And the Democrats still can’t figure out why they’ve alienated so many voters that they lost two presidential elections to such a mediocrity like Bush. That’s way, way scary! 
Years ago, possibly on this board, I read a post where someone told a story about driving along a busy, multiple-lane road (in China, I think?). He looked into the car beside him, and the woman driving the car slooowly turned her head to look at him, and grinned. What was creepy is that her grin went literally from ear to ear, effectively splitting her entire face in two. The mental image I got of that grin has never left me, and I’m always relieved when I’m at a stoplight or something and the driver beside me turns out to not be that woman…
What is the difference between a nightmare and a dream? Can a thing be both?
Do you know the story of more wisdom than you can speak of and more money than you can count? These days, the skies of the Middle East hold nothing more extraordinary than planes. It used to be very different. For ages, one could look up and see travelers on enchanted carpets, firebirds, djinn, rukhs, and more. This story belongs to that time.
It is night. No carpets or firebirds on this night. But, the stars show in numbers and glory that is lost to our age. On the sands is a single camel bearing a rider. The man is dressed well, but not extravagantly. These are the clothes of a man who has enough gold that he and his family are comfortable. His name is Ismail. He is not comfortable. The clothes, the furnishings, the love of his wife and son- these are not enough for him. Ismail hungers for wealth. He wants more than he could ever need, more than he could ever spend. He wants a vast palace whose very walls are set with countless sapphires, rubies, emeralds and diamonds. Ismail is about to get what he wants. There lies the tragedy and horror of the tale.
Every one knows that the dunes move. The winds drive the sands. Without custodians to care for it, even the sultan’s palace would be buried by the desert. Sometimes, a storm will uncover something buried long ago. The moon is bright this night. Ismail sees something strange. As the camel brings him closer, Ismail sees an exposed ruin. He thinks of legends of golden hoards left by vanished kings. He thinks of jewels. Ismail thinks and he hungers.
Ismail orders the camel to stop and kneel. He dismounts. Rummaging in the camel’s pack, he finds a lamp. He lights the lamp, and warily approaches the ruins. He finds a door of iron. Engraved is a message. It is not the strange writings of a dead people, but Arabic. “If you would have more wisdom than you can speak of and more money than you can count, enter.” Greed smothers fear before it can even be heard. Ismail opens the door.
The stone passages are long and twisting. Now and again, there are stairs- always downwards. The air is foul and damp. Ismail wonders how deep into the earth he is. But, he does not stop walking. In time, he comes to second iron door. Upon this door is a likeness of full, welcoming lips. There is also a message “If you would have more wisdom than you can speak of and more money than you can count, kiss me.” Greed is not so quick this time, and fear is able to make itself heard for a moment. But the moment passes, and Ismail leans forward and kisses the door.
The door opens, and Ismail enters. He finds himself in a huge vault. The ceiling is to high to see. The walls are hidden by piles of treasure. Gold in every shape, jewels of every kind, here is what he hungers for. He wanders dreamily amid the treasure, wondering just how much there is. He reaches out to seize a particularly large diamond. She speaks then.
“This can be yours, all this and more.”
Ismail turns. She is tall. Perhaps it is the dim light, but her skin seems a pale grey. Her hands are covered with intricate patterns of henna. All of her is covered with intricate patterns of henna, and nothing else. She approaches and Ismail’s eye follows the gentle swell of her belly, the swivel of her hips, the rise and fall of her breasts. She stops at his side. He smells fine perfumes, and beneath them a whiff of decay. Her breath is hot and damp in his ear
“I can give you all you’ve dreamed of. You want more wisdom than you can speak of and more money than you can count. Take it. Kiss me.”
Fear fought off greed for quite a while this time. Ismail knew that this was no human woman. He remembered stories he had been told as a child. He thought of all he had heard of the wickedness of djinn and ifrit. He feared this woman very much. But, the treasure glistened and sparkled. Ismail hungered. He turned and kissed the woman.
He was cautious at first. But, her lips were full and sweet. She kissed him skillfully, hungrily, painfully. Ismail tried to withdraw. But, her hands held his head with the strength of stone. Ismail tried to scream as his tongue was torn from his mouth. Then, his mouth was full of something cold, slimy, and squirming. There was mocking laughter, and the woman vanished.
Ismail staggered in a daze. He noticed motion all about him. The treasure was vanishing. The jewels and gold were becoming ashes and dust. Ismail ran. He feared that the passage would be gone, that he would never escape. But, the way out was unchanged. He ran for the camel. Sensing death and evil, it bolted. He was not too far from home. He could make it on foot. He ran most of the way.
