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The Watcher

by cnkguy
The Watcher

Reading Time: 7 minutes

Growing up, a lot of my friends talked about spending time at their grandparents’ houses, whether during summer vacation or for one weekend. I could never relate, as my mom and dad made a point of never letting me see my grandfather.

Their reasons were legitimate: a vehicular accident before my birth left him bed-bound, and issues with expenses on both ends prevented either of us from traveling the nine-hour distance to see each-other. My parents also said he lived in a “bad neighborhood” they didn’t want me in, and at the time, I believed it.

Maybe the finance thing was an excuse, but the last part wasn’t exactly a lie. I dislike my parents for a lot of reasons, but part of me wants to thank them for keeping me away up until they decided I could no longer live with them.

I distinctly remember arriving at my grandfather’s house for the first time. He lived in a very isolated town, isolated enough to have no internet and barely enough electricity. I was lucky to catch a bus there. The neighborhood was rustic rather than run-down, but everything seemed gray, and the air was always quiet.

As soon as I stepped off the bus and onto the road, a solemn feeling came over me. It was odd, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. I only had to stay for three days before a friend of mine would come to pick me up to live with her, since I didn’t have anywhere else to go with so few connections. That was part of the reason I resorted to contacting my grandfather – most of my friends cut me off after high-school for whatever reason, and neither of my parents had any other relatives. All I needed was a halfway point between me and my future roommate, and despite us never having prior contact aside from a few emails, he was happy to oblige.

My grandfather’s house wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I was greeted by his carer at the front door, a man in his thirties who exuded normality as well. He took me inside, where the house was sparsely furnished (just enough for a disabled, elderly man and his carer), and escorted me upstairs to see my grandfather. His bedroom had more medical equipment in it than furniture.

He was pale, balding, and was laid up in a bed similar to that of a hospital’s. Still, he greeted me with a smile and had me sit down and talk to him for a long while. Long enough that I only noticed that the carer left when he came back upstairs with a meal cooked for dinner. I wasn’t too keen on conversation, but my grandfather was family, and I would feel bad if I just brushed him off after he took me in.

Hours went by as we ate, and by the time I filled him on my life until that point (or, what I would tell a kind old man), it was eight ‘o clock. The carer took our dishes and left, while I stood from my chair to leave as well. He stopped me as I turned away:

“Oh, Frankie. Before you turn in for the night, there’s something you need to know.”

I turned back to him. “What’s that?”

The expression on his face was grim, and it made my throat tighten. “Make sure you keep the blinds drawn, and past eleven, don’t look out the window. No matter what.”

His advice confused me. That seemed like an odd house rule, but I assumed it had something to do with this place supposedly being a bad area. I nodded and left for the guest room across the hall, which only had an old bed and a dresser. The window was along the same wall as the bed, so that I could see it when I laid down.

The blinds were drawn. I heeded my grandfather’s words and left them alone.

I got ready for bed, but spent most of my time over the covers messing with games on my phone until around 12 A.M. My eyelids started to get crusty, and I decided to put my phone down and actually go to sleep. The silence of the house finally hit me. Back at my parents’ house, there was always the tick of a clock, or the whir of a fan, but here? There was nothing. I figured there would be some noise with the medical equipment, but the walls must have been thick because it was dead silent – until I heard it.

The best way I can describe the sound is a thud, but much softer, like a heavy piece of furniture being placed against the earth with the utmost care. It had a particular rhythm, like footsteps, and sounded like it came from outside. Underneath the covers, I froze. The noise filled me with fear, enough that my heart pounded against my chest and my blood rushed in my ears.

One thought filled my head: there’s something outside, but my grandfather’s words repeated: don’t look out the window. No matter what.

For some reason, I found myself slowly pulling out from under the covers and getting to my feet. I had to see it. I needed to see it. The sound grew louder as it grew closer, and even though I felt a sense of impending doom, I needed to figure out what the fuck was making such an impossible noise. Just a glimpse. A sliver.

I tiptoed carefully to the window, crouched down so that if there was a thing out there, it hopefully wouldn’t notice me. With as slow movements I could manage, I stuck two of my shaking fingers between a slit in the blinds, and took a deep breath before I slipped them open.

Outside, in the street, was a dark mass. It stretched and contorted so much that I couldn’t tell its size, but within it I saw something that looked like eyes. They shifted, and set on me. I don’t know how I could tell, but I felt it as if it were sharp pain in my chest. I let the blinds snap shut and fall back on the floor. I scrambled back away from the window, towards the bed.


I followed my instincts, and instead of getting back up in the bed or getting underneath it, I tucked myself in the corner of the room behind its headboard. I curled into a fetal position while my head swam and beads of sweat started to form on my skin. I mentally screamed at myself, I should have listened. I should have listened. I should have listened.

I was going to die.

I heard a click, the sound of the window being opened, but what I saw outside couldn’t have been capable of such a thing. The blinds snapped against something, and a shadow spread across the floor as it entered the room. What I saw outside must have been almost as tall and half as wide as a house, but the shadow it cast snaked into the room with ease. I pressed my hands over my mouth and kept myself quiet, but I was able to see it through a hole in the ornate carvings on the headboard.

What came through the window looked almost like a long neck, but stretched in contorted in ways that made my gut churn. Some kind of grime stained its faceted skin, and the crack and pop of bones sliding against each-other accompanied its movements. The ‘neck’ supported what I can only say is a ‘face,’ but it lacked any features aside from a pair of large, human-looking eyes.

It turned its face in my general direction, and although it didn’t seem to notice me, I suppressed a shiver as its piercing gaze scanned the room. The creature brought a stench with it so horrid that it made my eyes water. It smelt like rotten eggs, blood, and burning rubber all mashed together. I squeezed my eyes shut while my ears rung, and silently pleaded for it to go away.

The nauseating sound of cracking bones continued as it turned its ‘head’ around the room. There was a long pause, with the dead silence returning, and I had to hold down the bile building in my throat from the smell and the sight of it. I think I was crying, but I’m not sure if it was from the odor or out of fear.

I flinched as the cracking started up again, but a wave of relief came over me as the shadow steadily slinked out of the room and back through the window. I remained still until the same gentle thud from earlier resounded through the house, and then another, and then another. Once they faded into the distance, I got to my feet – with my knees trembling – and took a moment to catch my breath and calm my heart as my mind struggled to process what I just saw.

