Tell us a scary story, win a USB drive card!


The Ghoul and her Mummy decided to go shopping at the Midnight Black Friday sale at the local mall. They had to take the hurst because the Limo was out for servicing. They didn't have any problems until they came to a blood red light. The people sitting in the car next to them in couldn't believe their eyes and started pointing and screaming at them that Halloween was over and what was their problem? Deciding that the living should keep their opinions to themselves they pulled the hurst in front of them blocking their way. They both got out going to both sides of the car. The occupants must have decided they should have kept their mouths shut and locked the doors. Now anyone knows that Ghouls and their Mummies have great strength and locked doors cannot keep them out. They ripped the doors from their hinges, pulling the hecklers out and proceeded to give the rude people a piece of their minds taking great care not to hurt them. The people however, were so scared they broke out crying, wetting their pants. The Ghoul and her Mummy scolded them saying, "It's not nice to make fun of people and how they look." The people promised to never ridicule anyone ever again. The Ghoul and her Mummy continued their trip and bought out all the Black things they could find throwing them into the coffin in the back of the hurst. They had forgotten to bring their shopping bags and anyway, the coffin could hold more anyway. When you are driving at Midnight keep your eyes on the road and you won't bump into any Ghouls or their Mummies.


Once upon a time there was an ugly barnicle, he was so ugly that everyone died.

The end..?


Ok This is a true story.. really
one Halloween my parents dressed up for trick or treaters mom was Elvira and dad Paul Bunion.. dad would scare them at the edges of the property with a big double edged axe blood dripping.. mom answered the door dressed as Elvira.. well dad let a group of younger kids slide by to ring the bell well mom jumped out to ask "what can I do for you little kiddies and a boy was so scared he peed himself right there on the doorstep mom felt bad and never dressed up again.... a couple years later... Wait I forgot to tell you that my mom was my den leader in cub scouts. dad was my troop leader in Boy Scouts. my brother was in band .. So we always sold candy bars and what-not for fund raisers.. So as I said a few years later I was riding my bike around the neighborhood when I saw a kid selling candy bars for school I told him to goto my house as my mom will buy anything to help out kids.... His exact words still ring in my ears " My Mother told me to never go near that house because a witch lived there and she would Kill and Eat me.... Not only did that hurt my feelings it really hurt my moms but I got the boy to come to the end of the driveway I went in and mom gave me $40 to buy every candy bar he had left (the kits hold $50 worth) and to find out where he lived.. Mom had a talk with his mom and explained she had never felt so bad.
True Story if anyone doubts it email me and i'll give my moms # you call and ask her I bet she still feels bad when she thinks about it


On one stormy night, distinguished guests of a formal ball partied in the host's mansion. As the weather grew worse outside, music, chatter, and laughter filled the ballroom. Though unbeknownst to all of them, a great evil would visit them. An hour into the party, the loud noise of glass breaking was heard by all. The curiosity of all peaked, and those closest to the direction of the noise decided to investigate. Among the group was Detective Herring, famous for his work. He lead the group of five through the hallways toward the noise.
When they turned on the next corner, their eyes encountered the sight of a broken window and an alien bunny that walked on its hind legs like a human. All gasped at the sight of it. "My God!" the Host cried out.
"Where are your formal clothes man!" He continued, oblivious of the fact that it was a bunny walking on two legs and that it broke through the window. "Sebastian! Get this man proper clothes. We can't have one of our guest standing out negatively."
Everyone else murmured in agreement, oblivious too of its unnatural trait. The group headed back to the ballroom as the butler came to dress the alien bunny with a tuxedo the size of it that they apparently had for some random reason. The alien bunny joined everyone at the ballroom, somehow able to not attract attention. Despite the fluffy cuteness that it was, it had a secret, malicious, evil intent underneath its fur. A few minutes into the party one sole man developed the need to go to the bathroom. The alien bunny, still dressed in its tiny tuxedo, followed him stealthily, and by that it means it was just walking behind him since it was too small to easily detect. The man entered a bathroom with the bunny unknowingly carrying a knife behind him that it pocketed from earlier. Swiftly, the bunny lunged at the man and stabbed him behind the back, getting a spot of blood on its leg. Loudly, the man screamed in agony and quickly died from blood loss or something.
With the speed of a distressed bunny it ran out of the bathroom and into a room next to the ballroom. A group of people, including the detective, walked by to investigate the scream. Nonchalantly the bunny snuck into the ballroom. A few minutes later, the doors burst open with the group carefully carrying the body. The detective with a loud and authoritative voice shouted, "Everyone line up! One of you is the killer, and its time to question you all."
All of the people and the bunny lined up, and the detective began examining them one by one. He then came to the bunny, and noticed the red stain on its leg. His eyebrows became raised, and he said, "Well well well, looks like someone messed up."
The bunny stared into his eyes emotionless and speechlessly like the bunny that it was. "Listen here, I am quite disappointed. You have shamed people like you... If you're going to drink red wine, then do it carefully. Even those who are not wine connoisseurs know to be careful."
The alien bunny nodded as if it understood him. The detective continued on to the rest of the guests until he came upon one with a red stain on his shirt. "Aha! What is this here? Blood?!" Herring shouted.
"No, you've got it all wrong!" The guest pleaded nervously. "This is just red wine!"
"So original! I've seen plenty of blood in my line of work, and this looks just like a spot of some."
"But it is red wine!"
"And if this were to be tested positive?"
"There's no way."
"Fine. I'll get to testing right away."
The party was allowed to commence once more as the detective took the suspected guest to another room. While he was gone, the alien bunny killed another who strayed from the ballroom. Everyone gathered once more with the fear of them dominating them. The detective came back with a look of confusion. "This doesn't add up." He spoke.
Some guests wanted to leave immediately, but the storm ravaged to dangerously to allow them. Only one man left, but the rest were discouraged. Over the next hour, the bunny killed more and more, leaving the detective baffled. More time passed, and eventually only he and the bunny were left. Thoughts ran through Herring's mind as quickly headed to the roof. The bunny followed him, but he was too fast due to adrenaline. By the time it arrived at the door to the roof, the detective had already gone through. It followed him into the roof, and saw that he was standing on the low brick wall with his back turned to it. The storm had subsided slightly, but raindrops continued to fall from the sky. "I should have known." Detective Herring spoke as he faced the vast back lawn. "I had a feeling, but I didn't understand."
The bunny walked closer to him with a knife ready in its paws. Despite the easy target that the he made out of himself, the bunny did not strike. "All of this time..." He continued as he turned to face it now. "The killer was-"
The door to the balcony opened in a loud bang. Police in their blue suits appeared, their guns raised. "Me." Detective Herring finished.
"Detective Herring, step away from the wall with your hands raised! You there, get away from him!" One of the policemen shouted.
Herring raised his hands, but laughed softly and briefly. "I must pay the price for all my sins, for killing those people I swore to protect." He said.
"I said step away from the wall! You'll be paying for your crimes in prison you sicko."
Suddenly, the detective leaned backwards and fell from the edge. The policemen hurried to the wall, but they had no chance of saving him. A loud thud became audible, and the police began to walk away. "Another one huh." One young police man spoke. "You there, good job for taking the knife away from him. Please evacuate the building now."
And so the tale of an alien bunny that everyone somehow did not think was one ends here. It got away from all its murders with ease and no words, not that it could. It still roams the world, looking to satisfy it insatiable thirst for blood while fooling all it meets.
The end.


