered, “Yes. I suppose. Why?” and she explained, “Well, I guess I just wish you’d taken better care of it, is all. I saw it in your room when I was looking for you and I could see you picked off all its paint and there were some dings and dents and I just thought it was such a shame. Also, next time you’re getting something from the attic, wait until I get home and I can help you, honey.”

Bewildered by my mother’s comment, I ate dinner in silence. Afterwards, I helped with the dishes and made my way back to my room with apprehension. It seemed like the dollhouse was in great condition last I saw so I knew something must have happened after I left. I prayed my mom was just seeing things, that the dollhouse was, indeed, exactly how I left it. I opened my door.

My mom was wrong. The dollhouse wasn’t a little dinged up. It had been ripped to bits. Its tattered remains were strewn about the floor. Even my little dolls were mangled with their arms snapped backwards and their heads missing. I couldn’t fathom what had just happened. Then I saw the letter…


My hair stood on end. I could feel the rage emanating throughout the room. I tried to rationalize. I tried to tell myself that the context made me sense rage, but there was nothing to worry about. But how can you rationalize things when you’re going around writing letters to dead people who break your furniture? I felt terrible that I had upset my father this way. He bought me that dollhouse himself, so it must have hurt to destroy it. I immediately wrote a new letter to my dad saying:

I’m so sorry for not playing with you. I love you, but I think we need to let go. You belong on the other side and I belong here. I just want to say one more thing to you. Something I never got the chance to say before:

Goodbye Daddy.


I slept with my brother that night. He was nice about it–didn’t even ask what I was afraid of. He could tell I was disturbed and he didn’t want to push me. Before we went to bed, he did say one thing. “You know there’s no such thing as monsters, right?”
“Yes,” I whispered. At that point I wasn’t sure if I was lying or not. It was still comforting to say it. I didn’t think I was dealing with a monster, or at least I wasn’t sure about it. I didn’t even really know what a monster was supposed to be. A dragon? A Boogeyman in your closet? An angry father?

The next day was Saturday, and I still wasn’t comfortable being in my room for long. I got dressed and walked to Miss Leah’s. I wanted to leave the house without checking the shoebox. It felt like I was leaving an angry parent, and wanted to give them time to cool off before we talked again. Miss Leah was sitting with Rufus, as usual, and they both watched the bluejays hop around in their yard—Rufus slightly more attentive than Miss Leah.

“Well hey there sweetheart,” Miss Leah called out. “How’d it go last night?”

I knew she was talking about the letter and I knew she’d know exactly how to fix things. But before I could begin speaking, she interrupted “Let me guess, it didn’t work.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked.

“Because I know better than anyone else that spirits can’t move physical objects. I have to use my special charm paper to write to Maggie, and I doubt you got any charm paper.”

I felt a little ashamed after that. I’m not sure why. I guess I just felt like I’d been deceiving Miss Leah. I didn’t tell her the whole story. I just told her I thought it worked because the letter was gone.

“Well, Julia. My best guess is you’ve got a prankster in your house. Probably your brother; he’s too silly for his age.”

She went on about all the things she’s told Maggie. She said it didn’t happen often, as it was hard for Maggie’s frail little spirit to do much of anything except read, but Maggie would sometimes write back. Maggie said she hadn’t crossed over yet, but when she did cross over, she wouldn’t be able to get letters anymore. Maggie said that she loved Miss Leah and her letters, but one day, she’d need to move one. She said eventually, Miss Leah wouldn’t have the strength to write letters and they would become fewer and fewer. Once Maggie knew it was too hard for Miss Leah to write anymore, she’d cross over and wait patiently with Petunia, another one of Miss Leah’s cats who had passed away. Maggie said Miss Leah would know when she crossed over because her letters would stay in the mailbox, and no one would take them.

I wandered home later that afternoon wondering if my dad was ever going to cross over. I wasn’t sure how to feel. I know what I saw and what I did. I wrote letters to my dad. I left them where he’d check (our box). They were gone later. I heard him in the shower. I saw his message in the mirror. I saw the dollhouse and his notes. I know no one in the house could’ve moved the dollhouse. I was certain it was Daddy.

I arrived in my room, fragments of the dollhouse still scattered about the floor. I remembered the last letter I wrote. The one that asked my Dad to move on. I was afraid he’d be angry with me. I was afraid he’d accuse me of not loving him enough, of lying to him. I didn’t want to check the box, but I needed to see if he got the message.

I opened it. The letter was gone.

But in it’s place was a new letter. It said “Julia” on the cover, so I knew it was for me. I figured he wrote back. I opened it. And I was horrified at what I saw.

“Daddy isn’t here”

I bolted down the stairs and prepared to run back to Miss Leah’s and explain everything. But I didn’t have to. There she was, giggling with my mom in the kitchen. I started walking toward them, but there was something on the other side of the division between the kitchen and living room, where I could still see it but Mom and Miss Leah couldn’t. We put a framed picture of Dad there in order to remember him. There was a note on the picture. It said, “SAY A WORD AND THEY’RE DEAD”

I wasn’t sure what to do. I knew I needed to keep quiet, but I also knew that something very, VERY sinister was going on. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

My sister and brother were going to a big house party, and my mom wanted to go hang out with her girlfriends that night, so Miss Leah actually came over to take me to her house for the night. My mom tried to apologize for the late notice, but I was so excited to get out of the house and away from…whatever it was, that she didn’t even get to finish her apology.

That night, Miss Leah let me stay up late with her and Rufus. At around 12 am she started writing a letter on her special charm paper. It was very thin, and glowed a silvery hue. I asked her how to make it and she said that it comes from the soul. We walked to my house together and put the letter in the mailbox. The next day, my mom picked me up and we stopped by the mailbox because someone had pulled the lever up. There was a note for Miss Leah there, and I knew exactly whom it was from. The paper had that same thinness and silvery glow. Mom wrote it off as someone dropping it off in the wrong box and asked if I would run back and give it to Miss Leah.

I sprinted down the street to Miss Leah’s. She opened the letter and began reading while I sat and waited with Rufus. When she was done, Miss Leah’s face turned pale. I never thought I’d see such a white, porcelain complexion on a live human being. All the color was gone from her face and she trembled. She was clearly disturbed. VERY disturbed. She told me not to go home, that she’d call my mom and everyone would come over for lunch. She immediately put down the letter and picked up her phone. Once her back was turned, I took the letter to read it.

“Dearest Leah,
So sorry I’ve taken such a long time to write back to you. It seems that I lack the spiritual power necessary to write. Heck! I could hardly even write when I was alive and had hands.

The lady who moved into my old house with her family is lovely as ever and I want you to know that I’ve been watching y’alls friendship and I’m so happy for you. I miss giggling in the kitchen with you, but watching you and her talk is almost as good.

