Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 10 True Scary Stories That Will Shock You! Horror Stories Told In The Rain

Episode Date: January 3, 2024

These are 10 True Scary Stories That Will Shock You! Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in at www.justcreepy.net Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:04:27 Story 2 00:10:36 Story 3 00:15:51 Story 4 00:21:40 Story 5 00:27:30 Story 6 00:36:18 Story 7 00:41:05 Story 8 00:46:54 Story 9 00:57:53 Story 10 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #redditstories #truescarystories 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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Four years ago, I found myself in a peculiar living arrangement. I was staying in my friend's house while attending a nearby university. The household consisted of my friend, his sister, and their parents. Everything seemed normal at the beginning, but little did I know that this story would take a chilling turn. Around two weeks into my stay, my friend's sister invited her boyfriend to move in with us. Initially, he appeared to be a friendly and sociable guy, always sharing fascinating stories and engaging in lively conversations. We'd often gather around the dining table for drinks or unwind in the garden while puffing on cigarettes.

Life seemed pleasant. However, as time passed, the cracks in his seemingly normal veneer began to show. He started ranting about government conspiracies, portraying himself as a perpetual victim. He was deeply engrossed in the bizarre concept of Sigma Mail and was obsessed with martial arts. But what was most alarming was his explosive temper. this guy also had a menacing dog which he inexplicably kept locked in a cage when he wasn't around the dog's violent tendencies became evident one day it attacked his girlfriend and the poor creature had to be euthanized that's when the guilt tripping and incessant rants against her began around two months later he hatched an audacious plan to live in a shipping container this wasn't one of those chic trendy shipping container homes it was a rented container in a store yard on the outskirts of town. He relentlessly intimidated and threatened the staff there,

which eventually led to the police being called. Of course, he believed this was yet another conspiracy against him. His abuse towards his girlfriend escalated to horrifying levels, prompting her family to intervene and get her out of that nightmarish situation. Throughout this ordeal, I had to pretend to be on his side, just to ensure her safety. When they finally broke up, blamed me, accusing me of poisoning her against him and conspiring to make her mine. She eventually found a new partner, and they seemed happy together. After that ordeal, we all blocked the PsychoX on every form of communication possible. However, he continued to harass them relentlessly, until, eventually, he seemed to vanish from our lives. Fast forward to last year. I began

receiving messages on social media from various accounts, some friendly, and some hostile. It was only after some digging that I discovered who was behind these messages. I blocked each account as I encountered them. One of these profiles, though, was pretending to be someone I knew from university. We began chatting about life, reminiscing about old times, and eventually I was invited to a house party, the invitation came with the promise of a free house and a gathering of friends. Excited, I booked time off from work and made travel plans, all while maintaining my conversations with this friend. As the date of the party approached, I mentioned it to my friend's sister, who also expressed interest in attending. However, when I shared the address of the supposed party location,

she suddenly panicked. The address was a property belonging to the crazy ex-boyfriend's father, which was scheduled for sale. I decided to wait until the day of the party and called the police, claiming a suspected break-in at that address. What they found sent shivers down my spine. There were five people inside the house, including the sinister X. Parked out front was a butcher van, equipped with food storage facilities, and a collection of knives, hammers, and rope. Let's just say, I'm eternally grateful that I didn't attend that party. It was a nightmarish rendezvous I never want to experience. In 2019, I lived in the Humble Park neighborhood of Chicago with my partner and our loyal German Shepherd.

At the time, I was 34 years old, and we occupied a fourth-floor walk-up unit in a typical low-budget Chicago rental in a neighborhood undergoing change. Our building played a crucial role in the events that unfolded. It had a total of 15 units, with mine and the three below sharing a front entrance. The other units had a separate entrance. What connected all 15 apartments were the back porches and stairs that led to a walkway, ending at a rear gate, which opened into an alley. The front stairwell had windows on each landing, allowing you to see the back door of my apartment when standing at the front door.

Living in our building meant having good relations with our neighbors, especially those directly below us, who shared our front door. This bond would ultimately become our lifeline. However, my life was marred by a dark history. In my teens and 20s, I had been hurt and stalked by my ex, making me live in constant fear that he might resurface in my life. A little less than a month before my partner's upcoming tour, I received a creepy Facebook message from my old stalker, sent from yet another new account. About a week later, my car was broken into, though the thief only took a bag of dog treats, leaving behind some cash in the glove box.

My heightened anxiety led me to set up cameras and purchase door braces for both my front and back doors before my partner left for his tour. I became entirely nocturnal, unable to sleep at night. My poor German shepherd also suffered from stress-induced diarrhea, which meant frequent trips down four flights of stairs during the night. During these late-night dog outings, I often felt a prickly crawling sensation as if I were being watched. But in the midst of my fear and paranoia, distinguishing between genuine threats and my own imagination, became increasingly difficult. I also noticed that some of my neighbors weren't closing the front door properly, leaving the lock unengaged. I brought this up with my downstairs neighbor one day, explaining my concerns about the stalker.

He was supportive and promised to mention it to the other. neighbors, and I did notice a positive change. Then came that fateful Sunday morning when my partner returned from his tour. Around 8.30 a.m., our first-floor's apartment was burglarized. He was a metalhead who collected instruments and sold drugs, and he lived alone. Apparently, he had left his door unlocked while he went out for breakfast, and the intruder helped themselves to his food, a coat, and a pair of boots, leaving behind a filthy coat in exchange. strangely, they took his college diploma but left $500 and all his expensive musical instruments and equipment. They also left behind the drugs but took a set of keys, including a master key to the front door and the back gate.

