Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 5 True Scary Stories to Calm your Restless Nights

Episode Date: October 2, 2023

These are 5 True Scary Stories to Calm your Restless Nights Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►https://www.reddit.com/user/Evening-Most2914/ ►Anonymous ►https://www.reddit.com/user/SomeGuyCalledBexex/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Saint_Lopez/►Anonymous Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:03:37 Story 2 00:14:58 Story 3 00:37:22 Story 4 00:48:19 Story 5 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #truescarystory #forest #parkrangerstories #deepwoods #nightmare #missing411 #nationalpark 💀As always thanks for watching! 💀

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Perhaps it's true. Everything happens for a Reese's. This is a true story, and it haunts me every single night. It all started on a Tuesday night around 2 in the morning. I'm lying alone in bed in the dark, and my window is cracked open. I prefer having a breeze at night to stay cool. I open my window every single night. It doesn't matter if it's hot or cold or windy or rainy I will open my window.

Anyways, I had to make this post because it is really haunting me. To explain, all of a sudden, the noise started. I remember my eyes rapidly opening and the shivers being brought down my spine. It was very paralyzing and it made my whole body jolt like a shockwave running through my nerves. This sensation is especially intense at night when you are startled by a noise like your old house resting. But this was unlike anything I've ever experienced. To start, the noise that scared me seemed to be a man shouting from a quarter of a mile away. I thought to myself that this was extremely unusual.

I live in a desolate area and I don't have many neighbors around, so it couldn't have been them. I live in a woodsy area in a humble neighborhood. Most people who live here are hermits and don't leave their homes unless it's for bi-weekly grocery shopping or leaving in the morning to go to work. But the screams were very specific and were arranged in a pattern. They almost sounded inhuman. A loud but faint yell would sound about every two seconds, and the yells were unintelligible words and lasted for about one to two syllables. It was almost

perfect sounding like a recording of a shout played again and again and again but for hours. The dreadful sounds stayed in place for three hours of non-stop yelling, and the man never seemed to move locations, except for when the noises slowly got farther away, and that's when it seemed to stop. The sounds lasted from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m. I assume the man making the disturbances in his early 30s. It haunts me to think of someone just standing in the forest blatantly yelling words for three hours straight in the middle of the night. The sounds didn't appear like they were desperate as if they were in need of any help. The only drastic thing would be if a bear mauled you to death, but no one's stupid enough to go out at night like this. The shouts sounded emotionless,

and of course very terrifying. I eventually was able to catch my breath and peek out the window. It wasn't the wind causing the noise and most definitely wasn't a branch scraping my window like someone would try claiming in order to debunk me. But I was too afraid to go outside and investigate. I had to debate whether calling the police would be the right thing to do or not. I'm a short woman and I'm not the absolute strongest and I know if I investigated on my own, I would be the avid kidnapping victim. From watching and reading, horror stories I know the person who investigates always dies in the end. I kept my ear close to the window for a few minutes and I was starting to decrypt what he was saying. It sounded like it

was in a different language or a gibberish word being spoken, but it was very strange. I know I'm not crazy, and I know what I heard. I will probably never open my window ever again since I don't want to find out who or what was making those sounds, and I definitely do not want them to come back. Does anyone know what this could be? I asked my neighbors if they, heard, and only one out of four claimed they did. We both don't know what it was. It was a day like any other, the Wyoming sun piercing down on us, when Victor and I set out to add another member to our family. His hand, warm in mine, matched the heat of our shared enthusiasm. We didn't need much. We already had our three dogs, a lively bunch composed of my Welsh

terriers Goldie and Teddy and Victor's miniature poodle Fifi. But there was an unspoken agreement between us. Room for one more. We drove to the local shelter. The drive was scenic, open planes stretched out on either side, interrupted occasionally by scrubby pines. Buster, Ace, Milo, Victor mused, his eyes twinkling in amusement. I smiled back at him, a sense of shared comfort lacing the silence that ensued. The shelter was bustling with activity. Yips and barks filled the air, a symphony of canine voices that were both desperate and hopeful. It was in this cacophony that we first saw Joey. He was hunched in the corner of his cage, a one-year-old English mastiff mix. He was a mountain of a dog, his frame significantly bigger than the rest. His previous owners hadn't

expected him to grow so big and couldn't keep him. Joey, despite his size, looked at us with tender brown eyes, a gentle giant. I felt a slight twinge of apprehension as we approached him. Joey towered over me, a contrast to our smaller, playful dogs back at home. But one look at Victor's enamored expression, and I knew there was no turning back. As I reached out tentatively to pet Joey, I noticed his eyes flicker. From the brown, they turned a deep, mesmerizing blue. I blinked, disoriented, but when I looked again, they were brown as before. On our way home, Joey sat in the back seat, his head resting against the window. His size was commanding, but he seemed docile, content even. I told myself the changing eye colors had been a trick of the light, a momentary illusion.

Yet a small part of me continued to harbor doubts. We introduced Joey to Goldie, Teddy, and Fifi as soon as we got home. Fifi, a normally spunky dog, growled low in her throat and slunk behind the couch. Joey seemed taken aback by her hostility, his expression one of perplexed confusion. The other dogs didn't seem to mind him. I brushed it off as Fifi needing time to adjust. That night, Victor and I sat on the porch, staring out into the open Wyoming night. We raised our beers in a silent toast to our new addition, while my mind kept returning to the scene at the shelter, to Joey's eyes, shifting from brown to blue. I told myself it was nothing, just the stress of the day playing tricks on me.

I should have known then that there's always more to it when it comes to dogs, especially one like Joey. In the days that followed Joey's adoption, I grew accustomed to the rhythm of our expanded family. The morning sun shone through our windows, our home bustled with activity, and the days were as lively as ever. But something about Joey set me on edge. There was an underlying current of weirdness. At first it was Fifi. Poor girl couldn't seem to catch a break. She hid in the oddest places, under the bed, behind the couch, even once in the laundry hamper. She was a trembling bundle of nerves every time Joey was around. The strange part was Joey's reaction, pure bewilderment. It was as if he couldn't understand why she was so terrified. Then there were the knights.

