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 Post subject: Post short ghost storys here
PostPosted: Mon Sep 19, 2011 5:41 pm 
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A Ghost Story
by Mark Twain

I took a large room, far up Broadway, in a huge old building whose upper stories had been wholly unoccupied for years, until I came. The place had long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and silence. I seemed groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of the dead, that first night I climbed up to my quarters. For the first time in my life a superstitious dread came over me; and as I turned a dark angle of the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its lazy woof in my face and clung there, I shuddered as one who had encountered a phantom.

I was glad enough when I reached my room and locked out the mould and the darkness. A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat down before it with a comforting sense of relief. For two hours I sat there, thinking of bygone times; recalling old scenes, and summoning half-forgotten faces out of the mists of the past; listening, in fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once familiar songs that nobody sings now. And as my reverie softened down to a sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds outside softened to a wail, the angry beating of the rain against the panes diminished to a tranquil patter, and one by one the noises in the street subsided, until the hurrying footsteps of the last belated straggler died away in the distance and left no sound behind.

The fire had burned low. A sense of loneliness crept over me. I arose and undressed, moving on tiptoe about the room, doing stealthily what I had to do, as if I were environed by sleeping enemies whose slumbers it would be fatal to break. I covered up in bed, and lay listening to the rain and wind and the faint creaking of distant shutters, till they lulled me to sleep.

I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know. All at once I found myself awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy. All was still. All but my own heart -- I could hear it beat. Presently the bedclothes began to slip away slowly toward the foot of the bed, as if some one were pulling them! I could not stir; I could not speak. Still the blankets slipped deliberately away, till my breast was uncovered. Then with a great effort I seized them and drew them over my head. I waited, listened, waited. Once more that steady pull began, and once more I lay torpid a century of dragging seconds till my breast was naked again. At last I roused my energies and snatched the covers back to their place and held them with a strong grip. I waited. By and by I felt a faint tug, and took a fresh grip. The tug strengthened to a steady strain -- it grew stronger and stronger. My hold parted, and for the third time the blankets slid away. I groaned. An answering groan came from the foot of the bed! Beaded drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. I was more dead than alive. Presently I heard a heavy footstep in my room -- the step of an elephant, it seemed to me -- it was not like anything human. But it was moving FROM me -- there was relief in that. I heard it approach the door -- pass out without moving bolt or lock -- and wander away among the dismal corridors, straining the floors and joists till they creaked again as it passed -- and then silence reigned once more.

When my excitement had calmed, I said to myself, "This is a dream -- simply a hideous dream." And so I lay thinking it over until I convinced myself that it WAS a dream, and then a comforting laugh relaxed my lips and I was happy again. I got up and struck a light; and when I found that the locks and bolts were just as I had left them, another soothing laugh welled in my heart and rippled from my lips. I took my pipe and lit it, and was just sitting down before the fire, when -- down went the pipe out of my nerveless fingers, the blood forsook my cheeks, and my placid breathing was cut short with a gasp! In the ashes on the hearth, side by side with my own bare footprint, was another, so vast that in comparison mine was but an infant's'! Then I had HAD a visitor, and the elephant tread was explained.

I put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear. I lay a long time, peering into the darkness, and listening. Then I heard a grating noise overhead, like the dragging of a heavy body across the floor; then the throwing down of the body, and the shaking of my windows in response to the concussion. In distant parts of the building I heard the muffled slamming of doors. I heard, at intervals, stealthy footsteps creeping in and out among the corridors, and up and down the stairs. Sometimes these noises approached my door, hesitated, and went away again. I heard the clanking of chains faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the clanking grew nearer -- while it wearily climbed the stairways, marking each move by the loose surplus of chain that fell with an accented rattle upon each succeeding step as the goblin that bore it advanced. I heard muttered sentences; half-uttered screams that seemed smothered violently; and the swish of invisible garments, the rush of invisible wings. Then I became conscious that my chamber was invaded -- that I was not alone. I heard sighs and breathings about my bed, and mysterious whisperings. Three little spheres of soft phosphorescent light appeared on the ceiling directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and then dropped -- two of them upon my face and one upon the pillow. They spattered, liquidly, and felt warm. Intuition told me they had turned to gouts of blood as they fell -- I needed no light to satisfy myself of that. Then I saw pallid faces, dimly luminous, and white uplifted hands, floating bodiless in the air -floating a moment and then disappearing. The whispering ceased, and the voices and the sounds, and a solemn stillness followed. I waited and listened. I felt that I must have light or die. I was weak with fear. I slowly raised myself toward a sitting posture, and my face came in contact with a clammy hand! All strength went from me apparently, and I fell back like a stricken invalid. Then I heard the rustle of a garment -- it seemed to pass to the door and go out.