My neighbors quickly informed each other about the break-in, especially considering my stalker history. The metalhead neighbor came up to let me know about the incident, and my partner had just returned when he knocked at the front door. We stood on the stairs, chatting for about 15 to 20 minutes, when we suddenly heard the front door open and close below us. Initially, we didn't think much of it, but then we saw a man climbing the back porch steps toward my apartment. He had to pass all 14 other accessible units to reach mine, and it was evident that he wasn't going to any other apartment.

He wasn't my stalker, but his image is seared into my memory. The stranger wore flashy black and white, high-top sneakers, not the one stolen from downstairs. His oversized black coat hung loosely from his shoulders. Our eyes locked through the window, and he froze on the porch stairs. Slowly, he pulled out a cell phone and made a call while turning halfway up the steps. Then, he began descending with artificial nonchalance before sprinting as soon as he reached the porch below mine. My neighbor immediately dialed 911, and my partner and I rushed through the apartment to the porch. We spotted a sedan and a windowless van speeding out of a sketchy building two doors down.

Unfortunately, we didn't get their license plate numbers, and the police later explained that they couldn't intervene as no crime had been committed. The police condescendingly reasoned that there was nothing concrete to justify stopping the vehicles. My neighbor made the call and had the police report, while my partner and I were merely considered witnesses. But what haunted me the most, was the tool my neighbor found when he went downstairs. A two-by-four piece of wood cut to about two feet in length, with about six inches turned into a handle, resembling a paddle. It puzzled me for a while until I realized it was likely a ram used to force open doors and jam locks.

Examining my door, it seemed like it had been repaired, as if someone had broken in before. It became apparent that they had intended to use that one master key to place their ram, and catch me at the back door, while someone else would break in through the front. Luckily, we caught them before they could execute their plan, and I believe they had been closely watching my movements, waiting for an opportunity. It was sheer luck that my partner had arrived home just 30 minutes before this terrifying ordeal unfolded. In hindsight, we could have been seriously injured or worse had they managed to trap us

inside. No further incidents occurred, but my landlord refused to change the lock. Nevertheless, he agreed to let us out of our lease, and I decided to leave Chicago behind, moving to a new place equipped with cameras, floodlights, and vigilant neighbors. Now, I've also added a younger dog trained in bite work to my life, ensuring that I'm better prepared to protect myself and my home. Own it all. Pay off your home, travel for life, drive a Ferrari. In celebration of the world premiere of the Monopoly Big Board Buckslot Machine by Aristocrat Gaming,

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I should mention that this story is recounted from my perspective, and while I've tried to get my mother's perspective on it, her recollection of the events isn't as clear as mine. For context, we lived in a mid-sized city in the southern United States, where the main pastime was going to the mall. Sure, we had movie theaters and a couple of bowling alleys, but besides that, there wasn't much else to do in the city. My mother worked at a department store located within the mall, and since I had nothing better to do, I would regularly accompany her to work. It gave me a reason to get out of the house, and if I wanted to, I was allowed to walk around the mall or grab a snack in the food court. However, I was quite shy and preferred to stay cooped up in the breakroom,

losing myself in video games on my trusty Nintendo DS. My mother's co-workers were generally very kind to me. They often popped into the break room to say hello or check on me during their downtime. If I was lucky enough to go with my mom on weekends, I could usually convince her to pick up my friend. well, we were actually dating, but since we were both girls, I didn't want that to become public knowledge. Going to the mall meant I was free from doing chores at home, and it was a cheap way to sneak in a secret date every now and then. My girlfriend, however, never really liked staying in the

break room with me. She always wanted to walk around the mall. Now, I should note that she really enjoyed taking walks, so it wasn't unusual for her to want to do so at the mall as well. I, on the other hand, wasn't as fond of walking, so I tried to avoid it whenever I could. I could usually convince her to browse a nearby store, or grab something from the food court instead of walking. However, I quickly noticed that she wasn't trying to get me to walk. She just didn't want me in the break room. My girlfriend was more perceptive than I was, and I assumed she just didn't like the ambiance of the break room for some reason. After a while, my frustration got the better of me, and I I finally asked her directly what was bothering her about the break room.

I thought she might mention the cramped space or the erratic lighting, both of which bothered me too. However, her response was far more unsettling. She said she heard things in the ceiling, as if someone was walking around up there. I recalled from my conversations with my mother that there was indeed a space in the ceiling, but it was meant for maintenance purposes. It contained wiring and insulation, but technically, someone could access it. I tried to reassure my girlfriend that it was probably just an employee up there

fixing something, but her discomfort remained. Later that day, I mentioned what my girlfriend had told me to my mother. She looked distressed and informed me that no one had been up there fixing anything that day. Still, she wanted me to see something. She led me to the receiving room of the department store. A room filled with boxes and assorted items the store was preparing to put up for sale. the layout of the room was an L-shape, with one part used for receiving merchandise, and the other part serving as an entry point to the ceiling. To clarify, to access the ceiling, the store would need to call the mall's maintenance team

since they didn't have a ladder or equipment on hand for such tasks, due to safety concerns. In this particular area, there was only a hatch leading into the ceiling. What I saw next sent shivers down my spine, claw marks that appeared to lead up the ceiling. the wall towards the hatch. I can still remember the way those marks looked, brown gashes gouged into the concrete wall of the receiving room. My initial thought was that it might be some sort of prank, but my mother assured me that it wasn't. These strange markings had appeared

several times over the course of a few months. Each time the store would call in mall security and the maintenance team to clean the wall and investigate the ceiling. However, nothing ever came of their searches, and they eventually gave up dealing with the enigmatic marks. Mall security's only explanation was that it was likely a homeless individual who had somehow made their way into the ceiling, displaying an uncanny ability to hide during the searches. The revelation left me deeply unsettled. I stopped staying at the mall with my mom after that, and when my girlfriend wanted to meet, we found alternative places to go during the day.

