Just Creepy: Scary Stories - Scary Stories Told In The Rain | Scary Stories For Sleeping, Relaxing, Late Night Spooks

Episode Date: August 11, 2023

These are 4 Scary Stories Told In The Rain | Scary Stories For Sleeping, Relaxing, Late Night Spooks Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►https://www.reddit.com/user/Carbodex/https://www.youtube.com/ @UrbanSpookTales  ►https://www.reddit.com/user/cosmogoblin/ ►https://www.reddit.com/user/Boobowbuttercup/►https://www.reddit.com/user/sunshine_dreaming/ Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:10:18 Story 2 00:38:52 Story 3 00:46:37 Story 4 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #rainsounds 💀As always thanks for watching! 💀

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I was a night owl. Always had been. My most productive hours fell when the world was silent and shrouded in darkness. It was during these hours that I wrote my stories, played my video games, and most importantly made my living. I worked for Uber Eats in Los Angeles, a job that suited my nocturnal lifestyle perfectly. This story begins on a humid summer night. I had just finished delivering a late-night pizza to a college kid studying for his exams.

As I drove back to the more bustling part of town, I noticed a new order popping up on my phone. It was an address I didn't recognize, nestled in an older, less-traveled part of the city. It was a place few people ventured after dark. but an order was an order, and I accepted it. The order was simple, a single cheeseburger from a fast food joint. As I picked up the order, the server gave me a peculiar look. That's a long way to go for a burger, she said, looking at the delivery address on her screen. I shrugged it off, attributing her concern to the lateness of the hour

and the remote location of the delivery address. I thanked her and headed out, the aroma of the freshly cooked burger filling my car. The journey to the address was eerie. The further I went, the less familiar the surroundings became. The vibrant crowded streets of L.A. gave way to narrower, desolate roads, shrouded in shadows, and an oppressive silence. The city's soundscape faded into a background hum, replaced by the haunting whispers of wind through the skeletal trees lining the road. As I turned onto the street, indicated by my GPS, a chilling sense of unease crept over me. The houses here were old and decrepit.

They're boarded up windows and overgrown lawns indicative of a long-abandoned neighborhood. It was as if I had stepped into a ghost town within the heart of the metropolis. My headlights landed on the house matching the delivery address. It was a dilapidated two-story building, the chipped paint and crumbling facade adding to its eerie appearance. But what unsettled me most was its windows. They were not boarded up like the others, instead covered by old faded curtains that seemed to shift ever so slightly. A sensible person would have turned back, but the reality of my financial situation compelled me to carry out the task. I got out of my car, the cheeseburger

in hand, and approached the house. The overgrown weeds crunched under my shoes, the sound unnaturally loud in the unsettling silence. I knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the hollowed-out house. As I waited for a response, a chill ran down my spine. There was something profoundly wrong about this place, an ominous aura that I couldn't shake. And then, the unthinkable happened. The door creaked open on its own, revealing an enveloping darkness within. Hello, I called out my voice tremulous, swallowed up by the darkness inside. An unsettling stillness hung in the air, broken only by the distant echo of my own words. I was about to turn around, my instinct screaming at me to get out of there, when a voice

drifted out from within the house. Just leave it by the door, thank you. The voice was old and raspy, an underlying tone of weakness evident in its timbre. Sympathy momentarily dampened my fear, as I realized this could be an elderly person unable to cook for themselves. I put the bag down near the entrance, took a picture to confirm delivery, and hurried back to my car. As I drove away, I glanced back at the house. The front door was still open, the burger untouched. The following night, a new order buzzed on my phone. My blood ran cold as I saw the same address from last night. It was the same order, a single cheeseburger.

With a deep sigh I accepted the order. I tried to convince myself that there was nothing to worry about. An elderly person in need was depending on me. As I turned onto the same abandoned street, my hands were shaking slightly. The sight of the house, bathed in the cold glow of my headlights, did nothing to ease my anxiety. gathering my courage, I approached the house and left the cheeseburger by the front door. This time no voice acknowledged me, and the door remained closed.

Days turned into a week, and every night the order from the old house came in like clockwork. Each time I left a cheeseburger by the front door, and each time there was no response. My initial fear turned into an uncomfortable routine, the mystery of the old house and its unseen occupant never leaving my thoughts. On the eighth night things changed. The voice, frail and weak, called out again as I set down the cheeseburger. Could you come in and place it on the table? I'm not feeling well. Against my better judgment, I pushed the door open and stepped into the house.

The air was stale, heavy with the smell of decay and damp wood. I strained my eyes to adjust to the darkness, flicking on the flashlight on my phone. The narrow beam cut through the shadows, illuminating a pathway strewn with old, tattered furniture and cobwebs. I placed the burger on a rickety table and backed out, not daring to explore further. As I drove away, the feeling of unease was stronger than ever, the image of the decaying interior imprinted in my mind. The house was not fit for habitation, yet someone was living there, surviving off of a single cheeseburger every night. But who were they? And why did they choose to live this way?

way. And most importantly, why did I feel an uncanny sense of dread every time I stepped foot on that property? As the knights wore on, I realized I was about to discover answers that I may not be prepared for. My knights became plagued by nightmares, the old house taking on monstrous proportions in my sleep-addled mind. I would be back in the decaying living room, the weak voice whispering unseen, leading me deeper into the bowels of the house. I would wake up drenched in sweat, the echoes of the whisper still resonating in my ears, and still, the orders kept coming. I started to dread the pings on my phone as night fell, knowing that inevitably one of them would lead me back to the old house. Each visit felt like I was intruding into a story I wasn't

meant to be a part of, an uninvited character in a slowly unfurling horror tale. On the twelfth night, my worst fears came to pass. As I laid the cheeseburger at the front door, the voice drifted out, sounding weaker than ever. Can you, please, bring it to me? I hesitated at the entrance, every instinct screaming at me to refuse, but the pleading tone in the voice tugged at my humanity. Swallowing hard, I stepped into the dimly lit interior. The house seemed to groan around me as I walked deeper,

following the voice that was now a barely audible whisper. My heart pounded in my chest as I moved past rotting furniture. the beam of my phone's flashlight bouncing off peeling wallpaper and bare wooden floors. Finally, I reached a dilapidated door at the end of a long, narrow hallway. With a trembling hand, I pushed the door open. Inside was a figure, huddled under threadbare blankets on an old bed, the room reeking of decay and neglect. Over, here, the figure lifted a frail hand, gesturing to a bedside table.