I’ll bet you met all her children as well. Most of them are sweet as can be. Jay has a heart of gold and seems to really care for the family. Catherine has a great sense of humor. Always makes me and the rest of the family laugh. Julia is a curious little one. She reminds me a bit of you.

Then there’s the fourth child. It’s a vicious little thing. You know the one I’m talking about? The one with the black eyes and the long, dark claws that lives in my old room? It’s always causing a ruckus.

I’m glad I’m dead because that little scoundrel really gives me the creeps. It watches poor Julia as she sleeps and leaves awful little notes around the house.

I noticed the other day that it’s started taking knives out of the drawers at night and bringing them under the bed with it. That mother should really do something about keeping it under control.

Perhaps you could help with that?

Can’t wait for your next correspondence!


I couldn’t breathe. I just sat…frozen…as Miss Leah screamed into the phone.
“Oh god please tell me y’all are ok! Pick up the phone! Please PLEASE pick up the phone!” She decided to call 911. When the police got to my house Miss Leah and I waited outside. They found my mom, my brother, my sister. They found them all over the house lacerated into shreds of flesh. They couldn’t determine how it happened, figured it was a wild animal or something.

But Miss Leah and I knew how it happened. While we were waiting outside the house we both looked up into my bedroom window. Standing there, in the room where I slept at night, was a black eyed child with an evil grin that stretched ear to ear. It raised one long, sharp finger….probably 12 inches long, to it’s mouth as if to say “shhhhhhh…”

Credit To – J-Rog

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August 23, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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Arthur Willow lie awake listening to the rustling noise in his closet. He was fourteen, much too old to believe in the clichéd thought of a monster in a closet.
Yet as he tried to force himself asleep for yet another time this month, the rustling grew louder than it had before. Whenever this noise occurred he justified it as a rogue toy, or a raccoon stuck in the wall.
There was no point in checking the closet, he had before and there was always nothing there. So the sound continued on into the night, until as per usual, Arthur finally shut his heavy eyelids.
“Arthur, breakfast!” His mother’s voice echoed up from the kitchen.
Arthur rubbed his eyes, rolled out from the warmth of the covers, and started his routine. He opened the door to the closet, glanced around at old toys, a pile of clothes he outgrew, and a rather large bunny his grandparents had given him for Easter. He never found anything during this routine, and that gave him some comfort.
“How did you sleep, Honey?” Arthur’s mom asked as she plopped two pancakes out of the frying pan, onto his plate. Arthur was always impressed with how strong she was after his dad passed away.
“Wonderful.” Arthur lied.
His mother gave him a worried look, patted his messy hair, and started cleaning dishes. Arthur finished breakfast and put on his coat.
The freezing air nipped at his cheeks as his shovel sank into the driveway snow. Neighbor children ran up and down the block pelting each other with snowballs, and making snow angels.
Arthur watched the snowflakes fall briefly, then returned to the warmth of his home.
Arthur removed his coat, sat on the couch and began to read. The noise had become more frequent, silent nights were becoming rare. Sleep deprivation had caught up to him, and Arthur took a much needed nap.
He awoke to gunshots. Arthur’s eyelids flew open, and he sat straight up. Through panicked breaths his eyes raced around the room and saw cowboys on television in a shoot-out. Mary, his little sister, had turned on the T.V. while she in the cushy recliner holding a doll.
“Mary, you should have let me rest.”
“I sowwie.” Mary looked genuinely sad.
She was only three, so it was near impossible to be upset with her. Arthur’s mother walked into the room and the rest of the evening was spent in the living room with his family. Before his father passed away having a good relationship with his family was not as important, now they relied much more on each other.
Everyone said goodnight and Arthur returned to his room. He uneasily laid down under the covers and waited. Just as Arthur was on the edge of sleep, it began. Arthur was starting to believe he was going insane. Once again he forced himself to sleep.
He awoke to his closet slamming. At first it didn’t register with Arthur. He rolled over and looked at the clock, it was 5 a.m. When his sleepiness drifted away he sat up staring at the closet door. Using the sliver of morning sunlight available Arthur could see that the floor in front of the closet was damp. He quickly flung open the closet door, threw the pile of clothes out of the closet, scattered toys, and chucked the rabbit. There was nothing.
Arthur replaced the contents of his closet and returned to bed. He laid in bed wide awake until breakfast.
At breakfast he sat down and his mother gave him waffles. “Some neighbor children built the cutest little snowman in our yard.” His mother said while she handed him syrup.
“I’ll take a look at it when I go to shovel snow.” Arthur replied.
The snowman outside was small and poorly made. It had classic twigs for arms and rocks for eyes. A scarf was loosely wrapped around its neck. The scarf seemed familiar to Arthur. It was blue with small rubber ducks scattered all over it. It was exactly like a scarf Arthur wore as a child. In fact it was Arthur’s scarf.
Arthur ran back inside and searched for his sister. “Mary?” Arthur jogged upstairs and checked his sister’s room. Mary sat on the floor coloring from the light of the window.
“Mary, did you build a snowman outside using my scarf?”
“Tury did et.” Mary replied without looking up from her coloring activity.
“Who’s Terry?” Arthur analyzed Mary trying to figure out if this was some sort of joke.
“My friend.” Mary seemed completely serious.
“When do you see, Terry?” Arthur asked feeling his heart sink.
“Night. He watches us.” Mary kept coloring away as if this conversation was normal.
Arthur lie awake that night. No matter how much sleep gripped him, he wanted to stay awake and watch. He forced his breathing to become very slow, to appear to be sleeping. Around 3 a.m. Arthur heard something very strange. The sound of shifting floorboards, he deduced, and then the door opened.
To Arthur’s shock, the rabbit plopped out of the closet and remained motionless. Arthur couldn’t believe it, the rabbit was alive? This made absolutely no sense. It had most likely been purchased at a Wal-Mart by his grandparents. How was an Easter toy alive?
While Arthur’s eyes were fixed on the rabbit, the door slid open more. A small boy slowly stepped out of the closet. He stood there seemingly staring at Arthur. Arthur became so terrified, but kept his determination and remained still.
The child had dark brown hair, and murky gray skin. His eyes remained fixated on Arthur, unblinking. Arthur stared in horror as he realized the boy’s eyes had no pupils or color. They were completely white.
For minutes, which felt like hours to Arthur, the disfigured child stood in the moonlight watching Arthur. The horror of the situation had overtaken him, and he laid in bed paralyzed by his gaze. After around twenty minutes, the intensity of the situation had become too much and Arthur began to cry. The small child almost appeared to be startled by the sound. He slowly walked across the room, appearing to study Arthur.
Arthur remained completely still as the child approached. The child’s cheeks were sunken and his white eyes were glazed over. The child stopped getting closer when their noses almost touched and Arthur could feel his breath.
Then the child shrieked.
Terry’s scream made Arthur’s stomach churn, and he leapt backward on the bed in terror. Suddenly Terry ran out of Arthur’s room and down the hall. Arthur remained frozen with his back to the wall staring at the entrance of the room. While processing what had happened, he reflected back to what Mary had told him.
Had he ran into Mary’s room?
The overwhelming fear of this creature was stifled for the welfare of his sister. Arthur grabbed his battered baseball bat and headed down the hall.
He half whispered, half yelled “Mary?..” while he slowly walked with his bat up checking every corner. Finally he made it to Mary’s bedroom. Her window was open, and cold air was rushing into the room. Arthur turned the lights on, and searched the room. Mary was gone.
The police were called to the Willow family home that night. Arthur never spoke to his mother or the cops about what happened. The police said they found two sets of small footsteps side by side in the snow leading to the woods before they disappeared. They searched the neighborhood, and woods long into the night to no avail.
Early that morning Arthur once again searched the closet. He recalled back to the noise of the floorboards shifting, then he started putting pressure on the floor. The boards gave in a little, and Arthur managed to pull out a few.
Beneath the floor, Arthur found an odd crawlspace. This must be where Terry had been hiding, right under the rabbit, beneath the floor. Inside he found some of his old toys and various drawings. The drawings consisted of what Arthur could tell was Terry and Mary. Arthur became sick when he saw that Mary had gray skin, and white eyes.
The last picture had Terry and Mary on a distinct hill in what appeared to be the woods. Arthur stared at the hill and realized, he had seen that place before. When he was younger, he played in the woods and more specifically on that hill.
Arthur grabbed his coat and boots, then sprinted out the door into the cold morning air. He rushed through the woods dodging rocks and limbs. Off in the distance he saw the hill from his childhood. As he approached, he began to make out the figure of Mary laying in the snow.
“Mary!” Arthur yelled as he dropped to his knees beside of her body. Her skin was gray and frost bitten, her hair slightly covering her white eyes. “Mary… wake up..” He gingerly picked her up and checked for a pulse. There was none.
“Mary you can’t die, you’re my sister..” Arthur said with tears running down his face.
Mary slowly turned her head and screamed.

