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SCARY STORIES 2012
Page - Scary Stories - October 31, 2012
By Hannah Croft Rebecca walked along the sidewalk, bobbing her head to the song by “Rise Against” blaring in her headphones. She breathed deeply, the cool autumn air filling her lungs with crisp freshness. She smiled as her tiny little neighbors, no older than six or seven, ran by dressed in costumes of princesses, fairies, and super heroes. She glanced at the neighbor’s scarecrow yard decoration and shuddered; Rebecca had always hated scarecrows. She waved hello to her grandmother raking leaves as she entered the house, tossing her backpack on the stairs by the door. She wandered into the kitchen and grabbed one of the bright red apples she had picked with her sister at the apple farm, biting into it closing her eyes as the sweet juice flowed out of the ripe fruit. Rebecca tossed her apple core into the trash can and picked up the mail, sifting through it absent mindedly. A bright orange flyer caught her attention and she picked it up, intrigued. “HAUNTED HAYRIDE” it read, along with dates and locations. She smiled and ran to the phone, dialing her mother’s work number. “Hello? Rebecca, I’m busy. Please make this quick darling.” Rebecca told her mother about the Haunted Hayride, which was that weekend. Thank goodness it was already Friday. After what seemed like an eternity, Rebecca finally got her mother to consent to letting her and Maggie, her younger sister, go to the Haunted Hayride. Finally the night of the Hayride arrived, and Maggie was giddy with the excitement of it all. Rebecca nodded off in the car on their way there, but her sister couldn’t sit still, her nine years doing nothing to suppress her love of Halloween. Their mother paid for their tickets and they got out of the car, excited to see something scary. “Alright girls, have fun. I will be back in an hour to pick you both up.” She kissed them both and drove away, leaving Maggie in Rebecca’s care. They wandered around for a bit, playing games and riding rides, waiting for the Hayride to start. Finally they came to the last game, and Maggie begged Rebecca to play it. “Please Becca? Please? I want to win that stuffed scarecrow!” Rebecca rolled her eyes and grabbed a baseball with a Jack ‘o Lantern painted on it and threw it at a tower of “bones”; bottles with plastic bones taped to them. Rebecca easily knocked over the bottles, her being the pitcher on her softball team and all. She picked up the stuffed toy and handed it to her sister. Was it her imagination, or did the doll wink at her? Rebecca shook it off and kept walking, following a sign that said “Hayride ->”. They came to the end of the dirt path and were met with a large wagon filled with benches connected to the back end of a black tractor. The people climbed on: an elderly couple, three snotty toddlers and their mother, and a teenage couple. The sisters climbed on last, excited to be in the back, where all the bumps happened. The ride started, and the tractor lurched forward. Maggie giggled and held onto the sides of the wagon as it bumped along, the path growing darker and darker as they proceeded. The ride pumped through a small wooded area, masked men and women jumping out every now and then, making the girls shriek and giggle. After a while, the hayride bumped along into a cornfield, steadily getting rougher as it rolled across the uneven path. Suddenly, the hayride hit a large pot hole, and the sisters, who had been sitting on the edge of the wagon, tumbled out onto the dirt ground. The sisters stood up, clothes tousled and hair tangled, and surveyed their surroundings. The Hay Ride had long since left
them behind, and they were alone. All at once, a faint rustling was heard to their left, a sound that sounded a bit like hay being moved. “What was that?” Rebecca whirled her head around, looking for the source of the sound, but she was met with only darkness. Determined to be brave for her sister, she turned her phone light on and surveyed the surrounding area. “Must’ve been a mouse,” she muttered to no one in particular. All of a sudden, the rustling was heard again, from their right now. It grew louder, starting on the right, then the left, sounding like it was surrounding them. Without warning, it stopped. “Becca, I wanna go home.” Maggie whimpered, starting to cry. Rebecca pulled her younger sister into a hug and looked around wildly for the source of the sound. Again, she was met with silence and empty blackness surrounding them. The moon began to peek from behind its veil of wispy clouds, bathing the corn field in an eerie milky glow. The path before them was lit faintly by the half moon, so the sisters began to walk. With each step Rebecca took, she noticed a strange sound, like straw being stepped on. She shook it off and plodded along, desperate to get back to civilization. A twig snapped and Rebecca whirled around, and shrieked. She stood face to face with a scarecrow. The scarecrow seemed to look at her, its empty holes for eyes holding a creepy intelligence. Maggie laughed. “Becca, it’s only a scarecrow! They belong in the cornfield, silly!” Rebecca rolled her eyes and pushed her bangs out of her face defiantly, laughing at her childishness. She turned around, but stopped when she felt something grab her arm. Something rough, yet smooth at the same time, something almost like…. straw! Rebecca gyrated to face the scarecrow, which now had a grip on her arm. It cocked its head at her and she pushed it away.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page Continued from previous page “You think you’re really funny, don’t you? Scaring teenagers trying to babysit their little siblings. Well, I’ll show you!” and she ripped the mask off. Straw tumbled out, but no head showed. The girls screamed and ran, more scarecrows stepping out of the corn rows. Maggie and Rebecca tripped and tumbled, the scarecrow’s long rough fingers reaching after them, scrabbling to get a hold of their clothes, hair, anything. Rebecca grabbed Maggie’s arm, but she pulled away. Confused, Rebecca stopped, trying to pull her sister after her. “Sister dear, you’ve been running from us far too long. Why don’t you join us? The corn is very peaceful; the sun is so warm against our faces. Please, join us Rebecca!” and with that, Maggie peeled away her face, the mask that was hiding the true creature underneath--a scarecrow. Her scarecrow/sister grabbed for her, but she spun out of reach, tripping over her converse laces and pot holes in a desperate attempt to run. Suddenly, her foot caught in a large pot hole, and her face met the ground. The last thing she heard before blacking out was “Soon, sister, soon you will be with your family.” “Rebecca? Rebecca? Oh good, she’s coming to!” Rebecca opened her eyes groggily and was met with the white walls and heart monitor of a hospital room. “Oh baby!” her mother cried, pulling her into a bone crushing hug. “You’ve been out for two hours!” Rebecca timidly hugged her mother back, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, the doctor stepped in. “Mrs. Grayson, I think it’s best you leave now. Rebecca had quite a fall, and no doubt she has a splitting headache and needs her sleep. You may visit her in the morning.” Rebecca’s mother nodded. “Of course. See you in the morning dear.” Rebecca nodded and closed her eyes, but right before she slipped into darkness, she noticed her mother pull a few pieces of straw out of the sleeve of her jacket. It WAS just a dream…right?
Abduction By Matthew Morse Legend has it she is a witch, but we all know that’s made up. I’d say if you mixed a brown recluse and a black widow, you pretty much have what she is. Technically we don’t know that, because she hasn’t left her house in like a bazillion years, but I have a gut instinct that she could probably strangle a bear with her bare hands. Not because of her strength, but for revenge. We all pity her. Her daughter and husband both died when the Bridge collapsed. The Bridge, it isn’t actually a Bridge; it was the old bank owned by Jonathan Bridge. It was all sorts of sketchy, but it always passed safety inspections, until one day it just crashed down. They never did recover the bodies, crushed beyond recognition. That was the last day any of the Yommums have been seen. ऀMy family lives on downtown, in the city of Besom, the world’s largest producer of brooms. Brooms are cool, don’t get me wrong, but they’re… well… brooms. You don’t hear of “revolutionary broom technology” very often, and I’ve never heard of a war fought over brooms. Downtown here is real nice, but the suburbs get a little shady. Here we don’t hear of robberies, and there isn’t an overwhelming drug trade, but just about every week there’s another kid missing. It’s always the same story though, they sneak out of the
house, they go play around in the ‘burbs, they’re gone. You’d think kids would get smarter, like, “Hey don’t go out, kids get kidnapped,” but I swear, the youth here have no hope. I consider myself pretty mature for sixteen, though. My name’s Haley Jonah, and before you start inferring, I’m a dude. Yes, Haley can be a dude’s name, I would know. It’s not like I’m Prince Charming, but I’m not Quasimodo either. Just average, but my gut instincts are spot on. Honestly, I wouldn’t oppose a law saying that teenagers can’t go out and Trick-or-Treat, as long as it gets me out of supervising my brother and his friends, the Lollipop Kids, as I prefer to call them. “Let’s go see the witch!” “Why is her house so dark?” “Do you think she’ll give us candy?” I don’t know what to do with them sometimes. It’s nearing seven o’clock, so I throw on my sweatshirt and wait for the little ones to get ready outside, surprised to see that they’re all outside waiting for me. We start immediately, and I nearly break into a sprint trying to catch up with them, because “The house down the street is giving away King-Sized Reese’s”… They wear me out. At around seven thirty I get what I expected. “Let’s go to the witch’s house!” my brother shouts. “Yeah!” the other 5 chant in response. “No!” I exclaim in response, disappointed that no one else joins in. “You’re just chicken” responds little William, one of the Lollis who may actually have a couple of pounds on me, despite me being at least a foot taller than him, and shouts of “Chicken” rain down (well, technically up) on me. I bend over to tie my shoe, sighing that all night I will be hearing about how lame I am from kids that are eight years younger than me. Sounds of running fill my ears and I look around, afraid of being trampled by eager trick-or-treaters. However, just the opposite happens, and as I look down the sidewalk, there go the Lollis sprinting away. “So grounded,” I think to myself. I run down the street because we have one of those connected towns where no matter how hard you try, you always have to head back to the main street. Praying to myself that they would be too afraid to go past where the streetlights shine, I slowly begin to walk away from town. It’s not technically the safest idea, but I keep my mind off all those times I’ve insulted the kids dumb enough to get kidnapped. There’s nothing I can do but hope that my brother is a little brighter than those victims, and more so that I am. Even I have to admit, there’s a spooky feeling to the ‘burbs. I feel like that one guy in the horror movie, and everyone in the audience is screaming at me, but I can’t think of anything I’m doing wrong. I go through a mental checklist: I’m not leaving the main road, not in a barn of any type, not in a creepy old house, as far as I can figure, I’m all good. Yet something seems oddly coincidental about this whole thing. ऀWithin five minutes of walking I can hear the Lollis practically dying of laughter. I’m hardly surprised to see them ringing the doorbell to Ms. Yommum’s house. As soon as I reach them, they put into us another tactic I never thought they would try: jump behind her front bushes. The door creaks open and I babble, my mind temporarily losing the ability to make sentences. Ms. Yommum looks as if she is a hundred years old, but like she could easily snap me right in half, but I know that was fear talking to me.
