As The Raven Dreams Podcast - The M*rder House Of West Elm Park - By Blake Blizzard

Episode Date: April 10, 2021

The M*rder House Of West Elm Park, an abandoned house that never really set right with me. It's time that we find what secrets it holds...  Want to see your story Featured in a video? Send it my way!  ➤  https://www.astheravendreams.com/submit  Or Post It To My Subreddit!  ➤ https://reddit.com/r/TheRavensDream  ✯✬✯✬✯✬ 【TIMESTAMPS 🕠】 0:00 ➤ Hit That 👍 Button if you liked the video! 0:07 ➤ The M*rder House Of West Elm Park - By Blake Blizzard 17:27 ➤ Leave A Comment, Let Me Know What You Thought!   ➤ Approximately 400 million years ago there were 22 hours in a day and more than 400 days in a year. ✯✬✯✬✯✬ 【Disclaimer】 ➤All stories within are used w/ direct permission from the author- or under some level of CC license (where noted) #TrueScaryStories #Reddit #AsTheRavenDreams Be sure to *subscribe* if you like any of the following; #GlitchInTheMatrixStories #DeepWebHorrorStories #CryptidEncounters #RedditScaryStories #ASMR #CreepyTrueStories #Creepypasta #RedditGhostStories #DeepWoodsHorrorStories #DogmanStories #SkinwalkerStories, #RedditStories - Or Really anything, I'm a pretty diverse person.  --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/astheravendreams/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/astheravendreams/support Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It's something else here now. Something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus. It's the series Stephen King calls Scarious Hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi Vision calls it the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules. Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch.

Saving those children is how we all go home. From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. of soccer, you could assist a moment historic. You could get the bill for the final of the Cup of the World of the FIFA 2026 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Inscribe you at BMO.com bar obliq concourse. The Reglements of the Concourse. Today's story is the murder house of West Elm Park by Blake Blizzard. I'll start by saying that I'm not the ghost hunting type.

I like horror movies and scary stories just fine, but by no means am I a Zach Biggins ghost adventurer. Call me a skeptic or a realist, or even just a man with common sense. I don't believe in spooky caspers or Ouija board summon demons. I'm willing to admit now that I was partially wrong. Okay, I was very wrong. Let's start with a short history of. lesson. I promise. It'll be short. The town of West Elm Park is nothing more than a very small blip in the middle of the Mitten State. My family owned some land and a nice cottage there.

It was our summer destination every year and I loved it. Picture any kind of summer vacation movie, and that is what I grew up with. We were ride on a lake. We had the boats, the skis, the tubing, beach volleyball, you name it. Being that my parents didn't make a lot of money, this was extra special. They worked so hard so us kids could have one amazing week out of the year to enjoy. The town came into existence because of the location.

West Elm is centrally located in Michigan, close enough to four of the five Great Lakes. Mr. Albert Stroh decided to found a cement. company there. Albert and his brother Robert were most well known for creating Strow's Brewery in Detroit, Michigan in the early 1900s. It's still a somewhat popular beer brand today, probably more widely available in the Midwest. Strow's was one of the only breweries that started in Michigan. Now I'm sure it's owned by some multinational massive beer company. Stroh thought that developing a cement mine and company would be a great idea,

being that he could ship cement to all areas of the state. Being that the horse and buggy era was coming to a close thanks to the Model T, we needed to make traveling a little easier on these steel ponies. Dirt and mud roads were not going to work. Cement was going to be the savior of the American transport system. He was actually ahead of his time with this thought, as asphalt concrete would become the norm for our roadway systems. The only problem was that the men that Mr. Stroh picked to run his new company, hundreds of miles away from his location in Detroit, were not good. The company? It sank.

This was all this town had. And the effects of this failure caused the town to turn into an abominable. absolute ghost town. I guess, looking back, I can now feel the pain in the air of this little town. There were many hard times after the concrete company left. People tried to make it. Many did not. The murder house represents the struggle of West Elm Park.

I'm sure every town has one of these legendary haunted houses. Growing up seeing this home across the lake from our coffee. It didn't mean much to me. Of course, it was the spooky house that me and my brothers would dare each other to go into, even though none of us ever had the nuts to do so. But I didn't feel the house, you know? Like I said, I was a skeptic. I only watched ghosts on TV for entertainment, not because I thought it was real.

Fast forward some 20 years, and I'm a full girl. and I'm a full-grown man. Me and my brothers sold the cottage after our parents split and left us with instructions to sell it. Even split, three ways, and we never saw the place again. I haven't even seen my parents again. My mom used to contact me from Florida every so often, but that stopped a couple months back.