Sometimes she'd come over to my house to watch TV, or do other activities, but I couldn't bring myself to return to that break room. Nothing had happened up until that point, but I simply didn't want to take the risk. So, to whoever or whatever was walking around in the ceiling at my mom's workplace, I sincerely hope our paths never cross again. The mystery of those claw marks still haunts me to this day, a chilling reminder of the unsettling events that transpired in that mid-sized southern city mall. I've spent my whole life in the mountains of northeast Pennsylvania, immersing myself in the wilds,

hunting, fishing, and camping. I've encountered almost all the wildlife this state has to offer, but I've always believed there are many mysterious things out there lurking beyond our understanding. It was late summer in 2016 when this eerie incident took place, a memory that still sends shivers down my spine. My ex-wife, who shall remain nameless, had grown up in the streets of Trenton, New Jersey, and had never experienced the joys of camping. My family decided to introduce her to our rural lifestyle with a weekend camping trip in my parents' backyard.

To be clear, it wasn't exactly roughing it since we'd be staying in a pop-up camper just 25 yards from my parents' cottage. Most of the weekend was delightful, filled with fishing, hiking, swimming, and campfires with toasted marshmallows. It was just the four of us, my family, my ex-wife, and our two lab mixes, Cosmo and Max. We had already spent two nights in that cozy camper, and this was supposed to be the last night. My father, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, had warned us about an incoming rainstorm, but we chuckled it off, excited at the prospect of sleeping through a thunderstorm. The idea of the rain drumming on the camper's roof sounded pleasant. We set up on the our good nights, tucked the dogs in, and prepared for sleep. My ex-wife and I briefly reminisced

about the wonderful weekend before drifting into slumber. We had spent the day swimming and were utterly exhausted. Sometime around midnight, I awoke, but it was hard to pinpoint the exact time. The camper rocked gently, and distant thunder rumbled ominously. I closed my eyes, attempting to go back to sleep, but I was abruptly yanked from slumber by a deafening crack of thunder. It rattled the camper, shaking it violently. My wife and I both bolted upright, and the dog started barking frantically as rain pounded down on us like bullets. We began discussing our next steps, assuming my parents were coming to wake us, and advise us to seek shelter in the house. We're on our way, my ex-wife yelled out over the cacophony.

The dogs, especially Cosmo, who weighed a solid 125, pounds in his prime had already cowered under the table, joining the skittish max. Suddenly, something struck the camper door with an incredible force, rocking the little pop-up. We both screamed as the camper tilted to one side, as though something was trying to pull it down. A loud bang came from the roof, suggesting that something had landed on it. It was pitch black outside, which struck me as odd because the yard light sensors should have activated it. The dogs were barking ferociously as my wife began sobbing uncontrollably. In the darkness, I whispered to my wife,

I'll send the dogs out first, then you follow, run to the house for Dad, and don't stop for anything. She continued to cry, but I could barely see her nod in agreement. I flung the camper door open and yelled, Cosmo, Max, go. They obeyed without hesitation, bolting into the night. I stepped out, unarmed, but then I remembered the hatchet my father used for the campfire. It lay just a few feet away, and I grabbed it as my wife ran towards the house, screaming.

Finally, the motion-sensing lights illuminated the yard, revealing the downpour and the surrounding area. I looked around in horror, but there was nothing there, just rain and wind. My father had been roused from his sleep and had rushed to the back porch in his underwear. But whatever had attacked the camper and leaped onto the roof had mysteriously vanished. The camper itself was surrounded by a small patch of trees, and there were no low-hanging branches. I would have heard or seen something dropped from a tree, but there was nothing. Shaken, I went inside to tell my dad and mom what had happened. My dad, a firm non-believer in the supernatural or paranormal, dismissed my fears,

suggesting it was probably just large raccoons. He admonished me for getting so worked up over what he assumed were tree rodents. However, he promised to investigate in the morning. Needless to say, none of us got any sleep that night. As the first light of dawn broke, we ventured outside. I recounted my story, trying to convey the sheer terror we had experienced. I demonstrated how the camper remained solid as I jumped up and down on it with no sway whatsoever. It couldn't have been the wind.

I even tried to rock it myself, and I'm a sturdy six-foot-one weighing 230 pounds, but still, it remained rock-solid. The most chilling discovery was when my dad fetched a ladder to inspect the roof. Above the door, we found four long fingerprints etched into the algae-covered surface. Dad, I said, pointing at the prince, look at these. Those fingers are at least seven inches long. He just shook his head and returned to the safety of the house. Now I know it wasn't the wind, and it certainly wasn't a raccoon. To this day, I have no idea what paid us that mysterious visit on that summer night. But I'm grateful whatever it was didn't stick around to reveal its true nature.

Five years ago, in the dense Ozark Forest of Missouri, I embarked on a hunting expedition during the rifle season of 2018. I was a 20-year-old, just on the brink of turning 21, and my father had decided to join me as a birthday present. It was a rare occasion for us to spend quality time together because he was always occupied with work. I had eagerly prepared for the trip the week before, and on that fateful morning, I was filled with anticipation. However, my excitement was abruptly shattered by a phone call from my mother. She informed me that my dad had fallen sick and wouldn't be able to make it. to our hunting trip. I was devastated by the news, but after some contemplation I decided to go ahead

with the hunt. After all, I had invested so much time and effort into preparing for it, and it seemed like a waste to back out now. I readied myself, grabbed my trusty rifle, and hopped into my pickup truck. The sky was pitch black when I arrived at my designated hunting stand. It was crucial for hunters like me to reach their stands before dawn to avoid startling any deer that might be lurking nearby. As I settled into my stand, the world around me was shrouded in darkness. The crisp, cold air nipped at my skin, and I could hear the distant sounds of the forest coming to life. In an attempt to pass the time, I decided to close my eyes briefly. But in the world of hunting, every sense must remain alert. It was during this momentary lapse that I heard something that sent a chill down my