They say you're never truly alone when you have dogs, and boy, I couldn't agree more. It started with me waking up to Fifi's low wimper's and finding Joey standing near her hiding places. There was an unsettling rhythm to these occurrences that disrupted the serenity of our Wyoming nights. One evening, as I brushed past a hallway mirror, I noticed something that sent a chill down my spine. Joey, standing behind me, bared his teeth at Fifi, his eyes gleaming menacingly in the mirror. I spun around, my heart pounding, but found Joey sitting calmly on the floor, his tail wagging gently. Victor thought I was overreacting when I brought up my concern. Jones. Joey's a big teddy bear, he'd say. You're just being paranoid. I wanted to believe him.

I truly did. But I couldn't ignore the dread that lingered whenever Joey was around. The unease in the house prompted me to move Joey to the kitchen during the night. That's when the strangest thing happened. Every morning we'd wake up to find our food spoiled as if left out overnight. It was as if someone, or something, had rummaged through our fridge. As I held the rotten food, Joey would stare back at me, his eyes full of a challenge that made my skin crawl. I thought moving Joey to the backyard would end these occurrences. But the bizarre incidents took a darker turn. Every morning, I'd find dead animals scattered across our lawn.

Their bodies were mangled, organs missing, as if expertly removed. Victor was oblivious, always at work before dawn, but I was there, cleaning up the grotesque mess left behind. When I confronted Joey about it, he snarled at me, a low, threatening sound that had my heart pounding in my chest. I'd never seen him so aggressive, not even with Fifi. My fears were escalating, and Victor, caught in his world of denial, refused to see what was happening. The Wyoming sun continued to shine, the open plains continued to stretch out, but my world

was slowly closing in. I felt trapped in my own home, my fears punctuated by Joey's increasing hostility and the unnerving incidents. My mind kept going back to that day at the shelter, when Joey's eyes shifted from brown to blue. I had a feeling that something terrible was about to happen, and it had everything to do with Joey. In the shadowy quiet of Wyoming nights, a sense of dread took root within me. I felt myself being pulled into a horror I could neither comprehend nor ignore. Our home, once a sanctuary, now teemed with unseen fears, their form given substance by Joey. I tried talking to Victor. I tried talking to about Joey, about the things I'd noticed. Victor's bond with Fifi was special. She belonged to his

sister who, along with her other dog, had died in a car crash weeks before we met. Victor had a soft spot for the poodle, and I hope my concerns would make him reconsider Joey. But he shot me down, his face hardened with anger. He couldn't bear to think his beloved Joey could hurt Fifi, and I didn't have the heart to push it any further. One night, I awoke to a blood-curdling scream. It was Fifi. Heart pounding, I rushed downstairs to find Joey in the living room. The sight that met my eyes was something out of a nightmare. Joey was tearing Fifi apart.

I screamed for Victor, tears blurring my vision as I took in the horror unfolding before me. Victor came rushing in, his face pale. He switched on the lights, and it wasn't real. Fifi was safe, hiding under the couch, her body shaking with terror. The remains on the floor were that of a stuffed toy. not Fifi. But I couldn't shake the image from my mind. Joey, his mouth smeared with blood. Victor berated me for my panic, for my accusations against Joey. But all I could focus on were Joey's eyes, soulless, gleaming with a sinister satisfaction that had my blood running cold.

My fears escalated to a point where I couldn't take it anymore. My once peaceful home was now a battlefield, my dreams haunted by visions of Fifi's death and Joey's monstrous form. I was trapped in own nightmare. Then, one night, the unthinkable happened. I awoke to a grotesque figure looming over me. Its limbs were twisted, its body distorted, its eyes a piercing blue. It was a creature straight out of hell, and I knew it was Joey. I woke Victor up, fear clawing at my throat. But by the time Victor blinked his eyes open, Joey was back in his dog form, looking as innocent as ever. Victor dismissed my fears with a shake of his head and fell back asleep. But I knew I'd seen Joey for what he truly was.

The next morning, I woke up to an unexpected surprise. Victor had planned a weekend getaway. We hurriedly packed our bags leaving Joey behind with a friend of ours. As we drove off, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. For the first time since we'd brought Joey home, I felt safe. But as I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw Joey standing in our driveway, his eyes gleaming a sinister blue.

My heart pounded in my chest. Something told me this was far from over. far from over. As we drove further away from home, the verdant plains of Wyoming seemed to lighten my mood. We were heading towards a destination where the echoing growls of a beast were no longer part of my nightmares, but the lingering dread in the back of my mind persisted. About 50 miles away from home, Victor broke the silence. His voice was low, his words delivered with a heaviness that made my heart sink. He'd seen Joey, too, that night, standing over us in his grotesque form. He'd played down to, his reaction, but the sight had shaken him as much as it had me. I was silent, processing his

confession. Victor had called an animal rescue team instead of our friend. He'd lied about Joey being aggressive and uncontrollable. They were going to put Joey down. The guilt etched on Victor's face was clear. He'd seen what I'd seen, felt what I'd felt. He'd just been too afraid to admit it. We took refuge at my parents' house, our home now tainted by an inexplicable fear. We were safe, but the haunting image of Joey, in his true form, lingered in my mind. I wasn't sure we'd ever feel comfortable in our house again. One evening, while Victor was outside talking to my dad, I decided to check on Goldie and Teddy. As I walked towards the room where they were resting, a familiar fear clutched my heart.

I heard a growl, low and menacing, sending a shiver down my spine. I pushed open the door, my breath hitching as I took in the scene before me. Goldie and Teddy were huddled in a corner, their eyes wide with fear. Fifi was nowhere to be seen, and in the middle of the room, a large, twisted figure stood. Its eyes met mine, gleaming a chilling blue. Joey. A wave of terror swept over me, my blood running cold. Joey was supposed to be gone.

He was supposed to be dead. But there he was, standing in front of me, in his grotesque, monstrous form. A growl echoed through the room, a sound so terrifying. it froze me in my tracks. And then, in a blink of an eye, he was gone. The room was empty, save for Goldie and Teddy. There was no sign of Joey or Fifi. It was as if he'd never been there, but the terror in the dog's eyes told me otherwise. Joey was back, and he was far from done. The Wyoming Knights had taken on a new form of terror, the looming threat of Joey hanging over us like a dark cloud. We thought we had escaped, thought we were safe, but we were wrong.

