Feb 27, 2015
Feb 26, 2015
The last thing I saw was my alarm clock flashing 12:07 before she pushed her long rotting nails through my chest, her other hand muffling my screams.I sat bolt upright, relieved it was only a dream, but as I saw my alarm clock read 12:06, I heard my closet door creak open.
Feb 25, 2015
Even the police stationed outside the house in Langmead Street couldn’t find an answer. They couldn’t explain the strange buzzing noises heard by 26-year-old Cecil Greenfield. They couldn’t find a suspect to arrest for the weird banging noises which kept the family awake every night. The family of eight were tormented by an unseen assailant who dragged furniture about the West Norwood residence. And then, at 2:15 am on a warm July night in 1951, Dennis and his wife Gladys got the shock of their life when they entered their home and were confronted by a tall, grey figure without a face.
Inspector Sidney Candler was extremely skeptical of the fiasco until he heard the thumping noises coming from the attic, and was unnerved as a picture flew from the wall and smashed on the floor. Cutlery seemed to rattle in the drawers.
The house attracted many locals, some simply intrigued by the local haunted house, others more skeptical who howled abuse at the residents, shouting “Get your heads examined!” Even the relatives of the family were embarrassed by the situation and refused to aid the troubled family.
Father Alfred Cole of St. Matthew’s Church was called in to exorcise the building. It was the last resort for the family who’d been plagued by the noises all day, and every night. A group from the Church of the Nazarene held a vigil throughout the night, deep in prayer in hope of cleansing the house of its evil. And yet the activity refused to subside. If anything it increased.
The radio turned on by itself. Peculiar lights whizzed across the living room. A mattress lifted up and appeared to bend, and poor Dennis was accosted by an invisible intruder who tore his shirt.
The family had reached the brink. They fled. They were not followed by the spectres within.
A couple with four children moved into the property, fully aware of its reputation. They were never troubled by the phantoms, and the house on Langmead Street returned to normal.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 22, 2015
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him---you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
Feb 19, 2015
I have nightmares where I’m trapped in a shower. The drain is plugged, and the water won’t stop pouring down on me. Water rises to my ankles, to my waist, and then over my head. The shower curtain turns to glass, and my screams turn to gargles. A dark figure presses its face against the glass on the other side, and it watches me. I plead, but it won’t let me out. I swallow water and flail helplessly in my glass coffin.
I wake up gagging.
I know where the nightmare came from - I never have to dig deep. The incident is never far from my subconscious. Finding it is easy.
Getting over it is not.
It was the summer of my 12th birthday when the Hudsons moved in across the street. Three people, one of them a really old woman. She was tiny, frail; skeletal almost. Thin white hair; faded, blue flowery dress - her head hung from her neck and it wobbled as the man pushed her up a makeshift wheelchair ramp into the house. At the time I couldn't figure out if she was alive or dead.
A few minutes later she appeared in an upstairs window, sitting in her wheelchair. She was directly facing my bedroom, and I cautiously peered out from behind my curtains. Her head was upright now, and she stared at me. Just stared, without moving her head an inch.
I closed my drapes.
For days she sat at the window. She watched the cars putter down our suburban road and gazed at the neighborhood kids scurrying through their yards. I never saw anyone else in the room; never saw her move from that wheelchair. At night I’d nervously peek through the crack in my drapes. Her silhouette was still in that window, lights off, staring out into the darkness at my bedroom. I couldn’t tell, but I knew she was watching me.
The stories about her cropped up pretty quick amongst my friends in the neighborhood. That she was a witch. That she was just a doll. That she was actually dead. But I knew she wasn’t dead. Sure, I never saw her move from that window, not once. And I never saw her head turn. But I felt her eyes move as they studied me. I could feel her watching me. All alone in my bedroom, in the middle of the night with my drapes firmly shut, I’d wake up and shudder. Her eyes were on me, I just knew it.
I began sleeping on the floor. The lower I was, the better. Maybe she couldn’t see me if I was on the floor.
