 Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome, Weirdos. I'm Darren Marlar, and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. As we step into the Halloween weekend, I thought it might be fun to share some Halloween-themed creepypastas, four fictional stories in fact, and to add to the halloweenishness of this episode, rather than spooky music in the background, as you can already tell, I'm back at the campfire to tell you these spooky stories, because it just feels more like Halloween this way. If you're new here, welcome to the show, and if you're already a member of this Weirdo family, please take a moment and invite someone else to listen. Recommending Weird Darkness to others helps make it possible for me to keep doing the show, and while you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com where you can find the show on Facebook and Twitter, and you can also join the Weird Darkness Weirdo's Facebook group. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. This first story is called The Murphy Horror House by Kelly Foster. Living in the town of Finley, you hear a lot of urban legends. Scary stories and rumors usually conjured up to convince the young kids to behave and not to stay out past their bedtimes. As I understand it, it wasn't always this way. We moved to town two months ago in mid-August, and immediately it became apparent that Finley took this time a year really seriously. Apparently it's coming up on two years almost to the day since a small string of seemingly random murders occurred here, all over the course of a week. All the flags in town are lowered to half-mast, and candles and flowers have been piled in front of a memorial to the victims in the town square. My mother and I haven't paid this much mind. It's sad, sure, but we've just been busy trying to acclimate to our new surroundings. Last Saturday afternoon we spent a few hours perusing the garage sales in our neighborhood, looking for antiques and interesting Halloween decorations. We came upon a yard that was rather sparse in their offerings. They had some cardboard boxes of books, a rack of old clothes, and an interesting-looking scarecrow sitting in a chair by the house. It had a sign tacked to its threadbare overalls, $5. Intrigued, I made my way over to it and was examining it with interest when a teenager approached me, also looking at the scarecrow. She seemed really nervous and wouldn't take her eyes off the thing. Hi, do you live here? I asked, gesturing to the house. This is a really cool scarecrow, super vintage. She shook her head furiously. No, I live down the street. I just wanted to... You're new here, right? New to town? I nodded, a puzzled smile on my face. Yeah, why? Just, you shouldn't buy that scarecrow, okay? You should leave it be. Haven't you heard the story? She said in a hushed voice. I glanced back at my mother who was browsing through the boxes of books, sending her, help me, eyes, in case this girl was a little unhinged. Uh, no, what story? She leaned in and proceeded to tell me the story that I have transcribed here to the best of my ability. The Murphy family prided themselves on a few important aspects of their modest, middle-class, Midwestern life. They rooted for their hometown football team, even when they were playing awfully, which was most of the time. They insisted on eating dinner together as a family at least five nights per week, with no cell phones allowed at the table, and every year they constructed the best Halloween yard display in the entire town. It was something Jack's grandparents had begun with him and his siblings when they were still small, and he grew up knowing that he would show his own kids the joy of spending a month setting up fake coffins filled with rubber mummies and half-decomposed zombies. After the family dinner, but before it started to get dark, they would haul in the props and decorations from their storage shed and begin the painstaking process of arranging them in the expansive front yard. Gallons of fake blood would be spilled and countless bags of fluffy spider webs would be stretched across every tree in Bush. Over decades of improvements, the display had grown from a small cluster of foam headstones with a few green hands protruding from the ground into a massive, fenced-off haunted experience, complete with fog machines and sound effects. The surrounding neighborhoods came to expect this wonderland of horror and looked forward to it, watching the Murphy's begin to build it on October 1 and excitedly standing in line to tour it on Halloween night. Lana, the youngest Murphy child, had even made them a modest Facebook page to attract even more attention. The spooky tour itself took roughly five to ten minutes, depending on how quickly the groups moved across the yard. The display was arranged with only one entrance and one exit. It was barricaded on all other sides, so the only way to escape was to finish walking through it, much like any traditional haunted house. The three kids took turns dressing up as voodoo dolls, murder victims or demonic clowns to jump out from behind the various props to terrify their visitors. At the end of the tour, everyone would receive their fair share of candy and orange pumpkin-shaped stickers that read, I survived the Murphy Horror House, followed by the respective year. A great time was always had by all, and Jack felt pride in knowing he was making his late grandparents proud. The display would vary slightly from year to year, depending on the latest and scariest props that Daisy, Jack's wife had either scavenged from the after Halloween sales last season or created from scratch. A group of witches huddled over a cauldron might end the tour rather than the traditional chainsaw-wielding madman. A grave digger might be on the left side rather than the right to accommodate creepier additions. As props were added, some were inevitably retired. Countless years of sitting out in the elements had begun to wear them down. But one part of the display would never change, not if Jack had anything to say about it. In the very center of the tour, illuminated by green and orange spotlights and hung a skew on a rugged cross-like post was the scarecrow. Jack made that scarecrow himself when he was 11 years old. Together with his father, he gathered the hay and bits of old fabric necessary to bring it to life, and it had appeared in that display ever since. The burlap sack that comprised the scarecrow's face was tattered and full of moth holes, but it still bore its signature crooked smile, stitched in black yarn and curling up a bit too far on either side. It wore an old straw hat, a denim work shirt that once belonged to his father, patched overalls and a pair of dusty boots. Its hair was an unruly black wig that Jack's mother had found at a garage sale, sticking out from under its hat in all directions, and its eyes were painted on, dark red triangles sunken into its face. The scarecrow was always the first to go up when the display construction began, and always the last to come down in an almost ceremonial fashion. It was the centerpiece of the whole production, even if most of the trick-or-treaters didn't find it scary anymore. Not compared to the more modern, detailed props that is, but Jack didn't care. The scarecrow ruled over the yard like a king, reminding everyone of where the tradition began. That year it was a week before Halloween, and the display was almost complete. Lana, Ryan and Trevor had long since given up on decorating and were inside, busy arguing over who would get to dress up as Jason from Friday the 13th. Jack was doing what he always did as the big night drew closer, walking the whole display over and over, checking to see that everything worked, nothing should be tweaked. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and Daisy was calling him to come in, but Jack insisted on one last stroll with his flashlight in hand. Rolling her eyes at her obsessive husband, Daisy relented and retreated inside to stop her children from killing each other over a costume. Jack entered through the stone gate at the entrance to the tour and followed the path as it wound back and forth through the yard. Occasionally he would stop to scoot a rubber rat out of the walkway with his shoe or a range of bloody vampires so its eyes caught the light just a bit better. In general, all seemed to be in order. The excitement of knowing it was almost showtime put a skip in Jack's step. He came around the corner to where the scarecrow was set up and at first he thought his eyes might be playing tricks on him in that dim light. The spotlights that usually illuminated the scarecrow were turned off. That in itself was odd as all the lights were on the same circuit and the other lights were still blazing around him. Even in the shadowy darkness it quickly became apparent that the wooden cross that held his old friend was empty. Daisy, Jack bellowed, spinning in circles and shining his flashlight every which way as if to catch the thief. Daisy poked her head out the front door. You rang, she replied, with more exasperation than concern. The scarecrow, it's gone, someone took it! Jack shouted. He was now sprinting toward the end of the maze, checking behind every grave and looking in the front and back of an old hearse. He was sure someone was still lurking inside the display, snickering at his distress. I am sure nobody took it, dear, you probably just left it somewhere, Daisy sighed. Jack ran up to her, panting from exertion. You know it's the first thing I put up. I saw it less than 20 minutes ago. It was there the last time I walked the maze. He protested, still shining the flashlight around and behind the porch and into the dark stillness of the yard. Nothing else seemed amiss. It's just some neighborhood kids playing tricks on us. I'm sure they'll bring it back. We'll arm the alarm system tonight before bed. Daisy replied, taking her husband by the elbow and gingerly guiding him inside. She didn't completely understand his fixation with the scarecrow, but she hadn't seen him this upset in quite some time. Okay, he said with a huff, clearly not placated. And that was what they did. The alarm system covered the entire yard from the end of the driveway and back to the house. It was a simple motion activated number. Anything larger than a squirrel would set it off with blaring sirens and flashing lights. Because of this, they only ever armed it during the month of October and only for the two weeks leading up to Halloween when most of the expensive props were put out. They were woken abruptly more than once in past years because somebody's dog got loose and triggered it accidentally. That night, however, the alarm did not go off. And in the morning, Jack awoke bright and early from a restless sleep. He ran to their bedroom window and peered down. Their room was on the second floor and overlooked the front yard. Stunned, he could plainly see even from a distance that the scarecrow was back on its post. Its head was even drooping slightly to the right just as he had left it the night before. How is this possible? Jack asked anxiously as they made breakfast later that morning and prepared to usher the kids off to school. Daisy shrugged, more focused on packing lunches than their conversation. Maybe you were mistaken. You said yourself the spotlights were off. No, I know what I saw. How did they get that scarecrow back on its post in the middle of the night without triggering the alarms? He asked. He was baffling to him. The scarecrow was as big as a full-grown man and unwieldy to carry. He always needed his eldest son Ryan's help hanging it from the post and he considered himself fairly fit. It must have taken at least two people to remove it and put it back, maybe three if they were young teens. Yet none of them had heard a thing. Daisy stuffed a bagel in his mouth and handed him his coffee. Maybe the alarm system is faulty. We haven't used it in a year. I could have somebody out to look at it tomorrow. Don't worry so much, Jack. You got what you wanted. It's back, isn't it? She reminded him. He was about to argue with her further when the sound of the morning news distracted them both. Lana turned up the volume on the TV in the living room and the rest of the family slowly congregated around it. Tragedy struck in Finland last night when 12-year-old Marla Greenberg was found murdered in her bed. We are still receiving details, but it appears she was at this point there was a pause as the newscaster swallowed thickly his expression deeply uncomfortable, disemboweled. Several of her internal organs are missing. There was no sign of forced entry and the police are investigating the entire Greenberg family. Vinley PD has declined to offer any interviews and the family asks for privacy during this difficult time. In shock and horror, Jack reached for the remote, taking it from Lana and changing the channel before the news story could continue. Oh, my God! Daisy cried. Her hands flying to her lips and her eyes welling with tears. I know, Marla. She's in Trevor's class. Oh, her poor parents. For all you know, her poor parents are the ones who killed her, Ryan said, with no small amount of snark. Trevor nodded his agreement, forever mimicking his older brother and Lana just rolled her eyes. Daisy shushed them, still fighting back tears. Jack was also thoroughly shaken by this news, although we tried not to show it. Nothing like this ever happened in their city. There were mostly happy, pleasant people here. Strange events from the previous night combined with this latest development to add to the heavy sense of unease that was building in his gut. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong. They hurried the kids off to school with multiple reminders to be careful and hurry home. As soon as the bus drove off down the street, Jack called the alarm company and scheduled maintenance for the following afternoon. Whatever was going on, nobody was setting foot in their yard again without them knowing it. That night, it took Jack hours to fall asleep. The kids had all come from school raving about Marla Greenberg's murder and spouting several theories their friends had told them. Try as he might to change the subject at dinner. It was all any of them wanted to talk about. Jack supposed he understood Marla had been their age. They must be frightened that something might happen to them too. The creepy time of year did nothing to help the situation. It all fed right into their mounting Halloween hysteria. After spending hours tossing and turning in bed, mulling it all over in his mind, he decided to give up and go get a glass of water from the kitchen. As he rose from bed and passed by the bedroom window, something outside caught his eye. He hurried over and looked down into the yard, rubbing his eyes to make sure he was actually seeing what he thought he was seeing. The scarecrow was gone again. His hands gripped the window sill tightly, his knuckles turning white. It was everything he could do not to wake Daisy. He knew she'd ride it off as another neighborhood prank, cite the broken alarm system as the culprit and assure him that it would be fixed the next day. The straps that held the scarecrow to its post were loose and waving gently in the nighttime breeze and he could barely make out little bits of hay leading off into the direction of the exit. Part of him wanted to sit on the front porch with a baseball bat and wait for the intruders to return in case they decided to steal other props from him. But something about the whole situation gave him pause. Why would they bring the scarecrow back only to steal it again? Were they just messing with him? What were they doing with it? It didn't feel right. Reluctantly, he retrieved his glass of water and tried to go back to sleep but this time he cracked the window open a few inches to better hear what was going on in the yard. He slept facing the window. Jack woke hours later to the sun streaming in and Daisy shaking him roughly by the shoulder. Bewildered, he blinked his sleepy eyes open and stared up at her face. She looked extremely pale and she had clearly been crying. Jack, it's happened again. She said quietly or throat tight, come downstairs. Not fully awake and barely understanding what she meant, he got up and reached for his bathrobe. In his haste, he forgot to glance out the window. The TV was blaring when they entered the living room. The kids were poised in a semi circle around it frozen in place like statues as they watched the news story unfold. In a shocking turn of events, a second murder has taken place in Finlay roughly 24 hours after the first. The scene at 13-year-old Daniel LeBeau's bedside was equally grisly according to Finlay PD. This time the boy's heart and lungs were missing. Jack's own heart sunk into his stomach at these words. The image on the screen showed crime scene tape crisscrossing the LeBeau's front door as paramedics loaded a covered body into the back of an ambulance. Possibly most horrifying of all, they lived only two streets over from the Murphy's. The Greenbergs at least lived on the other side of town. This was getting too close for comfort. Again, no sign of forced entry was found and the police are now convinced that this is the work of an organized, highly stealthy and sadistic killer. Finlay has decided to enforce a mandatory curfew of 9 p.m. for all children under 18 until the perpetrator has been brought into custody. Daisy switched the TV off. This time none of the kids cracked jokes or even moved a muscle. Lana was quietly crying and trying to hide it. Dad, is somebody gonna kill us? Trevor asked with wide eyes, craning his head up to look at his father. Jack