The Tale of the Haunted Muskie

The moment Charlie’s father, now a colossal albino muskie, flopped over the side of the boat and splashed into the lake, Charlie remembered the old fisherman’s words…

“Bit of advice Charlie. This year don’t fish too late for muskie, and don’t be out on the lake after sundown.”

The memory gave young Charlie an instant realization. The words were a warning, not just a trick to prevent him and his dad from catching muskie.

Charlie was brought back to the present situation by a loud bang on the side of his boat. The muskie that was his dad was trying to jump into the boat!

There was only one thing to do.

“Dad, please forgive me for what I’m forced to do. You give me no choice”. Charlie grabbed the tackle box and dumped out all the hooks. He chose the heftiest hook he could get his hands on, and, when his dad the muskie leaped, Charlie gored it through the fish’s side.

The hook went deep, yet the muskie’s momentum carried his thrashing body forward. So the giant fish, teeth bared, bit deep into his own son’s arm! It was his final act.

The fish lay at the bottom of the boat, in a pool of his own evil blood.

“Mom! Help me!”

Those were the last words that Charlie Jackson ever said. The boy was completely morphed into a muskie now, and he flopped overboard, and his final cry for help is often heard after sundown on Belletaine Lake.

The mystery of his disappearance is known as the “Tale of the Haunted Muskie”.


New Member
Situated in the English county of Kent is the ancient city of Canterbury, its Cathedral is one of the country’s oldest and most famous Christian buildings; within the precincts of this giant gothic structure resides King’s School, from its center there leads a long narrow vaulted passageway paved with flagstones that connects with the cloisters, crypt, and the inner sanctum of the Cathedral. Known as the Dark Entry it has become a place of dread after an occurrence that happened during the reign of King Henry VIII.

At that time there lived a priest with the rank of Canon; responsible for the administration of the Cathedral. Canon John was a portly man who employed a young woman by the name of Nell, known for her good looks she turned many a head when passing through the Cathedral precincts, drawing comments that no man of the cloth was in need of such a pretty housekeeper. Nell’s fame was gained in the kitchen, from where she provided the Canon with consistently delicious meals which were praised by all who were fortunate enough to be a guest at the Canon’s table. Nell; gainfully employed in work that she enjoyed, had over the course of time developed considerable affection towards Canon John.

One Sunday eve Nell’s peace and tranquility was disrupted when a horse-drawn coach arrived outside the house, from which alighted an attractive but brash young lady; greeted enthusiastically by the Canon, exclaiming it was his niece, who in turn addressed him as her loving uncle, explaining that her father, away on business in foreign lands, requested that he provide her with shelter until his return. Canon John, with a grin from ear to ear, kissed the Lady full upon her ruby lips and welcomed her, declaring that it was his Christian duty to look after his niece during her father’s absence. Nell had watched this show of affection with more than a jaundiced view, and it came into her mind that their relationship was more of another kind, and a lot less to do with kin!

From the time the Lady arrived, sumptuous meals and copious amounts of wine were consumed each night followed by much singing and dancing, the Lady was an accomplished player of both the harpsichord and the lute, and sang with a dulcet tone, but the songs were those heard in a tavern, containing crude and lewd lyrics, the singing of which Nell strongly disapproved of as behavior not befitting a man of God. The Canon’s affection towards his “Niece” aroused a jealousy in Nell who had already grown to suspect that the Lady was not whom she pretended to be. Her distrust was heightened further as the Lady’s bed did not appear to have been slept in since her arrival. One night Nell crept to the door of the Canon’s bed chamber, and looking through the keyhole, she beheld the Lady and Canon John within; her suspicions were confirmed and what she saw did not amuse her. Nell did not handle the discovery well, and in a jealous rage plotted her revenge. The next day she prepared one of the Canon’s favorite dishes; pears poached in wine, flavored with cinnamon, brown sugar; ginger and cloves, covered in a pastry made from flour mixed with saffron and baked in an oven, but this time Nell added another ingredient of her own making.