I looked out the window, the moonlight casting long shadows across the yard. I could almost see him there. Joey, his eyes glowing with an unnatural blue. We had only just begun to understand the nightmare we'd invited into our home. This episode is brought to you by Welch's fruit snacks. Big news for your kids' lunchbox. Welch's fruit snacks are now made without any artificial dyes. A snack parents can feel good about and the same delicious taste kids can't get enough of.

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Celebrate Mom with Whole Foods Market. From when I was born up until four months ago, my family of four lived in Nowheresville, Indiana. The town consisted of exactly 37 streets, one school covering kindergarten to 12th grade, one three-story hospital, exactly two pizza places, and fewer than 6,000 people. We were well off, owning a large three-story house right next to the school, but I always got the sense that my parents were uneasy, specifically my father. He would go on month-long business trips to who knows where three or four times a year, and he always seemed the happiest a few days before leaving.

At around the age of nine, I came to the conclusion that if his family wasn't here, he would be living in some metropolis at least five states away. He always seemed partial to New York. We'd been there a few times, and he was always more energetic than I'd ever seen him, dragging us from the Statue of Liberty to the One World Trade Center to the top of the Empire State. Then after at most a week, we would return to the land of everybody knowing everybody in a plethora of old white men sitting on their porches in their rocking chairs, sipping Arnold Palmer's and waving as you pass. For some people, a paradise, a retirement village if there ever was one, but for my father, purgatory.

The first incident happened at exactly 2.32 a.m. I was hunkered down in my room, blanket draped over my back, illuminated by the glow of some horror movie. I can't recall precisely what it was, perhaps the exorcist, or maybe Omen. I've loved horror movies since I was old enough to get my hands on them, and I've seen all the classics. I know the legend of Jason Voorhees, which scared me into quitting sleepaway camp. I fear the dream demon Freddy Kruger, which made me pull two consecutive all-nighters until I collapsed in the middle of history from pure exhaustion. Michael Myers stopped me from trick-or-treating one Halloween, and Pennywise keeps me at least five feet from a storm-draint.

to this day. Yet for all their downsides, I couldn't tear my eyes away. Something about the monsters, be they human, ghost, zombie, or killer clown, always drew me back. So I was up late into the night when I heard the whistling first. It jarred me when it started, and I paused the movie for a moment before forgetting about it. It was a jaunty tune, cheerful, yet erratic. It never repeated itself, and despite its upbeat nature, something about it was off-putting. yet someone whistling, albeit late at night, was no cause for alarm. However, as the movie progressed and I drew the covers tighter around my skinny frame, the sound persisted. After five minutes I paused the movie again to listen. It was coming from the same general location, yet the direction of the

sound shifted ever so slightly as if the whistler was pacing. It couldn't have been more than 20 feet from my house, but when I checked my second floor window, it instantly ceased. There was nothing except a spindly sapling sitting blocking my view, yet I saw no one. I sat at the window for a minute or two, but nothing. I didn't think much of it and finished my movie, then collapsed into a nightmare-filled sleep. The next evening was much of the same. The movie playing out on the screen this time was a personal favorite of mine, paranormal activity, and during a quiet, tense scene about two-thirds of the way in, the clock struck two-32, and the whistling began again. I instantly shut off the TV and grabbed my phone, clicking on its flashlight.

The tune was the same, but not perfectly. Again, it never repeated itself, but it was the same pace, the same energy, the same set of notes. Something about it piqued my curiosity. I needed to know what it was. Realistically, I was sure it was only someone who couldn't sleep, waking up and whistling their tune that they came up with themselves. But something about it drew me in, something sparked. my curiosity. I crept to the window, careful not to make myself visible or look out myself. I waited for what felt like an eternity, but nothing changed. The tune never shifted significantly,

the whistler never moved. I checked my phone repeatedly, watching the minutes go by. By the 15-minute mark, a growing sense of unease had settled in. I waited until exactly three in the morning, and then sprang up, scanning the area outside my window. Yet only the tree sat there, surrounded by a field of yellow-brown grass stretching into infinity. The whistling immediately ceased, and my heart pounded in my chest. I raced to my bed and sat against the corner, my covers around everything but my head. My phone flashlight pointed at the window and door to my room. At some point I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember is my father shaking

me awake at noon. He looked mildly annoyed that I had stayed up late again, but he didn't make a big deal out of it. After I had breakfast, I settled down near him on the living room couch. Something weird happened last night. An Eldritch horror forced you to stay up until sunrise? I rolled my eyes in exasperation. I heard some guy whistling outside for like half an hour. I immediately knew something was wrong.

My father's entire body tensed up, and his eyes snapped up from his newspaper to meet mine. What? I was taken aback by the sudden shift in tone, but I continued to explain. Yeah, it was weird. I heard whistling outside my window, maybe 20 feet away. I listened for a while, but as soon as I looked out the window, it stopped. He leaned towards me. When did it start? A little past 2.30? His face had gone pale. It was the most serious I'd ever seen him, and I was terrified. I had no idea what was happening, but he continued to interrogate me. Exactly when, Thomas? How long past 2.30? Two minutes, I think. Yeah, 2.32. Dad, what? Why are you acting like this? He paused, sat back and slumped forward, head in his hands. I was frozen. I had no idea what this meant. Why did some whistling mean so much to him? He picked up his head and asked me a few more questions until I had relayed every detail of that night. He paused for a long moment, then got up and started to climb the stairs. Halfway up,

he turned to me. Stay inside for today. I'm going somewhere with Mom. watch Sally. The next day was Monday, and school resumed for the last time that summer. The week passed in a blur, and I said by to all my friends who were going away to camps, which was almost all of them. Finally, on Saturday, the inevitable announcement finally arrived. We gathered around the dinner table, and the mood was already uncomfortable before I'd had a bite of my spaghetti and meatballs. My mother started the conversation. So I know you guys love this town, My sister immediately interrupted. I like New York better.