Credit To – Zolast

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Her Eyes

December 15, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I never knew something as simple as a knock on the door could forever send me into a frozen state of terror. It all started with a cold and rainy autumn evening. The wind was blowing fiercely, whistling through the little cracks in the windows and door frames. I was sitting by myself in the living room, watching a terrible homemade zombie flick when I heard a dull thud of foot steps walking up the stairs to my porch.

I muted the television, sat upright, and turned my ear towards the front door. I heard the storm door open then slam shut within two seconds of it opening. I quickly stood up, stumbling over the small ottoman sitting in front of me. I turn on the light in the entryway then peek through the curtain on the little door window to see who was there. No one. I glance out further to see that I had left my driver’s side window cracked open. I curse under my breath and grab my keys from the side table and run outside to my car. I quickly roll my window up, then run back into the house, soaking wet.

I hastily shut the front door, as to not let any heat escape. As soon as it latches, the knocking begins again. Annoyed, I sigh, thinking I forgot to latch the storm door. I turn the knob, ripping the door open when I see a child standing in front of me on the porch. Startled, I gasp loudly, clutching my chest. The child, a girl no older than 10 years stood on my porch, in a raincoat, looking down to the floor. “Are you all right?” She says nothing. I take a step closer to her “Hey, can I help you with something?” I’m starting to panic inside a little because something seems terribly “off” about this girl. Then I notice, she’s completely dry. Not a single drop of rain has touched her coat. I look around to see that my porch is flooded where the wind had blown the rain against my house. Even if she had been on my porch this whole time, she still would’ve been drenched.

I stand there, staring at this child who wouldn’t even look at me.
“Little girl. Please answer–”
“May I please borrow your phone?”
Her voice is calm and kind of deep. She never takes her eyes off of the ground. I inhale sharply, surprised by her sudden question. I weakly ask, “Who do you want to call? Do you need the police, your parents, who?” I’m trying to stay calm, but my voice is shaking. Something is terribly wrong, but I can’t figure it out.

The girl stands very still, and starts sniffling. “May I come in? It’s so cold. Do you have any food?” I stare at the girl, confused by her monotone voice. I don’t feel comfortable letting her inside my house. I feel bad because she’s a child, but something about her terrifies me. I tremble, “What is your name? Where do you live?” The rain suddenly stops. Like turning off a faucet. The wind stops, also, making the neighborhood twenty times quieter. I get shivers down my spine. The girl slowly lifts her hooded head, finally making eye contact. I try to scream, but the only thing that comes out are aggravated breaths of terror. Her eyes. Oh my god. Her eyes. As black as the abyss that she had likely crawled out of. Her pale white skin glowed a soft white, making her eyeballs so much darker. She stepped closer to me, “Please let me in, I’m so cold.” I stare in fear, when the wind and rain turn on like a switch behind her.

I slam the door in her face, running to my phone. I dial 9-1-1, barely holding on because I’m shaking so much. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” I try to explain what’s happening, but just sound crazy. “There’s a girl. On m-my porch. Not wet. Black eyes. Oh my god.” I hear the lady from 9-1-1 trying to calm me down. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Calm down please, I can’t understand you. You said there’s a girl on your porch?” I stutter, “Y-yes. She’s out there. IT’S out there. She has black eyes and wants to come in. I won’t let her in!” I hear her knocking on my door. Each knock louder than the rest. I cry out, “Leave me alone! I’m not letting you in!” The knocking ceases. I sigh in a small relief. The woman on the phone asks me where I am and if I need a police officer to come. I say “Yes, please hurry.” Then hang up. Ten long minutes later, I see police vehicle lights dancing on my living room wall. I sigh in relief, and hear a loud banging on the door. I run, a little hesitantly, and answer it. “Thank god you’re here, officer–” I gasp. No officer. Only his car, sitting in the rain, driver side door wide open. I walk out onto the porch, frantically searching everywhere for him. I run to the back yard, dripping with rain water, shouting, “Officer! Officer, where are you?!” I run back to the front of the house when I see that awful girl standing in front of me, glaring at me. She sounds aggravated now. “Let me in so I can use your phone. I’m lost. Please help me.” I dart up the porch stairs, shoving her out of my way, throwing her off the porch. I look back to see her ankle twisted in an impossible angle. She doesn’t scream or cry, she just stands up, limping towards me, dragging her ankle behind her. I scream in horror, slamming and locking the door behind me. The knocking continues. I just want it to stop. I have to do something. I run to my kitchen, open the silverware drawer and pull out a sharp knife. The knocking will not stop.

I walk toward the front door, raising the knife above my head, and grabbing for the door knob. I quickly open the door to see the Officer standing in front of me, his gun drawn, pointing at me. Out of instinct, he fires, shorting me in the chest. I drop the knife, and fall to the ground. He enters the door and kneels beside me, yelling into his radio that he needs backup and an ambulance. He puts pressure on my chest as th blood pours out of me. I look behind him to see the black eyed girl standing directly behind him, looking down at me, smiling with her sharp teeth glistening. I’m choking on my own blood at this moment. Gasping in terror, my eyes widen. They never close again. The last thing I ever see is that girl and her harshly blackened eyes, smiling down at me like she just won a prize.