put a firm hand on the boy's head. Now, Trev, I would never let anything happen to you guys. Jack, maybe we should keep them home from school today. Daisy said weakly. She looked like she might pass out. Jack shook his head. No, we don't put our lives on hold because some psych goes trying to scare everyone. That's just letting him win. The police are doing their jobs. We need to do ours. Guys, do you want to stay home? Three heads shook slowly from side to side. Most likely they feel safer in a school surrounded by plenty of adults and security supervision, not to mention all other friends. Okay, then let's get ready. No sooner had the words left his mouth than he thought he caught movement in his peripheral vision. Something was outside. He approached the picture window that faced the front yard and pushed the curtains farther apart, expecting to see a bird or someone walking their dog. Everything was perfectly still in the Halloween display. Everything was as it should be. The scarecrow, he was no longer surprised to see, was once again back on its post, smiling merrily in the morning mist. Later that day as the alarm system repairmen wandered around their property checking on all the motion sensors and wiring, Jack took another stroll through the display and came to a stop in front of the scarecrow. He stared up at it, hands on his hips, brow furrowed deeply in thought. He had taken a day off work to be there when the maintenance guys came and was spending the time trying to logically work through what could be happening on his property. He hadn't yet told Daisy about the scarecrow's latest disappearing act. He wanted to solve the puzzle on his own and he knew her answer would be, it was just a dream. If the alarm system had been broken for the last two days, he supposed it was possible that a few older kids had snuck into the yard and moved the scarecrow. They must have moved quickly, especially last night. It disappeared and reappeared again within the span of at most three hours by his estimation. Odd that even with the window open he didn't hear them working. The straps that held its arms and waist to the post were literally nailed into the wood, so they would have needed to pull out the nails and then replace them afterward. How could they not have heard the sound of someone hammering? He walked a bit closer to the scarecrow examining it. Something was off about it. He could see it now that he was up close. It seemed fuller than it usually was. Over many years straw and stuffing had fallen out of its torso and limbs and the kids diligently packed it back in every other season or so, but even with occasional fixes it was always rather slim. Now its chest and stomach seemed robust as if it had been generously restuffed. He almost chuckled to himself. What was he really suggesting here? That some kids were stealing his scarecrow just to... what, refill it? Make it look nicer? It was a ridiculous notion. Daisy or someone had obviously come out and stuffed it a bit more last night before they went to bed. Sighing, Jack gave the old scarecrow a pat on the leg and went to meet the alarm company guys at the other end of the yard. They were finishing up their assessment. Mr. Murphy, the lead worker said. He was scratching his head as he handed Jack a clipboard with some data and forms to sign. Strangest thing, as far as we can tell your alarm system is in perfect work and order. Jack froze pen in hand. What do you mean? I mean, it works just fine. It always has. We can test it and show you. Yeah, please do. I need to know that it works. Jack interrupted becoming somewhat hysterical now. So they did. It took turns walking through various parts of the yard with the system armed and sure enough, it was quickly set off each time. They disarmed it immediately after every test so as not to cause an uproar with the neighbors. Jack insisted that they try walking through the display itself and up to the scarecrow just to be sure. They didn't even make it halfway there before the sirens blared and the lights flashed. It doesn't make sense, Jack said under his breath after a solid half-hour of testing the alarm. Could the intruders possibly be disarming it and then arming it again when they leave? He asked the workers. He was now desperate to find an answer, any kind of answer. Their leader shook his head. They need the passcode and access to the remote. There's no evidence the system's been tampered with. He paused. Mr. Murphy, nothing is officially missing from your property, correct? He was looking at Jack with that suspicious side-eye that clearly indicated he was concerned about the man's mental health. Well, no, not right now, but then I wouldn't worry. If you have any other concerns, don't hesitate to call us again. That evening as Jack was helping Daisy prepare dinner and trying to figure out a way to discuss everything he'd learned that day with her, you overheard the children gossiping amongst themselves in the living room. I heard that they didn't just take Danny's heart and lungs, they took some of his skin too, Trevor was saying to Ryan and Lana, shut up, that's gross, it's not true. Lana retorted, matter-of-factly. Well, my friend Christina lives a few houses down from them, and her sister Tasha said that the police found pieces of what looked like hay in and around the bodies Ryan chimed in. So they were killed by horses, Trevor asked with a frown, or cows, Ryan replied. This made Lana giggle. Dies enough, Daisy snapped. She left the kitchen to gather them for dinner. Jack hadn't moved an inch the entire time he'd been listening to his kids' conversation. He'd seen bits of hay recently himself, hadn't he? Hay and straw, small piles of it leading off out of their yard when the scarecrow was taken. Could their disappearing prop and the two grisly murders be connected somehow? Was the person committing these heinous crimes also sneaking into their yard each night? It had to be a coincidence. Still, his blood ran cold at the thought. That night after the security system was armed and Daisy and the kids were fast asleep, Jack sat up on the front porch with a flashlight in one hand and his metal baseball bat in the other. Mondo up against the chilly October air, he made sure to sit back in the shadows where he would not be noticed and he kept his flashlight switched off. This time he was going to see who or what was moving the scarecrow and he was going to call the police. He just had to catch them in the act to prove he wasn't going crazy. Hours passed in stillness and silence. It was getting even colder and Jack grabbed the blanket that he'd brought outside with him, wrapping it around his shoulders. Nothing in the yard was stirring. The prompts were all as they had left them, casting haunting silhouettes on the grass and the moonlight. From where he sat, he could make out most of the scarecrow's hat poking up out of the center of the display and a few tufts of its fizzy black wig. He kept his eyes trained on that, the minutes ticking away. Jack! The blood curdling screams split the night and snapped Jack out of his slumber. He had dozed off in the chair. At first he thought he had dreamt his wife's cry for help, but then it came again from inside the house. Jack fumbled to turn on his flashlight and pointed it at the scarecrow with shaking hands. It was gone. He leapt up and off the porch, triggering the alarm with an ear splitting peel that drowned out Daisy's screams. He sprinted closer to the display, shining his light up and over into the center of it, but now he was certain the scarecrow was definitely missing and piles of straw led away from its post, away to the left and past where he stood, past him, across the porch and through their open front door. The screams mixed with the deafening siren of the alarm created total chaos as Jack flew through the door and up the stairs, his feet barely touching the floor following Daisy's voice. He pounded down the hallway and toward her bedrooms. He tried to hold his hands to his ears to block out the alarm, but they still had a death grip on the baseball bat and flashlight. He wasn't sure, but he thought her cries were coming from Trevor's room. He arrived at the open bedroom door just after Daisy's strangled yells were silenced and were quickly replaced by his own. There, crouched over Trevor's pale and mangled body, was the scarecrow. Daisy was slumped over on the floor behind it, a kitchen knife still in her limp hand as if she had tried and failed to defend her son. The scarecrow ever so slowly paused and turned to look at Jack, who was still standing in the doorway with his mouth agape and his whole body shaking. Its head was illuminated by the beam of Jack's flashlight. The straw hat and black hair were all too familiar, but now instead of burlap and string, it was wearing Trevor's distorted and bloodied face, his skin. It