Welcome, Weirdos. I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up, this is a Fireside Frights episode where all of the stories come from you, my Weirdo family members. I strip away all of the music and sound effects and everything else, it's just you, me and this campfire. If you're new here, welcome to the show. And while you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, my newsletter, to enter contests, to connect with me on social media. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com.  Our first story comes from Tina. She says, Dear Darren, I've attached a story for your consideration. It was the hardest thing I have ever written. While it explains my affinity for the numbers 333 and its spooky origins, it also discusses the loss of my close friend, October being his favorite month, as well as Mental Health Awareness month, I felt now was the time to submit it. I spoke to his sister and she read it and gave her blessing. Thank you for your consideration, your sister Weirdo in Christ, Tina, aka Girl Problems. All right, Tina, well, here's the story. The 333 Club Waking up at 3.33 am is nothing new to me. Neither is saying that combination of numbers everywhere. When you're 7 years old and a movie comes out based on a true story, you tend to believe the hype. 3 AM figures prominently, the book, movie, and actual events involving the house at 112 Ocean Avenue, Amityville, New York. My dad probably had no idea how our weekly trip to the Skyview Drive-In to see the Amityville horror would impact my childhood.  After our Saturday evening outing, I became afraid of everything, especially waking at 3.33 am. My dad's solution was to tell me to knock off the BS there's nothing to be afraid of. My mom, in her gentle wisdom, told me not to be afraid of waking in the night, but to use 3.33 as my special time to pray and spend time with God. It took many years of practice, but I did, in fact, learn to use prayer and meditation at that time, to calm my fears and claim that time as my own. Many years later, I met Chris. Chris was not only a co-worker of my husband, but also his childhood friend. We all grew up in a rural area dotted by small, close-knit communities that we each moved through over our formative years. When we met, he swore he remembered me from school. We had, in fact, gone to many of the same schools, though he was three years my junior. I later realized that most of his memories of me were one of my younger twin sisters. He never quite believed I was the older sister, although I am by six years. I guess you could say we clicked. It was as if I had known him my whole life. We talked often and would occasionally go out for a bite to eat or drinks. If I dared to post that I was out at a bar without him or my husband, he would text, go home. Those people are not your friends. Or, hey, the exorcist starts at ten. You better be on your couch talking to me when it starts so we can watch together. When the pressure of being a hospice nurse was crushing me and I turned to alcohol and self-medication, it was Chris who recognized that I was in trouble and set me straight. I know what you're thinking. What does any of this have to do with 333? Hang in there. It's coming. One night over drinks, I was admiring one of Chris's numerous tattoos. When he turned his wrist over, I exclaimed, 333, you have my numbers. He looked at me kind of funny and said, your numbers? Those are my numbers and you can't steal them. Eager to lay claim to my numbers, I explained about the waking up, the trauma of growing up in the shadow of the amity of the horror, my mother's solution, my years of seeing those numbers everywhere and how important that time of prayer had been in my life. He listened intently and then pleaded his own case. He told me about how he had fallen into drug use, how he had been arrested and spent time in jail and how being arrested had saved his life. The date of his arrest, March 3, 1993, 333, half evil. He said he'd always be thankful for that second chance at life. Chris pointed me to Jeremiah 33, verse 3, a verse that has come to mean a great deal to me. My favorite translation reads, call out to me and I'll show you great things you do not yet know. As we were sitting there discussing our lives and all the strange things we had in common, Chris suggested we start a club, a very exclusive club. Only people who share our affinity for the number three would be allowed to join. We would all have the tattoos so we could identify each other. I agreed to be the second member of that club. Before I could fulfill my membership requirement, the worst thing imaginable happened. For several months before the incident, Chris was changing. He left his job, began to sell off his possessions, break plans, break promises and break my heart. Our conversations became brief, dark and infrequent. When we did speak it was often about the ex-wife and her kids and how much he missed them, especially the kids. Though we never said it, I knew he was using drugs and alcohol to numb his pain. He would talk about the darkness we had left behind in our youth stalking him and pulling him back. We both had a long history of dabbling in the occult and although he was a Christian, he never quite felt forgiven for his past. He almost never knew when you speak to someone that it will be for the last time. The last time I spoke with Chris was just that way. I was on my way to a concert with my kids when he called. While my daughter pumped gas, he and I spoke briefly. He asked if I had plans. I told him that we were meeting my sister in a town about an hour from home to hear my friend's band play. I told him we were getting a suite for the night and that he was welcome to join us, but he said it was too far to ride his bike. I told him, well, they're playing next week, closer to home, and my husband would be off as he only worked occasional Saturdays, and we should all three ride out to their lake to hear them. He said, sounds like a plan. I always ended my calls with friends with love ya bye, but that time I didn't. I was concerned that my kids would hear and not understand me saying love ya to someone besides their dad. I will never have that chance again. Later that night, while we were enjoying the concert, my husband got off work early and rode his bike out to meet us. The next morning while driving home, my daughter got a call. Overhearing, where's your mom? Filled me with panic. My dad was in poor health, and I was already expecting the worst when she pulled over and handed me the phone. I got out away from the kids and asked my husband what was wrong. The last thing I remember after that was, Chris is dead. My daughter said she heard me scream and disappear behind the car. I remember her scooping me up, the silence of the rest of that car ride and the dreadful anticipation at home waiting for my husband to arrive. The details of how and where he died are not mine to tell. I do want to say I don't think he intended to die that night. Whether it was an accident or a moment that the darkness was too hard to fight, I refuse to accept that a single moment should define his life. I don't think the wounds of losing someone you love ever completely heal. The edges come together enough for you to function, and you may look all right to the casual observer, but the scars are always there and tender. For years after his death, I would pull up his old messages and read them again, and I still occasionally write to him, as if he were only a few miles away. In the months and years that have followed, I see 333 more than ever. I'm a long-haul semi-driver, and I see 333 along the road on signs, in addresses and phone numbers where I pick up and deliver, in my mileage at the end of the day, in my distance on the GPS. Sometimes I almost hear, hey, look at this, pay attention to that. If I'm lonely or afraid, it shows up. If I'm frustrated and looking for an answer, it's close by. Chris was an amazing person. He was a devoted son, brother, uncle, and a caring stepfather. I often say, he's my better angel. He's my unseen guardian sent from God to watch over me. I don't know how theologically sound that is, but it's a comfort to me to think of him still being nearby. And yes, I got the tattoo, gothic numbers copied from a picture I had of his tattoo, surrounded by angel wings. My husband joined the club, a pocket watch with the time permanently 333. My daughter followed with her own version, as did our son. I asked Chris's sister for her blessing to share this story as a tribute to Chris, as much as a story of my strange attachment to the number 333. Her greatest wish is that Chris be remembered for his life, not his death. It is said that no one is truly gone until the last time they are remembered. As long as even one of club 333's members remain to be asked what's the story of that tattoo, Chris is not really gone. If Chris could have seen the ripples of grief that his sudden leaving created, I believe he would be here today. Knowing this, you matter. You are worth fighting for. If you're struggling, reach out for help. Don't give in to the darkness. Seek the light. It's there. I promise. Wow, Tina. One thought right off the cuff. If that's true, and I've heard the saying before, that you only fully die when people forget you, Chris, it's going to be a long time before somebody forgets him. Not only are you sharing that tattoo, but you've also shared this story, and now tens of thousands, at least at this moment, tens of thousands of people will hear it, and they will know about Chris's story as well. I understand about the whole not feeling forgiven as a Christian, and that's one of the dangers of relying on feelings when it comes to your faith. I actually got saved in a church that was all about feelings. It was all about emotions and the experience, and that's actually pretty dangerous. I didn't actually mature in my faith until much later when I got away from that church and started looking at it from a critical viewpoint, from using my brain instead of the tingles that I was getting in the church services. And there are so many times. I did feel saved, by the way. I did feel forgiven when I gave my life to Christ, but I know that's not always the case. There are people who have had such ugly, dark lives that they don't feel that God can forgive them for anything, or at least everything. And when they give their life to Christ, they can know mentally, logically, they can know in their brain that they are forgiven for everything they've ever done, but still not feel it. And sometimes that's a hard hurdle to jump over. But I would recommend, if anybody has given your life to Christ or are thinking about doing it, well, number one, please do it. And if you have any questions, drop me an email and I'll be happy to discuss with you. But don't rely on feelings to determine whether or not your decision is real, or if it is taken, if it's legit. Because your decision is legit, just don't rely on the feelings of that.  And I totally understand why you would choose not to, because you don't want the confusion of that. But it's also a very important message. Tell people you love them while they're here, when you're on the phone with them. I use love maybe a bit too liberally, because I tend to love people quickly. And so not only do I say I love you to my bride when I'm on the phone with her, I say it to her numerous times throughout the day, every time we're planning on parting ways, even in the house. If she's walking away, walking to the family room and I'm walking to the office, I give her a big hug and say, I love you. If she's going downstairs to do laundry and I'm upstairs watching TV, I say, I love you. We never miss a chance to say I love you. And I do that with friends too. I will, if I'm on the phone with them, it feels a little bit weird to type it out. If I'm typing an email, but if I'm on the phone with somebody, I'll say, Hey, man, I love you. And I've even met a couple of people at the cons. Joe and Micaela, for example, if they're listening, they know who they are. But I don't really know them all that well. But for some reason, there's a connection there. And I can literally say, I love that couple. They're great people. And I don't want an opportunity, I don't want to lose an opportunity to say that to them. And Jackson, another person that I met at another recent con, I just felt there was a connection there. So I say, I kind of say, Hey, I love you, sis. That way they don't think that I'm coming on to them because they are both beautiful women. But it's just more like, Hey, love you. And just leave it at that. I think that's something important. And letting that darkness get the best of you, man, that is hard. I received an email today from a mom who was desperate asking about the hope in the darkness page because her son really needs help. He needed medication. Sometimes that darkness gets the whole gets hold of all of us. Whether or not we suffer from depression regularly or not, we are all susceptible to it. And it's important to know that you're not alone when that happens. I know you feel alone because that darkness is so overwhelming. It is so claustrophobic. It really does kind of build a wall around you where you don't really see and feel other people. You know they're there. I mean, you do see them literally, but you don't feel that they're there. And again, you can't rely on feelings, but those feelings kind of just bottle you in and you feel like you are all alone in the world. And that darkness just it feeds on you and it starts that circular reasoning. You start thinking of those things that you regret in life or things that you wish were different, things that you might want to do, but it feel like you can't do or whatever. But there's something that you really wish would change and that feedback loop just continues and it gets darker and darker and darker. And the more and I'm talking to myself on this as well, because there's one particular issue that I'm dealing with right now that I really am struggling to get past when it comes to that circular mindset. So forgive me if I do a little self counseling here at the same time, but you got to get out of that cycle, find something to take your mind off it and do something else. And don't be afraid to reach out for help. Reach out to a friend, family member, or complete stranger online with those resources that I have on the hope in the darkness page. You've got that seven cups app, which is absolutely free. So you can go there and speak to somebody one on one, or you can jump into a group chat. The International Foundation for Research and Education on Depression, iFRED, they have numerous links on their website where you can reach out or specific groups, like for example, if you happen to be LGBT or if you happen to be a veteran or whatever, they're actually divided into into certain groups. So you'll feel more like you're a part of them when you reach out to them. And if it's really desperate, do not hesitate. Call that suicide and crisis lifeline. It's there for you 24 hours a day and they want to talk to you. Tina, thank you very much for that email. I really appreciate you sharing it. And I also appreciate your friend allowing you to share that because it is so extremely powerful. And now I have a feeling that many of us are going to be looking at 333 and seeing it a lot more often as we're driving down the roads and seeing those mile markers and exit signs and seeing it on our clocks. We're going to start seeing 333 now because you brought it to our attention. Let's just hope it doesn't freak people out too much. Jenny sent in hers saying, Hi, Darren. First things first, happy birthday to Weird Darkness. I'm also in the fan wagon of Weird Darkness being the first podcast I've ever listened to. I've tried several since then, but none can compare. I found you by searching for stories on Bigfoot and came across the true Bigfoot stories you've probably never heard, Dark Eye, from October 2016, about six months ago, and I am hooked. Most recently, I came across the fireside frights episodes and have been listening to them exclusively. You see, they remind me of my daddy, who we lost just over a year ago to COVID.  