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Page - Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page “Why hello darling, it’s been so long since I’ve had trick-ortreaters. Well I’m afraid I have no idea what you are supposed to be dressed up as... No matter, what is your name?” she asks. “I’m Haley, my brother and his friends rung you doorbell, I’m really sorry. You don’t have to give me any candy.” “Nice to meet you Haley, you’re such a beautiful little girl. I insist that you children come in and have some cookies!” “No that’s really ok miss, we leave you to yourself.” “Are you sure about that? They’re chocolate chip!” Next thing I know, the boys have leaped from the bushes, and I’m practically being carried into Ms. Yommum’s house. The second I am inside I catch an undeniable whiff of something burning, and realize her home is pitch black. Perhaps more frightening are the figures I can make out by the moonlight shining through the window, a man and a girl smiling in our direction. “It is so nice to have some people here again; I was getting a little bit bored of leftovers” snarled the man, his voice sending chills down my back. The boys all begin screaming, and I look around the room while my ears ring. As my eyes adjust to the lack of light, I can faintly make out her smile; it is stained red with what I can only hope is cranberry juice. The little girl goes over to the door and locks the bolt on the door, while I’m paralyzed with realization. I am one of those stupid kids…
The Letter By Kelly Jones One October night, the Lewis family returned home from their youngest son Tommy’s Mini Elks Football game. The Lewis family was just an ordinary family. Two sons, a daughter, two parents, a puppy, everything about them was normal, except for this one night. This one night after the family returned home from Tommy’s football game. They found a mysterious and what appeared to be old letter. The letter was addressed to “The family of Johann & Henry Lewis on 418 Mulberry Dr., Arlington, Illinois, 61312.” On the Envelop it had no return address or a stamp, which Bethany, the Lewis’ middle daughter thought was weird. The family decided to open the envelope just to see what was in it since it was, after all, addressed to them. Inside was a letter. The letter said, “Hello to the Lewis family. My name is Josie, Josie Carlton. I’ve lived here on 418 Mulberry Drive my whole life. When I was twelve I was even murdered here. One night on the 15th of October, 1847, at around 12:45 a.m., my father and mother returned home from a night of drinking with a few of their close friends. As soon as they walked through that front door, I knew something was wrong. My father was never a yeller or got mad easily over something. But that night, oh, he was angry. He walked in the front door screaming and yelling at my mother, saying everything wrong with our family, everything wrong in the world, was her fault. Saying she and I both were a waste of air and a waste of his money and time. I and my mother both just thought that it was the alcohol talking and that everything would get better in the morning. But no, nothing got better. The yelling finally stopped about 3 a.m. and we decided to get some rest, so we went to bed. At about 9 a.m. the next morning I was awakened by gun shots. My father killed my mother while she was sleeping. He
was still drunk. He sat up all night waiting and planning for the perfect time to kill her. I laid in bed terrified to move, scared of what my father would do to me, for about 2 hours. Finally, I decided to get up and make me some breakfast. That was the biggest mistake of my life. As soon as I walked out of my room, I saw him sitting there. He was sitting there with the look of death and cruelty on his face. He was waiting for me, waiting for me to come out of my room so he could kill me. He sat there and calmly reloaded his gun and said, “I'm sorry baby girl, but I have to,” and he shot me. One bullet straight to my brain killed me. My own father, he killed me and my mother both. About a week after our deaths, my father was found hanging in the bathroom. He couldn’t live with the guilt of killing us for any longer. The point of me telling your family of this is to warn you. I’m warning you that every year at 12:45 a.m. on October 15th my father comes back to this house and kills everyone in it, stating that it is still his house and it shall be his until he can no longer come back to it. Please, please take my warning and leave this house before anyone gets hurt.” Your friend, Josie Carlton The Lewis family didn’t know what to do. Should they believe the letter and move out or just stay and ignore it? Should they contact the police or just see what happens a little longer and then call them? Should they tell someone that could help them or wait until something bad happens, if anything even happens? They just weren’t sure what to do. Mr. Lewis and his sons Tommy and Jimmy said that they should wait it out and see what happens because who knows? It could be a prank being played on then by their neighbor Smelly John. But Mrs. Lewis and Bethany thought that it was really a warning and maybe they should leave, just in case. They just didn’t know what to do. “Okay here’s what we are going to do”, said Mr. Lewis. “We are going to stay here until something major happens or until if the letters keep coming.” Everyone agreed that was the best thing to do. On October 14th the family received another letter. The letter said, “I told you guys to get out, but no, you didn’t listen. He’s coming, he already knows your living here and he’s on his way. I told you guys to leave, but you didn’t listen, so now he’s coming to kill you all, and I can’t help you anymore… goodbye. Josie Carlton Right when the family read this letter they heard booming. “BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!!" The booms sounded like someone stomping on the ground walking around their house, and from time to time they would even hear what sounded like someone reloading a gun. The family were to the point where they were anxious and not getting very much sleep, so everyone was on everyone’s nerves. That night, October 15th at 11:00 p.m., everyone was getting ready to go to bed, well at least trying to. The family really hadn’t been getting very much sleep, getting woken up about every hour or so with the booming. But every time they tried to leave or to move out, something would happen and cause them to stay. So, they decided to see if anything would happen on the 15th. Bethany was in her room painting her toe nails while Mrs. and Mr. Lewis were brushing their teeth, getting ready to lie down. Tommy was already asleep, and Jimmy was doing some last minute homework he forgot to do during the evening, when the house started shaking. But only it wasn’t an earthquake like everyone thought. It was Josie’s dad. His ghost was planning how he was going to attack this family and when.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page Continued from previous page The Lewis family didn’t think that, though. They just thought it was an earthquake that was pretty common in Illinois. When the shaking finally quit and the power starting flickering, they knew that wasn’t just an earthquake. Standing before them was Josie’s dad’s ghost. Tommy was crying, Bethany was screaming, everyone was scared for their lives. Then Bethany felt something. She felt a hand grabbing her leg and pulling her toward the basement. “HELP HELP!” she yelled. “Something’s pulling me HELP!” Nobody could help her, though, and they all knew what was there causing all the weird noises and all the footsteps, everything. It was Josie’s dad coming to kill them. The next day the neighbor Smelly John noticed that the Lewis’ front door was wide open, so he decided to see if something was going on or if someone was in trouble. When he walked inside the door, he saw them. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, Jimmy, Bethany, Tommy, and the family dog Rufus, lying on the floor in the foyer, dead. John immediately called the police and investigators, and to this day nobody knows the real story behind the Lewis’ death besides Josie Carlton and Josie’s father. Who still to this day haunts and murders the owners of the house on 418 Mulberry Drive, Arlington, Illinois.
Halloween and The Wolf By Elizabeth McPherson For most people Halloween is just another holiday. A fun time when everyone dresses in costumes and wanders the neighborhood for candy. Not for me! All I can remember is the wretched night of October 31st, 2001, and every Halloween since then. It was a cool fall evening. Long after the sun had set, I was driving home from a Halloween party that an old high school friend hosted in Colorado. The highway seemed quiet, a taunting quiet. I had only 15 miles left, only 15 miles until I reached the safety of home. But then something strange happened! My car ’s lights were flashing on and off very quickly. Then all of a sudden, the headlights went dark. I should have known to stop then. THUD! Out of nowhere, I hit something in the middle of the road. As I got out of the car to see what I hit, a sparkling wet piece of grass caught my eye. Going over to see what the wet substance was, I stopped short. The grass was covered in blood. As I made my way out to the road, I could see nothing on the road. Nothing but large puddles of blood. A long path of blood led me into the dark green forest off the side of the road. Being curious of this odd event, I followed the blood. The forest seemed very calm. Owls were hooting, and the occasional deer ran in front of me. One takes me off guard and knocks me to ground. While on the ground, I notice a glove. A man’s glove coated with blood. While scanning the forest floor for more evidence, I see many other male clothing lying around, all soaked with blood. While following the trail of clothing, I find a clearing. A pond that is decorated in water lilies. A very peaceful sight for such a terrifying night. While looking at the unusually still pond, I catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. Not an animal, but not a human either. Heading in the animal’s direction, I see the creature has stopped to
get a drink at the other side of the pond. That is when I get a good look at it. The animal appears to be a species of some wolf. He had a dark gray coat and sparkling yellow eyes. His teeth looked like daggers and his feet were as big as a human’s head. But some features of this animal were similar to a human. The back posture, the long strong legs. While I am trying to categorize this animal, it turns to me, its teeth pulled back into a great big snarl. It starts to inch toward me really slow, like a lion approaching its prey. During the moment I am turning to run, I realize it would be a mistake. The slow walk the creature was taking now turned into a fast jog. As I am sprinting to try to get out of the woods, my foot catches on a root from one of the huge trees that surrounds me. Trying to get up as fast as I can, I start off again, hoping to reach the car before the animal attacks me. As I bust out of the dark woods, I can see my car is gone. I have no where to run, no where to go. Turning back to the forest, I see that the animal is gone and has disappeared somewhere in the forest. As I start my long trek back to my house, I notice the blood stains on the road are gone. The grass is no longer wet with blood, but wet with dew now that early morning is coming. As I am only .5 miles outside the city limits, I start hearing the crunching of leaves. When I look back, I don’t see anything, just the paved road of the highway. Later that night and every Halloween night since then, while I’m in bed, there is a shadow of a wolf-like creature walking in my hallways, snarling at every open door. I wonder if the wolf had come back to punish me for hitting him with my car that Halloween evening so long ago. For me, Halloween will never be a night of fun, but of terrifying memories!
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Page - Scary Stories - October 31, 2012
Ghosts and Glitter By Abbie Schaefer It was a dark and eerie Halloween night. Patrick, his best friend Zach, and their quiet friend Bridget were out trick-ortreating. Patrick was wearing a doctor costume. Zach was dressed as a hobo. Bridget was a ninja; it fit her personality. They had already gone to several houses. They had collected lots of candy for their themed bags. They came to the abandoned house at the west end of 66th street. “I don’t want to go to that haunted house,” said Zach. “It’s too…dark.” “C’mon,” insisted Patrick. “Don’t be such a wimp.” Bridget grinned and followed Patrick as he walked up the loosely stoned path. Zach followed closely behind. They came to the rickety door. It was as old and worn as Patrick’s gym shoes. On the door was hanging a tattered Christmas wreath. Above the doorbell was a sign that read, “Broken.” “Let’s go,” pleaded Zach. “This place gives me the creeps.” At that moment, the door opened with a sudden sound. A proper old woman appeared. Her hair was gray and pulled back in a severe bun. She was wearing a long, tattered blue dress. On her head was a book that she kept perfectly balanced. “What do you want?” she asked in a nasally voice. Zach was too stunned to talk, as was Bridget. Patrick managed to say, “Trick or treat?” The woman’s pitch black eyes glittered like a snake’s. “I’ll give you adventurous kids a fine treasure,” she said in a voice that sounded like she had a horrible cold. She held out one of her wrinkled hands. In it was nothing but an unspoken invitation. “If you want my hidden treasure, you’ll have to come inside,” she said, as persuasive as a cheap car salesman. Zach winced, finally finding his voice. “Um, no, thanks. We’ll just be going now.” Patrick dug his elbow into his friend’s side. “This treasure of which you speak…what is it?” Patrick mimicked the old woman’s accent. The woman smiled a tiny smile, like she was sharing a secret. “Something you’d never expect. Something beyond your wildest dreams.” She sounded like she was repeating something, maybe something she heard long ago. “Come, little children, and see the treasure of which you seek.” Zach tried once more to pull Patrick and Bridget back from the front door with no success. “Looks like I’ve been sucked in…again.” Zach, Patrick, and Bridget followed the old woman. To their surprise, she moved as gracefully as a dancer. The house was much bigger than expected. It reminded Patrick of a motel he’d once seen on his favorite TV show: the corridors twisted and changed, doors appeared and disappeared like the house was a live being. He noticed trophies with no labels; pictures turned upside down; boxes with names written on them in dripping black paint. When Zach asked about the unusual objects, the old woman ignored him. Bridget slowly fell back, feeling an odd attraction to the labeled boxes in many of the rooms they passed. After a while, they came to two staircases. “Go,” the old woman recited, breaking the silence. “Up is the way to the treasure. Down is the way to the door. Choose. Your. Fate.” By this time, even Patrick, who was usually as brave as a lion, was getting nervous. He said to the woman in his ever-so-innocent voice, “You know, all we really wanted was some candy.” He held up his bag to show the woman. “I think that, uh, we’ll be going down. Right, Zach?”
“Wait,” Zach said. He felt a pull towards the upwards staircase, much like Bridget had felt towards the box rooms. “Let’s see what’s up there. What are you, scared, Pat?” Patrick was shocked his cowardly friend, the one about as courageous as a mouse, the one he practically had to drag in to this house, wanted to go into the attic. What was this house doing to cause his friends to behave so oddly? Well, I’m determined to find out, Patrick thought. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Up we go. C’mon, Bridget.” Zach grinned. The old woman kind of half grimaced at Zach. “Clever boy!” she praised him. “Halloween is a good time to switch, is it not?” Neither Patrick nor Zach knew what she meant, but began to climb the stairs anyway. In their haste, they forgot to check if Bridget came. When they finally got to the top, they found that the attic was nearly empty. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, with one grimy window at the opposite wall. The ceiling sloped. And in the center of the room was a huge trunk. There was a single set of footsteps in the dust leading up to and back from the trunk, but soon there were two more pairs. Zach and Patrick examined the trunk and quickly found a latch. They glanced at each other once, and together lifted the heavy wooden lid. Inside were…piles on piles of Halloween candy! The boys gasped. “Look at all this!” Zach said gleefully. “And the wrappers, they’ve never been opened! C’mon, Pat, this is the jackpot!” Neither of them noticed the glitter covering the whole thing… until there were three more people in the room. “Finally. She has found the heroes…and the sacrifice.” A tall dark-haired teen said. “Uh…w-who are you?” Zach asked with a stutter.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page Continued from previous page “We are the…newly freed,” swooned a beautiful blonde girl. “But…the trunk cannot stay empty. It must have others.” Suddenly, Patrick gasped. “Zach,” he whispered. “That guy…he looks like you!” he indicated the dark teen. Zach looked closer. “You’re right! And…the other one of them, in the corner. It’s you!” he nodded towards a redhead sulking silently in the corner of the room. “And the blonde! Bridget!” he added. “Look, she’s just like…Bridget?” The boys looked around. There was no sign of their friend. Where was Bridget? The redhead looked up. “The sacrifice.” The other doppelgangers grinned maliciously. “Where?” pleaded Patrick. “With the others, of course.” Bridget’s evil twin chided, still smiling. “The others…?” Patrick thought out loud. “Those boxes…they had names on them. Could they be the sacrifices?!” Zach said. The Zach and Bridget ghostly doubles laughed. “She’s no matter to us,” the boy said. “All we needed her for was that.” He gestured to the trunk. “It always needs someone,” the girl agreed, her gaze straying to the boy in the corner. Zach Number Two and Bridget Number Two shared another smile, and then rushed at the real Patrick and Zach. The doubles dissolved into glitter right before impact. The redhead started disintegrating, too. “Find your friend. You have ten minutes to find her and get out before it gets you. Patrick, I’ll show you the way…Good luck.” With that, he was gone, the eerie directions lingering in an echo. “Ten minutes…get Bridget…GET OUT.” They needed no further prodding. Racing down the stairs, the boys trailed glitter in their wake. “Can you trace your steps?” Patrick asked, his voice an octave higher than usual. Zach nodded and led the way back through the hallway. Finally, after an amount of time that felt as long as an eternity, the boys found a room of labeled boxes. All the stacks were pushed to the sides of the room, all the boxes except for one. Labeled in still-dripping black paint, the word BRIDGET was scrawled on the single box in the center. Zach shivered as the image of a gravestone came into mind. He ran to the box and caught the last flap as it was closing on its own. Patrick crept up nervously behind Zach. They could hear Bridget’s muffled screams from inside the box. Using strength he never knew he had, Zach ripped open the top of the supernatural box. He pulled Bridget out, who was shaking violently. Patrick joined his friends in a relieved hug. The moment was soon ruined by a poof of glitter near them. The blonde girl from the treasure room appeared, sneering. “How cute,” she mocked. Zach and Patrick instinctively moved to block Bridget, who was still in shock and now horribly confused. “Well, you have little time, silly children. Four minutes. You’ll never get out of this maze of a house.” “Guys?” Bridget whimpered. “Why am I over there…covered in sparkles?” “We’ll explain later,” Patrick replied, his eyes never leaving Bridget’s double. “I know the way.” “Sure you do,” the blonde said sarcastically. Then she was gone. Patrick pulled his friends along, seeming to go into a kind of trance. “Three minutes. Right. Trophies. Almost there. Two. Hall of pictures. Been here. One minute.” He said, as mysterious as a fortune teller. Finally, they got to a long hallway and saw the rickety front door at the end.
