Paranormal Documentaries – “Unsettling Urban Legends With Evil Backstories”

Please enjoy this paranormal documentary as a means to sample and enjoy the work. If you enjoy this documentary, then please consider purchasing it through the appropriate methods and support the studios and filmmakers who made it (if purchasing is available). 🙂

This work is not mine, I did not record or upload it and my only intent is to share it with people as a means for exposure. If this video link is broken or the video has been removed, please contact me at Meteo(dot)Xavier(at)gmail(dot)com.

Paranormal Documentaries: “THIS Is WHY Tourists Are SCARED Of These Places!”

Please enjoy this paranormal documentary as a means to sample and enjoy the work. If you enjoy this documentary, then please consider purchasing it through the appropriate methods and support the studios and filmmakers who made it (if purchasing is available). 🙂

This work is not mine, I did not record or upload it and my only intent is to share it with people as a means for exposure. If this video link is broken or the video has been removed, please contact me at Meteo(dot)Xavier(at)gmail(dot)com.

Creepypasta – “The Strange Glow” (Text)

The Strange Glow
Written By: Matthew Keller
Estimated reading time — 24 minutes

My grandfather has been acting very strange lately, and has begun sleepwalking again. For this reason it was suggested to me by my parents that I write a journal to keep myself busy, and to keep track and document my grandfather’s behavior here. They will be away in Europe for the next two weeks so while they are away, my grandfather’s well-being will be my sole responsibility.
Now back to what I was saying; he’s been very odd lately and has been displaying signs of dementia as well. He has been repetitively telling me that ‘They’ are after him, and that ‘They’ will find him soon. As expected I asked who ‘They’ are, to which he has two responses; “I don’t know,” while the other response is complete silence and confusion. These are obviously signs of paranoia. I’m not a psychologist but I can imagine these thoughts are coming from a place of both age and trauma. Trauma in the form of war, for he survived World War II as a dive bomber fighting the Japanese, and experienced much combat and the lost many friends. After the war he continued to serve in the Navy as a training pilot in the Florida keys, oftentimes going through the Bermuda triangle, the Caribbean, and the gulf of Mexico, for training purposes. He very solemnly spoke about it, it was as though he was trying to forget something, something he was still scared of, and expressed to no one.

I wish he would tell me so I could be closer to him and be able to pass these stories down to the next generation of family, but for now I will wait. I am hoping these next two weeks will bring us closer than ever before. I am going to eat dinner in a moment with him then will write some more later.

Dinner was very good and we shared a glass of wine together; everything seemed like it was going fine until a simple ray of light from the lighthouse several blocks down along the waterfront came through our windows and shined upon him. All at once he went from talking about romantic city trips in Europe with grandma to suddenly flinching and nearly trembling when the light touched him. He nearly fell out of his chair which startled me. I got up at once and asked if he was okay and having an emergency. To which he denied and begged me to close the curtains immediately. Although I was confused I did so as fast as I could.

When I turned back to question him, he was gone. He had scurried to some other part of the home. After several moments of looking inside each room I found him in the living room. All of the drapes and curtains were shut as he sat upwards in his reclining chair hidden in the darkness. I asked if he was okay, to which he responded, “Fine, just fine,” very quickly and dismissively. Obviously something is wrong. I brought the rest of his dinner and wine to him and then returned upstairs to my room to write this entry.

He’s doing it again, waking up in the middle of the night, it’s about 3:13 am right now. I hear him walking back and forth, up and down the stairs muttering to himself; I am going to carefully check on him and come back.

The experience was more than what I was ready for. I called out to him several times, but nothing had the desired effect. He still ran about the house aimlessly. I remember hearing or reading that you are not supposed to wake people while they are sleepwalking, as it can be dangerous to the sleepwalker and the waker. Well let’s just say it was just that…dangerous. I lost track of my surroundings in the kitchen and accidently got between the island and my grandfather; when he suddenly changed direction and rushed my way and crashed into me. He roared and yelled and even began to cry. I was so confused. We fell to the ground but as we did I fell in a way where he would fall onto me so I could soften the impact for him. As I helped him up he flailed his arms around wildly yelling, “No, no,” on repeat. After he knocked over the spice rack along with plates and cups which crashed to the floor he stopped at once and stood there in silence, as if frozen. I then tip-toed to the next room and watched him, unsure what I should do and how I could help him. Another tense and quiet moment passed and I watched him adjust and relax his posture.
“Michael?” he spoke, almost trembling in the dark of the kitchen.

I didn’t respond at first, as my heart nearly broke at the pain and confusion in the old veteran’s voice. He sounded as though he was a lost child rather than a former warrior of the sky.

“Michael!? Are you there Michael!?” he said louder this time.

“Yes, grandpa I’m over here.”

He turned to me and went to me at once to embrace me.

“I’m sorry my grandson…I thought I was…”

“Was what?” I interrupted.

“…Being taken away”

“Taken away where?”

“I’m not sure my boy…I’m not sure.”

“Well it’s alright now.”

I then helped him back to his room. It’s now 3:30am

Today was a quiet day at first but became a bit of an anxious one at the news we learned later as the day progressed. We watched baseball on the television and then the news. There is a storm approaching in a few days. Many news and weather channels are predicting it will become a hurricane. Chances are it will hit us in full force. So my grandfather and I went to the supermarket and the gas station to avoid the impending chaos.

The anxiety of the town is obvious, people are moving faster, more aggressively on the road. I am hoping that the storm will miss us and go around us as most storms do. I am going to make dinner now; I will write after.

Dinner went well, and I made sure that the curtains of the window which faces the lighthouse were closed prior to inviting my grandfather to the dinner table to avoid another episode of whatever it was like the previous dinner. During our meal together, I took it upon myself to ask him about his military experience. I was hesitant to ask, but I couldn’t help my own curiosity which at first I thought might be selfish, but then I realized maybe I could discover the sole source of his trauma, or at least his odd behavior.
We started off simple and chronologically; discussing his training and time in boot camp, but eventually we got to the war and surprisingly the combat part. There was a mixture of pain, anger, confusion, and hope in his voice and tone.

As he discussed the war he was well composed, organized, and detailed when explaining everything. The dates, the ships, the equipment, the scenery and sensations, the fear. It was as though we were slowly being thrown back into the cockpit of a dive bomber plane, ready to freefall from the sky at a moment’s notice, through incoming and desperate fire. It was extraordinary to me, but then he began to discuss the aftermath of the war.

I could not help notice his pace dramatically slowed down. He struggled to organize his thoughts now, and there was a worry in his voice, it was the same frail voice that was nearly choked up and trembling when he was sleep walking and when the lighthouse shined upon him.

The very thing that caused this anxiety of his was the mentioning of the post-war events much to my surprise, rather than the war itself. What specifically caught my attention was when he recalled that five planes, all of which were piloted by his friends. One day they had all gone suddenly missing during a navigation exercise. The fifth plane happened to be a rescue plane which searched for the previous four. Additionally, a sea vessel was lost as well, which my grandpa described as a work of art, almost a living work of art by the way he referred to it as ‘she’, or ‘her’. Now my grandfather was the second rescue plane at this time, and wingman to the other rescue aircraft.