I told my parents that the old woman across the street was creeping me out. I pleaded with them to talk to the Hudsons and ask them to move her to a room without a window. They laughed and told me to let her live out her twilight years in peace. She was just watching the street, they said, and that probably made her feel happy and feel younger.
“Are you just going to stick me in a windowless room when I’m an old lady?” my mom laughed. “Remind me to move in with your sister when I’m in a wheelchair!”
A week later there was some commotion at the Hudsons'. I watched from my bedroom window as the man ran out of the house and opened up the double-doors of his van. He jogged inside, and he reappeared minutes later pushing the old woman in her wheelchair down the ramp. She looked frailer than before. She couldn’t have weighed more than 70 pounds. Her head was flung to the side, resting on her right shoulder. Her body jostled in the wheelchair.
But her eyes never left me. Watched me the whole time.
The man picked her up and placed her in the car. He folded the wheelchair and stuffed it in the trunk. He quickly hopped into the driver’s seat, the younger woman pounced into the passenger seat, and the man put his foot to the pedal.
The old woman’s limp head still faced me. It bobbed up and down as the van reversed down the driveway. I studied her face. It was expressionless, emotionless. Her tongue slightly hung from the right side of her mouth. But her eyes were on mine, and they stayed on me.
The van accelerated down the street, and it was gone.
My parents heard the news that afternoon from other neighbors: the old woman’s condition was getting worse, and the Hudsons had taken her to some sort of a home. She wouldn’t be coming back. I went straight to my bedroom, and I looked across the street. I smiled. Her window was finally empty.
The Hudsons didn’t come back the next day. No van. That night I looked out towards the old woman’s window. There was no one there; no wheelchair. But the bedroom light was on. I remember telling my dad I thought it was strange, and he just shrugged and said, “Must be on some sort of timer or something.”
I woke up in the middle of the night and nervously peered out my bedroom window. That bedroom light was still on. It suddenly flicked off, and I ducked below my window frame. I slowly rose and looked out, expecting to see the silhouette of that tiny, skeletal being. I watched for ten minutes, pinching and straining my eyes. The lights quickly flickered on and then off again.
I slept on the floor again, clutching my pillow close.
I had a late baseball practice the next evening. When I got home, my house was empty. My parents were at my little sister’s softball game. I headed to the shower to rinse off.
About three minutes into my shower, I felt cold. The hot steam was escaping the bathroom somehow, which didn’t make sense because I had shut the door. I wiped the shampoo from my eyes, turned my head, and I heard a strange noise that would haunt me in nightmares for years: the metal rings of the shower curtain being dragged across the shower rod. Someone was slowly opening the curtain.
The shampoo stung my eyes, and through the stinging I saw a dark figure behind the curtain. Long, pale, bony fingers gripped the curtain as it slowly opened. I instinctively backed up in the shower, and the curtain opened completely.
There stood the old woman. I must have only looked at her for one, maybe two seconds, but at that moment, time stood still. All these years later I can still draw you a vivid picture of the horrifying image in front of me. Disheveled white hair, crazy in her eyes, bones jutting out from under her stretched skin, stark naked. Blotchy skin, warts all over her body, skinny breasts hanging to her waist. Hair where I didn’t know people could grow hair.
She smiled grotesquely, and I felt the shower tile against my back and the hot water pound my face. In her other hand, the old woman held a letter opener.
“August,” she mumbled. “August, August, August.”
I leaped past her, knocking her tiny body to the floor. I ran downstairs, naked and sopping wet. In my panic I somehow remembered I was nude, and I yanked a pair of shorts out of the hamper in the laundry room, sending the hamper crashing to the floor. I high-tailed it on foot down the street, eventually winding up at my friend’s house.
When the police arrived they found the old woman, crumpled to a heap in the bathroom. The shower was still running. The policemen were all really nice to me, admiring me for my bravery. I told them what she said to me - “August” - and asked if they knew what she could have meant.
“It will be August in a few days,” one of them shrugged. “And you can never fully understand old and crazy, son.”