I placed the burger there, my eyes never leaving the shadowy form under the blankets. As I turned to leave, the voice stopped me. Thank you. Something in the tone, a mix of relief and sorrow, rooted me to the spot. I found myself asking the question that had been gnawing at me for days. Who are you? There was a pause, the silence stretching on until it felt unbearable. Then the figure under the blanket stirred, just an old man, waiting to be forgotten.

I left the house that night with a heavy heart. sadness in the old man's voice haunting me. As I continued to deliver the cheeseburgers night after night, I began to feel a sense of duty, a need to ensure that this lonely soul was not forgotten. But with each visit, the atmosphere in the house grew more oppressive, the sense of dread escalating into tangible fear. I started to hear things, whispers in the silence, sighs in the creaking wood, laughter in the rustling wind. The house was alive, its malignant energy growing stronger with each passing night until one night the cheeseburger order didn't come in nor the next night nor the night after that I found myself driving past the house anyway a sick feeling of worry gnawing at me on the fourth day I summoned the courage to enter the house the silence inside was deafening the usual whispering voice absent I moved towards the room my heart pounding as I pushed open the door the sight that greeted me made my blood run cold The bed was empty, the room colder than ever, but what truly terrified me was the state of the room.

It looked untouched, unused for years. No sign that the frail dying man had ever been there. In my heart, I knew I'd been delivering meals to a ghost, a lingering spirit tied to the old house, and I was part of his unfinished story. Fear took a backseat to an overwhelming sadness as I realized the truth. The urban legend of the old haunted house wasn't just a legend after all, and the ghost, the lonely old man, was finally at rest. As I left the house for the final time, I could swear I heard a whisper on the wind, an ethereal voice saying,

Thank you. The haunted Uber Eats house remained as a chilling reminder of my encounter with the supernatural, a tale that would haunt my dreams for a long time to come. 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, Yamava Resort and Casino at San Manuel is giving one person a $1.6 million dream package. The biggest prize in Yamava's history.

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Two years ago, I finished my degree at a university in Massachusetts. It's a prestigious institution with a rich history, and I decided to stay on and try to work on a master's. My major is in physics, with a specialism in electrical engineering, and towards the end of my fourth year, I spent a lot of time networking and socializing with doctors and professors, hoping to land a good graduate program. Now, a few decades ago, some bright spark

who had somehow got himself to be university president, decided that administration would be much easier if the departments were alphabetized rather than grouped by faculty. He reorganized half the campus before the end of his tenure. He left physics in place, since the building has had significant work to be suitable for the subject. And now, physics is next to psychology, parapsychology, and paranormal studies. Go figure. This meant that the cafeteria a minute's walk from the physics building also serves those other departments, and it can often be hard to discern somebody's subject by looking. At least that's my excuse for when I met Dr. Caruso. I got chatting to him in the line for lunch and mentioned that I was an electrical engineer looking

for a master's supervisor. Caruso's eyes lit up. He was a tall man, thin and wiry. He claimed to be a Bostonian Italian, but he had no accent, and I doubt he could have pointed to Italy on a map. He told me he had a project he was working on, a new type of battery, and he really needed an electrical engineer to help him. He even had a budget that would stretch to my entire tuition. I said yes almost immediately. He brought the paperwork to my lab the next day and we signed. He wanted me to start right away, but I hadn't even finished my finals, and besides, I wanted a break from studying. Reluctantly, he agreed that if he could send me over some specifications for me to think through, he could wait until August. So that's what I did. I really did want a break,

but when I and a few friends took off to Europe for a couple of weeks after exams, I downloaded the specs to my tablet and ended up studying them for a couple of hours most days, sometimes in our hostel room, sometimes by a pool or a cafe. What Caruso wanted was mostly very sensible, unusual but logical. Essentially it was a way of collecting energy from work, converting it into electric current, and storing it in a battery. What made it weird was that he wanted to collect energy from a large, number of tiny fluctuations, and those fluctuations were varied. Normally you would choose one,

convert the motion of a fluid with a turbine, extract work from a heat differential with a sterling engine, convert pressure into electrical current via the Piazzo Electric effect, and so on. Caruso wanted all of these, and more, but in a tiny package an inch or two across. Essentially, it looked like he was trying to squeeze every last bit of available energy out of the environment, at micro scale, but with the capability of scaling up to an arbitrary size. While I was on holiday, I was determined not to call Caruso, or even email him. I still managed to fill three notebooks of diagrams and calculations before I got back to the U.S. in the middle of August.

So excited was I to get working on this project. It was a lot of work, and I spent months tinkering before a problem arose. Jenny, one of the administrators in the physics department, called me into her office. She asked me about the procurement forms I'd been submitting and who they were for. I explained, showing her the paperwork I had with Caruso's signature on it. It was only then that I learned Caruso was, in fact, not a physicist. He was in paranormal studies. We'd met in the lab plenty of times and had meetings and discussions in the cafeteria,

but I realized I'd never actually been to his office. I excused myself and called my supervisor, asking him to explain himself. He arrived at Jenny's office about 20 minutes later, apologized for the misunderstanding, and arranged for money to be transferred over to cover the costs. Jenny was happy, but I was not. I asked him to come to the lab to check on something, close the door, and gave him an earful. I don't think the closed door did much for privacy. I showed none of the respect usually due to your supervisor,

and even the radio astronomers on the roof, probably hear me. Surprisingly, Caruso was not upset or angry. He didn't raise his voice. He just waited until I'd run out of steam, which took quite a while. Then he looked at me, said, I'm sorry, and invited me to his office in Parra. I'd never actually been to the paranormal studies building. For all its spooky reputation and the occasional weird rumors coming out of there, it looked very respectable. I don't think the building had been redecorated since the department had moved there in the 80s, but it was clean, well kept, and a lot tidier than most of the physics building. If you didn't read the titles of the books on the shelves, it could have been mistaken for

psychology or mathematics, or even an accountant's or lawyer's offices. Caruso's office was much the same. He had an old but nice wooden desk with a desktop computer and half a dozen books pulled from the shelves behind it, but apart from a half-empty coffee mug, everything was very clean. He even had a couple of armchairs in there. In physics, you're lucky to get an office chair with wheels. He took one chair and I took the other, and I felt like we should break out smoking pipes and discuss classic literature. Of course, that's not what we did. Caruso apologized again and promised to tell me exactly what he was doing. It was about ghosts. It took every ounce of restraint in my body not to roll my eyes. I resolved to let him finish talking, the same courtesy he had

granted me half an hour earlier, and then make up my mind. Ghosts, he explained, may or may not exist, but that wasn't the point. Alleged hauntings most certainly do exist, and exhibit physical manifestations. Whether they are environmental or paranormal, these effects are real, and ghost hunters have been measuring them since the 19th century. But until now, nobody has thought to harness them. People who claim to have experienced hauntings describe sudden changes in air temperature, strange sounds, and feelings of dread. More macroscopic effects might include wind, or even objects moving of their own volition.