When I asked what happened to them, he took a long pause.

He slowly rose and put his hands together behind his lower back and walked towards the windows of his home and gazed upon the open sea.

“I cannot say for certain,” my grandpa answered.

“I’m sure you have heard stories about where I was stationed, they have been told there for hundreds of years,” he said.

“Mom and Dad said you were stationed in Florida, that’s all.”

“Yes, Florida indeed, but when we flew during carrier drills and exercise I flew between the Florida keys, Bermuda, and Puerto Rico. That infamous and dreaded triangle cursed no doubt from centuries passed.”

“The Bermuda Triangle?” I asked him.

“Yes, also known more appropriately as the Devil’s triangle, both ships of the sea and planes of the air have perished there.”

I didn’t find this strange in the least so I asked, “Well don’t planes and ships go missing all the time?”

“Not like this they don’t, grandson, this is different, the number of disappearances there is unique to any other region on the Earth. Those twenty-seven highly trained military men I called my friends, don’t just vanish without a trace like that. I’ve sailed on every ocean, flew in every sky, and I tell you there is someone wrong with that area. Something still left unknown and a hidden secret to mankind. I often wonder…maybe I was supposed to vanish with them.”

“Nonsense Grandpa, your place is here, with me and your family.”

It was clear to me then, so much of the paranoia came from years of conditioned superstition and from traumatic survivor’s guilt.

“It’s survivor’s guilt that makes you feel this way grandpa.”

“Yeah, well maybe grandson.”

“You are safe here grandpa, nothing can harm you here, we are neither at sea nor the sky, we are right here in our pleasant seaside town.”

“You’re right boy, I apologize for getting worked up, but this town will soon be made unpleasant with the approaching storm. Let’s focus on that instead. We should get ready at once.”

He then grabbed his shoes and tossed mine over to me.

“We have no time to waste,” he said as he put his veteran baseball cap on and got his car keys.

We then began on our way to the local supermarket, and on the way we passed through town where I saw an antique store that caught my attention. I am thinking tomorrow of going bike riding and stopping there.

It’s morning now, but I awoke late last night to the sound of my grandfather yelling. At first I thought someone broke into the house because what he verbalized made it seem as though he were fighting or arguing with another person. I got up to call the cops but I forgot where my phone was, so I grabbed one of his golf clubs from my bedroom corner and ran into his room where I surprisingly found him still asleep. The blanket was half on him and half tangled beneath him. He tossed and turned while yelling, “You can’t take me away! You can’t take me away!” Then he said things that sounded like coordinates and pilot diction, codes and numbers, call signs, etc. I watched him for a moment, still unsure as to what to do, until I decided I should turn on the light with the hope it would peacefully break his dream and calmly awaken him.

However, when I turned on the light, he cried out in hysteria and rolled back and forth until he threw himself off the bed, thudding hard onto the floor. I ran to his side immediately, and saw that he was now awake, calm, and still. He looked confused but relieved.

“It was a dream?” he looked at me, asking for confirmation. I could hear it in his tone.

“Yes grandpa, just a dream.”

“No my boy, not just a dream…a nightmare.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Are you hurt at all?”

“No, and no…I am fine.”

I was unsure of what to say or do, but we looked at each other for a moment and appreciated each other’s company for a few seconds..

“Tomorrow before lunch, let’s go to church,” my grandfather said.

I wanted to please him and so I told him, “Yes, let’s go,” before I returned to my room.

I wonder why he wanted to go all of a sudden, and bring him there with him. It’s still late and writing this is putting me to sleep. I will write more tomorrow about the church and the antique store (if I visit) I’m still hoping to visit.

We went to church as planned, my grandfather and I didn’t say much to one another. With church we were both very serious about faith, and listened intently to the sermon, but one thing I took away was what my grandfather asked, “Do you really think God exists?”

I didn’t understand why he was asking me this, it seemed heavy and out of nowhere, but I answered honestly and said, “Yes I do.”

He nodded and then bizarrely asked if I believed in ghosts, to which I said I was not sure.

“What about the government, do you trust the government?”

“I’m not sure, I suppose for the most part yes, sometimes no.”

Right afterwards he asked if I believe in extraterrestrial beings, to which I said I don’t know.

He then began to go on about how if God is real then ghosts must be real, but he questioned how God would banish them to an existence in between life and death. To this statement I didn’t know how to respond. Now with aliens he explained how every star in the sky is a sun, and each sun has planets, and each planet has moons, and how basically with all of the infinite number of worlds out there, it was unlikely that our world was the only one that could sustain life. I still remained unsure as to why he was telling me this. Maybe he was just trying to make conversation, and so I joked that perhaps there were alien ghosts on other planets, but this did not amuse him. In the next instant that followed the priests blessed us, “Go out into the world, and go with God”, and mass ended.

After mass ended, my grandfather insisted we stay longer and pray, but I had run out of things to pray for, so he advised me to pray for peace and calm; and when everyone left we still remained.

At first it was easy to respect my grandfather’s wishes but then things became awkward as I watched him with his eyes closed in silence.

“Michael, won’t you pray with me, repeat the words I say.”

I waited unsure of what he would say, but eager to appease him and anxious to leave before the antic store closed, it closed early on Sundays.

I then told him yes and so I said the following with my grandfather:

“Thou O Lord, who stillest the raging of the sea, hear; hear us, and save us, that we perish not. O blessed Savior, who didst save thy disciples ready to perish in a storm, hear us, and save us, we beseech thee. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us.

He slowly arose while he blessed himself and beckoned me to follow him. Once we were outside I took my bike I had tied to a telephone pole on the main street, my grandfather had driven there separately.

“Will I meet you at home?” he asked.

“I’m going to stop at the antique store.”

“Okay, I’m going to read yesterday’s paper, once you get home we will go to the grocery store again together.”

He looked intensely at the sky, which still remained a blue Sunday. He then spoke.

“That storm will be coming, we better prepare for the onslaught of people attacking the store.”

I remember telling him sure and then proceeded to pedal to the antique store.

When I arrived at the store I was immediately drawn to the binoculars in the window, and when the owner greeted me, I asked her right away the price of them.

“$100 exactly,” she said.

My parents had given me $200 for the 10 days I was here even though I had a job and was using vacation days.

“They’re for my grandfather I said, he’s a World War II combat veteran, fought in the Pacific, I think these are navy issued, I’m sure he’d love them, are they World War II era?”

“Yes, those are World War II era, and who is your grandfather?”

“Old man McCullen.”

“Ah! I know him, always wearing his veteran’s cap, he’s a legend in this town, a fine gentleman,” the woman said.

“Alright, $75 for you,” she said.

“That’s very nice of you, it’s a deal, thank you,” I told her.

I was very excited, a surprise gift for my grandfather. I had every intention of giving them to him after we ate.

When I got back home we quickly made our way to the local supermarket where each register was open and easily had a dozen people per line. The chit-chat was loud and audible and the panic and haste was evident. Many couples and families went together and were shouting to each other blindly, communicating from isle to isle. Other people throughout the isles were simply grabbing everything they could. Many were hoarding the paper products, others baby formula; while most went for milk, eggs, and bread.”