The Hudsons only came to our street once more to retrieve their stuff. The “For Sale” sign was up in days. My mom told me they couldn’t face the neighbors for what happened. Apparently they had taken the old woman - the man’s mother - to a special home downstate. Somehow, someway, the woman managed to escape the home and caught a bus back to our town. It never quite made sense to me - she was so old, so frail, so helpless. She could barely move those weeks she lived in that house. How had she managed to travel hundreds of miles on her own?
Anyway, you can imagine what this did to me. I didn’t shower for 21 years. I took baths, which I suppose aren’t that different - it’s still a tub, and it involves hot, soapy water. But a shower, with its closed curtain, water peppering the tub floor and steam climbing the walls - you get lost inside your own head in the shower. Thoughts consume you, and it feels so utterly safe. For a few minutes, you are alone from the world. It’s your own private, misty kingdom.
But that’s what makes the shower dangerous - you’re enclosed, vulnerable, naked.
I talked to people about it - my parents, a shrink - but mainly I tried to push the incident deep down into places where I couldn’t find it. I didn’t talk about it with anyone since I was a kid - life carried on. Besides the baths, I was pretty normal.
A few months ago, something inside me clicked. I felt the urge to re-examine the incident; it was almost like a voice in my head was telling me to do it. My head wanted closure.
I spent hours online one night, trying to track down any information on the Hudsons and the old woman. I finally found what I was looking for - an obituary for the old woman. She had died four years ago. Somehow that walking skeleton hadn’t checked out for another 15 years. The obituary photo was a black-and-white picture from when she was a young woman - it was a photo of her and her deceased husband on their wedding day.
His name was August.
And he looked exactly like me.
I closed the browser and stared at my computer desktop for ten minutes. It finally made more sense: why she called me August. Why she was obsessed with watching me. Maybe she used to write letters to her husband, and that’s why she was clutching the letter opener that night.
For a small moment, I felt a little better. Things always feel better when they make more sense.
“Honey, is everything okay?” It was my wife.
“I think so,” I said.
I took the first shower I had taken in years that night. I didn’t even jump when the curtain rungs dragged across the shower rod and my wife entered. But as she embraced me under the hot water, one question wouldn’t leave my head:
How come the young woman in that wedding photo looks exactly like my wife?
Feb 17, 2015
Shitty Flicks is an ongoing column that celebrates the most hilariously incompetent, amusingly pedestrian, and mind-bogglingly stupid movies ever made by people with a bit of money, some prior porn-directing experience, and no clue whatsoever. It is here you will find unrestrained joy in movies meant to terrify and thrill, but instead poke at your funny bone with their weird, mutant camp-girl penis.
WARNING: I tend to give away major plot points and twist endings in my reviews because, whatever. Shut up.
Ulli Lommel is the guy at the party with a length of toilet paper stuck to his shoe, and he's trekking it around behind him like a limp tail, in between trips to the fish tank and the bean dip. Other party goers laugh, getting a kick out of it, and for the rest of the night, no one can take him seriously. Yet, despite this, he keeps getting invited to parties.
This is a perfect allegory for Ulli Lommel’s career. He has never, ever, ever made a good film. Not ever. And this isn’t one of those, “well that’s just your opinion, man” situations. If there was a big book called Opinions That Are Actually Facts, there would be an entire chapter called “Ulli Lommel’s Films Are Literally Shit.”
|"Okay, this time, YOU ring the gong, |
and I'LL scream MORTAL KOMBAT."
Why not get started with this handy, no-effort recipe?
- 10-15 "actors" picked randomly from a variety of high school and community college drama programs (preferably ones dismissed for utter lack of talent)
- 1 part German wooden lead to stumble through English dialogue
- 1 abandoned warehouse to store all sets (police station with exposed sewage pipes clearly indicating it is shot in boiler room; apartment that looks like Ikea show room; furniture store whose door remains open all times of day despite lack of presence of staff or security team)
- 1/4 gallon of white paint (will not be enough to paint walls within camera range in said warehouse)
- 1 part crew man's accidental and blatant reflection in mirror
- 1 part stolen musical piece from The Exorcist (to be repeatedly used)
- Multiple parts flashback of fat bald man getting spanked
- 1 part clone of Parker Posey (for the mom role)
- 1 part asinine idea that, hey, since people liked Fight Club, let's have a scene where two men fistfight and fall into strategically placed cardboard boxes while surrounding friends and family shout encouragement, only never to mention the scene again
|The boys were taken aback by Ulli's raucous laughter |
after asking which color the latest script rewrite was in.