Wow, I'm sorry, Jenny. I'm sorry about the loss of your dad. Continuing on with her email, I'll give you a brief history. We've been camping and hunting since I was a baby. I'm 52 now. My dad had always built a big fire and tell sea stories, as he called them. My mom, sisters, and I, along with any friends we brought along with us, would all gather around the fire, as he told us stories.  Hence the reason for the title, Sea Stories from the Woods. I've considered writing a book, but feel that I'm not witty enough. Hope you like them. Sea Stories from the Woods, Part One. This entry will be some of my daddy's stories. Later, I'll follow up with some of my personal experiences. My dad was a character, even convincing us girls that he was the Incredible Hulk. I can remember one day they were having a barbecue or something. The adults were all inside visiting while us kids were outside playing. My oldest sister and one of the boys got into a fight because he did not believe that my dad was the Incredible Hulk. So, in true childlike fashion, we marched inside with all the other kids to show them that it was, in fact, true. Needless to say, my dad was mortified to have to show off his skills in front of all of his friends. But being a great dad, he didn't want to disappoint his girls, so he jumped up growling and ran towards that boy, picking him up over his head, yelling just like the Hulk. After that, all the kids were convinced that he was, in fact, the Incredible Hulk, LOL. Another made-up tale. Anytime we travel, mind you, this was the 70s and stopping at McDonald's or a convenience store was unheard of, so of course we'd get antsy riding in the car all day. So my dad had started telling us about the days that he rode with old Colonel Custard and his trusty steed, Gus. He tells us how they had to fight off an Indian attack and how fast Gus would run to get them to safety, even telling us about how Gus took a bullet and died trying to keep them safe. Later, when they would ride into town, yes, Gus was alive again. If we asked about it, he'd say, it was a miracle that Gus was able to come back to life. And also, now everybody was friends and would all go into the saloon for a root beer. Because, after all, even if we get in disagreement with someone, in the end, we should all be friends. This is just one story he'd made up to keep us girls from getting on mom's last nerve. Another tale that he would tell around the fireside was true. According to my granddaddy, my daddy's daddy, when my granddaddy was a little boy, his family were migrant workers following the picking seasons. They'd often find lodging in the farmer's old chicken coop, or the barn loft. But this one particular time, they actually rented an old gambler's house. It was a three bedroom house with one room for his parents, one room for the girls, and the other one for the boys. The first day they were there, mom, my great-grandmother, had to scrub the floors and walls. The corner of the living room had a stain in it that looked like a blood stain. She finally got it cleaned up, got everyone fed and ready for bed. As everybody was settling in for the night, they heard knocking on the walls. The girls hollered at the boys to stop trying to scare them, and the boys yelled back that it wasn't them so stop trying to get them into trouble. My granddaddy, tired from the day's work, went to settle the argument so he could get some sleep. The two rooms being side by side with the doors close to each other, you could see into both of the rooms from the hallway. As he stood there, trying to calm the kids, the knocking started again. It was then that he saw that no one was knocking on the walls. He told the kids it was nothing, go to sleep. The next morning, mom got up to start breakfast, only to find the blood stain back on the wall and floor.  Every day, the knocking continued to the point that they all got used to it. After some weeks of being in the house, two of the younger boys, one being my granddaddy, were playing under the house.  They started digging along the edges, creating a trench all the way around it, but couldn't get it out. It was close to supper time when mom called them in to get cleaned up, so they left it as it was. That night, at bedtime, there was no knocking. They'd gotten so used to the noise that no one could sleep. My great-granddaddy asked everybody what they had done differently that day. The two young boys told their dad about finding the box under the house. So he made them go outside, in the dark, back under the house to cover it back up. That was when the knocking started again. Not long after that, they moved to another farm to work and left that house. My great-granddaddy heard the gambler had hidden his money somewhere on the property, but no one was ever able to find it. The gambler was killed by a robber looking for his money in the living room, leaving the blood stain on the wall where he died. Okay, one last story that my daddy told us. This one was actually the story that started my fascination with Bigfoot. My uncle worked the 3-11 shift, 3p to 11p. When he got off work, he'd go home, get his gun from where my aunt would put it just inside the front door. Then he would go get his hunting dog and head to the woods. This was back in the 60s, so the regulations were way different back then. On this particular night, he had decided to park his car down in a dried-up ravine. He had trained his dog to make small circles, returning to the car, then going out in larger circles, each time returning to the car. If the dog bade, signaling that he had treed something, then my uncle would go find him. On this night, the dog had made several circles, returning with no signs of sniffing anything out. He'd sent him out yet again when it started to rain lightly. My uncle was thinking about calling the dog back when he heard the eeriest cry and smelled the most awful smell. He had hunted those woods all his life ever since he was a little boy, but he had never heard or smelled anything like it. He quickly decided it was time to get out of there. He called for his dog but didn't hear or see him anywhere. After a few minutes, he called again and waited for the dog to return. After a few more minutes of waiting, the dog suddenly came into view. Running quickly to the car, the dog jumped through the driver's side window, got down into the passenger floorboard, shaking uncontrollably. It was then that my uncle heard the same eerie cry, but close by. He put the car in reverse and got out of there quick, fast, and in a hurry. But the next morning, he couldn't get the incident out of his head. He decided to go back during the daytime and see if he could find anything. When he got to the ravine, he got out to look around, and that's when he saw very large, human-like footprints in the ravine, even crossing over the tire tracks that his car left in the rain. From my knowledge, my uncle only ever told this story to one person, my dad, and he never wanted to talk about it ever again. Thank you for everything you do to bring light to those in need. Be blessed. In part two, I'll tell you about my personal experiences. Oh, come on, Jenny, you're going to make us wait for the personal experiences after all of that?  Kimberly sent an email. She said, I love listening to your podcasts. I'm a scientist and any belief that I have in the unexplained has only been because I could think of no other reason. For years, we rented a home on two acres in a lovely, treed community on the outskirts of an old mining town in the mountains. The home was built in the 1930s. The garage was separate, and the laundry was outside, around the corner and down the stairs into the basement. At the time we first walked through to see the house with the owners, they expressed their concern with having small children, then a newborn and a two-year-old in the house with a standard twist lock on the two entry doors. The owners feared that a curious child would accidentally turn the lock while I happened to be outside or would follow me out and close the door, thus locking all of us out. They asked if they could remove the lock and have us just use the dead bolts. We agreed. One day, in the summer a couple of years later, while my husband was working down the mountain, a volunteer from my work offered to come over and help me dig in some ground wire to secure my new chicken yard. We were attaching it to an old wood shed that the owner gave us permission to turn into a coop. My children were digging in the dirt and playing with toys outside in the shade. After working for a couple hours in the heat, I offered to go in and get some lemonade for us to take a break. When I reached for the front door, I found the dead bolt locked. It was the main door that we went in and out of, and I didn't remember going through the other. Perplexed, I went to the second door only to find it dead bolted as well. I walked back to the first and tried again, thinking that it was just sticking, but the sound of the bolt solid in the lock was clear. Padding my pockets down, no keys. Looking around, I confirmed that my children were still right where I had left them. I walked to the other side of the garage to see if my husband's car was in the driveway. It wasn't. I went back to inform my friend that the doors were locked and I couldn't get in. He checked the doors himself and found them locked. My only option was to remove a screen at the kitchen, slide open the window and slip in. After making my way into the house through the window, I went to the mantel over the fireplace where I always left my keys. There they were, sitting just as I had left them. I pocketed them, walked to both doors and unlocked each before going back outside with glasses of lemonade for all of us. Months later, I was sitting in the office with my four-year-old. The office had big picture windows that overlooked the wooded lot behind the house. My son was looking out the window and asked me, Who is that man down there? Thinking he met my neighbor on the other side of the lot, I glanced out. No one was there. I asked him, Where do you see a man? Right there, he said. Thinking he saw someone walking down the road on the other side of the lot, I asked him about that. No, he confirmed. He was still staring intently. Do you see him now? I sat down next to him.  Where do you see the man? I asked as I was looking out the window. He pointed to the middle of the lot and said, There! No one was there. I don't see a man, honey. Maybe it was the neighbor. I went back to my work, knowing that wasn't the answer. My son continued looking out the window for a few moments more and then went back to playing. I never had any negative feelings in that house, quite the opposite actually. It had a very healing feeling to it. We lived there for a total of five years, with no further incidents. Kim, in Julian, California. Wow, Kim, you know what? If you've got to be haunted on your property, having something that has that feeling quality is definitely the way to go. Thank you for the story. Okay, this next one comes from Kelly. She says, Hello. These are a few encounters with the childhood home I grew up in. Thanks in advance for taking the time to read. I enjoy your podcast very much and tell people to check it out all the time. Sincerely, K.B. Hurst. Here's what she wrote. I've always been a very spiritually aware person, mainly because of experiences I had growing up in my childhood home. My first creepy encounter was probably at roughly four years old. I've been lying down in my older sister's bed. I was very attached to my older sister. She was ten years my senior and, to me, as cool as Madonna or Cindy Lauper. Yes, I'm dating myself, an 80s kid here. I'd awoken for my afternoon nap and could hear my mom cooking lunch for me. I could smell the chicken noodle soup, and as I rubbed my eyes, got my tiny self up and wandered into the hallway. There, standing in the hall, was a tall man. He resembled a family friend of ours and he had a friendly face. He smiled down at me and bent over to speak to me. He seemed to need help with something, but I had no idea. He talked to me, but no sound came out of his mouth. At my young age, nothing phased me. I simply offered to help him by yelling down at my mom. Mom, the man needs help. What? She yelled back to me. I could hear my mom taking our plates and rustling what sounded like potato chip bags. Mom, the man in the hallway needs help. With this comment, my mom bolted up the kitchen stairs. We had two sets, one that led upstairs from the living room and one set of stairs that led upstairs from the kitchen. She had a towel drying her hands when she got to the top of the stairs. Her expression was one of controlled annoyance. A man? What man? What are you talking about? The man was right there. He was here. I was confused. He seemed to have vanished into thin air. My mom went into my brother's room and appeared to search around and then she looked down at me and shook her head. Hey, sleepyhead, I think you were dreaming. With that, she said no more of it. Later that night, I recall looking out my bedroom window. We had three apartment complexes behind our big house. There was an alleyway between them, so the tenants had access to their parking lot behind the apartments. I looked out my window and there, standing in the alleyway directly facing my house, was a man in dark clothing. I rose out my bed and looked out my bedroom window to get a closer look. My house was two stories and as I looked down from my dark window, outside was the same man in the hallway. I was sure of it. The only difference was he was more menacing now. His gaze from where he was standing seemed to look up at me. I remember thinking, even at my young age, how could he see me? The man would appear out there every night for a week and seemed to be staring at my window. I didn't want to go outside and play in my backyard. It gave me the creeps. Eventually, I stopped seeing the creepy man. I didn't talk about it either to my mom because she didn't believe me. She figured I was playing pretend, or that it was some imaginary friend I'd made up. I should probably mention that our house was adjacent to a busy road with a vast cemetery. It was one of the largest cemeteries in my city. The second genuinely frightening encounter occurred around the fall of that same year, right after I had begun kindergarten. It was a Friday night. My mom and I were alone. My father was bowling with his league and my sister stayed at her best friend's house for a teenage sleepover. I had an older brother who was 12 and had just left to go to his friend Scott's house. I'd been outside playing with my brother before he left, so I needed a bath. I insisted on reading books first and asked my mom if she'd read the Little Mermaid to me from one of her books from the Childhood Collection before she bathed me. I'd do anything to avoid bedtime. My mom had me curl up onto our living room couch. She opened the sizable encyclopedia sized storybook with all the fairy tales, turning to Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid. As she read to me, I recall that one of the living room lamps began to flicker. She stopped looking around the room and she continued as if waiting for something else. She was reading to me and I was listening to the story being very quiet and immersed in it when I heard what sounded like girls whispering and giggling.  