Our dad went the other way, up north to the border of the U.S. and Canada. Us brothers all received the same email from mom and dad stating that they needed the place sold, and if all possible, to never go back there. Let the place burn, is what they said. Well, that's pretty freaking dramatic for these people. My parents are hardworking blue-collar types, not ones to throw away an investment and speak of it like it was a pile of trash. I had so many great memories there.

Why would they want it gone so fast? So, like I said, we did. We never saw the place again. Something called me, though. I couldn't get over how abrupt my parents left and how they wanted that house gone so badly. I haven't spoken to them for weeks, let alone seen them. The murder house flashed in my mind.

I was pulled to it like a strongman pulling a semi-truck. I had a lot of questions about the place. Did it somehow get to my parents? What am I crazy? Why the hell am I even thinking about this place right now? It was just an abandoned house, like most of the places up there in West Elm. Luckily, I had some time off coming. And I'm an amateur rider in my spare time.

so why not take one last trip and really dive into this place? What's the worst that could happen? I thought. About 8 a.m., I'm sitting at a little diner right off of I-75. It's the last place to get some fresh, hot food and coffee before I make the last drive to West Elm. Imagine any diner with the two lonely gas pumps out front in the middle of the desert. No desert in the Midwest, but you get the idea. The 70s-style linoleum and the little stools by the bar were a welcome sight. We always stopped at this place before making the last few mile trip up to the cottage.

As the career waitress named Flo came to take my order, I decided to take a shot and ask if she has heard anything about a murder house in West Elm Park. I was studying her face waiting for any kind of a room. reaction. I think she squinted, ever so briefly, but gave me a silent shake of the head and asked what I'd be having today. The breakfast special was two eggs, and choice of two links, patties, or bacon. That's when a burly man three seats down bored into my head. I wasn't looking at him, and I didn't notice anyone when I entered the diner. When Flo walked away, I had that feeling that someone was staring at me.

I'm turned to my right and locked eyes with a guy whose name I'm sure was Ralph. He wore work boots, tight old man jeans, a plaid shirt with one of those puffy vests over it. Do these truck drivers get issued uniforms?

I'm not a truck driver, he said. It took me a second to understand what the hell he meant. I didn't say that he was. At least, Not out loud. Um, I'm sorry, is all that I could muster out.

I live here, all my life. I'm not just stopping in to fuel up on caffeine and pie before I go on my next 1,000-mile hall. I know the place you're talking about. It's not called the murder house, though. It's not called anything. No one knows about the history, at least not the bigger media types. I was floored.

Yeah, it was a creepy house, but did it have an actual history? Names Ralph. As he moved up to me and extended a hand that looked like five pounds of crowned beef. Holding back tears as I correctly predicted his name, I accepted the oldest human greeting. What are you? A BuzzFeed blogger, Facebook writer, Twitter, T-Tat, Insta, whatever it is or something? Kind of cracked a smile, which made me loosen up. Ralph didn't look as old as I thought, maybe late 50s, so he must not be completely out of touch with the new tech world.

No, I just wanted to settle some things, I said. I then briefly went over my ties to the area and selling our childhood cottage. If you're going to go there, be careful. I don't know who you are or what lived there, but I do know that there's nothing good about that place, he said. Ralph continued. I lived in West Elm Park right on the edge of town, just a few miles away from that place on Elm Street. Wait, the house is on Elm Street? Okay, that's not a great start.

A morbid coincidence, maybe, but the murder house literally shares the same name as the nightmare killer Freddy Kruger. I can hear the children's nursery rhyme as we speak. One, two... I decided to ask the most... important question that I could. So what makes it haunted? Is this some kind of axe murder thing like Lizzie Borden, where a factual crime happened that inspires people to feel uneasy when they're in that house?

Or is this a paranormal kind of tongue-in-cheek legend among this small area of the United States? Ralph looked at the ground. It felt like he'd been waiting to get the story out to someone for quite some time. You smoke? He asked. I didn't. You mind if we go out so I can burn one? I took him up on his offer.

It was a real nice clear day, almost 70 degrees already in getting humid. Not bad for an early June morning. We walked a few feet away from the diner. I took in the area, an area that I've been through for the better part of my childhood. The constant hum of the freeway, the smell of the friars coming from the diner, the wide open landscape was soothing. Ralph packed a new pack of smokes, tore the cellophane,

and lit a cigarette. As a boy, we had an Iranian housekeeper, he said. She was nice, but odd to us being that she was from such a foreign place, and her accent was heavy.

