In New York City, there exists a pathway somewhere on the FDR drive that is only accessible at 2:30 A.M on either the winter or summer solstice. During any other day of the year, this pathway does not exist. Only one person's account of entrance to this passageway has been recorded.
This man entered the pathway in the summer solstice of 1998, and went missing for half a year until the winter solstice, at which point he and his car was found on the right lane of the road.
The car's battery and gas was completely drained, and the glass had turned pitch black. Inside, there was a stench of blood, but no actual blood in sight. The driver was alive, but he had a perpetual look of horror on his face, and was mute.
7 years later, the driver finally uttered a sentence, but only one sentence, before he died two days later from unexplainable symptoms resembling that of third-degree burns, but with no physical manifestation of them in sight.
His final sentence was mostly incoherent, but only three distinct words were clearly uttered. These words were "devil," "soul," and "rebirth."
Any and all attempts that were made to decrypt the rest of his incoherent sentence, were unsuccessful, and those that tried were said to have experienced horrible, reocurring nightmares where every place on earth was covered in blood. Only two of these people were able to describe this pathway on the FDR which the driver supposedly took, and one of them went braindead soon after.
Furthermore, the only way you can enter this pathway is mainly, by accident, since consciously thinking about it will prevent it from emerging. Consider me telling you this a favor, for it means that I've saved your lives and spared you the horror of finding out for yourselves what lies beyond that hidden pathway on the FDR.
If you watch long enough, the shadows grow impatient, and move. When in a room alone with your monitor, stare at it. The shadow will slowly close in on you, until you move. Of course, it is afraid of your monitor, as dark cannot snuff out light, but light can indeed destroy the dark. Watch sometime in a room with only internal light. If you stare at them for long enough, the shadows will begin to move. Sometimes you can make out shapes.
These things have lived with you your whole life, and will follow you wherever you may go, unless you command them in the proper authority to leave, and ensure they have no legal right to be there. Few know and understand the proper authority, and even fewer know just what to do.
The shadows are always watching.
In 1990, a small meteorite was sighted in the night sky by the Hubble telescope. It appeared to be on a collision course with earth, but calculations showed that it was far too small and moving far too slowly to be a threat to our home planet.
In 1997, the long-forgotten meteorite entered the atmosphere.
It did not burn away, as scientists predicted; it barely even grew warm. Even so, it landed without drawing much attention on the outskirts of a village in the middle of Africa, on the edge of the Sahara.
Three months later, a safari expedition vanished while en route through the jungle. They never reached their checkpoint, within walking distance from the desert.
A research team in 1998 happened on the impact crater of the meteorite by chance. They detected high levels of radiation in the crater, though they could not identify what element had caused it. They drove to the nearby village to warn the locals of the danger, but the settlement was completely empty. Not a soul nor a body could be found for miles around. The only evidence of life left, current or past, were the long-abandoned grass huts, and a great number of footprints leading into the sands of the Sahara. None of the footprints could be matched against any living creature on record.
Denver international airport is a strange place. When walking through the hospitality areas the walls are painted with murals. Many of these murals are quite innocuous, depicting sunrises, cityscapes and wildlife. Three of the murals, however, are quite different. One depicts a young aryan boy (caucasian, blonde, and blue-eyed) dressed in a way strongly resembling the hitler youth uniform, beating farming implements into swords while other children watch on in awe. Another shows a burning cityscape in the background, flames rising into the sky, while a native american woman cradles two children, one of them wrapped in a shroud, quite obviously dead and desiccated. Finally, the third mural features a man in a dictatorial military uniform (complete with black leather gloves and boots and a long, matching cape), wearing a gas mask and wielding some kind of strange energy sword. Many people think he resembles Darth Vader, while being much more unsettling. These three murals have since been altered, but why were they painted in such a strange fashion in the first place? What purpose do these grim images have in an Airport? What's behind the closed drapes concealing portions of the walls next to these odd paintings? These paintings are very real, look them up.
Letters, manuscripts, and other records written by Colonel Percy Harrison Fawcett were compiled by his son, Brian, in Lost Trails, Lost Cities (Funk & Wagnalls, 1953; also titled Exploration Fawcett). In this chronicle, the Colonel detailed his adventures in Mato Grosso, South America, as he searched for the ruins of an ancient lost city ("I call it 'Z' for the sake of convenience," he wrote) between 1906 and 1925. Though his journal ended with his strange disappearance sometime after 29 May 1925, his story continued long after.