The sound sounded as though it was coming from the corner of our living room where our bookshelf was. The couch we sat on was across from the bookshelf in between two front windows. I sat up peering out the window. My mom looked down at me and she had heard it too. It's coming from the bookshelf, I said. No, it's coming from outside. It's probably your brother out there. She got up, went to the front door, opened it and looked out. There were bushes just under the windows and my mom grabbed a flashlight from our closet. My mom was sure it was my older brother.  There now they'll know we found them out. My brother was a known prankster. It was getting darker outside and my mom wasn't yet concerned so she continued to read. It wasn't much longer after that the laughing continued. The laughing got louder, still coming from the corner of where we were. The sound appeared to be coming from the bookshelf but my mom swore it was from outside the window where we were seated. I started to get very scared. Mommy, that isn't Rob. I knew something was going on and even at that young age I knew instinctively it was something else. I felt something watching us. She looked at me and very angrily got up so I knew she was mad at whoever this was. My mother was convinced it was someone and the next culprit was the neighbor kid next door. She had me come with her as she strolled over to our neighbor's house and knocked on their front door. Our neighbor answered the door with a friendly greeting. I'm sorry but is your son home? The neighbor kid was the same age as my brother. He was one of my brother's other friends so it wouldn't be uncharacteristic of him to be out there playing a prank. My mom explained to our neighbor about the creepy giggling.  She seemed as concerned as my mom and promised to keep a lookout just in case someone was outside. My mom took me back into the house and sat down. I didn't see anyone outside so maybe we are just hearing things. She sat me on her lap and began to read to me and didn't stop even when the laughing started again. It would stop and then get louder. The laughter sounded as if it were behind us in the corner of the room I had initially suspected. Mommy it started again, you hear it? Do you think it could be Rob and Scott? I asked her. With that my mother got up and went into the kitchen which was dark. It was a small desk with a rotary phone on it and she picked it up. She began dialing in number and stood there for what seemed forever. Finally she started talking. Hello Mary, are Rob and Scott there? Okay, yeah. Well, there's been some kid outside all night making a ruckus and I wanted to see it for them. If it had been Rob would have been grounded. Okay, well, thanks. You too, she said. Have a good night. My mom hung up the phone and looked at me. Well, it must just be the other kids playing jokes, she said. Your brother and Scott have been watching a movie on TV and eating pizza since they got to Scott's house. Well, it's time for your bath now. It's almost nine o'clock. I could sense my mother's frustration and all she wanted was to relax at this point. It was Friday night so Dallas would be on later and she wanted me in bed so she could stay up and watch it in peace. My mom went upstairs to the bathroom to run the water. I froze. She left me downstairs and walked upstairs seemingly unconcerned about the evening events. I stood refusing to go upstairs. I heard bathwater running and my mom called down to me to get upstairs. I got halfway up the living room stairs and looked down into our kitchen stairs. As mentioned earlier, we had kitchen stairs that led upstairs and stairs from the front of the house. At the bottom of the kitchen stairs were two windows. As you went down them, one on the side of the stairs was one window that looked out over our driveway. It had one of those cheap plastic blinds you had to pull down to get it to move up.  Suddenly the one hanging over me by the sink snapped up on its own. I was startled and froze in place. On the other side of the kitchen, where there was a breakfast nook with a window overlooking our backyard, we had a third plastic window. That plastic blind also went up by itself. I ran upstairs crying to my mom and a frenzy. She was having none of it. Stop it. Just forget it and start getting ready for your bath. She said, a bit aggravated with me. I think she didn't believe me, thinking my imagination was running wild at this point after the evening's earlier events.  She grabbed my hand and began to take me into my bedroom. She and I both paused as we stood in the doorway. The laughing had started again, only this time it was coming from my bedroom near my bed.  I always had my stuffed animals on the bed in a pile. The laughter was coming from one of them. The creepiest part was the dolls, all were facing the door as though looking at us. They were not facing the direction that they had been in previously. I stood in terror. I refused to take one step in there. My mom laughed nervously at this point, trying to urge me on in pretending nothing was happening, but I knew she, too, was spooked. She was playing it off but didn't convince me. Finally, she went in, leaving me in the hallway, and she and my urging removed all the dolls off the bed. I still recall that terrifying night with the creepy ghost kids. At least that's the only thing that made sense. There had been no intruders in our house or anything to suggest it. I had a few more instances with those creepy sounds around the same time I experienced the laughter. I could sometimes hear children singing ring around the rosy. I recall one instance when children were singing in my bedroom and I yelled, SHUT UP! My father heard me and thought that I was talking to him, which ended in my father telling me not to speak to him that way. I tried to explain it wasn't him I was talking to. They stopped singing to me after that. Other things happened in that house years later. I do think the house was haunted by benign spirits. There was an instance in high school when I was making hot chocolate on the gas stove in our kitchen. I was sitting on our kitchen steps, painting my toenails, waiting on my friend to get done using the restroom. I felt something grab my head and move it toward the stove. There I saw the fire my kitchen towel had started. I was able to put out the fire with no issue, but it was one other thing that stood out to me. As I got older, I moved away and came back a few times. The last part of the story was that my parents had lost their house to the bank. I was so mad that the bank would no longer work with my parents. My father was disabled then, and the only other income was what I gave my parents and my mom's job. I recall cursing the bank, saying no one would ever live in my childhood home again. It was ten years before the bank could ever sell the house. I can't say for sure that it was my doing, but it was just another strange thing about it. I have other paranormal stories, but I've only posted those to an online blog I started a few years ago. Thanks so much for your time. I really enjoy your podcast because I don't always sleep at night. I like to turn something on to listen to until I can relax enough to fall back to sleep. Thanks so much for being there for people like me. Signed KB. Great writing here, KB. And if you want to share some of those stories from your blog with us, if they're all true stories like these, please send them in. You've got a great writing style, very easy to narrate, and very vivid. You can see exactly in your head what's going on. I pictured that corner with you and your mom reading in that bookshelf, and I could almost hear the laughter coming from behind that bookcase. Very good. This next one comes from Sarah. She says, Hi, I just started listening to your podcast, and I'm hooked. I always loved cryptids, and all things spooky. I'm very emphatic towards the other side. My story takes place in about 2007 or so. My mom, dad, sister, and I went to stay the night at the Myrtles Plantation in St. Francisville, Louisiana. It was a really cool experience. My dad and I did our own ghost hunt with his FLIR, a Flyer FLIR that he uses for work. I'm sure that means something to the ghost community, but I don't know what that means. Anyway, unfortunately, we didn't catch anything with it. We did have quite a few things happen. We were all just walking around the grounds and ended up inside the main house.  We laughed, and then the other photo frames on the table all fell forward face down on the table. We were freaked. These were those frames that leaned back with the little easel part attached, and they normally would fall backwards, but these all fell forwards. We set them back up and looked to see if there were strings or something, and we found nothing. Another thing that happened was we were doing a guided tour, and I kept having cold spots following me and brushing against my back.  Thanks again for all the awesome content, signed Sarah. P.S., I'll attach the picture. The person in the green shirt is my mom. These were a piano behind her. Oh, there was a piano behind her and nothing else. So it's like the figure is behind my mom. Okay, well, obviously you can't see those photos here in a podcast, so I will post these to the website at WeirdDarkness.com. If you go to the special series episode and there's a drop-down box there where you can click on Fireside Frights, and you can see all of the episodes of Just Fireside Frights. And this episode will be there for you to click on, and I'll post the photos in that post. So now I need to remind myself to come back and do that. Okay, this next one comes from Cassie. She says, hello, everyone. My name is Cassie, I'm sorry, Casey, and I've been a silent member of the Weird Darkness community for a couple of years now. I can't tell you how much I enjoy your podcast. Honestly, when I'm trying to branch out to other podcasts, they just don't compare. And within minutes, I'm back to the darkness enjoying my stories and never get tired of creepy pasta and true crime. I'm very excited to tell my story to you. It'll be the first time I've shared the story with someone other than a close friend or family member. This story is 100% true, and I will include a link at the end to an article that'll give you further insight into the history. It's a very special story, and I'm happy that if it's going to be told, it'll be Darren Marlar doing the exclusive telling. I grew up in Winston Salem, North Carolina, where I still commute to work. My mother and stepfather were looking for a home for us, and through a realtor they found an older home that was for sale on a quiet road in a very nice area. The house was very old. It was very interesting. There was a mount on the wall in the downstairs hallway where an old-fashioned antique phone would have once been placed. The entire house has solid wooden floors. There were dresser drawers built into the bedroom walls, which was not like anything I have seen in more modern homes. There were bookshelves built around big, beautiful windows in the downstairs living room, and there were secret rooms inside all three of the upstairs closets. The one in my room was the biggest. My closet was very unusual. There were two bars to hang clothes from, but the second bar was behind the first, and behind that was a tall series of deep, big shelves that went from the floor to the ceiling. It was a deep closet, but narrow, and upon opening the closet door directly on your right was a secret door that you almost couldn't notice. The door was more like a piece of the wall that could be taken out like a rectangular puzzle piece, and behind it was attic space and endless darkness.  My brother's bedroom was attached to my room. You literally had to walk through my bedroom to get to his room. His room was built directly above the garage and didn't have another access point besides through my room. My sister's room was across the hall. Her closet also had a hidden door, but what has continued to bother me to this very day is that her hidden door had two latches. One that you could hook from the outside like normal, but another that you could hook from the inside. You could literally latch that hidden door from inside. I could never understand the purpose of this, or the fact that I found empty cat food containers and feeding dishes inside her hidden room as if somebody was hiding a cat in there once upon a time. I think it was the very first day living there that the first Welcome to the Haunted House incident took place. My parents were moving things into their bedroom and they closed the bedroom door. When they went to open the door, the entire doorknob, which was an old-fashioned skeleton key style that I loved, came apart, locking them in the room. I would not have read so far into this event if it wasn't for everything that would follow. I remember that very day noticing a large brown stain in the wood floor of my parents' bedroom and in retrospect, I remember my parents avoiding my inquiries about it. I think they already knew what it was. No one told me anything about the house when we first moved in. We were renting at that time because my parents were unsure if they wanted to buy this house. It was beautiful, but being so old, it needed quite a few updates. However, there was much more to this house than we knew. I can only speak to my own experiences. I might be the only one who picked up on anything. My brother was away a lot and my sister was five years old at that time. In the beginning, it was the banging. I'd hear a loud bang from nowhere and I could never be sure of its origin. It could be day or night and this would happen. I'd feel like it came from inside the wall, maybe from the hidden room in my closet, but I could never bring myself to look there. When it would happen at night, it would startle me awake. It was an odd feeling like I just heard a loud noise in my sleep and was abruptly awoken, but then all would be silent. I even remember saying, stop, I need to sleep out loud on more than one occasion. I once came home to find that the pipes under the kitchen sink were spraying out water and flooding the kitchen. Water was dripping down into the basement through the wood floor. I can't begin to tell you how scared I was in the basement. I remember thinking it was weird that the pipes had started spraying. There was nothing wrong with them before that I knew of and it was warm outside so they hadn't frozen and burst. It was out of nowhere. Then there were the phantom calls from downstairs. I'd be in my room and from downstairs I could hear my mother call. I'd yell back, yes, and hear nothing. A few minutes later, Casey, again from downstairs, clearly my mother's voice. I'd call back again. Nothing. Finally I'd get up and walk downstairs only to have my mother insist she had not been calling me. That happened frequently enough. My bedroom TV would also randomly turn on or off, which I always found to be creepy, but I wanted to believe it was just a malfunction. Then there was a night when my brother had gone to our biological dad's house to spend the night and I had stayed home. My little sister was sleeping downstairs with my mom and stepdad, so I was upstairs alone. At this time my brother and I were high school students and my brother played on the basketball team.  As I was laying in bed that night, I remember having the TV on to just static. I was afraid and wanted the light from the TV, but had the sound turned all the way down. I mentioned before that there was only one access point into my brother's room. You would have to walk through my bedroom, and no one was upstairs that night besides myself.  