smiled far too wide and with Trevor's mouth, it said, trick or treat. By the time the girl was done telling me this tale in magnificent detail, the sun was starting to dip toward the horizon and the garage sale was closing up shop for the night. I grinned at her and thanked her for the entertainment. I guess it's true what they say about small towns being full of colorful characters. I probably bought the scarecrow from the lady who was selling it. Who could resist with a crazy story like that? Totally perfect for the season. It's in the garage at the moment, but I'm going to set it up next to our porch tomorrow night, alongside our freshly picked pumpkins. I really feel like it'll put the whole Halloween vibe together. Coffee in a fire. All right, here we go. This next story is called Don't Take Your Eyes Off Your Children This Halloween and it was written by Michael Richardson. Dad, just a few more houses, please. Why did I say yes? I blame myself every day, but how could I not? If you saw his face, if you saw those big, beautiful brown eyes staring up at you, I don't see how you could refuse. My son Daniel dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow for the second year in a row pulled and tugged at my hand until I relented. I agreed to just a few more houses, then we go home, okay? I was weak, spurned on by love. We finished our third block of houses. His pillow sack was almost full of all sorts of candy. The fact I was reminded of every passing minute as I lugged it around on my back. He had one of those small plastic pumpkin carriers for the front doors and then he'd run back to me and dump the contents into the pillowcase. Our system was flawless, the perfect combination of teamwork and strategy meant to produce maximum amounts of candy. Those answering the door would see an adorable Jack Sparrow with an empty bucket and most of them would add some extra candy bars or gum packets to accommodate that poor pirate who didn't have anything in his bucket. So, well, he didn't need any more candy. He was just enjoying the night and unseasonably warm October after so many years of miserably cold Halloween nights. I couldn't say no to him. Children have only so many years of trick or treating in them and I wanted to make the most of each one. We walked down an alley to the next block, the last street before the country fields took over. The first house was lit up with orange and white lights. Fake spider webs draped over their hedges. He practically sprinted up to the door, not noticing the fake body sitting on the chair. At least I thought it was fake. It started to move. I tried to yell and warn Daniel, but the body on the chair already grabbed my son's arm, emitting a howling growl at the same time. Daniel, Captain Daniel was unfazed. He was starting to laugh. I was so proud of him in that moment. After thanking the woman at the door and wishing her a happy Halloween, he sprinted back to me, excitedly dumping the contents of his conquest into the bulging pillow sack. Dad, did you see me? I wasn't scared at all. Buddy, you are a champ. Man, that was me. A little bit of pee would have come out. Bet on it. We shared a laugh together and he threw his arms around me. It'd be the last time either of us would laugh. I looked down at his eyeliner-streaked face, his beautifully crafted hand-sewn pirate hat, courtesy of the missus, and to my everlasting shame, I said the words that haunt me every day. Okay, little Captain, one more house. There were only three more on the street. The two besides the house we had just gone to were dark and had no decorations on them. Every child apparent knows this as the universal sign of don't bother coming to my house for candy. So we skipped those two and ended up at the house at the end of the road. To his credit, Daniel noticed that it also didn't have any decorations, but the front porch light was on. He looked at me, silently asking for my approval. I didn't get a sense that anything was particularly wrong or off about the house. Even though it didn't have any of the lights or spider webs or fake bodies the other houses had, the outside light was on and we could both see a red-and-white candy-striped bucket on the front porch. There was also a note above the bucket, and I could already guess that it instructed you to take a few pieces of candy and be on your way. But I was always cautious, ever weary. I told him to stay on the sidewalk and I walked up to the front porch. I picked up the note and it read, If no one should answer when you ring the bell, please take a candy and I wish you well. There were no windows that I could subtly peer into, but the house on the outside was perfectly presentable. The porch was clean, the lawn crisply cut and clearly maintained. Up here at inside the bucket in my eyes lit up. Even as an adult, I knew that full-sized chocolate bars were rare, but there they were. Snickers, Mars, Oh Henry, all of the classics in full-sized glory. I was so excited for Daniel. I turned around and went back to the sidewalk where he was practically brimming with energy. Even after a long night like this one, he was raring to go. I put on my best pirate voice. All right, Captain, the note says to knock on the door and if no one answers, you can take one of the treats from the bucket. Just one though, okay? Make it fair for the other children. I mean, matey, he said back in his best pirate voice. We gave each other a fist bump. He walked up the pathway to the front door. I made sure to watch him the whole way. Could be another setup. Some clever house owners putting together an elaborate ruse to get the children's guard down before they reveal the big scare. My phone vibrated once in my pocket. No doubt it was a text message from my wife. I watched as my son knocked on the door and patiently waited. We agreed before the night began that if nobody answered within ten seconds, then it was time to move on. I remember every detail of those next ten seconds. One, I took my phone out of my pocket, still keeping an eye on Daniel. Two, I entered the code in without looking at the phone, unlocking the screen. Three, Daniel was still waiting at the door. Four, through a muscle memory, I brought up the new messages screen, still not taking my eyes off my son. Five, he began to turn around. Six, he started to head towards the bucket left on the front porch. Seven, he smiled at me. Eight, I glanced down at my phone. Sent, you and the captain okay? Nine, reply, on our way home. Ten, Daniel was gone. I didn't register it at first. I figured he was hiding behind something. Daniel, I called out. Daniel? There was no reply. I ran up to the porch, but I found nothing. No clue as to where he had gone. There was no way he could have ran around the house, not in the span of one or two seconds. No way. I looked up and down the street, but there was no one. No parents, no kids, nobody. Did someone open the door? Was he inside? I started to pound furiously on the front door, screaming my son's name. I was screaming at the top of my lungs as I tugged at the door handle, trying to get it open. I must have screamed loud enough because the woman whose house Daniel was so brave at opened her door and yelled after me. Is everything all right? No. Have you seen my son? The little boy dressed as a captain? Oh my goodness. No, I haven't. Should I call someone? Call someone. His cell phone. I smacked myself in the forehead. I forgot he had one on him. I grabbed the phone out of my pocket and dialed his number. It went straight to voicemail. I almost threw the phone away right then and there, but I tried to calm myself down, tried to think back. But all like a picture was someone, some thing opening the door, grabbing my son and covering his mouth before he could scream for me. I dialed 911. I didn't care if we found him later. If he was playing some trick on me, I just wanted him back. I told the neighbor to grab a flashlight and help me look for him. When the cops arrived, the neighbor and I had been looking all around the house, trying to find a way in. I was about to break a window when I heard the sirens, those wailing screams echoing in the distance. I took such comfort in those sirens. I just knew in my heart that as soon as they got here, my son would pop out somewhere, tell me it was all a big joke. I wouldn't scold him. I wouldn't yell at him. I'd just hug and squeeze and hold him until he left for college. I told the cops everything down to the exact details as I remembered it. They also pounded on the door, but when they saw my frantic behavior, the impatience riddling my body, they went ahead and broke the door in. They told me to stay behind, let them clear the house. I wanted to protest, to scream at them, to tell them nothing could keep me away, but when they drew their guns and yelled into the house, I knew they were taking this