Fawcett's interest in the occult insured that more speculative accounts of his adventures would ensue. Fawcett had in his possession a black basalt stone idol, given him by none other than Sir H. Rider Haggard. He wrote, "I could think of only one way of learning the secret of the stone image, and that was by means of psychometry -- a method that may evoke scorn by many people but is widely accepted by others who have managed to keep their minds free from prejudice." The psychotometrist, holding the idol in the dark, told Fawcett of "a large irregularly shaped continent stretching from the north coast of Africa across to South America... Then I see volcanoes in violent eruptions, flaming lava pouring down their sides, and the whole land shakes with a mighty rumbling sound... The voice says: 'The judgment of Atlanta will be the fate of all who presume to deific power!' I can get no definite date of the catastrophe, but it was long prior to the rise of Egypt, and has been forgotten -- except, perhaps, in myth." Fawcett asserted that "the connection of Atlantis with parts of what is now Brazil is not to be dismissed contemptuously, and belief in it -- with or without scientific corroboration -- affords explanations for many problems which otherwise are unsolved mysteries." (Lost Trails, Lost Cities, pp. 15-17)
In a letter to his son Brian, Colonel Fawcett wrote of the city he sought:
I expect the ruins to be monolithic in character, more ancient than the oldest Egyptian discoveries. Judging by inscriptions found in many parts of Brazil, the inhabitants used an alphabetical writing allied to many ancient European and Asian scripts. There are rumors, too, of a strange source of light in the buildings, a phenomenon that filled with terror the Indians who claimed to have seen it.
The central place I call "Z" -- our main objective -- is in a valley surmounted by lofty mountains. The valley is about ten miles wide, and the city is on an eminence in the middle of it, approached by a barrelled roadway of stone. The houses are low and windowless, and there is a pyramidal temple. The inhabitants of the place are fairly numerous, they keep domestic animals, and they have well-developed mines in the surrounding hills. Not far away is a second town, but the people living in it are of an inferior order to those of "Z." Farther to the south is another large city, half buried and completely destroyed.
In April 1933, a theodolite compass belonging to Fawcett was found near the camp of the Bacaari Indians in the Mato Grosso. The excellent condition of the compass led Fawcett's wife Nina to believe he was still alive.
On the morning of April 13th 2004 police were called to a house on the outskirts of a small village in central England.. They had been called by nieghbours who had heard a sound that had chilled them to the bone.. a single strangled scream with an abrupt cut-off...
They new little about the woman who lived next door, only the rumours they had heard in the village shop and over the bar of the Black Lion pub on the corner - they had heard that she had moved to village to escape her memories - her daughter had been gone for several weeks before she would believe what the police had been telling her, but still her mind shied away from the truth and she kept the room ready for her return, the bed made and toys laid out - and every morning she would run to the room half expecting to see her lying there, teddy bear in her arms and a sleepy smile on her face as she awoke.
After her husband left her, torn apart by grief and his wifes slowly slipping grip on sanity, her family had bought her the new home, wanting to give her a chance at a life, a new start.
she had been living there for 3 months now, but had never spoken to anyone - she hardly left the house in fact, groceries were delivered and left on the porch and she would scurry out, pale and dishevelled, avoiding the eyes of any who might look her way...
When the police broke the door down and went inside what they found was to put more than half of the village bobbies into psychiatric care so that they could sleep again.. but the worst thing of all was not the contents of the house, it was the contents of the camera lying on the floor in a pool of blood.. this was the last photo it ever took...
Item#: SCP-173
Special Containment Procedures: Item SPC-173 is to be kept in a locked container at all times. When personnel must enter SCP-173's container, no fewer than 3 may enter at any time and the door is to be relocked behind them. At all times, two persons must be looking at SCP-173 until all personnel have vacated and relocked the container.
Description: Moved to Site19 1993, little is known about item number SCP-173's origins. It is constructed from concrete and rebar and was once painted with Crylon brand spraypaint.