“We’re home free!” Zach shouted confidently, and sprinted ahead, pulling Bridget with him. But the house didn’t want him out. A lump in the carpet appeared out of nowhere, pulling Zach down. He cursed and tried to stand, but the carpet seemed to stick him to the floor. “Go!” he shouted at Bridget and Patrick. “I’ll make it! GO!” Patrick muttered, “Ten seconds…” then seemed to snap to attention. Zach’s eyes pleaded with his friend. “Take care of her,” he murmured, nodding at Bridget, who seemed torn between the door and the boys. Patrick nodded and shooed her out. She happily obeyed, leaving the door open. The boys heard a manic laugh, and the carpet let go of Zach. Patrick pulled Zach to his feet and they ran. But the door started to close. “Happy Halloween,” Zach said, flashing one last encouraging smile at his best friend. Then he pushed Patrick through the door, and the door shut behind him.
Edmont Homecoming By Brenna Davis Everyone who attended Edmont High School in St. Louis Missouri believed that homecoming would be the time of their lives. They would dance, go out to eat in large groups, and enjoy each other’s company. Or so they thought… Little did the high school children know that this homecoming was one they would never forget or even live through. All week long, students were enjoying the many activities the Student Council had to offer to promote the homecoming that was scheduled to occur on that Saturday. On Monday, the teachers lined themselves up against a wall and let the students throw pies at their faces. While this may seem like a stupid thing to do, it most definitely got the kids excited for the fun they had in store for them. On Tuesday, all of the foreign languages classes put on a play for all of the school to come watch. Activities like these continued on Wednesday and Thursday until Friday when Edmont hosted a pep rally for their homecoming football game against their rival school Landcaster Academy. The students were so excited for homecoming, that all day Friday not one of them could focus on their school work. After beating the Landcaster Lions 21-7, the students went home to sleep in their nice warm beds for the last time before homecoming arrived. The next morning as I woke up, I realized that the day had come. As the sheriff of the small town of Edmont, I knew it would be my job to make sure all of the students had fun but also stayed safe. In a small town like this, there was not very much to worry about, but I still took my duty very seriously. If anything got out of hand, it would be my responsibility to deal with the issue and resolve it while trying to keep order and make sure everyone was having a great time. ऀAs eight o’clock the start time of the dance came creeping closer and closer I decided to start my journey to the school. When I got there, the dance was just about to begin. I was not so much concerned with the dance, so much as any parties that may go on afterwards. For almost three hours I patrolled the outside gates of the school, making sure only students were let in. When all of the kids started pouring out of the school and back into their cars, I knew my job was just about to begin.ऀ
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Page - Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page My plan for this night was to just patrol around the town and respond to any calls if needed. After two hours passed by, things were surprisingly quiet. So quiet that it had me thinking that something was just not quite right. As I got in my car, I received a call from a frantic young teenage girl. I could not understand most of what she was saying, but I did pick up that she was at the residence of Samuel Johnson who was at the time a senior. Being a small town, I knew where this was located, and I rushed as quickly as I possibly could to the estate. As I arrived I looked around and there was no one around, there were no objects out of place or anything. At this point I started to assume that the call was just a prank until I heard a girl scream. The scream obviously came from the old dilapidated barn that was just a few feet from where I parked. Running as fast as I could, I pulled open the barn doors with all my might while at the same time pulling out my gun. I was shocked by what I saw: nothing. I expected to find carnage and the source of the young girl’s scream, but instead I found myself staring at an empty barn. The old barn had not been used in years. It was empty of animals, farm implements, or anything at all. I did the obligatory walk around the barn, but as it was nothing but four walls it didn’t take me long. The time I didn’t spend searching, I spent wracking my brain trying to come up with an explanation for the scream. An owl. It had to be an owl… I did one more walk around the property, then decided to drive back home, thinking it was nothing. ऀVery early the next morning, I woke to an endless number of calls from worried parents telling me that their senior children never came home. Eventually I heard from the parents of every senior at Edmont High School. They were all missing. Gone
without a trace. ऀAfter weeks of searching by the police department staff and hundreds of volunteers, not a single senior was ever found. I still can’t explain what happened that night back in 1989, and it has haunted me ever since.
Stella By Madeleine Rasche It is dark outside and the kind of cold that made people want to make hot chocolate and stay inside. Doyle can only see two feet ahead of him, but he keeps moving forward. Crack. He looks behind him and speeds up; he does not want to be found, Doyle needs to be alone. Why her? Why did these people have to choose the one girl at his high school that actually liked him? They had not even been dating for that long, but he could not let this murder be swept under the rug because no one knows how it happened, who did it, and why it was her. All the police knew was that Stella Thompson is dead. Doyle is brought back to the present when he hears his friend, Jonathan, yell for him. He keeps running, knowing that if he turns around, he may never make it there on time. The forest was already hard enough to navigate through, Doyle did not need another problem to slow him down even more. The footsteps behind him made it seem all the more real. He could not let anything happen to anyone else! The only thing he had left of Stella was a note he found in his locker from her, but he had not opened it, he could not bring himself to open it.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page Continued from previous page
Finally he gets the nerve to open it, and then his knees slowly sink to the ground; this is what it said:
He had to, though, what if this note had the name of the people who killed her on it? Maybe it was a note to tell him how much she liked him, too. Ok, he thought, he was going to open that note! He nearly screamed when Jonathan tapped his shoulder. Doyle definitely needed to calm down. Jonathan and Doyle make their way back to Jon's house. Doyle tells him that he has some homework he has to do, so he can hurry and leave. He nearly sprints home. This note could have information on Stella's killer. When he gets home, his mom tries to talk to him but Doyle just runs upstairs and locks his room door. "Where is it? Where is it?" he keeps whispering to himself. Under the bed? No. In his book bag? No. Now his patience is running thin. In a last attempt to find it, he searches his pockets for his car keys. When he finds his keys he pulls them out. He searches his car and finds some receipts, dirty gym socks, some candy wrappers, and his term paper that was due last week. It wasn't in his car either. He was definitely getting frantic. Doyle thinks about where he could have put it, then it comes to him. At school when he found this note in his locker he put it in his jacket pocket! He races back inside to find his jacket. In his mind Doyle is going over anything and everything that could possibly be in this note. That less than a week ago, everything was going perfectly, he nearly had a girlfriend, and he was going to have a date to the Halloween Bash, not anymore though. Doyle searches every pocket and finds it, he feels like he cannot breathe, he is sweating and it is nearly fifty degrees outside. He could still smell her perfume on it. Doyle could picture Stella writing this note, sitting at her desk with one of her colorful, new pens that she got.
Dear Doyle, If you are reading this then it is too late for me, but maybe you can do something. I found out some information that will haunt me for as long as I have left to live. My days are numbered and I cannot do anything about it. I was going out to my favorite place to draw at night when I cannot sleep. I was wandering around and came upon an interesting sight; there were two men talking and then they started to shout, and I could not help but hear them. They were saying things that will scare me in my nightmares for nights to come. They kept saying "he shall come" and they looked like they were performing a ritual of some sort. They were walking around this weird stone that was shaped like a demon I had read about in one of my favorite Halloween horror stories. I could not hear everything they were saying but I could make out this much, something very bad will happen on Halloween night and it is going to affect everyone that is not following this "demon." As I was leaving the worst thing happened. They face started to steam, there was some sort of moving happening. I do not have much time, but thank you for everything you have done for me. Love, Stella Doyle could barely breathe, he knew what he had to do! He started to research any types of demons he could find. He saw pictures and tried his best to remember everything about them that he could. Days went by and Halloween came closer and closer; it was October 25th.
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Page 10- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page He decided it was time to go and find this stone that he had absolutely no idea where it was, and if it even existed. He was out one day, even closer to Halloween, when he spotted something oddly familiar. Doyle had no idea what it was, but it looked like someone had been walking to some spot farther away, the grass was stomped to the ground, and he felt something in him tug him toward it. Before he could stop himself he was already on the path. When he finally realized where he was, he was already there. It was in the old cemetery. He could remember the scary story that went along with it, from when he was a little kid and his mom would tell him it before he went to bed. It was a long time ago, when there was a young lady that grew up in this town, and one day was out and about and came up to this cemetery. She saw this cemetery and started to come to it more and more each day, as if her life depended on it. She came everyday and started to become a troublesome, careless teenager. It was said that one day she decided that she was not going to the cemetery and on that day, she was killed in a terrible car crash. Legend has it that every full moon, like the night she did not go to the cemetery, her spirit comes back to curse anyone that goes there. The town governor decided that it would be best if they tore down that cemetery and made a new one so that no one would feel terrified to come to pay their respects. They left one gravestone that would not be crashed. Every time someone went to knock it down, it would miraculously be built again by the next day. Everyone just decided to leave it there and not mess with it. Before Doyle could think about it, he runs right into a huge boulder. It knocks the breath out of him. He looks up and has to try his best to suppress his screams. It is the "demon" rock. He can see exactly what Stella was saying, there was definitely some evil going on within that rock. As he tried to stand up, he hears thumping. It is staggered and faint but it was absolutely something that was not natural. Before he can do anything he starts to be lifted up. He was rising into the air and nobody was there to help him. He was screaming and doing everything that he could to bring him to the ground but nothing would work. Finally something happens, the rock began to smoke and then it got even weirder. The rock begins to open and then Doyle saw it. A spirit that looked older then dirt wafted out of the rock. It came up to him and stared at him. It was the ugliest, most petrifying star he had ever seen in his life. The spirit said two words, and it felt like the world was exploding. His eyes started to burn and the worst, most putrid odor he had ever smelt was all around him. He was just praying that they would kill him and be done with it. The spirit spoke again and said only one word this time, and everything stopped. Doyle fell to the ground with a thunk. He sat up and the weirdest thing happened. When he opened his eyes, he looked straight ahead and saw Jonathan. He wants to start screaming because he thinks he was hallucinating. Then Jonathan holds up a piece of paper, Doyle reaches out thinking it was the note that Stella had written him, the only proof he had of any of this happening, but it was a police and coroner's report. It said that Stella had been out at night with her ex boyfriend Robert when a commotion was started, he was telling her about how he wanted to get back together but she was not going to. She was so mad at him that she got up and ran away from him. While she was running she looked down at the river next to her. It looked so peaceful compared to what she was feeling. By the time Robert had gotten to that spot he looked down and saw her, her gave up on her. She was full out sprinting and not even looking where she was going. She trips on the strangest looking rock and falls into the river below.
Doyle cannot believe what is in front of his eyes, he takes a moment to gather his thoughts and finally asked Jonathan the most important question. Doyle asked "what happened?" Jonathan looked at him, put his arm around Doyle's shoulder, smiled, and said well.