I listened and, after a few seconds, I heard a dragging sound. As if whatever made the thud was now being drugged across the room, it sounded like it was coming towards the door that connected our bedrooms. I remember pulling the blankets up to my nose and watching the door thinking to myself, I don't know what I'll do if that door moves! And then, as if it heard me thinking, the doorknob started jiggling. I turned into a scared child. I turned the volume up on the TV so that the static would drown out any sounds, and I hid underneath my blankets like a child. It was not long after that when we were told what had taken place in this house so many years before. In 1969, the house was occupied by a woman named Elizabeth Grant. I really don't know much about her. She ran a newspaper stand. She had a daughter and granddaughter, but lived alone in the house. Then one night, someone waited outside the house, and when she came home, they followed her into the house. She was stabbed over 50 times. I remember thinking how much hate had to be behind something like that, to stab someone so many times. I actually punched my pillow 50 times to see how much effort that would require and how long it would actually take. That really made it hit home. It takes a lot. Her murder is said to be the oldest unsolved murder in Forsyth County. Her body was found on the floor in my parents' bedroom where the brown stain in the wood had caught my attention on our very first day in the house. We moved away after high school. We bought a house closer to my grandparents a couple towns over, but to be honest, and in spite of all the bangs and creepy happenings, sometimes I would wonder if this is Elizabeth's ghost. Is she something to be afraid of? Or maybe she just wants us to know she's still here? Maybe she still preferred to live alone. I was always half-afraid and half-in-love with that house. I still go by there sometimes just to say hello. Feels like the house is watching you when you're there. It's a heavy feeling. Some years later, when I had bought a house of my own, a woman reached out to me about the house. She was going to do a story on the house, and after hearing what I had to say, she shared with me that the current resident complains of hearing loud bangs that you can't place. Attached is a link to one of the more informative articles about the murder. Thank you so much for all that you do, and for every negative comment you receive, please know there are 20 times more positive thoughts out to you from those of us who never get tired of the weird darkness.   We are so grateful for the darkness. Wow, Casey, thank you very much. What an amazing story. And you actually brought a memory back to me about my own grandparents' house. They lived in a duplex, but they had one of those hidden rooms in the very far back. If you climbed all the way up to the second floor, went into their bedroom, they went into their bedroom closet, and at the end of their closet, they had this hidden door that went into an open attic space. Nothing creepy about it all that much. It was storage than anything else, but I had completely forgotten about that until you sent your story, and I just got done reading it. And honestly, I would love to see the schematics of the house that you grew up in. To have all of those secret doors, the secret rooms, you had drawers built into the walls.  And I would not mind having my voiceover studio, the Weird Darkness podcast studio in a hidden room in a house. That would just be so stick and cool. You did attach that article for that particular murder of Elizabeth, and I think I wouldn't normally do this in a fireside frights, but since it is an unsolved mystery, I'll go ahead and share that here in our fireside frights along with your story so people have a little bit more information. This comes from the Chicago Tribune. I'm looking to see when this was published. I don't see a published date, so I'll just read it off. Oh, I'm sorry, this actually comes from the Winston Salem Journal. I guess it was just reprinted in the Chicago Tribune. But anyway, it says, woman's homicide remains a mystery 47 years later. Brutal killing of Elizabeth Hilt's grant has baffled experts and investigators. Okay, so it was 1969, and then it was 47 years later, so this would mean if this was actually posted in 2016, 2015, somewhere around there. Okay, so here's the story. Winston Salem, North Carolina. If walls could talk, the stories the house could tell. On Robin Hood Road, a stone's throw from Shattalon Drive, the once blood-spattered walls of one home are the only witness to a horrible heart-wrenching secret, one that has baffled experts and investigators for decades. The brutal 1969 killing of Elizabeth Hilt's grant, the Forsythe County Sheriff's Office oldest unsolved homicide. Grant, a widow who lived alone, was savagely stabbed 54 times in her house one night in July nearly a half century ago. Investigators were never able to derive a motive or even a concrete suspect in the case. The Winston Salem grandmother, who was 55, was prominent in the community, running the newsstand at the now demolished Hotel Robert E. Lee downtown. She planned to visit her daughter in Connecticut, the week of her killing. Instead, her daughter came to Winston Salem for the funeral. She called me from the filling station a few days before and I sort of sensed there was something amiss, said her daughter, Alice Grant Chambers, now 76. Like maybe she had a feeling someone had come to the house. The fact. After a long day working at her second job as a Twin City Club bookkeeper on July 28, 1969, Grant went home one last time. She stopped at a grocery store about 10.30 p.m. to buy a 59 cent half gallon of milk. Grant had just enough time to carry in her groceries through the back door that led into the kitchen before she was ambushed by her attacker. Her back window had been pried open, leading police to believe the attacker had been lying in wait. The window screen was never found. After Grant was attacked, she fought her way through the house, leaving a trail of blood before dying on the bedroom floor. She put up a tremendous fight, said former sheriff Ron Barker, who worked on the case under the then sheriff, Ernie Shore. Best I can tell, somebody was awful mad at her or started panicking when she fought back.  It was unclear whether Grant had used one of the knives to defend herself. A pair of clean, gray, suede desert boots, size 9.5 and not belonging to Grant, were tidally placed on a rocking chair in the bedroom. Investigators were mystified that the attacker was able to leave without tracking any blood across the floor, disappearing into the soggy night. Grant had been killed in the midst of a rainy streak and footprints could be tracked to the lawn mower in her garage where police theorized the killer may have sought shelter from the rain. An unidentified neighbor who was waiting for his wife to return from the hospital reported that he'd heard a car door slam about 10.30pm and went to the porch to see if it was his wife. A man called out to him, sheathed in darkness, and asked if there was a filling station nearby. Roughly a half hour later, the neighbor heard a car door slam again and the car zoom away. But the neighbor never heard the screaming that was sure to appear to the quiet night as Grant fought her way through four rooms of her house. The guard dog at the nearest house a hundred yards away never barked. A mystery. When Grant didn't show up for work the next morning, her sister went to her house and found Grant's body lying in a pool of blood. Her keys were still in the house door and car ignition, the milk still on the counter and the lights on. Blood was splattered as high as six feet on the walls. The house did not appear to have been searched and the only thing that was missing was her white straw handbag containing a meagerly stocked wallet. An anonymous call was made to the newsstand that morning by a man who said that he had Grant's wallet and wanted to return it. The man, later identified as Kenneth Dodd of Walkertown, said two little boys had found the wallet and brought it to his barbershop nearby on 11th Street. Police at the time questioned whether it had been planted intentionally as a red herring in the playground and a predominantly African-American neighborhood where it would almost certainly be discovered. It'd be five months before construction workers would find Grant's white handbag near Creek on 10 and a half street. Detectives with the FBI recovered 15 sets of fingerprints in the house which were sent to a lab in Washington but extensive testing turned up nothing. Things were done differently back in those days and DNA testing was still in its infancy, Barker said, Not like we have today. Barker began work as a sheriff's deputy the week before Grant was killed. Now 83, he is the only person still living who worked on the case when she was killed, he said. He prided himself that in the 12 years he was sheriff from 1990 to 2000, the sheriff's office solved every homicide case within 48 hours. But although he made the Grant case a priority, it's one that haunts him to this day. All these years later, Barker said, I'm still having a real problem with why. A motive. Investigators discounted robbery as a motive as Grant had little cash and two valuable diamond rings were still on her fingers when her body was found that Tuesday morning. There were no signs of sexual assault either. Theories swirled as law enforcement officials struggled to find a suspect fast, fearing they had a deranged serial killer on their hands. Did the suspect go to the wrong house? Was the suspect insane or on drugs? Who was the person who killed a defenseless woman in cold blood?  Police didn't give the call much weight, as crank calls were all too common and they were sure the killer was a man. We never had a very strong suspect or at least there was never much proof, Barker said. We were never able to figure a motive other than some type of revenge because of the large number of stab wounds and the sheer brutality. A few weeks later, after Grant's killing, a man came forward with the allegation that he saw a white man toss Grant's small brown pleated wallet from his car into a small playground at 11th Street and Dunliffe Avenue about 1130 p.m. The man said the car was an old green falcon with a license plate in the rear window instead of on the bumper. The driver was middle-aged, with long, light-colored hair brushed back on the side. But a hair found on Grant's stockings conflicted with this story after being identified by crime labs as belonging to an African-American man. Whether the hair was on her stockings before the incident, perhaps belonging to a patron at work, or whether it was definitively linked to the killer could not be determined. Of all the possibilities, police believed almost certainly the killer was somebody she knew. A prominent New York psychiatrist, James A. Brussel, who often helped police solve cases by creating psychological profiles, echoed the theory. He said the killer would be a mentally unstable white man between the ages of 30 and 50 who knew Grant and went to talk to her, not kill her. All this stabbing is more than a fury, it is a deep-seated hatred. He had some long-standing grudge and not necessarily against her, Brussel said. He was not there to kill. He was there to plead or argue something. The four knives came from Grant's kitchen, reinforcing the idea that the attacker didn't go to her home intending to kill her. The attacker knew her habits, like when she would be home, Brussel said, adding it has to be someone from Winston-Salem. Investigators later deduced that the gray boots likely left behind in the bedroom by the murderer were worn by a man who was between 140 and 165 pounds, right-handed, and was flat-footed with a slight limp. Brussel saw the boots as a sinister and triumphant symbol of I win. Grant, a very nice person. The killing caused hysteria throughout the neighborhood with frequent, yet not necessarily substantiated calls to police about attempted break-ins and prowlers. The local paper boy had a gun pulled on him three times by frightened residents. No one could understand why a sweet woman like Grant, whose friends called her Lib, would be the target of a brutal killing. Grant, a dedicated Moravian, lived alone with her four cats and a white pigeon, Hamlet, who she had taken in when she found him with a broken wing years before.  Grant cherished music, especially musicals by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein, but buying their records for her daughter. After graduating from Salem College with a business degree, Grant worked for the American Automobile Association around a corner from her son-to-be husband H. Lee Roy Grant, who ran the Lee Hotel's stand. Although he was about 15 years her senior, the two bonded over a mutual love for horseback riding and married in 1938. Alice Grant Chambers was born a year later. My mother was a very nice person, everybody liked her and she liked everybody, said Grant Chambers, a 1958 graduate of Reynolds High School. I wouldn't be the person I am today without her attentive upbringing. Her parents ran the newsstand until her father's untimely death in 1953 from kidney disease, she said. He died at age 55, the same age his wife died. By the time Elizabeth Grant died, the stand had been in the family for a half century. She worked seven days a week, 365 days a year without fail. And if there had been eight days in a week, she would have worked eight days, friend Betsy Buford said in a July 31, 1969 article. That's just the kind of person she was. Grant was nothing if not routine, drinking coffee every single day at the hotel coffee shop for years to fuel her 14-hour workdays. She was always helping other people, said Bob Barker, the leads the Lee Hotel's office manager at the time. She helped several employees in the hotel, she'd give them credit when they needed it. After working at the newsstand in the mornings, Grant would work at the old Twin City Club, a member's only club as a bookkeeper and secretary. Grant Chambers said there were theories that her mother may have been targeted because she ran the club's finances, but it was another idea that never took hold. I asked her to move many times, but she never got around to it, Grant Chambers said. I always felt bad, it may have saved her. When Leroy Grant, Jr. left for the Vietnam War in 1968, he bit his mother goodbye, torn at the thought that it might be the last time he saw her that he would almost certainly perish in a violent war. He never imagined it would be the other way around. I'm still too emotional to talk about it. I break down and cry like a baby at just the thought of it, he wrote in an email, adding that he only hopes he lives long enough to see his mother's killer brought to justice. The case remains open to this day, but investigators don't necessarily have the resources at the Sheriff's Office to give some of the older cases the time they deserve, Chief Deputy Brad Stanley said. We try to revisit some of the older cases when we can with new technology, but it depends on whether the evidence was preserved in a fashion that we can further examine, Stanley said. We'd love to be able to go back and look at older cases, but it comes down to resources. In 1969, the case was stoked by a whopping $6,100 in rewards for information, but no one ever came forth with anything viable. With inflation, that reward would equal more than $40,000 today. In November 1971, reports emerged that a man who'd been dead for more than a year may have killed Grant and was her suitor. The man was not from Forsyth County, although he had a police record in Winston-Salem. The man's name was never disclosed and sources close to Grant denied the two ever dated. I remember there was a man who had since died and was believed to have done it, Barker said. It never panned out, there was