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Camping with Black Eyed Kids

November 13, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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My encounter with black eyed kids. Please share. I’d like to know other people’s thoughts. Thank you.

First, a quick intro about myself.

I’m a 26 years old, male. I work at a small private college in Michigan. I’m a normal, average guy. I like hockey, HBO shows, kayaking, and hiking/camping. I have a girlfriend, love my dad and sister, and have a pet dog named Bear. While I keep an open mind, I don’t believe in ghosts, aliens, big-foot, and am not even too sure about God. The way I see it, if I haven’t encountered it first hand or seen documented, verifiable proof then I keep a healthy amount of skepticism. There is one thing I do believe in now that I never did before, hell I didn’t even know about it before – black freaking eye kids.

As I said earlier, I love(ed) to hike and camp. For reasons too introspective to get into fully here I just loved the solitude, peace, and serenity the outdoors provided me. My life is not overly stressful, chaotic, or dramatic, but every once in a while a man needs to get away from it all. Being alone in the wilderness gave me the opportunity to clear my head, be introspective, consider the facts of life. I loved the beauty of the natural world, and I try to appreciate the small and big things, from the smallest clover to the biggest mountain. Beauty is all around us. In a way, I think it’s my belief in beauty that has helped me cope as well as I have with what I’m about to share. In late August of 2010 I set out for Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore located along Lake Michigan. I had schedule five days off of work, and I planned on making the most of it. Sleeping Bear is one of my favorite parks in lower Michigan. I know it to be a great place for some solitude, and having usually been abandoned by sun worshipers by mid August I knew I’d have most of the park to myself. So, I wasn’t surprised when I arrived the fist day, found my usually parking spot, a sand parking lot just yards from the lake, and didn’t see another person.

As I sat on the hood of my car, overlooking the beach and the lake, I remember breathing deeply and saying aloud “thank God for solitude.” I ate lunch, walked down the beach and put my bare feet into the water. Cold. Very cold. It didn’t matter to me though, because I didn’t come to swim. I came to hike, and to camp. I came to, as was my tradition, sit by a warm fire on a cool night, sipping on my flask of whiskey, enjoying the sounds of the forest. However, this peaceful tradition didn’t happen. The proper procedure when camping at a state or national park, if you’ve never been, is to check in at a ranger station. There you pay your fees, obtain your backcountry pass, if you’re going to be camping in the backcountry as I always do, and give the rangers your information: license plate number, make and model of your car, etc. After my quick stop off at the beach to eat my lunch, I headed to the nearby, a fifteen or so minute drive, and get my affairs in order.

The Platte River Ranger Station is manned until mid October, I think, so it was open and I didn’t have to travel to the main station a ½ hours drive north. I park in the station’s parking lot, and walk into the office. The ranger and I spoke for a little and he asks me for my license plate number. I knew he was going to ask, but I still forgot to write it down before I went in, so I walk back out toward my car, and I see two kids sitting at a bench just in front of where I’m parked. They weren’t there when I parked, and I didn’t notice them when I walked in to the station, but at this point in time I’m still on cloud nine. I’m happy to be on vacation, so I take no real notice. I walk to the back of my car, jot down the license plate number and walk back to office. I take care of business in the office and step out and walk to the connecting bathroom. The backcountry area I’m staying at, White Pine, has a pit-toilet, think port a john but just with a deep hole in the ground, but I’d like to use a real bathroom while I can. I go into the restroom and go into the empty stall.

As I’m taking care of my business, I hear the bathroom door open. I hear whispered voices. It’s a small bathroom, but I can’t make-out what the voices are saying. I can tell they’re kid’s voices though, and I figure it’s the kids I saw near my car earlier. No biggie, right? I finish up, and open the stall door. Sure enough, there are the two kids standing outside the stall. I remember saying, “it’s all yours.” As I walked to the sink. The kids just stood there. When you think about it now, in reading, the situation seems a little spooky, but at the time, and if you were in the situation yourself I’d bet that you wouldn’t be the slightest bit worried and neither was I. I was my hands, and glance in the mirror, only to notice the kids are looking right at me. This is the first time, but certainly not the last time, on this trip that my spine tingles with fear. The god damn kids have completely black eyes. No whites to their eyes at all. Like I said, this is a pretty small bathroom and they were not more than three feet away. At first I can’t do or say anything. I am literally frozen with fear. The water runs over my hands, but I can’t feel it. I’m so deep inside my head at this moment that all I can hear are my thoughts, which were something like “Ahhhhhh!.” All joking aside, I was petrified.

It was only when one of the kids, a brown haired boy that I would guess was around twelve took a step toward me that my fight or flight instincts took over control from my fear. I turned off the water, why I bothered I don’t know habit I guess, and moved a step back from the kids and toward the door. Seemingly sensing my fear the boy didn’t take another step toward me. Instead he stopped, on retrospect I can guess he was trying to keep from frightening me too much – didn’t work kid!

“Can you help us?” That’s what the boy said when one of us finally spoke. For a moment I did want to help.

I consider myself a pretty nice guy. I’d go out of my way to help pregnant women carry groceries to their car. I’d rescue cats from trees if the situation arose, and for a while I thought that is why I wanted to help those creepy kids. I thought, my sheer decency was what made me, despite my better judgment, and despite my fear want to help them. Only since I began researching the BEK’s do I realize that I didn’t want to help those kids, but whatever, magical, mystical voo-doo, power they have made me want to help them. I can’t tell you with any certainty how long I stood motionless thinking about helping those kids, but it seemed like an eternity. Finally, like a physical shaking of my brain I said “No, Not right now. I gotta go.” And then I left the bathroom.

I remember in that two seconds my back was turned on those kids to me leaving the bathroom I felt certain I was going to die. I thought as soon as my back was turned they were going to tear me to shreds. It was with knee buckling relief that I left the bathroom and walked out into the midday sun. I walked the fifteen or so feet to my car, on noodle like legs, too afraid to look behind me. I fumbled for my keys and unlocked my door, sat down, closed the door and locked it. Only then, in the safety of my locked car, did I feel safe enough to look back toward the bathroom. Damned if the little bastards weren’t standing just outside the bathroom staring at me with the big, black soul sucking eyes.

I want to take moment to explain a little bit more about myself. I’m not a big man, but I’m not small either. I’m six foot, with shoes on I always say, and am around 185 pounds. What I’m saying is I can take a couple twelve year olds in a fight (I assume, having never actually fought any twelve year olds since I was twelve myself). In my hiking, I’ve encountered odd people before. I’ve turned a bend in a trail only to startle a huge grizzly bear. I’ve been lost, once, and ran out of water, once, and I even had a tree fall in the middle of my campsite during a gale swept night in Tennessee –as I was drifting off to sleep! However, not a single event in my life scared me nearly as much as those kids.