SCP-173 is animate and malevolent, if given the chance it will kill anyone within its line of site. Its weakness however is that it does not move while being watched. Despite this paralysis it is still highly dangerous, able to cover at least 2 meters in the literal blink of an eye. It typically kills by either snapping the victim's neck from behind, or grabbing the victim's throat and strangling them. Whatever animates SCP-173 does not give it much force with which to break things; as seen above, a large room with unbarred windows is fully capable of containing it. Its grip however is unbreakable, as when it is not moving the statue is as hard and strong as concrete.
While left alone in its room, one can hear a stone-on-stone scraping from within that is believed to be the sound of the SCP-173 moving about.
The reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of feces and blood. We don't know (nor wish to find out) where it comes from or how it arrives but SCP-173's container will slowly fill with these substances. In order to ensure that bacterial growth within does not begin to damage the building it is contained in, and to maintain some level of sanitation, the enclosure must be cleaned on a bi-weekly basis.
A young girl is left home alone with only her dog to protect her. When night approaches, she locks all the doors and tries to lock all the windows but one won't close.
She decides to leave it unlocked and goes to bed. Her dog takes its customary place under her bed.
In the deep of night she awakens to a dripping sound coming from the bathroom. The girl is too scared to go check so she reaches her hand under the bed. She feels a reassuring lick from her dog and falls back to sleep. She reawakens to the dripping sound, reaches her hand down to the dog where she feels the reassuring lick and falls back to sleep. Once more she awakens to the dripping sound. She reaches her hand down and feels the lick of her dog.
Now curious about the dripping sound, she gets up and slowly walks towards the bathroom, the dripping sound getting louder as she approaches. She reaches the bathroom and turns on the light. She is greeted by a horrific sight; hanging from the shower nozzle is her dog with its throat slit open and its blood dripping into the bathtub.
Something on the bathroom mirror catches her eye she turns around. Written on the bathroom mirror in her dog's blood are the words "HUMANS CAN LICK TOO".
A young prodigy grew up in a loving home. His parents were kind, but not overindulgent. Strict, but fair. The boy grew up in a very well-balanced environment.
The boy, Nathaniel Zimmermann, discovered his taste for blood perhaps as early as seven years old. Only coincidences connect him to the horrifically mutilated animal carcasses that were always found six hundred sixty-six paces into the forest. Animals were found splayed open, organs neatly cut and dissected, eyes and mouths opened wide, illustrating the unspeakable pain in their last moments of life.
Nathan, on top of being a genius, also had incredible cunning. He kept his bloodlust under absolute control. He had no interest in friends, and he was spectacular at mimicking human emotion. He feigned a healthy contentment with life so that his parents wouldn't get suspicious.
Nathan graduated medical school with top honors, and decided to become a surgeon. His handiwork was precise and efficient. His surgeries often ended in record time. Then his cover was blown.
Nathan's sadism was eventually exposed. It was discovered that in addition to tampering with anaesthetics (explaining his absolute contempt towards anaesthesiologists), he sometimes replaced a person's painkillers with snake venom.
Nathan's medical license was revoked, but he found his niche in being a torturer-for-hire.
His only stipulation was that the victim was to die immediately following the torture, as any pain they felt after the torture would be almost pleasurable. Nathan so hated when people felt happy.
Nathan has murdered countless people, almost always torturing them first. It is rumored that when one of his victims was unable to feel pain, he simply started cutting off her extremities until she was immobile, then he shoved a screwdriver through her skull.
Oddly, it is not known whether he is a virgin. His arrogance seems to preclude him from any sexual contact, as he considers himself greater than a human. What is frightening is that he may very well be right.
If you stand alone at the corner of Church St. and Market St. in Charleston, South Carolina at 3 AM, you see a man coming down Church St. wearing a black hat and black cape with stringy white hair and weathered skin. He'll stop at one of the two corners directly across from where you are standing and start to walk the corner directly opposite from where he is standing. When he reaches about halfway (dead center of the intersection) and nobody else has arrived, he'll stop, turn, and look directly at you.
If you do not blink for roughly 20-30 seconds he'll tip his hat to you and walk along his way, disappearing into the dark shadows of the trees that line the streets. Nobody knows what happens if you follow him.