spine. Footsteps. They were slow and deliberate, and more alarmingly, they sounded distinctly by pedal. My heart quickened as I strained to listen. The footsteps were heavy, unnatural, and wholly unsettling. Having spent my entire life in the Ozarks, I considered myself a seasoned woodsman. I had grown up in these forests, often accompanying my parents on outdoor adventures. Yet what I was hearing now was far from ordinary. This was no. animal or fellow hunter. This was something altogether eerie and unnatural. Suddenly, my father's voice pierced through the darkness, calling out to me, daughter, I've come to hunt with you. Where are you? The voice was wrong in so many ways. My father was known for his jovial and carefree nature.

He wouldn't simply call out like that, especially since he knew the exact location of our deer stand, a spot we had never changed due to its consistent success. What unsettled me most was the emotionless monotone quality of his voice. It sounded robotic, almost as if it were a recording. My heart pounded in my chest as I sat there, eyes wide open, scanning the inky blackness of the forest. A dreadful feeling gnawed at me, as I began to entertain a haunting possibility. I had heard stories, chilling tales of wendigows, skinwashed.

and other supernatural entities that could mimic the voices of loved ones. Panic clawed at my insides as I realized the perilous situation I might be in. I remained motionless, trying to control my breathing, while my eyes darted nervously through the dark. Every rustle of leaves and every snap of a twig sent shivers down my spine. I was trapped in my stand, helpless, and my trusty rifle suddenly felt like a frail defense. Then I gasped softly, my breath catching in my throat. A shadowy figure emerged from the blackness.

Its form was indistinct, but I could make out unnaturally long arms that brushed against the forest floor with each heavy step. It moved with a strange, almost mechanical gait, repeating the same eerie refrain. Daughter, I've come to hunt with you. Can you tell me where you are? I remained in my tree stand, frozen in terror, until the first of the same. first faint hints of dawn began to break the darkness. It felt like an eternity before I dared to climb down from my perch. Even then, every step I took through the forest felt like an eternity.

I had an overpowering sense of being watched, of unseen eyes tracking my every move. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves intensified my anxiety. Finally, I reached my pickup truck. My heart still raced as I fumbled for my keys and started the engine. I glanced into the rearview mirror and what I saw seared into my memory. A tall, pale figure leaned out from behind a tree, observing me with a malevolent gaze. It emitted an angry, otherworldly scream that chilled me to the bone. Instinctively, I let go of the steering wheel, covering my ears, before regaining control and swerving to avoid colliding with a tree. My heart hammered in my chest as I drove home as fast as I could. When I arrived, I recounted

harrowing events in my mind, trying to make sense of what had happened. This experience didn't diminish my love for the woods, but it did open my eyes to the fact that there are mysterious and malevolent forces lurking within the familiar wilderness. Thankfully, my dad recovered from his illness, and we returned to hunting together the following year. I've kept this story to myself for years, as my parents had always dismissed such cryptic topics with laughter. Now, as I share this tale, It feels like a heavy burden lifted from my shoulders. Regardless of how well one thinks they know their hunting grounds, there are entities in the wild that can challenge even the most seasoned outdoorsman's perception of the world they thought they knew.

Nestled in the uncharted depths of Tennessee's rugged mountains, my home is a realm of secrets unknown to many. Vast hills, imposing cliffs, and seemingly endless hollows stretch far beyond state borders, concealing a rich tapestry of history unbeknownst to most out. outsiders. The story I'm about to share delves into one such concealed narrative. In this remote expanse, there exists a section of forest-blanketed mountains known to the locals as Hoboken Mountain. Yet, to the natives entrenched in the region, they refer to it as the forest that takes.

This place is shrouded in mystique, echoing a tale that transcends mere names and taps into a hidden history, veiled beneath the shadows of ancient hills and cliffs that seemed to stretch into eternity. Long ago, colonists ventured deeper into unexplored territories, their aspirations fixated on the coveted expanse now currently known as Hoboken Mountain. Extensive surveys of the region unveiled a panorama of allure, a wealth of animals, abundant resources, and fertile grounds promising bountiful harvests. This mountainous haven not only satisfied their immediate needs, but strategically positioned became a linchpin for further settlements. The colonists, driven by dreams of prosperity, saw in Hoboken Mountain

not merely a plot of land, but a key to unlocking the untold potential of their burgeoning community. During this era, the indigenous people and the newly arrived colonists existed in a state of mutual coexistence. However, as news spread of the colonists' intentions to settle in the foothills of Hoboken Mountain, a shift in the delicate cohabitation occurred. The native inhabitants rather than adopting a hostile stance, chose a path of caution and concern, sensing an impending disturbance. They earnestly warned the newcomers to steer clear of that particular terrain, their voices carrying wisdom rooted in fear and superstition for the darkness that lingered in Hoboken

Mountain. Unfazed by warnings and superstitions, the resolute colonists, driven by prospects, forged ahead with their settlement construction. skirmishes with native groups and sabotage motivated by fear of the ominous consequences of trespassing on the cursed ground failed to impede their progress. Undeterred, the settlers successfully constructed their settlement, laying the foundation for the founding of a town. Numerous tales shroud the generations during which this settlement endured, none of them positive, and all lacking any corroborating evidence. The lore weaves a dense narrative of misfortune, otherworldly

affliction and mysterious disappearances. Depending on the storyteller, the consensus emerges that the settlement was ultimately abandoned, surrendered to the relentless embrace of the encroaching forest. Presently, locals caution against venturing near those woods. While not everyone heeds the warning, any seasoned hunter understands the unspoken wisdom. Avoid those woods, and if you go, do so in a group. The unwritten rule for Hoboken Mountain is clear. Never defy the rule of two. Always ensure you're in a pair or more, never fewer.

