Friday, March 30, 2012

Revenge is a Dish Best Served to the Proper Person


Late one evening a few years ago, when I was younger and foolish, I was walking home from a buddy's house after spending most of the day helping him fix his car. I was taking a shortcut along the train tracks running through a seedier section, which isn't saying much, of my small town. I was walking along the loose rocks next to the rails, when I hear voices from the backyard of a nearby house.  There are a lot of trees and greenery in the back of all these houses, probably to block the sight of the train tracks, so I couldn't see anyone, but I distinctly heard a few voices and it sounded like they were just joking around with each other.  No big deal.  As I get closer to the voices, I hear one person say "Get the gun," followed by the sound of someone running, and then a screen-door slamming.  It's very dark out, and I haven't been making much noise, so I have a hard time believing that whoever these people are that they are "getting the gun" for me.  However, though I didn't think I was in any immediate danger, when you hear someone say "get the gun," you begin to consider the pressing matter of self preservation. 
I move to the far side of the tracks, opposite of where I'd been walking, and I'm nearly in the backyards of the people on that side.  I'm just a little ways now from where the voices originated when I hear a cracking sound splitting the silence of the night.  Instinctually I dropped into a crouch.  In a second or so it takes me to recover my senses, I realize that the noise I heard didn't sound like a real gun.  I stand and look in the direction f the noise, but it's too dark to see much besides trees and bushes.  Suddenly I hear another crack and this time it's quickly followed up by a ping sound from the train tracks just in front of me.  Inwardly I say screw this and I take off running.  When I do I hear laughter and shouts.  I chance a look behind me and see a small group of guys around my age, teenagers, running down the tracks after me, and one of them is holding some sort of rifle.  As I run a rock or two flashes past me before hitting the ground and tumbling to a rough stop.  I put forth a burst of speed and duck into someone's backyard.  I'm almost decapitated by a clothesline, seeing it just in time to duck, and I keep on running.  I'm out to the front yard and a dog in the house is going wild.  I'm pounding down the street, and chance another look behind me.  Nothing, the idiots with the pellet gun, which is what I decided it was, either having lost me or given up.  I run most of the rest of the way home, and arrive at my parent's house shaking with fear and anger. 
Now the part after having matured a few years that I'm not proud of.  After having recovered my nerve, an hour or so after the chase, I'm just angry.  I want to get even.  I wait a coulple more hours until well after midnight, and return to the scene of the incident. I very quietly find my way to the place I encountered the assholes, make sure that no one is in the backyard, pick up a couple of rocks and chuck them through the back windows of the house.  I break two windows in just a couple of seconds and then run across the tracks, through someone's yard, onto the street, and back home. It wasn't until I was lying in bed, that a panicked thought hit me.  Was that the right house?

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Visit our Friends

We would like to take a moment to encourage all of our visitors/readers to stroll over to some of Alone at Night's friends blogs/websites.  The links can be found on the homepage on the right hand side.  We can't reccomend enough the work that Horror Masters, Scary True, and Ghost Theory publish.  Great sites, and great scares. Check them out.

-Alone at Night Staff

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Shower Voyeur

Hey, all you creepy people who keep arriving at this site by searching "shower voyeur" via your preferred search engine, tell me how disappointed were you when you got here and found out -- this site isn't pornographic?  On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being "not disappointed at all" and 10  being "Not porn? Damn you, I hope your mother chokes on her Chef-Boyardee and dies!" how disappointed are you?

For all you non-perv readers out there, you may recall a few months ago we posted the interesting fact that a lot of site traffic comes from people searching for "voyeur" stuff, because we had posted a story with the title "Shower Voyeur" a long time ago.  The story itself was about some poor girl being spied on by some creeper.  Well, interesting note, some of our readers seem to be those same type of creepers. 

Now that you're here, creepers, why don't you let go of your tool, give the little guy a rest, and read through some scary stories. 

Best,

Alone at Night Staff

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Creppy Foreign Town? Check. Creep guy with a sword? Check.

Friday finally arrived and my partner in crime Sebastian and I picked up our fellow trippers (Fabienne from Antwerp, Belgium and Jessica from New Haven, Connecticut) in our brand-new mpv. After the all too obvious multi-purpose-vehicle jokes it was time to decide where we’d go. We didn’t have to talk for long about a destination. Of course we would drive off into the sunset, i.e. direction Portugal. The first couple of days were random but very enjoyable. Lots of good food, even more mediocre alcohol, uncalled-for dancing etc... During daytime we didn’t avoid the cultural sights although we probably spent more time at the beaches to shake off our hangovers. The scenery in Portugal was no less than breathtaking. Ironically, the many forest fires seem to have made the Portuguese landscape even more attractive, at least from a distance. The withered trees range in color from gold red to pitch black, contrasting with the bright green of young weeds.