So, there I am, in my car, staring at those kids, and them staring at me. I can’t take my stare away from them, and they start for my car. Startled to my senses, I turn the key, throw it in reverse, and get the hell out of there. I drive off, not daring to look in the rearview mirror. I know that if I do look back that I’ll see those black eyes looking back at me. I turn onto the main road and head the short drive north to my camp site. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, why the hell are you still camping! To be honest I can’t tell you why. I was just so much in shock that I wasn’t really thinking. It wasn’t until I was parked in the sand lot, at the head of the White Pine trail that my brain started functioning again. The drive home would only take three hours. I could make it home in time for dinner, but for some reason I talked myself out of it. Sitting in my car, in the sun, on the beach has a way of taking away all bad feelings.

I just talked away my better judgment. I won’t be doing that again. It’s around three o’clock, and I know that the sun will start to set in around three or four hours, so I know I should head toward my camping spot. It’s not a very long walk from the parking lot to the White Pine backcountry campground, but it will take around 45 minutes, leaving me just a couple hours to set up camp, gather fire wood, cook dinner and eat before nightfall. Fuck it, I remember saying to myself. I get my pack out of my backseat and take off down the trail.

Now, there are two ways to access the White Pine campground from where I was parked. I could either head through the woods, or I could walk along the beach. The wooded trail is quicker, and shorter, and the beach trail is harder on the legs and lungs (walking with a fifty pound pack in the sand is no picnic). However, considering what I just went through I decided to go along the beach. It was the more open, brighter, kinder trail.
To reach the campsite from the beach trail, you have to turn away from the lake and go about ½ a mile into the woods. Reaching my campsite, I find it, unfortunately, completely empty. The campground has seven sites, I think, and not a one of them was taken. Usually this would be a happy thing to me, but this time I wished for all my might for a little company. I pick a site hidden fairly well from the trail, feeling that I didn’t need anyone walking along to spot my tent.

I unpack and set up my ultra-light one person tent, put down my sleeping pad, and unroll my zero degree rated mummy-bag. Taking my walking stick, a sawed off hockey stick, and a folding knife with me, I head into the forest to gather fire wood. I pile up a good sized pile, three times larger than I think I’ll need, and proceed to light a fire. I cook my food, and eat, all the while watching the sun set through the trees. What is normally a beautiful, warming sight to me, now only brings dread. I do not want to be out here I suddenly realize. I finish eating quickly and decide to gather even more firewood. I do not want to run out in the middle of the night. As the darkness descends upon the woods and my campsite, I get the fire going, and riffle through my pack looking for my flask. This was a situation that called for a little liquid courage. I hit it hard. In the woods the sun sets at first slower then you think and then near the end it just kind of falls out of the sky, and is gone in a blink. So it did that night.

Sitting next to the fire, I decide to move my tent closer to me, so I click on my flash light, and move my tent until it is right behind the small bench next to the fire ring. I like having the tent behind me, protecting my back as I saw it. I’m glad I decided to gather more firewood because I’m burning through it quickly keeping the fire as high as I am. Even though it is early Autumn and the temperature was probably in the 40’s I was hot sitting so close to such a big fire.

Part of getting away from it all for me, is to leave my phone in the car. In civilization I don’t use a watch. I just look at my cell. However, this night I wish I had my cell on me, not to call someone there is no service, but to check the time. I wanted it to be late. I wanted the night to fly by, and give me the security of morning. I finished the whiskey, and wished that I had brought the bottle with me from the car. The spirits had done their job though, and I was a bit calmer. Also, praise be to god, I was feeling sleepy too. Though the rules say, don’t go to bed with your fire burning, I sure as hell was not going to sleep with out the fire. I got in my tent, leaving the flap open, with just the bug flap closed, so I could see the fire, and tried to sleep.

I don’t know how long I lay there before slept found me, but I did eventually drift off. Thankfully, I can’t remember having any dreams. I woke to a dead fire, and the early dusk light coming in. I have to say I was slightly surprised to be alive.

As dawn turned in to day I felt more and more foolish for the fear I felt yesterday. Being a usually calm, cool, and collected guy I couldn’t explain the intense dread and fear I felt when I saw those kids, but I did my best to ignore it, and I explained away their eyes pretty easily. I told myself the kids were camping at the Platte River campground, same location as the ranger station I registered at. They had some colored contact lenses and were playing a joke. Simple. Possible, even probably considering the alternative. I ate breakfast and then made a, upon hindsight, horrible decision. I decided to stay another night.
After breakfast, I gathered firewood, so that I wouldn’t have to gather any when I got back for the evening. My pile of wood at a towering height, I hiked back to my car, along the wooded trail (I was feeling awfully, stupidly brave that morning).

I arrived at my car, and decided to go to the Dune Climb. The Dune Climb is a trail that begins at a towering dune and ends 1 ½ miles away at Lake Michigan. This hike was uneventful, but beautiful providing me even more determination not to let myself be scared off by some stupid kids with contact lenses. I got back to my car from the round trip hike right around 1:00. I got out my small camp stove and cooked some soup. Finished with lunch, I decided that next I would take the scenic drive, I forget the name of the road, that is part of the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. It’s a winding drive with several scenic and educational pull offs. It’s relaxing and beautiful. I finished with that around 3:00, and I decided I would head to Traverse City, just a 45 minute drive away, and do a little shopping and grab an early dinner at a nice steak house. This is not something I normally do while camping but after the previous nights events, I decided to treat myself.

Traverse City is a nice town to visit, if you ever have the chance (just a recommendation). I went to this steak house just outside of Traverse around 4:30, figuring a quick dinner, an 45 minute drive and an hour walk would get me to my camp at just about dusk. But that’s not what happened. The restaurant was packed! I got a table fairly quickly but the service was very slow. In the end I didn’t get out of the restaurant until dusk. Cursing myself it began to rain as I drove back to the trail head parking lot. By the time I was at the lot and parked it was full blown nighttime. Sitting in the parking lot, listening to the wind, and the rain I was pretty damn scared again. I think that if nearly all of my gear wasn’t still at the campsite then I would have just drove home and said screw it. However, I couldn’t abandon several hundred dollars worth of camping equipment because I was scared. I’m not a pussy.