- 1/4 teaspoon of black make-up (apply generously; this will encompass ANY/ALL zombie make-up)
- Several parts weird, mood-breaking techno
- 2 cameras; one digital that shoots in good quality, one amateur home video camera that is glaring opposite the previous
- 3 parts lighting equipment to be blatantly captured in shot in every police station scene
- 1 part terribly out of place, unnoticed, non-utilized gong, placed in very fake police station
- 0 parts script supervisor
- 1 part audacity to use Marathon Man homage (in nonsensical way)
- 1 part random businessman that waits out in middle of woods to make business deals via cell phone, only to become fodder for zombie girls (who then steal car)
- 1 part mechanic who takes out penis behind door as zombie girls approach
- 1 part fake bloody penis
- 1 part hope that you won't realize Ulli didn't bother to write out the hero who disappears halfway through the movie due to real-life hospital visit
- 6 parts zombie girls to wear said black make-up under eyes up with no other make-up effects to be seen (except for continuity-be-damned close ups in mirrors)
- Multiple parts suspension of disbelief (cop takes offending woman to warehouse, partner waits outside, cop comes back out sans woman but with giant body-sized duffel bag, partner is not suspicious)
- 1 part completely ludicrous ending
- 0 parts logic
- Take all said ingredients and throw haphazardly against wall.
- Hope it sticks.
- Look in awe at how movies literally about nothing can be made and sold for mass consumption.
- Ingest generous portion, swallow with grimace as Ulli Lommel rips money from your pockets and laughs maniacally.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 15, 2015
Pesta is the personification of Black Death in Norwegian folklore. She would be dressed up in all black when she visited farms, either holding a broom or a rake. If she was holding a broom then everyone on the farm would die. If she was holding a rake, then some would survive to tell her tale.
Feb 14, 2015
PRESS RELEASE: FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
PROJECT SCISSORS: “NIGHTCRY”
28TH January 2015
NightCry, the eagerly anticipated “horror adventure game” initially announced as Project Scissors, is coming to Kickstarter!
Inspired by overwhelming feedback from fans the world over, the NightCry team have unanimously decided to create a PC version of the ultimate horror game and are asking worldwide fans for their support in making it happen via the Project Scissors: NightCry Kickstarter campaign.
This highly anticipated game is currently under development at Nude Maker Inc., directed by Hifumi Kono (Director of “Clock Tower”, “Infinite Space”, and “Steel Battalion”) and co-created by Takashi Shimizu (Director of “Ju-On”, and “The Grudge”), NightCry was initially announced at the 2014 Tokyo Game Show as being for mobile platforms and the PlayStation® Vita.
In the game, players are invited aboard a cruise ship, where an evil presence has begun stalking and killing both guests and crew alike, resulting in the ship being lost at sea. As the player, you are unarmed and unprepared to fight back against the horrible evil that stalks you. All you can do is run and hide while searching for clues that might lead to your survival...
As a live action companion piece designed to dramatically expand upon the unique world and startling vision of NightCry, project co-creator Takashi Shimizu has created a short film that reveals another side of this dark universe and it’s environs.
You can view this short film and learn more about the Project Scissors: NightCry Kickstarter campaign from the following links:
Shimizu’s NightCry Short Film: http://youtu.be/QL77DK68Q_U
Kickstarter Link: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/playism/project-scissors-nightcry
In addition to working with Takashi Shimizu, Hifumi Kono has engaged a wealth of incredible luminaries from the Japanese entertainment industry, including Kiyoshi Arai (Concept Art, Final Fantasy XII, XIV), Masahiro Ito (Creature Designer, Silent Hill series), and Nobuko Toda (Composer, Metal Gear Solid series, Halo 4 & 5). And additionally, famed CG animation director Shinji Aramaki (Appleseed series, Halo Legends) will be serving as creative advisor.