But your father and I had to make some financial decisions and, well, we're moving. Somehow I wasn't surprised. I had known for years it wasn't a matter of if, but when. My six-year-old sister was less than pleased when she realized our destination wasn't New York, but a suburb adjacent to Boston. I quickly finished my meal and retreated to my room. Around 10 that night I heard my parents put my sister to bed. and walked down to the living room. I followed after a few minutes, and as soon as I entered the

room, their quiet conversation immediately ceased. What are you guys talking about? Nothing, honey, just the move. Bull crap. I didn't call them out on it, though, as I sat down across from them. Dad, he looked to me, yes? Is this because of the whistling? He didn't react immediately. Deep down, I knew. I knew that the answer was yes, but I waited for you. I waited for his response. Thomas, I promise you when you are older, I will explain everything, but I can't right now, so please, just go to bed, pack, say goodbye to your friends, whatever, but know that I'm doing this for us. He paused again, locking eyes with me, for this family. Finally, I exploded. I don't remember what I said, but it wasn't pretty. After all, at the time, it seemed to me

like they were tearing my life apart because of a sound I heard a couple of nights in a row. That night, I stormed upstairs in a fit of rage, eventually crying myself to sleep. I didn't hear the whistling again for a month and a half. In reality, I hadn't stayed up late enough to hear it at that time. With all the time in the world on my hands, I hadn't found a reason to stay up past midnight. After all, I had no friends in the state, much less nearby. However, my parents seemed much happier. My mother had already made some friends at some Pilates group, and my father was acting like he did in New York every day.

Even my little sister had found some friends in the next door neighbors, but I spent my days in my room, dying of boredom. So in late July, I decided to try to hear the whistle again. I didn't believe I would hear it. After all, we had moved states. It would be completely illogical to think I would. And yet when 2.32 a.m. arrived, it started again. I was frozen in fear. For some reason I couldn't put my finger on it,

but I listened. The tune was the same. It even sounded like the same distance and direction from my bedroom window as it had been in Indiana. After a few minutes I sprang up. This time outside my window there was a long, dark alleyway. But still, as soon as I looked, nothing. The whistling came to a halt, and nobody was there. I didn't tell my father about the whistling. I don't know why. I wish I had. But at that moment, it felt like some little mystery for me to puzzle out, some special secret only I had. How stupid of me.

The next day, my three best friends paid us a surprise visit. As soon as camp had ended, their parents arranged a surprise trip to see me at the request of my parents. So for the next two days, they would be sleeping over. I was ecstatic, and it immediately took my mind off everything else. The night passed much the same as it would. back in Indiana, horror movies, video games, and an ungodly amount of snacks. At around one, I started to keep an eye on the clock as it inched forward. I felt as though I needed to show someone, just to prove I wasn't hallucinating, that the loneliness hadn't pushed me over the edge.

I had made the decision to reveal the phenomenon to my friends. Once again, I wish I hadn't. I told them about 15 minutes ahead of time, and at first they didn't believe me. After all, We had spent the past six hours binging horror movies, and past midnight was the perfect time for a scary story, or a prank if you're ambitious enough. But despite their complaining, I could tell they were intrigued, and I managed to convince them to hide under the window with me. Sure enough, the whistling began right on schedule. They didn't have the patience to listen long. Josh sprang to his feet after two minutes, despite my repeated whispered protest, and the whistling stopped. Huh, that's odd. Why did you look?

I was curious. I told you not to. So? Not having enough energy to get mad over it, I surrendered, frustrated, and we resumed our nightly activities, eventually falling asleep at around four. The next evening my friends had a plan. David started to explain. So we just hide behind the dumpsters in the alley, then we all spring out. One of us stays in the house.

If we get the whistler in between us and the window, there's no way to miss it. I pleaded with them, begging them not to, but they ignored me. I didn't even know why they were so set on catching the whistler, but they were. For some reason I knew this was a terrible idea. I felt something deep in my stomach, screaming at me to stop them, but they wouldn't give up, funding humor in my terror, and ignoring me until I stopped trying to convince them. You always yell at the horror movies on TV, but a group of 15-year-old, can't be convinced they've had a bad idea. No one was going to be the coward that took my side.

I eventually followed them out at 225 that night, carefully sneaking out so as not to wake my parents. I wish I hadn't. We all ducked behind the five dumpsters lining one side of the alley. None of us looked at our phones, or even at each other outside of quick, furtive glances. I could tell they were getting impatient, pressed up against the freezing metal backside of a full to the brim dumpster, with rats scurrying around nearby, despite the fact that the weight couldn't have been more than five minutes. I finally risked a glance at my phone. 2.31. I snapped my eyes back to the alleyway. As my heart pounded against my rib cage, the whistling started. It was working. The whistling was coming from between us and the house. I was petrified. I knew I had to

stop them from jumping out. I had to get my friend at the window to look. To get it to stop, before they exposed themselves. I don't know why I felt such a strong urge to stop them, but my gut was telling me I couldn't let them look. My phone buzzed, as did theirs. We all looked down in sync, a text from our friend in the window. Jump as soon as the clock hits 233. I frantically texted back, telling him to look,

while shaking my head wildly. I gazed pleadingly at the two with me, begging them to stop. They simply smirked and texted back, ignore Tom. Then they jumped. I shut my eyes and held my breath, my heart skipping a beat. I curled tighter into a ball, and I waited. After a few seconds of silence, I emerged from my hiding place.

My friends were standing in the middle of the alley, dumbfounded. So, I asked, what? They slowly looked at me, shaking their heads. Nothing. I took that in for a second, shocked. I thought they had to be lying, but I could see on their faces that they were just as confused as I was. I paused, considering what this meant. and came to the conclusion that it meant we should get back inside Ace AP,

and I should never stay up past two again. All right, you had your fun. Now can we put... Before I could finish my sentence, a shrill, ear-piercing sound tore through our ears. I snapped my hands to my ears and locked eyes with my friends, seeing them do much the same. I sprinted back into the house,

my friends instantly following suit. We slammed the back door shut behind us, and after a second it stopped. one long angry note. What the hell was that, Tom? One of them shouted. I realized my legs were shaking and I slid back against the wall.

