I'm looking for stories of bizarre extraordinary coincidences.
Here's my collection:
In the 19th century, the famous horror writer, Egdar Allan Poe, wrote a book called ‘The narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym’. It was about four survivors of a shipwreck who were in an open boat for many days before they decided to kill and eat the cabin boy whose name was Richard Parker. Some years later, in 1884, the yawl, Mignonette, foundered, with only four survivors, who were in an open boat for many days. Eventually the three senior members of the crew killed and ate the cabin boy. The name of the cabin boy was Richard Parker.
"Coincidences". 121 posts and 6 image replies omitted. Archived from /x/.
In Monza, Italy, King Umberto I, went to a small restaurant for dinner, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, General Emilio Ponzia- Vaglia. When the owner took King Umberto’s order, the King noticed that he and the restaurant owner were virtual doubles, in face and in build. Both men began discussing the striking resemblance between each other and found many more similarities. 1. Both men were born on the same day, of the same year, (March 14th, 1844). 2. Both men had been born in the same town. 3. Both men married a woman with same name, Margherita. 4. The restaurateur opened his restaurant on the same day that King Umberto was crowned King of Italy. 5. On the 29th July 1900, King Umberto was informed that the restaurateur had died that day in a mysterious shooting accident, and as he expressed his regret, an anarchist in the crowd then assassinated him.
In 19th century Austria, a near-famous painter named Joseph Aigner attempted suicide on several occasions. During his first attempt to hang himself at the age of 18, a mysterious Capuchin monk interrupted Aigner. And again at age 22, the very same monk prevented him from hanging himself. Eight years later, he was sentenced to the gallows for his political activities. But again, his life was saved by the intervention of the same monk. At age 68, Joseph Aigner finally succeeded in suicide, using a pistol to shoot himself. Not surprisingly, the very same Capuchin monk - a man whose name Aigner never even knew, conducted his funeral ceremony.
In 1973, actor Anthony Hopkins agreed to appear in “The Girl From Petrovka”, based on a novel by George Feifer. Unable to find a copy of the book anywhere in London, Hopkins was surprised to discover one lying on a bench in a train station. It turned out to be George Feifer’s own annotated (personal) copy, which Feifer had lent to a friend, and which had been stolen from his friend’s car.
In 1883, Henry Ziegland broke off a relationship with his girlfriend who, out of distress, committed suicide. The girl’s enraged brother hunted down Ziegland and shot him. Believing he had killed Ziegland, the brother then took his own life. In fact, however, Ziegland had not been killed. The bullet had only grazed his face, lodging into a tree. It was a narrow escape. Years later, Ziegland decided to cut down the same tree, which still had the bullet in it. The huge tree seemed so formidable that he decided to blow it up with dynamite. The explosion propelled the bullet into Ziegland’s head, killing him.
This guy, Micah, shows up at the girl's house with a video camera. Her folks are gone for the month. He wants to film her nude, but she's all weirded out over some ghosty stuff.
The girl can't get the ghosty stuff out of her mind. Micah is bummed, swims in the pool, makes a dumb GW Bush joke and whines a lot. The Girl calls up her priest, who is also her agent, to ask if filming stuff ghosty or nude is A Good Idea.
The girl's agent shows up. He senses the tension between the girl and Micah. He tries to sell them Amway Products. They'll have nothing to do with it. He leaves with one warning, "Do NOT USE A OUIJA BOARD!"
"concise creepypasta". 257 posts and 21 image replies omitted. Archived from /x/.
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Anonymous 10/15/09(Thu)21:21 No.2844705
I heard the phone ring. I didn't answer it. Moved out because house was haunted.
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Anonymous 10/15/09(Thu)21:22 No.2844709
That dinner was delicious. The concept of veal has never sat well with you, but why deny it? It tasted great. Your complimentary fortune cookie arrives. You open it.
"You're not supposed to eat the fingernails."
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Anonymous 10/15/09(Thu)21:24 No.2844712
Wait...what?