I gear up: flashlight, pocket knife, water bottle, headlamp, and walking stick. Again I had two options, through the woods or along the beach. The storm clouds blocked out most of the star and moon light so I would have been kidding myself to think that the beach would have been better lit, but it was still more open, and provided me with a better feeling, so I took the beach path. The path is only a mile and a half long along the beach and then another ½ mile into the woods to the campsite. I figured, if I hustled, I could be at my campsite in just over ½ an hour.
I turn on my headlamp and move off down the beach. The wind is hitting pretty hard, and it’ pretty damn cold, but I’m prepared. My coat has a nice rain shell and I’m not getting too wet.
Hiking in the dark is not smart in the best of circumstances. In this area there are cougars and bear, both rare, but the real danger is getting lost, or stumbling over something and injuring yourself. However, I wasn’t too worried about any of that. The animals are so rare in that area it’d take very bad luck to get bothered by them, and the beach was clear of most debris that I might trip on. What had me worried was a creeping sensation of paranoia.

As I walked the sensation of paranoia and dread grew. I stopped every ten feet or so to look around, lighting the tall grass, next to the beach and before the woods, with my headlamp. I opened my jaw and listened, you can hear better with your mouth slightly open, but I saw nothing and heard nothing. I’d walk another ten feet and just know that someone was watching me. It was hard to hear anything over the lapping waves of the lake and the howling wind of the storm, but I swear I heard voices in the tall grass.
I’d been walking probably 1/2 an hour and I new I would be meeting off with the trail leading into the woods, and to my campsite any second now, but then my world fell apart. Having one of my strongest moments of feeling watched I turned around, facing the direction I came, and there they were.

The boy who spoke to me earlier couldn’t have been more than five feet away, and the other boy, the quiet boy, was standing slightly behind him. Each of the boys stood motionless. Staring. Just staring. At this moment, I’m not sure I have the ability to put my terror into words. The best way I can describe it is to say I felt like I was dying. I felt like I was in the hospital and the doctor just told me I had moments to live. The talkative boy moved toward me.
The only light on the beach came from my headlamp. Neither kid had any sort of flashlight. My led beam flashed across their faces, reflecting grotesquely in their large dark eyes. The waves crashed, and the wind blew.

“Help us.”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. The boy moved closer. The quiet boy stepped to the side, almost like he was slowly circling behind me, and that broke the spell.

“I’m not fucking helping you,” I said.
“We’re lost. We can’t find our campsite.”
“Is this a game,” I asked, even though I knew it wasn’t.
“Take us with you. Please. We’ll die out here. We’re afraid. ”

I call bull-shit on that one. They’re scared, I thought to myself? I’m scared. You’re the one with the creepy eyes, the vacant hollow voices. You’re the ones with the fish-eye stare.
The quiet boy moved a little more. He was now standing beside me, just a couple feet away. The talkative boy was still in front of me, blocking the way I had come, blocking the path back to my car. Then things got even weirder.

“Okay, you can come with me,” I said.

I don’t even remember thinking the words. They just came out. The talkative boy smiled and he reached to take my hand. The fight or flight response hit me so hard it was like a physical punch to the stomach. I recoiled at the sight of this little monster trying to take my hand. Before I even realize it, I’m running down the beach. I’m sprinting away from the little bastards, and my car as fast as I can.
I don’t’ look behind me. I don’t know if they’re following me or not, and I don’t want to know. All I know is that I need to run faster. I’m in decent shape, but given any normal circumstance I would never have been able to run so quickly for so long on a beach.

My head lamp bouncing up and down, I see the off-shoot-trail leading from the beach into the woods. Without much thought, if any, I take the trail and head into the woods.
My senses finally returning to me, I jump off the trail and move a little ways into the woods. I turn off my head lamp, and lie down among some tall grass. I watch the trail waiting to see the kids following. I waited, in the rain, and cold for god knows how long. A couple hours at least. No kids.

The cold was slowly creeping in. I wasn’t sure if I was shivering because of the adrenaline, the fear, or the cold, but I do know I was starting to freeze. I had to leave my concealment and make way to shelter. I had two options. The tent and sleeping bag, or the car.

The car meant safety. It meant home. However, it also meant that I would have to walk a mile and a half, in the dark with god knows who or what waiting for me.
The tent meant warmth, and shelter from the elements. It meant exposure to the kids. If the kids knew where I was hiking, and when, then they’d know where I was camping. Right?
It was an impossible decision. It was a choice of the lesser of two evils. I chose the tent. I just couldn’t force myself to go back along the wooded trail, and I sure as hell wasn’t going back along the beach. I crossed my fingers and prayed that the little bastards didn’t know where my tent was. I got up, found the trail, and sprinted the ½ mile to the campground. As I ran a thought occurred. Maybe someone will have hiked in during the way. Maybe I’ll have company.

There was no life at the campground. When I arrived at the campground, I made a wide circle of it, looking both for other campers and for the little devils. I saw nothing and no one.
I made my way, as quietly as possible, to my tent. I unzipped the fly, and crawled in. I thought briefly about a fire, but decided that would be more of a signal to the kids then deterrence. My clothes were sopping wet and I was still very cold. I had to take them off. My pack is leaning against a tree about fifteen feet from my tent. Inside are clean, dry clothes, sealed tightly in a wet bag. However, now that I’m inside the tent I’m sure as hell not going back out. The tent gave me some sense of security even though it wasn’t in any way secure.
Now naked, I crawl inside my mummy bag. I’d like to say how much I hate that it’s called a mummy bag. After a few moments I warm up, but the shivering takes another 1/3 hour or so to subside. As I’m lying there, I’m wishing so much that I had that bottle of whiskey in my car.

The rain plays against the leaves of the trees, and the wind creaks the branches. Under the best of circumstances this is a night where a person’s mind can get away from them. For me, it was utter terror. My imagination made every creak, every howl of the wind into something sinister. As the hours passed, and my adrenaline faded I felt immensely tired. I wanted so badly just to fall asleep. In sleep I wouldn’t know I was being eviscerated. I’d either wake up or I wouldn’t.

I thought it was a nightmare at first. When I heard the voice, say – something, I thought I was dreaming. But then sleep cleared from my head and I realized I was awake. It was still night, and the storm was still biting.

“Help us,” an unmistakable voice said.

I couldn’t help it. It was a gut reaction. I screamed. I lay naked, my mummy bag zipped up to my chin. I was completely helpless. I felt like a newborn baby, my fate completely held in the hands of others.

“Please let us in.”
“No,” I screeched, and then again, “no!”
“It’s so cold. Please let us in, Mr.”

I stopped replying and could only sob. Like a heartbroken teenage girl. Like a woman who just learned her sister died. I sobbed. I was so uncontrollably scared that I think it helped me not pay attention to the kids demands. At least not fully.

“Let us in.”

I tugged the pull string on the hood of my mummy bag until I was completely enveloped. I just kept repeating, not daring to listen to the kids, the word “no.” No, no, no ,no, no, no, no. I waited for death. I knew it was coming. Any second and I’d be ripped to shreds.
The kid kept saying something, but I wasn’t listening. I wouldn’t listen.