never any proof he did it. Another lead came in 1972, when a couple from Stokes County was killed in a hauntingly similar fashion to Grant. They've been stabbed repeatedly by a man lying in wait. The man accused, William Otis Stewart, had an extensive criminal history of rape, larceny, kidnapping, assaulting his employer, and another first-degree murder charge. But he would have only been 17 at the time of Grant's death and investigators didn't know if he'd ever been to Winston-Salem, having amassed charges in Florida, Alabama and Mississippi. It was another search that yielded no answers. It would be 25 years before the Forsyth County Sheriff's Office received a concrete tip coupled with new DNA testing. That reignited the investigation reopening the case for at least the fifth time. A suspect who knew Grant from her newsstand was interviewed by the Department in 1997. The man, whose name was not released, was in his mid-50s, lived in Winston-Salem with his wife and had no criminal record, according to investigators at the time. When he was called in for questioning, he was asked, Do you remember anything from 1969? He responded, That was the year the lady was murdered. Why would he say that, Anita Grant said? Why would he say that unless he did it? It fit the bill for the story the family was always told. A man, age 18-19, who came in contact with Grant through her work at the newsstand, killed her after she had him fired. They felt sure this was the guy who killed her after she reported him, but it could never be proved, Grant Chambers said. The man fit the age bracket, and if the playground witness is to be believed, the long-haired driver of the Green Falcon who discarded the wallet could have been the suspect's father covering his son's tracks. It could explain the footprints in the garage and the window screen that was never found. They told us this guy's father was trying to protect him because he was feeble-minded and tossed the wallet to take the microscope away from his son, said Grant Chambers, who now lives in Maryland. Grant Chambers, the spitting image of her mother, said she offered to confront the man 10 years ago with police to see if they could elicit a confession. The idea never came to fruition, and to this day no one has been tried or convicted in Grant's killing. It still weighs heavily on her mind every day, Grant Chambers said. Whenever she comes back to town, she visits the two-story house. It's the house she and her brother grew up in, the house her father slaved away to build for his new bride in the 1930s. It remains to this day. And so does the mystery. Man, to have that story behind yours, Casey, to see that whole newspaper article and know that's the home you grew up in after all of that had happened, that's incredible. That really is. You can almost write a book about that. That took a lot longer than it normally would for one of our stories on Fireside Frights, but I really wanted to share the article and Casey's story at the same time. I hope that was okay with everybody. This next one comes from Caitlyn. She says, Hello, my name is Kat, and I'm located in a small town of Indiana, a place you wouldn't expect to have such terrifying and haunting stories. I didn't really know where to start with this, but I suppose I should give you some background of the area. This place is called 1812, or Hobbitland, and as me and my friends used to call it, it was originally a battleground where many Native Americans died, very awful and gruesome deaths. Years later, they turned it into an area they used to re-enact the battle. What people don't tend to know or realize, a place that seems all bright and cheery, full of life, and a wonderful historical festival contains a much darker truth. From occult rituals, grotesque animal murders, hobbits, and possible skinwalkers, this piece of land holds secrets no one believes until they see it themselves. Now onto my story. About two years ago, myself, my boyfriend at the time, and his buddies, decided to go out to 1812. It was the summer when COVID hit. Everything was closed, and we had nothing else to do with our time being young and dumb. The group I was with were all skeptics, but I was the one who believed in these things, listening to countless podcasts about all sorts of creatures and ghost stories. If only I knew, I would end up writing my own experience one day. By the time we arrived at the location, it was well past dark, around one or two AM. I instantly did not like the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere, especially in the dark. Already having a fear of darkness, I stuck close to my group as we walked around on old gravel paths. When we arrived to the area, they reenacted the battles. Instantly my hair stands up on end, and I have a bad feeling. Goose bumps are covering my body as a portion of the group I came with mentions that they think they had seen something. The more brave part of the group moves toward the movement that they see. I stayed back at the top of the hill while they moved towards the bottom of it. Watching my friends carefully move closer to a tree line, I too see this movement, and everything freezes. I see something at first, I think I am delusional, hallucinating even. This was something I have only ever heard stories about that I thought could only be in fiction. There at the bottom of this hill, barely hidden in the tree line, was something unreal, completely unnatural. Standing there was a skinny, tall, pale figure at first I didn't process it, but then I saw a second figure looking the same as the first. What got me was not the fear, just looking at it, not how close it was to my friends, it was the scream that came from it. It was the most blood-curdling awful noise to my ears. It is something that still haunts me to this day, something you can only hear in your nightmare, and I still hear in mine. My friends and I stood frozen, it was dead silent, no crickets, no splash of the fish in the nearby river, just complete dead silence. One of my friends was the one to break the silence with one three-letter word, run. So we did. We all ran like our lives depended on it. I don't think I've ever run so fast in my life, feeling as though whatever I had seen was just a mere few feet away from me. Once we got to our vehicles, we hauled out of there going speeds too fast for those bumpy gravel roads hoping to get to safety. But what's strange is even my friends who don't believe in anything were shaken to the core and confused. To this day, we still don't fully understand what it was we saw. With the vague description of what I saw, I believe it to possibly be a skinwalker. Though I'm sure there are other things it could have been, it was nothing of this world, I just wanted to share my story with others. It may not be as exciting or have as many details, it's taken me a while to send this in because I felt as though my story would not be as valid as others. But I've realized even the most simple stories are worth being shared. I want to thank you for your time that you spent reading this. My goal is to one day share stories as you do while combining my love for makeup with it. I hope this story finds you well, and again, thank you for your time. Best wishes, Cat. Thank you, Cat, and I agree. Even small stories, simple stories are definitely worth being shared. You don't have to send something so, so, so long as some of the emails today are. If you have a paranormal experience, just send it in. It might only be a couple of paragraphs, but we still want to hear what happened to you. That's the whole fun of fireside frights. You don't have to be a polished author or anything like that to send in your story, and I'll try to get through it as best I can. So long as your spelling isn't atrocious and you use some capitalization so I know when your sentences begin and end, we should be good to go. Thank you very much for your email, Cat. I really, really appreciate it. Our next email comes from Calvin. He says, My name is Cal, and this is a short true story about me and my Tiger Hobbes. Okay, I'm kidding. I'm sorry. I couldn't resist. Okay, I'll start over. Hi, Darren. My name is Cal, and this is a short true story about my bestest girl, my dog, Rosie. I won't go into everything that made her special to me, so I'll just stick to the paranormal thing. I've only had two events in my lifetime that I could consider supernatural. This is the second one. My dog, Rosie, a plot hound or mountain curm mix, was a rescue from a local high school parking lot where somebody had abandoned her. The moment I saw her, I fell in love with her and she with me. I had her for 11 years before she had to be let go because of an inoperable spinal injury. The examination also revealed a huge tumor on her spine that couldn't be removed without risk to her life as well. Rosie was famous among all who knew her for primarily two things. She absolutely had to be in physical contact with the people she loved, which was most everyone.  Her other claim to fame was she was the gaseous dog in history. Her flatulence was legendary. The night I had to say goodbye to her was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. The night I had to say goodbye to her was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, but it was the best for her because she would never walk again. The veterinarian was very kind and allowed me to stay with Rosie as she slipped away from the injection she gave her. Hours later, at home that night, I was sitting in my office chair, looking at her photos on my computer monitor when I felt a familiar warm pressure on my leg, and I automatically reached down to pet her. Of course, she wasn't there. And then it hit me. The absolute worst, most indescribable fart that ever existed assailed my nostrils. My eyes actually watered and I literally had to leave the house and walk into the cold February night to get fresh air. It was truly ghastly gas. That was the only time she ever visited me after she passed away, but she made sure to let me know her memory would always be with me. I've dreamt of her only a handful of times since then and it's coming up on two years now since I said goodbye to her. I miss my Rosie, my bestest girl every day and I always will. I'll never have a better companion than she. Thank you for your time, sincerely. Cal. Cal, that is both a funny and sad story and also incredible for the paranormal experience.  I think sometimes they say that it is that acrid rotten egg scent, but I don't know if your dog's farts smell like that or not. But anyway, that is gross and sweet at the same time. Thank you for sharing that, Cal. And I'm very sorry for your loss. Austin sent me an email saying, When I was about 11 years old, I had a job with my brother to earn money for scout camp, cleaning out old and dilapidated files that my grandmother had no use for. She owned a business that sold houses called Ram Enterprises, but was notoriously messy when I came to her filing. The place my mother worked never felt quite right when you entered and not even my dad wanted to be left alone whilst working there. All files were located in the basement area and after my grandmother explained that what she wanted done, she left me and my brother alone to work. We were having a good time when inevitably my brother, who drank tons of water earlier, needed to use the restroom. He said something like, I'll be right back, I need to use the John, gave me a goofy face to try and cheer me up as even being this old, I didn't want to be left alone. He left anyways and I tried to continue work gathering files to be shredded. It wasn't long before I started to feel cold and uncomfortable. You know, that feeling you get when you feel like you're being watched but you can't find the person, it was that sense of dread that made me stand still. To tell this next part, I need to tell you a bit of the layout of the basement. When you walked in there's a landing, bookshelves, bookshelves housing files on your left, a set of stairs leading to the bottom of the basement on your right and a wall blocking the bottom floor from view. I am frozen there with the files on your left, fear running like ice through my veins when I hear the hum of a small girl and the echo of footsteps coming from the stairs on the right. The tune was familiar and it was later I realized she was humming the wedding march. I don't remember running or noping out of there, I just remember my brother trying to make sure I was alright. I tried to explain it with my cousin who had started working there as a cleaner walking by the basement door but she'd been nowhere near that area into this day. I can't explain it. And because basements aren't creepy enough as it is and your brother knows this, knows the basement feels creepy and leads you down there anyway.  Maybe you could have gone upstairs with him though, I mean he had to go to the bathroom, so I'll give him that. But you could have gone upstairs with him and maybe got to drink a water or something just so you wouldn't have to be there by yourself. Just saying. Okay, moving on, this next one comes from Morgan and he says, Hi Big D. Mojo from Decalabinoa here. I originally called the Dark Line to tell this story, but I didn't know if you include the Dark Line stories in Fireside Frights episodes. If you do, I guess you can disregard this. If not, consider this an extra story for Fireside Frights. Anyway, here's my story. Okay, well before I continue on Morgan, no, I did not use the Dark Line in Fireside Frights. You just have me reading, so I'm glad you decided to email your story in. Okay, here's Morgan's story. This one still bugs me a little bit. I was 7 or 8 at the time. I'm 32 now. My school at the time was three houses up the street from me, so I didn't have far to walk when I went to school. Anyway, one afternoon when I got home from school, I walked into the kitchen and found all our cabinets with food and spices in them opened. Some of the cabinets' contents were either still in the cabinet or on the floor. For some reason, I did not clean up this mess. Possibly, I wanted my mom to see the mess. I just went straight to my room to do some homework or play or something. I can't remember, it's been a while ago. Anyway, when my mom got home from work and from picking up my sister from her school and she saw this, she automatically assumed it was me because I was the only one in the house. So, she did what most mothers did at the time. She punished me by giving me some good spankings and told me to not do that and to clean up the mess. I proceeded to tell her I didn't do it. I even pleaded with her that it wasn't my fault. Of course, my mom didn't believe me, so I went ahead and cleaned up the mess with some help from my mom. I honestly wonder after all these years if it actually was a ghost that opened the cabinets and made a mess in the kitchen that day because no one was in the house or had been since the early morning. The doors were all locked, but I had access to a key since I got home before my sister and mom. To this day, if I bring up the incident, my mom still thinks I did it. I wonder if that's why I like Sherlock Holmes and Scooby-Doo so much. It's a mystery. Thanks in advance for sharing my story. Thanks for all the time you put into this podcast. From a fellow weirdo in Christ, Morgan. PS, I hate to admit it, but I'm about six months behind in the podcast, so it might actually take me a while to listen to this one being narrated. That's okay, Morgan. Take as long as you need. There's only like 1400 episodes in there to listen to, so it might take you a while to catch up, but that's all right. There's no rule you have to start listening from the beginning, though. Each episode is standalone. There's not like an ongoing saga that you have to keep up with every