Has anything genuinely creepy or unnerving ever happened to you?

mud wrote: »

Just back from a funeral. The deceased died in his home with only the dog for company. When the neighbours found him they took the dog home with them. He wouldn't eat for two days. He ran off towards his old home and when the neighbour went up to get him the dog was dead on the front door-step of the house.

hada wrote: »

By way of example, if any of you have visited the concentration camps in Germany or Austria, it's a well established fact that the birds simply DO NOT fly in or around the camp (despite being in their hundreds in the relatively close proximity). The minute you walk in, it's as if the mute button is pressed and you go from hearing the loud chirping of the birds to silence. Regardless of the wildlife, the place actually reeks of death.

miss_shadow wrote: »

But I don't actually get why she was in danger. Makes no sense to me

face1990 wrote: »

There's a few bits of that don't make sense! I suppose the implication is that the men were going to kill her too?
But how the doctor knew that, and how he could tell the woman was definitely dead and not just drunk requires a little suspension of disbelief.

Pompey Magnus wrote: »

Also why a doctor in Paris would speak in English to a stranger instead of French seems just a little suspicious.

L0ui5e wrote: »

That story reminds me a little bit of Dunmharu ar An Dart.. anyone who did the Junior Cert circa 1996 knows what I'm talking about

yesno1234 wrote: »

Paris story is definately not true, when I started reading this thread I remembered being told an almost exact story in primary school and thinking that's one for this thread. Difference in my story being that the woman had to get off at the next train station where the police were waiting for the twp men/

SnakePlissken wrote: »

It's incredibly disconcerting to see such an amount of stories detailing encounters with predators, chiefly due to their similarities to my most unsettling memory... a memory which I'm sure will be most vivid until my dying day.

I grew up in Meath, in a small bungalow on a hill that overlooked Trim. Though it faced directly onto a relatively well travelled road, as it had no street lamps when our home was in darkness so too was that entire hill.

As a child I would often leave my bed during the early hours for ten to twenty-minute periods, sleepwalking, yet sessions where I remained highly functioning. Usually I would trounce across our hall to the kitchen and pour myself some cereal, I could even ready myself some toast at times... my mother even told me that on one such occasion she found me sweeping the floor in the living room for reasons unknown. The memories of all these moments are not my own however, their recollections formed from what my mother recalled the mornings following.

She told me that at times she would often hear me from her bed, mumbling nonsensically down the hall. Usually, she would leave me to my own devices, I never hurt myself nor threaten to set our home alight, and on the occasions she did try to wake me I became agitated, belligerent. Yes, usually she left me alone to wander, that was until the night that changed how we treated my sleepwalking.

It wasn't long after 1pm, and my mother's bed had yet to be warmed by her body, as she stared at the ceiling from beyond the wall which separated our rooms she heard my usual indistinct mutterings, white noise ushering her to a sleep. That was until she heard a more clear utterance, a voice that was not mine, a man's voice that caused her to bolt from her bed. Sprinting along the hall she burst into my room to find me standing by my bedroom window, curtains pulled wide, one hand resting on the latch. Outside my window, silent, motionless, stood a tall and narrow silhouette, a man whose features came to life as she flicked the room's light switch.

He wasn't your stereotypical boogie man, bearded and scraggy, he was clean shaven, hair neatly cropped, and though it was dark my mother later told the Gardai that there was nothing about his clothing to make him appear destitute. Seeing my mother he didn't stay by my window for long, rushing for the end of the garden never to again be seen, all that he left behind was a leather satchel that got caught in the hedges.

I't wasn't until my late teens when my mother believed I was adult enough to hear what was found in that satchel, what the Gardai brought her to the station to see. Dozens upon dozens of Polaroid pictures bound in an elastic band, photos of me. Taken over a period of some months judging by my changing pyjamas and lengthening hair, they were all taken of me as I sleepwalked, eyes half open, head hanging forward. They were taken from behind the glass of my bedroom window, from the same spot where the silhouette had stood. It took me a while to register the absolute horror of the situation, of just how close I had come to... well, thankfully I'll now never know.

I asked her what it was she had heard him say to me, she almost chocked, swept the tears from her eyes, then said, she heard him say, "That's right, just turn the latch a little more to your right!"