If you do blink before he tips his hat, the very first thing you will see is the man standing directly in front of you. He'll grin maliciously at you and draw a blade hidden in the shaft of the cane and slash you across your throat, but you will not feel a thing. You will, however, pass out and remain in a comatose state until the sun rises over the horizon.
For the next six nights, you will have a recurring dream of the man walking down the street, appearing suddenly before you, and slashing your throat. On the seventh night, the events will replay the same up until he stops in the middle of the intersection. At this point, he'll say, "It's been fun playing with you, boy, but now it's time for you to go. Don't ever let me see you again." He'll then tip his hat and walk away before you wake up.
Nobody knows what happens if you visit the corner a second time.
I grew up in an old rail-road town in Pennsylvania. I was walking deep in the woods along the railroad tracks not to far from my house and I stumbled upon a overgrown path coming out of the woods. I followed it for a short ways until I find a just a basement of a burned down building. It’s charred black and there are dead plants and leaf-less trees around it. It’s a simple concert basement, perfectly square (somewhere around 24 feet, I was too young to remember). A rusted ladder lead to the flat of the bottom and along the wall looked to a fuse box. At it’s bottom was a layer of decaying leaves, a rotting deer corpse, and the bones of other small animals strewn about the leaves. Instantly that made me shit some brix, but it’s when I investigated further that I saw what really upset me.
One wall had a huge reinforced metal door that was held tight with a HUGE old, thick lock. There was a second lock that held together a chain that webbed across the door. Why the hell would someone need to lock up a door like that—--all the way out here in the countryside of a piss-ant little town? At the base of the door was a fair new hatchet, I can only assume that someone was trying to hack their way inside. Stupid fuck, I wouldn’t ever want to know what was behind it. I must admit, I shit several brick houses when I think about what could have been behind there.
But that’s not the end of it. Later, I went back with a friend to find it again (like stupid fucks, we did it the day before Halloween). We could never find it, I swear the path just ended with brush. But what we did find was shit-worth. A really old graveyard—I’m serious—a graveyard with about 7-10 graves. I think it was dead people who worked for the railroad or a hobo’s graveyard. It was so stereotypical that most people don’t think I’m telling the truth when I say it. But, at the center there was an old willow tree that the graves were focused around. Thick brush surround it, expect for on the sunken graves. Then, to top it off, a cast-iron gate. Like an idiot kid, I explored it, that is until I found the only marked grave with my initials on it. I shit several houses and high-tailed out of there like a total pussy. I never went back.
I talked to my sister over this summer. She told me she knew what only visited the graveyard one. Upon leaving, and swore to me, that a ghost of a man in overalls chased her and her friend all the way down to the rail road bridge. She said he had no face and that he brandished a wrench at her.
Granted, she could be fucking with me, but she really had no reason to.
True. Story. I swear...
Who discovered the existence of the dead? Everyone knows the name of Antonia Simone, but the exact circumstances of her discovery are wildly varied. In 1992, her younger brother Ricardo, was injured in a martial arts accident that left him completely paralyzed. He needed a respirator to live and could only communicate through eyeblinks. She was a computer scientist at the Xerox Palo Alto Research Center and decided to create a computer terminal sensitive to the slightest energy source. She was a student of Kirlian photography and strongly believed the body’s electromagnetic fields could affect sensitive electronic equipment. She created a terminal that could not be affected by traditional means -- no keyboard, mouse or other input devices. A veritable black box.
Ms. Simone was devoted to her brother and tried for years to make a computer terminal that would allow her brother to communicate naturally. Distraught over the failure of her terminal, which she thought would free thousands of similarly afflicted people, she killed herself by hanging. When paramedics found her body days later, there on a computer screen was the message: “What took you guys so long? I’ve got the most important news.”
If you wait at any given train station and keep watching a train will show up that isnt on the train schedule. If you get on the train you will find that the inside of the train, despite what the train looks like on the outside the inside will be very elegant and old fashioned.
Have a seat and enjoy the train ride. By this point there is little you can do to save yourself and you should enjoy this short period of luxury that precedes the horrors you will face.