All of these, Caruso told me, could be harnessed to provide energy. Feelings of dread? I asked, breaking the promise to myself not to interrupt. Caruso explained that skeptics have written this off as a number of different phenomena, but are generally keen on infrasound, sound at a frequency too low for human hearing,

but that can nevertheless be sensed. Back in the 80s, a British researcher had experienced a haunting in a lab, as had several other people who worked there. He eventually traced it down to a faulty extractor fan emitting infrasound. He got it fixed, and the haunting stopped. This was a physical phenomenon with a simple explanation, but still, one that could be used to extract energy. Caruso continued like this for some time. I was getting increasingly skeptical about the work. You could make an interesting gadget for party tricks, but I couldn't see how our device could

possibly draw enough environmental power to charge a phone, let alone supply an entire house. Caruso urged me to continue the work, replying that even if it didn't result in anything practical, I'd still come out with a master's thesis. So I kept going. It was well into my second year before I had something really usable, a square of miniaturized electronics two inches wide that could, at best, draw 0.3 megawatts of power from the environment, and so last November I carried my equipment to Caruso's office for a demonstration. Despite its age, paranormal studies has much better environmental controls than the physics labs. We control the environment in small containers for our experiments. They control the environment for the comfort of their staff. This is nice,

but it meant my galvanometer barely went above 0.1 megawatts. Still, this was enough for Caruso to let out a little shriek of excitement. When can we test it in the field? I told him that a single module had a maximum power rating of 20 megawatts. It was a prototype, and far from optimized, but I'd done some calculations that showed that to power a typical U.S. household, at best we would need so many of these connected in parallel that the final product would be the size of a large fridge. Caruso pointed out, quite correctly, that this is exactly why he'd recruited an electrical engineer, and that something the size of a fridge was a good trade-off for having electricity and fuel bills of zero. But, I replied, even if I could get the maximum

power up, there simply wasn't the energy available in the environment to reach anywhere near that maximum. Caruso gave me a sly look. The kind of look your co-conspirator might give you, except I wasn't in on the conspiracy. Just work on the electronics, have it ready by March 1st. I'll sort out the environmental problem. Well, this guy was paying my entire tuition, and the budget he'd arranged with Jenny was several times higher than most grad students in physics. Over the next few months, I worked on an improved prototype, figured out how to automate much of the production, and built an aggregation system to route all the power to a central supply point. On my March deadline, I had a device about the size of a backpack, and indeed, I fitted it all into a backpack for easy

transport. I was regularly pulling upwards of 500 megawatts in the right conditions, but nowhere near the theoretical maximum of 200 watts, enough to power a small LED from a device that could almost run a hair dryer. When I showed this to Caruso, he delightfully declared, it's ready. Ready for what? I asked. A proper test. Bring it here tonight. I'll meet you on the steps outside the department at 7. So I did. In the last light of the evening, we got into Caruso. car and set off. There are a lot of very old buildings in town, many dating back to pre-Civil War, and of course this means lots of ghost stories. I've never gone in for that much, but I recognize the house we parked in front of. I've passed it plenty of times, and in the summer it's not uncommon

to see a tour guide talking about it to a group of tourists, or sometimes locals on a workplace evening out. The house is three stories tall, with wood paneling on the outside. The windows are small, with diagonal grids, I think made of lead, except for a couple that have been smashed and boarded up. Nobody has lived there for quite some time, and it shows. There is a small yard out front, mostly overgrown, and it took us a bit of effort to maneuver through the path to the front door. To my surprise, the door was locked. Caruso, apparently having anticipated this, brought out a crowbar from his inside coat pocket. I was slightly alarmed at how easily he broke in, and and made a mental note to ask him later how a paranormal studies researcher is so adept at B&E.

But right now I had another burning question. You actually want us to draw power from a haunted house? Well, he said, pushing the busted door open. We don't know that it's haunted, but we do know that several people have reported strange disturbances. Do you know the history of this place? I confess that I didn't. In the 1780s, a wealthy family lived here. They made their living by ensuring shame.

engaged in the transatlantic slave trade. Supposedly, the daughter objected, finding her father's trade unconscionable. A neighbor's diary records some of the loud arguments he overheard, often lasting for hours. Then one day the daughter died, just 17 years old. The cause of death was officially recorded as typhus, but neighbors record that there was a particularly angry exchange

between father and daughter. Her voice raised more than you'd expect from a person dying of fever. When they brought her body out of the house, there were several bystanders watching, some of whom claimed they saw blood on her clothes and knife wounds. We were inside at this point, looking around a dimly lit hallway. Caruso lit an electric lamp. The well-to-do back then had little they enjoyed more than gossip, and the family quickly got a reputation.

The father had murdered his daughter, the mother was in on it, that sort of thing. We'll never know exactly what happened, but we do know. know that a year later, on the anniversary of her daughter's passing, the mother took her own life. Caruso pointed to the landing above us. Just there. This is exactly why I never joined those tour groups. I hate this stuff. The couple had two children. With the daughter and mother gone, the father and son were alone in the house. Things got strained. Apparently the son blamed his father for both of the deaths, and their arguments often turned physical. The boy, about 14 at the was often seen hiding his face to try to cover the bruises. This went on for about a year.