Fall was catching up with us so we turned our back on the beaches and headed inland, towards the mountains. We ended up in the strangest of mountain towns: Bragança. Although not at all a tourist hot spot, Bragança does have an awe-inspiring, 13th century fortress. That’s not why I’ll remember it, though. This town is the spitting image of Royston Vasey, the English village from the comedy series “The League of Gentlemen” where ugly, inbred locals molest and eventually kill innocent passers-by. Obviously it wasn’t that fatal but Bragança did give us a scare.

The first local we saw, we asked for directions to our hostel. A big smile appeared on his face, he opened the door, squeezed his burly body into the back of the car and insisted on showing us the castle first. Scruffy-looking and reeking of liquor, among other things, he introduced himself as Ramiro, owner of the castle. He promised to give us an extraordinary tour. So far, we weren’t alarmed at all and so we decided to go along. The big guy seemed harmless enough; with his placid smile and doglike eyes he almost looked like the village idiot.

Which he apparently wasn’t. When we arrived at the castle Ramiro pulled out a set of keys and opened the gate. No problem, maybe he’s the janitor, we said to ourselves while we set out on our tour. The guy we had figured for a well-intentioned simpleton was now lecturing us on European history, momentarily interrupting his discourse to demonstrate how you wield a 15th century bastard-sword with amazing agility. Maybe it was just the sight of the castle at dusk but all of the sudden Ramiro’s smile didn’t seem so placid anymore... we were all getting a bit spooked.

When our guide, still carrying the huge sword, insisted we’d follow him to the fortress’ dungeons, we simultaneously started muttering protests:
“Desculpe Ramiro, we are all getting really hungry...”
“Besides, we have to arrive at the hostel before eight...”
“Thank you so much for the tour, though.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow, for sure!”
And we practically ran out of the place.

It may have been our heightened self-consciousness but we all felt like the entire village was staring and pointing at us. We did our best to ignore the glares and continued to the only hostel in town, where the weirdness did not cease. By now we were psyched up and seeing ghosts everywhere.
“You are not locals” the clerk stated. Clearly, there was no fooling this guy. We slowly explained him that, not being locals, we had come to this pension looking for a place to stay the night. He nodded understanding. When we offered him our passports, he shook his head and smilingly said:
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get them later.” I heard Fabienne break into sobbing behind me.
“We are not Americans...” I began in a misguided attempt to relate to the clerk. No reaction.
“Can you recommend a good restaurant?” I tried.
“Yes, we have an excellent restaurant right here” was all he said. Somehow nobody felt like eating at the hostel so Sebastian and I ran out for take-out pizza and Porto while the girls barricaded themselves in the rooms. Seb, as always looking at the bright side of life, laid out the gameplan for the night. After all, the whole thing had provided us with an excellent excuse to keep the girls company at night.

We did feel stupid though, waking up the next morning. No one had been poisoned or stabbed to death. Bragança was no Royston Vasey. Like little kids, we had let ourselves be frightened by some eccentric castle owner. And of course the villagers had been staring; they had just seen four flustered tourists dash out of their castle at nightfall. Word of the weird gringos had probably spread to the pension before we even arrived. You are not locals, indeed.

And so, shamefaced and tired, we got in our car and headed back to Salamanca, contemplating our road trip. On the radio Lynard Skynyrd were giving their best. Sweet home Salamanca!

-Seel

Creepy Travel Story. Scary German town of Rot

Check out the story on this blog about her scary encounter in the town of Rot in Germany.

The Inconsequential Blogger: A (True) Strange and Creepy Travel Story

"She put a key in the door and turned it. The door opened into the back area of a butcher shop. The floor was tiled and had drains in it. There were tables for the cutting-up of meat. And there were sharp knives and hooks and cleavers hanging all over the place."