Also, for the first time since the game’s initial announcement, we’re happy to reveal that Michiru Yamane (Composer, Castlevania: Symphony of the Night) has joined the team to collaborate on the soundtrack.
Even though Yamane and Toda have a shared history at Konami Digital Entertainment - NightCry is their very first collaboration together.
With the invaluable help of Kickstarter backers the NightCry team hope to create a definitive version of the game for PC, with additional platforms being considered, if the crowd funding campaign exceeds all expectations.
Official website: http://www.night-cry.com
Official EN Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/Night_Scissors
Contact: Joseph Chou – (81) 90 3915 4351
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 12, 2015
The doctors told the amputee he might experience a phantom limb from time to time. Nobody prepared him for the moments though, when he felt cold fingers brush across his phantom hand.
I can't move, breathe, speak or hear and it's so dark all the time. If I knew it would be this lonely, I would have been cremated instead.
I woke up to hear knocking on glass. At first, I though it was the window until I heard it come from the mirror again.
Yesterday my parents told me I was too old for an imaginary friend and that I had to let her go. They found her body this morning.
My daughter won't stop crying and screaming in the middle of the night. I visit her grave and ask her to stop, but it doesn't help.
Feb 11, 2015
Once I was camping by myself in the woods in Western Germany near the French border. I had hiked remote forest road for a few miles and stumbled across an old German bunker, which wasn't unusual for this area. The top was caved in, but the walls were intact. I climbed around it and peered inside. It was more like a fortified guard shack than a fortress, and I spent some time exploring the two rooms. By the time I had finished, it was starting to get dark and I decided to camp at a spot I had seen a short distance away instead of staying in the bunker. After setting up my tent, I made a small fire and had dinner. Then I settled down to listen to the woods and enjoy nature. The fire burned down to embers and only gave off light when you looked directly at it. You could see the stars through the forest canopy and it got very quiet. At some point I fell asleep next to the fire.
Some time later I awoke. The fog had rolled in and it was so thick you couldn't see more than twenty feet. I couldn't figure out what had woken me up until I heard someone speaking a short distance away: the kind of loud laughing you hear around a campfire as friends share a beer and tell each other lies about the women they've known. It was far enough away that I couldn't follow the conversation, but it seemed to be coming from the bunker. I figured the place must a local hangout for the adventurous and decided to go down, have a look, maybe introduce myself and make some new friends. Moving carefully through the night fog, I made my way down the hill towards the back of the bunker. The laughter was louder as I approached and I started to see what appeared to be kerosene lights.
Just as I was about to say something, it struck me that the roof was back on the bunker. And the figures moving around the light appeared to be dressed in gray uniforms. I froze in place and watched for a few minutes as they appeared to play cards and joke with one another. I'm certain they were wearing Nazi uniforms. I backed away and quietly made my way to my camp. I checked the fire, but it was out. I spent the next several hours awake listening to the them. Then the fog began to clear out and sound faded away.
In the morning, I could see down the hill to the bunker and the roof was caved in again. And there was no sign anyone was there. Was it my imagination? Or a Nazi reenactment group (which is illegal in Germany)? I don't think so. I'm convinced the fog opened a window back to an obscure checkpoint on a wooded road into France. And several bored soldiers were passing a quiet night while waiting for any vehicles that happened to drive by.
That's not the only time I've seen something in a deep fog I can't explain. It's like a bridge between worlds. When it's so thick you can't see ten feet in front of your face, I try not go outside anymore.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 7, 2015
It was summer. My best friends and I had all turned 13 and 14 that year and had been friends since we were toddlers. Our parents had all gone to school together and we were like brothers. Six of us in all. We were always inseparable. We decided pretty spur of the moment to take a camping trip up in a part of Appalachia that no one called home, but we liked to explore. No, I will not be telling the actual area. We spent the afternoon setting up our tents and made a game out of seeing who could camouflage theirs the best. We had three tents split between the six of us and they were just small two man things that we covered up with limbs and twigs ––- anything we could do to pass the time. And we were all competitive as hell.