At the break of dawn the matins bell chimed calling the faithful to Morning Prayer, the Canon was noted by his absence, arousing concern among some members of the clergy they went in search, eventually arriving at the Canon’s house to find Nell busy in the kitchen, whom when asked about the Canon denied all knowledge of his whereabouts. They forced open the Canon’s locked bedroom door, whereupon their eyes fell in horror upon the lifeless bodies of Canon John and the Lady laying together; both as cold as ice, the meal had worked its deadly deed. Terrified at the prospect of the scandal that would erupt if their discovery became known they moved quickly to erase the evidence. At the midnight hour a death knell was rung and a requiem sung for a sinful soul, stones were lifted in the Cathedral and a grave was dug within the nave, and there the Canon and his Lady were laid to rest side by side.

Some 20-minute walk from the Canon’s house is St. Martin’s, the oldest existing church in the entire English-speaking world; it has remained in use until this day since its founding in the year 580. As is common with Anglican churches throughout Britain, ancient yew trees grow within its graveyard; a tradition that goes back to pagan times, broken parts of the yew that fall to the ground take root and sprout again; thus becoming a symbol of death, rebirth, and therefore immortality. Known for its longevity, this conifer is also highly poisonous, containing a lethal toxin known as taxine; ingestion of its seeds causes death within a few hours; a fact well known to Nell, given her knowledge of plants and their properties, and gifted in the use of herbs and spices, Nell would have been capable of masking their bitter taste.

The day the Canon was found Nell disappeared, never to be seen or heard of again; when people asked the clergy about her, they denied all knowledge as to what had become of her.After more than a century passed, then in 1642, the Cathedral’s Dean summoned three workers to repair a loose flagstone deep within the Dark Entry passageway where neither sunshine nor moonlight reached. Upon lifting the heavy stone, the stonemasons beheld a gruesome sight, a female skeleton huddled in the corner of a deep pit beneath the stone, beside which was an empty plate and a water pitcher; Nell had been buried alive as punishment for her crime, left with some of the lethal meal to hasten her inevitable end.

Upon making their grisly find, within one year all three stonemasons were dead, two being convicted of the murder of the third and they were subsequently hanged; the Dean who was also present at the time died the following year. After these deaths in 1643, the legend of Nell began; her ghost haunts the passageway and appears after the sun sets on a Friday; the same day the deadly punishment had been carried out upon her, when the cathedral precincts had settled into darkness. Many others who upon having seen Nell’s ghost have perished within a year; the tale has endured; local superstition prevails, people remain extremely hesitant about walking through the Dark Entry late on a Friday night in order not to tempt fate.

“Since those masons three who unwittingly set Nell’s unquiet spirit free,
Some have died upon a hangman’s tree,
While others no matter who, whatever condition, age, or sex,
Some get shot and some are drowned, and some get broken necks.
But one thing's clear, that all the year on every Friday night,
Throughout that Entry Dark doth roam Nell’s sprite.
Nell’s breath is deadly cold,
Delivering quivering, shivering shocks upon both young and old,
Whosoever in that Entry Dark, who sees and feels that fatal breath,
Shall ever die within the year of some dire untimely death!”


The last person on earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door!


Carving Pumpkins

The patch is right outside my kitchen window. I can see it from where I sit at the formica table, covered with newspapers so I don't have to scrub it down after I finish carving this here giant pumpkin I hauled in today. It's just right, I must say. It's like to scare plenty of kids once I get it all hollowed out, and a face cut into it, and a candle set inside and lit, and the whole thing plumped down in the front room window. That's the part I like: seein' their mouths wide open like the mouth I cut into the tough orange rind.

First you've got to gut it. That's the messy part. You use a knife with good teeth, one of them there serrated ones, to get a good grip, and you cut off the top, like scalping a body. That part's fun. Then you just reach in your hand, up to the elbow in this one 'cause it's a nice big specimen, and you scoop it all out, the pulp, string, seeds, whatever all is in there, even if it's bugs, which generally it ain't, but you never know. I don't mind if I scoop out a bug or two. It's not like I'm gonna be cooking this stuff. I'm just tryin' to get a good scary Jack O' Lantern goin' here. What happens to the goop is no concern of mine. I just wrap it up in the newspaper and chuck it.

The eyes are easy. Zip, zip, zip, three cuts and you've got a triangle of an eye. The light will flicker through that like evil itself. The nose is just another eye, or maybe you like a round one, but by my lights round is too friendly-like. The mouth is the tricky part because you have to cut each tooth real careful. Most folks cut square chunky teeth. I like to put in a couple sharp ones, just to make it that much scarier. My dream is to give some nine year old a heart attack.

So I make that first cut, with my big, sharp, serrated knife, and what do I see? I can't even believe what I see. Out of the corner of my eye, out that kitchen window, I see somethin' stir in the pumpkin patch. Don't you tell me it's the wind; the wind can't stir no big, heavy pumpkin! Well, I look full at it, the second time it catches my eye like that, and damned if the pumpkins ain't all lined up at the near edge of the patch, like they're lookin' at me.

"Whatchoo lookin' at?" I call out to them. "Ain't you never seen an old man doin' his Hallowe'en carvin' before?" I ain't afraid of no pumpkins, and I've got work to do. I finish cutting around and I reach in, and I just happen to look to the side and now they're not in the patch anymore, they're on the porch. Now you have to admit that's a mite unusual. But it's still okay with me. I'm thinkin', this is gonna make a good yarn to make those kids drop their jaws. They'll likely run off without any candy, and that's good, 'cause there ain't no candy.