Veal+fortune cookie=not the same restaurant.
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Anonymous 10/15/09(Thu)21:24 No.2844716
I used to like playing with my lighter as I smoked outside in my back yard at night. Back then I was a teenager and my parents were asleep, all the lights were out. I would illumate the darkness around me for short, split-second bursts every few moments.
So do any of you remember those Mickey Mouse cartoons from the 1930s? The ones that were just put out on DVDa few years ago? Well, I hear there is one that was unreleased to even the most avid classic disney fans. According to sources, it's nothing special. It's just a continuous loop (like flinstones) of mickey walking past 6 buildings that goes on for two or three minutes before fading out. Unlike the cutesy tunes put in though, the song on this cartoon was not a song at all, just a constant banging on a piano as if the keys for a minute and a half before going to white noise for the remainder of the film. It wasn't the jolly old Mickey we've come to love either, Mickey wasn't dancing, not even smiling, just kind of walking as if you or I were walking, with a normal facial expression, but for some reason his head tilted side to side as he kept this dismal look. Up until a year or two ago, everyone believed that after it cut to black and that was it. When Leonard Maltin was reviewing the cartoon to be put in the complete series, he decided it was too junk to be on the DVD, but wanted to have a digital copy due to the fact that it was a creation of Walt. When he had a digitized version up on his computer to look at the file, he noticed something. The cartoon was actually 9 minutes and 4 seconds long. This is what my source emailed to me, in full (he is a personal assistant of one of the higher executives at Disney, and acquaintance of Mr. Maltin himself):
"suicidemouse.avi". 272 posts and 38 image replies omitted. Archived from /x/.
"After it cut to black, it stayed like that until the 6th minute, before going back into Mickey walking. The sound was different this time. It was a murmur. It wasn't a language, but more like a gurgled cry. As the noise got more indistinguishable and loud over the next minute, the picture began to get weird. The sidewalk started to go in directions that seemed impossible based on the physics of Mickeys walking. And the dismal face of the mouse was slowly curling into a smirk. On the 7th minute, the murmur turned into a bloodcurdling scream (the kind of scream painful to hear) and the picture was getting more obscure. Colors were happening that shouldn't have been possible at the time. Mickey face began to fall apart. his eyes rolled on the bottom of his chin like two marbles in a fishbowl, and his curled smile was pointing upward on the left side of his face. The buildings became rubble floating in midair and the sidewalk was still impossibly navigating in warped directions, a few seeming inconcievable with what we, as humans, know about direction. Mr. Maltin got disturbed and left the room, sending an employee to finish the video and take notes of everything happening up until the last second, and afterward immediately store the disc of the cartoon into the vault. This distorted screaming lasted until 8 minutes and a few seconds in, and then it abruptly cuts to the mickey mouse face at the credits of the end of every video with what sounded like a broken music box playing in the backround. This happened for about 30 seconds, and whatever was in that remaining 30 seconds I heaven't been able to get a sliver of information
From a security guard working under me who was making rounds outside of that room, I was told that after the last frame, the employee stumbled out of the room with pale skin saying "i can not see what has been unseen" 7 times before speedily taking the guards pistol and offing himself on the spot. The thing I could get out of Leonard Maltin was that the last frame was a piece of russian text that roughly said "the sights of hell bring its viewers back in". As far as I know, no one else has seen it, but there have been dozens of attempts at getting the file on rapidshare by employees inside the studios, all of whom have been promptly terminated of their jobs. Whether it got online or not is up for debate, but if rumors serve me right, it's online somewhere under "suicidemouse.avi". If you ever find a copy of the film, I want you to never view it, and to contact me by phone immediately, regardless of the time. When a Disney Death is covered up as well as this, it means this has to be something huge.
Get back at me,
TR"
I've yet to find a copy of this, but it is out there. I know it.
Okay, fine. It's the season, so let's contribute some OC.