We were a good piece off the dirt roads and trails that ran through the mountains. We had gone up on dirt bikes and four wheelers, but since one had a gas smell we had parked them further down an incline. We all turned in around midnight because we were planning on paint balling early the next day. All we had with us were our paint guns and pocket knives. Rob, my tent buddy, woke me up a while later and there was light shining out into the woods. Bright lights. Very bright. I stuck my head partially out and saw that the other four were already out of their tents and gazing up at two cars. With the way we were positioned, the car lights were illuminating the area above us, but not ON us. We were about 20 feet below that trail in a bit of a holler and inside a copse of trees. We could hear some arguing, some scuffling. I'm pretty sure we were all scared shitless. Neither car engine was running and whoever was up there wasn't too happy about something.
At some point one of the people above us yelled out in pain and someone growled out "cut him again!" Let me tell you ... your flight or fight instinct kicks in pretty damn hard when you hear something like that. We were all basically on our stomachs so we wouldn't be seen, but we were HEARING something that was obviously bad and someone was now hurt. We ALL knew that one of the guys talking was this asshole white trash drug pusher who liked to think he ran the town. He was addressed by name more than once. Not a damn one of us wanted to be on his bad side or be caught. For about an hour we laid there and listened to a man being questioned, antagonized, beaten and crying out.
The guy who was hurt kept saying shit like "a curse on your family" and "no matter what you do to me, you will pay more than me."
Eventually we heard car doors closing and the cars left. Not a single one of us even breathed I don't think. We didn't know if the hurt guy had been left or what the hell was going to happen next. It felt like it took the sun about twenty hours to rise. We all stayed still and on our stomachs even after the sun was up just listening. No, I'm not proud of that or especially keen to admit it. We were cowards and I would have gladly cried like a bitch baby if I thought it would have gotten me home sooner.
We didn't hear anything so we eventually stood up and went up the incline. There was blood on the ground and it was more than apparent that someone had truly been injured. We packed our shit, got on our bikes, and got the hell out of there. My parents demanded that we tell the police what we heard and take them out there to show them.
The blood was gone. GONE. We looked everywhere and couldn't find a single damn thing except the fresh tire tracks of the cars.
A few days later this guy went into the ER where Rob's mother worked and said he had been stabbed. I guess it was infected or whatever because he didn't seek medical treatment. He wound up dying after a few days. We found out that he was the son of the strangest damn people you could ever meet ––- but meeting them wasn't something you went out of your way to do. You kinda crossed to the other side of the road if you saw them coming. They were deeeeeep ass mountain people and folks had talked about them being into Voo Doo and shit from the time I was old enough to remember it. They were those people who your parents would use to scare you into behaving well by invoking their name. Other people would comment on who they had seen coming off "their" mountain and speculate on what kind of curse or blood debt they were dealing the devil for. A lot was blamed on that family. Random accidents, miscarriages, bankruptcy, job loss, you name it.
We didn't go to the funeral, but like any small town where you don't have a thing to do in the summer, people were lingering and making a spectacle out of trying to NOT make a spectacle of themselves. What we had seen had really gotten to Rob. And he was the kind of guy who was the perfect Boy Scout and he was very active in his church. It was weighing on him. Me and Rob found ourselves on the side of the road that the funeral home was on as the casket was being brought out. The old man, either the dad or the grandfather, looked at us and Rob goes, "Sorry, sir. Sure do hate to hear of your loss."
My hand to God, I swear on all that I hold dear, I am not exaggerating one bit when I tell you that old crotchety man stepped right up to Rob and just stared at him. The old guy was kinda bent forward in the back and taller than Rob so it was like he was causing Rob to bend backwards a little. I don't even know what I can compare it with. It was as if neither could look away. My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest with the way he was nearly nose to nose with Rob and just locking eyes with him. It felt like an eternity, but was probably just a few seconds. Damn guy had the coldest gray-blue eyes I had ever seen. Then he kind of nodded his head a little and said, "Thank you, boy. You ought to get on home now."