I don't know. I don't know what you did. But can we please go to bed? We all stayed there in shock until Max raced down from his position at the window. Are you guys all right? What the hell was that? The next day passed in a blur until after dinner. I was sitting on the living room couch on my phone,

my father taking in a newspaper on the chair opposite at me. He had been acting off the whole day. I knew he could tell something was wrong, but he seemed to be purposely ignoring it. So I began to tell him what happened. By the time I reached the end of my story, he was staring at me, stone-faced. But instead of shock in his eyes, there was anger. This isn't funny, Thomas. You don't understand what you're joking about. Now go to your room and do not ever say something like that again. I sprang to my feet, now angry as well. Dad, I'm not joking. Ask David or Max or Josh, they'll back me up. I swear to God, I'm not kidding. My father stood up, towering five inches over me, staring down into my eyes. It's not possible, Thomas.

We left that thing in Indiana. Now go to your room. Why won't you tell me what this thing is? I retorted. If there's some goddamn monster you know about, why won't you believe me when I say I hear it? He paused for a moment, then returned softly. because when i moved to indiana it stayed in washington and when my father moved to washington it stayed in montana and you will not tell me that you have broken the chain you will not hear the whistling again until you have a child of your own before i could respond he walked briskly back to his room shutting and locking the door behind him i ran to catch up and hammered my fists against his door but no response he didn't emerge for the rest of the evening that night i was terrified I tried desperately to fall asleep, but I knew I wouldn't, and sure enough, I couldn't. When the time drew near, I threw my blanket over my whole body and shoved my fingers in my ears.

I'm an atheist, but that night I prayed. The whistling took a different tune for the first time. It was erratic and never repeating, but it was different in tune. Compared to its former jovial sound, it was angry, terrifying. I don't know how to describe it. It was as if all of a sudden I had interrupted its nightly routine. And it wasn't happy. It's not him or her. Whatever this is, it isn't human. It can't be.

I waited for over ten minutes before it began to get louder. At first it was a negligible increase, nigh unnoticeable. Even after a couple of minutes of it slowly getting louder, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. But after ten more minutes, I couldn't deny it. It was getting louder, and the speed at which its volume was increasing was a accelerating. It overrode every other sound I could hear, growing louder and louder, until I was sure my eardrums would burst. As it crescendoed, I couldn't take it anymore. I jolted up and craned my neck, peering out the window. As per usual, it immediately stopped. At some point that night I fell into a

fitful sleep, not waking up until 11 the next morning. Once again, my father ignored my pleas for help. My mother seemed worried, but she inevitably took my father's side, and they forced me back to room that night. I spent the next few hours coming up with a plan. I waited until one in the morning when I was sure they'd be asleep and snuck into my mother's bathroom, careful to avoid creaky floorboards and squeaking doors. I opened the medicine cabinet, and sure enough, there it was. Xanax. My mother was prescribed it some seven years ago, and continued to use them well after her prescription ended. I scanned the back of the container, decided on one pill, and returned the container, carefully making my way to the kitchen. I filled a glass of water and looked at the pill.

I wasn't sure if this was too much. The internet had recommended half a milligram, but I couldn't continue to stay awake. I swallowed it without further thought and returned to my room. It only took about 15 minutes before the effects began to kick in. I fell asleep not long after. The whistling started right on schedule. For the first time, it jolted me awake. My heart was pounding. I felt like I should be knocked out, but I was awake. The whistling wasn't even that loud, but as I checked my phone, I realized it had awoken me right as it started. The only silver lining was that it seemed to have resumed its jovial tune,

and despite the negatives of the situation, this comforted me. At first, when it began to move, my heart skipped a beat. It had shifted a bit before, but all of a sudden it quickly shot underneath my window. I froze up, terrified. It continued to move, traveling over to where my back door. is. It paused for no more than a few seconds, and then I heard the click of a lock and the door swinging open. My heart pounded wildly as I heard the whistling pass under my room to the other side of the house. It traveled up my stairs without a sound other than its jubilant tune, and I began to tense my

muscles and hold my breath as it approached my closed door. It sat at the entrance to my room for over five minutes. I knew no one else in my family could hear it now, as it was too loud for them to possibly sleep through. My face was turned to the wall, away from the door and window, but I was ready to turn. Then my door swung open, banging against my wall. I whirled around, ready to face the monster. I wasn't sure what my plan was, but I was ready to fight whatever was coming for me. But the whistling stopped instantly, and there in my doorway was my six-year-old sister. Sally, I said, I didn't realize how much I had tensed up, and as I relaxed, I realized my words were slightly slurred. The Xanax was still in effect, yet I was awake. Were you whistling?

She looked confused. No, Tommy. I don't even know how to whistle. Then why the hell are you in here? It's like three in the morning. I think I left bear in here. As I retrieved her teddy bear for her, I considered telling my parents what had happened, but the Xanax was calling me back to my bed, and the whistling had stopped for the night. I would tell them the next morning, beg them to take us to a hotel or something. As Sally left the room, I collapsed back into my bed, facing the wall, and began to drift back into dreamland. I only wish I had faced the other way. What happened next chilled me to my core. Right before I slipped back into sleep, the whistling started again. It was right behind me. It was angry once again, and it was looming over me, inches from my bed.