When I make the first eye cut, the pumpkins let out a howl. I almost drop the knife. I can't see 'em anymore, but I know why: they're at the back door now. I do put down the knife now, and I creep sideways over to the window, and I look out from the side, so they can't see me, and what I see makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. They are at the back door all right and they're climbin' up, one on top of the other, to reach the door knob. And the door knob is turnin' and that back door is creakin' open.

Before I can get back to the table they're in, and they're all over me, bangin' into me with their hard shells, throwin' themselves up as high as they can, and they're bruisin' me up bad enough. Some of 'em are pilin' up at the table to get that knife, and that's when I make a break for the back door, kickin' pumpkins out of the way, battin' them out of my face with my hands, and lemme tell you, they're puttin' me in some pain. I make it out that door somehow and I'm runnin' into the empty pumpkin patch, and they're comin' after me, and the biggest one, the one I would've been carving except it was way too big to carry into the house all by myself, a real monster of a pumpkin, it's comin' after me with the knife. Don't ask me how a round thing with no hands can carry a knife. I know what I see.

Well, wouldn't you know it, there's still one little pumpkin left in the patch, just a baby one, sleeping there dead center of the patch, and I trip over it. I fall hard, but I roll up sittin' and I grab that little baby pumpkin and I hold it high over my head. "You come and get me," I yell, "but I've got me a hostage and I'll smash its little head if you don't back off!"

The pumpkins stop dead in their tracks. They don't know what to do. I've got 'em. They don't want me to hurt their stupid little baby pumpkin. The one with the knife comes forward, real slow, and puts the knife down at the edge of the patch. Then it backs up and waits with the others.

I stand up, still holding the little baby pumpkin, and I walk slowly to the edge of the patch. I pick up that knife. I make like I'm gonna put the little baby pumpkin down, and then I don't know what happens, this rage just comes all over me, like a fire burnin' in my head, and I stab that baby again and again. I just can't stop stabbing it.

That's when they jump me, all of 'em at once. They carve me up good, too. Now you see me sittin' here, all bandaged up, and you can't see my face for all the gauze, but don't you worry. I know exactly what I'll see when these here bandages come off. If you stick around you'll see it too, so don't you go havin' no heart attack over it. You'll see my two big evil triangle eyes, and damned if they didn't go for a round hole of a nose. And when they cut my mouth, real careful not to cut too much, 'cause you can't put it back when it's gone, they did make most of the teeth real square and chunky, but they made a couple sharp and pointy.

I can't wait to see how it came out. But with this fire still burnin' in my head, I won't need no candle....


A suggested addition to Halloween event script story line from USS Paladins guild message board:

Don't do it! Do not complete that last Halloween quest......Jack does not take kindly to those who do......wait....he is changing me.....noooooooooo11111111.......

<changed my picture to the mummy>



Help change me back! Jack left this riddle as a note when he changed me into a mummy…..can you help me with the answer and change me back?
“Jack is back for one last time
With a ghoulish riddle in its prime
A change, a change, will come to thee
If a home, a home, for me, there be”

Maybe build a ziggurat, Ez? I think a mummy's home would be a pyramid. The ziggurat is the closest thing I can think of.

Felthizar, good idea but apparently this mummy is not an Aztec, Inca or Egyptian as I have 4 Ziggurats and even the Temple of Relics and I am still possessed......

I know what it is, it's a graveyard... which would be a zombie's home but not a mummy's... but I know the reward for this special event is a bigger graveyard so I'm pretty sure that's what it is.

Yes, the graveyard....I left in inventory and never built it. So the mummy had no place to go except into me.....let me try building it!!!

The mummy is home and I am back!!! Many thanks and so long curse of the Jack!!! ...... ;-)

lol, you are most welcome, Ez!


New Member
Little Johnny was afraid of the door in the kitchen, the one that leads down to the cellar. His fear became so bad that his parents couldn’t get him in the kitchen anymore. They decided to get Johnny a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist said that little Johnny needs to face his fear head on. Then he instructed the parents to lock little Johnny in the cellar. The parents where very stressed listening to Johnny's screams and pounding on the door. After what seemed like forever, the screaming and pounding stopped. The phycologist said “Now he’s cured, you can let him out.” They opened the door and Johnny was not there, he wasn’t anywhere! A search team was assembled and what was found were tunnels that linked to every cellar in the neighborhood. Little Johnny was never seen again.



Urban legends can haunt a neighborhood for years. Sometimes a legend can be true. I grew up two counties away from a story that haunts many of us to this day. We all grew up hearing the tales of the McMillan farm. The McMillan family had been around since the county was founded, five generations worth. The land their farm rested on was said to be magical allowing anything to flourish in harvest. The McMillans loved this land so much it became the resting place for those family members that had passed.

It was twelve years ago when I was thirteen when the whole tri-county area was supplied with the most delicious vegetables and fruits, courtesy of Paul McMillan the only child of Joseph McMillan who had passed three summers before. Paul had a boy who he raised to take over the farm, a loving wife that helped organize the town’s charity events, and their daughter who won 4H three years running. With every year the McMillans continued as town favorites. A new real estate family moved in and started buying up land to build new communities. Over the years the town became more and more urbanized, fields giving way to parks and big new houses. The fields and forests we played in when we were younger were now being destroyed to house community swimming pools and football fields. Most of us changed with the times but Mr. McMillan refused to sell his land. This land was his own personal heaven on earth and to sell would mean to sell not only his land but the home of his entire family. The developer however, would not take no for an answer. This land possessed such powers that it would provide the most beautiful lawns a homeowner could only dream of, making this land a gold mine in the eyes of the developer. The McMillans stood firm on their decision and fought every case tossed at their feet. The developer would stop at nothing to get this land, hiring a team of lawyers to evaluate the zoning permits, paying off government officials to harass them with tax audits, even encouraging his children to pick on the McMillan kids at school. Needless to say the McMillan’s bond to their land and their love for one another was stronger than the will of the developer.