History Comes Alive By James Longos It was going to be an exceptional day. The University finally approved an important expedition that was going to make us famous. We were half way across the Atlantic Ocean, and I wondered why I had been so lucky to be chosen for this excavation. I had specialized in Ancient Mediterranean Archeology with an emphasis on Ancient Greek Civilizations. It was always difficult to get approval for digs from the Greek Government. This time, the land was on a privately-owned estate. The very wealthy shipping tycoon wanted our group to come to Greece to unearth an important find. All expenses were paid by him, and he insisted that our University take credit when we published the results. It didnâ€™t matter to him that we were from the United States. He just wanted the best archaeologists, and he waited many years to find us. He had followed my career from the beginning, and he felt that at twenty-nine years of age, I was in my prime. So, he contacted the dean, and we took off a month later. Our equipment was sent ahead of us so an archaeological team in northern Greece could set it up before our arrival.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page 11 Continued from previous page I only slept two hours on the flight because I was too excited about what was about to happen in just a few hours. The sun was rising as we landed at the airport. Athens to Thessalonika was a two-hour flight on a charter plane. Our driver was a nice man named Yanni who drove us to our final destination in his clean, black Mercedes. We passed olive tree orchards and many other archaeological ruins that sat deserted for thousands of years. As we entered the gated estate, I immediately recognized the ancient trees surrounding the entrance to the crypt. I had studied many photos of the area in Macedonia including the site that I saw before me. The twisted branches of the trees were gnarled with swirls of knotted bark. They grew in clumps around the marble entrance to this burial plot. I knew from all my research that another tomb was located approximately 100 yards from this site. Buried in that mausoleum was King Philip II of Macedonia. He was the father of Alexander the Great and Cleopatra. He was assassinated during his reign, and historians had a theory that his son Alexander was the one that ordered the killing. Although the beautiful entombment contained the body of King Philip, the bodies of Alexander the Great and Cleopatra had never been discovered. Many groups, especially in Egypt, had attempted to find these two siblings over the years, but with no luck. I had a theory about the location of these two corpses, and it has something to do with the piece of land that I now found myself standing upon on this spectacular afternoon. My coworkers were hungry and tired from the long trip, so they decided to visit a local taverna to have an evening meal. I, on the other hand, could not wait to descend those steps to my new work place and start the excavation. With lanterns in hand, I entered the cold, dank underground cavern. The walls were covered with slabs of marble that had intricate patterns carved into them. The dead silence was starting to get to me since I was always used to having several team members working with me. As I studied the walls, I followed a path deep within the crypt where I believed a separate chamber existed. As I walked down the dark corridor, I located a secret opening that was the size of a man’s hand. I placed my probe through this opening and heard a click. Suddenly, a loud whoosh echoed throughout the place that made my heart jump. The faint smell of basil lingered in the cold air. The flame of my lantern flickered slightly as if someone had passed by me. I stood completely still as my heartbeat raced. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black shadow quickly flit by. Did I really see something or was I just exhausted from my travels? I felt a bead of sweat sliding down my face even though the place was cold. My hands started shaking slightly when another shadow passed behind me. As I pushed open the secret chamber, I saw jewels embedded in the walls that were made of gold. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness of this room, I felt the air move around me as if someone passed through the entrance. “Is anybody there?” I asked. No response. I thought maybe my team had returned from dinner. The sound of my own voice made me jump. I finally focused on what was before me. In the center of the room, there were two large marble tables. On one table, I saw a man fully dressed in the warrior uniform of the royal family of Macedonia. This was the man known to the world as Alexander the Great. Next to him, was his sister, Cleopatra. When I stepped closer, I realized that their skin had not decayed, and they appeared as if they were sleeping. Usually the skin was dried out and pulled tight over the skeleton, but these two looked amazing. Alexander’s hand twitched. I almost
fell backwards trying to move away from the corpses. I could hardly catch my breath when I heard footsteps and metal scraping the ground. I ran out of the room to light the corridor to see where the sound was coming from when I caught a glimpse of a man coming toward me. I had seen sculptures in the past, and I knew in an instant that he was King Philip coming from his tomb from the property down the road. It seemed that he had appeared just as this secret chamber was being opened. Stories had been passed down from generation to generation about King Philip roaming this earth trying to avenge his murder. Was I really seeing this dead man walking? It was, in fact, the anniversary of his death and I had stumbled upon this mummified cadaver trying to finally reunite with his son and daughter. Did the two of them have their father killed? As I backed into the hall trying to get distance between the King and myself, I heard more creaking coming from the private chamber. The descendents of the King clanked their way out of the room and appeared to join King Philip in his walk toward his burial site. Was I dreaming all of this? Had I passed out from not eating all day? I sat in the hall and closed my eyes. I wished that I had not gone so deep into the excavation site. I did not have the energy to get back to the entrance. Suddenly, I heard voices. My colleagues followed the dim light from my lanterns to find me. “You look as if you saw a ghost! What happened? What did you see?” I pointed into the room where I saw the siblings walk out and I heard my team scream. I looked in and saw the bodies on the table as if they had been there a thousand years. Not a sound. Not a movement. Perhaps I did black out and have a nightmare. I did not say a word about what I experienced that night. We finished our excavation eleven months later. I certainly did not want to be near that tomb during the anniversary date of King Philip’s death. I was back home in the U.S. when that date rolled around again. I really can’t say if I witnessed dead royalty walking on this earth or not. Did I? I keep asking myself that question. I do not know, but I do know one thing. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.
To Quiet the Chirping By Meg Manning I decided that I had to kill her. I didn’t hate her. I hated the chirping noise she made all the time. I really hated it when she sang. And my people paid too much attention to her when they should have paid attention to me. She and I were the only ones in the house today. I tried to ignore her. I stretched out for a nap to get rid of a headache. Then her chirping noise started. I went to another room, but I still heard it. “Chirp. Chirp. Chirp,” she said. Then, she sang. I slowly entered the room she was in. I was so quiet, so very very very quiet. I took one step after another in time to her chirping sound. Step. Step. Step. I came closer and closer to her. I was low down on the floor and she didn’t see me. She still chirped and chirped and chirped. How would I get to her to kill her? She began singing again. I crawled onto the couch. She still chirped and looked out the window. I crawled onto the back of the couch. She began singing. She sees me now! She’s talking faster than ever. Her noise hurts my head. I jump toward her.
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Page 12- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page They came home that night. I heard the key in the lock. I could still hear the chirping sound. My people came in and she flew onto one of their shoulders. They looked over at the cage. There I was, Waggy the dachshund, with my head stuck in that stupid canary’s cage. She was chirping louder than ever. Oh, the noise. The noise will go on forever now!
Orion By Mia Thompson “Goodnight gentlemen,” said Walter Richards politely but not genuinely, for he had been doing so every night for the past twenty years. The bite of the brisk autumn night sent a chill down the spine of Walter Richards, an accounting administrative assistant at the Harris & Graham firm as he closed the door, stepping out onto the wide sidewalk. The hearty laughter of slap-happy, tired men was muted upon the closing of the heavy wooden door. Those overpaid account executives along with the new and naïve accounting clerks provide enough excitement in a day for any man. Mr. Richards sighed, the condensation from his breath filled the air, fogging up his bifocals. He embarked on his jaunt home while a full moon lit up the streets. At this late hour, Mr. Richards was guaranteed to be the only one found on the streets. The only noise that filled the lonely street was the click clack click clack of Mr. Richards’ work shoes. Click clack click cla…CLUNK! Mr. Richards stopped and noticed that he had walked onto a storm drain so he resumed his walk. Click clack cli…CLUNK clack! Again, he stopped and scanned the area but this time found that he remained on the stone sidewalk. Onward he walked, toward his home. The beautiful twinkling stars filled the night sky. Mr. Richards saw the constellation Orion, recalling that, according to Greek mythology, Orion was a hunter. He had always been fascinated by the stars and if they were the last things he ever saw, he would be content. As he was thinking about the cosmos, Mr. Richards dropped his business binder. While he turned around and bent over to pick up the binder, he thought he caught a glimpse of a black silhouette quickly running into the alleyway of the nearest two buildings. He froze, grabbing his pocket knife while slowly standing up. Just then a black cat ran out of the alleyway. Mr. Richards was very tired from a long day at work, so he put away his knife and continued his walk home. The outline of his magnificent house was in view. Warmth awaited him as did rest. As Mr. Richards walked up to the gate to his residence a faint clunk… clunk… clunk was heard in the distance. He was fiddling through his keys to find the one that would unlock the gate when suddenly the seemingly steady rhythm had picked up the tempo and had gotten slightly louder…closer, clunk clunk clunk clunk! It was then when Mr. Richards decided to hurry and unlock the gate. Finally he opened the gate and quickly tried to close it shut, but right before he could hear the satisfying sound of the gate locking shut, something or someone was trying to open it. Mr. Richards dropped everything and pushed as hard as he could. On the other side he heard a man screaming at the top of his lungs. Mr. Richards pushed until he heard a loud thump! He then ran as
fast as he could to the front door of his house. Along his run up the driveway, Mr. Richards heard the click of his gate locking shut but was not satisfied at all. Just as he was about to run up the steps of his porch, Mr. Richards felt a cold touch and held his breath, for he had never felt anything so cold. Before he knew it, he had come face to face with the stone that made up his driveway. A black hooded figure stood over him; the silhouette of this dark man was illuminated by the full moon above his evil head. A dagger in his hand was stained, and a single drop of blood fell onto the cheek of Walter Richards. In the blink of an eye, this dark man had disappeared. Mr. Richards felt a wave of warmth come over him; a puddle of blood was becoming ever larger surrounding his cadaverous body. He was left to gaze upon the stars, and he saw Orion in the night sky above. Walter Richards knew his imminent kismet, so he laid under the black sky, helpless, cold, hoping the man would not come back. He wondered what it would be like, what death would be like. Would he be aware after it happened? Would he be consumed by blackness forever? Would he lose all of his memories in which his entire life was based? Would anyone even think about him? Did he live for a purpose? What is the point in living?
Poor Jezebel By Ethan Hill She was a nice girl, never did anything wrong. Never harmed anything or anyone, not even an ant. She valued life oh so much. She really didn’t deserve to die, but I had no choice. The young girl was the perfect definition of a “goody two-shoes” as some would say, and for this very reason, I abhorred her with a burning passion. It was I that killed her; however, no one will ever know for by the time you read this I shall already be dead. It was this very Monday, October 25, 1872, that I saw the perfect chance to slay this disgusting, yet wonderful girl. Friday just so happened to be a local holiday we have in Longville called Long Day. On this holiday, everyone in town goes to the square to celebrate the founding of our great municipality. The square is overly crowded with many distractions so no one would notice the “death” of poor Jezebel. In the coming week leading up to this event, the academy hosts special festivities after our studies. What better way to get closer to Jezebel? If she trusts me more, she should want to be near me during Friday’s gathering. Tuesday, after my academic work was finished, I went over to Jezebel and asked her if I could have the honor of escorting her to the croquet tournament after the academy was dismissed. Of course, she accepted, falling right into my trap. At the tournament, I asked my newfound friend a series of questions to better adapt our incomparable personalities. Wednesday, the academy hosted a trivia night in which I advertised my intelligence to all of the school, in particular, my sweet Jezebel. On the day leading up to the grand festival in the square, the academy hosts a ball. Using my seductive linguistics, Jezebel could not deny my offer. Instead of going to the ball, I took my Jezebel to the settlements burial grounds. I asked her where she would like to be buried and she responded by pointing into the woods.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page 13 Continued from previous page She said, “I shall not be buried by other piles of bones, for I am of upper class. These petty lower and middle class corpses do not deserve my presence next to them in the hallowed ground that we stand on.” The mention of such came at just the right time. Alas Long Day had come. The academy blessed us with a day away from the typical Friday lectures. With all of my free time, I sat in the center chamber of my dwelling, the place I most prefer to think, and thought over my scheme. The town orchestra was performing an upbeat rendition of a piece composed by one of our locals. I saw my chance and Jezebel and I escaped to the woods behind the graveyard. I led her to a hole I had already dug, but it was too dark to see with the naked eye. I told her to lie down in the underbrush and relax. Catching her off guard, I tightly bound her wrists and ankles tightly together. After this quick action I threw her into a coffin that I had custom built for her. The coffin tumbled into the hole, and I swiftly filled it. Once the hole was completely covered with leaves, twigs, and others of the sort, I went back into the main chamber of my residence to think of how clever my plan was. Come the next day, no one knew where the lovely Jezebel was and only I had the slightest idea that she was deceased. I can only imagine the peril that was hers as she was plunged into that wretched hole knowing she would not come out alive. Being down so far under the surface of the earth, Satan himself must have taken her soul away within minutes. The night after I murdered Jezebel I dug up her grave again, this time I left it exposed. The claw marks on the lid of the coffin were almost too much to look at. Then, I looked at her face…. On her neck
one could see the defined lines of fingers, possibly Jezebel trying to kill herself before the devil could get to her. On the other hand, it could be the devil’s fingerprints from stealing her soul that is now in the depths of the underworld. It is Sunday evening, October 31, 1872. I have a knife in my hand and will commit suicide to punish myself for this terrible deed. My hand is shaking from the pain that washes over one at the hour of their death. I shall avenge my Jezebel’s death with the death of her one true killer, me. Goodbye to all that I have ever known. I ask just one thing of this rather strange, undesirable, and cruel world. Never forget poor Jezebel.