My grandfather leaned towards me and said, “Don’t follow those idiots, grabbing the most perishable goods in the store. Go grab some pasta and rice, and beans in a can. If we lose electricity or whatever the case may be, we’ll have things to last without refrigeration.”

I of course followed my grandfather’s guidance and did as he asked. When we were finished my grandpa seemed agitated again.

“Let’s go, we have enough,” he rushed. “I don’t trust these people. Desperate people are the hardest to trust, and people in a panic are the hardest to reason with.”

I simply nodded and we made our way out.

The hours blended and seemed to pass quickly and before I knew it I was closing the shades and double locking all the doors of my Grandpa’s home. We had pasta with tomato sauce, and he hard boiled enough eggs to last the week in anticipation of the hurricane. He then went over to his record player and began playing big band and jazz music from the 40s. He was quieter than usual, but his hands seemed as though they were trembling as he unwrapped a small candy. I broke the silence with an impulsive question, no doubt ruining the music as well. “Have you gone to the doctor lately?”

“What, why is that?” he responded.

“Well you’re shaking a lot? Is it early Parkinson’s? blood pressure or diabetes related?”

He looked at me with surprise, “Listen kiddo, I survived World War II, if the Japs didn’t get me, an extra candy won’t either.”

“Are you worried; anyone will get you?” I asked again like an idiot half realizing what I said.

“What did you say?” he said defensively.

“It’s just that…you saw how panicked the people looked,” I quickly said.

“It’s not them I’m concerned about,” he responded.

Once again I wasn’t sure who he was referring to, and he hadn’t been to the doctor recently. Who is to say it wasn’t dementia or paranoia. I refrained again from pressing him further, and decided inside to calm the mood.

“Grandfather, you have survived my line of questioning,” I joked, “I think you deserved a bit of a reward for that,” I added.

He laughed, “And what is that?”

I got up from my seat and went over to my room, quickly grabbed the box of binoculars, and placed it over where my grandfather was seated. Facing me and the front door. The light of the setting sun outlining the closed black curtains, making them glow gold.

“What is this? This is a nice surprise,” he commented as he opened the box.

“My Lord…” he paused, seemingly stunned and unsure how to respond.

“I haven’t used these since…since….” he struggled to find the words.

I couldn’t tell if he liked it or not as he was stuck on repeat.

“Since your time in the service,” I added.

“Yes…it’s a nice gift,” he said as he fidgeted to return the binoculars.

I didn’t say anything, but I was most likely visibly disappointed.

He tried to speak, “My boy…I…” he couldn’t finish, but kept trying.

“It’s just that the sun is setting…I…I suppose I could use them really quick, maybe spot a ship like I used to.”

I became satisfied in this moment, and thought maybe this is how his weird habit of frantically closing the blinds would end. It didn’t make sense, why have a home on the shore, with a beautiful view of the bay, the lighthouse, sunrise, and sunset, and not utilize it? Where did this phobia of the lighthouse come from?

My grandfather rose from his chair and slowly turned from me and approached the curtains. He muttered something to himself and seemed to take a few deep breaths. Next he raised the binoculars to his eyes and then gazed at the horizon. For a moment all was still and silent.

I watched him, not daring to move, worried he was on the fringes of having an episode, but at the same time my love for gift giving hoped that he would be able to relax his mind and enjoy his present. For a moment I was right, he laughed a bit, now and then, as though he were a toddler with a toy, but then for reasons unknown that laughter became near sobs and a whimpering. He banged the binoculars against the glass while his eyes were still fixed to them. He did this multiple times and spoke incoherently.

“Stop grandpa! Grandpa stop!” I yelled at him, but it only got worse. I ran over to him and nearly ripped the binoculars from his face.

“Nooooo!” he yelled. Pushing me away forcing me to the floor.

“What is wrong!?” I shouted.

He then yelled out, “Look!” as he accidently hit me in the face with the binoculars, almost immediately giving me a small fat lip.

Although I was aggravated I took the binoculars and looked towards the clouds on the horizon. They were dark as nightmares, and seemed as thick as a land mass, like a floating piece of land in the sky.

I lost my temper for a moment as I shouted at him, “It’s just storm clouds!”

I repeated to him what he had told me in the supermarket, “Desperate people are the hardest to trust, and people in a panic are the hardest to reason with.”
He calmed himself down and then threw the curtain closed. He apologized for his outburst and for my lip, gave me a hug, and then said right before he ascended the stairs to his room, “It’s inside the clouds now, it won’t be long.”

I stood there with my heart still vibrating in my pounding chest from his outburst. It was only a storm, yet it had such a psychological strain on everyone in the town, evidently including my grandfather now.

I spent the rest of the afternoon time napping, but I soon awoke in the early twilight to the sound of Sinatra’s version of, “Stormy Weather,” echoing throughout the halls from downstairs.
“Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky, stormy weather since my gal and I ain’t together, Keeps rainin’ all the time,” the lyrics went dancing along the hallways, room to room.

“Come on down!” my grandfather called when he saw me at the top of the stairs with a big smile on his face.

As I descended I noticed an assortment of grapes, crackers, cheeses, and a couple glasses of red wine. This was no doubt his way of apologizing to me for his outburst, and at the same time creating an atmosphere so contrary to before that it would be inappropriate to mention and ruin the mood he now tried to sustain.

When I sat down he pushed my wine closer to me, as the song continued, “All I do is pray the Lord above will let me, walk in the sun once more.”

“Ha, I flew in the sun once, never mind walking it, and I feel as though I’ll fly in it once again,” My grandfather said as he swayed back and forth, with his glass of wine to his face. I helped myself to a few sips of the red blend and observed my grandfather sit down. He took a heavy gulp and then raised something from a small wooden box on his side of the table. I then noticed that it was a large pistol, specifically his world war II M1911 .45 caliber pistol. Next to the box I now noticed dirty and moist rags next to paper towels, he had just finished cleaning it. He then inserted an ammunition magazine into the base of the pistol and tapped it into place and then pulled back the slide before releasing it, sending the slide back into position and effectively loading a round into the chamber.

“It’s loaded,” he said half matter of fact and half warningly.

“Why did you take it out?” I asked.

“Don’t be a naïve boy, robberies and burglaries, riots, they always happen during these storms. This is for self-defense just in case.”

I didn’t mind the firearm, but what I did mind instead was my grandfather’s mental health and drinking around the firearm.

“You know how to shoot?” he asked me.

“I’ve shot a time or two,” I responded.

“Good…this one’s for you,” he said as he pulled out a small .38 snub nose revolver.

“Don’t I need a license for that?” I asked.

“Don’t leave the house with it and you’re fine,” he answered.

I wasn’t sure if that was legal or not but I nodded rather than challenged him.

After a short moment passed the record ended. It was silent inside the house now, but outside, the winds began to gain velocity. Twilight was nearly over, and so I allowed my curiosity to let me peek through the dark shades and observe the outside world. The waves were crashing larger and louder than usual, The beach front landscape began to twist and morph, the flags in the front yards of homes blew violently, whipping hard in the air. All the buoy bells and wind chimes rattled and sounded off. Up in the sky flocks of birds hurried away in formation. Slowly but surely the winds began to howl. I closed the blinds and took a step back.