This one night, I remember it like it was yesterday, was a chilling night and one could feel the foulness in the air. The moon was hidden behind the shadow of the earth. The McMillans rested peaceful in their beds waiting for sunrise to begin their daily chores. But, on that night that sunrise would never come. Deep in the town an echo of an explosion woke the neighborhood. We all snapped out of bed wondering if it was an earthquake. As we ran outside and stared off in the distance a faint glow of orange filled the sky. The bellowing sound of sirens made the hairs on my arms stand up. My father threw us in the car and drove us out to the McMillan farm. A series of neighbors followed us out. As we got closer to the farm the site was to terrible for any child to witness. The house was a blaze with black smoke and crackling flames bursting from the windows. My father slammed on the breaks and jumped out of the car. He ran towards the house as screams begging for help were heard over the roar. The fire grew too strong for the firemen and the townspeople to enter. My father begged us to stay in the car trying to shelter us from what was to come. But, it was too late. The screams are still fresh in my mind from that night. We all knew what was happening to the people in that house. People I grew up with, went to school with, went trick o' treating with. What tortured me then and left me with nightmares to this day, is the moment the screaming stopped. We all stood around crying as the fire consumed every inch of that house. The McMillan family legacy had been erased from existence in an unspeakable way.

A few weeks after the fire the land was trampled by all the visitors and investigators at the site. Arson inspectors, police officers, insurance companies, they all took their time gathering evidence to determine the cause of the mysterious fire. What began the urban legend of the McMillan farm was that after the death of the family the land completely dried up. Not a single crop would grow, the grass had died, and the moisture in the soil had evaporated. Stories spread that once Paul and his family died the bloodline of the McMillans died with them. And, the spirit of the land was a part of that lineage. Everyone grew suspicious of the fire and the death of the family. Was it a natural, an accident, arson, and if so, why? All were questions that kept the townspeople from finding closure.

After a few months of rumors and the "he said she said" crap, the town finally moved on. The land was never bought and the developer built his communities two counties over. He decided to build his manor overlooking our town. As the children in the neighborhood grew to the next generation of adults, we passed the stories on to the youth. The story changed with every storyteller, and eventually turned into a feverish horror that would scare kids every Halloween. What was an unfortunate night had grown into a story of curses and blood moons. Everyone would be excited to watch, as the moon would be covered behind what would look like a layer of blood.

Years later the town decided to gather on the fifty-yard line of the football field to witness once again, the appearance of the blood moon. It was a bit chilly that night so I threw on a jacket, locked the doors, and walked out the door. When I got to the field it seemed more like the forth of July than Halloween. People weren't even watching the sky they were all standing around talking and throwing the ball back and forth. As the eclipse started the council turned off the stadium lights. As our eyes adjusted to the darkness a few of us spotted an orange glow coming from the grand manor. At first I thought it might just be a mirage but then I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Some of the adults must've put two and two together because they ran to their trucks and headed towards the glow. The rest of us followed suit and in a panic headed towards the sirens. We caught up to the red and white flashing lights. I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. The Developer's manor was engulfed in flames. An explosion knocked the fire department off of their feet. As the firemen got back up to aim the hoses the screaming began. We all stood back and silently watched as the Developer and his family suffered a terrible end. My stomach tightened as my inner child screamed for help. As the fire grew louder the screams faded. The Developer was not a town favorite but no one could condemn his children to this fate. Some of us ran around the house to see if we could get in another way, but the fire had swallowed the house. Once again the innocent had burnt to death in our town. As we stood in the backyard watching the flames light up the sky, I turned away and closed my eyes. It was then that I heard the snapping of branches near me. I opened my eyes and as they tried to adjust between the light of the fire and the darkness of the woods I caught a glimpse of the silhouette of a man. He limped his way into the foliage. As I chased him down I caught the scent of burnt flesh. At first I thought it was the developer but as I got closer the figure disappeared. I kept running into the woods until the darkness overwhelmed me. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flash. I aimed it around but all I saw were trees. As I aimed the light at my feet there was the most beautiful blossomed flower. I hadn't seen such beautiful flowers since I was a kid. I reached down and plucked it from the ground. A fresh new flower grew before my eyes. Where did this flower come from and who was the man in the wood?

A few weeks went by and the reports came out that the cause of the fire was inconclusive. The police identified the bodies of the Developer and his family. I knew then that the man in the wood couldn't have been the Developer. So who was it? Logic tells me it was a fluke, a trick of the eyes. But my inner child tells me it was Paul McMillan coming for his revenge. While as an adult logic must prevail in my life so I can wake up with some sense of control. I admit logic gives way to the unreasonable when following the death of the Developer leads to the greatest harvest this town has seen in over thirty years. The town now prospers and a new family has moved onto the McMillan land. They are a nice family and have turned it back into a farm. With the return of the lustrous land we can only hope our town does not catch the eye of another developer!


How did The Princess take control of our message board, if only for a few seconds? It didn’t make any sense. Our message board wasn’t a video game. Our message board pulled all its information from the Internet. The Princess was already inhabiting a game at the same time. All the rules we thought we knew, all the things we thought kept us safe had failed us. Could she have done this at any time? Could she do it again? Were there any real limits to what she was capable of?

We looked through all the data we’d collected. We tried to find some common thread we’d been missing. There must have been some way we could have known. There had to be more answers than what we were seeing. And there were.

We finally realized the truth. It was so obvious. The Princess had been in our message board the whole time. She was on every page. She was on every forum list. She’d been staring at us, watching us for years and we never even saw it. She was the banner at the top of the forum. She was every screenshot we’d posted, every video we’d uploaded and every piece of fan art we’d drawn.