An Autumn Love By Alexa Tepen She took a deep breath and snuggled closer into his chest. He gently grasped her chilled hands and drew them to his warm cheeks. Her heart fluttered and she could have sworn it was all a dream. For a while, they just sat there in silence, enjoying each other’s pleasant company. An unspoken sense of ease was undoubtedly present. Soon a frigid gust of wind blew through the old trees. Leaves went whirling around the lovers like a tropical hurricane. The delighted, bright-eyed brunette let out a small giggle as her plaid scarf tickled her face. “I think it’s best we head home soon. My mother will be wondering where I am.” She held out her delicate hand to the strong boy in front of her.
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Page 14- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page He grabbed it and playfully let her struggle to bring him to his feet. The leaves crunched as he got up. The pair walked out of the trees hand-in-hand. If seen from afar, one would have no doubt in their mind that these young and free-spirited persons were in love. They seemed to fit perfectly with each other. Her petite frame and long brown hair complimented his lean, but muscular build and shaggy appearance. It could easily be described as an autumn love. Even though this couple appeared to have no troubles, troubles soon arose. The girl, charming and beautiful, had many admirers. It was no surprise when she found out her best friend, a shy boy by the name of Lucas, had fallen for her over the summer and could no longer hide his feelings. He confessed his desire to spend his future with her. The girl quickly realized how torn she now felt. She was hopelessly in love with her sweetheart, Jeremiah. However, she knew Lucas so well. She could not deny her feelings for him either. Being young and still unsure of what she wanted out of life, she decided to tell Jeremiah that it was best for some time apart. It broke her heart, but she did not want to continue leading him on when she knew she was becoming unsure of how she really felt for him. Jeremiah began to ask her friends about why she so suddenly let him go. When he found out the cause was partially due to another boy, he became furious. He loved her more than any man ever could, and could not fathom having her love someone else. A week after the unexpected split, a tragedy occurred. Lucas, the girl’s best friend and most trusted confidant, was found dead outside of the small town. The cause of death was said to be suffocation. The police searched for evidence night and day, but none could be found. The girl was extremely distraught and soon became miserable. She quickly returned to the arms of Jeremiah. He welcomed her back with no bitterness and helped to heal her of the pain that had buried its way into her fragile heart. The town hosted their annual Halloween Festival on the 31st as always, and October soon came to an end. An eerie feeling loomed in the air over the shabby, rural town. Dark clouds seemed to fill the sky for countless days. This did not help the distressed girl. She soon fell into a relentless depression. Jeremiah could no longer soothe her broken heart. She had lost someone very dear to her and had lost all hope of finding the reason for his mysterious death. Jeremiah could no longer bear to see her in this condition. One cold windy night he invited her over to his father’s barn. He made a small fire and laid out some cotton blankets for them to lay on. She arrived, and he noticed how sunken her eyes looked, and how her hair had lost its shine. Guilt slammed into him like a hammer hits a nail. They lay in front of the fire for a few hours and watched its orange flames lick up from the wood. Finally, he sighed and looked into the girl’s sad eyes. “I need to confess something to you,” he whispered cautiously. A flicker of curiosity and nervousness flashed across her green eyes. She gazed at him for a moment then replied, “Please tell me.” Pulling her closer, he mumbled in her hear, “I’m so sorry.” She pulled back in surprise and gave him a puzzled scowl. “What are you talking about?” she demanded. “I… I did it. I killed him,” he choked out. Remorseful tears brimmed his eyes. The girl sat up and scooted away. She stared into the dying
flames as shock and grief were paramount inside of her. All life had drained from her eyes. Her breathing seemed to cease. Suddenly, the wind howled and stormed into the barn windows. The fire was knocked out and the hay strewn across the dirt floor flew up into the air. The girl’s hair whipped around her, but she remained unchanged. Jeremiah reached out to her, trying to shield her from the wickedness of the cold breeze. Just as his fingertips grasped her wrist, a murky white figure formed around her neck. He froze. The ghostly shape transformed into a pair of hands. Without warning, they seized her neck and began constricting the life out of her like a snake. She did not move. Her breath soon came in short, heaving patterns as she struggled to take in air. Jeremiah screamed and tried to fight off the hands that were taking the life of his lover, but they were too strong for him. Her eyes rolled to back of her head, and her face lost all the remaining color. Her lips turned blue. Jeremiah began to sob, realizing she was gone. As he reached down to pick up her tortured corpse, he was thrust back violently and hit his head on the ledge of a window. Blood began to trickle down his neck and a sinister, hooded black figure appeared in the moonlight. It reached its long, thin arms down to the girl and lifted her effortlessly. It drew her in and seemed to bring comfort to her pained spirit. Jeremiah let out an angered shout, demanding the figure put her down. The hooded demon pivoted around. A gleaming, deathly smile spread across its face. “She is mine,” it hissed. “She has always been mine.” It let out a cruel, maniacal cackle and vanished. Jeremiah sat there, terrified. He managed to mutter the name “Lucas” before passing out. Simultaneously, the dim flames of the fire flickered back to life and the barn was again at peace.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page 15
October 31 By Sydney Gerber I was frightened beyond belief. You might call us foolish for doing this, but we’re not. My newfound frightfulness was going to make me stronger, yet much more worried. I have heard of all sorts of scary things through the years but never heard such a story about a haunted house as I had heard with this one. Now you tell me I’m crazy for going. I suppose you would like to hear this story from the beginning. I have no recollection of how we first had the thought of doing this; but once said, a plan was mustered up and thought through over the days following. The point was to get over our panic at every little sound we heard after hearing this haunted house story. We loved our lives without all this cowering and terror in it. None of us were exactly blasé over the idea. We had made up our mind to go to the haunted house on Halloween night and thus rid ourselves of our fears forever. Now you are thinking that we’re crazy, if not mad. Crazy people know not a single thing. But you should know how we proceeded with our plan, ever so carefully and warily. Our parents thought we were trick-or-treating and then spending the night at each other’s house. We were such naughty children for doing such a thing. We continued ever so casually, cautiously until half past 7. We walked trembling past the local grave yard on Main Street. We walked so close to the graves, we should have been able to read the epitaphs engraved on them. However, the night sky was so dark; pitch black dark that it prevented us from doing so. We couldn’t even make out one letter on those stones. We made no noise. It was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. We had just arrived at the house. We saw what we thought to be a ghost—all of our faces were aghast. “I’m scared!” one of us exclaimed. Something the rest of us cowering children would not dare to say. Everyone marched up the steps to the house. Each of us was shaking and trembling with fear. We were all waiting for someone to volunteer to open the door, when suddenly the door opened and somebody screamed. One of the oldest among our group said, “Come on guys what are you waiting for?” and stepped inside. He was snatched away as soon as he stepped inside. We all gasped and there were whispers of “What should we do?” “Let’s run!” “Guys, I’m scared…” Until someone piped up “Come on guys, we have to go find him! We can’t just leave him in there to die.” Sighs of “we know” responded. We clung to each other, shaking with fright as we tip-toed into the house. We saw stairs leading downward. “Hey! Maybe they are keeping him in the basement,” someone whispered. “Yeah,” we responded, “that sounds like a good idea.” So we continued our search, tip-toeing down the creaky old stairs. When we got to the basement, it was very dimly lit. We saw that there was blood oozing from the crevices in the walls, a skeleton hanging from the ceiling, and there was a sound of rattling chains in the distance. “I don’t see him anywhere,” said a small voice from the corner. “We have to keep looking,” responded another voice. As we turned a corner we saw him. He was in a ball, lying on the floor, gagged and asleep. We untied him as fast as we could, hoping nobody would pop out of the shadows and hurt us. As soon as he was untied, we all turned around and ran for our lives, screaming like little girls.
The Monster Within
Abbie Hensley The inner turmoil I faced on a regular basis was slowly bringing me down. The longer I put off talking to someone, the more real the struggle became. My steady downfall was indeed evident, the question was how long I’d be able to keep it together. “Molly! Wait up!” I turned as Amie called my name, obviously not being as quick as me when leaving drama practice. I had just hit the unlock button to my car, and upon hearing the click in return I could have continued walking, pretending I didn’t hear my best and one of few friends. Instead I forced a smile and turned around. “Hey Aim, what’s up?” Amie finally caught up to my fast pace, her boots clicking loudly against the asphalt of the parking lot in the cool fall air. “I was wondering if you wanted to run lines later this week? Auditions are first thing Monday, and now that we’re seniors we’re shoo-ins for decent parts. What do you say?” I watched Amie bounce up and down from the sheer giddiness that the thought of a lead in a play brought, and knew I couldn’t crush that. “Sure thing, Saturday night?” No plans, as usual. Why was I so anti-social? It wasn’t always like this. “Yay! Bye Molly!” I watched Amie skip away to her car, a little ball of happiness. She acted like she didn’t have a care in the world, as if we didn’t have college to think about and everything else that goes on senior year. I wish I could feel like that, like nothing mattered anymore. Wishing I could live in the moment was an understatement. Finally getting into my car, I cursed myself again for my lack of job, therefore insuring a lack of money, as I was in great need of a hot tea. The radio blared as I turned the car on, cranking the heat, and I quickly turned it down a few notches right before turning it up again to listen to the breaking news. Yet another body had been recovered, a single cut to the throat being administered, and the body looked as if it had been dragged. This case interested me probably more than the average person, but then again I was definitely not the average person. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I quickly checked in my backseat, my heart rate accelerating as I imagined the throatslitting maniac sitting behind me, prepared to send me to the morgue with the others. As a black spot emerged out of the corner of my eye, I swiftly hit the brakes, causing the cars behind me to honk chaotically. I turned around in a flash of adrenaline, arms waving, ready to protect myself from the stranger lounging in my car. Yet as I surveyed the area, I realized I was alone. I turned back around, confused, as I was sure I’d seen someone. Raising my hand in apology to all the cars, now enraged I was sure, I drove on, relieved once I’d reached my driveway. The rest of my family wasn’t home, at work or soccer games no doubt, so the house was quiet, serene, and all to mine for the night. Making myself a warm dinner and sitting at the table to begin my homework, I began to bite at my cuticles, a habit formed by stress. In no time I felt the steady stream of blood began to run down my palm, a feeling I’d grown accustomed to recently. With my hands bloodied from my cuticles down and my nails sore, I decided it was time for a shower. As I slowly climbed the steps, I paused, sure I’d just heard the creak of the window in the basement closely followed by the bolt of its lock. I stood, frozen, for a few minutes, before deciding it was nothing and continuing my trek to the bathroom.
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Page 16- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page As I stepped in the shower, I watched my blood run down the drain, my cuticles stinging direct from the open wound. Another noise startled me from my thoughts, thoughts that almost always emerged from the deepest crevices of my mind when in the shower. The noise sounded again, the low thunk of someone proceeding up the steps, directly toward the bathroom. Again I froze, the last of my blood draining down the shower drain at the same pace as the blood draining from my face. The steady thunks accelerated to match the pace of my now fast beating heart, and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it to all be over. A new noise now rang in my ears, the sound of the bathroom door slowly creaking open, tormenting me. I turn the heated water off, and all through the steamy bathroom and empty house, my scream rang loud and clear. I screamed for my life, for my protection, for my God, and for my sanity. Slowly letting down to a soft squeak due to the fact that the burning in my lungs had become unbearable, I peeked around the shower curtain, only to find an empty bathroom, the door shut tight, the dried blood from my hands in the shape of my fingerprints on the gold doorknob. I looked down and saw my hands were once again bloody, a familiar feeling overtaking me. The physical fear had subsided, yet my mind never ceased to calm. As I stood in my room drying off, the warmth of my bed beckoning me, the same breaking news report from earlier sounded, this time alerting the general public of much more alarming news. With a time of death of not too long ago confirmed, another body had been found, same signature as the previous. This scheme was accelerating. Looking down at the books scattered haphazardly on my bed, I realized how far behind I was on my school work and sat down to begin. Scratching at the old scars on my wrist, I picked up my pencil and started on the never-ending pile of work, ignoring the eerie scratching that I swore was going on right outside, the eerie scratching that would carry on all through the night. Upon waking up the next morning, realizing that it was Friday brought little comfort to the endless amount of thoughts constantly running through my head. Glancing at my window, where mere hours ago melodic scratching had been taking place, I noticed in alarm the few drops of blood resting on the sill. Pausing to stare, I reassured myself that it was my own from my own bad habits. Once in the kitchen for breakfast, I noticed an unusual trail of dirt and leaves, but with no time to investigate, I slowly trudged off to school, deciding not to think about this anymore. ••• The final bell ushering the weekend in was both a blessing and a curse, for I didn’t know if I was fully prepared to return to my house. My plans with Amie had been moved to tonight instead of Saturday, so she would be at my house in less than an hour, leaving me not much time alone in this cursed house as well as my never slowing mind. As I thought about the day I’d had, my mood quickly sank, going from mediocre to very upset. A failed French test, detention for zoning out one too many times in class, not to mention a trip to the counselor’s office to discuss what the school defined as problems, but I defined as non-existent. I really hadn’t had a pleasant day at all, and by the time my realization of this was complete, I once more had bloody hands, a new hatred for life, and had wandered down to the cool of the basement. The concrete around me surrounded in what I could only explain as the blood from my cuticles, I felt slightly more calm. “Molly? Molly! I’m assuming you’re down here, the trail of dirt and leaves leading me right to you! You really should clean
that up.” Amie giggled in her sarcastic way, meaning no harm in what she’d said. Yet as she rounded the corner, I watched her freeze, her mouth forming an “O” shape. I couldn’t force myself to move, run, cry, anything. I was emotionless, expressionless. Amie’s tone greatly changed, she managed to choke out a startled “Molly...?” stuttering and gasping. She motioned to something in the corner of the room, but once I’d glanced down at my hands, I couldn’t remove my eyes from them. What I’d taken as just a few bitten cuticles had become much more, evidently. I tried to turn, but my knee hit something cold and sharp, and as soon as contact was made the stinging began. Picking up what I’d hit, I saw the red slashed across the shiny yet stained surface, and I ended it all in one quick slice. My throat slashed just as the others had been, Amie and I both came to the same realization. There was a monster inside of me, and I’d let it win. As I lay on the cold, hard slab of concrete, my warm blood flowing from the gash on my neck, I managed, in a hushed voice, to choke out “I know what it’s like to be afraid of your own mind.”