I went back to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep.

The next morning, I had breakfast with my grandfather in his room like dinner the night before. I had rings around my eyes and looked pale as a ghost. I didn’t want him to find out that I had broken his rule, but my exhaustion kept me from keeping up an act. He looked at me with a grim expression once the carer had taken our dishes downstairs.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

I pursed my lips and nodded.

He sighed. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied. Don’t do it again.”

“…what was it?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, “…but it’s been here for as long as I have, if not longer. It’s this town’s little secret. It’s…taken outsiders who attract its attention before, and those who provoke it intentionally. They vanish without a trace.”

I gulped. I was close to being one of them. “Why outsiders?”

My grandfather shrugs. “Maybe it’s some sort of guardian over this area. Maybe we’re in its territory and it doesn’t trust new guests. Most of us have lived here for a long time, and can trace our families back a ways, which might be why it leaves us alone.”

A bad neighborhood, I thought to myself. My parents weren’t completely lying.

I promised him not to do it again, and we changed the subject to normal things. For the next two nights, I drowned out its footsteps with headphones in my ears, and tried to keep the image of it making its way into my room out of my head.


CREDIT: Jordyn Walker

The post The Watcher appeared first on Creepypasta.



Creepy Pasta

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Saved By The Dead | Haunted, Ghosts, Paranormal

by cnkguy
Saved By The Dead | Haunted, Ghosts, Paranormal

Did a deceased love one return to save the life of a grandchild?

A families dream home turns into a nightmare shortly after they move in.

A game of hide and seek in the cemetery turns traumatic for a group of children.

If you have a real ghost story or supernatural event to report, please write into our show or call 1-855-853-4802!

If you like the show, please help keep us on the air and support the show by becoming an EPP (Extra Podcast Person). We'll give you a BONUS episode every week as a "Thank You" for your support. Become an EPP here:

#ghosts #ghoststories #halloween #horror #paranormal #supernatural #haunting #haunted #demonic #hauntedhouse #cemetery #evp #ghoststory #ghostbusters #unexplained #shadowpeople #investigation #truestory



, Real Ghost Stories

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The Mannequin Farm

by cnkguy
The Mannequin Farm

Reading Time: 22 minutes

I think I’m finally at the point where I’m able to talk about it.
It’s been several years since it happened. None of us – not me, nor my friend, brother, or brother’s friend, who also experienced it – have ever told a living soul, and rarely mention it to each other, but I think it might help to write it down. Then maybe I can finally forget about it.
When it happened, I was a teenager living in Cumbria, which is a region in the north west of England. Specifically, I lived in the Lake District: an area of outstanding natural beauty, which is also very rural, and very popular with tourists. Imagine lurching dark skies, grey brick walls and rugged scenery – mountains, fields, bodies of water – unfolding all around you, and you’ve got The Lake District. In my youth, I would be out on a boat in the height of summer, lazing on the dappled wood in the beating hot sun; I would hike up the toughest mountains in torrential rain to see some of the most beautiful views that exist on this planet. I know I was lucky, and I tried never to be ungrateful. But, as a teenage girl growing up, I always felt a keen sense of isolation from the rest of the world. My family lived – and still live – in a tiny cottage in a tiny village where everybody knows everybody, where there is no privacy at all, and no chance of ever getting away with anything. I went to the local secondary school, but by ‘local’, I mean I had to take a half hour bus ride to get there, and our nearest town was that far away as well. Summers, in my youth, were always long – and lonely.
That’s why it was such an incredible stroke of luck when a girl my own age moved into my village the summer I turned fourteen. My own family consisted of my parents and my younger brother Tom, who, when I was fourteen and he was on the cusp of thirteen, just seemed too immature for words, and spending time with him would only occur as a last resort. By some lucky miracle, the girl also had a younger brother, and on the day they moved in my mum sent us both over to her house to introduce ourselves and bring round some Kendal Mint Cake (kind of a Cumbrian speciality, for those of you not in the know).
The girl – Katie – and I quickly became fast friends. She’d moved up from London after her dad had passed away from cancer, which, obviously, was a difficult adjustment for her for several reasons, and I remember being acutely aware that I had to tread carefully with her. It was just Katie, her brother, Michael, and her mum.
The moment we met I knew I’d like her. She was my age exactly, with a cool sense of style – unkempt hair pulled effortlessly up into a bun, small nose ring glinting from her nostril (a fascination to me, who was not even allowed to pierce my own ears), and she wore a t-shirt for a band I’d never heard of, its symbol a skull and crossbones. She didn’t seem too put off by my own frumpy charity shop clothes and overly friendly (desperate?) demeanour either, which was a huge relief. Her brother, Michael – a small, narrow shouldered kid with very pale skin and an awkward manner – and my own brother hit it off too after starting a conversation about video games, and went trotting off to Michael’s room immediately to play on his Xbox. I sensed the family had money – their house was bigger than ours, and a lot less shabby – and so Michael would probably have a lot of the latest games. After a nervous introduction, Katie and I soon got talking, and we sat in her kitchen swapping stories whilst her mum unpacked boxes around us. She seemed grateful that there was someone her own age in this strange, rural land; I, of course, was ecstatic.
The summer went by in a happy haze: Katie and I spent most days together, wandering down to the lake for a swim, or hanging out in each other’s bedrooms, larking about online or watching movies. Our brothers, likewise, found companionship in each other, and Katie’s mum, who was from the area originally, made a friend in my own mum. When school came, Katie and I rode the bus together, and she assimilated effortlessly into our friendship group (another huge relief, as I’d been concerned that she might be a bit out of our league). I spent a lot of my time trying to please her, making sure that she knew I was as mature as she was – living in London, she’d experienced things I could only dream about – and the effort was tiring, sometimes. But I didn’t want her to move on and find someone more interesting.