I resisted the urge to scream, curling into a ball, trembling and suffering. in shaky breaths. It moved closer by an inch, then another. It stopped there, probably touching my bed for what felt like an eternity. The terror I felt was incomparable to any I had felt before. No horror movie could prepare me for this. Then I felt pressure on my bed, as if it had moved on to it and I rolled over, swinging my fist. I connected solidly with my bed frame, letting out an involuntary gasp of pain. I scanned my room as I shook. Nothing. Since then I haven't moved. It's around six and the sun is rising as I write this, and I've been furtively scanning my room between every sentence. Tomorrow I'll make my parents do something, take us to a hotel

maybe, but just in case, I need my story out there. Wish me luck. It seemed like since the moment I was born that the supernatural seemed drawn to me, though I wouldn't have my first real experience with it until after my second or third year of school. I must have been seven or eight at the time. I can't be sure anymore how old I was. The older you get, the more the years all seemed to blend together. It was during late summer, late July most likely. Back in those days, I spent a good part of the summer with my grandparents. It was okay, though, because that meant I got to spend time with my uncle, Leo. He was my favorite of all my dad's siblings. He was still a young man in his late 20s. He had fought in the war and lived at home to help my grandparents out. Everybody has their

favorite aunt or uncle, and Leo was mine. Sometimes when he was off from his job at the meat packing plant, he would take me swimming and fishing. We had this little spot about an hour's drive out of town that we would frequent. It was on one of those adventures that this fateful day would occur. We got to the fishing spot a little after eight in the morning, made an entire day of it. I got about 30 fish that day, a record for me at the time, but that's not why I remember that day. that's not why I remember it at all. The day had been perfect up to that point, but as all days must they eventually have to end.

It was starting to get late, the sun was already starting to set when we decided to call an end to our fishing expedition. We were packing up the truck when I first noticed it. Silence. I don't mean it was quiet. No, I mean there was no sound, no nothing, no birds, no insects.

Heck even the wind had stopped blowing. It was eerie. The sun fading in the back. and the void of sound around us. Suddenly there was this growl, almost a roar, actually. I couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from. The way it echoed through the air, it could have been coming from any direction. But one thing was clear. It sounded to be getting closer to us as the seconds ticked away. It sounded like it was maybe half a football field away. That was when I heard the rustling from the trees just to the left, almost directly above us. Something was up there, something

large. You could hear the leaves rustling, branches snapping as whatever it was jumped from tree to tree. I looked over at my uncle. If he heard it, then I'll never know. He was paying at no mind, just packing up all of our stuff, never once looking up or picking up the pace. To this day, I still believe he knew it was there at that time, but he was paying at no heed as not to panic me. Fear of whatever this was started to overtake me. I stopped what I had been doing almost completely, helping load up our gear was the farthest thing from my mind. I started to become frozen with fear. My uncle had to practically yell at me to snap my attention back to him.

We're almost packed up, Reco. Let's get going. It's late already and your grandmother is going to be worried if we aren't home soon. Hurriedly, I helped him pack up the remainder of our gear into the truck. Whatever had made that sound, I wanted no part of meeting it or finding out what it was. We got the truck packed, and I took one last look around, to see if I saw anything, before hopping in the passenger side of my uncle's truck. It was still dusk, not yet completely dark. As we drove down the road, the light was quickly fading overhead.

My uncle flipped on the radio. I don't even remember what was playing at the time, probably some jazz song. My uncle loved that type of music. We had been on the road about ten minutes, when things began to feel not all right. You know that feeling you get deep inside your gut when you know something was wrong? I was feeling something fierce. Suddenly the headlights began to dim and the radio began to fade in and out, and from above us that rustling sound had returned.

Uncle Leo played with the dial some, but once again he ignored the noise. His focus remained on the quickly darkening road. It was then that it happened. I'll never forget it. The horror, the fear, the uncertainty. We had just taken a curve on the road. The rustling sound had gotten louder, closer, when unexpectedly.

Bam. Something big and heavy landed in the back of the truck. It had leaped down from the trees above. It landed with such force that the front wheels of the truck temporarily lifted off the road. My uncle almost lost control of the truck as it skidded across the road. Leo looked briefly in the mirror, then moved his eyes back to the road. He briefly touched the crucifix he kept on the dash, then tightly gripped the wheel with both hands. His knuckles turned white with how hard he gripped it. I just sat there staring ahead, frozen in fear. Whatever it was, it was moving around in the bed of the truck.

I could hear it going through our stuff, tossing things around, rummaging through our cooler. I started to get up in my seat so I could look back and see what was back there. Uncle Leo grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me back down into my seat. No, Miho, just look ahead. Don't look in the back. Whatever you do, trust me. There was fear in his voice. Not a lot. but a hint of it. This was a man that had lived through the horrors of war, and he was scared. I can tell you I did exactly as he said without question. I could hear a small growl from the back, and whatever was back there was moving around the tailgate. Whatever it was, it was heavy.

The truck leaned towards the back because of the weight. For the next five minutes, I sat there frozen in fear. I looked at Leo. He just stared ahead, occasionally glancing at his rearview mirror. Unsure of what to do, I sat there. Fear had completely overtaken me. I didn't know if the thin layer of glass between us and the bed was enough to keep us separated, as my mind ran through every possibility of what was back there that my biggest fear came to be. Whatever was in the bed of the truck was moving. Not like before when it had stayed in the rear of the bed. No, this time it was moving forward towards the cab of the truck. I was petrified. I couldn't move. The creature had begun a slow, methodical move towards us. The nails of the beast scrapped against the

metal of the truck. The truck shifted with its weight as it moved slowly closer to us. Don't look, I will explain later. Trust me. I trusted my uncle, but I was scared. We were still miles out of town. All that separated us from whatever was in the back was a sheet of glass. No one lived near where we were for miles, meaning no help if somehow that thing decided to come into the bed. The creature kept getting closer, the scrapping louder. I could hear its heavy breathing now. My uncle kept looking ahead at the road. I saw in their left hand, though he had slowly unclipped the strap holding his sidearm he kept on his belt. Then there was the tapping. You could hear the nails of the creature gently tapping the glass directly behind my head. Tap, tap, tap. The tears of fear begin to well up

in my eyes. Tap, tap, tap. The creature was just begging us to turn around. What were we going to going to do? What was it? Why did my uncle seem to know what it was? What if it gets inside? I was beyond scared. Nothing in my short life came close to the fear I felt at that moment. Just look ahead. No matter what. Never look back. I'll never forget those words my uncle spoke or the sound of fear in his voice. But that wasn't the worst of it. No, not even close. What happened next? I still dream about at night sometimes. What is run un? little one just up in the window ow let me in an eerie raspy voice spoke from behind me a gasp escaped my lips and tears began to flow freely down my cheeks my uncle leo gave the voice no notice and fiddled with the radio more