The train is full of other passengers dressed very fancy and old timey. there will be waitresses and waiters that will serve you. When the train makes a stop get off the train. If you do not get off at this stop then the train will continue on but all the passengers will be rotting corpses and the trian will never stop, the entrances will be sealed and you will be stuck until you die in that rancid train filled with quietly rotting corpses.
After you get off the train you will be in another train station this one is completely empty and decrepid. A man with a pocketwatch hanging by a chain will come up to you and simply say "you are late."
At this point you must apologize for being late, then blame the train. If you respond in any way other then this, the man's appearance will distort right in front of you: his face will be rotting, discolored flesh and one of his eyes is out and hanging by the optic nerve.
You will find yourself paralyzed where you stand. Slowly, his mouth will begin to open until it is roughly the size of your head. His head will begin to lean in, and then the mouth will begin to cover your head. At the point where your head is fully in his mouth down to the neck, his yellowed sharpened teeth will close around your neck and cut it off. The pain will be excruciating, and yet you will remain fully conscious until he swallows you.
However, if you responded correctly he will hand you his pocket watch. By merely holding this watch you will be able to go to any train station. Once there, a train will arrive that can take you to any train station in any time or location that you desire. However, should you forget to wind the watch and it ever stop, NEVER take that train again.
If you do, you will arrive in the train station once again with that man who gave you the watch--and this time he will not bother asking any questions.
A few years ago, a mother and father decided they needed a break, so they wanted to head out for a night on the town. They called their most trusted babysitter. When the babysitter arrived, the two children were already fast asleep in bed. So the babysitter just got to sit around and make sure everything was okay with the bastard children. Later that night, the babysitter got bored and went to watch TV, but she couldn't watch it downstairs because they did not have cable downstairs (the parents didn't want bastard children watching too much garbage). So, she called them and asked them if she could watch cable in the parent's room. Of course, the parents said it was ok, but the babysitter had one final request... she asked if she could cover up the clown statue in their bedroom with a blanket or cloth, because it made her nervous. The phone line was silent for a moment, and the father who was talking to the babysitter at the time said, "Take the children and get out of the house... we will call the police. We do not have an clown statue."
While you're calling home to check your answering machine, someone picks up the other end. The voice sounds familiar and answers the phone with your name. After a short and angry conversation in which the person insists he is in fact the rightful tenant, you speed home in an attempt to catch the guy. When you get there, no one is there, but your phone starts ringing. You answer it with your name...
You were out of town for the weekend. When you came back to your apartment, your mailbox was stuffed full. At least 30 letters. Letters with no return address, several of them felt soggy and heavy, as though they were recently wet, or perhaps contained a liquid. All of the letters have your name and address written on them, and many of them had your name scratched all over them in red in. They don't smell nice, they smell like rotting meat and old garbage and you're reluctant to take them back to your room, but curiosity gets the better of you.
So you manage to cart them all back to your room, you dump them in your kitchenette sink because you don't want them smelling up the rest of the apartment. You grab one that doesn't seem damp and isn't covered with writing, and open it up. There's pictures inside. Pictures of people you don't know, with their eyes torn out, teeth missing, unhinged jaws hanging open, throats ripped out. You're horrified and yet you can't help but wonder what's in the rest of the letters. You open more, and more to discover increasingly gruesome photos of dead people. Piles of bodies with limps missing, splayed open corpses on operating tables with their vital organs removed, hanged bodies that have been gutted and bled dry. Some of the soggy letters had blood and other fluids in them. The more letters you open, the more you notice that not all of the people are strangers. Some of them were people you see at work, others people you went to high school with. By the time you get to the last few letters, the pictures are of the mutilated bodies of your close friends and family members.
Eventually you reach the last letter. You don't want to know what's in it, but it's not like you have a choice now. You peel the letter open, and it's a picture of yourself. Not dead, eyes intact, no limbs missing. It's a picture of you entering your apartment building earlier that day, shortly before you collected your disgusting letters. As you hear a door elsewhere in your apartment open, you black out.
Szomorú Vasárnap, or Gloomy Sunday in English, is a hit song written in 1933 by Hungarian composer Rezső Seress. It's more commonly known as the Hungarian Suicide song because of hundreds (if not thousands) of suicides that had been inspired by listening to it. The song itself has been has been covered several times, most famously by Billie Holiday, and for the most part is considered an urban legend and a brilliant marketing campaign.