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Sabotage
The expression “wrench in the gears” comes from the Luddite movement in Britain in the early 19th century. Ever larger, more complicated looms were being built, putting skilled artisans out of a job in favor of cheaper, unskilled labor. The machines did all the work a human had once done, only faster. Protests began.
English Industry was not sympathetic. Desperate, some of the Luddites took to sabotaging the machines, breaking their frames or throwing wrenches into the looms’ inner workings. Riots broke out across England as the Luddites gained followers and threatened the very stability of the national economy. The military was dispatched to put down the instigators.
One such confrontation took place at Burton’s Mill in Middleton. The Luddites drew back, into the mill itself as the army advanced. In their haste to escape, several Luddites fell into the colossal machines and found to their horror that wrenches are considerably tougher than human bones. The mill ground the unlucky Luddites into a red stain. The Burton Mill, after the incident, went on to break record outputs every month, as if the machines themselves were working faster.
The government began arresting the Luddites in bulk, publicly executing the leaders and shipping the rest to internment camps to serve out their sentences. Few were ever seen again. Britain’s looms grew and textiles boomed as the Luddite movement was stamped out. When the old mills were finally torn down, decades later, the red-stained wood and iron seemed to be working even when unmanned, grinding away in hushed whispers.
It is perhaps appropriate that they used wrenches to break down the old mills.
"Halloween Creepypasta". 123 posts and 61 image replies omitted. Archived from /x/.
When she awoke, the smell was what struck her first. The air had all the chill crispness of an enduring rain, a stuffy, dust-filled must that gave it the character of long-abandonment. The space smelled ancient and lacked the organic reek of the recently occupied, cold and empty neglect filling the chamber in place of the vitality of life. It smelt dead.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she tried to take in her surroundings as best she could. Furniture lay stacked in disjointed piles at the corners of the room, which proved to be smaller than she’d have expected, no more than perhaps twelve feet in any direction. The furnishings were largely wooden, their flesh blanched with the peculiar white of time-dried mold that gave them a bone-like appearance, sending a thrill of fear down her spine. The rest of the furniture was draped with thick, rough canvas that hid the pieces from sight and merely suggested the shapes of the things within. Doors stood in mute promise on two opposite walls, though, she realized with a grimace and a groan, she could not tell if they were north, south, or even if they led deeper into wherever she’d awoken. Her head thrummed and she had to blink back tears of pain as she glanced down.
Still in my wheelchair, she noted. I suppose that’s good. Her fingers and arms were free and in no pain, which was as surprising as it was welcome. Just as soon as the room stops pulsing, she decided, trying to shake away the nausea and foreboding dread that had planted a blinding ache behind her eyes and a tight knot in her lungs.
Carefully, slowly, she brought her arms down and wheeled herself forward, wincing at the slight squeak of the chair’s wheels in the soundlessness of her surroundings. The ground proved to be uneven planks that had warped under some intense moisture of a previous generation. She made her way through the dusty interior, almost afraid to disturb whatever force of desolation had caused the room to be forgotten by the world at large.
With a shiver, she grasped the old door knob- rusted, corroded brass rough to her soft palm- and turned it with a breathy gasp. The door opened effortlessly, its greased hinges wholly defying the neglect of the room. It swung open quietly and she wheeled quickly into the next room.
Unlike the previous chamber, the new space was wholly bare, lacking any sign of habitation except the trail of footprints in the dust of the floor. She followed it through the long room and through another door until it terminated against the far wall. Feeling her hands along the cold brick, she could just make out the thin wood of a door frame. Her hand passed beyond it, suggesting the passage was open. But when she tried to wheel through, her chair heavily hit a wooden surface. Feeling again, her expression became one of disbelief.
But, I must’ve come in through this way, she thought. I can feel the breeze of fresh air. How did…?
“Help!” she cried into the darkness. “Is anybody there? Please, help me!”
She pounded her fists uselessly on the doorframe. The exit lay before her, but the gap to pass through was barely six inches wide and shrinking, until it, like a lid slowly coming down, shut with a crisp, final snap.