do not ignore me let me in face your fate angrier and louder the voice boomed then the banging started the creature or whatever it was began banging on the roof of the cab with such force that the truck begin to rock with each blow. Bang, boom, bang. The blows rained down on my poor uncle's truck. But still, I refused to look back. This continued for the next 30 minutes or so. Just when I thought the roof would cave in from the blows being rained down upon us, I saw the lights of the city as we neared the edge of the forest. A roar erupted from behind us, and the creature muttered these final words. This is not the end, no little one. One day we meet our fates. That particular, won't be there for you forever, till then. And with that, the truck rocked as whatever was in the

bed leaped in the air and away from the truck. We sped forward in complete silence. My uncle said nothing. When we were about two blocks from my grandparents, my uncle pulled over and finally turned to me. Rico, we must talk. You can never tell your grandparents what happened here. There is much you do not know and not enough time for me to tell you everything. The world is filled with great evils. Our family, some of our family are chosen. We have a gift to see the other world. Not all of us are as strong. Some just see glimpses.

Others like me and you, well, we can interact with that world. But there are creatures that live within that world that don't appreciate our gift. They prefer to remain hidden from view as they do their work. But there are rules they must follow in ways we can protect ourselves. I'm going to give you something. My grandfather gave it to me when I was about your age. Now it's yours. With that, my uncle grabbed the crucifix around his mirror and put it around my neck.

I had never noticed before the uniqueness of it. There was a large black rock in the middle, obsidian, and the outside of it was glass, with a thick red liquid inside. I have never taken it off since my uncle gave it to me. It's still around my neck to this very day. My uncle made me promise to never tell outsiders about what happened. They wouldn't believe it anyways, he said. After that night, he said we could never talk about it again.

talking about it gives them strength. We talked for about an hour more on that side of the road. He told me about where they come from and of the evil and corruption that they wished to spread. Afterward we continued our drive home. True to his word, my uncle never again spoke of that evening with me, and I, well, I wasn't going to bring it up. About ten years later, just outside of those woods,

Uncle Leo crashed his truck and was killed. I've often wondered if whatever had jumped on our truck, that long ago night had somehow caught up to him finally. The world is a beautiful place. No one can argue that. But there are evils out there, some that stay hidden just beneath the light. Never forget that.

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All it took was a heavy rainstorm to break my spirit. When the thunder rumbled and the raindrops started their relentless drumming, I felt that old terror sees me, the one that echoed the screams of the past. The guilt inside me reacted like a... a beast to the lightning growing restless and gnawing at my consciousness. It's been this way since the accident. Eight lives taken because I couldn't see the damn road. I became an expert at drowning out storms. When the storm approached, I pulled the curtains tight, sealed the windows, and buried my ears under my old noise-canceling headphones. Their worn-out pads of familiar comfort. But tonight,

as the storm raged outside, the power in my house cut out. I was plunged. into a suffocating silence, broken only by the terrifying symphony of thunder and rain. For some reason it wasn't the darkness that frightened me but the whispers. They called my name, floating towards me on the gusts of wind that threatened to shake the house apart. I brushed it off as my mind playing tricks, a desperate ploy to keep itself busy in the face of the terror outside, until I heard the knocking, a soft rhythmic knocking that echoed the frantic beats of my heart. I held my breath, listening, hoping I'd imagined it. The knock came again, more insistent.

I found myself drawn towards the sound like a moth to a flame, against every instinct in me to cower and hide. I grabbed the old baseball bat from the closet, its worn wood reassuringly solid under my clammy palms. My mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion. Who could be out there in the middle of this maelstrom? I flung open the door, stealing myself for a confrontation, but found nothing but the storm.

Rain and wind lashed at my face, drenching me in an instant. The whispers grew louder, a taunting chorus carried on the gale. I stepped outside hoping to catch sight of whoever was playing this cruel prank. The door slammed shut behind me, carried by the force of the wind.

The click of the lock resonated in the storm, echoing my growing sense of dread. Through the curtain of rain, I saw her, a woman sitting on my porch, her dress whipping around her in the wind. She was holding something, my spare key. I squinted, trying to make out her face,

but what I saw sent my heart plummeting. The face was pale, almost luminescent in the storm's gloom, split by a jagged sewn-up gash from forehead to chin. It was her, one of the victims of the accident. A bolt of raw fear shot through me, my heart pounding so hard I was sure it would burst from my chest. But the woman, ghost, whatever she was. didn't move. She just sat there, clutching my key, watching me. A cold shiver ran down my spine as she lifted

a finger to her lips. Was she telling me to be quiet, or was she asking me to listen? The storm roared around me, and for the first time since the accident, I stopped trying to block it out. I stood there, drenched and terrified, listening to the whispers on the wind. Their message was clear. This was just the beginning. No amount of wishful thinking could wipe the slate clean. You can bury your past, bury your guilt, but it seeps into the soil and taints the groundwater. It was a truth I knew all too well. That day started off just like any other. As the county sheriff, I had a duty to protect and serve.

I woke early, had a strong cup of coffee, and started the long drive to the station. It was a route I knew like the back of my hand, my car snaking its way through the twisting, turning mountain roads. The storm was unprecedented. It descended on us without warning, a roaring tempest that swallowed up the day. I drove through the downpour, windshield wipers struggling to keep up, every droplet on the glass, a bullet of distraction. But I kept driving. I was the sheriff.

People were counting on me. Then a flash of light, a patch of wet asphalt. I lost control. The car skidded, spinning out on the wet road. Then the terrifying crunch of metal, the shattering of glass. In that split second, I saw them, a minivan full of kids, their faces pale in the lightning, and then darkness. When I came to, the storm had passed, leaving in its wake a silence that was louder than any thunder.