My story really begins in the week leading up to the October half term, where Katie had an idea. We’d been friends nearly four months, and I remember that the two of us were in my room one rainy autumn evening, watching a scary film on my laptop (I don’t recall what), whilst trying to decide what I should give Katie for her birthday the following week – she’d suggested concert tickets in London; I’d suggested a rather more affordable bath bomb from a gifty place we both liked. My parents were out of the house for whatever reason, so we were in charge. As the film got to a particularly tense, almost silent scene, we suddenly heard peals of laughter coming from my brother’s room, which regrettably shared a wall with mine. I banged on it with my foot, telling the little pests to keep it down – my brother had reached a deeply troublesome (I thought) stage of development, where his teenage hormones had kicked in and he was no longer the sweet, docile, slightly irritating child I had once known, and had turned into a moody, distant, intensely irritating monster. Of course, my kicking the wall had absolutely no effect, and after a couple of minutes of threatening various abuses through the plaster I decided that I would simply have to go next door and carry out my threats in person.
I burst into his room, thoroughly cranky at this point, to find that it was in pitch darkness. There are few streetlamps in my village, so when I say pitch, I mean pitch. Furrowing my brow, I strained to see through the gloom, and I couldn’t hear a single sound, other than the whir of my brother’s Xbox on the floor. What were they doing? I voiced this to the dark room, but got no response.
Quickly, so quickly I wasn’t sure I saw it, I saw a shadow dart across the room. Even though I knew it was my brother messing around, I couldn’t help but feel the scenes from the horror film still sticking to me – was I sure they’d been in his room? Hadn’t they gone for a walk in the woods at some point? Had it really been them laughing?
I considered this as my hand fumbled around the wall for a light switch when, suddenly, something grabbed my wrist from nowhere – another hand. I screamed, piercingly, and tumbled back out into the hall, only to be greeted by the familiar peals of laughter we’d been hearing all night. Katie ran into the room and threw on the switch to reveal the little darlings huddled in black cloaks in the middle of the room like acne-ridden dementors, falling about in hysterics.
‘That wasn’t very fucking funny!’ I screeched at them, but even Katie was suppressing a smirk. The horror film had got to me, and my brother and his friend had taken full advantage of that. The two boys were still creased over, bundled in their cloaks, as I took my brother’s pillow and proceeded to hit them with it, which only encouraged the laughter.
‘We were just trying to be like old Mr McCreepy!’ Tom said through guffaws.
‘Who’s Mr McCreepy?’ Katie asked.
‘You must have heard of Mr McCreepy!’ Tom’s eyes were wide, and he nodded at his friend to clarify the obvious.
‘Everyone’s heard of Mr McCreepy,’ Michael sighed at two people he evidently considered imbeciles. ‘He’s that guy who owned the mannequin farm near Kolby village.’
Katie and I looked at each other and shrugged. Kolby village was ten miles away; I’d had no reason to ever go there, and I didn’t know much about it. I didn’t know anything about a mannequin farm, either.
‘He killed a whole load of people there, like fifty years ago,’ Tom interjected. ‘He was this really creepy guy who made mannequins for shops – and probably other things – and he lured all these guys to his house by pretending to be a woman online, then he bludgeoned them to death with an axe.’
‘And then he made mannequins out of their skin!’ added Michael, with glee.
Now, I’m going to pause here to explain that I am not a fan of horror. I don’t do scary stories, creepypastas, any of that stuff – and I usually hate scary films, and was only watching one that night because I didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of Katie, who had a taste for those sorts of things. Plus, there was a more than likely chance that my brother and his friend were lying, and I didn’t want to entertain this for longer than was necessary. Katie, on the other hand, was looking at them, intrigued.
‘There was an axe murderer who lived ten miles from here?’
‘And his name was Mr McCreepy?’
‘No, you tool,’ Katie’s brother sighed. ‘His name was Martin McGreevy. That’s just his nickname.’
Unusually, Katie let this insult slide without comment. ‘What was his kill count?’ she asked.
Tom and Michael looked at each other, less cocky now. ‘Dunno. Loads probably. You could Google it.’
‘Haven’t you Googled it?’
‘Nah. We just heard it around school.’
I laughed, wishing to bring this conversation to a close. ‘Oh, sure. You guys heard it around school, so it must be true.’
‘It really did happen!’ Michael insisted. ‘Everybody knows about it! It’s coming up to the anniversary of his first murder on Halloween.’
‘Oh yeah, the fact that it happened on Halloween makes it all the more believable.’ I raised my eyebrows to the ceiling, then left them to it, returning to my own room and trying to shake off a strange, bubbling feeling in my stomach.
For all of the bravado I’d shown, there was a part of me – a small part – that had a feeling they might possibly be telling the truth. Something had happened in that village, a long time ago. I didn’t think it happened how they described it, but the name rang a bell; the image of the mannequins was clear in my head. I could picture my parents at the breakfast table, talking in hushed tones, the word ‘Kolby’ and ‘murder’ and ‘dummies’ bubbling from their lips when they thought I couldn’t hear them.
Katie came back into my room, and I had my finger poised on the play button on my laptop, ready to scare ourselves silly again.
‘Actually, I’m not really feeling this anymore,’ she said, and I breathed a huge, internal sigh of relief. ‘I’d quite like to look up that case.’
The relief quickly left me, to be replaced by further anxiety. ‘What, the thing they were on about? Katie, they’re morons,’ I said. ‘They’ll be making it up.’
‘Probably. But I’d like to check, just in case they’re not.’
She slid onto the bed next to me and plucked the laptop from my hands before I had a chance to protest. She opened up a new tab, and typed ‘Kolby murder Cumbria mannequins’ into the search bar.
Sure enough, a whole swarm of articles popped up.
‘Now, there’s a plot twist,’ she said, impressed. ‘They weren’t lying!’
I felt my palms growing sweaty as she clicked on the first article and a picture of a man appeared. The man was reasonably average looking: about forty, with short, dark, cropped hair and a sallow face, like he hadn’t eaten in a long time, wearing a tartan shirt, but his hollow eyes, looking intensely at the camera, sent a chill of fear down my spine. I felt as though he was looking directly at me. This was Martin McGreevy, killer of nine people, who had once lived just down the road. His time active wasn’t fifty years ago, as Tom had said, but a much closer nineteen, back in 1999 – although, anything pre-millennium was all the same to my brother – and I remembered hearing the stories, still fresh to the residents, when I was a child.
I can’t remember exactly which articles we looked at, but the story went like this. Martin McGreevy was a family man, with a wife and a four-year-old son, who owned a successful home business making custom mannequins for shop windows. However, like a lot of people, he had his secrets. Unfortunately, Martin McGreevy’s secret was that he liked to pose as beautiful women online, reel in gullible men between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, get them to send him nude pictures, and then lure them to his house under the pretence of hooking up. These were the days when the internet was still relatively new and people were less cautious about it, so he was generally successful in his invitation. Once there, he tied them up and committed unspeakable acts of torture on them, before eventually killing them with a sharp implement he would make his mannequins with. His wife, apparently, was aware of the entire situation, and may even have been an accomplice. Once he killed the men, he made mannequins in their likeness – though not out of their skin, as the boys had claimed – and he treated them as though they were real. Nine mannequins were found in the cellar when the police raided the house.
Once McGreevy became a suspect in the disappearances, he shot himself with a revolver, along with his wife and son. He was dead before they could even put handcuffs on him.
I think that most people, after reading this – and reading the gory details, as we did, which I will not relay here – would close the laptop and perhaps go to quietly throw up. Katie’s curiosity, on the other hand, was piqued. She wanted to know more. She summoned the boys in, who said that, although they’d heard wildly exaggerated versions of this story at school (the human skin anecdote, for instance) it was basically the same story that they were familiar with, and it really had happened in a farmhouse near the village of Kolby.
‘Well, that’s just vile,’ I said. ‘Those men died at the hands of that sicko. I hope he rots in jail.’
‘Why did you say you were acting like Martin McGreevy when you put on the cloaks?’ asked Katie.
‘Cos that’s what he used to do. His wife would let them in, and then he’d be down in the cellar. He would lie in wait for his victims, wearing the clothes he dressed his dummies in, and then pounce on them before they could do anything.’
‘How would anyone know that?’ I demanded.
‘His wife survived the shooting. She gave the police a full confession. She’s still alive today, in jail,’ Michael told me.
Katie asked if anyone still lived at the farmhouse.
‘Last I heard, it was abandoned,’ said Tom. ‘They say his ghost still roams the rooms, looking for more people to kill…’
They both started prancing around the room, swaying their arms and making howling sounds. Surely, at thirteen, they were too old for this.
I looked at Katie to share a look of exasperation, but instead, she was smiling. She had taken in the news of the abandoned house without comment, though I could see her expression changing, her dark eyes flickering with the formation of a plan.
I didn’t know if this was what happened to you after suffering grief at a young age, but my friend seemed to be abnormally fascinated by the dark side of life – death, torture, destruction, abandonment. It was – and is – a part of her that I struggle to like, if I’m being honest, but I try to understand that it is probably because she’s been through a childhood trauma. I don’t like to think that anyone could be interested in these things just for the sake of it.
After they left, she turned to me, the glimmer of a smile playing around her lips.
‘I know what I want for my birthday,’ she grinned.
I knew, at that moment, what she was going to say, and fear coursed through me like blood. Still, I needed to act nonchalant. When you’re a teenager, image is all that matters.
‘I want to go and explore the mannequin farm,’ said my friend. I just smiled, blankly.