episode. Whatever. Anyway, Morgan, thank you very much for the story, and I really don't have any real idea as to what may have happened in that situation. It only happened once, you said. It never happened again, and it is an odd thing to come home to. It sounds like typical poltergeist activity, but usually when it comes to poltergeist activity, there is somebody around when it happens, because quite often, as is the thoughts by some, poltergeist activity is really manifested from a young person, like the stress and go with your puberty and everything else. Something happens in the mind that they're able to control things around them, not purposely controlling them, but things happen around them because of that energy or that, I don't know. I don't know how to explain it, but regardless, poltergeist activity usually has a young person, usually a girl, but either a young teenager, early 20s, late preteens, something along those lines. But you're saying that this happened and nobody was home at the time, so I really don't have any idea what that would have been. The next story comes from David. Get the blank out. I can still hear my brother yelling as my college-aged self, my little sister, our parents, he and I had to flee our family house and watch it burn to ashes in 2001. I'd love it if that was the end of the story, but it wasn't. In fact, after that, the tale just got weirder, and no, it didn't start when I touched a Ouija board at a friend's house at about eight. In fact, that footnote does not relate. This is the story of an entity I met in that house, and what I testify to, what I know, happened there and to me. I know it'll start out to spare it, but I promise it is one story that links up at the end. Hi, I'm Dave, Midwestern writer by choice, Connecticut born, and I swear to the best of my knowledge, all of this is factual. Let's make something clear. None of us mourned the house that I grew up in, not my dad who had lived there on and off for four decades, not my mom, not my four siblings, who I were referred to by the year they were born, my sister, 1965, my brother, 1966, my brother, 1967, and my sister, 1980. Minds of my family compared the monstrosity I grew up in to the Winchester house because it had stairs that went nowhere, doors that went nowhere, and rooms attached to rooms in illogical ways. It also had four entrances but was next to worthless. However, my mystery house was less than a half mile from I-95 in Connecticut and survived blizzards and hurricanes, but couldn't survive fire. That's a good thing. It started as a barn before most Americans knew the name Roosevelt. That barn became the initial family room, and the man that owned the home for the first half of the 20th century added rooms as he added children. He also added a screened porch that my grandmother told me she had used as a summer dining room, but my dad turned into storage. Initially, upon my grandfather purchasing the house in the 50s, there was a back wooden staircase up to a small hall with a cramped bathroom and two odd-shaped bedrooms whose ceilings were slanted by the roof. Closet doors were painted plywood and not doors as we know doors. Downstairs under the back stairs in a dark hall was a medicine cabinet, another cramped bathroom, a small master bedroom. There was a door leading to what I call the heart of the house, once a bedroom and then what had been a storage room off that. There was a dining room, small kitchen, and a pantry leading to a second exterior door and an unfinished room. I guess the previous owner had planned another bedroom. You can tell what doors were there in the 50s because they were the old-fashioned cross and pulpit variety. The later doors were some odd, cheap press board that looked like someone varnished two pieces of quarter-inch plywood with sawdust in the middle. There was also a mudroom and a tiny oil burner electric room. They had an opening under the hose that stray cats came through for my grandmother to feed. When Dad moved in, he got the bedroom upstairs on the left. His sister, not quite of ready-to-marry age, got the back downstairs bedroom and my favorite aunt, the one that they thought would be a spinster, got the right upstairs bedroom and she suffered through many illnesses and afflictions while there. In fact, during that time everyone became convinced she'd be infertile and die young. But she did marry, move out, and was suddenly healthy and had three healthy babies. Oh yeah, she lived to be 94. Time passed. Dad graduated college. His sisters had moved out. He tried to move out, getting married and having three kids before he was 26, but his dad lured him back with every young father's favorite phrase, free rent. He took the bedroom across the hall and gave my brothers his old room. Shortly thereafter, his first wife was diagnosed with incurable cancer and died. Time cures all wounds, and he married my mom, who was quick to both want to raise my siblings and have another baby. But as they lived in that upstairs bedroom, they could not conceive. Over time, Dad and my grandfather decided to add more rooms, another entrance and a true master bedroom to the house. When the contractors were done, there were two houses that were legally one. Two living rooms, not enough bathrooms. The back storage room had become a middle bedroom and a new staircase was added in the downstairs bedroom, which my dad adopted as his office. He added shelves and decorations, almost a man cave, and I still call it the heart of the house. This was the 70s, the stairs were carpet covered shelves, and the railing were unprotected dowels. Lots of air, and you know what kind of stairs that I mean. Now, no sooner than my parents had taken over the new master bedroom, it seems, and my mom was pregnant with me. Amazing what happens when you leave that bedroom. But no one connected that until later. In 1978, there was a fat, hairy baby named Dave. That was cute too. Also, this brings me to the first true terror of my life. You see, I didn't know about this until decades later. I knew I was terrified of a building in Fairfield, Connecticut, on a town square that has several buildings with paranormal stories. I may share some separately. I never wanted to look at this one building. Now, apparently, a clothing store. None of us ever discussed this building, sitting at the light on the way to McDonald's until, wow, decades later, my sister told me she'd been in there once with my folks when they bought my first crib. Years later, researching all of this, I asked my mom about my first crib and she grimaced. Apparently, every time she put me in it, I cried and I never actually slept in it. She had to take me out. Now, I was a baby, but I'm pretty sure that crib went into storage and was in the house when it went up in flames. One night, when my mom was out with a baby, 1980, and 1965, was on the phone upstairs in her room, the room and my dad were in the kitchen on the phone, and I was too, and bored. I decided to climb the open-air stairs and there was no one in the heart of the house with me, but something shoved me through the side of the stairs, where there should have been something blocking the opening, but hey, the 70s, and I fell the several feet cracking my chin and needing several stitches. I still have the scar. What pushed me? Well, I have an idea there. I don't know if it was the house or the crib or both, but something pushed me. She was there. Now, I know this sounds weird, but I was almost 40 when I learned about everybody sleeping with the lights off. I had no idea until I started listening to creepypastas and listening to podcasts like yours. You see, the four adults in my house when I was growing up, my grandfather who died when I was two, my grandmother who died when I was 17, and my parents who are still alive always sleep with a light on. Maybe not bright enough to read by, but yes, see by. So yes, 1980 and I always slept with the light on. She and I are less than two years apart, so we spent a lot of time together as children, except for the big reveal and it's a head scratcher to both of us looking back. You see, when we were home, our grandmother was sleeping and our siblings were out. My parents worked Friday, Saturday, Sunday night at Dad's restaurant, so we had babysitters and always 1980 and I together. Originally, there was, we'll call her D. There was sometimes N, but usually D. Anyway, D went to college and her cousin C babysat us at home, then others. But then, when I was six, there was S. S was as she told me, and I remember clearly, C's cousin. Here's the problem, 1980 has no recollection of S, and she reminds me almost four decades later, there was never a night when I had a babysitter and 1980 wasn't home. 1968 would have been in high school with C. He said she was an only child. My mom in 1965 don't remember C having a sibling or me having a babysitter without 1980. That had happened, or rather I was alone with someone or something no one else remembers, someone who harmed me on two occasions while alone with me in the heart of the house or on the doorway. And for your fireside frights, that's as much detail of those events as I will relate for your podcast to stay PG-13. Who was she? I spent most of my late 30s asking everyone. Finally, someone on another paranormal podcast made the point. Not all imaginary friends are imaginary, especially if they harm the child and want them to keep secrets. And they can appear however they want. Was I harmed by a ghost or inhuman spirit?  And if that was the end of the story for S or the babysitter as my former wife called her as I went through therapy, I'd agree with you, but that wasn't the end and the story will get weirder. It wasn't just two in-person meetings, just two true physical contacts. During my childhood, my sibling, 1965, went through rough times in that upstairs bedroom, and then she moved out and everything got better and I got the infamous upstairs bedroom and was there until the fire, all through high school and college. That's where I had terrifying nightmares. I developed anxiety and discovered Catholicism to protect me from the darkness I could feel but didn't see for years. I discovered the closet in that room had been destroyed to create the new stairs. All that was left was a latched piece of plywood in the wall. I never could get the closet door open because of the carpet my parents had bought, and couldn't for the life of me tell if there was anything in that four-inch space. Anyway, after the house burned down, the insurance company built a normal shaped house to replace the one we grew up in and everyone was happy with the result. At 29, I met my bride. At 30, we married, and I learned about something I had never experienced, sleeping in the dark. And that's when S came back. At least that's the best I can tell you. I pee a few times a night, so I wake up, I don't get sleep paralysis and can always move, but a shadowy, feminine entity would watch me sleep most nights for years. Sometimes in the corner, sometimes at the foot of the bed, and sometimes near the head of the bed, dark shoulder length hair. It was the babysitter. This started when the ex and I returned from my folks. Then we moved to South Dakota and in every residence for years. Now, four generations of my family need to have a light on to sleep, but I can tell you, I am sure that I am the only one this whatever she is touched. Lucky me, right? One time it grabbed my wrist while my then wife slept next to me. The third physical contact as of yet, I prayed to Hail Mary and our father, and the entity released my arm. She always just disappeared when I prayed. After it grabbed me, I began to wear a silver crucifix and researched everything I could. The ex bought me a silver chain and crucifix I wore for years for protection. I even had it blessed. Finally, during an argument, we were arguing a lot as all crumbling marriages, I demanded a night light. It was a marriage of arguments and resentments, and sometimes the ex could be cruel to me, but only emotionally. We were a bad fit, and I think the babysitter knew it, and every night that night light was on, s, the babysitter, the entity, stayed away. As I researched, the ex was interested in what the entity was and why she never saw it, why it never touched anyone but me and why four generations of my family were afraid of the dark. But apparently, from afar, it watched others sleep, and only watches. Love your podcast, Mr. M. You have the perfect voice for this. I'm not really religious anymore, so I skipped the Bible verses at the end, but I would never inhibit your freedom of religion. Keep doing what you're doing. You're doing great. I don't want to forget to say that, but anyway, I had to confront the darkness once. I had to know. When my marriage ended and I moved down the hall, ultimately, we split amicably.   What are you? I mouthed and screamed with my soul. What do you want? But the entity didn't come. I haven't been in the dark since. I moved out, and the ex moved on. I sleep with the light on. Now, I don't wear the necklace anymore, gave it to my daughter, and suddenly she feels safe turning the light off. As horrible as what happened to me at six is, that too is, and all those years of it watching me sleep, I'm just glad I'm the only one in hurt or even touched. I don't know what it is for sure, but I have a presumption for once we're talking about an inhuman spirit. I don't know if it's coming back. I know I'm sleeping with the light on tonight, and I looked over my shoulders several times writing this. Imagine it feeds on fear and strife, and it will come back. Did that shadow just move? Great last line there, David. I appreciate it. I am surprised that you say that you've stepped away from religion, because everything in this says that's what was saving you. Not at the very beginning, but you say every time you prayed, that's when S, the babysitter, would go away. You had the necklace that felt like it was protecting you, and it does protect your sister, and it was blessed. It surprises me that you would walk away from religion. I would think that would be something you would actually grasp onto more because of this, but I don't know. People do things for their own reasons, and I don't know your full story, so I can't judge you on it or anything. It just surprises me. By the way, no, I would not recommend seven cups, but you have gone through such a horrible experience. You've dealt with a paranormal, and that paranormal sexually molested you numerous times. That's something that I don't think a regular counselor would be equipped to take care of. What I would recommend, especially if you plan on not going to a religious source, there is a group called the Opus Network. I have a link to them on the Hope in the Darkness page. I just discovered them a few months ago, and the Opus Network is there. You've probably heard me talking about it in the podcast, or the promos that I play for them, but they will listen to people who have been through like what you've gone through. People who have had paranormal or extraterrestrial experiences that they can't explain that are having a hard time dealing with. These are people who are not going to judge you or try to rationalize what you went through. They're not going to try to explain to you that you didn't have a paranormal experience. It was actually this or that. That's not what they do.  They believe in the paranormal. They believe in extraterrestrials. They believe there is something out there we can't explain. And they are also trained counselors. And they specialize in helping people who have had paranormal encounters that are having a hard time getting past them. It sounds like you would probably fit that mold. So if you're still looking for help, look for the Opus Network on the Hope in the Darkness page. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash Hope. And they might be able to help you, David, assuming that you do want to help. I'm really sorry you had to go through all of that. It was a little bit difficult, a little bit hard to follow with you giving years for all your siblings and stuff like that. I followed through it enough, but I don't know if it was easy to follow with people who were just listening. And the house reminds me so much of the house that we talked about earlier that had that horrible murder of that poor woman that was stabbed 54 times. We've got two weird houses in the fireside frights this month. Okay, this next one comes from Christina. Hello, Darren. I was just listening to one of your episodes, the one with listeners sending in their scary stories that nobody would believe. It made me want to share my paranormal story. My family and friends really didn't believe me, either. It was the most horrifying event that ever happened to me. Every word of my story is true. I hope you can use this. Okay, on with what happened. It was the summer of 2000. I was 18. I've always grown up in a haunted home. My family's house was an old Victorian house from the late 1800s in a little town about 20 minutes from Boston. It was a beautiful home, but as long as I can remember, all kinds of paranormal activity has happened in the house, from hearing voices calling your name, from many family members seeing full-bodied apparitions. I was no different. I grew up hearing voices call my name, seeing shadow people all the time, but never anything as horrible or evil as this. It was in July, like I said, the summer of 2000. I just put my two-year-old daughter to bed. She was up all day without a nap, so I was looking forward to having some alone time. I was jogging up and down the driveway for only about 10 minutes when I hear my daughter all of a sudden screaming and crying. I couldn't believe she actually just woke up. We spent the day at the beach and she was exhausted, so I couldn't believe she was up. I ran back into the house and went into the bedroom.  It was getting dark outside, so there really wasn't much light in the room. I sat down on the bed next to her, and I kept trying to get her to calm down. She kept sitting up screaming and pointing her finger at me. At first, I thought she hurt her finger and was trying to show me, and then I realized she was pointing to the corner of the room where our heater was. I kept looking at the corner and saw nothing. I kept telling her there was nothing there, later back down. She did this about four times, then all of a sudden, the feeling of the room changed. It felt heavy. I looked at the corner again, and I still saw nothing, but then all of a sudden, I felt this horrible feeling. I said, OMG, it's them meeting spirits in the house. I grabbed my daughter and jumped off the bed. I couldn't really see anything, so I'm trying my hardest to run through the room. I felt like I'm being attacked. It's hard to explain. I felt like we were being assaulted by someone we couldn't see. I just kept screaming. Finally, I reached the little staircase that goes out my room into the rest of the house. My daughter and I are still screaming. I run up the stairs, push her ahead of me and out of the room. Then I just remember feeling this horrible, evil feeling. Then I feel this huge rush of hot air going through me. I look down at my mouth, and it looks like my mouth is being stretched out by this air that I feel going through me. Then while I'm screaming at the same exact time, horrible demonic howls and screams come out of my mouth while I'm screaming. It sounded so awful like a horror movie. The howl was so powerful, the way it went through me. Then the air rushed through my entire body and was gone. I collapsed on the floor, and when I got back up, everybody said all the color drained out of me. That was a big deal because I had such a dark tan from the sun, and after I collapsed, when I got up, I was so pale, I was whiter than a sheet. I couldn't believe what had just happened to me. How can an entity go through you and scream like that out of your mouth? I was so baffled and scared. I was shaking and crying for days after it happened.  Nothing like that ever happened again, thank God.  I can tell you it did happen. An entity went through my body and came out of my mouth and howled. I'm 40 now and still live in the same house. Things did get a little crazy after that for a few years, but for a long time now it's been nothing, no activity at all. The paranormal world is such a strange place. There's so much out there we can't begin to explain. Thank you so much, Darren, for what you do. You've built up a real community where we can tell our stories and the paranormal things that have happened to us without ridicule. You're the best. Christina, aka fellow weirdo. Christina, that is terrifying. It really is. I don't doubt that it happened to you. The only thing that popped into my head is the Bible verse, he who is in me is greater than he who is in the world. And that's why I think incidents like this can't happen unless you happen to be a born-again Christian. I know suddenly fireside fries and chamber of comments is becoming church time. I don't mean for it to, but that's just what popped into my head as I was reading this. I personally believe that born-again Christians can't be possessed. We can be oppressed.  But I don't believe that they can physically take hold in us and take our mind and make us do things. I think that was just a brief moment with a demon is what you had. Just a guess, but that's what I'm thinking. So I don't know where you are spiritually, but that's just my own thoughts off the cuff. This next one comes from Debra. She says, Hello, Darren. My boyfriend, Juan, and I are longtime listeners, and we love you and your podcast. I have a true story about the house I used to live in, if you'd like to use it on Weird Darkness. My parents bought a three-story house in Pawtucket, Rhode Island in 1993 from an elderly widow named Diva. They moved into the first floor, my older sister and her family moved into the second floor, and I and my family moved into the third floor. We all immediately began experiencing the sound of footsteps and doors closing. We would see shadows, and our dogs would frequently growl at nothing. One night my sister was awoken to the sound of her dog growling, and when she opened her eyes, there was an elderly woman standing at the edge of her bed staring at her. She screamed so loud that it woke me up from my sound sleep on the floor above. One night I was up late watching television when I saw an elderly man walk through my dining room and then disappear. My dad had become friendly with our next-door neighbor, and one day he told him everything that had been going on. He was shocked to hear what the neighbor had to say. Turns out that Diva and her sister Teresa had owned the house together along with their spouses for many years and had raised their children there. Their children had grown up and moved out and Diva's husband passed away. The house was much too big for just the three of them now, so they decided to find a small single-family home for the three of them and sell the big house. Teresa didn't want to leave though, but Diva and Teresa's husband overruled her and began looking for their new home. After many months they found a place, signed the papers, placed the big house up for sale. The day before it was time to move, Teresa went down to the basement and hung herself. When her husband came home and found her, he had a massive heart attack. He passed away on the way to the hospital. The neighbor told us that they were sweet, wonderful people, and it was a heartbreaking story. Many years after living there, my sister moved out and my parents went to the second floor to a young couple with two kids who knew nothing about the history of the house. We became friendly and one day the mother randomly told us this story. Her five-year-old had been misbehaving, so she sent her to her room for a timeout. While she was in her room, she could hear her whispering giggling. She opened her door and asked who she was talking to, and the girl said, my friends. What friends, she asked. And the little girl responded, the old people. We lived there for 25 years and frequently had minor incidents. I believed that they were harmless and just didn't want to leave, but I never got used to it. Thanks for listening. God bless you. Well, Deborah, um, yeah, um, that would be my guess, too. Theresa obviously didn't want to leave to the point to be so attached to a house that you would commit suicide before moving is really dark. I don't know if anybody who's been that attached to a house, I'm still attached to my childhood home.  I'm always in that home. So I can understand being attached to a house, but not to the point of, of, of preferring to die rather than leaving. That is just, that is just so awful. But I can understand why they wouldn't be able to sell the house after that. So it stayed there and diva ended up renting it out to people, stuff like that. So this is one of those cases which was mentioned earlier about kids who have imaginary friends who aren't really imaginary. You never know when a kid is, is actually doing, doing that with an imaginary friend or with a ghost or demon. You don't, you don't know. That's, that's the, that's the hard part. Unless that imaginary friend is forcing them to do just unspeakable things. And then you know what you're dealing with a dark entity. But most of the time they're just referring to this friend that they've made and you really don't know what they're talking about, what that imaginary friend looks like. And the only time, the only time maybe, maybe you know that it wasn't just an imaginary friend is after you move. Did the imaginary friend come with you when you moved? If so, it's probably just an imaginary friend.  Then you got to wonder if maybe you're actually dealing with something supernatural. This one comes from Jimmy, actually Brother George, Brother George J. Let's see here. He says in April of 1995, I became a member of St. Anselms, on St. Anselms Abbey in Washington, D.C. I'm sorry, Brother George, if I'm mispronouncing that. Anyway, he says that's the home of a group of English Benedictine monks. I became fast friends with the elderly brother Dominic. Sadly, in early 1997, Brother Dominic took ill. Tuesday, March 4, 1997. Brother Dominic Cramer, OSB, was found dead by Father Philip Cimo, OSB. Dominic had been recently ill and was in the infirmary wing, having been released from the hospital. Philip went to his room in order to bring him breakfast and he discovered Dominic's body lying on the floor of his room. Philip would later say that judging from the position of the body, Dominic did not try to stop himself from falling over. It was then theorized that he must have died while standing or walking. That is, he was going about his business and his heart just stopped. Dominic was in his 70s and was very much loved by everyone, especially me. Sunday, March 9, 1997. It was getting close to noon and I was in the kitchen talking to our weekend cook, Jeanette, who hailed from Haiti. I heard a noise that sounded like it was coming from the entrance to the walk-in freezer. I went to check it out without mentioning to Jeanette what I was doing. I just wanted to make sure that there was no one in the kitchen. Suddenly, I saw Dominic clear as day. He looked like he did before he was ill. He was headed for the walk-in freezer door. I was going to call his name, but then I thought, no, wait, you know, I scared Jeanette and I did not want Jeanette thinking I was playing games with her. While I was thinking that, Dominic just disappeared. No fade out, more like a bubble popping. I did not say anything to Jeanette, but left the kitchen. It was very close to noon and at noon I had to climb the stairs to pull the rope to the bell to ring the Angelus. That's wrong every day, but good Friday at noon. It is three rings, pause, three rings, pause, three rings, pause, and then six rings. That afternoon I was with Father Philip, who at the time was the kitchen master. I told him what had happened and he became excited. Did you tell Jeanette? He inquired. I told him I did not. Are you sure you did not say anything to her about this? I replied I did not tell anyone at all except for him. He insisted I called Jeanette at her home using the phone in the kitchen. I did and discovered that while I was checking out the noise and at the time I saw Dominic, Jeanette felt the presence of Dominic, although she did not see him. She felt it strongly and said a silent prayer. Dominic, I know you are here and that you are a good man, so I will say a prayer for you. She told me that she silently said that, and after I rang the Angelus, I went into the chapel for a noon prayer. When Jeanette saw Philip later that day, but before he saw me, she told him what had happened. Later that evening, Philip and I were discussing the events with the others. Brother Matthew Nyland, OSB, said, Well, something happened to me today. I was not going to say anything, but since she brought this up, I will. I saw Dominic today. It was by the vestry. I saw Dominic's reflection in the vestry window, but when I looked into the vestry it was empty. When I looked into the window, I saw him again. We discussed with each other and the abbot what this could have meant. What about the soul? Philip suggested that since Dominic's death was so sudden, his heart just stopped, perhaps his soul did not yet know it had died, and it is doing things that it is used to doing, such as working in the vestry or sneaking food from the freezer. We debated amongst ourselves what it meant, but could only conclude that it was related to our grieving process. Dominic was never seen again. Brother Dominic was the only ghost I have seen, and it may be wonder to this day why a ghost would be wearing clothes. That is, do the clothes of the departed have a soul-like substance that it would be on the ghost? Signed Brother George J. I cannot answer that last question there about clothes on a ghost. That has actually been brought up before, and I have no idea. Maybe they appear that way because that is the way you would expect them to appear. That is the way you remember them. And this does bring up a really good question, something that evangelical Christians have difficulties with. If a Christian dies, we believe it is absent from the body present with the Lord, so you would not be around to be a ghost. So, having a priest there, definitely somebody who believes in Jesus, has given his life in dedication to Christ, how would you then see a ghost of somebody like that when he should be absent from the body present with the Lord? How does that work? I struggle with that one. As you can tell, I am having a hard time putting words to it, because I really do not understand what ghosts are because of that. I am one to believe the Bible, literally, and so that really troubles me. The ghosts that we see are they demons trying to confuse us, to make us think that ghosts are real. Was that maybe an image that was burned into time that took place? Were you actually not seeing Dominic in the present but seeing him in the past and just watching like a recording? I do not know. I believe that there are different kinds of hauntings as well. I believe that there are recording type of hauntings like that, where a ghost does the same thing every time in the same location. I think those could be possible recording type of paranormal phenomena. I do not have the words to describe that perfectly. I do not have the wisdom to describe that perfectly either, but I think that could be one explanation for one kind of ghost. The other ghosts where you are actually interacting with them, like a resurrection Mary type of thing, where you are picking them up in an automobile and you are taking them to a house or something like that, or if somehow they are able to communicate with you, I do not know about those. I do not know if those are truly spirits of the dead that are still here for some reason. Maybe your father has a point there, that maybe when somebody dies suddenly, that maybe they just have not had a chance to cross over yet? I do not know. And that is something I will probably never know this side of heaven. But thank you very much for your email, Brother George. I appreciate it. This is a quick one from Alice saying, The time I died. In 2019, during a mental breakdown, I ended up taking an overdose. I ended up dying for a few minutes and I was trapped in a really dark room. I heard screaming and crying. There were insects biting at my soul from a distance. I saw two dark shadow figures. I was absolutely terrified. I woke up to people talking and shouting my name. This I will never forget. I would not forget that either, Alice. That sounds like one of those near-death experiences where you had just a quick glimpse of hell and you came back. You have a second chance to make your life right. Give your life to Jesus now. I would not want to risk that ever again. Let's see here. This next one comes from Judd. This one comes from Judd. Saying, Darren, it was great to finally meet you at the Dark Waters Paracon in Plattsburg, New York. I am a weirdo in Christ and have been listening to Weird Darkness for over a year.  