When everything was still once more, I crept out of bed, sick and feeble, and lit the gas with a hand that trembled as if it were aged with a hundred years. The light brought some little cheer to my spirits. I sat down and fell into a dreamy contemplation of that great footprint in the ashes. By and by its outlines began to waver and grow dim. I glanced up and the broad gas flame was slowly wilting away. In the same moment I heard that elephantine tread again. I noted its approach, nearer and nearer, along the musty halls, and dimmer and dimmer the light waned. The tread reached my very door and paused -- the light had dwindled to a sickly blue, and all things about me lay in a spectral twilight. The door did not open, and yet I felt a faint gust of air fan my cheek, and presently was conscious of a huge, cloudy presence before me. I watched it with fascinated eyes. A pale glow stole over the Thing; gradually its cloudy folds took shape -- an arm appeared, then legs, then a body, and last a great sad face looked out of the vapor. Stripped of its filmy housings, naked, muscular and comely, the majestic Cardiff Giant loomed above me!

All my misery vanished -- for a child might know that no harm could come with that benignant countenance. My cheerful spirits returned at once, and in sympathy with them the gas flamed up brightly again. Never a lonely outcast was so glad to welcome company as I was to greet the friendly giant. I said:

"Why, is it nobody but you? Do you know, I have been scared to death for the last two or three hours? I am most honestly glad to see you. I wish I had a chair -- Here, here, don't try to sit down in that thing!

But it was too late. He was in it before I could stop him, and down he went -- I never saw a chair shivered so in my life.

"Stop, stop, You'll ruin ev--"

Too late again. There was another crash, and another chair was resolved into its original elements.

"Confound it, haven't you got any judgment at all? Do you want to ruin all the furniture on the place? Here, here, you petrified fool--"

But it was no use. Before I could arrest him he had sat down on the bed, and it was a melancholy ruin.

"Now what sort of a way is that to do? First you come lumbering about the place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you to worry me to death, and then when I overlook an indelicacy of costume which would not be tolerated anywhere by cultivated people except in a respectable theater, and not even there if the nudity were of YOUR sex, you repay me by wrecking all the furniture you can find to sit down on. And why will you? You damage yourself as much as you do me. You have broken off the end of your spinal column, and littered up the floor with chips of your hams till the place looks like a marble yard. You ought to be ashamed of yourself -- you are big enough to know better."

"Well, I will not break any more furniture. But what am I to do? I have not had a chance to sit down for a century." And the tears came into his eyes.

"Poor devil," I said, "I should not have been so harsh with you. And you are an orphan, too, no doubt. But sit down on the floor here -- nothing else can stand your weight -- and besides, we cannot be sociable with you away up there above me; I want you down where I can perch on this high counting-house stool and gossip with you face to face."

So he sat down on the floor, and lit a pipe which I gave him, threw one of my red blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath on his head, helmet fashion, and made himself picturesque and comfortable. Then he crossed his ankles, while I renewed the fire, and exposed the flat, honey-combed bottoms of his prodigious feet to the grateful warmth.

"What is the matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of your legs, that they are gouged up so?"

"Infernal chillblains -- I caught them clear up to the back of my head, roosting out there under Newell's farm. But I love the place; I love it as one loves his old home. There is no peace for me like the peace I feel when I am there."