He paused for a second. Exactly a year. One year after the mother took her own life, two years after the daughter passed mysteriously, a fire started in the house. The building was gutted, and by the time they managed to put the fire out, the father was dead. They never found the boy. Caruso had also brought a backpack with him, and now he was carefully laying out its contents. He had crystals, chalk, feathers, salt, all sorts of rubbish you might find in a new age shop. He seemed to be arranging them in some sort of pattern, and when he was done, he started drawing shapes on the wooden floor with the chalk. This clearly needed some concentration, but that only slowed his speech.

He continued, This is a good location, and the shell of the house that remained was reasonably sturdy. So years later, somebody bought the site from the estate. some grand niece, I think, who lived in Boston, and rebuilt it, more or less brick for brick, plank for plank. They came from out of town, New York, I think, so they weren't aware of the history, only that there had been a fire. They were a family of six, it's a big house, three daughters and one son, very pleasant by all accounts. The children were young and went to school locally. Their teachers are on record saying they had concerns. He left the house then. I walked around the ground floor. There were minimal facilities, a kitchen, dining room, and living room, but no

furniture. I saw a few electrical outlets, two per room, with decaying and yellowing plastic. I doubt any of them worked. Caruso returned with several waist-height candlesticks. Where was I? He placed the sticks in a neat circle. Oh, right, the kids. So written records from the schools say that the children were weird. They always looked tired and complained that they couldn't sleep. Apparently the younger girls drew frightening faces, and the boy told his teacher that he didn't like the women he lived with. The teacher asked if he meant his sisters or his mother, and he said no. It was the other women. They wouldn't let him sleep, and they told him everything was his fault.

Eventually, things came to a head. The girls' school told the parents their daughters had been frightening the other girls, and they wouldn't be welcome anymore. Back then, good schools were few and far between, and soon enough the family had packed up and gone back to new. New York, or wherever. He now began placing candles on the candlesticks. That was back in, I think, the 1860s. The house has changed hands a few times since then, but nobody has stayed more than a year or two. It's been empty most of the time the last people lived here in,

1978, I think. They left without saying anything, but a reporter caught up with them in the 90s. They said that they heard crying every night, and their goldfish always died a few days after they bought them. Even squatters and homeless people stay away these days. The house was unheeded and poorly insulated on that spring evening. Maybe that's why a chill ran through my body. Maybe that's why I got goosebumps. And that whispering noise I thought I heard. Well, it's not like those old walls were any good at keeping the wind out, right? Caruso stood back from his handiwork and actually rubbed his hands together. It's ready. Ready for what? I asked, already knowing the answer. He gave me a look like I was stupid. So I brought the micro power plant out of my backpack and set it up in the center of the

arcane construction he'd built. It was fully dark outside by now, and it took half an hour to adjust the various settings on my equipment. While I'd been setting it up, Caruso had pulled out two oil-fired storm lanterns and set them up either side of his ridiculous ghost apparatus. He turned the electric lamp off. This made sense, as my galvanometer was sensitive enough to read the electromagnetic field of the lamp if he moved it. He turned his phone off, and I did the same. There was just enough light to read the display. For a long time, it varied between about 300 and 500 megawatts, about average for my tests. We sat there watching it for about an hour before it started to rise. 600, 700, 800 megawatts, that was the highest I'd ever recorded. And it went further. Over just a couple of minutes I watched

as the reading increased. 900, 1,000, 1,100 megawatts. I heard a sound. I'd never heard anything like it. And I haven't in the months since, except in my nightmares. It was like a gale of wind, filled with whispers, almost intelligible. The sort of sound where you know it makes sense, but you can't quite figure it out yourself.

And above it, a shrill scream of terror. Though whether the sound was the result or the cause of terror, I can't say. My blood ran cold, and I felt my feet rooted to the spot. I had just enough wherewithal left in me to look at the display. It was stable now, 2,800 megawatts. This was almost exciting enough for me to ignore the sounds, which were surely just the wind rushing through the upper floors above us,

and I may have been able to calm myself had I not witnessed what happened next. The candles flickered. I distinctly remembered that they all rose up and blew outwards, away from the center, and in the middle of them was a face, a woman's face, but about twice as big as a face should be, and it was clear that the screaming was coming from her. The candles and the storm lanterns blew out. I could see nothing. Seconds earlier, my fight-flight freeze instincts had settled on freeze. Now they switched modes. I turned and ran for the door. It was only a few feet behind me, and despite the pitch darkness, I found it and pushed it open, only to remember that

it opened inwards. Panic rising in my guts, I fumbled for the door handle for what felt like an eternity, grasped it, yanked open the door, and tumbled out into the path. I ran to the end of the street before I dared look back. Caruso was there, calmly walking to his car, with my device in his hands. He got in and turned the engine on, dazzling me with his bright headlights and drove my way. When he reached me, he opened the passenger window. Need a lift? I have no idea how he was so calm. I just wanted to run far, far away. My legs were like jelly, though, and I didn't think I could even make it all the way home. Caruso dropped me off, said he'd call me tomorrow, and headed away into the darkness. I didn't go into the lab the next morning. I had barely had it. I had it. I had a

any sleep and really didn't want to talk about it. But around ten, Caruso called me. I refused to go in, so he invited himself round to mine. I wish I'd walked home, rather than let him know where I live. I almost didn't open the door when he arrived. I led him into the hallway, but no further. He was very excited, speaking rapidly and more energetic than I'd ever seen him before. When he started talking about returning, I told him point blank that I was out. There was no way I was ever stepping foot in that house again, and he could stick his power plant. Well, you get the idea. Money isn't everything. Remember that. No matter how much somebody wants to pay you, some things are just not worth it. Caruso brought a brown paper packet out of his jacket and handed it to me. I opened it.

It was full of 50s. $10,000. Call it hazard pay. Just one more test, tomorrow night. Then you never need to go back. You can finish your masters in the lab. No more field trips. Even with my tuition covered, I was barely making my rent. $10,000 would pay off my debts and cover my cost to the end of my masters, maybe more. I accepted. I spent the next two days making adjustments to the device. It drew multiple watts in the previous test, enough to power a small light bulb, so I built a new display, a 10 by 10 grid of bulbs which would come on in sequence to show the power draw.