It was absurd.
Our parents were going to a dinner party in the next village, where they were likely to be out until midnight. That was the night we chose, as it gave us plenty of time to get there and back.
Unfortunately, in the midst of our planning, my younger brother overheard, and threatened to reveal everything unless we allowed him and his weedy friend to come along with us.
‘You’ll ruin it!’ Katie screeched at them the night before we planned to go – the eve of Halloween, the night before his first murder, another thing that, surprisingly, my brother had got right. ‘You’ll end up telling the adults.’
‘We won’t!’ Tom insisted. ‘We’ll only tell them if you don’t let us come. Come on, we were the ones who told you about it.’
‘Go with your own friends,’ Katie said, ‘Surely they’re all going up there in droves if this story’s so famous.’
‘No one’s been up there that we know,’ Michael said. ‘It’s fenced off. It’s really hard to get in to.’
My heart jumped a little – I was hoping this nugget of information might put her off wanting to go. It only made her more determined to get in somewhere that others had not. Eventually, they struck a deal: the boys would come with us, if they could help us figure out how to get inside. Hands were shaken; spit was proffered; subsequently discarded. We were ready.

We set off after our parents left for their dinner party under cloak of darkness. Katie had a rucksack on over her coat packed with torches, a map and – most worryingly – even a knife, ‘In case we run into any trouble,’ she said. Her birthday had been two days prior, and she walked up the dark lane ahead of me, her new pink Converse shining in the moonlight, practically bouncing with excitement. My heart was full of lead.
The boys had also packed supplies: a penknife – ‘because you never know’ – my brother said, and some rope – ‘In case we need to scale any walls.’ The place was an abandoned farmhouse, not a maximum-security prison, but I said nothing.
The village of Kolby was very pretty, dotted with thatched cottages and an old 13th century church nestled in parkland. We trod through the streets carefully, not wanting to look too suspicious, and huddled under a streetlamp to glance at the map. We needed to follow Church Lane, out of the village, until we passed a track on our left which read ‘Pidcote.’ If we walked a mile up the track, we would hit the farmhouse. At least, that’s what one of Tom’s friends at school had told him – we could only see the first bit of the track from Google maps.
The night was very dark now, and it was bitingly cold. As we wandered up the road, we got out our torches, and fewer and fewer cars marked the roads. Eventually, we were immersed by dark stretches of farmland, and could hear nothing but the hoot of an owl in the distance, and some far-off noise from cattle. I pulled my coat tightly around me, fear beginning to set in. I wasn’t even that afraid of the farmhouse itself, or of the legend of Martin McGreevy’s ghost – I was more afraid of who might be living there now. We were four vulnerable kids on a dark, lonely road. We could be putting ourselves in serious danger.
The white wooden sign, ‘Pidcote,’ shimmered like a mirage under our torches.
My brother stopped, staring at it. ‘Maybe…maybe we should turn back,’ he said, nervously. Katie and Michael turned to look at him like he’d gone mad. ‘I don’t know if this is such a good idea.’
I was amazed – out of the four of us, Tom and Katie had been the most vocal in wanting to go. Katie and Michael shot me a look, as if to say, he’s your brother, you deal with him. l saw the fear flickering in Tom’s eyes; the irritation flickering in Katie’s. I had to choose.
‘Either you come with us, or wait here,’ I said, with as much courage as I could muster. ‘We’re not turning back now.’
I saw my friend smile with pleasure, and Tom’s expression hardened. ‘I’m coming,’ he said, sulkily. ‘I just meant if anyone else wanted to turn back.’
We trudged up the leaf strewn track, mud claiming our shoes. I had a fleeting gleeful thought that Katie’s beautiful new Converse would be getting muddy, then suppressed it out of guilt. Sometimes I felt envious of her wealth, and then remembered that at least I still had a dad.
We saw a building begin to loom in the distance. Surprisingly, as we got to it, it was actually very easy to get inside – the fence surrounding it was wooden, and not high, and we simply climbed over, finding ourselves on the other side with no trouble at all. I didn’t know what my brothers had been on about.
The farmhouse was a two storey affair, trees looming over it like hunchbacks, the windows boarded up so it looked vaguely monstrous, with metal panels for eyes. We shone our torch around the premises. The driveway was submerged in leaves; there were, obviously, no cars in it, and I couldn’t see any lights on in the house. Not that I was expecting to, of course, but I couldn’t help the thought that perhaps there were people squatting inside, and the lack of light made me feel less uneasy. The place was clearly deserted, a ghostly relic of the past. The wind bristled and I closed my eyes, wishing us away from it.
‘Well, we made it,’ I said. ‘Shall we go back now?’
Katie looked at me as though I was bonkers. ‘What? Go back? We’re going inside!’
The words didn’t come as a surprise to me, but I felt the full force of them even so.
We’re going inside.
The front door gave way easily; it was rotting, and falling off its hinges. Inside, the house smelt musty and damp; I remembered my grandmother’s house smelling like this when we went in after she died, because she’d stopped being able to take care of it properly and refused to ever put the heating on. The room we were standing in was a hallway, doors aligning each wall around us, a decomposing staircase toward the back wall. What I hadn’t expected was that there would still be furniture in the house. A side table was standing by the front door; a picture of a vase of sunflowers was skewed sideways on the wall. Homely artefacts amongst the dirt, reminding any visitors of what the place used to be, whilst the floor hosted more leaves and mud; the wallpaper was peeling and smeared with graffiti. I wondered if the kind of people who’d written that graffiti might be thinking of joining us here tonight, and I felt a bit sick. I shone my torch to see the numbers 666 scribbled in red on the once floral wallpaper; I realised that this would probably be the perfect location for dealing drugs. Cumbria was a boring place to grow up, and thus the drug trade was booming. Teenagers just didn’t have anything else to do.
‘Let’s split up,’ Katie said – the three most dreaded words in the English language. ‘Boys – you go upstairs. We’ll explore down here. We’ll all do the cellar together.’ Her eyes sparkled at this.
I could see Tom looking less than comfortable, but they nodded and headed up the stairs, whilst I trailed after her meekly.
She pushed open one of the doors on our left and we trod into the room. My feet felt like they were standing on linoleum; we were in what was once either a kitchen or a bathroom. Together, we shone our torches around. Then we froze.
A woman was standing in the kitchen, turned away from us. She was standing over a space where the stove most likely used to be, wearing a traditional 1950s outfit – hair up, flowery apron, floaty skirt. Every fibre in my body told me to run. But I was rooted to the spot, staring at this strange, stiff looking woman – who had not moved upon us entering the room. I reached out for my friend’s hand, but she was in the process of moving step closer, cracking a twig below her foot. The woman still didn’t move. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Why wasn’t she turning around? What was wrong with her?
‘Katie…there’s something wrong here…’
‘Hello?’ Katie called out, gently. ‘Hello?’