seriously. Five of the longest minutes of my life passed by. I don't know when she did it, but at one point I looked down and the neighbor was holding my hand. She had children of her own. She knew what was happening. What could be happening? When the two cops came out of the house, the look on their faces said it all. I almost broke down right there on the street, but I had to hold on a little longer. I tore into the house, passed the outstretched arms of the officers and started yelling for my son, bursting in and out of each room with ferocious intent. It wasn't until I went up the stairs into what was once a bedroom that I realized no one was living in the house. No one had been living in this house for years. I ran down the stairs, almost knocking the officers down as I ran up to the woman, the helpful neighbor. I grabbed her and started yelling, Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me no one was living here? She started to stammer, taken aback by my sudden turn, my aggression towards her. I didn't know. I've only lived on this street for a few months. I never saw any would come in or out, but that could be for a hundred different reasons. I'm sorry I didn't know. I stood there on the street, breathing heavily, holding on to the shoulders of a woman I only met a few minutes before. The officers placed their hands on my arms when I released her. I looked back at the house, a two-story monstrosity bathed in darkness, and I knew. However impossible it was, I knew right there and then. Daniel wasn't coming back. Things for me were dark, really dark for many months afterwards. I don't really remember all of the police searches, the news bulletins, the press conferences. I ignored the pitied looks of my friends, the suspicious glares of my neighbors. My wife and I, despite everything, remained strong together. Every night we told each other, No body, no death. In our hearts Daniel was alive. Initial investigation of the house amounted to almost nothing. The previous owner had declared bankruptcy and abandoned the house. The bank hadn't been able to sell it to anyone, so it sat there, collecting dust. No one could account for the maintained lawn out front, and the police never found any bucket full of chocolate bars or any note. I don't care what they say, I know what I saw. I know there were some on the police force that suspected me. I went through rigorous interrogations, but they came up with nothing as I knew they would. I didn't blame them. If I'd been in their position, I would have suspected me as well. After three months, all things concerning Daniel dissipated, except for in our household, of course. We still put out flyers all over the surrounding neighborhoods every week. We still capped up to date with social media pleading anybody and everybody to keep an eye out for our boy. I drained my accounts, hiring private detectives to look into the house, the neighborhood, anything that I thought could help. They all came up with nothing. No clues, no traces. Daniel had simply vanished. Every night I had the same nightmare. Someone knocks on the door to our house, and I race down, hoping against all hope that it's Daniel. And every time I open the door, it is Daniel, and he's standing there in his Captain Jack uniform and his pumpkin candy carrier. I scream out in joy and grab a hold of him, except his flesh starts to melt and sift through my fingers. His body turns into sand, and suddenly my son is a pile of dust and dirt on the carpet. Then I wake up. Two weeks ago, I was on the couch in the afternoon, staring at the ceiling when I heard a knock on the door. I got up slowly, thinking it was a reporter coming to do a follow-up or some punk kid claiming to have seen my son, something that happened all too often. I opened the door and nearly screamed, not in joy, but in sheer terror. My son was standing there. Daniel. My wife came barreling down the stairs, and she screamed as well, but hers was all happiness. She pushed me out of the way and took Daniel up on her arms. I couldn't move. I kept waiting for his body to turn into mush, his ashes spilling through my wife's fingers. I kept waiting to wake up in my bed, sweating and crying, but that didn't happen. Against every single odd in the book, Daniel had been returned. Through all the crying and hugging and kissing, Daniel didn't say a word. He was just there. No expression on his face. Nothing registering in his eyes. We put it down to shock. Clearly, something had happened to him. As each day passed, not a single doctor or therapist or police officer could find anything physically wrong with him. Everything should be in working order, said one particularly pompous doctor after examining Daniel. I can't tell you where your son was or what happened to him, but whatever happened, nothing's wrong with him on the outside. Nothing was wrong with him on the outside. I nearly knocked out that smiling white coat right then and there, but I'm so elated to have Daniel back that I shrugged it off, ignored it. Nothing mattered anymore. Daniel was home. Later that night, I was sitting at the dinner table and having touched Daniel in when I came to the sudden realization that I wasn't exactly happy. I should have been. I should have been screaming over the rooftops with complete joy in my heart, but something was wrong. Daniel wasn't Daniel anymore. That happy, brave boy had come back different. I tried to think about why. Obviously, it had something to do with where he'd been, what had happened to him, but there was something else, something nagging at the back of my neck. Then with a cold, sinking feeling, I remembered. Daniel had said something when I tucked him in. He whispered, I like it here. It didn't register at the time, but sitting at the table, I didn't like it. What did that mean? I ran up the stairs and opened his door. He was sleeping just as he should have been. I almost laughed out loud. What was wrong with me? My son was home. That's all that mattered. A few nights ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to see Daniel standing in the doorway. He wasn't moving. He was just standing there. I looked over to my wife, but she was sleeping. I turned back to Daniel. Hey there, Captain. Are you okay? He didn't say anything at first. He just looked at me and smiled. And for a second, my blood turned cold. My flesh raised. That smile wasn't my son. Then he whispered something, but I couldn't hear it. What was that? I asked him. Then he sprinted towards me so fast, so quick, and he yelled it, I like it here. Then he ran back out of our room and into his and slammed the door. My wife slept through the whole thing. Last night was the turning point. I was just about to lock the front door for the evening when my wife started screaming and I mean screaming. I was convinced in the few seconds it took me to bound up the stairs that someone was killing her in a way. I was right. I burst through the bedroom door to find Daniel standing over my wife with an axe. He had that dead smile on his face again. The axe was raised above his head when I tackled him. He started to scream. I started to cry. He just kept repeating the same thing over and over again. You'll like it there. You'll like it there. You'll like it there. Now I'm lost. I don't know what to do. Who to turn to and his Halloween approaches. I think I have to go back back to the house where it all began. I'm going to take Daniel. Maybe he can show me where he wants us to go. All right, so this one's called Be Home by Midnight on Halloween night and the writer calls themselves Sir Scare Me. Growing up, my dad would tell me scary stories, ones he claimed he experienced during his childhood. His stories would both fascinate and terrify me. As I grew older, the stories he would share became less frequent until they eventually came to an end. Maybe because I stopped believing. I'd come to the conclusion that in a fun, twisted way, he was just finding enjoyment by filling my young imagination with haunted visions. However, after a recent trip home, my mind has been changed. I believe him and think his childhood stories are more rooted in reality than I would like to admit. Earlier this month, I returned home from college for a quick weekend visit with the family. I was sitting on the living room couch and my dad, in his cozy recliner, we were flipping channels when we stopped on one of the nightmare on Elm Street movies. That's when I asked him if he remembered the scary stories he would tell me as a kid. I was expecting a smile response, but to my surprise, he seemed oddly serious. I chuckled out loud at his reaction, but with a straight face, my dad looked directly at me and he said everything he once told me was the truth. I'll be continued to talk, and he reminded me that his family had moved to a small town in Mississippi when he was about eight years old. The