“Just so we’re clear, saying sorry isn’t going to get me out of this?” Charlie asked wryly as his captors dragged his shackled body down a lightless, stone hall and roughly shoved him through a thick, steel door. Landing face-first, it took him a moment to writhe around and he caught sight of the men who’d brought him in just as one of them tossed a loop of jangling metal at him and slammed the door shut. The sound of heavy locks falling into place drowned out Charlie’s indignant surprise.
He was more surprised to find that the metal projectile had been the keys to his chains. With the nervous haste of someone who’s sure a mistake has been made and is damned sure going to take advantage of it before somebody notices, Charlie fumbled with the keys until his weighty manacles rolled off and onto the filthy, broken tile of the floor.
Rubbing his wrists, Charlie slowly rose to his feet. “Whoof,” he exclaimed, wave his hand in front of his face. “What died in here?” He glanced around and found his answer in the decrepit old man, skin shriveled to a blotchy leather and bare ribs standing out against a sunken chest and swollen belly. “Good to see I’ll be well taken care of,” he mumbled.
A cursory inspection of his surroundings placed Charlie in a long corridor of yellowing tile and pale, white-blue lights that washed out the colors around him. Stains and filth covered the floors, but the right wall was surprisingly clean and hosted a number of stainless steel doors that reminded Charlie first of a meat freezer, then of a prison cell. The door behind him had been secured to an almost embarrassing degree, as if Charlie was going to show some hitherto unseen feat of strength that he’d just decided to hold back while they were beating him. The door at the end of the corridor…
Charlie rubbed his eyes and squinted in the flickering neon light. The tile and concrete looked like it gave way to rough-hewn stone and a crude, wooden door, but that couldn’t be right. “Something written on it,” Charlie wondered, trying to decipher the large, irregular letters that had been smeared on the rotten wood with a dark brown, greasy filth.
“Wendigo’s a comin’!” a voice next to Charlie shouted, startling him. With an indignant cry, he swung around to find the corpse of the old man grinning up at him with sparse, foul teeth in a stained and rancid mouth.
“What the fuck, guy. What the fuck,” Charlie panted, his heart in his lungs. “You couldn’t say something when I got dropped off? No ‘Hello, I am not dead’ or anything?”
The old man chuckled but did not respond except to point at the rotting door at the end of the hall with claw-like fingers. His first two digits had been fused together as if by some great heat, the skin joining them no more than warped scar tissue. He bobbed his head and repeated, “Wendigo’s a comin’,” Glee splayed across his ruined face.
“What’s a fuckin’ Wendigo?”
The wooden door creaked open.
The Wendigo, as it turned out, was-or at least in part resembled- a man. A hulking, morbidly corpulent, fetid man, whose foul, fleshy body was tinted green with mold and filth that grew between rolls of coarsely-haired fat. His torso nearly swallowed his head, which was bald and scarred but no less obscene than the rest of his form. His eyes were sunken, shadowed, and unfocused while his vein-pocked mouth nearly bisected his head with its wide, moist lips.
File :1255541394872.jpg-(52 KB, 471x694, 1255488508585.jpg) Spooky Family History!!ore8zveAhNo.2837929
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ITT: Discuss creepy shit from your family past, things you were unaware of as a kid, but learned later on in life.
-I'd always wondered why my mother's side of the family had a bit of a crazy streak. I figured it was just something biological, a tendency for some loony gene to make itself known. Two days ago, I find out that my great-grandfather died in a steel mill, by falling into a vat of molten iron. When his wife had to identify the charred remains, she wasn't quite the same afterwards. That influenced the way she raised her children, and their children and their children, and that stigma has passed down through generations, all the way to me.
-Another great grandmother was a voodoo priestess of some kind, in Puerto Rico.
-Centuries ago, the Scottish clan I'm derived from sustained some kind of a curse from an English Arch-Bishop. Something about how we were too late to defend a fellow clan from their English invasion, and we'd be doomed to show up too late for any further opportunities in life.
"Spooky Family History". 257 posts and 19 image replies omitted. Archived from /x/.