She moved even closer to the woman, before prodding her on the shoulder. I couldn’t speak, waiting for it to turn around – what was she going to look like?
‘It’s…it’s a mannequin!’ my friend exclaimed, open mouthed.
Of course.
I drew closer to it as well, realising, as I brought my torch closer, that it was indeed a mannequin – the hair was too stiff; the neck too white. I got close enough to see the other side of her and, most horrifyingly, the thing was faceless, no features at all other than a large smile that had been drawn on with what looked like crayon, the rest of it just a white, blank canvas. A figure with no eyes.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Katie said.
I shone the torch around a little more, and noticed that, on the floor, in the space where the stove should have been, was a frying pan lying on the dirt, with two plastic fried eggs and a sausage in it – the kind you might give to a child.
‘She’s…cooking,’ I said.
Of course, McGreavy had made mannequins for a living. But why was there one in the house, now, all these years later? Some sort of sick joke by pranksters?
Katie and I looked at each other, unsure whether to laugh, or to cry. The sound of a scream from across the house meant we did neither.
We ran to the sound, coming from upstairs, finding both our brothers huddled together in one of the bedrooms, pointing at the boarded-up window. We got closer to it to find a small bed – or, what remained of a bed, rotten and smelly as it was – with the dummy of a child lying in it.
This mannequin was more detailed than the one in the kitchen. It had a face carved into it – a nose, and lips. Someone had even stuck two of those goggly eyes you can buy for arts and crafts to its forehead – giving the odd impression that it was lying in bed with its eyes wide open. On top of its head was a mop of curly hair.
‘What the fuck is that thing?’ my brother asked. His voice was quivering.
‘Well it’s a mannequin, what do you think?’ said Katie. ‘There’s one in the kitchen too.’
‘There’s more of them?’
My brother really was losing his shit. I felt a little embarrassed, if I’m honest. Michael remained calm and composed, eyes fixed on the thing in the bed, his head cocked as though he were looking at a scientific oddity.
‘I’ve had enough,’ Tom said. ‘This place is too weird.’
‘It’s obviously just a prank,’ Katie said. ‘Someone’s probably done it to scare stupid kids like us off the premises. Or it’ll be some of those serial killer groupies, trying to recreate the family home.’
‘That’s fucked up,’ my brother said, his face stark white.
‘Yeah.’ But Katie’s expression didn’t look like she thought it was fucked up. Instead, there was the trace of a smirk on her mouth. She looked like she was thoroughly enjoying the whole affair.
‘I think I’d like to leave now,’ Tom said. He looked at me. This was my chance to be a supportive older sister.
‘Well…maybe we’ve seen enough,’ I said. ‘This place is a bit freaky, after all.’
‘But we haven’t done the cellar yet!’ Katie exclaimed. ‘That’s the best bit!’
‘I don’t want to do the cellar. I’ve had enough,’ Tom persisted. ‘We’ve come out this far – there’s a bad vibe in this place. I feel like something bad is going to happen.’
‘Well, you can go home,’ Katie said. ‘But I’m going to go and explore the cellar. You don’t have to wait for me if you don’t want to.’
This was a difficult situation. I really didn’t want to choose between my friend and my brother, but it looked like I was going to have to. I stood, staring from one to the other of them; Katie’s face hard, certain; my brother’s pale and anxious.
That was when we heard it.
A soft, dragging sound. Coming from beneath us. Far beneath our feet. Like it was coming from the cellar.
I’ve never felt four people stop breathing at exactly the same moment, but that’s what happened. Then we heard it again. A dragging sound. Like someone dragging something heavy across a concrete floor.
‘What…what was that?’ Michael was the first one to speak. For the first time, he was looking scared too.
‘We need to get out of here,’ said Tom.
Cautiously, ever so cautiously, we tiptoed across what was Martin McGreavy’s son’s bedroom, headed out into what had once been his landing, and crept down what had once been his staircase. The dragging sound started to grow louder, more urgent, as if it knew we were getting away.
I grabbed my brother’s hand; he in turn took Michael’s arm. We made a beeline for the door, when I realised that Katie hadn’t moved. She was staring at the cellar door.
‘What are you doing? I asked in a desperate whisper. The boys headed out into the open air, but she remained rigid, staring.
‘Well, aren’t you curious?’ she asked. ‘Even just a tiny bit?’
‘No, I bloody well am not!’
‘I am. I want to see what’s making that noise.’
I couldn’t believe this. How could she be this stupid? As we were speaking, I noticed that the noise had stopped. Oh my god. What if whatever it was had heard us.
‘Katie, it could be dangerous down there. You don’t know who it is.’
‘I’ll just be quick.’
She was trancelike, moving towards the door as the sliver of moonlight from the front door fell across her face, and even as I grabbed her hand she pulled away from me, stronger than I was.
‘Katie, please.’
She opened the door, and before I could stop her, she was gone, heading down the steps.
‘For God’s sake!’
Nothing – not heaven and earth moving, not a maze of chocolate, not pigs flying – could make my feet unstick from their place in the ground and make me go down there and stop her. Instead I stood there, not even sure if I was breathing, as Michael poked his head back round the door.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, ‘Why are you taking so long?’
‘Your sister’s gone down to the cellar,’ I said.
We both shared a glance – a terrified, helpless, awful glance. But neither of us could move. The dragging sound increased in volume again; the urgency amplified, filling my ears.
And then we heard her scream.
Her scream was even more ear-splitting than that of my brother’s; it was the kind of scream a person makes when they are experiencing the last moments of their life. Both Michael and I ran toward the basement door and stood at the top of the steps, the torch light falling in shards across the stairs. I took in the sight below: Katie, running back up the steps, her expression like that of a person being hunted; but nothing and no one was behind her. I moved the torch around to see a group of tall shadowy figures lurking in the farthest corner of the room; nine of them, stiff as boards, faceless. I felt my heart stop, but I couldn’t understand why she was so frightened – they were only mannequins, like the ones in the rest of the house.
And then one of them moved.
Thud, thud, thud – Katie’s footsteps pounded up the final steps and she pushed us with all her might back through the door, back into the hallway.
‘Get out of here,’ she shrieked, ‘Get out of here now!’
We didn’t need to be told twice. We began to run, out of the door, down the drive, towards my brother, who was also running – we ran to the fence, and climbed it, and lost rucksacks and shoes and grazed our limbs in the process but we did not care, because all we knew was that we were running, running far away from that place and that sound and those awful, awful figures.
I don’t know what made me do it. Even now, when I look back on it, I’m not sure it was even real. It was probably the hysteria.
But I’m sure that when I looked back there – and I looked back there only once, when I was twisting myself around on the fence – I’m sure I saw another figure standing in the doorway; another mannequin, a young girl this time, about fourteen. Its only feature a drawn-on mouth, a mouth wide with terror, and its long, bony arm was stretched out towards us, pointing. On her feet was a pair of pink Converse trainers.
I didn’t look back twice.