I knew how overwhelming their hypnotic power was. I did everything I could not to listen. I kept chanting my mantra. Kept howling my “no’s.”
I don’t know when I fell asleep, but the next thing I know I startle awake. The sun is shining, and I’m alive. I don’t know how, but I’m alive. I look around my small tent and I don’t see anything amiss on the inside. It takes me several minutes to gather the courage necessary to unzip the tent fly, but finally I do. I peak my head out, but see no one. Naked, I run to my pack, and grab my clothes in the dry-bag. I toss some clothes on and race back to the tent. I tear it down in a matter of moments. I pack my sleeping back, and pad and tent onto my pack, and take off down the trail. I decide one more time to take the beach trail. In the sun, and warmth of the morning it’s an entirely different trail. The only moment I’m given pause is when I come across a duck with what seems to be it’s heart torn out. I took a photo with a disposable camera in my pack, and move on.

I arrive at my car and find it unmolested. I get in and drive home.
It’s been almost two entire months since this happened, but I still remember it all like it was yesterday. I haven’t gone camping since, and I don’t’ know if I’ll ever feel safe hiking again. Maybe I’ll go camping again sometime in the future, but I’m bringing a friend. No more going it alone.

I, thankfully, haven’t seen any more black eye kids. I don’t want to posit on what they are. I don’t want to think about whether they are demons, or monsters, aliens, or hybrids. I was interested at first. I did some research because I wanted to know if I was crazy. I don’t care what you think they are. I don’t care why they are. I just wanted to know that I wasn’t the only one who has had this experience. I’m not, and I’m thankful for that.

My advice if you ever do encounter a BEK, don’t listen to it to speak. Don’t be polite in case they’re just weird kids. Don’t question their validity. Don’t worry about looking silly, or that others will think you’re crazy. Just run. Run and don’t look back.

Credit To – David Krabs

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March 7, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Westley was rich. Not in the manor in which he was stuck up or thought he was better than everyone else, but in the manner where the only friends he could find were those who really only cared for his money and not him. That being said, life was rather difficult for him. He was a senior in high school now, with acceptance into his first choice school on scholarship. To many of the less impressive, less well-off students in school he was well on his way to becoming the most secretly hated student on campus. Still, it made it easier to weed out those friends of his who weren’t in fact friends at all. They would treat him well, but he was well aware of the whispers and glances of envy that he’d been receiving from those who claimed to adore him. And he wasn’t about to allow them to spoil his last few days of school.

His parents were going away on holiday, you see. And they had assured him that while they were away, he could have the house to himself for the summer to do with it as he wished, so long as he cleaned up the mess. He’d decided to give himself one final hoorah; a commemoration for making it through the most confusing and disheartening four years of his life, and he decided to do so with five of his truest and least malicious friends.
He chose his compatriots carefully; there would be Alisson, his long time crush who, despite her disinterest in him, had always been very loyal to him; Rodney, who had been in theatre with him and always pushed him to do his best, regardless of his shy demeanor; Micheal, who occasionally made comments about their English teachers rear end, and seemed more intrigued by what his groin wanted then gossip about the spoiled rich kid; Lester, who rarely spoke but sat with him at lunch and seemed thankful when Westley packed extra food for him; and last was Gretchen, a foreign student with very good English who, for whatever reason, had a thing for the sweet little rich boy before she knew of his wealth.
He’d asked them to come over, after convincing his parents that their night wouldn’t be complete without drinks and assured them that nobody would be leaving while intoxicated, at 8 sharp after their final day of school.

The two girls arrived first; they had become friends themselves through their mutual companionship with Westley and arrived together. Lester was next through the door and then Rodney, who was followed quickly by Micheal.
After a brief greeting by each guest, Westley took a good look at his group; a strange combination of faces surrounded him, but they were the closest thing to a gang he’d ever get, and it made him happy that they had chosen to begin their final high school summer by his side. He lifted his bottle of beer in the air. “Here’s to making it.” He offered, and everyone returned the gesture with theirs, cheering in agreeance. He was just about to begin telling them of his plans for the evening, when a sudden ringing echoed through the massive, endless house.
Westley’s brow furrowed. The doorbell? But everyone was already there… “What the hell?”