It was morning when he arrived home. He ran toward his home, eager for the comfort of family. The thing in Ismail’s mouth moved. He heard his voice call out loudly “Wife, come out into the street!”. Ismail was shocked. He had not spoken. He found that he could not speak. He saw what the woman had done to him. She had given Ismail a new tongue, one that did only her will. Ismail could not even scream in horror.
His wife rushed out of the house, happy to see her beloved husband. Neighbors had also been drawn by the shouting. Ismail looked at his wife, wondering what to do, when the ifrit tongue spoke again. “I divorce thee! I divorce thee! I divorce thee!”
Later, friends said she was better off without him. Any man who could speak to his wife with such hatred and contempt while his eyes showed such love and sorrow must be mad.
Ismail’s son approached him, wondering why father had divorced mother. The ifrit tongue spoke again.
“Son, go to the well!”
“Why father?”
“Do as I say!”
And so the boy walked to the nearby well. Ismail tried to silence himself, but could not.
“Stand upon the edge of the well!”
“But, father-”
“Do as I say!”
Worried that his son might fall and injure himself, Ismail ran. He held out his arms to catch up the boy and set him on the ground. The tongue let loose a hideous shriek. This unholy noise and the look of terror on his father’s face startled the boy. He lost his balance and fell into the well. He was dead when they brought him up.
Ismail walked into his house and took a sharp knife from the kitchen. He would be free of this horrible tongue if he had to cut it out! But, as his arm lifted the knife, the tongue move backwards into his throat. Choking, barely able to stand, Ismail dropped the knife. Afraid of what misfortune he would bring to relatives and friends, Ismail left his village.
Every attempt to remove the tongue was met with the same suffocation. Every time Ismail approached a mosque or an imam, the tongue would begin to choke him. Finally, he began to think of taking his own life. He stood on the banks of a river. Ismail wondered what else he had left. Just then, he saw an imam standing nearby speaking to another man. Ismail had written a suicide note, telling his story. Being careful not to look, he threw the note at the imam. Ismail did not dare look to see if he had been successful.
The imam read the note. He blessed Ismail in the name of Allah. This broke the power of the ifrit and drove the tongue from ismail. Indeed, it drove the tongue from him with such force that he was knocked into the river. Four strange fish, with large and sharp teeth bit off Ismail’s arms and legs as soon as he was in the water.
The imam rescued Ismail and the town’s doctors were able to save his life. Armless, legless, mute, and almost certainly mad, he sits against a wall next to a bowl where in passers by throw alms. One day, the sultan visited the town. He asked how Ismail had come to this state. When he heard the story, he paid for an engraving to warn all others against the ifrit. Above Ismail’s head are the words
“Here is a man with more wisdom than he can speak of, and more money than he can count.”
There it is, little ones, the dream and nightmare in one.
This is one of the classics, and it’s only three paragraphs.
A favorite I posted in another thread http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showpost.php?p=7909195&postcount=4
Not a scary story really but I read the Fortean Times magazine occasionally, it is full of accounts of strange happenings. There was a special in one issue about the mothman of the mothman prophesies book and film fame. I was flicking through it in work and my colleague at the time points at the illustration of the mothman and goes (quite nonchalantly) “Oh that’s the thing that looked in the window at me one time when I was 8.” She’d told the story before of this huge creature peering in at her when she was young and her running screaming from the room and how she hated that no-one believed her but that was the first time she gave a description.
Somebody else asked us to scare them. This
was my attempt
I didn’t even have to click on the link to know what you were referring to. That is one of the best written, most vivid and disgusting and horrifying things I have ever read.
Every one in the village knew that the house was haunted. They crossed the street to avoid it and spoke of it only in whispers. Occasionally, a bold hero would come convinced that the many who had tried before them had failed only because they were weak. The villagers would try to explain that ghost could not be conquered or driven away. The heroes would laugh and speak of their great strength and exemplary weapons. Then, they would enter the house. None of them came out. No villager would go into the house to retrieve the corpse.
This is the tale of another hero coming to town. His name is unimportant. Call him Perseus, Lancelot, Wild Bill. It doesn’t matter. He was a great hero. He came with great weapons and a plan. That is all that matters. The villagers knew at once that he had come to challenge the ghost. They told him he would surely die. They told him the names of the many heroes who had gone before him. He laughed and told them of the great weapons he carried, crafted especially for this battle. He told them of his clever and foolproof plan. Perhaps he stopped at the tavern for a meal, or a drink. Perhaps he gave a flower to a small girl and told her that soon the ghost would be gone. Perhaps he gave a flower to a beautiful girl and told her that she must dance with him the next day in celebration of his victory. Perhaps he made some final boast. Perhaps not.