Every image of her is her. Every image of her, when observed, gives her power. She’s not a ghost. She’s not a computer virus. She’s an idea. “Living fiction.” She lives off our observation and thoughts of her. When we all watched that stream, banded together and gave her all of our attention all at once, we made her more powerful than she’d ever been before. We made her strong enough to manifest through the images we’d posted on our message board and speak directly to us.

We took down all the images. From what we speculate, it’s enough to simply never look at them again, but we deleted them all just to be certain. However, it may already be too late for us. I’ve been losing contact with other members of the society. I can’t tell if something’s happened to them or if they’ve simply gone into hiding, but at this point only a fool wouldn’t consider the worst-case scenario.

I’m not completely heartless. I know she’s fighting for her survival, now. For her, being forgotten is death. She does what she does in the hopes of keeping her memory alive. To that end, perhaps my telling her story to the world is a small act of mercy. Maybe the thoughts I’ve lent her will ease her pain somewhat. I don’t know, but either way that isn’t why I wrote all this.

What I’ve told you could put you in great danger, but it could also save your life. You’re a target now, and in the months and years ahead she may well come for you, but I’ve also given you all the knowledge you need to keep yourself safe.

Do not try to fight her.

Do not try to talk to her.

Do not try to outsmart or trap her.

Don’t investigate.

Don’t try to understand.

Don’t try to be a hero.

Don’t try to be her savior.

It is my sincere hope that I’ve given you all the answers you want, so you won’t make our mistake and try to investigate further. There is one and only one thing you need to do to be safe:



It started with a dare. Billy, one of the cool kids at school, dared you and your friend, Samantha, to break into the old mausoleum in the cemetery. And that’s how you ended up outside of the old mausoleum in the middle of the night. It’s a small, wooden building, resembling an old house. Surrounding the structure is a brick wall and a chained gate. Although the chain looks old enough to break on its own, you brought a set of bolt cutters in your dad’s toolbox. In the moonlight, Samantha fumbles with the flashlight switch until the light springs to life, illuminating the old gate. You look nervously around. “No one’s coming,” you say, more to reassure yourself than your friend. Then you get out the bolt cutters. The brittle, old chain breaks easily, and you open the gate. Samantha shines the flashlight on the mausoleum.

“There’s no name,” says Samantha. As she shines the light on the door, you see that, if there was any writing to begin with, it’s all faded away now. All that remains is a weather-worn figure of a bat etched into the wood. She moves the light to the door handle, and you pull. You’re almost relieved when it doesn’t open, but you can’t let Sam see that.

“It’s stuck,” you say. “Maybe we should just leave.”

Sam gives it a tug, but nothing happens. “We can’t go back empty-handed,” she replies. “Maybe there’s a lock. We’ve got to take something.”

“How about one of those?” You point to the the broken bits of wood scattered on the ground in front of the structure. When the light hits them, you see that the wood doesn’t look broken at all. It looks...sharpened. Like the stakes your dad uses to set up tents when you go camping.

Sam shakes her head. “Billy said we had to take something from inside the mausoleum. He’ll know if we don’t.” She shines the light on the door again. “I don’t see a lock. Why won’t the door open?… Aha!” You jump at the sound of her voice, but luckily she doesn’t seem to notice. “Look there.” You follow the light along the edge of the door and see nails. “The door was nailed shut. Odd…” Samantha turns to you. “Do you have a hammer in that toolbox?”

You find the hammer and start pulling out the nails. After about half an hour, you get enough nails out to pry open the door. You manage to open it a few inches when it bursts open with a sudden gust of wind bellowing from inside the mausoleum. A swarm of bats fly out, screeching about your heads. Samantha screams and runs away; you want to run, but your legs won’t respond. Two cold hands come to rest on your shoulders and there’s a whisper in your left ear, a breath against your neck, saying, “Free, at last!”



DAY 1: Michael looked around the old house -- cute with a wrap around porch. The previous owners had claimed it was haunted as tenants would disappear, leaving only a trail of blood. The new owners wanted to have the house checked so he could rent it with peace of mind. He was new to the paranormal field but it seemed like a great gig that he enjoyed. This, however, was the first case he had that involved murder. Not one, but multiple murders. As he walked up the porch, he heard it groan under his weight. The wooden porch had seen better days as it had gouges and marks all over the boards and handrails. As he turned the knob, he noticed the deep scratches in the metal, rough against the palm of his hand. His first thought was no one in the city ever left their doors unlocked! Guess it was different here in the country. The door squeaked as he pushed it open. As the sunlight brightened the small living room, he could see the dust flying in the air. There was a light blue carpet with dark blue couch and loveseat. Well, sorta dark blue as the dust made it appear much lighter. The coffee table and end tables were covered with dust. Walking back was a laundry room to the left and a kitchen to the right. Going up the stairs he found a master bedroom with two smaller bedrooms. Besides being dusty everyone looked to be in decent shape. He went back downstairs and opened a closet door only to find it wasn't to a closet but led to a basement. As he slowly went down the dusty stairs, he heard (and saw) the door slowly swing close. Michael was suprised to find an open sliding glass door. As he closed it, he noted that there was no working lock (broken). The back yard led to a sparsely treed area that he could see became thick with underbrush. As he turned around to go back upstairs, he thought he saw a fleeting shadow but dismissed it due to his being tired from the long drive. He went back upstairs, pushed the door open, and pushed it back close. Going to his car he brought all his stuff into the house. The first few nights he normally spent recovering and relaxing as these owners could afford it. Who, but people with money, would pay for a paranormal expert to check their house? Michael sat on the couch and went to turn n the light only to find it didn't work. A quick check revealed no electricity in the house. He went outside and as he looked around, saw the generator with cans of fuel in a shed close by. He filled the generator and as he started it , saw the lights in the house come on. He went back inside and threw a log on the fire place and lit it. Soon the room was nice and toasty and he began to doze. Michael's body jerked as he suddenly woke. What had woken him?? He listened and could only hear the hum of the generator and the crackle of the fire. Shaking his head, he grabbed a beer out of the cooler. Popping the top, he took a long guzzle. As he finished his second beer he thought about what could be haunting this house. Tomorrow he thought he might go into town and check county records to see if there was anything of interest. As he dozed off, he thought he saw a shadow pass the window.