Within the week the white trash drug dude was in the hospital having a heart attack. He didn't come out of that hospital alive and Rob's mom said the guy did NOT die easy. His son, the only one he had, was scraped up off the mountain a few days later after flipping his truck and being crushed not far from where we had camped. Another guy who supposedly ran drugs for them fell asleep at the wheel of his car and perished as well that summer.
I think about what happened from time to time. The police knew what we had seen and heard, but the bloody stuff was gone when we got back. I think they never really believed us and I'm not sure they ever told that old man what we saw either. I kind of think that old man looked INTO Rob somehow and knew. He never laid a hand on Rob but for about two weeks after that happened ... Rob was sick as a dog. To my knowledge Rob has NEVER talked about what happened that day or what it felt like to have that old man right in his face. We're all still close and our families get together about four times a year. Out of all of us, I'd say Rob has had the most success in life. But he will not step foot in the woods with us guys. He won't hunt, he won't hike, he won't camp out, he won't even go out deep sea fishing with us once a year. Claims that we might get into too much trouble if we're all together in one spot by ourselves again. Tells us to have fun and that's about it.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 5, 2015
On exhibition at the “Doing it for the Kids” showcase, this teddy bear was made using human placenta. A crafty alternative for those who don’t want to eat the placenta, but instead want to make a toy out of it and scar their kids for life.
Feb 3, 2015
When I was in college, my girlfriend got a call from her mother, and then from her sister five minutes after. Her sister was freaked out and the mother was, too.
Her sister was a new college freshman, and she and her new roommates decided to use a Ouija board one night. Apparently they had contacted some spirit who apparently knew her sister's name. They asked:What is your name?I don't have a name.
Who are you?I am your sister. I am a year older than you.
The next day, her sister called her mom and told her what the Ouija board spirit had said. Her mother then told her about the miscarriage she'd had a year before her sister was born. Her mother and father had never told anyone.
Feb 2, 2015
It is said that when a person undergoes a serious trauma, such as rape, assault, severe physical injury, etc., the brain slips into a fantasy world to protect itself. Oftentimes this fantasy world takes on all the characteristics of the real world they knew. Without being able towake upa person could go on indefinitely living this fantasy life. Completely unaware that they can'twake upsome theorize this is what happens in a coma. If a person goes too long and does notwake upthey could become trapped in this world forever. The mind, however, knows this world is a farce and will subtly give out hints of this, trying to get the sufferer toplease wake up.
Feb 1, 2015
Rhoda grew up in Adams County, Illinois. During her teenage years, she fell in love with a farm boy, Charles Phenix, who lived a short distance from her home. His mother, Nancy, did not want her son to marry Rhoda because of the Derry family’s association with witchcraft. Rhoda’s grandmother was rumoured to be a witch and this helped instil a deep fear of witches into Rhoda.
Nancy confronted Rhoda about it and threatened to put a hex on Rhoda if she didn’t leave Charles alone. Some believe this was the event that caused Rhoda’s mental spiral into madness because of her fear of witches. Rhoda began to hear voices and claimed to see “Old Scratch,” which was believed to be a name for the devil. She also had visions of Nancy Phenix haunting her home.
The Derry family sent Rhoda to the Jacksonville Mental Hospital but it is believed that the hospital found her incurable and sent her home again. At that point, the family could no longer take care of Rhoda and she was sent to an Alms House in Adams County.
It was during her stay at the Alms House that Rhoda began to become very violent and had to be restrained on numerous occasions. At one point, she claimed she had seen “Old Scratch” and proceeded to use her long fingernails to scratch at her eyes until she went blind. She then lived in a world of darkness but her violent streaks continued. The staff at the Alms House felt Rhoda was a danger to both herself and the other patients so they decided to restrain her by placing her in a box covered with a canvas tarp. She could not escape this wooden prison and was confined to it for forty years. Her limbs shriveled due to lack of exercise and when she was finally released from the box, she began to walk with her hands because her legs had atrophied.
In 1904 Dr. George Zeller opened the Peoria Hospital for the Incurable Insane. Rhoda’s tormented path finally led her to this hospital, a haven where she and Zeller shared a fascination in one another. She lived her final days under Zeller’s care.