In the summer of 1998, I foolishly defied the cardinal rule. While the Amazon is dubbed the Green Inferno, those acquainted with the Tennessee Mountains in summer would argue it's the true green inferno. An expansive realm of mountains and trees. Once inside, the sky vanishes. and orientation fades. Raised in these woods, I'd hunted them for years,

familiar with the Hoboken mountain range. However, that summer marked my first solo expedition, originally planned with three fellow hunters, unforeseen circumstances left me alone. Ignoring better judgment and swayed by misplaced confidence, I ventured into the woods alone. Driving my truck down the dirt road leading to the Hoboken forest entry, I left it at the road's end, commencing my trek.

Standing at the precipice where dirt met tree line, the forest seemed to hold its breath in anticipation as I crossed the threshold into the woods, embarking on the track to a familiar hunting spot, a location of past success that required a two-hour hike. Initially, the forest teemed with life, birds, bugs, squirrels, the vibrant symphony of nature. However, as I delve deeper and unsettling unease settled in.

Despite knowing the terrain well, I felt an unnatural disconnect with my surroundings. The cliche sensation of being watched manifested profoundly on this hike. With about 30 minutes remaining, I decided to pause, settling on a rock for a sip of coffee from my thermos. I glanced down and discovered several drops of blood on a leaf. Realization struck as I recognized the source, a cause of. cut on my arm. The scene took an eerie turn as a flock of butterflies gracefully descended, landing on the leaf and engaging in a bizarre struggle over probing the blood droplets with their

proboscis. Lost in a surreal trance, I gazed at the bizarre butterflies. A sudden snap jolted me, but as I turned there was nothing. When I looked back, both the butterflies and the blood droplets had vanished. Shrugging off the ominous feeling, I pressed on with my hike. Reaching the spot where we had set up a deer stand years earlier, I found myself overlooking a picturesque clearing cut through by a stream flowing down from the mountain. The scene was enchanting, a perfect spot to patiently await a deer. Within an hour, a massive buck emerged into the clearing. Slowly raising my rifle and peering through the scope, I had him in my crosshairs when he abruptly jerked his head towards the tree line. Something had spooked him,

and he bolted before I could take the shot. Swinging my scope towards the disturbance, I observed movement in the bushes, a pinkish blur that gradually revealed itself. What emerged was beyond horror. My heart and lungs seemed to halt in fear. In the clearing stood a naked, dirt-covered duplicate of myself, staring directly up at me with a malevolent, gaping smile of rotted blackened teeth.

Lowering my gun, I aimed to scrutinize the naked figure of myself with my own eyes. without the distance of the scope potentially distorting my observation. However, in the brief span it took for me to lower the scope and my eyes to adjust, it simply vanished. Disturbed and disoriented, I sat frozen. The forest, once filled with the lively chorus of nature, now felt oppressive and eerily silent. The unsettling encounter left me grappling with my own sanity.

I cautiously descended into the clearing with my rifle in hand, where the bizarre apparition had stood. The air seemed charged with another worldly energy, every hair on my body stood on end, a primal fear enveloping me. I felt hunted, akin to the buck. Suddenly, a human-like guttural roar echoed from beyond the tree line. Without hesitation, I turned and sprinted.

The dense forest, once familiar, now felt like an ominous labyrinth closing in on me. As I covered the two-hour hike in nearly half the time, gasping for breath, I emerged from the trees onto the dirt road. My hands planted on my truck's hood, as if seeking refuge in a twisted game of tag. In my peripheral vision, a massive black form shifted behind a tree in the direction I'd exited the woods. Glancing back, I saw a single hand, grotesquely human in form, clung to the bark before vanishing behind the tree. I hastily climbed into my truck, leaving a trail of dust in my wake.

Putting Hoboken Mountain in my rearview mirror, the encounter was unlike anything I've ever faced before or since that day. While I struggle to fully comprehend or accept what happened, I'll share this insight. The world harbors ancient mysteries, even still in modern times, and in those aged corners, relics of a long-forgotten world may stir and come to life. Beware of old places with old tales,

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Seeful terms at mintmobile.com. I'm a mid-20s female, and tonight I found myself at the local grocery store at around 5 p.m. The winter evening was already starting to cast long shadows, and the darkness was creeping in faster than I'd anticipated. I was leisurely strolling through one of the store's narrow aisles, trying to decide between various product options. As I perused the shelves, a sense of unease began to settle in. the pit of my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man who appeared to be in his late

20s or early 30s. He had light features, glasses perched on his nose, and a scruffy beard. He had casually sidled up right next to me, and at first I dismissed it as mere coincidence. People often shared the same shopping aisles after all. However, what struck me as peculiar was the fact that he wasn't moving or reaching for any items on the shelves. He was just standing there, uncomfortably close. I decided to steal a quick glance in his direction, and to my surprise, our eyes locked. It was as if he had been watching me all along, and my heart skipped a beat. For a moment, I entertained the thought that he might speak to me,

but when he remained silent, I felt an inexplicable chill run down my spine, without wasting another second, I hastily turned and walked away from the strange man. My mind raced with questions and anxiety, trying to dismiss the encounter as mere awkwardness on his part. Perhaps he didn't know how to initiate a conversation with a woman. That was the narrative I told myself. However, my relief was short-lived. Barely 30 seconds later, as I had moved on to another aisle, I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He was once again approaching, his eyes fixated on me.