house across the street was vacant, boarded up, and he'd quickly come to discover it was haunted. It was two stories and sat tilted like it would collapse at any moment. His parents would warn him to stay away, but that did not stop his curiosity. It was done until several years later that the house was eventually demolished, mysteriously leaving behind only the front wooden staircase and a stone covered well on the now eerie open field property. He thought that once the house was gone, things might be normal. He'd experienced enough strange encounters firsthand and also through stories his group of young friends would share amongst each other. But he said it wasn't just the house, nor the oddities that took place in his neighborhood, but the entire town he grew up in was far from ordinary. The more I listened to him talk, the more I started to believe again. I asked him to tell me one of his many Halloween stories. He obliged, asking if I remembered the one about the disappearance of his best friend Jake, an event that still haunts him to this day. My parents would never let me go out trick-or-treating, alone, even in high school, and I remember this caused me quite some embarrassment with my friends. I joked with him, saying, all he did was shelter me from having adolescent Halloween fun. You can blame my apocalypsis, he responded. I'd never heard that word before, so I asked him what it meant. Sounded like something to made up. Googling, he said, believe it or not, there's a phobia for everything, even for your most obscure fears. My dad continued, saying he just wanted to be a good parent. He was only trying to protect me, to ensure that I returned home safe and was in bed by night's end. He's ever forgotten about his friend Jake, and the Halloween they spent out in the park waiting for the O-lantern man. Jake was my dad's first friend when he moved to the small river town. They met at school and would spend most of their free time hanging out around the neighborhood. Jake conveniently lived just a couple of streets away. As they grew older, Jake quickly garnered the reputation of being the bad boy. He was always up to trouble and began spending more time in detention than in class. There are some stories my dad would rather not share with me, mostly because he was a bit ashamed of his behavior. But Jake's antics would occasionally influence his decisions for the worse. One day, Jake vanished. He stopped showing up for class freshman year of high school, and the rumors circulating around town were that he was sent to boarding school. His house was deserted and soon had a for sale sign out in the front yard. Roughly a year or so passed and a lot of my dad's questions about what had happened to Jake went unanswered. That is until Halloween night when Jake made a sudden reappearance. My dad had been left home alone as his parents attended an adults-only Halloween party. He promised them that he would stay inside the house and hand out candy to the trick-or-treaters. Only moments after his parents departed, there was a knock at the door. Expecting a group of kids and costumes, my dad was in shock and disbelief to see Jake standing on the porch. He was chomping down on a piece of candy dressed in dark clothing with ripped jeans and sporting a backwards hat. It had been about a year, but my dad said Jake looked exactly the same. Jake wanted nothing to do with answering questions about his whereabouts. Instead, he pushed, teased, and under relentless peer pressure convinced my dad to accept a dare to play a Halloween variation of the game Chicken. The rules were simple. See who could stay out the latest on Halloween night without running home scared. Jake was acting very strange that night. The two weren't speaking much, so to kill some time they ended up strolling around the neighborhood, searching for houses with candy bowls left outside. Their final stop that Halloween was at the local park a few blocks down. It was located on the darkened outskirts of the neighborhood, tucked away from the houses. My dad and Jake would frequent this spot growing up. It had a Little League baseball field and during the summers the two would spend hours playing home run Derby and hanging out in the dugout. My dad remembers it being a brisk October night. As they walked to the park, all he could hear was silence and the sounds of chirping crickets that echoed in the surrounding fields. There were no lights and other than the glow of the nearly full moon above, the park was an eerie pitch black. My dad kept wondering how the night would end. He tried thinking of several ways to scare Jake, determined to bring an end to the stupid game of Halloween chicken, but nothing clever came to mind. It was going to take more than jumping out from behind a corner to send Jake running in fear. The two arrived at the baseball field, only spending a few minutes sitting on the steel dugout bench before Jake stood up and began pacing back and forth. Something visibly had him on edge. My dad continued to breast-jake for an explanation to answer why they were sitting out in the cold, why Jake had come back so suddenly on Halloween of all nights. When Jake noticed my dad was wearing a wristwatch, he became obsessed with asking for updates regarding the time. He first asked around 11pm, followed by the same question almost every five minutes thereafter. Finally my dad said enough was enough, Jake was driving him insane. He grabbed Jake by the shirt collar and pressed him up against the dugout fence. One last time my dad demanded answers, but Jake remained silent. That's when my dad finally gave up and decided it was time to go home. To this day, he is still haunted by some of Jake's final words. As he took his first step outside the dugout, your herd Jake began to softly speak, be home by midnight on Halloween night, or the o'lantern man will sense your fright. For all bad souls who were not in bed, o'lantern man will snatch your head, and with your head he will cast a spell, a pumpkin you shall be from now until next Hallow's Eve. He's real, Jake shouted. He's not some stupid folklore Halloween tale to scare us. The warnings are true. I've seen it with my own two eyes. I swear to God, o'lantern man is real. My dad admits his emotions caught up to him. He was freaked out by Jake's odd behavior and his urban legend warning. He didn't know what to believe, and it was late. He knew he should be home, not out alone in the park. Rather than encourage Jake's bizarre behavior, my dad decided to say good night and continued on his way. Jake yelled out, requesting one final update for the time. My dad glanced at his watch. He was midnight, but this time he decided not to answer. He was only a short way up the gravel path when Jake led out a horrified gasp. My dad turned around and could see Jake pointing out in the direction of the outfield grass. Do you see it? Jake whispered out loud. My dad peered out into the surrounding darkness and in the distance could see a faint, flickering light. He stood still, watching as the mysterious glow moved closer. Attempting to get Jake's attention, my dad shouted out several times that it was time to leave, but Jake was stuck in a trance, continuing to mumble the warning out loud. Be home by midnight on Halloween night, or the Olantern Man will sense your fright. For all bad souls who are not in bed, Olantern Man will snatch your head. The light shined brighter, moving closer with each passing second. My dad was frozen in fear, blinded by the orange blaze. It was now just outside the dugout, directly in front of Jake. A loud and high-pitched, crackling laugh echoed through the park. In a sudden moment of awareness, Jake began to run for his life. My dad says it was hard to see who or what was hiding behind the light, but he caught a glimpse of what looked like a fire-lit jack-o'-lantern, carved out with an evil, sinister face. The two friends ran together side by side as fast as they could, away from the park and back into the neighborhood. My dad, who was quicker than Jake, continued speeding ahead. As my dad approached the porch of his house, he could hear Jake screaming in the distance, but at the moment, he could only think of his own safety and barreled his way into the house, locking the door behind him. He called out for his parents, but they were still gone. He was alone. He debated calling the police, but before he could make any rational decisions, there was a loud thud at the door. He could hear Jake screaming for help. My dad raced down the stairs towards the front door, but the loud cries quickly became a disturbing silence. Nervous to unlock the door, he shouted out several times for Jake to respond, but there was no answer. Mustering up the courage to slowly crack the door open, my dad peeked outside. He glanced around and was suddenly shaken by yet another mysterious