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Retelling Scary Stories
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You are currently reading a thread in /x/ - Paranormal

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There's nothing better than a classic scary story. Let's try and bring it back, /x/. Tell us your own rendition of a classic urban legend, folklore, whatever it may be. I'll tell one myself. Let's try and keep it old school, bring back those great stories that kept us awake as kids.

The Bloody Mary myth from my area:

Our local myth was just that you had to say it in front of a mirror 13x, holding a candle. When you finished saying it you blew out the candle and the glow off the blown out wick would light her up in the mirror.

She wouldn't harm you, unless you had "hurt someone bad for the sake of hurting them" (that phrase was told to me by four or five people while describing how to do it) and in that case she would be holding scissors and attack you.

If you didn't have an ugly secret like that, she would just be inside the mirror. Some people said she would hold something. If she held cloth you would be married soon, if she had a bottle in her hands (a glass medicine bottle) you would have a baby or become sick soon, and if she had a candle of her own...

No one ever said what happened then, but they almost all mentioned the candle. I think it was just a fun excuse to jump scare the person you were telling.


Fred Miller and I owned ourselves a little truck stop at the edge of town. It was a nice place, except for one problem. Somebody was always sneaking in the back, and taking some of the oil we'd stocked up each week. We'd really never taken too much thought to it at first – assuming it was just our minds playing tricks. But I'd started keeping a close eye at the back of the building, looking for any animals, intruders, whatever was causing the problem. I hadn't noticed anything at first, there simply wasn't anything I could find that was out of place. Fred didn't find anything either, but a few days later he says to me, "Cap, I don't know about you, but I'm starting to think there's something trying to spook us." But I couldn't agree. What strange person would wait around, taking oil for a kick? It was just too strange. So that night, Fred and I came up with a plan.

"We'll sneak up on 'em" he says to me, "we'll try to keep things as unsuspecting as possible, but out of nowhere, we'll pull the carpet out from under 'em."

"But how would that work?" I asked, "we c–"

"We'll switch the oil out. Instead of keeping in in the back shed, we'll move the stock over to the front garage. One of us'll wait in the shed, and if anything happens, we give a holler."

It wasn't much of a plan, but we could at least try. I kept track of the oil, writing down the amounts we had twice a day. And sure as heck, some of it was unaccounted for come closing time. So for a couple weeks, we keep quiet. I continued with the log books, and Fred was always looking to catch the theft red–handed. Whenever he could, Fred would run a circle around the building – searching the trees and foliage for our unseen tormentor. It just wasn't our luck though. Some time passed, and finally the two of us decided that today was the day. We'd practically given up by that point as it was. When Fred came in to work that day, I filled him in.


We made quick work of it. Fred helped me carry out the oil to the front as quietly as we could. I took inventory once more, and Fred told me he'd be the one to wait. Come noon, I brought him lunch. We didn't speak a whole word for the rest of the day, fearing we'd scare it off before we could finally catch our pest. Something just didn't feel right about all of it, like we were stepping on some sort of territory we had no business messing with. But I shrugged it off. The two of us were more determined than ever.

It was a few hours before closing when I heard the sound. There was a scream, and the crash and stagger of something moving around in there. But that’s all there was, just the scream, the movements, and then it all got a little too quiet. I called out to Fred, pushing myself forward past tool belts and scrap that we’d left on the floor. I swung open the door and leapt into the room. But Fred wasn’t there. The back door was wide open, and the room was as silent as a grave. I got the hell out of there, I didn’t care at what cost. There was something terrible on those grounds I didn’t want to see face–to–face.

I never went back there, not since. The place has long been closed off, and the police have given up by now I’m sure. Of all the odd jobs I’ve had throughout my years, I’ve never felt persuaded to return back to it. It’s all just a reminder of that terrible day. On occasion, I still find myself wondering just what happened to ol’ Fred. Some of my friends have taken their guesses, and I’ve had a few myself. But really, I’ve narrowed it down to one thing:

It couldn’t get what it wanted, so it took what it could get.
holy shit, poor Fred

Poor Fred?, poor Creature who just needed oil :(

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