The air reeked of gasoline and burnt rubber. The minivan was a wreck, crumpled against a tree. Inside were eight young lives, extinguished, snuffed out like candles in the storm. I lived, they didn't. It was a burden I had to. to carry, an anchor that dragged me down every waking moment. My career, my reputation all lay in shambles. I retreated from the world, my home in the outskirts of the town becoming my fortress of solitude. The guilt was my constant companion, as loyal as a shadow. And now, years later, the past had found

its way to my door, bringing with it a chilling reckoning. The woman, the victim, the ghost, she was a reminder of my deepest guilt, my greatest fear, the stitched up face, the silent accusation in her eyes, they were etched into my memory. That night, as I lay wide awake, the storm raging outside, my guilt took on a new form. The past was not something I could outrun, the whispers in the storm, the spectral woman on my porch, they were all parts of a puzzle, a grim riddle that I had to solve. I could no longer ignore the guilt, the fear. the whispers. I couldn't hide behind my old noise-canceling headphones, couldn't retreat into my fortress. This was a storm I had to face, a ghost I had to confront. As dawn broke, piercing the

gloom with weak rays of sunshine, I made a decision. I would go back to the crash site, back to where it all began. The journey would not be easy. The wounds it would reopen would be raw and painful. But I had to do it. I had to confront my past. For the eight lives lost, for the ghost on my porch and for me the whispers on the wind were a call to action a message from the storm I had to listen I had to face my past because this was just the beginning see the thing about the past is I muttered to myself driving through the desolate mountain pass you can't erase it you can only confront it the storm that had been raging in my head had now manifested itself in the sky echoing my torment my guilt my fear. It felt as though the universe was in sync with my inner turmoil. The roads were familiar yet foreign. Years had passed since I'd last traveled these routes, and time had left its indelible marks, just as it had on me. The thunderous roars and the rain pelting against the windshield served as a constant reminder of that fateful night. The once bustling town was now nothing more

than a ghost town. Nature had reclaimed the town, the dilapidated houses standing like silent witnesses to a a bygone era. The faint echo of children's laughter, the residual warmth of a community, all were now replaced by the cold gusts of wind and the eerie silence. My destination was the sight of my worst nightmare, the scar that had never healed. The crash site. I parked the car at a safe distance, my heart pounding in my chest. The rain had reduced to a drizzle, nature pausing to witness my confrontation with my past. The sight was haunting. The crumpled tree, the shattered glass still scattered on the ground, the faint traces of tire marks, all silent witnesses of that horrifying night.

My knees buckled as the weight of my guilt bore down on me. I fell to the ground, my eyes welling up with tears. A flicker of movement caught my eye. I looked up, my heart in my mouth. There she was, the spectral woman, standing a few feet away, her eyes empty, her face a mirror to my guilt. The silence between us was deafening. I stood up, my legs shaking, my eyes not leaving her. I walked towards her, each step a battle against

my fear, but I had to do it. I owed it to her, I owed it to them. As I reached her, I looked into her eyes. My guilt reflected in them. My voice choked, my words a mere whisper carried away by the wind. I'm sorry, I said, my voice barely audible. She didn't say anything, just kept staring at me. And then, as if on cue, a gust of wind blew, and she vanished. leaving behind only the chilling emptiness. The whispers on the wind seemed to subside replaced by a haunting silence. I was left standing alone, my guilt still gnawing at my soul. The rain had stopped, replaced by a gloomy silence.

I had confronted my past, apologized for my guilt, but was it enough? The only answer was the cold wind whispering in my ear, and in that moment I realized that this journey was far from over. This was just the beginning. The whispers in the wind, the ghost-southful, woman. They were all a part of a mystery I had to unravel, and I was ready to face it all, ready to chase the whispers. The musty smell of damp earth and age-old secrets hung heavily in the cryptic woodland. Trees stood like ancient sentinels, their leaves whispering secrets

that were as old as time itself. The air was thick with an eerie stillness that weighed on my shoulders, amplifying my apprehension. A mournful howl echoed through the night, sending a chill down my spine. The spectral woman's presence seemed to permeate the forest, wrapping around the trees and sinking into the soil. The ghostly cold of her touch seemed to reach me, even though she wasn't there physically. I started the trek towards the cabin. Each crunching step on the leaf-littered ground seemed to echo my pounding heart. The cabin, once a beacon of warmth and family, now stood ominously in the heart of the woods, darkened windows seeming like gaping blind eyes. The memories of laughter and camaraderie now seemed like whispers on the wind.

I unlocked the door with a shaky hand. The old wood creaked open, revealing a dusty room, the air heavy with years of solitude. The moonlight filtered through the broken window, casting long, haunting shadows. My boots echoed in the silent room as I stepped inside, the echoes serving as a chilling reminder of the life this cabin once held. A chill ran down my spine as a sudden gust of wind blew the door shut. The silence was disrupted by the soft rustle of papers. I turned around to see an old photo album lying open on the dusty table.

The faces of my family smiled back at me, oblivious of the tragedy that was to befall them. My fingers traced their faces, my heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. A soft whisper echoed in the room, making me jolt up. I looked around, my eyes scanning the room, but saw no one. The room felt colder, the air denser. The whispers grew louder, a cacophony. in the silence, echoing my guilt, my fear. The spectral woman appeared in the moonlit room, her presence casting a cold pallor. Her empty eyes bore into mine, reflecting my guilt.

You could have saved them, she whispered. Her voice the embodiment of my deepest fears. I fell to my knees, the guilt overwhelming me. The room began to spin, the whispers growing louder, echoing the horrifying truth. I could have saved them. Suddenly everything went silent. The Spectral Woman disappeared, leaving behind the chilling emptiness. The moonlight had dimmed, casting long, foreboding shadows. The silence was broken by a distant wail, a sorrowful cry of a creature in pain. The whispering wind carried a horrifying realization. The spectral woman was not just an embodiment of my guilt, but a manifestation of my fear, my regret. This was my hell, my eternal torment. I was alone in the cabin, my guilt my only company.

Outside the woods echoed with sorrowful cries, a grim symphony that would haunt me forever. The spectral woman, the whispers, the guilt, they were all a part of me, etched into my soul. I was trapped in this endless cycle of guilt and fear, bound to relive my worst nightmare. The whispers in the wind were a constant reminder of my sin, my failure, and as I sank into the darkness, the last whisper I heard was a chilling promise. a promise of eternal torment. Stitch Fix. Stop shopping, get styled. A plus on the outfit, Miss Turner.

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