discovery. On the porch, piled on top the welcome mat was a dark shirt, ripped blue jeans, a pair of empty shoes, and a baseball hat. He recognized them as Jake's belongings, the same exact items he was wearing that Halloween night, and hidden underneath the clothes was a giant orange pumpkin. To this day, my dad is still unsure if it was a well thought out prank, or if he and Jake had indeed encountered some kind of evil entity that Halloween. But one thing my dad does know for certain. He never saw Jake again. I jokingly teased my dad about the O'lantern Man story, and I tried to get him to admit the absurdity of the urban legend, but he held on to his truth. He insisted that the more he thought about it, the more he believed Jake was genuinely scared that night, that something terrible had happened to him, something unexplainable. I asked him about the pumpkin that when he found on his porch hidden beneath Jake's stuff, what happened to it? If he believed the urban legend to be true, did he save the pumpkin, thinking it could be Jake? My dad said he left everything outside that night. He was so scared he locked the door and ran straight to his room to hide in his bed. In the morning, his parents asked him what happened to the front porch. They seemed upset, and my dad played dumb, hoping that maybe it was all just a nightmare. His parents told him to go take a look, and he remembers nervously trembling as he approached the front door. When he stepped outside, he saw that Jake's belongings were still there, but scattered across the entryway, was the pumpkin. It had been completely smashed. Teenage Halloween vandals? Possibly, he thinks. Or, if you choose to believe the urban legend, maybe a lantern man returned to ensure that a bad soul like Jake would never be coming back to celebrate Halloween ever again. Because for Jake, Halloween was never about trick-or-treating, carving pumpkins, dressing up in costumes, or watching scary movies. His idea of Halloween fun was giving in to the impulses of mischief, causing trouble, disobeying his parents and staying out past midnight. For those who choose to celebrate the Halloween spirit for the wrong and evil reasons, let it be known that there are consequences. The lantern man will get you. Apocalypse Synopsis, my dad said again. Only this time, he tells me what it means. It's the fear of turning into a pumpkin. It's a real phobia, and because it exists, that means I'm not the only one who has it, he said. I must admit, after hearing my dad recount his Halloween tale and telling it to me today with the same truthful seriousness, I could feel my childhood excitement for horror returning. Once my dad was done, I only had one last question for him. Can you tell me another scary story? Okay, our final story for this evening. It's from the same author, Sir Scare Me, because this is a sequel to that last story. This one is called It Came from the Haunted House Across the Street. After my dad shared his Halloween tale about the disappearance of his best friend Jake and the town's lantern man, Urban Legend, I asked him if he'd tell me another story, and he did. Several. We actually were up pretty late that night, talking about my dad's childhood. My dad said that he'd experienced so many terrifying and bizarre encounters, he figured it'd be best to start from the beginning. To give you a quick introduction, my dad's name is Martin, but his friends called him Marty growing up. He moved to a small town in Mississippi when he was just 8 years old. It's about a 20-minute bike ride from the Mississippi River. It wasn't an ideal place to live, but his parents couldn't afford much better. My dad ended up spending the remainder of his childhood stuck in this town. He plotted several attempts to run away, but he wasn't able to escape until shortly after he graduated high school. When his family first arrived at their new home, my dad immediately noticed that there was something strange about the house across the street. It was two stories, but the top half leaned to one side like it could collapse at any moment. The old house was an eyesore for the neighborhood. Every glass window had been shattered and boarded up. It had once been painted a light green, but most of the color had been shipped away, revealing the dark rotting wood underneath. The front yard was nothing but dirt with a short staircase leading to a roof covered porch. When my dad asked his parents who lived there, they told him that it was empty and that he should never, ever go near it. My dad's bedroom window faced out in the direction of the street. He had a direct view of the decrepit house, and as the days passed, he started to notice that both his fear and curiosity were intensifying. He began waking up with nightmares, terrified that something might be happening across the street. After his parents would tuck him into bed, he found himself frequently getting up at night and staring outside his window. He wanted to make sure that all appeared safe before closing his eyes. About two months after moving in, my dad stood in front of his window late one night. He noticed that there was something unusual about the house. It had always been an eerie pitch black, but that night there was a light on the porch, ominously flickering in the darkness. He was afraid, so as any young child would do, he went to wake his parents. His mom and dad followed him back to his bedroom and together they peered outside his window, but the light was gone. The pitch black darkness had returned. My dad swore and promised that he saw a light, but his parents assured him it was probably just a bad dream, kissed his forehead, and tucked him back into bed. The following morning was the first day in his new school. He'd meet some of his best friends in a third grade class. It was Jake, Boone, Grady, Parker, and my dad Marty. They'd call their group the High Five Troop. They were inseparable and would frequently show off their super-secret High Five handshake in front of their fellow classmates. They were definitely the cool bunch on campus. The boys were immediately fascinated when they found out where my dad was living. They each had their own stories about the infamous house and shared that their parents had also warned them to never go near it. There was a lot of mystery surrounding the house and their stories varied, but one thing they all agreed on was that it was definitely haunted. Every night my dad would continue to check outside his window to see if the light had returned. About a week or so passed when he was awoken by a strange noise. The days had been warm and he would leave his window cracked open at night to catch an evening breeze. He silently laid in bed holding his breath trying to determine what the eerie sound was and where it was coming from. He soon realized it was resonating from outside. It was a repetitive high pitch creaking like a rusted door hinge opening and closing over and over again. He got up and stared out his window. The light had reappeared once again flickering on and off. However, this time he could see that the porch was not empty. Something was swaying in unison with the odd noise. He rubbed his eyes and slapped his cheeks hoping that it was just his imagination or a bad dream, but he was wide awake and the flickering light held just long enough to reveal what was making the disturbing sound. Seated in a tall rounded chair was a woman and with each creaking movement, she rocked slowly back and forth. My dad was frozen in fear and remembers trying to scream for his parents but all that exited his lungs was a heavy breath of heart pounding emptiness. He watched as the woman slowly sat up from her rocking chair. The tall mysterious figure began to rigidly walk down the porch stairs across the dirt yard and towards my dad's house. She stopped in the middle of the dimly lit street. My dad says she was standing hunched over with long gray hair that covered her face and dangled past her waist. He could see that her hands were raised out in front of her. She was holding two long crochet hooks and moved her hands back and forth as she stood knitting in the middle of the road. He was able to snap out of his state of paralyzing panic as he turned and raced for the hallway. He began hysterically crying at his parents' bedside. My dad tried to explain what he saw to his worried parents but says that he was barely able to speak clearly. His parents were finally able to calm him down and his mom spent the rest of the night in his room comforting him. At school, he shared what he'd witnessed with the rest of the high-five troop. They were captivated and his story sparked the boy's imagination with suggestions on how my dad should approach the situation. One such bright idea came from Boone, who sarcastically recommended that my dad just walk over, ring the doorbell, and introduce himself