One bulb would be 2 watts, and all 100 would be the maximum 200 watts. I met Caruso in front of paranormal studies around 7 on March 3rd, and we set off once more to that cursed house. It looked just as it had two nights earlier. The door was still busted open, and we set everything up the same way as before. I came prepared this time. I had secretly hidden several flashlights in my pockets, as well as some high-intensity light sticks I'd got from a hardware store, and I had a pair of thermal imaging goggles I'd borrowed from the lab. I wore them on my forehead, turned off to avoid causing it.

interference with the device. They were only for emergencies. I'd considered a weapon, but what use would that be against a ghost? Besides, I told myself, ghosts aren't real. We had been in the dark, in an eerie house with a bad reputation, and Caruso had just told me a spooky story. In that state of mind, of course, my brain would conjure up a phantom face. I remembered how he had been so calm walking out of the house. No doubt he hadn't seen anything, and it was all just my imagination. I turned on the device to test it before Caruso had lit the candles. I was getting 1,200 megawatts already, and the first bulb was clearly visible in the darkness. He then lit the candles one by one, and I watched the power increase.

The heat engines in the device should be able to draw something from the candles, but only about 20 megawatts. The second bulb lit up, then the third, then the fourth, over eight watts. Again I heard whispering. No, I told myself, it's just the wind. It was the wind two days ago, and it's the wind now. The power draw was steady now, with seven bulbs lit up, still a long way from maximum, but far more than it had any right to be. Something suddenly occurred to me.

Caruso, I said, fearing the reply. That girl died on a certain date. Then the mother died on the same date a year later. Then the house burned down. Yeah, that's right, he replied. March 3rd, tonight. Damn ghost stories. What are we getting?

How could he be? so calm. I told him we were on 15 watts. Not enough. I was worried about this. The ghosts are too old. We need something fresher. That didn't sound good. I was getting seriously worried and questioning whether all this was worth $10,000. Caruso went back to his bags and pulled out a small plastic box. Inside was a mouse. And while I'd decided against weapons, he had apparently brought a six-inch knife. What? Caruso, no, I shouted, but it didn't help. He took the mouse, which was just waking up, to the middle of the circle, and took its life. The wailing sounds, that I'd been so desperate to pretend had just been the wind, intensified.

The candle flames flickered and grew, and I saw blue lights streaming out of the mouse's corpse, like ribbons fluttering in the wind. More bulbs lit up. The second row was partly on now. We were pulling twenty-five watts of power, and it stayed there. My heart was pounding. adrenaline pumped through my veins. Somehow I managed not to turn and flee. I turned on my thermal goggles.

They would make next to no difference to such a high-power draw. The room was mostly dark, but the candle flames, bulbs, Caruso, and slowly cooling mouse cadaver were bright white. Still not enough, said the glowing thermal image of Caruso. A mouse isn't going to cut it if you'll pardon the expression. What? What are you saying? You want to kill 20 mice over these things, then sell them in a department? store? No, spectral energy doesn't work like that. Two mice wouldn't work. It needs to be one large

sacrifice, something with a bigger, soul, if you will. What the hell was Caruso talking about? He said nobody had tried this before, but who knows what he'd read in those kooky books on his shelves? Then it dawned on me. He meant people. He wanted to build hundreds of these, thousands, and kill a human being over each one. Two centuries earlier, the house had been the scene of a violent confrontation over the ethics of slavery. Now history repeated itself, except somehow this lunatic had managed to to find something even worse. He argued that these devices could halt global warming and stop oil wars. I argued that murder was wrong, no matter what. He said it would save more lives than it cost. I shouted him down, called him evil, a psychopath. Even more animated than before,

Caruso stepped closer. He got right in my face and yelled that we had to do this. I pushed him away. He pushed me back. I aimed a punch at him. He dodged and hit me in the face. This knocked my goggles off. Oh, how I wish he had done anything else. The ghosts hadn't shown up in infrared, but now I saw them, clear as day. A young woman, an older woman, and a man with charred and blackened skin. All of them were glowing in the darkness, standing just ten feet away, watching the fight. Then I noticed something I hadn't realized. Caruso was still holding the knife. I had to get it. out of his hand before he decided to use me as his next test subject. I went to grab it. He swung it at me, and I leaped out of the way just in time. I'm not sure exactly what happened next. There was a scuffle. Either he grabbed me or I grabbed him, and we wrestled for a few moments until suddenly Caruso stopped fighting. He staggered back, blood gushing from his abdomen. I looked down. Somehow, during the struggle I had got the knife, which was now in my blood-soaked hands. Caruso fell to his knees, just inside the circle. He tried to say something, but I couldn't make it out. Then he slumped

to the ground. The screaming intensified. Blue light streamed from his corpse, flooding the room. The light bulbs all lit up brighter than ever. As I turned to run, the candles blew out and the bulbs pushed far beyond their capacity, exploded all at once. I grabbed the door handle, clearly lit up in the bright blue light, opened the door and ran. It was about midnight, and I got home without anybody seeing my bloody hands. Nothing followed me from the house. That's probably my only good news. The next morning, after I'd got over the five shots of whiskey I had to calm myself down, I called a lawyer and then the police. Everybody knew I was working with Caruso, and his car was parked outside the house. It wouldn't be hard to connect the dots when he was reported missing.

I'm being charged with involuntary manslaughter. I told the police everything, with a few obvious exceptions. Seeing that I'd voluntarily turned myself in and cooperated with the police, the judge set a low bail. Ironically, she put it at $10,000, and I got a friend to pick up the package from my house. My court date is in a few months, and my lawyer says I've got a good chance of claiming self-defense. I might not have to spend a single night in prison, but the university kicked me out. My device is in police evidence, and I haven't had a restful night's sleep in months. I wake up screaming most nights, and I pray that the visions I see sometimes in the day are just trauma, rather than the ghosts of that family, and Dr. Caruso, and the mouse.