Panic surged through my veins as I realized that this couldn't be mere coincidence. I increased my pace, feeling his unwavering gaze follow me. I decided to head straight to the self-checkout area, hoping to escape his unsettling presence. As I scanned my items, I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder repeatedly, fearing that he might be lurking nearby. As I finally made my way towards the store's exit, my guard was somewhat lowered. I convinced myself that I had overreacted and that the man was probably gone. But just before I reached the automatic doors, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me.

Instinctively, I turned around one last time. There he was, right behind me, mere inches away. What struck me as even more unsettling was that he had nothing in his hands, no groceries, nothing to suggest a reason for being there. I came to a sudden halt, locking eyes with him once again. He didn't break his gaze either, and my heart pounded in my chest. Then, in a bizarre twist, he lowered his head pretending to be engrossed in his phone, and walked past me, out the door. It was at this moment that I felt sheer terror. He had never intended to buy anything. His sole focus had been on me.

Fear overtook me completely. My head spun as I thought about what could have motivated his actions. Was he just socially awkward? Or did he have more sinister intentions? Maybe he saw me as an easy target for a robbery. I could see my car not too far away, having parked near the exit, thank goodness. I immediately dialed my fiancé and, without thinking, sprinted towards my car. I jumped inside, locked the doors and skimped.

the parking lot for any sign of the strange man. He was still there, aimlessly wandering among the parked cars. With my fiancé on the phone, I started to feel a bit safer. I watched the man for a few more seconds, making sure he wasn't getting any closer, before finally leaving the scene. I couldn't fathom his motives, and that was perhaps the most unnerving part of it all. Each time I had noticed him, he had been blatantly staring at me, far from being discreet. This lack of subtlety puzzled me. It didn't align with what I'd expect from a dangerous predator. Furthermore, the fact that he hadn't purchased anything in the store added to the confusion.

As I drove away, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong about that encounter. It was a chilling and unsettling experience, and even now, I find it difficult to rationalize what happened that evening. I used to work night shifts in the desolate heart of Arizona, far from civilization, at an old Pueblo that had been transformed into a hotel. It was, without a doubt, one of the easiest jobs I'd ever had, but it came with the heavy drawback of a grueling hour and a half commute each way. Initially, I loathed the drive. It sliced a significant chunk out of my precious free time, leaving me to contemplate the idea of relocating to A.O. or seeking employment closer to Yuma. But then, on a fateful night during what I think was my third or maybe

fourth shift, everything changed. I spotted a random taco truck parked outside the Copper Sands RV park. It had been there before, silently beckoning to passers by, but I had always resisted the temptation to stop. After all, I had over a hundred miles ahead of me, and making a pit stop seemed impractical. Yet, that night, my stomach growled with such ferocity that I feared I might start speeding just to get home sooner. So, as the truck came into view on my left, I swerved off the road and pulled into the RV park's entrance. Stepping out of my car, I approached the taco truck. Its owner seemed to be either a resident of the RV park, or someone who diligently drove out here every night to conduct his business. The first thing that struck me was the

savory aroma wafting from the truck. It was impossible to resist. I didn't just grab the tacos to go. Instead, I stayed by the truck, reveling in the flavorful bites. After devouring my meal, I engaged in conversation with the truck's owner over a soda and a cigarette. He even offered those handy lemon-scented handwipes for free, preventing me from greasing up my steering wheel on the way home. Over the next few months, I made this pit stop around 40 or 50 times. It became a regular part of my nightly routine, and yet I never bothered to ask the taco guy's name. It didn't seem necessary at the time, and he didn't inquire about mine either. We were just two people sharing a fleeting interaction in the darkness of the night.

However, in hindsight, I regret not asking, as it would become a crucial detail in the eerie events that unfolded. One evening, as I rolled up to the usual spot outside Copper Sand, the taco truck was conspicuously absent. I parked my car, stepped out, and approached the truck, hoping to enjoy my usual meal. Everything appeared normal at first, not unusual for the times when the taco guy was briefly occupied elsewhere, but then the ominous silence settled in. There was no one on the highway, and it seemed as though the entire RV park was asleep, shrouded in an eerie calmness. while I scanned the surroundings, waiting for the Taco Guy to reappear, a peculiar scent reached my nostrils, something burning.

I stretched up on my tiptoes, straining to peer over the grill's counter, and there it was, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the grill's surface. I called out, my voice trembling, Hey, I think there's something burning over here. Yet, silence persisted, broken only burglow. by the unsettling sizz emanating from the grill above me. With cautious steps, I made my way around the truck to its narrow entrance door. I climbed the retractable stairs and gripped the door handle, pushing it open.

My eyes were met with an empty cash register, its drawer upturned on the counter, loose change scattered around it. The word robbery immediately came to mind, but the lack of signs of a violent struggle baffled me. perhaps the taco guy had been forced to empty the cash drawer himself. My anxiety grew as I advanced toward the grill, which was still a light. I had to ascend a few more steps to reach the cooking area, and when I finally gazed upon the grill's surface, my world crumbled. There, scorched onto the grill, was a perfect jet-black outline of a person's hand.

I recoiled, gasping, my heart pounding in my chest. I muttered aloud, oh my God. Without looking again at the macabre imprint, I reached down and turned off the flame beneath the grill. Descending the stairs, I hastily closed the door and walked back to my car, trembling with fear and uncertainty. I dialed 911, trying to explain the situation to the dispatcher. A robbery had occurred, and someone had been severely hurt, that much I knew. But where had they gone? Why hadn't the police arrived with sirens blaring? Despite my anxiety, I decided to wait, hoping that the taco guy might return, bandaged but alive. I waited for what felt like

in eternity, 30, maybe 40 minutes, but no one showed up. Eventually I drove home, my mind in a whirlwind of confusion and guilt. I replayed the events over and over, wondering what had transpired and why the authorities hadn't come to our aid. And as the days passed, I couldn't shake the thought that I should have asked for the taco guy's name. I tried Googling various phrases like Taco Truck Owner burned by robber, hoping for any lead, but the results only yielded unrelated violent incidents. I remain haunted by the night I discovered that horrifying handprint on the grill, desperately hoping that the Taco Guy somehow managed to recover from the ordeal. My name's Will, and I'm from a place called Hansworth in Birmingham, UK.