“Do not worry my boy, it is just a storm, it will pass as all storms do, but be ready for anything. Now come get dinner.”

I am not sure if I have the right words to explain what came next, what my grandfather and I faced. But it is important that I do my best to recall the events with as much accuracy as I can, for all the sakes of the police, my family, and for myself.

The rain came down upon our house like machine gun fire. Loud, furiously fast, and seemingly endless. The thunder cracked like bombs above us, and we could detect the flashes of lightning when they lit up the dark globe for a moment, visible even through the drawn dark shades. Now and then that unrelenting lighthouse would flash its lamplight our way. In the distance fog horns of ships sounded off, and close by the noise of garbage cans flying across the pavement and yards filled our ears. The thunderclaps set off car alarms, neighborhood dogs barked, and the wind wailed and tackled everything in their path.

My grandfather and I had suddenly lost power, but we were not phased as we knew it was inevitable. We struck candles and placed them throughout the home. It was then I heard a loud bang against the side door which led directly to the garbage cans. Behind the garbage can was another gate, which when opened gave you direct access to the beach.
At first I thought nothing of it of course, but then the banging was nonstop, as if someone was there. I peeked outside of the window closer to the door but I could not see anything. Again I heard the noise this time much heavier. Heavy enough to catch my grandfather’s attention and his suspicion.

I went to open the door, but my grandpa ran over and threw himself in front of it.

“There is no one there, it’s just the wind!” he said in excitement.

Suddenly another loud bang struck the front door, and then both doors at once.

We looked at each other without saying a word. I could feel the feverish fear radiating from his face and knew that only paranoia and panic could follow. Without any other hesitation he withdrew his 1911 from his waistband and held it firmly in his right hand. He stared at me blankly for a moment before he leaned in to whisper in my ear, “They’re here.” He then hopped over to the table and grabbed the snug nose .38, and carefully handed it to me.

As my fingers grasped the pistol my heart began to race, and my breathing became heavy and difficult.

“What is happening?” I asked.

There is no time to explain.

“We should call the police,” I said.

He dismissed this saying, “It’s too late they’re here now, they’re finally here.”

He ran across the room and threw himself against the wall besides the front door. A third banging now began on where the garage door was located. I looked over to my grandfather, who calmly spoke, “ Aim towards the door sonny.”

I could not comprehend what or why quick enough, but before I could blink my grandfather threw the door open and then turned to face what was on the doorstep.

But nothing was there.

“Cowards!” he shouted, his voice muffled by the wind which ripped the screen door from its hinges and hurled it into the street. My grandfather leaned into the regular door and managed to close it.

“It’s the storm!” I shouted.

“NO! THAT’S WHAT THEY WANT YOU TO THINK!” he boomed inside the home, as though still competing with the volume of the wind.
He approached the side door, this time grabbing a flashlight. He slowly opened the door this time as if it were a surprise for whoever was at the door. In another swift movement my grandpa had light and pistol faced towards the threshold, but this too was empty

Now I couldn’t see what my grandfather saw then, but he shined his light around in the darkness of the hurricane, shining it down upon the sand. Every few movements the area was visible by the prevailing lighthouse.

He turned to me; his face already red with windburn. “The footprints! The footprints!” he said.

“YOU FUCKERS!” he shouted out as he then ran outside. Leaping into the darkness.

I was frozen, unsure as to what was occurring. The storm and rain continued but the banging on our property ceased the moment my grandfather exited.

I stood there scared and perplexed and wondered, were there actually people that caused the banging? They moved like spirits, spirits that somehow knew that my grandfather had left the premises. What did they want? Was it simply the wind? Had my Grandpa finally snapped and lost his mind? All of these questions wrestled inside my puzzled mind as I tightly gripped the snug nose in my hand still.

I then heard what I thought sounded like a gunshot. I went to call the police but in the excitement I had forgotten where I placed my phone, that was when I heard a second gunshot.
I took a deep breath and then ran outside clumsily collapsing into the fence and taking cover there. From there I would run then dive onto the sand while the lighthouse light passed, so as not to be found by whatever my grandfather chased after. I looked behind me for footprints, to see where my grandfather’s and his enemies’ were, but the hurricane winds erased even my own. There was not a single trace of my grandfather or anything.

I ran on, blind in the dark, timing the lighthouse light and my dives every seven seconds. The winds of the hurricane blowing the sharp sand against me, passing my ears with the volume of passing trains, just an endless blast of white noise. I squinted, but it was as good as having my eyes shut, and so I shut my eyes and ran like a maniac in the abyss. I couldn’t hear my panting but I knew my heart was pounding; I held the gun firmly and covered to run out. Each time I went to call out my grandfather’s name I received sand in my mouth. With not a clue if I ran straight or in a mindless circle, I determined that my best course of action was to return back to the shelter of the house.

The second I decided on this and turned around, boom! Something heavy, maybe driftwood, struck my head and sent me crashing down flat on my back. I rolled over in pain, hot moist blood was dripping from my head and staining my hair. I couldn’t see it but I felt it dripping all over. Soon I was dizzy and fell to the ground, and began to crawl.

When suddenly the beach all around me was lit up. The lighthouse lamp might have become jammed or broken for it was now stuck in the direction I looked.

Next I noticed my grandfather some thirty feet from me staring at the sky, unphased by the elements, fixated on whatever was above him and slowly raising his pistol towards the sky. Through my squinting eyes I saw above us what appeared to be a large helicopter suspended and hovering in the sky with its lights as well fixed on my grandfather as if he were an actor on stage under a large spotlight. I then noticed that the light upon us and the surrounding maybe fifty to a hundred feet around us was not from the lighthouse but from this aircraft over the ocean.

I put my hands around my eyes then as if my hands were binoculars shielding my eyes, and looked around me, trying to call out to my grandfather, “Grandpa! What’s going on!?”

I could now see the blood from my head dripping off my wet and sandy hands.

“I’M HURT, LET’S GO HOME, LET’S GET OUT OF HERE!” I strained my vocals.

I could not compete with the overpowering volume of the wind and my grandpa still remained still like a statue. So I ran towards him, getting hit with my debris from the wind, until I crashed into him, which snapped him out of his stupor.

“AHHHHH!” he yelled, just barely audible over the storm. He readjusted his arm and aim and began to frantically fire bullets at the helicopter above us. I threw myself to the ground beneath him so as not to get hit, I could feel the hot shells that ejected from the pistol sprinkle down on me, I reached for my own waist band and realized my pistol was gone, buried no doubt in the sand somewhere.

My grandfather continued to reload and fire uninterrupted and without hesitation. There was terror and horror in his face. I peered up at the aircraft and a second light seemed to come from where the ocean reaches the beach. I could not tell if my eyes played tricks on me but it looked as if a large vessel was becoming beached, and passed on by as if it were a ghost ship.

Was this the case of his terror? Was this thing part of the aircraft above? Was it the navy or the Coastguard? I could not tell. I was overwhelmed by exhaustion, pain, confusion, the storm, and my grandfather’s terror.

My grandfather pulled out his last magazine and turned to me. He then grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me close enough where our faces almost touched. He then yelled in my ears with all of his might.

“MICHAEL RUN!!! MICHAEL RUNN!!”