Katie never told me what happened to her in the cellar that day. She never told a single soul.
She refused to ever speak of the incident at all, in fact, and would get very upset when we mentioned it. Once, I asked her if she saw the figures in the cellar, like I did, though I never mentioned the dummy wearing the Converse. She refused to engage with me. Her taste for horror waned; she never suggested going exploring again.
Sometimes Tom and I will talk about it. We’ll try and make a joke out of the whole thing now – must have been some twisted pranksters, we’ll say – but deep down, it scares us still, and I’ve never been able to go anywhere there are mannequins again, which, as you can imagine, makes life difficult in a department store. I don’t know why someone chose to put those things in there; I don’t know if they were mannequins made by McGreavy himself, or whether they were brought there after his death, and I don’t know how they knew that one of us would be wearing pink trainers. To ask those questions means delving deeper into the horror of that night.
I’ve never been back to the farmhouse. Katie and I became less close when we went to university, though we still keep in touch every now and then, even after she moved away from the village.
Michael and Tom are still close though. Tom says that Michael even went back there about a year ago – in broad daylight this time – to get some footage (he studies Film at university). He said he didn’t find any mannequins there, and all the furniture had been looted too.
The cellar door was locked when he went there, though. Whatever it was that lurked down there amongst the shadows was concealed away. And whatever it was Katie saw that night – whether she saw the same thing as I did, or maybe worse – was hidden away, and can only be left for you and I to speculate.

Credit: ShadowsintheLight23

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Returning Home | Haunted, Paranormal, Supernatural

by cnkguy
Returning Home | Haunted, Paranormal, Supernatural

Phone service goes away, strange noises can be heard in a distance and buildings from the past seem to reappear and then disappear.

Did the spirt of a loved one return with a message through a beloved pet?

A business trip is anything but normal as a ghostly encounter frightens one traveler.

A husband returns from the dead to comfort those missing his love.

If you have a real ghost story or supernatural event to report, please write into our show or call 1-855-853-4802!

If you like the show, please help keep us on the air and support the show by becoming an EPP (Extra Podcast Person). We'll give you a BONUS episode every week as a "Thank You" for your support. Become an EPP here:

#ghosts #ghoststories #halloween #horror #paranormal #supernatural #haunting #haunted #demonic #hauntedhouse #cemetery #evp #ghoststory #ghostbusters #unexplained #shadowpeople #investigation #truestory



, Real Ghost Stories

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luciferlaughs:This horned lizard has sinuses filled with blood,…

by cnkguy
luciferlaughs:This horned lizard has sinuses filled with blood,…


This horned lizard has sinuses filled with blood, which it squirts at predators as a defense mechanism.