Yes, the same city as Peaky Blinders. I'm a big fan of the show, and since Christmas is coming up, it reminded me of a story my dad told me a few years ago. It's a story of two parts, in a way. The first part is us finding out what happened in the first place, which was a big drama but not as interesting as the event itself. So I'll dive in, and I think you'll see what I mean. Back in 1984, my mom and dad were still brand new parents, and I wasn't even out of nappies yet.

So my mom mostly stayed at home to look after me. Mom couldn't work, and dad was still on crap money, so he ended up getting a part-time job as a DJ. You wouldn't think to look at him, but my dad has a sick taste in music. Her family has a Jamaican background, and his parents are first generation, so he loves everything from rock steady and roots to dub and dance hall. I've got a lot of happy memories of being a kid, going through his record collection and pretending it was me that was the selector. Anyways, he gets offered this gig playing a party over in West Brom, which is only a couple of miles down the road. So he accepts, drives over, does the gig, and then starts driving back.

It's about one in the morning, and he's just gone past the roundabout on Kenrick Way, when he sees a flashing blue light behind him. He looks up in his rear view and sees a copper on a police. bike behind him, white helmet, hive's jacket, all that stuff. So he pulls over to the side of the road, turns his car off, and waits for the copper to come up to his window and tell him why he's been stopped. My dad's sitting there, looking into his right-hand wing mirror, watching as the copper parks up behind him, gets off his bike, and then starts walking towards his window. But the closer the copper gets to my dad's window, the more my dad starts thinking that something isn't quite

right. For starters, motorbike cops like that mostly stuck to motorways so they could respond to big car crashes faster. Then secondly, cops are supposed to have something on the front and the back of their uniforms that make it clear that they're policemen. But instead of a little patch over his heart saying police, there was nothing there. It looked like the kind of jacket a builder might wear or something. Then, on this guy's feet, he didn't have boots on. He had all white trainers. By the time he clocked all that about the bloke, my dad's thinking, hang on, this isn't right at all. But then, right as that thought pops into his head, he sees this copper who's not a cop at all reaching into his pocket and pulls out what looked an awful lot like a gun. My dad said that

he did the only thing that came to mind. He reached for his keys, started his engine, and while sinking as far down into his seat as he could, he put his foot down. As he's taking off, he says the front seats just exploded in a shower of glass, as his front and driver-side windows got taken out by the guy's bullets. He only sits up again when he's almost at the turn-off to Birmingham Road. It's only when he turns right off of Kenrick and has to turn his steering wheel all the way and back again that he can just feel there's something wrong with his shoulder. He makes it all the way to the hawthorns before he has to pull over

because by that point, he's noticed how badly he's bleeding from the bullet that's gone through his shoulder. He's terrified that he's going to bleed to death or something. He ended up getting out of his car, flagging down the next one that passed him, and getting a lift to A&E at Sandwell Hospital, which is where he found out just how lucky he'd been. If the bullet had hit him a few inches further down, it could have done fatal damage to his heart, or he'd probably have bled to death before he could even get out of his car to flag another one down.

Obviously, because he needed surgery, the hospital kept him for a few nights. and the police asked him questions from his hospital bed. The first visit was all questions. The second one included telling him that his car, which he'd basically just abandoned near the Hawthorns, had been found. Someone had found it and set it on fire. Because of that,

the coppers who came to ask him questions started asking things like, Are you involved in organized crime? And, is there any one you've angered recently enough for them to want to hurt you? To each of these quite accusing questions, his answer was no, every time. Something you've got to know about my dad for this to all make sense is that apart from his taste in music, he's basically a massive nerd. He was interested in computers growing up, got an IT job, and kept himself squeaky clean. When he was a teenager, he was never involved in any kind of gangs or drug dealing or anything like that. Which, to be fair, Hansworth has got quite a bad reputation.

for. The only thing he could think of which could have possibly rubbed anyone up the wrong way was having to turn down a song request at the party he'd been playing that night. Dad said a fella had come up to him, asked for some proper agro dub track, and when my dad told him that he didn't have it, the bloke started giving him this death stare before he finally walked off. Dad continued without any further confrontation, but he said he caught the bloke staring at him across the hall a few times, just staring and kissing his teeth and all this other hard man stuff. Dad finishes his set, packs up his gear, and the bloke had plenty of opportunities to come up and have a go, but he didn't.

Then the next thing Dad's getting pulled over by a fake cop and gets shot in the shoulder. My dad said that he only really put it together then, and that was only because the police seemed very interested in the details of what Dad believed was nothing more than a minor confrontation. Dad gave them a description of the bloke. He'd been a Jamaican guy, about 5'10, with a blue and white striped shirt, white jeans, and lots of gold chains. Dad also said that he was still in the dance hall when he packed up and left, and he looked legless drunk too. So there was no way that he was hopping on a motorcycle and following him. What were the chances of him having a fake motorbike

cop outfit just stashed nearby in case of an emergency? But like I said, the penny started to drop as he described the guy from the dance hall. A few days later, one of the coppers all but confirmed his worst fears. Basically, the police thought that the bloke that he'd had that little confrontation with in the dance hall was a Yardy. Lots of people know about Yardies because of Grand Theft Auto. Nicos made Jacob as a Yardy, and he does some missions for them. Aside from that, I suppose they're famous for the same way the Yakuza and Triad are famous. They're not. They're not Not as famous as the Italian or Russian Mafias, not by any stretch, but I suppose crime families get a reputation all over the world for a reason.