Oh yeah, I remember that. I generated my love for the weird and the strange when I was a teenager. I was involved in playing with a Ouija board, tarot cards, and some black magic, but that before coming to Christ. One day I was at my grandma's house when I found a book that she'd gotten from Yankee Magazine called Mysterious New England. As I began to flip through the book, I found the story about the Eddie brothers and they lived in Chittenden, which is literally not far from where I live. Now, it wasn't so much that the Eddie's lived up in Chittenden, but that my grandma had a friend whose last name was Eddie. Later in the week, her friend, who I will refer to as V, had stopped by to visit my grandma. While they were drinking tea, I asked V if she was related to the Eddie's in Chittenden. V laughed and told me yes, she was related, but not to believe the stories. My grandma, on the other hand, had the angriest expression on her face and told me to never talk about them again. Well, now, many years later I was living in Indiana and was visiting a cousin who happened to live nearby. For some reason we began to talk about ghosts, probably because it was Halloween, and she began to tell me about her father, my uncle, who used to like to drink, went off with some friends to an old deer camp that happened to be on the old Eddie property. She told me, after hearing the story from her father, that it had been over 10 years since visiting this camp, the trees had fallen away from the camp, which they thought was weird, and that there was no overgrowth. They went into the camp and saw that there was still a full ashtray of cigarettes, along with an old Franklin stove. No sooner did they put their gear down than they smelled cigarette smoke. My uncle looked over and saw the old cigarettes that ashtray had lit up. A moment later they heard the Franklin stove begin to shake and the cover, if you know how heavy those covers on a Franklin stove are, lifted up and flew with them. Obviously, my uncle and his friends grabbed their gear and left. When my uncle got home, he told my aunt, his wife, everything that had happened. My aunt began to yell at him for being drunk so early in the day. Please remember that my uncle did like to drink back then, but he told her that he had not had a single drink that day. My uncle refuses to talk about his experience to this day, and my cousin heard him tell her mother on that day. I was able to find out that the camp they were at was either the same camp or near the camp that one of the Eddie brothers had lived in near the end of his life. I hope you can use this for your fireside frights. As I said before, I love your show, God bless, signed Judd. That all sounds very familiar. I think maybe I shared that story in a previous episode, and if so, I apologize. I think maybe that got in there accidentally. But still, it's a creepy enough story. I'll go ahead and just leave it in there. I won't edit that out before posting this. This one comes from Jacob. Hey, Darren. Been a long time listener, but this is the first time I've submitted a story. When I was little, we lived about half an hour outside of a small town in Wyoming for about four years. We lived in a 1970s double-wide trailer house right at the base of a mountain. There was such a high pagan presence in the area, they would close the three parks in town after 10 p.m. every night for ceremonies and rituals. I was in my parents' bedroom one night. For context, my parents' bedroom had a double vanity that was set up back-to-back in such a way that the two large mirrors would make an infinite mirror when you stood between them. The doors to both the master bedroom and the closet were on the wall to the side of the vanity. I was standing by the bathroom door, playing in the vanity mirror. When I looked behind me in the mirror, I saw this thing standing in the doorway of the closet, at least seven feet tall. It looked like a shadow. Its eyes were so pure black that a sharpie would be pale and faded in comparison. But they simultaneously were glowing. The moment I saw it, my blood ran cold. It let out this unholy laugh that instantly consumed me with utter dread and terror. I ran as far as I could to get out of the bedroom. It chased me, but it didn't run. It tilted from standing upright to laying flat, floating in mid-air, and took off after me. Sorry, more context, my parents' bedroom let out to the far end of the hall. There was a closet in the hall, just before my parents' bedroom, that you couldn't get past if the door was open. When I ran out of my parents' room, I got wedged in between the wall and the open closet door. While I was stuck, that thing, I believe it was a demon, grabbed my arm tightly. I could feel it trying to get inside me. It kept squeezing my arm tighter and tighter. I thought I was going to tear my arm off. I was screaming and crying and fighting with everything in me to get unstuck and away from this thing. When I did finally get free, I pulled my arm away from it and my arm just went right through its hand, as if it wasn't even there. It chased me into the living room. When I got into the far end of the living room, I grabbed a Bible off of the bookshelf and threw it at the thing. The moment it made contact with the Bible, it vanished without a trace. The Bible stopped and fell straight down, as if it had simply been dropped. I still, to this day, 20 years later, have nightmares about this. This experience is what introduced me to the paranormal, and I have more experiences I hope to share in the future. Thank you for all you do. Your podcast has helped me cope with a lot since I started listening to you a few years ago. Sincerely, a loyal weirdo. Jacob, that is terrifying stuff, man. It's another one of those incidents where you only get out of the situation by prayer with a holy book saying the name of Jesus. It's something along those lines. It seems to always be the Judeo-Christian faith, too. I'm not saying that it doesn't happen in other faiths. It's just I've never heard any of those stories. Every time somebody has an issue with this, be it like a sleep paralysis moment or a shadow person type of thing or whatever, it's always some sort of Christian prayer language or element that ends up breaking them from it. It's so weird how that happens. You've got to wonder if maybe there's something to that. This next one comes from Janine. She calls this The Voice. In May of 1972, during the time we lived in southern Illinois, my husband drove a tractor trailer and delivered milk to stores. He'd drive an empty trailer from southern Illinois to St. Louis, Missouri, where he'd pick up the load of milk and approximately 120 mile trip one way. The milk was in all different types of containers as he'd be delivering the milk to big stores as well as smaller convenience stores. He'd deliver the milk as he made his way back to southern Illinois and home. His hours for this route was from midnight to whenever he'd get all the milk delivered, which was usually around 7 or 8 in the morning. He said it was lonesome, driving the 120 miles to St. Louis and then back again, making all his stops along the way back home. He'd ask me repeatedly to come with him and bring our two-year-old daughter to keep him company. I'd always refuse as I had a horrible fear of riding in a big semi because when I was about 10, my father's friend had been killed in one. My dad's friend came over a big hill at about 55 miles an hour, the speed limit at that time, and there was an accident just over the hill which he didn't see until he topped the hill. He slammed on his brakes and swerved to avoid the accident, which caused him to jackknife the truck and he was killed. I remember my dad talking about it, and he was very sad that his friend had died, and I went to school with his son, so I saw how sad he was too. This is the first time I had ever heard of anybody dying in an accident that we knew, and for some reason that put a fear in me of tractor trailers. I felt it was just too dangerous to ride in one. However, one night he was especially adamant about me going with him, so I finally agreed to go with him. I agreed to go, but I still had an awful feeling about going with him, so I refused to take our two-year-old daughter with us as I still had a fear about riding in the truck, so we left our daughter with my mother and set out to drive to St. Louis. The truck did have a sleeper compartment in back of the seats, although it was only as wide as a twin bed. At the beginning of the night, I sat up front with him to make him company, then when he was loading up the milk in St. Louis, I was bored, since this was way before cell phones and cell phone games. So, since I had nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs, I climbed in the back and lay down on the bed. Since I was used to being asleep by midnight, I drifted off to sleep. It was the aggressive bouncing that jolted me awake. It was like we were driving on a washboard. I had no idea what time it was or for what matter where I was. The truck was bouncing all around, and my first thought was, we're having a wreck! I quickly sat upright, ready to jump up front to see what was happening when I heard a voice. The voice said, lay back down and go to sleep. The voice was firm, yet gentle and reassuring. I felt comforted and was no longer afraid.  Just as soon as I shut my eyes, my whole body was thrown over, feet overhead, like I was in a clothes dryer. I had no time then to thank or be afraid. I hurriedly opened my eyes and saw it was no longer dark. I was doing a somersault in the sleeper cab. Then I started falling forward into the cab. The noise was horribly loud. I could hear metal on metal screeching while glass was shattering all around me. Then I could see I had tumbled into the cab, and the cab was upside down. I was on the roof of the cab. Everything was crashing in towards me, and I thought, I'm going to die! Then the console that was on the floor of the cab crashed down on my legs, which had folded up against my body. Then my left arm flung out and I watched as it was pinned between the passenger seat and the back of the sleeper compartment violently. Then all at once, just like that, everything came to an abrupt stop. In an instant, no more movement. Just before the entire cab crushed my whole body. Until then, I felt no pain from my legs or my hand, but once the truck stopped moving and I knew I hadn't died, I started hurting. I looked up towards the floorboard and a piece of glass fell into my eye. My right hand was the only limb free, so I carefully removed the glass from my eye. It was then that I thought, Dear God, if I'm in this bad a shape, where's my husband? I screamed out his name, and finally I could hear him calling my name, but he was outside the truck. At least I knew he was alive now. I screamed at him and told him I was pinned in, and I'd have to have somebody help me get out. He screamed, Where are you? In order to find me, he had to get down on his hands and knees and look up into the passenger side window, which of course was no longer there. He had to look up to even see me because the cab had caved in so much. I said, I can't get out, my legs are pinned and my left hand is pinned. Then I smelled the diesel. I didn't want to burn alive. I told my husband, I'm going to come out now. You'll have to help me. I can't wait. With my free right arm, I pulled my right leg as close to my body as possible. Once that leg was free, I did the same with my left leg. Now I just had to get my hand free. My hand had become a closed fist before getting pinned, which in hindsight was a good thing and probably kept my hand from breaking into little pieces. I told my husband to try and stick his foot in the window and push against the back of the seat so I could try to pull my hand out. He tried, but the seat wasn't budging.  Finally, I was free. I told my husband, help me, I'm coming out.  He pulled on my arms while I had to push with my legs to go down first, then up, like trying to wiggle through a letter S on my back. Finally, daylight and fresh cold air. As he was pulling me out, the first thing I saw was a man standing in the middle of the road, just staring at us. I looked up at him and said, please help us. He looked as though he was in a trance, and then quickly snapped out of it and immediately helped my husband to get me to the opposite side of the road and laid me down on the cold, dewy grass. Finally, I got a chance to look at Jim and asked if he was okay. He was holding the right side of his head and when he moved his hand I could see part of his ear was hanging by a thread. The ambulance arrived and took us to the ER, wreaking of diesel fuel. My right leg had to have stitches and my hand had to have all the glass picked out and cleaned and bandaged. The ER doctor said he'd go ahead and sew my husband's ear back on, but warned him that due to the jaggedness of the cut it probably wouldn't take. But it did. They put us in the same room, probably because we both stunk so much. The nurse brought me shampoo and helped to wash my hair in the sink, which was full of diesel fuel and broken glass. Later that morning a preacher came in and stood in the doorway for several moments, as if he was amazed to see us both alive. No IVs, no traction, no casts. They were just keeping us overnight for observation. He said he and his wife had passed the wreck and could not believe we had both survived. But I knew why. It was his voice that told me to lay down and rest and I know that's why we both survived. Because my husband when he realized the truck was going to turn over he screamed at me to get up and get up front. As the truck was turning over he basically climbed around in the cab until he came to a stop and he climbed out the driver's side window. I never heard him screaming at me. I only heard the quiet still voice that told me to lay down. If I had jumped up front with my husband it would have kept him from freely moving around and we both would have been crushed in the cab. I thank God every day that I didn't take our daughter with us because she would have surely either been killed or injured horribly. But this story was not the first time I had heard his v