I went to move but I was frozen as if my feet were buried in the sand.

My grandfather then turned to me and pointed the pistol at me.

“Holy shit! Stop your crazy” I said automatically. The fear unlocked my feet and I began to run aimlessly in the opposite direction.

I don’t know what compelled me to do it, maybe it was instinct but I ran to the nearest dune I could find and from there watched my grandfather shoot his final bullets, standing there with defiance against his unknown enemy.

‘Why didn’t they or this thing shoot back or run away?’

It was madness, everything was bewilderment and madness, and my vision was beginning to blur and by now I was consciously fighting off oncoming unconscious through the onslaught of the sands and the grueling pain from the wood’s impact with my head.

Just then after shielding my eyes as though my bloody hands were binocular I watched my grandfather, and something in the nearing distance like a massive wall was coming closer and closer. I noticed it then to be a massive wave, like a tidal wave.

I stood up in shock and screamed for my grandpa as loud as I could, but without a moment without further warning or time to react, suddenly he was gone!

Gone just completely gone! And then the wave hit the beach, and the lights from above vanished. All at once without reason or explanation. I stood up on the high dune, watching the black water cover the less dark by contrast sand. The lighthouse now resumed as normal, as if it were never interrupted. I went to go shout for my grandfather again but something thunderous above me boomed, the storm increased, and completely depleted I surrendered to my exhaustion and collapsed. My world was now completely engulfed in silence and darkness.

When I woke up yesterday I was in the hospital, I woke up with stitches and bruising and was soon released. Upon returning to my grandfather I wrote everything I could remember the second I got home. Backtracking though, when I did wake up my aunt and uncle shared a room with me, and upon seeing me open my eyes they alerted the nurses and a police officer who came in from just outside the door.

They greeted me and asked if I was okay, but before I could answer they said I had suffered a minor concussion and a few stitches on head, and had only been asleep for several hours. They also let me know that the police patrolling the shore found me with their search lights. When I asked about my grandfather, they said they regretted to be the ones to tell me, but that he was missing and with no clues as to how or where. They were hoping I could assist them. It all came back to me in a flash, all the confusion and excitement and fear rushed back into me. I could not hide my excitement and they saw it. The police officer stepped forward and suggested I come by the station when I felt better to give any witness statement or testimony as to what occurred and what I knew.

I have made copies of everything I have written, with the hopes that someone will understand or can explain everything.

It’s been a few months now, and my grandfather is still missing, and presumed dead due to drowning. I want to believe that…I really do, but the memories are still fresh, and are still perplexing to me. I cannot help but reflect on the conversation I had with him in church, about ghosts, extra-terrestrials. Did the ghost ship come for him? Something from another world? I cannot help wondering if he was just insane from the war and whatever mysterious circumstances followed him were just coincidences. Did an advanced intelligence take him? It drove me nearly crazy and has kept me up for what seems like endless nights now; to the point I needed to have sleeping pills prescribed to me. So many questions, I know. Was this all just madness, was it an instance or an experience that happened in a single moment and drove him mad? Was it triggered by the storm? Was there something he witnessed in the sky or in the ocean that day his friends disappeared, did he see it again the night of the hurricane?

Did he know too much? Was he better off dead to some than to linger alive?

Or was it simply that his mental ailments had too much of an influence on me while I was nearly isolated with him for just under two weeks? It was like contagious paranoia. I have to have answers, and I want to believe that he just had a mental episode triggered by the coast guard or the storm, and that a wave did in fact claim his life.

A fitting death for a naval man. Fighting until the last breath, and being consumed and buried, really as if returned, to the ocean where all the madness, power, and haunting memories belonged.

Please God, I pray, please let him be dead and reunited with grandma or his beloved ocean, and unharmed by forces I can never explain.


Read this story and more on Creepypasta at https://www.creepypasta.com/the-strange-glow/.

Creepypasta – “The Littlefork Bodysnatchers” (Text)

The Littlefork Bodysnatchers
Written by Andrew Layden:

Estimated reading time — 12 minutes

Over the past few decades, a disturbing rumor has spread throughout the backwoods settlement of Littlefork. People there tell tales of so-called “alternates,” who kidnap and impersonate the small town’s residents. Taking the form of their victims, they appear human at first glance. But the alternates possess uncanny facial features like dead, bulging eyes and unusually long limbs.

Of course, none of this concerned Dr. Emma Wilton. She was in search of another Littlefork legend: the ivory-billed woodpecker. Once the largest woodpecker in the US, the bird was now considered extinct by most ornithologists, Emma included. Although the last official sighting of the bird occurred in 1941, some in the area claimed to have seen a large bird with shiny black plumage not unlike those of the ivory-billed woodpecker.

Emma made the trip to Littlefork alone, stopping first at the town’s only hotel. An old, rickety porch wrapped around the front of the building. There two older men sat in wicker chairs with smoldering cigarettes between their fingers. They watched Emma with a blank stare. Smoke spilled from their lips.

Inside, a portly woman sat behind the counter. She sighed as Emma approached as if annoyed that she actually had to work. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes. I booked a room. It should be under Robert Monroe,” Emma said.

The woman blinked long and slow. “You’re not Robert Monroe.”

“No. But the room was booked for two people.”

“That’s right,” the receptionist said.

“And I’m the second person. I’m Emma Wilton.”

“I see,” the woman said, “And where is Mr. Monroe?”

“He decided not to come.”

“Why not?”

“That’s personal.” Emma forced a smile, but it was hard to hide the irritation in her voice.

“Well, I can’t let you stay in the room. It’s booked under his name.”

Emma sucked her teeth and glanced around the dingy interior of the hotel. Aside from the two men out front, the place was dead. “Meaning no offense, but this doesn’t look to be a busy hotel.”

“None taken,” the receptionist replied dryly.

“What are the chances someone would come to the hotel and correctly guess the name of a guest?”

The fat receptionist pushed a greasy strand of hair behind her ear and shrugged. “Company policy. You can call him if –”

“No,” Emma said quickly. “You must have his number on file. How about you call him? Okay?”

With a sigh, the woman picked up the phone and dialed Robert’s number. While they waited for him to pick up, Emma paced around the lobby. She stopped by a bulletin board, which only had two papers pinned to it. One was a flier for a local concert scheduled for two months ago. The other was a wrinkled notice about a missing girl. According to the faded, black letters, the girl’s name was Ashley. She had disappeared two years ago at the age of sixteen. Sad. But again, it was none of Emma’s concern.

While the receptionist dialed Robert’s number a second time, the old men from the porch entered. “Don’t get many visitors,” said the first. He was missing most of his teeth, and his breath reeked of tobacco.

“Not safe around these parts,” said the second. He had thin, shriveled lips that seemed to stretch to the edges of his face. He pointed to the missing person poster on the bulletin board.

Emma offered a polite smile. “I’m just here for the forest,” she said.

“That’s exactly the place you need to avoid. There’s a killer in those woods. Done skinned poor Ashley, and she ain’t the only one,” the toothless man said.

“Not so. Wasn’t no killer,” the other said. His friend shook his head and sighed. “They say she was seen in the neighbor’s barn. But she wasn’t nothing but a cheap copy. A fake.” An alternate. Emma had heard the tales, but she didn’t have the energy to argue with a couple of old men.