Friday, March 9, 2012

A Walk to Remember



My sister and myself and one of our friends were walking from another friend's house back to my parents place one Friday night.  We live in a small Midwestern town, in the country, really.  The road we're on is flanked by woods on one side and a cornfield on the other.  There aren't any businesses, very few houses, and even fewer cars on this road.
We're all talking and laughing and enjoying each other's company when we see a man walking in our direction but on the other side of the road.  We , at least I, don't give him more than a passing glance as we walk past.  However, just a few moments later, my sister looks behind us and mumbles "oh, shit."  I look behind us, too, and see the guy we just passed had turned around and was now walking in the same direction of us.  I watch as he crosses the street and is now on the same side of the street as us, following behind us. 
By now my friend also knows about the guy, and we're all a little, just a little, freaked out. It's a safe town, and we've lived there our entire lives.  I guess being raised and living in a really safe area makes one feel more at ease in creepy situations.  It's like you say to yourself, "nothing bad ever happens here, so nothing bad will happen now."
None of us seemed to want to check behind us again, so we walked for a little while, before my sister worked up the courage to look back again.  Immediately she turned forward and said "He's right behind us."  I can't look, but I know she's right because I hear whispers coming from just a few feet away.  I can't understand what he's saying at first.  I ask my sister, "What's he saying."  She doesn't know. 
I can tell my sister is starting to become perhaps not less scared, but maybe more pissed off than she is scared.  It's like I can hear her thoughts and she's saying "fuck this guy."  The next thing I know my sister stops, so our friend and I do too, and watch as she says, "What the fuck are you saying?" 
I finally get a good look at the guy. He's tall and thin, long greasy dark hair.  I remember thinking how pale he was for the middle of the summer.  There we all stood, him looking at us and us back at him.  He stares at us from a moment, and then says in a voice calm as a glass of water "Run."  We have just enough time to look at each other before he screams "RRRRUUUUNNN!"
Guided by his good advice we three bolt.  We don't stop until our lungs and legs are spent.  Bent over at the waist I look behind us, and see the man - far in the distance now - walking down the road going away from us, the direction he was originally headed.
When we reach my parent's house, we tell my mom and dad about it.  They decide it was just some asshole trying to scare us.  Mission accomplished.

Creepy Guy and Drunk Sluts

(Alone at Night StaffComment:  We don't know what is creepier, the guy in this story or the girls.)

So this weekend was mine and my friends first experience at one of the bars in town, and let's just say it was a real good time! Anyway, as you may know, there is a certain crowd that hangs out at bars... college students (especially in a college town), townies (people who live in town that aren't college students, etc.), and then you usually get some creepers...

If you don't know what a creeper is it's basically the same thing as a creep, it's just someone whose a little strange or creepy for whatever reason. Well, my friends and I (seeing as we're not 21) were getting some guys to buy us drinks and stuff. Well my friend had a few too many drinks, and started getting really friendly with some of the guys, 1 who happened to be a little extra creepy! This guy was really nice all night, buying us shots, buying us drinks, etc, and he seemed friendly enough, so we didn't really think anything of it. Then, my friend went to go talk to him later and asked him to get her another drink, to which he replied she should give him a hickey... creepy right!?

Well, all in the name of getting another drink, my really drunk slightly intoxicated friend obliged.. and ended up making out with him, and dancing with him. Later, after we left the bar and went to our favorite frat house, my friend started getting phone calls and text messages from this guy. This is where he enters creeper status; he would not leave her alone! He left her five voice mails making sure she got home okay, promising to be "romantic", and offering to come pick her up so she could come hang out, telling her "I thought we hit it off pretty well... call me back so we can hang out," telling her "I hoped we could finish what we started which was actually kinda hot and kinda sexy...", "I like you a lot, I was hoping we could get back together," and more! Then there were the text messages... even more creepy than the voice mails!

In an attempt to get him to stop calling her, she texted him 1st, and the conversation went like this: (I inserted some timestamps randomly to give you an idea of how long this went on for!) (2:41 AM) friend: Hey I made it home ok, thanks for checking (read: stop calling me!) creeper: Please come over you gave me a hickey (ew) friend: haha maybe later (not!) creeper: maybe later what? (get a clue, buddy...) friend: maybe later I'll come over (nope..) creeper: Is this (insert friends name here)? (duhh...) friend: yes creeper: who is this? (wtf did she not just tell you its her!?) friend: (insert name here) creeper: Where you at? friend: At the frat house creeper: can i come pick you up? (umm no!) friend: Y? creeper: you don't want me to pick you up? (No, she doesn't!) (3:15 AM) creeper: please let me come pick you up (stop begging...) creeper: You don't remember us kissing? (no she doesn't actually... that's what happens when you're really drunk!) friend: I do remember I'll get home safe don't worry (read: GO AWAY!) creeper: Please let me pick you up (3:55 AM) creeper: Please come over (the answer is still no) creeper: We should go out. You gave me a hickey. (yes, you mentioned that in every voicemail) creeper: I really want to go on a date with you. (tough luck) (4:24 AM) creeper: Please call me tomorrow. I really want to see you. creeper: Please come over now and we can finish what we started (nothing was started!) creeper: You know I am still crazy about you (Still, as in 6 hours after we met? Wow talk about commitment..) Then the next day, he was still upset, my friend got this text message the following afternoon: creeper: You left me at the bar with a hickey and a hard on. That was not fair. (tough luck buddy!) The creepiest part? We later identified this creeper as an alum of one of the frat houses on campus... they call him "Gramps".... He's 37! Wtf does a 37 year old want with a college freshman!? EW!