It was as if his mind were in a fog and he was drugged. He heard noises. Grunting. Scratching. Foot steps. He tried to open his eyes but couldn't. He could almost smell the putrid breath of the monster and feel the heat of its breath on his face. He wanted to run but was frozen in fear. A scream gurgled in his throat as he felt pain on his leg then he fell into a deep slumber.

DAY 2: The sunlight hit Michael's face and he squinted as he opened his eyes. "Wow, what a crazy dream!" he thought. As he tried to stand, he felt pain in his leg. Looking down, he saw slash marks on his pants. Dried blood saturated each mark. He dropped his pants and looked at his leg. It looked as if a cat, well maybe a saber tooth, had slashed him. Had he hurt himself sleepwalking?? He went to the car to get his first aid kit and after he cleaned the wounds, went towards the kitchen to throw away the cleaning supplies. He noticed the door to the basement was wide open so he pushed it close.

Michael spent the entire day taking notes and testing each room. As it got dark, he noted how tired he was. He got a beer and drank deeply then noticed there were no lights. He went outside and saw the generator had switched off as it was empty; He refilled it and started it. A log on the fire place and he stretched out on the couch. He thought about going upstairs to one of the bedrooms but was so comfy he stayed where he was.

"What's that noise and smell" he thought. He forced an eye open and almost choked. It looked as if there was a huge mass of bees hovering by his face! He could hear them humming and hear their wings crackling. But bees don't stink and he swore he smelled rotting flesh! His heart began to race. Both eyes were barely open. He wanted to open them fully and get a good look at the bees but was afraid. Why was he afraid? His eye lids got heavy and he didn't think he could keep them open much longer. What about the rotting bees? His eyes closed and his head slumped forward. Michael jerked as he felt the pain in his leg. Opening his eyes, he thought he saw a giant bee man with thousands of tiny buzzing bees hovering above him. "Please," he whispered, "don't hurt me any more." As he tried to focus his eyes for a better look, he passed out.

DAY 3: Extreme throbbing pain woke Michael. Upon checking he saw four deep puncture wounds on his leg. That was it! He needed to get to a hospital. Maybe he would return, maybe not. After cleaning the wound, he went out to his car. He could not believe what he saw! Two of his tires had been slashed and were now flat. He only had one spare so driving was out of the question. He grabbed his cellphone only to find "NO SERVICE" Damn! It was too far to walk with this wounded leg. He would have to stay here as the owners was to meet him in 2 more days for his report on the haunting. Haunting. Definitely something was here. Bee monster or ghost? He wasn't so sure but he knew it was dangerous.

Michael went to check the generator and refilled and restarted it. Seems it would last about 7-8 hours. He went inside and decided to check to make sure the house was secure before it got dark. When he went into the basement, the sliding glass door was open again! He shut it and wished the lock wasn't broken.

Once upstairs, he got out his laptop and typed in some notes about what had happened and what he experienced. He used the camera to take pictures of his injured leg. Tonight he wouldn't drink any beer to keep his head clear. Damn! He realized he had only brought he went to the faucet. Yes there was running water but he sure wouldn't drink it as it wasn't clear but very cloudy. Michael was so intent on typing he didn't realize how thirsty he was. That fire sure made his throat dry and parched. One beer won't hurt. But one beer turned into four. He was so intent on his typing he didn't hear the noise -- at first. He stopped typing and listened. He thought he heard someone groan. Then he thought he saw a shadow. No, just his imagination. Yes, imagination. Michael woke up gagging. That rotting flesh smell was back. The hair on the back of his neck stood as he became fearful. That smell always accompanied the appearance of the bee monster and the monster always hurt him. His breathing quickened and he glanced around and his body began to tremble. At the door was stood the monsterous bee man, just looking at him with beady black eyes. The bee man roared then dropped to all four and slowly came towards Michael. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, tears steaming down his face, and prayed he was sleeping and this was a dream. He began to leak urine as he felt the hot putrid breath on his face. He was frozen with fear. Suddenly he felt a searing pain on his head and he screamed in agony before passing out.

DAY 4: When Michael woke, he was in serious pain. He slowly got up and found something was blocking his vision. He swept it off his face and onto his head. As he got into the bathroom he choked back a scream of horror. His face was blood streaked. It had been his ripped scalp that had blocked his vision. Not only that but he had puncture wounds on his shoulder. His hands shaking, he cleaned up as best as he could. He looked in the first aid kit and swallowed four aspirin hoping it would dull the pain. Going back to the living room he grabbed his cell phone and walked around trying to get a signal but no such luck. Thank God the owners would be there tomorrow. They could take him to the hospital. He no longer cared about the money. He was thru with this house.