The Creature By Halyey Masching I sprang up out of bed, heart pounding with fear. A deafening crash had awoken me. Gathering my bearings, I decided to investigate. I slid along my bedroom wall, feet lightly taping the hardwood floor. I poked my head around the corner, looking to both my left and right before moving further beyond the safety of my bedroom. As I crept closer and closer to the origin of the crashing sound, I noted broken glass below my bare feet. Ouch. Fear was coursing through my veins, sharpening my senses tenfold. As I rounded the next corner, I saw it. It was almost human like, except for the fact that it was covered in a thick black fur, balding in places to show sallow grey skin. It smelled of death, and it produced a repulsive rasping sound when it breathed. The creature was hunched over, limbs strangely contorted. I was petrified. My hand slowly moved upward to cover my trembling lips. I stifled a gasp which would have alerted the creature of my presence. I had to find a way to either get it out of my house, or get outside help. Unfortunately for me, I chose that exact moment to tread on some broken glass. The creature stopped sniffing and cocked its head to the side in curiosity. I was absolutely frozen with fear. I was sure the thing could smell it. My breath ceased. It slowly turned in my direction, revealing its horrific face. The eyes were covered in a thick white film, indicative of blindness. It had a very tiny nose, the nostrils dominating most of it. It also had little pointed ears atop its head. The mouth was stuck as a marred, grizzly scowl. I backed up farther and farther toward the wall as it approached. The creature was about two feet away from me, its head sharply jerked up, filmy white eyes boring right into mine. Its mouth slowly stretched into a gruesome half smile. It lunged.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page 17 Continued from previous page I shot upright, gasping for air. I could have sworn I felt its teeth graze my cheek. My hand rose to lightly brush it, feeling the unmarked flesh. I breathed a sigh of relief. I got up from my bed and padded along to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. After doing so, I blotted it dry with a fluffy blue towel whilst walking into my kitchen to retrieve a beverage. The essence of the dream was still with me as I gulped down my water. As I headed back to my bedroom, I heard a crash in the living room.
The Man in My Dreams By Maggie Doolin I laid in the center of my 17th century four poster bed. My long, blood red hair was fanned out across my white silk pillow. There were beads of sweat dotted on my forehead as I tossed and turned trying to escape my nightmare. I shot up from my position, gasping for breath so hard that my head started pounding and I could feel my own pulse. It only took me a couple seconds to realize it was only a dream and I was still safe and sound in my large queen-sized bed in my brand new house. “I don’t even think it was me everything was happening to in the dream,” I said to myself as I thought back to my experiences a couple minutes ago. I was walking up the third set of staircases in my house, but unlike how it usually is in my house, the staircase was decorated with old black and white photos, lit
dimly with homemade wax candles. I also took notice of how the stairs didn’t creak under my weight as they usually do. I was oddly dressed in a 17th century night gown. It was floor length, all white and covered in lace. My bare feet were cold against the solid wood stairs, and my eyes darted all over in confusion. I had a thing for history, and the Renaissance era had always been my favorite time period, but I never took it this far. Once I reached the top of the stairs, I walked to the bedroom at the end of the hall and opened the door. There, standing in the center of the room was a man. He seemed engrossed in what he was doing, staring at a beautifully crafted steel picture frame on an oak wood table, but my presence didn’t go unnoticed. He turned towards me and began yelling in some strange language at the top of his lungs. I had no possible way of knowing what he was saying, but by his tone of voice I could tell that I was not welcome. When I didn’t react to his words, he walked up to me and scratched me across the neck. My hand reached up in panic to inspect the damage. When I looked back up at him, all I could see on his face was the look of horror and sorrow at what he had done. I didn’t understand and it looked like neither did he. I turned and ran back down the hall but as I reached the end of the long narrow hall I stumbled and flew forward down the three flights of stairs. That’s when I woke up. I was utterly glad that my dream was just that, a dream. I got out of bed and walked over to my vanity. I looked into my mirror and saw a tall, extremely thin red-haired girl with dull blue and green eyes and bruises under her thin lower eyelashes from the lack of sleep these past few days. I had just moved into this house and it was not making me feel all that welcome.
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Page 18- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page I had a light sweat on my skin that was probably from tossing and turning all throughout my nightmare, and my hands were shaking slightly. I turned and looked around my room. It looked just like it did in my dream, although it had a few acute differences such as my sheets, lighting, desk, and beauty products. I walked over to the wall by the door and turned on the lights above my room. I took a single step towards my closet and all the light bulbs in my room combusted. I screamed in shock and collapsed on the floor, trying to keep away from the flying glass. After a couple second I began to relax and looked up. At that instant my bedroom door started shaking. It shook back a forth between both sides of the door panels. I froze in fear and watched it in silence. The shaking got louder and eventually turned into banging. I jumped back behind my bed just opposite of the door and hid. I sat there and waited for it to stop, trying to be as still as possible so not to make a sound. But that wasn’t very hard, seeing how I was vehemently frozen in fear. I had never believed in ghosts before, I had never even seen a horror story but I saw no other explanation for what was happening. The first thing I thought was either something really wanted in or it really wanted me out. Once the thought was conceived, I wanted nothing more than to vault back in my bed and wish for this to be a dream. But I knew it wasn’t, so I stood up and stealthily sauntered to the old oak door. Slowly I grabbed the rusty gold door knob with just the very tips of my fingers and turned it to the right. I opened the door and looked at the other side of it. To my surprise and great horror, I could definitely tell where the banging was happening on the door, but there wasn’t just a crevice; no, it looked like someone took a bowling ball and chucked it at my door repeatedly. The moment I stepped into the hallway, my door slammed shut behind me. I jumped and let out a loud scream. I turned and ran down the long, narrow hallway just as I had in my dream, and once I reached the stairs I stumbled over my own feet and rolled down the stairs. About halfway down I hit my head on the wall and everything went black. When I woke up, not long after, everything seemed kind of fuzzy, but I could feel the adrenaline running through my body, and it only took me a moment to remember what all happened. I was now sitting at the bottom of the stairs where I had evidently rolled after blacking out. I sat up and looked around; I was more than surprised by what I saw. The entire main floor of my house was completely destroyed. The green and white flower patterned wallpaper was torn off the walls, the black antique table and chairs were flipped over in the dinning room. The china was scattered and broken all over the kitchen floor, the cabinets were thrown open with the sink on full blast shooting up and all the pages of my collections of books were torn out and thrown around the rooms. But the worst part was that there was a picture of me from my college graduation sitting on the floor in front of my fireplace with a thick “X” scratched on the glass covering my face. I stood frozen in place at the bottom of the stairs couldn’t take my eyes off the picture. Suddenly I felt a bone-chilling wind on the back of my neck begging for my attention. Slowly, very slowly I turned to see where the wind was coming from. But I really wished I hadn’t because in my subconscious I already knew what it was and standing before me was the man from my previous dreams. He stood about seven feet tall with long thick hair as black as night and beady ice black eyes that reminded me of a crow. I tried to scream, but I was too horrified, and the sound got stuck in my throat. My eyes began to well up with tears as I tried to run, but it was as if my feet were glued to the wooden floor boards. Even
if I wanted to run, I fear it was too late. He raised a hand above his head, brought it down, and scratched me straight across the neck just as he had in my dream. As this happened he belted “Egredere de domo mea!” My head rolled to the floor, and my body followed soon after. I looked up at the man, begging for mercy with my eyes, but he just stood there smiling like a Cheshire cat. He obviously didn’t regret his actions this time. He bent down to his knees and picked up my head with his dirty, long, slender fingers. He put it under his arm and started walking toward the dark cellar door as if the rest of my body wasn’t still attached. I knew I wasn’t going to last much longer as I watched the cellar door become closer and closer. My fear of what was to come became heightened by every step he took. The man grabbed the cellar door knob, and as he slowly began to turn it, at that very moment in time, I woke up. I was on the floor of my bedroom in the exact spot I was in when the light bulbs combusted. It was all another dream. Or was it?
The Unknown By Maggie Anderson The smell that struck my nose with the force of a brick wall was pungent. It lingered in the air as I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Twisting my neck for a complete view of the area, I searched for the source of the smell that made the sensory nodes of my olfactory system tingle. The lighting on Gizmeli Street was negligent.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page 19 Continued from previous page I wished I had taken my mother’s advice and brought the flashlight that occupies a shelf in our disheveled garage. Knowing my mother was right and that she would probably hold this one fact over me for weeks, I bent over to pick up the key I dropped before I noticed the awful odor. The key was very plain and inornate. Its gold trim was cut bluntly to the shape required to align the tumblers in my new front door. The key was lightly used. Probably not more than three instances had arisen when I had needed to open the door; I slid it back into the torn pocket that I had made its residence when it came in my possession just under a year ago. I straightened my back and reached up to fix the colorful beanie that warmed my ears. The beanie meant a lot to me personally, it was made by my late grandmother not two days before she passed. I sighed at the memories of my carefree visits to her house in my childhood. It is important that I did not get caught up in my self-pitying nostalgia, however. When I had shaken my distracting feelings, I realized I had been thoroughly diverted from the stench that began to grow stronger. The smell was almost indescribable though much like expired milk that has barely begun to curd. Feeling much like a dog, I sniffed the air for which direction the odor wafted in from. The source was about one hundred and twenty five degrees to my left and I turned to face a door. The door that was the only visible entrance to a wicked-looking mansion was very detailed. I stared at it for what seemed like an hour trying to dream up some adjective to describe it to my mother, who anxiously awaited me at home. Starting in the upper right corner and curling around the border, there was a wooden carving of a snake. Its tongue was outstretched, giving it the appearance of flickering back and forth. The snake was obviously hand carved because it lacked the symmetry and perfection that most machines created. The color of the snake was very distinct, the whole of the snake was very green, but the small diamonds that stretched down its back to its tail were a deep red. The color, though I hate to say it, was the exact color of blood. The color reminded me of the day I left for college. Leaving day is supposed to be a mixture of sorrow and excitement. It started out the normal way but began to turn toward a dark mood. My mother was packing a large stack of my beloved books when the shelf they had been removed from simply buckled. It caught the corner of her hand and created an unsightly scar. Though it was the first instance of blood shed, it was by no means the last. Later, while moving boxes into my petite car, my older brother set a box down upon his finger. It would have been fine if it did not contain my furniture. His finger had begun to bleed, so he rushed indoors for a bandage. In his hurry, he tripped over a small pebble and slid across the driveway. His face and hands were dripping in dark red blood by the end of the day. The two previously mentioned accidents could have been a coincidence if that was the worst part of our day. Looking back on the day I moved out, those accidents seemed to be omens. By three, my entire immediate family was exhausted and ready to see me off. Just before I pulled away, my mother heard the house phone wail from inside. Our French poodle began to bark incessantly. She excused herself and went to answer it. Outside, we awkwardly chatted, wondering what could possibly keep my mother so long. When she returned almost an hour later, her face was pale. I was never sure exactly how she managed to tell us so clearly, but we understood that the call detailed the accident my father had just been involved in. He was alive, but only just in the nearest hospital. He eventually recovered, but nowadays he barely speaks to us. The doc-
tors said it was post traumatic muteness and that it would soon wear off. Over the next few months, it became apparent that it would not wear off as quickly as they promised. This horrible day manifested my conscience for the next several minutes until my focus once again returned to the snake. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the snake had a small object curled into its jaw. The object was not something that would logically be found in a snake’s mouth. In the snake’s mouth was what appeared to be an apple. It was a Golden Crisp apple, of that I was certain. The apple was a mustard yellow color. I had seen this color once before on a trip to the local apple farm. I took pride in choosing only the perfect specimens to make my annual pie. As I removed a luscious Red Neznan and shoved it into my basket, a Golden Crisp of the most delectable color caught my attention. This day in particular did not have any impact on my life. I suppose that apple represented the only perfection I had ever seen. I learned a lesson not to believe anything is perfect when the apple fell to the ground before I could select it. The entire ride home was filled with tears. Once again refocusing my attention on the door, I examined the centerpiece. It was a metal face, the face of a cat. The cat showed great terror. The amount of emotion it portrayed was captivating. It gave the entire door a look of fright. Suddenly, from inside the house came the slam of a door closing. Loud footsteps echoed from deep within. As abruptly as the sounds had started, they ceased. They did leave me intrigued, however. For some inexplicable reason I was drawn to the door. I wanted so badly to knock on it. The dark essence of it represented all of the evil in my life. The smell grew stronger still, pressuring me on. From inside a little recess, a ring echoed out. The origin of it was unknown. Again, the bell rang. I wanted to find a way into the mansion. For a fleeting moment, I had an idea. I reached into my ripped pocket and removed my key. I examined the key and decided to proceed. I forced the key into the lock of the door. With some work, it slid into place as if it was always meant to. I tried to turn it but caught the side of my hand on the end of the key. I cut my hand and the blood began to pour out. I grasped the key and violently shook it. From above my head a part of the door snapped. The apple dropped to the ground and shattered. Still, I forced the knob turned. Finally, it released. The door began to screech. The hinges had obviously not been turned in several years. The rusty metal made the door feel heavy. I shifted my weight against it and forced it open. Inside the building was……. Epilogue This story is not mind-bendingly terrifying but was meant to capture the imagination. What is inside will never be revealed because everyone knows; the most frightening thing of all is not knowing what lies beyond the doorway.