“Yes, well, I will be careful. Thank you for your concern.”

Fortunately, Emma was called over by the receptionist, who happily informed her that she could not reach Robert. Having left him a message, the receptionist told Emma she could leave her luggage and walk around the town in the meantime. It was just as well. She had had enough of the hotel and the irritating people inside it.

With a camera slung around her neck, Emma decided to venture into the forest for an early start on her research. The ancient woodland encircled Littlefork on all sides. Like a fetid, green shadow, it lurked behind every building and at the end of each road. However, there were no entrances into the Littlefork Forest. They had all gone unused and overgrown with vegetation. Gnarled branches crossed over one another like a wall of mossy veins, and from the earth rose tall reeds of grass that hid the forest interior from view.

Just behind the hotel, Emma found a small gap in the trees. Petite as she was, she managed to slip through without much effort. Yet, just as she disappeared into the shaded woods, Emma felt a cold gaze on her neck. She glanced back and saw the men from the hotel watching her. Their faces were blank and expressionless.

She thought nothing of it. Emma had more pressing matters on her mind. After her conversation with the receptionist, she began to think about Robert Monroe. An esteemed ornithologist like herself, Robby was a silver-tongued man with a chiseled jaw and piercing, blue eyes. And whether by luck or sheer force of will, he was also the sort of man that acquired anything his heart desired. So it wasn’t long before Emma fell under his charms and into his bed.

In between their frequent bouts of lovemaking, Emma and Robby found time to collaborate on academic ventures. Even professionally, they had chemistry. Their interests and ideas always complemented one another, and together they had published a few papers. So, as their personal and professional lives faded into one another, Emma found herself thinking about Robby at all hours of the day. And in time, her thoughts turned to the future.

This would not be a problem for any other couple in a relationship. However, from Robby’s perspective, they were not in fact in a relationship. Therefore, when Emma began discussing her desire to have a daughter one day and how lovely their own children might look, Robby decided to set the record straight. He also decided it would be healthy for them to go their separate ways.

Emma cursed herself for being so oblivious. Part of her hoped this search for the ivory-billed woodpecker would train her to be more attentive. Yet, as she looked around at the expansive canopy of trees, she saw no creatures, not even a squirrel or a sparrow. She listened for the repetitive tap tap tap of a woodpecker’s beak. But Emma heard only a soft, sighing wind and the groan of shifting branches.

Woodpeckers have a particular fondness for dead trees. So Emma followed a path of decay to deeper and darker sections of the woods, where hollowed oaks and twisted beeches lay in toppled wrecks. Shadows played against their shattered bodies as the sun descended into evening.

While Emma gazed around in search of the bird, she noticed a rustling among the trees. At first, she thought it might be the rustle of a creature in the canopy. But whatever made the sound was bigger. As it moved through the forest, it shook entire trees so that their rotten trunks bent and snapped. Emma could even feel the ground tremble as the beast drew near.

Backing up slowly, Emma raised her camera. Through the lens, she glimpsed a small fraction of what lumbered through the trees. At once, she grew sick from that oozing and unwholesome form riddled with scabrous growths and hair-like filaments. The creature uttered a gurgling moan. Panic filled her, and she staggered backward in fear.

As a fleshy tendril reached towards Emma, her foot slipped on a twisted root, and she tumbled down a hill. The hill was not so tall or steep to warrant concern. However, when Emma fell backwards, her head struck the corner of a jagged rock. The last thing she remembered before her vision went dark was the crunch of her camera beneath her.

No doubt concussed from the head trauma, Emma passed between bouts of waking and unwaking. And in that limbo between dream and reality, she saw herself carried away by a looming mass of writhing flesh. It wrapped her in its moist appendages and stroked her belly in a swift, obsessive circle. Although terrifying to look at, the creature was not evil in itself. On the contrary, it doted over her well-being with warm, gentle touches not unlike a mother with her child.

Once Emma came to, she found herself in a cave on a bed of moss. Moonlight shone through a hole in the stone ceiling. It fell on her like a pale spotlight upon a stage. Yet, as far as Emma could tell, there was no audience watching her.

The comforting environment eased her nerves to a small degree. Emma found herself able to rationalize all that had happened. She told herself the beast was nothing more than a mangey bear. Frightened, she had tripped and fallen through the hole in the cave ceiling. All that nonsense about being tended to by a fleshy monster was nothing more than a dream.

Indeed Emma felt completely calm and rational. Her only concern was the gash atop her head. But judging by the dried clumps of blood in her hair, the wound had already clotted. In addition, Emma still felt sick to her stomach. No doubt, it was a lingering effect of that revolting and wholly imagined nightmare.

A low chatter rumbled through the cave, and Emma saw a shadow play against the walls. She looked around for her camera but found it was missing. “Hello?” she said. There was no reply. “Is someone there? I’m hurt.” But no one answered.

Emma got to her feet. Her stomach flopped, and her head dizzied. Regardless, she pushed ahead. She had to get back to the hotel. No doubt, the receptionist would have something snarky to say. But she needed proper medical care and a bed. Hopefully, Robby had returned the receptionist’s message.

As Emma stumbled down the dank passages of the cave, she came upon a group of childlike drawings scrawled in chalk. Under the slanted moonlight, these drawings depicted happy families with wide, goofy smiles. Innocent as they were, there was something off about the drawings. The family member’s forms and expressions were stretched and skewed as if the artist did not fully understand the human body.

What’s more, there was a sketch of some other form. Not by any stretch of the imagination could it be confused with a human. Long, cystic limbs surfaced from spotted globs of flesh while lidless eyes bulged from sparsely hairy masses. It was not certain what this abomination had to do with the grinning families, but it was certain Emma had seen it before.

Emma pressed on through dank and dreary tunnels. She followed broad, smoothed out paths that coiled this way and that. She trudged past cold, inky pools whose depths she could not fathom. All the while, her head ached, and her stomach panged. She clutched her gut. It was bloated and firm.

After a seemingly endless sequence of passages, Emma came upon the exit. The first morning light peaked above the horizon, penetrating the forest in pale swaths. Had she really been in the cave that long? It didn’t matter. Emma had entered the forest from the east. If she followed the rising dawn, she could find her way back to Littlefork.

Just then, a guttural bellow erupted behind her, and Emma heard the dull scrape of flesh against stone. At once, she ran into the forest as fast as she could. She ran without looking back, knowing she wouldn’t like what she saw.

And yet, despite her desperation, Emma could only run so fast and so far. Her feet were heavy, and her stomach throbbed with acute pain. When she could force herself no longer, she leaned against the trunk of a rotted birch and gazed down at the source of her pain.

Her belly was massive. She pulled up her shirt to get a better look. Blue veins struck sharp paths across her skin. And although there was no obvious sign of injury, that didn’t rule out the possibility of internal bleeding. Judging by the size of her gut, the bleed was serious. Without help, it would certainly prove fatal.
Emma placed her hand on her stomach and thought of Robby. All she had wanted was love and the joy of a child. But now Robby was gone, and she would bleed to death in some forsaken forest, afraid and alone.