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Born Lucky

by cnkguy
Born Lucky

born luckyReading Time: 10 minutes

I bought the winning Mega Millions lottery ticket last week, but it hasn’t been announced, and it never will be. And I need to tell you why.

I bought it last Thursday from the gas station 5 minutes from my house. I’m not usually a lottery person, but I figured with the jackpot being as high as it is, why not? It wasn’t until I got home that I noticed it, the message. Underneath the Mega Millions logo was a message printed so lightly it was barely visible.

> Come alone

And below that, at a bit of an angle, just as nearly-readable, was a set of GPS coordinates. I looked up where those GPS coordinates led, and it was about a three hour drive from my house, an apparently empty field just past the state line. I did some searching around online, looking for similar instances as this one, people seeing messages on their lottery tickets, but found nothing. I was apprehensive to go, I think with good reason, but I was intrigued, very much so. I had this piece of paper in my hand, one that had a one in almost 260 million chance of being worth upwards of a billion dollars, but not just that, this one also had something more to it. It may sound foolish to you, but the curiosity it had piqued was nigh impossible to ignore.

I had off work that next day, and I decided that I was going to drive that three hours. I knew it was a long shot…in fact, “long shot” is the wrong term. I was driving to somewhere I’ve never been, a place where there was apparently nothing but grass as far as they eye can see, for what was essentially no reason that was known to me. As I drove, the foolishness of the whole endeavor started to weigh on me, and I almost considered turning around. I looked at my GPS and realized I was already almost halfway there, so I said “fuck it” and pressed on.

The GPS took to me down a long dirt road, but the destination was about a quarter mile into a field of tall grass and cornstalks. I parked the car and trekked the rest of the way on foot. I got as close to the exact latitude and longitudinal points as I could and found myself as I’d imagined: standing in the middle of a big field with a stupid look on my face, and feeling even stupider

All I could see in any direction was more grass, trees, a few cornstalks here and there, and blue sky. The crickets chirped…and chirped…and chirped. I stood there for a few minutes, looking around, waiting for something, someone, anyone, anything. But the wind just kept blowing, the crickets kept chirping. I yelled out


No response.

“I’m here alone!”

No response.

I was disappointed. I didn’t know why, but I was disappointed. I had no idea what I was expecting, but whatever it was, it didn’t happen. I took an exasperated breath and resolved to walk back to my car, get in, turn around, and drive the three hours back home, thinking that I’d come out here solely to stand in a field for 10 minutes. Then I turned around.

Standing behind me were four people in suits. Over those suits they wore ankle-length jackets with hoods that completely obscured their faces. They stood shoulder to shoulder, effectively blocking the path from whence I’d come. I just sort of stood there; I had no idea what to say. This certainly isn’t what I was expecting, but then again, the entire scenario was strange, so perhaps this wasn’t all that unusual, considering.

Just as I was going to open my mouth to try to speak, one of them beat me to the punch.

“Do you have the ticket?”

I reached in my back pocket and retrieved my wallet, took out the ticket, and held it up. The two people on the inside of the line stepped back and to the side, extending their arms as if to invite me to walk past, an invitation I hesitantly accepted. I took awkward steps towards them, towards them, towards them….up to them, and started past them. Once I’d passed the cloaked people, they turned around and began to follow me.

Every instinct I had told me to run, but each of my legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. I kept on the way I’d come in, but about halfway back I was met by two more people in suits and cloaks who then led me into an area covered in grass that was taller than me. The other four continued following closely behind, and it was them I was most unsure of. We walked for about three minutes through the tall grass until we met yet another two people in suits and cloaks standing in a small circular area where the grass had been laid flat.

Those two then leaned over and each moved a sheet of the downed grass to the side, revealing a hatch door. It was then that I found my voice.

“Where does that go?” I asked them, even though I felt like I didn’t have a choice as to whether or not I’d be finding out regardless.

“To safety,” someone said from behind me. That answer actually put me at relative ease, and I still don’t know why. I had no reason to think anything good was going to happen, but that assurance gave me a strange peace of mind.

I walked up to the hatch and looked into it, finding a narrow staircase leading down to a landing with what looked to be an equally narrow hallway to the left. I looked over my shoulder and found the suited people slowly closing in behind me, not necessarily in a threatening way, so I started heading down the stairs. As I got about halfway down, some lights clicked on, which I was thankful for, as I’d expected to be in the dark once the sunlight was no longer an option.

The door to the hatch was closed behind me and the four cloaked people that followed closely behind. Two of the cloaked people squeezed around the sides of me and led the way as we passed a number of doors. We finally reached the end of the hall, and a set of double doors. One of the suited people removed a glove and placed their right hand on a scanner, and I heard a lock unclick.

They opened the door and led me in, and I was met by a man in a red suit with a white, hooded cloak. He looked to me and asked an odd question:

“Do you feel lucky?”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I just kind of shrugged.

“How did you feel when you bought the ticket?” he asked.

“Uh…just…sorta like I just bought a lottery ticket, I don’t know?” I was beyond nervous.

“The ticket you bought is a winner. The winner. Had you cashed it in, you would be wealthy beyond your wildest imagination.”

“So…why am I here? Why am I not cashing it?” his crypticness was immediately aggravating. “Wait, how do you even know that? The winning numbers haven’t even been drawn yet.”

“Do you remember who won the last time there was a substantial jackpot? Or the time before that?” the man asked. “Well, they’re dead. Or missing, I suppose, officially… But they’re dead.”

Again, I didn’t know what to say.

“An 11-person office pool won this past July in California, but the true winner was a woman named Patricia Stephens. They made sure another ticket with the winning numbers was printed so they could take her. Before that, a trust in Ohio was named as the winner, but it was really a small non-profit organization in Minnesota, which soon shut its doors without reason. About a month before that, a man named Richard Wahl in New Jersey was the supposed winner. The person before him that got the same numbers he did was Matthew Poulos, who left his house to go claim his winnings and was never seen again, just up and left his wife and newborn daughter.” he continued. “You were the first one we were able to get before the ticket was cashed and it was too late… before they replaced you with a new winner.”