Tonight he was going to drink and hope to be sound asleep until morning. The generator was humming and the fire crackling when he fell asleep. The death cry woke Michael. As he opened his eyes, he saw the gaping maw of the bee monster. It grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him down the stairs. Bump Bump Bump Michael hurt all over and began to sob in fear. Bump Bump Bump He felt himself being dragged across the floor and out the door. As the cool air hit his face, his mind began to clear. Suddenly it hit him -- why each night he had been so drowsy. He should have had a window cracked with that generator on. Good thing it shut off or he would have been dead the first night. The monster continued to drag him. Seemed like for hours. His mind was now clear. He opened his eyes and as the moon light lit up the monster, he saw it for it's true self. It was a huge Grizzly Bear! There never was no monster or haunted house but a Grizzly Bear that had gotten the taste for human flesh. That explained the rotten breath, the slash marks, the puncture wounds. With the fumes from the generator making him semi conscious, the bear was able to easily slip in and test his victim at his leisure. The dragging stopped. He must now be in the Grizzly's lair. As the bear ripped his throat out, Michael knew he had solved the mystery.

DAY 5: The owners pulled their car alongside Michael's car. Going into the house, they saw the steaks of blood on floor. After frantically searching for Michael, they drove back into town to tell the Sheriff that the haunted house may have claimed another victim.....


Halloween 1975

I was ten years old the first time my mom let me go trick-or-treating with just my friends.

It turned out to also be the last time I ever went trick-or-treating.

I lived in a nice middle-class suburban neighborhood and the streets were alive with kids on Halloween. No one thought twice about it. The youngest kids and their parents would start out right after dinner time, maybe around five pm. Us “older” kids would wait until seven or eight and stay at it until people stopped answering the door around eleven.

This is the time of the evening when my story actually begins. My best friends Tom and Jerry (swear to god that was their names, and they were brothers no less), as well as another kid named Terrence and myself were winding up our night of candy gathering. We were each carrying about 5 pounds of treats around, having probably already eaten a pound or so. We were all strictly forbidden to eat any of the candy until our parents could check it out, but a ten year old and a bag of Snickers bars just can’t be policed like that.

We decided to hit one more street before calling it quits and started working our way down Avoca Avenue, which was only a quick walk from home. I remember we were getting some generally disagreeable greetings at that point – it was late and the candy bowls were thinned out. Mr. Bartlett, who was a teacher at the local high school reminded us lavishly that it was a School Night and that we were Pushing It.

Avoca Ave runs down and ends at the entrance to Takausha Game Preserve, which is a small plot of marshy woods clustered around a shallow, fishless pond. Takausha was, and I imagine still is, a popular place for high school kids to hang out and drink beer or get in other forms of moderate trouble. Younger kids usually gave it a pretty wide berth at night, rather than risk harassment by the teenagers. Halloween brought out a little daredevil in us though. We got closer to Takausha, and we got quieter, but we were not going to turn around until every last doorbell had been rung.

With only a few more houses to go Jerry’s treat bag suffered a blowout. I mean the whole bottom fell out. He wound up having to repurpose half of hit pirate costume as a replacement carrier and bailed out for the night, accompanied by Terrence, who had been looking for a reason to go home for at least an hour.

Tom and I continued on and as we got closer to the park we began to be able to pick out the tell-tale flashes of the little campfires which older kids set up for their partying convenience. Echoes if laughter and squealing girls became noticeable. These were things we were not supposed to see or hear.

We were walking up to the next-to-last house when I tripped on a branch or something. I staggered forward half a step, came down on my knees and then wound up flat on my face. My plastic GI Joe helmet got twisted around and I found myself trying to simultaneously get up and reposition the helmet so I could see. During this process I heard a big loud cracking sound, like a hundred whips being snapped.

Back on my feet, I quickly realized that Tom was nowhere to be seen. His trick or treat bag was lying on the sidewalk, but he was gone.

I began calling out his name, or rather, whispering it frantically. I was scared and disoriented. I doubt anyone more than ten feet away would have heard me.

The house we’d been approaching had a few lights on and I bolted towards it. It was a very large white-brick house with a two-step porch. I remember reaching the front door and instinctively trying to open it. No luck. I was no longer in trick-or-treat mode, and started just banging on it as hard as I could. No answer. I realized what a racket I was making and stopped.

It was only then that I noticed there were no other kids on the street. Not one. Also it became clear to me that the house I was standing in front of was totally unfamiliar. I’d been down Avoca Ave a hundred times and I’d never seen the place. The front yard I had just crossed was overgrown and impossibly large. The sidewalk seemed to be a mile away.

I became aware of the cold wind on my knees and realized my pants were ripped and I was bleeding pretty badly.

I went back to banging on the door, and now I was yelling for help as well. The doorknob I had futilely tried earlier now seemed to be above my head. I was shrinking, or the house was growing…

Turning back towards the street, I felt a sharp, searing slash across my shoulders and an intense pointed impact at the base of my neck. I was being cut and driven down, buffeted and shredded, all by just the freezing dark wind.

There was no shelter. There was no defense. I curled up into a ball and absorbed the pain. I could feel pieces of my shattered helmet digging in to my skull.

Suddenly there was an explosion of light, and then I went black.

When I awoke, I was in a bed a Nantau County Hospital. I was told that a passing police car had found me sprawled out right at the front gate of Takausha Preserve. It was assumed that I had been hit by a hit and run driver. Both my knees were dislocated and my skull was fractured. My friend Tom was not so lucky. He was decapitated.

I tried to tell them that this was impossible and to explain what I remembered, but the doctors quickly chalked it up to a hallucination brought about by head trauma. As proof they explained that there were no brick houses on Avoca Ave. It was a newer street and all the homes were of frame construction.

There hadn’t been a brick structure anywhere near that area for over a hundred years, when the current neighborhood had been the location of Avoca Funeral Home…


And all of the welfare trolls had to get a job so plundering immediately stopped on FoE
Think there was a mistake ... instead of Tower of Justice should have been Foundation of Corruption. LOL