to his freaky neighbor. This got a good laugh from the group but ultimately led to the concept for their final plan. The boys had all been told stories about the haunted house next door but Jake, Boone, Grady, and Parker were ready to see it for themselves. So, one night, they arranged to have a sleepover at my dad's house. They did not all fit in my dad's bedroom so they sat up their stuff to camp out downstairs. With the hopes of catching a glimpse of the strange woman, the boys devised a plan to take a ball of yarn from their school's art supply closet. They would sneak out before it was dark and string each end from one house to the other. They believed that if they were lucky, the knitting woman would take their bait and follow the line back to my dad's house. Jake was brave enough and volunteered to run one end of the ball of yarn up to the porch while the rest of the troupe kept watch. It was a success. The plan was now in place and all the boys had to do was wait. Absurd idea, right? My dad asked me. Maybe just a little bit, I admitted with a playful grin. Well, we were just about to third graders but, yes what, the plan worked. My dad continued to elaborate. The idea was that the boys would take turns staying awake. Whoever was on watch was equipped with a flashlight and was ready to wake up the rest of the group if anything suspicious happened. The nearby kitchen window was left open for the purpose of both running the other end of yarn inside the house while also to listen for the sounds of the rocking chair. My dad stayed up for the first hour, handing off the flashlight to Parker before settling into his sleeping bag and falling asleep. He's not sure what time it was or who was supposed to be on the lookout, but he was startled awake by a loud and familiar noise. He sat up looking around the room. It was hard to see in the dark and my dad started calling out for his friends, nudging them all awake. Who has the flashlight? My dad kept asking in a loud whisper. Boone had fallen asleep during his watch. He was alerted awake by my dad's commotion and immediately turned on the flashlight, shining it in the direction of the creaking noise. The rest of the group was now awake and together they gasped when the light revealed an empty wooden rocking chair, rapidly swaying back and forth in the corner of the room. Where did that come from? Boone asked, startled. The boys were all terrified, huddled together and unsure of what to do. Suddenly a deep and raspy shriek came from the darkness behind them. Marty! Marty! The voice cried. Boone turned around, shining the flashlight into the direction of the kitchen. Standing just beyond the open window was the mysterious woman. Parker was the wimp of the group and screamed, jumping into a sleeping bag to hide. The rest of the boys gripped each other tightly, interlocking arms. Marty! What is your favorite color? Marty! What is that thing? Jake shouted. How does it know your name? My dad was just as afraid as the rest and even more disturbed to hear the unfamiliar woman calling out his name. Boone was shaking as you could see that he was struggling to hold the flashlight straight. The woman was slouched over with her head down. Her hands were moving quickly back and forth as she was holding on to her crochet hooks. What is your favorite color, Marty? The woman shrieked again as she began to move closer, one stiff and rigid step at a time. My dad was speechless. In a state of complete terror, stricken shock. Answer it! Grady shouted, shoving my dad in front of him. Marty! Tell me! Marty! The woman had slowly walked her way from the kitchen and was now towering above the terrified kids. She slowly lifted her head, revealing a ghostly face hidden underneath her long gray hair. She stared directly into the beam of the flashlight. My dad still vividly recalls her sinister appearance. Her eyes were dark, empty holes. Her face was sickly white with wrinkles on top of wrinkles and the bottom half of her jaw dangled loosely like it was dislocated. Marty! What is your favorite color, Marty? The woman scowled one last time. My dad shouted out his response, blue. As soon as my dad answered, the flashlight bulb exploded. The room was again pitch black and all at once in unison, the boys all let out a horrified scream. Then suddenly the lights in the room turned on. What in Heaven's name is going on down here? My dad's mom hollered. The boys were all frantically looking around the room but there was no sign of the woman or her rocking chair. Everything was in order, like nothing had happened. The boys tried to explain what they had witnessed but my dad's mom was clearly upset by their raucous behavior. They promised they would keep quiet for the rest of the night but requested that all the lights be left on. This was only the first of many bizarre encounters Jake, Grady, Boone, Parker and my dad would experience. They all came to the agreement that they had indeed seen a ghost that night but the story doesn't end there, not for my dad. The boys never saw the spirit of the rocking chair woman ever again but my dad is pretty certain that she came back to visit him one last time. A couple short months later it was Christmas. The last gift my dad opened was tucked behind the tree in an unwrapped cardboard box. It had his name scribbled across the top in messy cursive handwriting. He slowly broke the taped seal and peeked inside. What is it, Martin? His mom asked in excitement. He reached inside and pulled out a fuzzy, hand-knitted sweater. His mom began to smile. Wow, that is beautiful. Who's it from? It didn't say. My dad responded as he could feel a rush of fear-induced panic beginning to course through his body. His family never determined who the holiday gift was from but my dad says he immediately knew. The first thing he noticed when he pulled out the sweater from the box was that it had been hand-knitted in his favorite color, blue. My dad says his mom forced him to wear the sweater that year for the family Christmas pictures. Somewhere at our house, stored away in the attic, are some of my dad's old childhood photo albums. He insists that if you look through his pictures you'll find one of him wearing that blue sweater. It's a Christmas my dad will never forget, and a haunting gift he wishes he did not receive. So the ghost you saw, do you have any explanation for who, why, or how the heck it knew your name, I asked him? Well, we're talking about the supernatural, so anything beyond understanding is possible, he retorted. But I remember that Christmas my mom kept saying the sweater reminded her of something Nana would have knitted. Did you ask her grandma if the gift was from her? I replied. I never had a chance to meet my grandmother. I'm not even sure what she looked like. We had no pictures of her. My dad responded in a softer tone. She passed away shortly after I was born. Sorry to hear that. I never knew that happened. I sympathized. So then you're saying you think maybe the spirit you saw was, you choose to believe what you want, my dad interrupted, and the town I grew up in, your truth is all you had, because nothing made any sense. A dad paused for a brief moment. Answer your question. Yes, I do think I was visited by the spirit of Nana, but what else did I have to believe? You see, without creating your own interpretations, finding a plausible explanation for the improbability of what you experienced, you just go crazy. Some of us did. My dad ended his story by saying he still has a lot of unanswered questions about what he and his friends saw that night, but there was one thing he did know for certain. He never wore that blue sweater ever again. Thanks for listening, weirdos. If you liked the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters, or unsolved mysteries like you do. You can email me anytime with your questions or comments at darren at WeirdDarkness.com. Darren is D-A-R-R-E-N. And you can find the show on Facebook and Twitter, including the show's Weirdos Facebook group, on the Contact Social page at WeirdDarkness.com. Also on the website, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, click on Tell Your Story. The Murphy Horror House was written by Kelly Foster. Don't take your eyes off your children, this Halloween was written by Michael Richardson. And Be Home By Midnight on Halloween Night, and it came from the haunted house across the street, or both written by Sir Scare Me. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright 2021. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Colossians 1, verses 13 and 14. For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the sun he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. And a final thought from Yardley Smith, you can't create a monster then whine when it stomps a few buildings. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.