“Too la…hold on…what?” I had no idea what was going on. “Too late for what?”

“Before they could get to you,” he said, as if I was supposed to know who he was talking about.

“Who?! What the fuck are you talking about?!” I just wanted to know what was happening, and getting these bits and pieces was frustrating.

“The MUSL, Multi-State Lottery Association. They’re doing…things. They’re taking the people that have won, the actual winners, and….experimenting. They believe there is something about the human brain, the human mind…consciousness… that influences what we call luck.”

I stared at the man for a moment.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” I blurted out, not meaning to be rude, but…it was ridiculous.

“I’m sure that’s how it sounds. Perhaps I can show you.” The man’s tone changed from one of hurried panic to a calm, relaxed one.

He led me through another door, down another hallway, and into what looked to be a hospital room, only with markedly more computers, none of which were on, and some of which looked like they hadn’t been touched in some time, others yet broken.

“What is this place, down here?” I asked, not just of the room we were in, but the entire bunker.

“This is where we monitor them,” he replied.

“The lottery people?”

“Yes…as well as…” he trailed off. “This is where we do monitoring of our own. We have reason to believe that the MUSL somehow tracks who is going to win. They somehow guide people, influence them. We–”

“Ow!” I cut him off and reflexively grabbed my right elbow after feeling a tiny pinch. I looked behind me and didn’t see anything, nor was there any blood.

“Are you okay?” the man asked.

“Yeah…sorry.” I focused my attention back to him.

“I have something to show you that may shock you. But I feel it would be best for you to see it nonetheless.”

I agreed, and followed the man out of the hospital-like room and farther down the hall, through another set of double doors, and to the right, where he unlocked a door much heavier than the rest had been. We walked into an almost pitch black room that was near-freezing.

“Watch your step,” the man told me.

Just as he did, I nearly lost my footing as we took a single step down.

“Morgue 3 lights,” he said aloud to no one in particular.

And with that, the lights came on, and we were standing before a number of tables, each with the remains of human beings on them, but each also with a human brain connected to various wires that led to laptops on side tables. In here, too, the computers seemed very dated and worn.

It was at this point that I became entirely overwhelmed by fear. Up until then, my experience had been strange, but more confusing than anything. Now I just saw myself as a test subject for these hooded strangers, whose faces I had yet to see, couldn’t help but imagine them operating on me and taking me apart. It became a surreal nightmare.

Before I could say anything, the man finally began explaining things.

“We have computer experts who are able to access the lottery systems. The numbers chosen are not random, as you’ve doubtless been led to believe. They are picked carefully, and the MUSL targets certain individuals, certain groups, and tracks their behaviors before and during their purchase of the winning tickets and subsequent wins. We believe you have been tracked, and we believe that if you would have waited until the numbers were drawn and later claimed your winnings, that shortly thereafter you would have been taken by them. We had our people put the message on the ticket, just as we have with previous winners, but as I said, you were the first to see it.”

My obvious question was, “why wouldn’t you do something other than put a message that no one thinks to look for and no one can really see?” But I figured they had their reasons, and besides, I was too frozen in fear to say anything.

“These pieces here…” he said as he walked further into the room, gesturing at the nearby remains, “these are what they’ve left behind. They complete their research and move the victims’ possessions, and what’s left of them, into a clandestine storage facility, which we were fortunately able to gain access to. You’re lucky we got to you before they did.”

The man in the red suit and white cloak, hood still over his head, obscuring his face in shadow, stood under the single light in the room and asked if I would join them. I still couldn’t say anything, but I suddenly felt like someone was behind me. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and two more people in black suits and hooded cloaks stood in the hallway, their hands behind their back, standing at attention.

“I….” I began, unsure of what to say. “What do you want me for?”

“We need you,” the two people behind me said in unison, seemingly a male and a female.

“Okay…what do you need me for?” I asked.

“We need to know what they know,” the man in the red suit said. “These discarded remains have been helpful, to be sure, but we need to do what they’re doing, get the information they’re getting. We want to monitor you as you claim your winnings, and you could perhaps even lead us to where they do…what they do.”

They wanted me to be bait, basically. I responded that I wasn’t sure, and the change in their mood was palpable.

“You are in a unique position. You could save lives!” the man in the red suit began yelling. “YOU CAN HELP THE WORLD, AND YOU AREN’T SURE?!”

Just as I was going to try to turn around and make an attempt at an escape, someone else brushed past me, also wearing a black cloak. They approached the man in the red suit and whispered something in his ear, then lowered their head, turned around, and exited the way they had come; I noticed that beneath their cloak they were wearing a lab coat. As soon as they had taken their leave, the mood changed yet again, and the feeling was so… odd.

“Of course, we can’t force you to do anything, young man,” he said in a calmer tone than he’d even started with. “You have your
ticket, and you may choose to do with it what you wish. Please, allow us to escort you out.”

I didn’t even have a chance to comprehend what was happening before I found myself being led down the corridors, past the operating room, past the large area, through the door with the palm-scanning pad, down the original hallway, and up the stairs. As I exited the bunker, I found that all of the people that I’d seen in there had followed, and then some. Once we were all outside, all of them with their hoods up, faces still hidden, the man in the red suit walked up to me, his head down.

“If I were you, I would tear up that ticket. Make no mistake, the winning numbers are on it, but what will follow, should you choose to make your claim, isn’t worth any amount of money, this I guarantee.”

I said nothing in reply, and instead turned around and sprinted back to my vehicle. I got in, pulled a quick U-turn and sped away from there as fast as my car would take me. I looked in my rearview as I sped down the dirt road and saw a giant plume of smoke rising from where the bunker had been.

I made it home, still more confused than anything. The night they drew the winning numbers, I found that I do indeed possess a winning ticket, and that I had correctly chosen all five numbers, plus the Mega Ball and the Megaplier. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes, and was hesitant to claim my winnings. But then something clicked in me. At the same time, I felt the urge to write this, to let the world know of what is ostensibly going on. But it sounds ridiculous, right? *That’s because it is!*

I am going to be a billionaire, and there is nothing I need to worry about. I was born lucky, I suppose. I can feel it running through my veins, it’s an odd sensation. I really am just a very lucky person. Right?


CREDIT : The Dead Canary

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