Anyway, back in the early 80s, lots of Jamaicans started coming over to the UK. There had been a trickle since the 1950s, which is when my grandparents came over, but the late 70s and early 80s saw loads more unemployed Jamaicans coming over to the UK to make better lives for themselves. The trouble was, not all of them were honest hardworking people just looking to get along. The yardies got their name because they tended to hang around what were basically council estates, or what they called in Jamaica, government yards.

If you were a known criminal, you couldn't get a job, so instead you hung around the yards with the other yardies who were always up to no good. Gang life in Jamaica is brutal, and there's hardly any money to go around. So when the yardies heard that they could get over to the UK on forged documents or jump a ship once it arrived in Bristol or London. They came over, and hundreds were looking to make their fortune, and make it they did. London and Bristol got saturated fairly quickly, so the Yardis that arrived later ended up moving north to the likes of Nottingham and Manchester, but especially Birmingham, with it being the second biggest city in the UK, and they brought all their Yardy badman brutality

with them. Ask anyone around here, and they'll tell you, bad man is fairly recent slang. But ask my granddad and my dad, and they'll tell you the whole badman ting, had been around forever. Jamaican culture is very macho as it is, and the Yardis took the whole culture and ran with it until the whole point of being a bad man. Yardy was being the coldest, cruelest. I've heard stories of Yardy's shooting people dead just for giving them a funny look. So, it made sense that the one my dad ran into would want to have him shot for being disrespectful. And to a Yardy, anything that wasn't perfectly to their liking could be seen as disrespectful. One of the policemen my dad dealt with basically told him that they thought his

shooting was connected to a handful of others that happened around Hansworth and West Brom, and that any help my dad might be able to give him would potentially bring them a step closer to solving quite a few other unsolved shootings. Dad told them everything he could, more than once, too. But weeks turned into months, and we never heard from the police. again. As far as my dad knows, they never caught the who shot him, and for a while, he was worried they'd come back for him. Police advised him not to go around West Brom for a while, but without his car, he wasn't going anywhere that wasn't on a bus route anytime soon. Time went on, and after a while, dad stopped looking over his shoulder, and his wounds healed. He still can't lift his left arm

above his head, but other than that, he's perfectly mobile. crazily enough, this whole story came out one Christmas when my mom, who was completely smashed, let slip that my dad knew what it was like to be shot. My granddad and I had been watching some terrible old war film, laughing about how awful the acting was whenever someone got shot. Granddad says something like, they can't act because they don't know how it feels, and Nana goes, your dad does. Basically all hell broke loose after that, and it ended with our dad telling us that story you just heard. It got a bit emotional toward the end because we inevitably got to the part where it hit us how lucky we were to even still have him around. And in my sister's case, how she wouldn't have even been born yet if the shooter's aim had been a bit better. Now I won't lie, the thought still gets me sometimes, thinking someone could be so petty as to want to end another man's life just over a freaking dub track.

The single scariest thing that's ever happened to me occurred on a routine drive home from work back in 2010. I used to work in a kind of speakeasy down in Shreveport, sort of a hipster place that specialized in Prohibition-era drinks. It was a pretty cool job, but the scheduling sucked. And sometimes we didn't get out of there until three, and occasionally as late as 3.30 in the morning. On this particular night, we finished around 3, and I found myself driving down West Shreveport with nothing but the streetlights to guide my way. Out of nowhere, I suddenly spotted someone lying right in the middle of the street. From what I could tell, it was a guy splayed out like a starfish on the blacktop.

I instinctively slowed down and swerved to avoid hitting him. As I peered out of my driver's side window to get a better look, I couldn't see any blood or obvious injuries, but the guy's eyes were wide open in a really creepy way. That made me think that he was in some real trouble, or worse, maybe he was dead. Realizing I should probably do something, I reached for my door handle. I swear I was halfway out of my car before this inexplicable feeling overcame me.

I can't quite put it into words, but it was like I got a tap on my shoulder, and something in my head urged me to look behind me. When I did, my blood turned to ice. For those familiar with Shreveport, you'll know what I'm talking about. As I gazed in the direction of Joella Street, near the strip mall near the office depot, there was a row of trees on the left-hand side where

Forest Park and Wildwoods, or whatever it's called, were located. Pure instinct led me to spot two guys, their faces covered, creeping through the trees in my direction. Realization hit me like a freight train. I was about to get carjacked. Panic set in, and I jumped back into my car, slamming the door shut. but as soon as I did, the guy I had initially thought was either dead or unconscious, the same one I had contemplated offering help to, suddenly sprang up from the ground and lunged for my door handle before I could speed off. My heart pounded like a jackhammer the entire rest of the ride home. I was maybe a mile away before I could muster the courage to slow down.

They weren't going to catch me, not if I drove like I had been. If I hadn't snapped back to reality, I might have gotten a ticket or worse, been involved in a horrific car accident. It may seem unrelated, but I always look back and think about how I could have escaped one dangerous situation only to meet another fate in a blind panic, thinking they might be following me in another car or something. That gut feeling I had when I stepped out of the car haunts me. If I had been a little more tired or slower in sensing the danger, I might not be here. today to recount this chilling tale. I don't think they had a gun or anything, or if they did, they didn't fire any shots as I drove away. But a knife, or even the possibility of them running me

over while trying to escape, raced through my mind. I could have ended up on the street, just like that guy had been when I rolled up, but with me, it might not have been so easy to get up again.