He stood before the haunted house. The sun had faded it. Rains had damaged it. But it was only a house. He felt no terror. He opened the door. It did not swing silently open at his touch, in sinister invitation. Frame and door had warped. The door did creak and groan. But, such things are expected of an old and uncared for house. He entered and closed the door behind him.
Things had rotted, fallen, and frayed. But it was simply an abandoned house. There were many bones. These were the many heroes. But, a true hero cannot fear his own death. The sun had begun to set when he entered. The house grew dark. He lit a lantern and waited for the ghost to appear.
He prepared himself for an insubstantial apparition. He prepared himself for a great inhuman monster. He prepared himself for objects that moved of their own will. He prepared himself for a gentle and pleasing face meant to trick him. Nothing came. He listened for screams or whispers. He heard nothing. He shouted a challenge. There was no reply.
Then he knew what the ghost was. He could feel it. He could see it. The silence, the darkness- that was the ghost. He shouted again. But even the lungs of a hero cannot shout forever. When he finished, there was silence. He turned up his lantern. The room grew brighter. He smiled, seeing that he had pushed back the darkness. But, all about the room were pockets of shadow. He turned the lantern up higher. The wick sputtered and went out. He was very afraid. But, he was a hero and heroes must know how to control their fear and to act in spite of it. He kneeled and retrieved ( flint and steel, a tinderbox, a lucifer, a safety match, a Zippo, again it doesn’t matter). With steady hands, he relit the lantern. Then, he understood.
His lantern would go out again. Even if he spent the rest of his life feeding it fuel and adjusting it just so, it would go out again. There was no light that could defeat the darkness. There was no shout that could defeat the silence. He understood, and in that moment the ghost claimed him.
Heroes came to the house occasionally. None ever came out. The villagers moved away- because of bad harvests, or distant relatives, or not enough customers. The village was empty. The ghost remained. The house began to sag. One day it collapsed with a great groaning and crashing. Then, there was silence. Nations rose and fell. The ghost remained. People shouted and kindled lights. The ghost remained. The sun grew red. The ghost remained. The last human being died on an earth picked clean of all nutrients and resources. The ghost covered half the world then. The sun grew dim. It burned its last stores of helium and went out. The ghost covered nine wolds then. The universe continued to expand. Stars continued to dim and vanish. Then the ghost had dominion over all.
You want disgusting, and vivid I can repost Talia-A Page From My Diary
Well Miss Purl,
The thing that seems to frighten women the most is to be asked out by me.
So how you doing?
Aaaargh - one of my first posts on this board was a horrified reaction to that. I just had a wee shiver there at the recollection.
Try This one. Since I tell it there, no need to recount it in the thread. Enjoy. For the impatient, the intro is about a minute long or so until the story kicks in.
I want to see Talia!
WARNING TMI, DISTURBING, GROSS!!
This happened to my mother when she was about 12, around 1928. Her and some other kids were walking home one evening from Bible School. It was a rural area, mostly fields on either side of the dirt road. There was still enough daylight to see where they were going, but it was getting dark fast.
Just as they passed the gate to a farm road, they heard a man laugh, and could just barely see a man shape leaning against the gate. But it wasn’t THAT dark yet. They should’ve been able to see someone that close, clearly. Then he struck a match on the fence post, and held the flame up to his face, as if to light a cigarette. They saw the face, the eyes were black, and the teeth were way too big. But they could not see his hands and the shadowy body had disappeared. They could still hear him laugh as they ran screaming down the road.
You left out the “YO JOE!”
GTF outta here! I read the thread title and immediately thought of this story, which I read long ago, and subsequently lost track of. It was soooo creepy and effective, I wanted to have a copy at hand, as well as posting it here, so I Googled “cave exploration horror,” and found it almost immediately. Great minds are creeped out alike, I guess! Have you watched The Descent? If you want to be scared silly, check it out.
Here’s my scary story from last night: After staying up too late I shuffled into my bathroom. I didn’t turn on any lights, trying to avoid resetting my body clock and keeping myself up even later. But the streetlights filter in to the bathroom enough to see general shapes. So I was facing the mirror, and popped my vitamin pill into my mouth, and just as I was sipping some water to wash it down, I saw a large black shadowy shape cross over my image in the mirror! As you can imagine, I jumped! Then I realized it was the black handle of the cup, passing close in front of my eye, but because of the darkness and lack of perspective, the small object up close appeared instead to be a large, indistinct object in the reflection.
Holy crap, that was one of the freakiest things I ever read. I wonder what the guy who wrote that is up to now.
Of course, we’re supposed to believe he perished in the cave after his last entry, but come on, I want to see if he’s written anything else.