She barely spoke English. One day we were walking towards the lake. We never really went there. That was more of a tour. forest camping area. We didn't even know who lived there for a week or a month at a time. My sister and I were throwing some kind of ball around, not paying attention to where we were at, being led by the housekeeper. The next thing I know, my nose hit the rather bulbous behind of this Iranian lady. I had tears in my eyes, about to look up at her with the bewildered state of

mind when I realized that she had come to a dead stop. This is why my nose was struck by her butt. I wasn't paying attention, of course, and ran my silly ass right into hers. Well, into her ass. I see him, she said. Um, see who? He's hanging meat. They're scared girls inside. When you were little, you had braced some affairs in court of recreat,

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Now I wasn't concerned About my hurt nose My sister and I froze staring at the house She went on I can see the man wearing an apron Butchering something

There is blood all over hanging meat After a moment She grabbed us And hurried back in To our home I threw that a member away for a long time, until I ran into an old story about that home on Elm Street.

Apparently, it was where the butcher lived and worked during the cement company rise and fall. Ralph finished his smoke and tossed it into the gravel parking lot. I stood there, just waiting for the next part. And? I said, what, that's it, he said. So this is what you're basing the murder house? house on. Did you go there and see anything or feel anything? I wouldn't dare, my friend. That was enough for me. Disappointed, but relieved, I thanked him and went on my way. If that's the

worst thing this town has about the murder house, then there must not be much to this. I watched Ralph drive off, and I made my journey towards the lake. I was back in West Elm Park, on my way to the other side of the lake that I grew up around. I was headed to Elm Street, which I just learned was real. It was getting late now. I didn't care. At this point, I'm going to go over to this house and see if I can even get in. Maybe grab a few pictures.

Let's put this to bed. So let me set the scene of 1313 Elm Street. Just kidding. The street address was something like 5.012, but sure enough, it was on Elm Street. The Victorian-style home was larger than I remembered. I never got up this close. I didn't get some sick feeling when I saw the place. It was a typical, abandoned place.

The crass was overgrown. The white fence was looking gray and tattered. The windows were hard to see into. Taking a second, I looked direct. No one. Dust was complete. It wasn't pitch black only because the moon and stars were so bright. There are no streetlights out here.

I clicked my streamlight on and made my way up the five or so steps to the front door. It was already open. Hello? A faint voice said. My eyes were still adjusting to the dark. I was still in what you might call a mud room. I was confused, now scared. That's when I saw them.

I'm sure that they were humans. Girls, maybe, not sure if they were older than 20. It was still too hard to see. The inescapable putrid smell of meat hit me. Trying not to throw up? I accidentally dropped my streamlight. It stayed on but rolled too far away from me. Composing myself, I dug my...

phone out and tapped the flashlight option. Scanning, I didn't see anything. Help. I was almost face to face with the pale little girl. Stardled and maybe soiled, I flew back, falling on my ass. Staring at this girl with disbelief, I saw her slowly turn her head to the left towards the inside of the home. I got the feeling that the butcher was coming. I did not want to meet anyone else in this hell home. I dove out the same way that I came in, barely making it to the front lawn of Elm Street. I ran to my car.

Once I got in, I broke out in that nervous laughter you get when you just went through a huge jump scare at the movie theater. I was also genuinely laughing that I had this idea to look through the murder house of my nightmares, and I only made it like 10 feet inside. How freaking funny. At this moment, my phone vibrates, scaring the rest of the crap out of me. I check who's calling,

and it's my mom. Um, hello? Go back inside, son. I'm sorry, but me and your dad have missed you. That. What? once again, the murder house of West Elm Park by Blake Blizzard. Honestly, an awesome story.

I love these stories where the absolute terror comes at the end over anything else, and the fact that the parents kind of just disappeared. Makes a lot more sense whenever it comes down to that. Fantastic job, Blake. Honestly, man, thank you very much for submitting this. Everyone who enjoyed this, give him a round of applause. Thank you again to everyone who listened this far.

And if you have a story, you want to submit my way, please do check the description down below. There is a link where you can do so on my website, or you can just email it to me as the Raven Dreams at Outlook.com. You can also post it the subreddit. I don't check there as often, but I should. Anyways, yeah, if you guys enjoyed this, please do consider hitting that subscribe button

and the bell icon next to it. You can also hit the thumbs up button and comment to let me know what you ended up thinking of the story. And if you really, really want to support the channel, follow me on my social media platforms, or do the thing over on coffee, over on channel memberships, or on Patreon. All that optional. All of it greatly appreciated. Oh, that said, friends, I hope you have a beautiful day. And I hope I'm going to see you on the next video.

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