But Emma was not alone. As if reaching out for her hand, an infant limb stretched against the walls of Emma’s abdomen. She stared at her stomach in disbelief. But there was no denying what she had seen and felt. Something was inside of her.

The sudden pregnancy shocked Emma so much that she had almost forgotten why she had run into the forest in the first place. Behind her, the branches groaned and cracked. A mucousy heap of changeable limbs dragged itself into view. On its raw and oozing flesh, gaping eyes peered down at Emma. And though she saw no mouth that could utter a sound, Emma heard a shapeless baying as if of some great and terrifying hound.

By now, Emma knew there was no point to running in her current condition. She wouldn’t make it far. Already her body tensed with vicious contractions in an attempt to expel the growing parasite. So she fought back by flinging both rocks and obscenities. But by the sound of it, the creature was hurt more emotionally than physically; for it merely suffered Emma’s attacks with a disappointed whimper.

Although the revolting beast did not leave, it at least kept its distance. Its engorged eyes peered through the crooked trees while its tentacled limbs twisted and snapped. It was waiting.

Another contraction sent shivering pain through her loins. She felt something burst between her legs, and a gush of hot liquid spilled onto the ground. The writhing mass of contorted limbs cooed with delight.

Emma staggered to the ground. Birth is never a pleasant affair, but her pain was too sharp, too quick. Blood oozed down her thighs, soaking her trousers red. Tremors ran through her arms in tune with the violent pangs that wrenched her gut. And it took all her strength just to slip out of her clothes.

When she did – to her horror – she saw a pair of pink, wormy hands forcing their way into the open air. Emma bit her tongue to suppress the screams rising in her throat. But she could not resist the swelling current of terror and skin-splitting pain. As the parasitic child exorcised itself from her bleeding womb, her tortured wailings reached greater and greater heights.

Emma watched helplessly as the nearly human child ripped her cunt into a long and literal gash. By then, her agony had exceeded the limits of her perception so that each new injury was a mere wisp lost amid a hellish conflagration. There seemed no end to the torment. But in time her trials finished, and before her lay a raw and mewling infant.

The small creature looked up at Emma with eyes not unlike her own. It studied her briefly and mimicked her exhausted expression. And below the child’s left ear, she noticed a pair of black moles. It was a feature she had only ever seen in the mirror.

But there was something off about the child’s appearance. Its lifeless eyes sat too many inches apart, its limbs reached too far, and its familiar smile stretched too wide. Only at a glance could that thing be called human.

Just then, the lumbering mass beyond the trees issued a long bellow. Answering its command, the newborn scurried into the forest, dragging its shriveled afterbirth with it. That was the last Emma saw of it. As for the malformed beast, Emma was not safe just yet. The bristly heap of flesh peeled back the trees and pulled itself towards her.

Emma grabbed her clothes and rose to her feet. Hot gore spilled down her legs, and a dreadful ache smoldered inside her. But she would not let the beast take her again. “Leave me alone!” she screamed and threw a rock. Emma didn’t even wait to see if the rock hit. She bolted as far and fast as her feet would carry her.

For well on an hour, Emma jogged through the trees. When she could jog no more, she decided to walk. And when she could not walk, she stopped to dress. There was still a small trickle of blood, but for the most part, her wounds had clotted.

Dawn had bloomed in slanted shades of orange and red. A cool wind blew against Emma’s face, and the trees swayed to and fro. The only sounds were of the squirrels chattering, the sparrows tweeting, and an incessant tap tap tap. Emma craned her head to stare up at the trees, and it was then she saw it: the ivory-billed woodpecker. The regal bird hacked away at a dead oak with its strong, straight bill. Its feathers shone red, white, and lustrous black. The long-lost bird was a beauty to behold, but all Emma could feel in the moment was contempt.

In time, Emma found her way out of the forest and onto a narrow dirt path. She followed the long and lonely road back to Littlefork. There the townspeople called her an ambulance and sent her on her way. She did not tell them what she had endured. Nor did she tell the doctors at the hospital. They would not believe her. They would not understand.

Following the traumatic events in the woods, Emma entered a state of intense apathy. Her memories were now so full of pain. To avoid feeling them, she had learned not to feel at all. That night had changed her, and in her darkest hours, Emma wondered whether the monster had stolen her humanity as well as her womb.

A week after the event took place, Emma received a phone call. It was Robby. “Emma, I just heard the news. Are you okay?” he said.

“Yes,” Emma said. She did not want to talk about it, least of all with him. “I’m doing better now.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Robby said. “So it’s all true then? What happened? I got a call from the hotel one day and then the next …”

“We really don’t need to discuss it,” Emma said. “You made clear how you feel about me.”

Robby scoffed. “Just because I don’t want a serious relationship doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you. And of course I’m worried! The police said they found you naked in the woods.”

“What? What are you talking about? Police?”

“I know it’s embarrassing, but you don’t need to lie to me,” he said. “You attacked some lady and tried dragging her into the woods. They took you to a psych ward.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“I’m surprised they let you go to be honest.”

“Robby, that wasn’t me. When did this happen?”

“A couple days ago. But —”

Emma hung up the phone. She did not doubt Robby’s story, but she did not want to hear it. She already knew the truth. Someone had attacked that lady. Someone was in the psych ward. A second Emma. A copy. An alternate.


Read this story and more on Creepypasta at https://www.creepypasta.com/the-littlefork-bodysnatchers/.

Paranormal Blog – “Road Trip: Creepy Corners of the Catskills & Haunted Hudson Valley | Haunted History Trail Of New York”

In looking for new sites to repost worthy paranormal info and articles from, I found this site that recommends certain places in the New England North of the United States that looked awesome and had some great pictures to go with it. Each Tuesday for a while, I’m going to repost their blog articles here to share along with others.

Haunted History Trail of New York writes:

“The Catskills and Hudson Valley areas are known for their serene beauty… and spirit activity. A music hall captivates visitors with its ghostly occurrences. An estate is haunted by the lingering spirits of a former resident. And a mansion with an Attic of Curiosities is a horror movie icon’s favorite place to stay. Explore this area and come away with some unforgettable stories. 

Start your getaway with a stay at one of these haunted inns:  

Burn Brae Mansion | Glen Spey, NY
Stay overnight at the Burn Brae Mansion or work alongside expert paranormal researchers during a private investigation. Uncover mysteries in the Attic of Curiosities, book a night in one of the mansion’s suites or stay in the original stables at the Stables Motel. Everyone will have a unique experience here—just take it from horror movie icon Linda Blair: it’s one of her favorite places to visit when she’s in the area. 

 

Known for its paranormal occurrences, The Shanley Hotel is no stranger to the strange. Book one of two overnight packages—a stay for two in the haunted hotel, a public 4-hr ghost hunt, continental breakfast and time to explore on your own; or a private group hunt and overnight for up to seven people. Visitors have reported cold and hot spots, the sound of voices, music and laughing children… among other things. Book online for package pricing and offer.  

 

King House Mansion at the Tarrytown House Estate | Tarrytown, NY  
Legend has it that Sybil Harris King, daughter of the co-founder of the American Tobacco Company, died on the second floor of the King House Mansion. Her footsteps have been heard in the halls, and strange activity has been reported in room 293—where she took her last breath. Stay overnight at this beautifully restored estate or dine at the Goosefeather restaurant and ask staff to share the mansion’s haunted history.  