We talked along for half an hour, and then I noticed that he looked tired, and spoke of it. "Tired?" he said. "Well, I should think so. And now I will tell you all about it, since you have treated me so well. I am the spirit of the Petrified Man that lies across the street there in the Museum. I am the ghost of the Cardiff Giant. I can have no rest, no peace, till they have given that poor body burial again. Now what was the most natural thing for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish? Terrify them into it! -- haunt the place where the body lay! So I haunted the museum night after night. I even got other spirits to help me. But it did no good, for nobody ever came to the museum at midnight. Then it occurred to me to come over the way and haunt this place a little. I felt that if I ever got a hearing I must succeed, for I had the most efficient company that perdition could furnish. Night after night we have shivered around through these mildewed halls, dragging chains, groaning, whispering, tramping up and down stairs, till, to tell you the truth, I am almost worn out. But when I saw a light in your room to-night I roused my energies again and went at it with a deal of the old freshness. But I am tired out -- entirely fagged out. Give me, I beseech you, give me some hope!"

I lit off my perch in a burst of excitement, and exclaimed:

"This transcends everything -- everything that ever did occur! Why you poor blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble for nothing -- you have been haunting a PLASTER CAST of yourself -- the real Cardiff Giant is in Albany!

Confound it, don't you know your own remains?"

I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation, overspread a countenance before.

The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said:

"Honestly, IS that true?"

"As true as I am sitting here."

He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then stood irresolute a moment (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting his hands where his pantaloons pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping his chin on his breast), and finally said:

"Well -- I NEVER felt so absurd before. The Petrified Man has sold everybody else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling its own ghost! My son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor friendless phantom like me, don't let this get out. Think how YOU would feel if you had made such an ass of yourself."

I heard his, stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs and out into the deserted street, and felt sorry that he was gone, poor fellow -- and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket and my bath tub.

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 Post subject: Re: Post short ghost storys here
PostPosted: Mon Sep 19, 2011 5:42 pm 
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thats not short in my books, thats like a whole novel

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 Post subject: Re: Post short ghost storys here
PostPosted: Mon Sep 19, 2011 5:43 pm 
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Dont post if your not going to stay on topic you have posted on all of them and most often they go of topic be nice and post right :P

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 Post subject: Re: Post short ghost storys here
PostPosted: Mon Sep 19, 2011 5:45 pm 
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can it be my own story?

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 Post subject: Re: Post short ghost storys here
PostPosted: Mon Sep 19, 2011 5:54 pm 
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Yes you can make them up or anything as long as it is a ghost story XD
to stay on topic here is another story

Strange "Visitors" As My Uncle Was Dying

by Charles
(Aloha, Oregon, United States)

I have two incidents to share. Before these things happened I was a total materialist, when you die you die, nothing remains, etc. Now I am not so sure.

I'm not making claims about either of these events; I'm trying to keep an open mind and wanted to share this story with other folks in the hope that someone may have had something similar happen to them, or be able to provide me with an explanation, or rudimentary guesses as to what the explanation might be. Again, I make no claims to understand completely what these events were. I am totally open to the idea that they were hallucinations brought on by the emotional intensity of the time in which they occurred.
*********************************************

A few years back my uncle, with whom I was very close, was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer and was told that his condition was terminal.

Over the next several years he underwent experimental "treatments" as he wanted to exhaust every possible remedy, but in the end had become broken and bedridden all the same. Each member of my family took turns visiting and taking care of him as he slowly passed away. By the end he had moved into my grandmother's house, and I made it a point to stop by each day to lend a hand (if needed) and to help provide moral support as it was such a trying time for everyone.

The first "incident" that happened occurred at my grandmother's house, while I was visiting with my mother and brother. I had passed out on my grandparent's couch and was in that state of consciousness that one feels as a dream ends and waking begins. I remember being "awoken" (I was still in a half-dream state) by someone asking me, "Are you Charlie? Charlie? CHARLIEEEEEEEEEE!"

I remember saying, "Yes, that's me." I looked up and saw a vague outline of a woman standing in front of me, but instead of being a person it was just a large, black hole. The voice sounded like a combination of my grandmother and bizarre electrical signals coming from radio when you have it tuned halfway between two stations.

The voice continued. "I've been trying to call my sister but she's not answering her phone. Would you please tell her that I will be here to pick up my brother when he finally gets his a$$ in gear?" I remember mumbling something, then being woken up by my mother as she entered the room.

"Are you on the phone?" she asked.

"No, why?"

"I heard you talking to someone, they were asking if you were Charles....?"