Last summer, my parents took my brother Aaron and I on a family holiday to Spain. It was something my parents had been planning for a while, but wanted to keep it a surprise for us kids. Aaron and I weren't told about it until two days before we were due to leave. We were ecstatic to leave our home in Scotland and trade in a couple of weeks for some sunshine and hot weather. Two days later, we were at the airport eagerly awaiting our flight. It had been years since we went anywhere as a family because it's difficult finding someone to watch our pets. At least when you have eight dogs, it is. After arriving at our destination, Mom picked up a rental car, and we were on our way to the

hotel we would be staying at. We didn't do much on our first night other than unpack and go out to dinner. Just before tucking into bed early, we all agreed to meet in the lobby the next morning at 10. The next morning came, and I was the last to arrive. I didn't know what was planned for the day, but Aaron and I followed our parents to the car and got in. I asked where we were going, but all I got from mom was, it's a surprise. About an hour and a nap later, we stopped at what I thought to be the middle of nowhere, just some empty land with a few trees and overgrown grass. I checked the time on my phone and saw that it was already close to noon. Aaron looked just as confused as I was, until Dad said,

Mom and I bought this plot of land. It's ours. Dad was always talking about eventually buying a plot of land somewhere and fixing it up for different business ideas. But to be honest, I never thought he'd actually go through with it. Why in Spain of all places? I swear I never understood that man. None of us did. Mom stepped in and said,

I brought lunch with us, so why don't you guys look around for a bit while I get everything set up, and we'll have a nice picnic. As strange as it all was, I was still kind of excited. I mean, I know there wasn't really a whole lot to look at, but maybe I'd find something cool lying on the ground somewhere. I was even open to finding a nice rock to take home with me. Aaron and I wandered around for a minute while Mom was getting everything out of the trunk. Before going too far, I caught a quick glimpse of some fresh strawberries.

mine and Aaron's favorite, as long as they're accompanied with a good tart. Suddenly in the distance I saw what appeared to be an old building, but I was certain that there wasn't anything there before. Aaron, look over there, I pointed ahead. Let's go check it out. He agreed, but reminded me not to keep mom and dad waiting too long. As we edged closer, we realized it was another hotel. This one, however, was very clearly old and had been abandoned for quite some time.

Vines covered the crumbling building. There was no telling how long it had been since it had seen any guests. I took my phone out so I could take a few pictures. I loved taking snaps of old buildings. The longer I stood there, the more I felt compelled to get even closer. I needed to see the inside. Aaron felt the same way. What we saw after opening the doors to the hotel lobby was jaw-dropping.

Everything inside was in pristine condition. It was grand and luxurious and it was surely worthy of a five-finding. star rating. It was the kind of hotel that only the richest could indulge in. My brother and I were the only people inside. It was as if everyone just simply walked out. We couldn't believe it. I had to take more pictures. We searched around for any sign of life, but to no avail. Suddenly the elevator door opened with a ping signaling that it was ready for us to get in. You would think that getting on would be a bad idea, and it was, but as I mentioned earlier, I felt compelled to get in. Aaron and I slowly got in, and before we could press any buttons, the doors swiftly closed and

took us to the first floor. It was when we got out that we smelled something delicious. We followed the smell until we stood in front of a set of swinging doors. Aaron stood next to me and we looked at each other before slowly pushing the doors open. We were immediately hit with a mouth-watering aroma. Inside was a busy dining room. Dozens of people sat at tables with friends and family while enjoying their meals. Smiles and laughter filled the room. Everyone was happy and lost in their own conversations. No one seemed to pay any attention to us as we made our way over to the buffet table. Everything looked heavenly. Aaron was almost in a trance-like state as he went to grab a fresh

strawberry tart from the desert tray. I quickly grabbed his arm. Wait, don't forget about what happened in the movie spirited away. He shook his head and snapped out of his trance. Let's get out of here, he said. As we walked away, the room suddenly filled with music. It was quiet, but the melody was calm and relaxing, enticing even. I wanted to get my phone back out, but I feared that if I didn't leave right then and there, I never would. We spotted another way out on the other side and didn't waste any time getting the hell out of there. As the doors pushed open, the lights behind us went out. We turned around and suddenly the dining room was just as old and abandoned looking as the outside. The people were gone, the music was gone, and everything was

covered in dust. Being out of that room made me feel a little more like myself. We took the stairs this time on our way down and discovered that the lobby was also looking in pretty rough shape. The difference from what it looked like earlier was night and day. I wouldn't believe my eyes, had Aaron not been there to experience everything that I was. I took my phone out one more time and snapped some more pictures. An uneasy feeling swept over me and I knew it was time to leave. We bustled on out of there and something felt off, like we had been in there for a long time, but I knew that was impossible. Aaron and I looked at the eerie yet mysterious hotel one last time before making our way back to the car. In the distance, we could see mom and dad frantically

looking around for something. What's going on with those two? Aaron asked. Mom, dad, I called out. They started. started running to us. Mom was sobbing and Dad was panicked. Mom couldn't get a word out because she was crying so badly. I'll never forget the sheer panic in Dad's voice when he yelled, Where the hell have you two been? Your mother and I were worried sick. Aaron and I were startled. I looked over at the picnic that Mom had so lovingly put out for us and noticed that the fresh fruit didn't look so fresh anymore. The cream on the strawberry tarts had lost its shape and spilled over the sides. The salad looked dry and withered. I checked the time on my phone. It was

8.32 p.m. Aaron, look. I showed him the screen. I felt sick. We couldn't possibly have been gone for more than half an hour. I couldn't even hear the yelling anymore. I was so dizzy I thought I was going to pass out. It took a good few minutes before I could even think straight. Mom and dad started getting in the car, and I begged and pleaded for them to listen. Aaron and I tried telling the them about the hotel, but Dad said that he didn't know what we were talking about. I pointed in the direction of the hotel, but I couldn't see it anymore. Then I tried showing him the pictures I took on my phone, but they were gone too. All of the evidence just vanished. Aaron went pale. I felt like I was losing my mind. I think at some point Dad must have finally heard the desperation in our voices.

He gave us a hug and Mom kissed our cheeks, still crying. We got in the car and no one said a single word for the whole ride back. My parents put the land up for sale almost right after we got home. They have just been given an offer. What they did to your family, you're lucky to make it out alive. Streaming on Peacock. These men are going to come after me. Taking them out.

It's my only chance. Put a bullet in her head. From the co-creator of Ozark. Looks like a family was running drugs. Execution stopped killing it's rare for the keys. And it leads on who they might have been running for. The cartel killed my family. I'm going to kill them. All of them.