The version that reached radio waves, however, is not the version that was originally written. Rezső Seress originally wrote the song in order to woo his girlfriend, who had recently left him. The song succeeded in bringing them back together for a short time, before she jumped from his apartment window. Rezső had been out at the time. His girlfriend left a note for him--"Szomorú Vasárnap."
The song was changed before release. Rezső Seress himself committed suicide in 1969, jumping out of his window in very much the same manner his girlfriend did.
When I moved into my last set of student flats last year the house was an old victorian villa which had been converted. There were three floors and ours was on the ground. We had a massive basement that ran the whole length and bredth of the house that came with the flat. When we all first moved in we were a little short on space, being three girls living together with alot of clothes, so we decided to throw some of the boxes we had left over down in the basement until we needed them again. It turned out that even the basement had seperate rooms but it was what we found in the main one that freaked us all out.
There were five or so paintings all standing in a circle facing each other, still on their easles. They were really pretty handpainted pictures but if you looked closely they all had litle red paint flecks on them. When we asked our landlord Tommy he said he hadn't touched them incase they belonged to a previous tenant and they came back to claim them.
I am currently sitting in front of my computer, scared witless. Any moment now I am going to be killed.
Today a friend of mine told me a story.
His aunt had taken care of him since he was a small boy, and she told him last night about how his parents died. He did a very fair imitation of her (I knew them both pretty well):
"They were doing mission work in some nasty little south american country when a man burst into the mission hospital one night, terrified out of his mind. He told them that his sister had been killed by a Muerto blanco, and that he was certain that it was coming for him next. What is a Muerto blanco? Apparently it was some sort of bogey-man, something like that dumb chupacabra or whatever. They called it the White Death or the White Girl, because it was the soul of someone who hated life so much that they came back in their shrouds to kill those who told of them.
The man had been told about the vengeful spirit by his sister hours before her death. It was a girl with dead, black eyes that wept bile. The thing moved without ever actually moving its legs, and it stalked its victims back to their homes. Now, if you weren't already aware that this thing was following you, once it got back to your house, it would start knocking on your door...
Once for you bones, which she'll use to patch her own decaying flesh.
Twice for your muscle, which she'll gnash her teeth on between victimes.
Thrice for your bones, which she'll make knives to pick her teeth and kill her victimes.
Four times for your heart, which she'll wear around her neck.
Five times for your teeth, which she'll polish and keep in a box.
Six times for your eyes, which she'll see the faces of your loved ones through.
Seven times for your soul, which she'll eat whole - you can never pass while you're in her stomach.
She has to repeat this on any mirror or door between you and her.
You can try to outrun her, but she's faster than the fastest man. And if you leave your home while she's knocking on your door, she won't be so courteous when she catches up to you.
Now the man was certain that this thing had killed his sister, that he had tried to tell the police, but they would not listen. Next he had tried to tell his priest, but the priest turned him away when he saw that the thing was following him now - oh, that's right, I forgot about that - it can only get you if you tell someone else about it, or you saw it kill someone else. The man, after finishing his tale, stole a car from the mission, and was never seen again."
Apparently his mother and father had immediately called his aunt about this when it happened. They were found in the morning, skinned and dismembered. Their bodies were covered in tiny, child-like handprints."
His aunt was really drunk the night before, and had told him about that. He told me this story early in the morning today at school, before the cops arrived. His aunt had been murdered that night. I called him later that night, and he told me that he was being chased by someone, and now they were knocking on his door. I told him to stop shitting me.
He held the phone away from his face for a minute, and I could hear slow, deliberate knocking. A moment later, I heard the door rip from its hinges and the dying screams of my friend.
Then a little girl's voice spoke over the line: "WITNESS." I hung up.
Three minutes ago someone started knocking on my door. She has to knock 28 times on my front door, 28 times on the mirror in the hall, and another 28 times on the door to my bedroom. She's doing it slowly... I think she wants to scare me some more, let me know that my death is just moments away. I will not run - I couldn't get to my car in time anyway. She started knocking on my bedroom door a minute ago, she should be done any moment.
Nice knowing you guys, it's been fuy5
WITNESS
People feel free to add your own.