I told her I was having a dream about speaking with some woman, but I did not mention what she said.

My aunt, my mother and uncle's sister, died two years before I was born, and, after having reflected on this over the last few years, I feel like it was either her ghost/consciousness or a mental construct my mind created to assist myself during the stressful time. I have no definite opinion, except that it was extremely bizarre and that I want to keep an open mind about it.

The second incident happened one day when I stopped by my grandparent's house after finishing classes at the Community College I was attending at the time. When I arrived, my grandmother warned me that my uncle did not wish to have anyone visit him at the time. I assumed this was due to the constant vomiting and bowel issues that take place when one is battling cancer. My uncle was a very independent, proud man and would not have wanted anyone, let alone his nephews who had always looked up to him, to see him in that condition, so I understood completely. I decided to finish up some homework, then head home. I started in on the homework, then out of the corner of my right eye I saw someone walking past my grandparent's dining room table.

I looked up from my school books and saw an old man making a bee-line for my uncle's room, located at the end of the hall. To this day I can still remember he was wearing a long-sleeved gray shirt and a black leather vest. And he had no feet, or rather his legs seemed to fade away and disappear just below the knees.

My heart jumped and I sat stunned for a few seconds. I didn't feel any kind of "cool air," as I've heard described in other "supernatural" accounts which bear some similarity to this, but rather felt an almost "hypnic jerk" falling sensation.

My grandparent's den/family room lay immediately to my left, so I stood up and walked inside, certain the person I saw MUST have been one of them. I had my doubts, because my grandfather had suffered a debilitating stroke a few years before, and my grandmother's leg is in a cast due to her diabetes, and I was fairly certain neither of them could have moved as quickly as did the man I had seen a few seconds earlier.

"Were one of you guys up walking around?" I asked.

"No," my grandmother said, "so you're seeing things too, now?"

I told her what had just happened, and she then told me about a few incidents that had happened to she and my mother a week or so earlier, in no way similar to what I'd just witnessed. She said they wanted to tell me and my siblings but refrained from telling me as they thought we'd think they were crazy.

I left the house immediately and went to the store to buy a pack of cigarettes and smoked half the pack on the way back to my grandparent's house. When I arrived my grandmother told me that my uncle was ready to see me. So I went into his room, helped him change out his water bottle, rolled a joint for him (medical marijuana is legal in my state (and even if it wasn't, in my opinion a person who would deny a dying cancer patient cannabis is worse than Hitler!) and no I was not using any on the day in question) and prepared to head home. I had seen enough for one day and had to go home and process whatever it was that I had seen that afternoon.

As I left, I said what I always made a point to say whenever I left my uncle, which was, "I'll see you when I see you."

At that point it really could have been any day (and in fact was almost two weeks later, exactly) that he died so I tried to make it as neutral sounding as possible. When I said it this time, however, my uncle grabbed my arm and stared into my eyes, and with the biggest (Want to be allies? Sometimes I like to pretend I am a princess riding a pony..)-eating grin you've ever seen said, "You will." I finished the pack on the way home.

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Last edited by shelton9778 on Mon Sep 19, 2011 6:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Post short ghost storys here
PostPosted: Mon Sep 19, 2011 5:56 pm 
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A Price to Pay

Whatever you do, don't end up like me.

Whenever someone asks if you believe in ghosts, you need to say no. Just say unequivocally, absolutely, without a doubt that there is no way that ghosts exist. Don't even entertain the thought, as intriguing as it might seem. It is just not worth it.

Ghosts are not polite, they don't care, they don't play fair and they will tear your life up. Believe me.

Also,

Realize that delving into the unknown comes with a price. It isn't a nice little free ride or something fun to do, getting all scared and the like—although it may seem like that. But once you get too close, too real, that all changes and you can end up with visitors that won't go away.

A Friday night spent watching ghost movies or reading spooky stories may seem like a fun way to pass your time. Go for it! Go ahead and get a little spooked, a little creeped-out, then go to sleep and carry on with your life.

It used to be fun like that for me, until I found out that those whispy little creatures in those spooky little stories WERE REALLY REAL.

That was when my life changed.

It began the day I went to the cemetery.