M.I.A. Streaming now. Only on Peacock. I thought moving to the country would be a good thing. Less stress. Fewer problems. Less crime. But I don't feel safe out here. Not now. Being isolated feels like a mistake. A huge, massive mistake. I thought I would love it. All the peace and quiet. And I did. Except now my husband isn't. Well, he doesn't seem like himself. And I'm completely cut off from everyone. We bought this farm site unseen during COVID. We were those people. Five acres of prime Midwest farmland, flat, open, and hot,

with topsoil 12 inches deep, perfect for a little homestead. There was a quaint farmhouse to boot, with a front porch perfect for rocking chairs. My mom thought we were crazy. I don't know why you want to be so far from us. She spat at me one day as we box things up at our old house. Darren knows what he's doing. We're going to be fine.

You don't know anything about farming. You won't last a week. But she was wrong. We'd set out a huge garden, bought some chickens, and settled into our new community. And unlike many of the sight unseen home purchase horror stories you hear about, our farmhouse, while small, was darling in person. Everything had been going great, until last night.

I was reading in bed when Darren suddenly sat up. I think I left the back gate open. Oh, really? Yeah. He got out of the door. bed and slipped on some shoes. I'm going to go check. I kept reading and I guess I lost track of time. When I looked at the clock, almost 20 minutes had passed. He should have been back already. I marked my page and got up. I peeked out the window but couldn't see anything. I cursed Darren under

my breath for not installing the motion sensor light over our garage barn. It was pitch black out there. That's one thing they don't tell you about living in the country. The nights are dark. Pitch black, light around is your own and the stars. Grumbling, I slipped on my rubber boots by the back door and turned on the porch light. He'd probably just gotten off track looking at all the stuff we needed to fix. There was plenty of that around. I slipped outside. The cool summer air smelled of cut hay and buzzed with insects, and my boots crunched on the loose gravel. I thought for sure he would be in the barn, but he wasn't. The lights were off in there too. That's when I noticed a soft light coming from our front field, right behind the barn. I walked to the edge of the building for a better

look. When I turned the corner, light blasted my face, so bright I had to shield my eyes with my hand. Confused, I tried to blink them open. What I saw made me recoil. I stepped back into the shadows, my heart pounding. A beat of sweat ran down my forehead, and I wiped it away with a finger. I know what I saw. It was a spaceship, and it was illuminating Darren. who stood frozen in the pasture. I crept to the corner, crouched and shaking. I peaked again. There it was.

A spaceship. Darren was now floating skyward, illuminated by a beam of incredible light. Oh God, I choked out. A sob escaped my lips. I hate to admit it. I wasn't brave. I didn't try to help him.

Instead, I turned on my heels and ran back to the house as fast as I could. I flew into the house and bolted the door behind me. I slid down to the floor and prayed. they hadn't seen me. I didn't know what to do. There was no one to call and what would I even say. I numbly sat there until I fell into a restless sleep. But this morning I woke up to Darren frying eggs in the kitchen. My first thought was how did he get in here? But then I remembered, the front door. It wasn't locked. No one locks their door out here. Why would you? I stared at

him. Honey? I asked tentatively. Are you feeling all right? He plated the eggs and brought them to the table. Sure, why? You never came to bed last night. He laughed. Sure I did. You were out cold still holding that book with the light on. I felt a surge of relief. Oh, really? Then I felt doubtful. How did I get down here? I think you were sleepwalking again. Oh, I stared down at my plate. Two fried eggs and a slice of bacon grinned back at me, like a demented smiley face. Darren had fried the eggs, not scrambled them, like I always did. He knew I hated fried eggs, a especially the runny ones. Something was off. I ate the eggs anyway, and didn't call attention to his mistake. The rich, buttery yokes turned my stomach. I carefully watched Darren as he cleaned his

plate. Surely all that last night was just a dream. Right? Had to be. Maybe I'm having stress nightmares again. I have this bad feeling something is wrong with him. I just peeked out the window and right now he's out in the barn. I don't know what he's doing. If something is wrong, that means it wasn't a dream. Maybe that's not my husband at all. I really wanted to believe that nothing happened, that I imagined everything. But Darren just kept getting weirder and weirder, which means he really was sucked up by a spaceship. First thing after breakfast, he went outside to the barn. I was washing dishes in the sink when I glanced up and saw him on the tractor, tilling up the front field.

My mouth flopped open. I'd been planning to use that area for a U-Pick strawberry operation. I'd even ordered the plastic sheeting and supplies last week. online. I abandoned the sink full of suds and dishes and marched outside. What are you doing? I yelled into the roar of the engine. I know he saw me, but he didn't stop. I finally turned and went back inside. I had a bad feeling. All day long he worked the field. I watched him cautiously from inside the house. When I saw him finally head towards the barn in the afternoon, I thought he was done. I was wrong. He emerged a bit later, with an ancient planter

hitched to the back. I didn't know the thing even worked. It had been left here by the previous owners. What the hell? I muttered, and I stormed back outside. Darren, what's going on? I screamed as the tractor passed by. He did stop it this time, and I ran over as the tractor idled. What are you doing? I thought this was where we would plant the strawberries, I pleaded. His face was sheet white, and beads of sweat ran down his forehead. His expression was blank. I'm planting corn. He stated. He leaned closer. We can only plant corn. A chill ran down my spine. The way he said it felt like a threat. He put the tractor in gear and moved on as I stepped back. It's too late to plant corn this year, I yelled at his retreating backside. He didn't acknowledge this, and I withdrew to the house to watch and wait. Darren stayed out in the field for the rest of the day. He didn't take breaks or come in to eat or drink. He had to be dehydrated. It was well over 90, and I knew.

knew he was hungry. It wasn't normal. Darren didn't turn the tractor off until nearly nine o'clock. I prepared a meal for us. When he came in, I didn't mention the strawberry field. In fact, I didn't say much at all. Darren was scaring me, and I didn't want to let on. He looked rough, almost feverish, and his eyes looked straight through me. We sat in our rocking chairs on the front porch as we ate dinner. It was dusk, and the lightning bugs were out. I made you some brownies. I made you some brownies, I said, passing him the plate. He took one without comment and bit a corner off. I watched him carefully over my glass of iced tea. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His rocking slowed to a stop. Darren, I said, he didn't answer.

Darren, I said louder. He didn't stir. Good. It was working. I'd made some special brownies just for Darren, laced with several of my crushed-up Ambien. I'd never drugged anyone before, so I prayed they were strong enough to keep him asleep for a while. I went inside and quietly turned the deadbolt on the front door. I dropped my plate in the sink and slinked out the back to the barn. I had to get those tractor keys, just to keep him from doing any more damage or possibly hurting himself in exhaustion.