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pt1Anonymous 10/14/09(Wed)13:35 No.2837937
My father's family came here from Cuba back in the 60s, and being typical spics, all moved into one house in Newark, NJ. We're talking about 10 people under one roof. Now this story takes place in 82. I was 2 and my sister a newborn. My father had moved out and was living on his own with my mother. But I'm not talking about that house, I'm talking about the spic house, and bear in mind everything I'm telling you guys here is what I've heard from family that's willing to talk about it, so take it for what you will. Things started normal in the house at first, but little things were just off... like things wouldn't be where you left them, some unexplained noises. A little unsettling, but whatever. But then my Aunt started having these crazy nightmares. In them, she was being violently raped by a man with no head. Her husband would wake her up as she screamed, and she'd tell him how it felt so real. He'd do his best to calm her down and try and bring in some sense of normalcy. Now take this for what you will, but my Aunt ended up pregnant. Everyone was happy and rejoicing, as this would be her and her husband's first child, but in the 4th month she went into premature labor. Everyone knew the child would be lost. When the fetus was "delivered," it did not have a head. I wish I could say the story ends here, but it gets worse.
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pt2Anonymous 10/14/09(Wed)13:35 No.2837939
Shit was now being thrown around the house. There were loud bangs and other noises all through the day and night. One of my Aunts, a lil old lady about 4'9" and 95lbs, would say that the spirit in the house would talk to her and tell her he didn't like all these people in his house. Now my father is a rational and cool headed to a psychotic degree. I've seen him nail his hand to a wall, and after failing to pry the nail out himself, cut out the section of wall around his hand, drive to the hospital and ask them to "start it so he can get it out." When he was on a plane that they thought was going down and everyone was freaking, he yelled at the other passengers to shut up and accept it. Naturally, he didn't believe in this ghost shit. He thought there was a rational explanation to all of this, and when my lil old Aunt would go off about the ghost while he was there or something went down while he was visiting, he'd yell at everyone. All that changed one night when he came speeding home. Before coming to my house, he stopped at my hyper christfag neighbors' place. He banged on their door at 1am until they let him in and gave him a bunch of crosses, which he proceeded to put up all over our house. He begged my mother to not sleep and just watch over him while he slept. If my mother got up to feed my sister, he would follow her and sleep at her feet. He also pissed himself several times. My mother asked what happened the next day, but he wouldn't tell her. Finally... she got something out of one of his sisters.
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pt3Anonymous 10/14/09(Wed)13:36 No.2837942
Apparently as they were playing dominos my lil old Aunt was saying that the ghost was here and he's not happy and going through her usual shtick. My father, having had enough, got up and went to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and told her to cut the shit. Then, this lil 4'9" 95lbs woman looked at my father, yelled at him "Get you're fucking hands off me!" in a voice not her own, and tossed him across the room. In the same voice, she/he then addressed the room and said how she/he unhappy they were all in HIS house and that he would not let them leave (they were trying to sell the house at this point cause they were too freaked). He/she said that if they tried to leave he/she'd make sure they suffered for eternity with him. One of my Uncle's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he started speaking in a strange language that no one could ever identify. My father ran for the hills at this point, leaving there ASAP. He never returned.
Eventually they sold the place for 10,000 under market. They all packed their bags for Miami, where all good Cubans eventually go. 30 days after moving in to their new house, my 53 year old grandfather, who was in perfect health, died of what was called a stroke, but if you ask anyone in my family, they'll say the ghost took him.
A weird post script to the story... many years later my father's family came up from Miami for a visit and decided to hang out at a bar in the old neighborhood. While there, a guy at the bar was eyeing one of my Uncles the whole night. Eventually he walked up to my Uncle and, without warning, punched him right in the face. As people were dragging him out of the bar, he could be heard yelling "You know about the house and you sold it anyway, you son of a bitch!"
That's the ghost story of my family. Believe it or not.
Coincidences
Ecksphiles 11/13/09(Fri)03:32 No.3017862
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