Always looking for authentic material for my stories, I decided, "Hey! What a great place to find a mist or catch something on tape? Go to a cemetery!"


Right?


Ghost in GraveyardWell, there I was, shooting pics, studying the headstones. Like a sponge, I walked through the graveyard soaking up memories of the dead, immensely desirous of catching something with my camera, or at least get a "vibe" that would give me something to report.

Something, anything about a ghost—I wasn't picky.

It was a gray, overcast day and rain threatened to soak me at any moment. It sprinkled intermittently the whole time I was there. But the car was nearby, I was wearing my raincoat and I knew I could run for shelter if it started pouring. So undaunted, I roamed.

I spent several hours in that cemetery and all I saw was a bunch of graves, some serious and sad, others whimsical and humorous, and yet others that were very old and seemingly forgotten. But I never saw evidence of a single ghost. Maybe I caught an orb or two, but heck, they could have been the raindrops that came with the threatening little showers caught on my lens.

It wasn't until I returned home that I learned the lesson I'm trying to teach you here.

I think something from the graveyard followed me home.

Although my visit to the cemetery was uneventful, a story had come to me while I was there and I was intent upon getting that story down. I sat down and started writing while the images were coming to me, fast and furious.

I was alone in the house and the night was incredibly quiet. I was writing and thinking and creating, when the telephone rang. I picked it up. For a long moment there was nothing, just silence. But after a time, there was static and a hoarse whispering voice that said, "Watch for us!"

Then a click.

Then nothing.

That was a bit unnerving, but I trotted back to my laptop to continue my story. After about thirty minutes, I traveled to the kitchen for a drink of something cold. I needed a break.

I was standing at the fridge, about to grab a soda when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white face glaring at me through my kitchen window. I turned to visualize the face, but as my eyes fixed on its position, the face dashed out of view. I reached for the back door, turned the knob and stepped outside. After inspecting in all directions, I found nothing and went back inside.

The kitchen was dark because as a Midwesterner, I believe in conserving electricity and had only used a very few, necessary lights. In fact, the entire house was very dark.

I returned to the fridge to get my soda. The light from the interior glared and after I closed the door, for a moment I was blind.

Ghost in KitchenI turned to go back to my room when I was confronted with the image of someone dressed in white from head to toe. It undulated six inches off the ground and the face was pallid; eyes hollow and black. Its bony finger pointed at me shakily and anger emanated from it very clearly and very intensely.

Of course I was terrified at the sight and didn't know what to do. After all, I was alone and it was dark. So I did the most stupid, foolish thing I could think of.

I went back to my laptop and kept writing my story.

I blazed on my keyboard, slurping my soda and getting every mental image I could put into words as quickly as possible.

I heard rappings, I felt chills and I witnessed shadows moving through the room.

After a time, I decided to stop for just a short break to stretch my legs, and a picture in the hall crashed to the floor. This told me that stopping was the wrong move, so I returned to blaze on my keys once again.

It went on like that all night, trapped by the spirits—each one threatening me anytime I quit writing. Pushed forward, I came to realize the story I was writing was not my own, but something I was being forced to write. I didn't mind that so much as the story was good, really good. I just didn't care to be bossed around so much or treated with so much disrespect.

But what could I do? I knew sleep wasn't an option and being alone I had no one to pull me out.

Like a fool, I just kept writing and writing and writing. They were there, I knew it and I knew that they knew what I was doing. They even knew what I was thinking.

They were behind me, in front of me, above and below. But the way they were acting, I knew I was onto something and that alone, kept me going.

I did complete the story, but it was daybreak when I finished. With bloodshot eyes and exhaustion, I stepped out of my front door and onto the sidewalk. The sweet smell of morning air penetrated my soul and drove away the shadows of the night.

I was spent.

And while most of the activity stopped after I finished the story, a few of them have stayed behind. I know they're here. Once you know how they feel, you never forget it and once you've stepped over the line, you can't pretend it never happened.

The story I was driven to write has not been published yet, and it may never be. But if and when I do publish it, it won't be free.

Do you think ghosts are just a figment of the imagination?

Yeah, right. Go ahead, keep thinking that.

Really. It's in your best interest.

Because once you step over the line and start to believe, you are in for a ride that will change your life.

But that ride comes with a price.

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