He sauntered from the dining hall and through the foyer, to the door peering through the peep hole. A youth who couldn’t have been much different age from himself stood there in a navy hoodie, despite the ninety degree weather, head down as though in prayer. Westley was confused; he couldn’t see the youth’s face, but he was certain he didn’t know him. And moreover, he felt like something simply wasn’t right.
Slumped over his shoulder, in a pink hoodie which also hid a face, was a female with long, blonde locks that hung past her chest. She was holding her stomach, where deep red liquid had seeped through her sweatshirt.
Westley bit his lip. He could clearly see that she was injured, and badly in need of help, but he just didn’t feel right about the whole thing. It was a small town; everybody knew everybody. How were there two youths that he should have gone to school with standing on his steep, and he hadn’t a clue who they could have been?
He kept the chain on the door, but cracked it just enough to draw his head through the crack. “Can I help you?” He asked, heistant.
“Please, My girlfriend is hurt. You have to help us.” His voice fluctuated, but there was not shaking to it. No panic. It felt rehearsed.
“Who are you?” Westley asked. “I know everyone in town, but I’ve never seen you…”
“Please, sir. You have to help us.” Demanding, but not terrified. Steady.
“What happened?” Westley asked.
“Car accident. Please help.”
Westley took a moment to think. “I’ll call an ambulance for you. Just wait here.”
He went to close the door, but a hand that seemed too strong for such a narrow youth swung out and held it opened. “I have to tell her mother, sir. Please, let me in. Let me use our phone. I have to tell her family what’s happened.” He insisted. There wa an urgency, but not one of panick, but of anger. He was frustrated with Westley.
“I don’t know…” He started.
“what’s going on?” The Voice was soft and dainty, and it came from behind him.
Alisson came upon his shoulder, and the rest of the pack was sure to follow. Westley shrugged. “They need an ambulance. I told them I would call.” He offered.
“I need to call her family.” The young man insisted. “To let them know what happened.”
“Let them in.” Alisson offered.
“I don’t think I should. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“Come on, dude,” Micheal chimed in. “You going to let them lovely thing die out here?”
Westley hesitated. “please wait out here. I’ll go call an ambulance.” He insisted before closing the door on the couple and vanishing into another room in the maze of a house.
Rodney frowned. “What’s his problem?”
Micheal shrugged. “Hell if I know. She looked hot though. I say we let them in.”
Alisson shoved him. “Don’t you ever use your other head?” She questioned. “Look, I agree that they shouldn’t have to sit out there, but it’s Westley’s house. If he says he doesn’t want them inside, we have to respect that.”
Rodney lifted an eyebrow. “So we should just let them sit out there and die?”
“Ali is right.” Said the blonde with the light German accent. “Have some respect.”
Micheal rolled his eyes. “You just want to get in his pants, Geretch.” He offered. “You know she shouldn’t have to sit out there as much as we do.”
“But it is not your house!” She insisted.
The four of them were so busy arguing amongst themselves that they seemed to overlook the young, silent boy in the group as he made his way to the door. Lester wrapped his fingers around the handle, and released its hold, swinging it open. The room fell silent as the door swung wide open. “Come in.” He offered, and everyone stared in awe at the open threshold.
A smile crossed both of their lips, as though on cue and they lifted their pale heads. Their flesh was blue and pale like death, but that wasn’t their distinguishing feature. No, their eyes, solid black all the way through, like voids into another world. Four devilish black eyes lay upon the room, and with said invitation, they vanished before the groups eyes.
Westley returned to the room within seconds of their vanishing, to a room with an entirely new aura. Those who had been against leaving the teens in the cold had certainly changed their outlook now. “The ambulance is on its way.” Westley offered with uncertain assurance. “What did I miss?”
Micheal raised a shaking hand to the doorway. “They…. They vanished.” He offered, amazed and terrified all at once.
“How do you…?” Westley started.
“It was Lester!” Gretchen accused. “He told them they could come in, and they vanished.”
“You were going to let those… those things into my house?!” He shouted at the silent youth. But he gave that some thought, and turned to Gretchen. “Wait: what do you mean ‘vanished’?”
Alisson interjected. ‘Gone. Poof! Up in smoke. “They vanished right in front of us like some sort of ghost.” She offered as explanation, though it raised more question in Westley’s mind. “Whatever they were, they sure as hell weren’t Normal.”
Westley felt a sickness creep through his body. It started at his knees, then worked its way to his stomach, heart, and stopped just shy of his esophagus. He wanted to vomit. He had no idea what had happened, but he got the feeling that his little friend had just invited a nightmare into his home. And if that was all they needed to hear was an offer of entry, he was certain they hadn’t left. They were inside, somewhere. “They are here.” He muttered to himself.
“Here?” Rodney questioned.
He looked up at them. “In the house. They… they must have needed to be invited in.” they returned his declaration with blank stares. “Don’t you get it? They couldn’t enter without our permission, and they got it!”
“Are you trying to say that we’re dealing with some sort of… vampire or something?” Alisson questioned. It just seemed silly to her. “That’s ridiculous. Look; maybe we just imagined this whole thing. They probably just… I don’t know, left? She looked like she was in bad shape. Maybe they just went to another house for help.”
“Or maybe they are going to drain our blood and leave us for dead.” Micheal Retorted.
Gretchen crossed her arms over her full chest. “We should stay together either way. We’ll be safer if…”
A door swung open, and with a gust of wind a shade of mist, Gretchen went flying across the room and into the void that was once their kitchen. She screamed the way there, until the door slammed shut behind her, and silence befell the room.
The group stared at the door with fearful amazement. “Gretch?” Westley muttered, but after several seconds, there was no response. “Hey, Gretchen…” He tried again, but not a sound came from the room.
He inched closer, the other four following close behind him. His hand inched toward the door, slowly. He was careful and hesitant as he reached out for the only barrier between the group and the monsters inside. But as he finally gained the courage to turn the knob and push the door open, he realized that the room was just as barren as they had left it.
“G—Gretchen?” His voice shook as he called her name, but there was no answer.
“Maybe she got scared. I can’t say I blame her…” Alisson offered.
Westley shook his head. “No, she has to be here. They have her.” He insisted. “She couldn’t have just up and run, there’s something inhuman in here. I can feel it.”
Micheal rolled his eyes and pushed forward. “Very funny, Gretch!” He offered. No response. “Look, we get it; Funny joke, haha. Now come on out.” He insisted. Nothing.
Rodney crossed his arms. “I don’t think it’s a joke, Mike.” He offered. “If it was, those were some pretty spectacular special effects, don’t you think?”
Micheal shook his head. “No, this is too messed up! It has to be a joke. Some stupid prank, one last hoorah before we go our separate ways. Westley’s probably in on it too, that’s why he invited us here, right? Right?!”
Westley took a step back. His friend sounded almost threatening, and it made him uncomfortable. “I had nothing to do with any of this.” He insisted. “I swear.”
Mike sneered. “Oh shut up! You’re the one spouting off all this nonsense about some crazy creatures coming in here. It’s straight out of a horror movie!”
“We are all scared!” Alisson interjected. “But this isn’t anyone’s fault! If Westley was a part of this, he would have let us know by now. He wouldn’t let it go this far.” She insisted. “Right, Wes?”
“Of course!” He insisted. “When have I ever tried anything like this? Come on, this isn’t me!”
Mike was just about to continue his accusations, but the door closed behind them and, when they tried to force it open once more, it simply wouldn’t budge. Panic filled the room, as the ever present evil that now occupied that house overwhelmed the remaining five.
They turned, ready to try the door leading outside, but stopped dead in their tracked. Something blocked their way. A young boy, about their age, with solid black eyes and a malicious grin. “Going somewhere?” He asked.

What do you want?!” Rodney shouted.
“Calm down, sweetie.” The voice came from behind the group. Female, and full of malice. “It’s just a little fun.”
They turned to face the falsely injured girl before shifting their gaze back to the other creature in the room once more.
“Where’s Gretchen?” Westley insisted. But to his question, they simply gave a vicious giggle and disappeared.
The female figure appeared behind Rodney, wrapping her arms around him before vanishing yet again, pulling the boy with her. “Rodney!” Alisson shouted.
A hand grabbed her arm and, with a shriek, she was pulled through the outside door and vanished without a trace. Micheal rushed to the door and pulled on it, shouting her name endlessly before he sunk to his knees, tears swelling in his eyes. “What’s happening?! Where are they taking them?”
Westley would have responded, but he was in shock. He simply stared out the window of that closed door in terrified astonishment, horrified by the events. Three left, he though, Just three more of us. We are going to go wherever they are going. We are going to be killed or tortured or… who knows what will happen to us. We will vanish just like they have.
Micheal was now back on his feet, determined to reunite with the others. He slammed his body into the door, but despite his efforts, it simply wouldn’t break. They were trapped in the room with no hope.
But something was happening to the paralyzed Westley. He body was, literally, disintegrating before his eyes. He watched as his hands and feet vanished, and then his arms and legs, and then his torso began to leave him. “Mike…” He muttered, too stunned to explain.
Micheal halted to turn to his friend, but he was gone before he could reach him, and then he was gone. Mike was now desperate. He grabbed a pan from the cupboard and slammed it into the glass panes on the door, shattering it, but before he could leave, the glass reappeared before him. “What the….”
Before he could finish this thought, a light shined down upon him, and he two was gone.
And then there was one. One boy who had been silent throughout this whole endeavor. One boy who had let the evil in. He stared with wide eyes as his friends vanished one by one, and now he stood alone in the kitchen of a house he did not own.
The black eyed children appeared behind him, each with a hand on his shoulder. “Ready?” They asked in unison. And to that, he nodded, and the light came and took them away.

Credit To – Liz loveless

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