Whispers By Hayley Masching I wish I had never gone into my god-forsaken basement and found that wretched board. First, let me start off saying that I had never believed in such a thing as "Ouija boards," until that fateful night. And, might I also add, I am entirely sane. Why did they have to put me in this place for crazy people? I am not mad, I tell you. Let me explain what happened so that reason can be seen.
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Page 20- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page I was a young man, aged 28, that lived in the historic district of my town. The people who had lived here before me left a whole mess of things in the basement, which I had long put off clearing up. I one day found the motivation to clean it out, which I now completely and utterly regret. I tiptoed down the old, creaky wooden staircase, the aged wood slightly molding around the bottom of my feet. Reaching the last step, I flicked on the dingy light. It weakly flickered before maintaining a low steady light. I glared at the clutter in front of me, shoulders slumping in dismay. The cleaning took me hours. Most of it was just old memories: Old-timey prescriptions, yellowing hospital records, worn toys, cracked, weathered pictures, etc. "It" was the very last thing I found, stuffed under the staircase. Curse my insatiable curiosity. I stared at it quizzically, lips pursed. I curtly picked up the board, and under it was a triangular shaped wooden object, its use a mystery at the time. I closely examined the board, the alphabet across the top, numbers 0-9 near the bottom, "yes" in the upper left corner, "no" in the upper right, and "goodbye" at the very bottom. The edges of the board appeared burnt and charred. Upon flipping the board over, I saw that the entire back was black, apart from a gray inscription reading "cavete." Hmm. It appeared as a foreign language. I hitched the board under my arm, also bringing along the strange triangular piece. I knew research of the board was imminent. Oh, how I currently regret that decision. So, I dragged myself upstairs. After concluding my brief research, I discovered a few things; 1. It was called an "Ouija" board, 2. The little triangular piece was called a "planchette," 3. It was designed to contact things that were not living, and 4. It was dangerous. Unfortunately, I decided to try the ominous board. Following the lighting of some candles, I placed the board on my mahogany coffee table, sitting cross legged. I set the planchette on the board, and lightly placed my fore and middle fingers on it, anticipation causing my hands to slightly tremble. The planchette jerked violently under my hands, going backwards through the numbers and letters, and then finally settled on "Goodbye". Huh. I was severely disappointed, yet slightly scared at the same time. Because of this, I had decided to call it a night and go to bed. I left the board on my coffee table, and then headed for bed. I awoke violently in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. I glanced at the clock; 3:12 AM. Slowing my breath, I heard a strange, deep raspy noise. I had resolved to investigate. "Venite ad me," I heard, but it just sounded like gibberish. "Anima vestra mea est," it cooed. Eventually, I realized it was coming from the board. I approached the board, and as I got closer, the whispering ceased. Suddenly, a violent shiver racked through my entire body. Events like this continued to torment me for weeks on end. I lived in a constant state of fear and paranoia. I had resolved to tell a loved one, and ask them how to deal with these happenings. That was an extremely dunce decision on my part. I should have known they would think me insane. As a final effort, I decided to burn the accursed board. I needed to be free of this curse. I took the board out into my backyard, and sprinkled it with gasoline. I would savor every second of its demise. I lit a match, and triumphantly flicked it onto the board. The flame sprang up along the edges, spreading to the middle. Satisfied, I decided to
head inside How on Earth had I not seen this coming? My dearest mother with whom I had confided in arrived at my house, demanding I get help. I pleaded and attempted to make her see reason, but to no avail. My failure was not even a question. It's my first night at the institution, and I am thankful to at least be as far away as possible from that vexatious board. I then lay down to finally get some rest, the clock reading 3:00 AM. I set my head gently upon my fluffy white pillow, and shut my weary eyes. I was awakened by the smell of charred paper, the scent invading my nostrils. I then faintly heard something. "Ego ibo en aeternum sequi te" Translations: “cavete”-Beware "Venite ad me"- Come to me "Anima vestra mea est," –Your soul is mine “ego ibo en aeternum sequi te: I will forever follow you NOTE: The preceding stories were written by students at Edwardsville High School. The following are from St. Mary's Catholic School.
A rustle in the branches By Colin Fischer Some blame it on time. Some blame it on the architectural design. Some deny it and label it as a petty myth, but not I. I was the one who experienced it. I am the one who knows the truth, the only truth, about what happened that night. The scraping sound of the back fender on my old ’69 Camaro met my ears the night of the incident. I was just taking my usual route, down the slope of the old steel factory I had worked at for the last twelve-and-a-half years, through the willow woods, over the rickety bridge, to my warm cottage on our farmland. But that night felt different. The way my coworkers were walking. The way my coworkers were talking. The way they were looking so aware as if an assailant might make a move at any moment. But the thing that bothered me the most wasn’t any of those antics, but the way the men would whisper in hushed voices, “ . . . they said it will happen tonight,” “ . . . there’s no way it will hold up any longer,” and, “ . . . they say it’s in the woods right now.” But I never let my mind wander even close to the realms of my imagination, not until I set out on my way home. I could hear the continuous sputters of the overworked engine as I started down the old gravel road towards the woods. It seemed as though the old automobile wasn’t even going to make the rest of the trek home because of the multiple times it had had to before. As I bumped and blundered my way down the path leading from the plant, I started to wonder what those rumors meant, what could be lurking in the quickly oncoming darkly covered woods tonight? The instant I let my mind off of its hinges into my imagination, I heard the last three sputs out of my engine, then silence. No more car, no more rusty old hum of an engine, just silence until I couldn’t sit there any longer. I started to wonder . . . No, I started to worry, how could I get home, how could I see in all of this darkness? All I could hear was my heart pounding. But then, I heard a rustle in the branches of a low willow about 15 feet away. I stopped, sitting silently. After what felt like 3 hours of waiting, I wondered again, “What was that?”” What could that be?” Then I slowly, carefully creaked the
Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page 21 Continued from previous page Then I slowly closed the door, readjusted myself to face the steering wheel, then I reached for the ignition to attempt a second life out of the Camaro. As soon as I moved my hand, there it was, I didn’t see much but the blur of a brownish-red stained shirt, maybe dried blood, and a white mask with matching splatters on it. I turned the key as hard as I could and stomped on the accelerator. I heard a thump as I sped toward the old suspension bridge that held a safe haven behind its reaches ahead. Then it all lost control, and that’s the last clear memory I have before seeing a broken cable of the bridge sticking through my windshield. I heard cracks and creaks, my heart pounding grew louder and louder in my head, until the image of a blood stained mask flashed my rear view mirror. Then I remember a falling feeling, and then nothing.
The Last Waltz By Rylie Murray You may believe this is as-mad-as-a-hatter, but this is real. I was a young lady back when I was asked to my first dance. The most handsome guy asked me to accompany him. His name I can’t remember. His eyes as black as night, and his hair as dark as could be. He picked me up at 7:30 pm, a little late considering the dance was at 8. We kept walking and walking and walking. Then he stopped. He said, “Why don’t we leave and go some where else?” I agreed. He led me outside of the building and took me to a graveyard. It was dark and I was creeped out. He led me to the very back of the graveyard where I saw a freshly-dug hole. This is odd because this is the oldest part of the cemetery. Then he just asked me to dance right there in the middle of the graveyard. Like seriously, in the middle of the graveyard at night? I was beyond creeped out! We waltzed. We waltzed. We waltzed then stopped. He pushed me. I fell. I didn’t think it was a coincidence that I just fell into the grave that was freshly dug. I couldn’t move. I broke something. I felt dirt fall on my face. I screamed louder, and Louder, and LOUDER! My whole body was covered. I screamed at the top of my lungs. No one came. I was realizing I would never see my friends or family again. There appeared a white light ahead. I couldn’t believe I was being saved from this hole. Although there have been rumors around town, no one knows what happened to me, but I do. I am the Ghost of the Last Waltz.
diately flicked toward the window, but I saw nothing. Moan. The chilling sounds sent shivers up my arms, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand. I felt as if something was outside, stalking me–or inside, waiting for me to open a closet. To ease my worries, I turned on the TV, though my ears were more attentive to the noises. Moan. Bump. This was just stupid. I was afraid of what, exactly–something that went bump in the night? I was already fourteen years old, not a little kid. Although my legs willed myself not to, I started walking around the house, checking in small spaces and under beds. Finding nothing, I returned to the living room. Bump. Moan. The noises weren’t stopping anytime soon. Bump. No. I was going to be okay. Moan. Bad things didn’t happen to me. Nothing like this. Bump. I needed to discern what the source of that sound was, or I wouldn’t be able to rest. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? I was pretty sure that a psycho zombie wasn’t clawing at the door, attempting to get inside and feast on my flesh. The thought that nothing horrifying could happen was my mistake. I grabbed a flashlight, and hands trembling on the doorknob, headed outside. Bump. Waving the flashlight around, I walked around the house, eyes keen and wary. Comfort surged through me when I found nothing, and I started to head back inside. Bump. A figure stood in the way of the front door, emitting terrible moaning noises. The person suddenly walked into the door, as if he or she had forgotten how to open it. Or how to take a sledgehammer to it and try to kill the girl inside. “…Hello?” My voice trembled, and I hated myself for being afraid of who could possibly only be a door-to-door salesman with a really bad sense of timing.
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Sewn Shut By Jeanna Roman No one should believe that bad things can’t happen to them. I learned this lesson when I was once home alone at night. My mother was at work at eight o’clock, just as she always was. That night shouldn’t have been different from any other night, but around the time she should have been arriving home, I started to feel uneasy, as if something was out of place. Of course, that was foolish. There had never been any murders or abductions in my quaint little town. The worst that had happened was a robbery, and even then, nobody had been hurt. That’s when I heard the noise. Bump. Bump. My eyes imme-
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Page 22- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page The person turned, and I dropped my flashlight. My mother stood there, duct tape covering her mouth, and her eyes, her eyes that had been forcibly closed… This…no… I couldn’t wrap my mind around the thread, the redness… I screamed, a shrill sound that pierced the otherwise still night air. My feet moved on their own, sprinting toward the nearest house in order to grab a phone and call the police. It shames me to remember that I had left my mother there, in her time of pain, without even saying goodbye before leaving. The sight of her was what had scared me the most.