 

Enjoy a meal and a spooky tale at this haunted restaurant: 

Silvio’s Villa | South Warwick, NY
Classic Italian favorites are not all that Silvio’s Villa is serving up lately. EVPs, glowing orbs, apparitions and unusual activity are common here—especially for diners at Table 24, said to be the site of a tragic suicide. Stop in for a bite and ask staff to share the tales, or keep an eye out for guided tours, hunts and other haunted special events throughout the year.  

 

Visit this nearby location for strange activity and a unique guided experience:  

Hamlet of Pine Bush: UFO Capital of the East Coast | Pine Bush, NY
There’s nothing abnormal about aliens and UFOs in Pine Bush, NY. In fact, extra-terrestrial enthusiasts have been flocking there since the early 1960s. Over the years, the community has witnessed some serious activities and strange sightings. Pay a visit in June during the Pine Bush UFO Fair & Parade to celebrate all things UFO and aliens or visit the local museum for self-guided and exclusive guided tours.  

 

For private ghost hunts and tours, add these locations to your trip:  

Private Haunted Huguenot Street Tours | New Paltz, NY 
Experience over 300 years of history when you visit Historic Huguenot Street, home to seven 18th-century stone houses, a replica Munsee wigwam, a reconstructed 1717 French church and the original Huguenot burying ground. Take guided haunted walking tours or participate in special programs (summer and fall) to hear stories of past residents who experienced terrible tragedies and encountered apparitions.  

 

The Tarrytown Music Hall | Tarrytown, NY 
This historic venue was the performance home to some of the most talented actors and musicians of its time—and today is home to lingering spirits who believe, “the show must go on!” Book a guided “balcony to backstage” ghost tour to learn the music hall’s history or participate in a small-group paranormal investigation led by the Gotham Paranormal Research Society. 

 

Old Dutch Church Cemetery | Kingston, NY
Dating back to 1658, the Old Dutch Church Cemetery is the final resting place for many – Revolutionary War heroes, politicians, notable Native Americans, and more. Each year, Theatre on the Road brings the stories of the departed to life with an hour-long haunted history program following guides through the cemetery lit by candlelight. Private group tours are also available year-round.”

All information and pictures come from https://hauntedhistorytrail.com/blog/road-trip-creepy-corners-of-the-catskills-and-haunted-hudson-valley.

Celtic Origins of Halloween, Samhaim, Zoroastrianism and more.

One of my friends with a major paranormal interest, Mr. John Easter, submitted this for inclusion on my site here. The following is his text.

The popular holiday of Halloween has its roots and origin in the Celtic holiday of Samhain. It is truly fascinating that how Halloween and many other ancient Indo-European festivities, have been preserved untouched in Mazda-Yasna or Zoroastrianism with the original ancient beliefs behind them.”

 

“The Gaels, like the Zoroastrians believed that the border between this world and the Other-World became thin before the New Year; it thus allowed the spirits to reach back through the veil that separated them from the living.”
-Celtic Origins of Halloween and Zoroastrian Beliefs and Festivities by Herbad Ardeshir Farahmand

 

Some near death experience reports describe Hell as being in an Earthbound state as a ghost. There are exceptions, such as in ancestor veneration, but many of the ghosts and other undead beings that are recorded in folklore from all over the world are usually described as hostile or sad as well as being in an unnatural or even Hellish like state.

“But what if one level of hell existed right here on the surface- unseen and unsuspected by the living people occupying the same space? What if it meant remaining on earth but never again able to make contact with it?”
 -Visions of God: From the Near Death Experience p. 131 by Dr. Ken R. Vincent

 

Taken from Return from Tomorrow by George Ritchie and Elizabeth Sherrill

 

“The psychiatrist George Richie (1998, pp.37-41) who had an NDE(near death experience) in 1943 tells of visiting hellish realms invisible but on the earth-plane, as well as tours of other realms where people were trapped because of their own desires.”
-Scientific Investigation of the “Dark Side” by Dr. Ken R. Vincent

 

Gathic Avestan “Druj” means malicious falsehood, the opposite of “Asha” or goodness, and the essence of evil in the wickedest, vilest, deepest, and un-holiest sense. It is a close cognate of Vedic Sanskrit “Druh” which means affliction, hurtful, hostile, injurer, foe, fiend, demon, and evil power. “Druh” is also the opposite of “Rta” which is the Vedic Sanskrit cognate of Gathic Avestan “Asha” and means order.

 

Old Norse “Draugar” and Middle Irish “Aurddrach” refer to undead beings and are related cognates of Gathic Avestan “Druj” and Vedic Sanskrit “Druh” through Indo-European roots. Other related words include Old English “Dreag”, meaning ghost, Scottish Gaelic “Dreag”, meaning ghost lights or “fiery death-warnings”, Old Persian “Drauga” and Persian “Dorug”, meaning lies, German “Trug”, meaning fraud or deception, and English “Trick”. Possibly even English “Darkness”, which derives from Old English “Deorc” meaning obscure, gloomy, sad, cheerless, sinister, and wicked.

 

“Aurddrach” means ghost. “Abhartach” is a similar word that refers to an undead dwarf in an Irish legend who is described as one of the “neamh-mairbh” or walking dead. “Draug”, singular, or “Draugar”, plural, are ghoul like beings described in the Norse/Icelandic sagas. Including Eyrbyggja Saga, Saga of Grettir the Strong, Saga of Erik the Red, Saga of King Hrolf Kraki, Saga of Egil & Asmund, Saga of Hromund Gripsson, Njal’s Saga, Laxdaela Saga, Gisli Sursson’s Saga, and Floamanna Saga.

 

Draugar are related to ghasts in Swedish lore, Nachzehrers in German lore, and revenants in English lore. Draugar are particularly similar to the vampires in Slavic & Romanian lore and to both the Rakshasas and the undead beings in Hinduism & Indian lore. They are also similar to the ghouls in Arabian lore and to the Dybbuks in Jewish lore. Whether described as physical ghoul like beings or non-physical ghost like beings the undead are mentioned in the lore of numerous countries and cultures and on every continent.

Draugar were thought to be very greedy, cruel, and wicked people in life. As undead they injure and terrorize both human and animal life in the Norse sagas. This does seem to be connected to the Dregavants, the followers of Druj and the living injurers of human and animal life, who fall back into the House of Druj after their deaths, which is described as a Hellish state for their souls in the Gathas. Frawardin Yasht 12 states that the guardian angels help prevent Druj from gaining power over the physical world or corporeal life.

 

“In Norse mythology the bridge/or link to the Aesir’s realm is inaccessible to the wicked and is only open to the noble souls. Also, in the Zoroastrian holy writings the vile because of their own actions (destroying the world of men/mortals) and lack of vision are unable to cross over the bridge and are cast back into the domain of lies that have consumed them through all ages. (Yasna 46.11 and Yasna 51.13)”
-The Concept of the Illuminating Bridge in Zoroastrian Faith, Norse Mythology and the Al-Sirat in Islam by Herbad Ardeshir Farahmand