They were dangling in the ignition, where I suspected they would be. I pocketed the keys and turned to leave. That's when I spotted the bags of corn seeds. There was a big one full of regular seed, coated with red fungicide powder. That bag had been here since we moved in, but beside it was something else. My hand trembled as I opened the sack. The corn seed inside was glowing a faint silvery blue.

I dropped the burlap. Crap. The aliens had been real. They had really abducted Darren, and now he was growing glowing corn for them. I inspected the planter. He must have mixed the glowing corn with normal corn. Darren had contaminated the front field with glowing, radioactive, my brain speculated, corn seed. My heart pounded.

All of a sudden, I just wanted to be safely in bed, and away from all this. I turned and headed back in the house. I locked the back door and breathed deeply. I knew logically the house was little protection against whatever I was up against. It was, however, excellent protection against Darren. I had a pang of regret. What had I done? What you had to, my brain answered.

His behavior was off. He had worked himself to exhaustion, and he was ruining my farm plans with his delusions. Still, I felt guilty for leaving him on the porch all night. I crept to the front window and lifted a curtain. Darren was gone. My mind raced as I lay in bed, covers pulled up to my chin. Why were the aliens making Darren grow corn? Was their plan for the corn to mix with all the regular corn and be shipped out across America,

tainting our food supply? Or perhaps turning us into zombie slaves? Why us? Were we chosen because our little farm wasn't growing corn like everyone else? Is everyone else in on this? Are they growing glowing corn too? My mind reeled at the implications. And then, of course, my husband was not himself. May never be himself again. He was working for them now. I had completely lost him. And then, was he a threat? Would he actually hurt me? His wife? Most importantly, where was he? I felt guilty for locking him out. I felt guilty for locking him out. out of the house. But I knew that Darren wasn't the real Darren. Couldn't be. It was hard going to sleep. My world had been turned upside down, and I had no idea what my next steps would be. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't aware of my next steps at all. I was standing outside in the tall grass when I woke up, wearing nothing but a giant t-shirt. It was early morning and the grass was still wet with dew. I'd sleepwalked, and I'd left the back door wide open for who

knows how long. Damn, I whispered. I was in trouble. I had no phone, no weapons, no keys, no shoes. Just then the door slammed. I looked back. Darren was standing in the doorway of the house, about 50 yards off. He looked awful. If he had been pale yesterday, today he was snow white. Dark rings encircled his eyes and his hair looked matted. I ran. He followed. I fled to the barn where I had some old rubber boots. I slipped them on. I had a terrible understanding that I had to get away from him, that I was in danger, that he was coming to kill me. I ran to the back of the barn, boots flapping, the door was padlocked, I heard the tractor engine blast to life.

I whirled around. There he was, on the tractor, on the other end of the barn alley. The side pens were shut. I was trapped. Wildly I searched for a way out. There was a ladder in the middle of the alley leading to the loft. maybe I could climb up and then jump down at the entrance behind the tractor. I bolted towards it, just as the tractor advanced.

I prayed, to whoever was listening, that I could make it before he ran over me or crushed me with the bucket. And I did, with seconds to spare. I leapt onto the ladder, scrambling with a speed I had no clue I possessed. Our eyes locked just as he overshot, and the pure hatred there confirmed I was in danger. I quickly ran over the rickety planks of the loft and jumped down at the barn entrance. I was out of there before he could put it in reverse. I shot out into the open, my boots slipping in the wet grass.

I looked around frantically. There was nowhere to hide, just our few buildings surrounded by open land. I took off running towards the tool shed. We weren't people that kept guns around, so I hoped there was something in there, anything that I could use to protect me from my alien husband. I whipped the door open. The air was musty and stale, and the room was cluttered with tools. I frantically searched the shelves, my hands shaking. Then I saw it, the chainsaw. I'd never used anything like it before. I actually hate power tools, mostly because I think spinning blades are a bad

idea. Okay, I whispered. Breathe. I knew it needed gas, but which one? There were two bottles on the shelf. Didn't it need some sort of special oil gas? I grabbed. one of the canisters, hoping it was the right gas for this thing, and poured it into the tank. I was so nervous I spilled half of it on the ground. I was interrupted by Darren charging into the shed with the tractor. The noise of the boards tearing and metal tools crashing was deafening. Something heavy fell and gashed my forehead. I was stunned. I couldn't believe he was this stupid. He was trying unsuccessfully to back up and ram the building again, but the tractor was hung in the debris, which meant he was now getting down and coming towards the

me. Frantically, I reached for the chainsaw. It had been turned over and gas glugged out onto the floor. I silently prayed it was enough to start the thing. I screwed the cap on and pumped the primer. I ripped the cord. Nothing happened. Darren was off the tractor. He looked worse than ever. He was soaked with clammy sweat, and I could see clumps of hair had fallen out. His eyes gleamed silver, and I knew there was no trace of him in there, that it wasn't Darren at all. I turned my full attention to the chainsaw and began ripping the cord as hard as I could. Crap! I screamed, shaking the chainsaw. That's when I saw it. The kill switch. I flipped it, ripped the cord, and the chainsaw sputtered to life. I stood up and whirled the saw at Darren.

It was heavier than I expected and the blade swung low, but I still managed to slice his upper thigh. Thick silvery liquid sprayed out of the leg coating us both. He slumped down to one knee. I swung the saw back at him again. It's not him, it's not him, it's not him, my brain chanted. The blades connected with his neck and his head flopped to the side, still connected by a string of flesh. Silvery, mercury-like liquid blasted out of the wound and sprayed everything around us. I screamed at what I had done in this surreal situation. I dropped the chainsaw and ran out of the ruined tool shed. Blood dripped down my face and mixed with the silver liquid, covering my body in a sticky gray slime. I ran to our empty house adrenaline pumping. It was completely silent. I found my cell phone

laying on the table. I picked it up and dialed my mother. Mom, I said with forced calm, You were right. Darren does not know what he's doing. I talked to her for a long while, but no matter what she says, I've decided to stay. This is my home now. I'll start on the cleanup tomorrow. And as for the corn, I noticed my neighbor has a big sprayer. I'm hoping Roundup will eliminate it.