Three Loggers Chopping Wood By Jim Ariail You think I’m a liar. But, what I’m about to tell you is true. I lost my best friend to those things. They took him away and I’ve never seen him since. But, now, I’m going to go looking for him. I’m going to kill all the things that took him from my world. It all started when Richard Freeman started his job as a groundskeeper for the local park. The former groundskeeper Bill Donovan showed him a mural donated by an anonymous person. “Tomorrow, the city is bringing in a mural of a forest, a small shack with one window, and three men with hatchets.” That was the last time anyone ever saw him. My friend, Richard, had an uneventful first day on the job. The police were searching for Bill Donovan. The next day, one of the policemen named David Smith also went missing. The third day, I was walking with Richard and I noticed the door to the shack in the mural was slightly ajar. The day before, it was closed. The next day, Richard and I were walking by the mural and he said, “I know the police want us to travel in groups, but I’ll be alright until I finish up here.” I left him, but then heard a muffled shout. I turned back to the mural, looking for Richard, but no one was there. I looked at the mural, but the door to the shack was closed and two of the loggers had disappeared. I turned around to run, but the last logger was there. I backed up and felt a pair of hands grab my shoulders and dragged me into the mural. I felt something hard hit my head and I was knocked out. When I woke, I was inside a shack with a man who I recognized as the missing policeman. He looked up and said sadly, “So, they got you, too?” “Yes,” I replied, “Where are the two groundskeepers?” The policeman responded, “The old groundskeeper was dragged away yesterday and when I looked out the window, the loggers shot him with my gun.” “Why are they doing this?” I asked. “They haven’t told me. I think they’re just insane,” he answered. All of a sudden, the door flew open and the three loggers, armed with hatchets, were standing in the doorway. “What did you do with my friend?” I shouted. “We haven’t hurt him yet,” one said. Suddenly, I had an idea. I glanced out the window and noticed that the policeman’s gun was lying on the ground, just outside the shack. I leaped through the window and managed to grab the gun. I twisted around and fired at the first logger. It hit him squarely in the chest; he screamed in pain and dropped
his hatchet. I dove to the side and lost the gun. I realized that I could still get out of the mural and jumped away from the shack. I broke through an invisible barrier and landed in the real world, right into a crowd of people. I shouted, “You must destroy that mural!” One of the people recognized me and said, “You’ve been missing for two days. Did you just come through that mural?” “Yes,” I said. I looked at the mural, and recognized one of the loggers as my best friend Richard, now trapped. I tried to push through but I couldn’t go through the mural. I looked up and noticed that the title was “Three Loggers Chopping Wood.”
11:05 By Madi Connors One night two teen girls Anna and Sydney were babysitting a tough 11 year-old boy named Tommy, his best friend 12 year-old Brian, and Tommy’s little sister Olivia. It was 8:30 and they were eating a late dinner…. pizza, and the phone rang. Sydney answered, and an old woman and old man were laughing. Sydney asked, “Who’s there?” No one answered, they just kept laughing. So she hung up assuming it was an accident that they called. Then at 10:00 the phone rang so Anna decided to answer it this time. The same old lady said, “Be ready, we are coming to get you.” Anna ignored it this time deciding it was a prank call.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page 23 Continued from previous page At 10:30, it rang again so Anna and Sydney both decided to answer it together. It was the old man. He said, “The time is coming near. Be ready.” They were a little freaked out, so they told Tommy and Brian to answer it next time it rang. So at 10:55 it rang again. The boys answered it. This time it was both the man and the woman. They both said at the same time, “When the clock strikes 11:05, we will come and get you.” And they both started laughing again. So Anna called the phone company, and told them the problem, the operator said that the calls were coming from the basement and to get out of the house right away. It was 11:04, and they started running towards the door, but they were too late. The old man and woman were already upstairs. Anna, Sydney, Tommy, and Brian were never seen again. You might ask who am I? I am Olivia who was hiding under the bed the whole time.
My Neck of the Woods By John Schollmeier I was rambling through the woodland when it started. The foliage slowly shifted to malicious thorns growing out of the ground. Owls, birds, and chipmunks changed from the harmless creatures of nature to eerie agitated organisms. Rumble! Grumble! What was that, I wondered. In a voracious and concerned state, I began looking for a way out of the forest. I
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missed the comforts of home. Ohhh… how a hamburger and a milkshake would hit the spot! (Grumble) I saw a tree with fruit on it that looked like an apple but tasted like a banana. Instantly I felt curiously light headed and drained. Down I went, with a heavy dull thud. Eventually I opened my eyes and saw an abnormally, tall well-dressed featureless being. Groggily, I awakened from the reality (or) dreamlike state with a sour-sweet taste in my mouth. So, I stumbled along weaker after each step, wondering what happened and if I would ever get out there. Then, I saw a deserted road that seemed to go for miles. I stared blankly at it and waited and waited. I passed out. My daydreams are not vivid, never. But, I was sure this was as vivid as life itself, although I was unable to wake up. I felt the figure pick me up and dump me at a sanatorium. There shapes crowded over my eyes and prodded me. As I reclaimed my senses, I relished the fact that I was alive. I have since tried to find this wooded world, but it has evaded me like a greased ell. As for that mysterious tall figure, I have not seen it since Oct. 31, 1919. Welcome to my neck of the woods. Feel free to visit since I haven’t had any visitors since 19… oh never mind…
Huitzilopochtli’s Heir By Jane Lavelle Edwardsville High School For the first seven years of her life, Mary seemed like a stereotypical girl—she played with
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Page 24- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 Continued from previous page Barbie Dolls, enjoyed helping her mother cook, and loved going to school and learning new things, especially history. Little did the world know, that Mary was not even close to that picture; she was going to become a force, driving to end lives of innocent people. Mary was adopted from Mexico when she was two. Nothing was known about her past. She was found near Aztec ruins. When she was found, her skin was as bright as the sun. Found next to her was a ball of hummingbird feathers and, strangely enough, Mary had very long finger nails for a baby. The Mexican government had no information about where she had come from. Because of her appearance, it was obvious she was of Aztec descent. Her adoptive parents were unable to have children and decided to adopt a child. They adopted her and raised her in their home in a small, quiet town in New York. When Mary turned seven, her parents surprised her by taking her on a trip to Latin America to visit Aztec ruins to learn about her heritage. Mary was very excited; she was taking the trip of a lifetime at the age of seven. On the flight, Mary read children’s books about Aztec heritage. All the books left out one key detail: human sacrifice. Once the family arrived, they headed to their destination for the day; the ruin of what was once an Aztec temple. Mary learned that many sacrifices had taken place here and was quite upset. That night, Mary went to bed knowing something was not quite right. When Mary was well asleep, she felt as if she were awakened by a vivid dream. She saw who she believed was Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec God of sacrifice, talking to her. He screamed to her in a voice that she was his descendent and was put on the earth to return blood to the gods.
As Mary awoke, she became very concerned. She told her mom about the dream. Her mom was not concerned at first, but little did she know this dream was only the start of her problems. Mary’s mom began to research Huitzilopochtli and learned a few disturbing details about her daughter. She learned many details of Huitzilopochtli’s birth resembled her own daughter’s. Even worse, she learned Aztec gods carried out sacrifice to give themselves blood, which they needed to function. Out of panic, she kept the disturbing details to herself, not even telling Mary’s father. Mary seemed different when they returned to New York. Her mom assured her she was fine and had let that dream go to her head. Mary’s mom shrugged off the “look” in Mary’s eyes. Mary tried to convince herself everything was fine, but deep down, she knew something was wrong. Mary’s mom worked as a nurse, while Mary’s dad worked from home. As Mary’s mom returned from work one day, she saw a disturbing sight; a body was lying lifeless. This was what used to be her husband. Mary’s mom frantically looked for her daughter, praying she was okay. The next thing she saw may have been even more disturbing than her husband slaughtered on the floor. Mary was lying in their bathtub filled with his blood. Mary’s mother screamed. Mary exclaimed to her mother, “I had to; they need the blood to survive. My Gods are more important than daddy. I told him I loved him before I did it.” Not knowing what to do, Mary’s mother dialed 911. Within minutes, the police arrived. They took Mary away, astounded that a seven year old could do this. Tried as a minor, she was sentenced to forty years in prison, to be served at juvenile detention center until she turned eighteen.
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Scary Stories - October 31, 2012 - Page 25 Continued from previous page At the detention center, every guard was scared of her since they knew that such a young child had brutally murdered her own father. Less than a year later, Mary’s roots took over her again. She felt the primal urge for blood. She murdered all the guards and employees of the detention center, freeing their blood for her gods, as more blood was needed. As she killed the last guard, she grabbed the keysand disabled all security systems to escape. Free, Mary walked up and down the streets, killing all in her sight. It was October 31 st, so trick-or-treaters and their escorts felt the wrath of Mary. That night, forty-nine perfectly innocent people died. Again, Mary was tried. Because of the intensity of her crimes, she was sentenced to life in the prison. As the years went on, she spent her time in solitary confinement. Her cell had a security system so complicated an escape artist could not even escape. The killings on the Halloween night fulfilled her gods’ need for blood for a while, but after a few years she felt the need again. Her gods needed her to provide more blood. Sitting in solitary confinement, there was really only one option for blood—herself. She began to cut herself, exposing blood to her gods. As prison guards noticed, she was placed at a mental health prison. Now, she felt the need for blood more than ever. She was restrained in a straight jacket for years and was thought to be getting better with
what many thought was an addiction to killing, not a connection to Huitzilopochtli. Because of cuts to her state’s budget, she returned to her original detention center. For the second time, she was placed in solitary confinement. Not knowing how to fulfill her need for blood, she had one last solution. Her idea was to kill herself. She was possessed to only care about the welfare of Huitzilopochtli, and not her own. At the age of seventeen, she committed suicide on October 31st, exactly 10 years since the massacre she created. After her death, the world did not know how to react. Mary’s mom was devastated. Even though her daughter was a malicious killer, she still loved her and felt affection for her. Some people were relieved she had died, especially the prison guards. At her funeral, her mom was the only person present. None of her other relatives showed up. After her death, it was been debated about why she would do this. Many couldn’t believe she was a descendent of an ancient god. Some believed she was just possessed by the devil, while others believed she was just crazy. Still, others believed she was a real descendent of Huitzilopochtli. Mary’s mom knew once Huitzilopochtli ran out of blood from Mary’s killings, he would send another child to Earth with the same mission. Where that child is now is unknown. What is known is that when more blood is needed, brutal killings will ruin another child and many victims’ lives.
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Page 26- Scary Stories - October 31, 2012
The Brook Chain Neighborhood
Logan Miller St. Mary’s School A new kid had moved into the Brook Chain Neighborhood. The child had hair the color of the night sky and eyes as green as grass. Brian was the name given to him by his mother and father. Originally, Brian was sad about the move due to his father’s job, but his mother was there to reassure him that everything would be okay. He had made some friends that he thought were great, but Brook Chain was not your ordinary neighborhood. Some say that it is completely normal, but others say it is cursed. The reason that people say it is cursed is because before Brook Chain was built, there was a discovery of a remarkable amount of coal just 30 feet below the earth’s surface. One day there was a natural gas leak in the mine and one of the miners struck a match. There was then an explosion that lasted only seconds, but did much damage. It is said that those miners who perished that fateful day still roam the lands. One day, Brian and two of his friends, Tommy and Chuck, decided to play hide and seek in the woods. Tommy started counting and the two other boys darted off to find a place to conceal themselves. Brian ran past the old tree house and made his way up the hill. He stood behind a tree panting and looking off into the distance when he thought he saw one of his friends. He jumped over a fallen tree and crept closer to his friend. Once he got closer to make out his features, he stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, he started sweating and his mouth went dry. All he could do was run. He flew down the hill, past the old tree house, and came out of the woods, terrified. Tommy saw him and asked what had happened. Brian spewed words that made no sense. He calmed himself down and began to explain. He said there was a man with a pick axe that appeared to be mining, but he dissolved into thin air. Later that night, while Brian was trying to sleep, lightning struck and what he saw at the foot of his bed horrified him. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, his heart started beating faster and his fingers and toes started to tingle. Brian saw the miner from before, but only now the miner was seen more clearly. He had gray hair, a rough face, and was missing part of his left hand. There was a gaping hole in his chest. Brian had heard some of the rumors, but wasn’t a believer. He now believed. One thing the rumors did not say was that the ghost miners did not just pass you by. They would take you back to the mine where they had died and you would never be seen again. The ghost miner started to ever so slightly walk toward the side of Brian’s bed. He was so slow and cautious that he barely made a sound with each step. Brian could hear the squeak of the floor beds as he slowly got closer and closer. He thought his heart was going to pound out of his chest because it was beating rapidly, then something unexpected happened. As the ghost miner neared the side of Brian’s bed, he stopped. They were so close. Brian could have reached out his shaking hands and touched him. They locked gazes upon each other’s eyes for only a moment, but it felt like an eternity. Within a split second, the ghost miner turned from slow and cautious to terrifyingly fast. He moved so fast that Brian didn’t even see him move until it was too late. The ghost miner had shot his right arm out and covered Brian’s mouth. He then took hold of Brian with an
iron grip and just like that, they were outside. The ghost miner was carrying him towards the dark and desolate forest. Brian was being carried through some part of the woods in which he had never been to before. The ghost miner slowly set the terrified boy down. Brian did not know where he was going, but he did know that he was dashing through the woods as fast as possible. He was out of breath, and he slowed to a stop. Brian heard a twig snap. It was so quit, yet it made him wince in terror. There he was, the ghost miner, just walking towards him. As he walked, it looked as if more of them were appearing. 7 more formed a perfect circle around Brian. In less than the time it takes for lighting to strike, they all grabbed him. To this day, no one has seen or heard of him since his disappearance. Some say if you go into the woods alone, you can still hear his heart thumping from pure fear.
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