Creepy Encounters

Creepy Encounters
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Short, first-person stories about the frightening things ordinary people run into — a neighbor, a stranger, a habit at home no one ever questioned. It's never a ghost.

  1. 14h ago

    Episode 116: Every babysitter we hired quit after one night and everybody said it was my fault until a sitter's mom at Food City asked me about the monitor in our den

    Submitted by Cass — Knoxville, Tennessee. 41. We went through six babysitters in two years, and every one of them lasted exactly one night. I was the only person who thought that was strange, and I was told so, kindly, by everybody I loved. We live in Knoxville, off Kingston Pike. Our son Owen is eight, and there is nothing wrong with Owen. He goes down at eight thirty. We paid fifteen dollars an hour, and we found the girls on the church bulletin board. They would come on a Saturday. Neil and I would go to dinner. Then we would come home, and Neil would drive her back, because that is what a dad does. My own father drove every sitter I ever had. It's eleven at night, she's sixteen, you take her to her door and you wait until the porch light comes on. Neil never once let me do it. I thought that was one of the nicer things about him. Then I would text about next Saturday. So sorry, volleyball is starting! So sorry, my hours at Chick-fil-A changed! So sorry, I'm taking a break to focus on the ACT! Always the exclamation point. Always tell Owen hi. After the third one I brought it up, and Neil said teenagers are flaky. After the fifth one he laughed, not meanly, and said, "Cass, you leave them a two-page note." I do leave a note. My mother said girls can tell when a mom is going to be a lot. So I cut the note down to half a page. One evening I sat on the sofa in our den and apologized to Neil for making it into a thing, and he patted my knee and told me not to worry. That sofa is where a sitter ends up once Owen is down. Across from it, on the bookshelf by the router, our old baby monitor is still plugged in. It's a white plastic thing with a little green light. Neil moved it down from the nursery when Owen was two, and it just never went anywhere after that. If a sitter looked at it, I said what I always said. "Don't mind that. We just never got around to it." Kayla was number six. This month I ran into her mother at Food City, and I said we would love to have Kayla back once volleyball was over. She stopped with both hands on her cart and looked at me. "Back," she said. Then she said, "Is that thing still plugged in?" I had to think. Then I laughed. I said, "The baby monitor? Lord. Owen's eight. We just never got around to it." She didn't laugh. "Where's the other half of it?" she said. I opened my mouth. A baby monitor has two halves. One stays by the crib and the other one goes with you. I can tell you where every Tupperware lid in my house is, and I stood in that aisle and could not picture it. She said Kayla had called her sister from our sofa that night and they'd had a fight, a private one, and Kayla cried a little. And on the drive home, at a stop sign, my husband told her in a very nice voice that he hoped she and her sister would patch things up. That was all. He waited until the porch light came on. "I figured you knew," she said. "She said you told her not to mind it." Neil's truck was gone when I got home. I put the milk away, sat down on the sofa, called my sister in Chattanooga, and told her all of it. I told her I thought I might need to bring Owen down there for a while. We talked for forty minutes. Then I hung up, and I looked up. Six years of Sundays I have called her from that sofa. I apologized to him on that sofa. I got as far as the cord. Then I thought about how he would know the exact minute it went quiet, and I took my hand away. Neil came home a little after six. He kissed the top of my head and put his keys in the bowl and asked how my sister was doing. Then, in that very nice voice, he said if Owen and I ever wanted to go see her, he'd be glad to drive us, and wait until the porch light came on.

  2. 1d ago

    Episode 115: The overnight aide we hired for my dad built him a wheelchair ramp in one night and I did not crawl under it until the spring

    Submitted by Shell — Erie, Pennsylvania. 52. My dad fell in his kitchen the Sunday after Easter, and by June he was home again on Wayne Street with a walker, a bad hip, and a physical therapist named Priya who came Mondays and Thursdays and told him he was ahead of schedule. He was eighty-one. He could get from his recliner to the bathroom by himself, slowly, counting out loud. What he couldn't do was nights. He'd wake up confused around two and try the stairs. So I called an agency off a flyer at his church, and they sent Lonnie, ten at night to eight in the morning, twenty-six dollars an hour out of Dad's pension. Lonnie was maybe sixty, big soft hands, a carpenter before his back went. He did crosswords at the kitchen table, and Dad liked him right away. Three weeks in, I pulled up at eight to relieve him and there was a wheelchair ramp built over the front steps. Pressure-treated lumber, still green from the yard. A landing at the top, a long switchback down to the driveway, rails on both sides, every screw sunk flush. It had not been there at six the night before. Mrs. Kowalski next door said she'd heard a saw around one and figured she was dreaming. Lonnie was embarrassed when I thanked him. He said he couldn't stand watching Dad come down those concrete steps with a walker, not with the winters we get. That landed. Anybody in Erie knows what those steps look like in January after the lake has been dumping on you for a week straight. I tried to pay him for the wood. He wouldn't take it. He said it was the least he could do. Dad's wheelchair had been sitting folded in the garage since the hospital. Medicare sent it home with everything else. Lonnie started bringing it out in the evenings. Just for the ramp, he said, so they could sit at the bottom and watch the street. Then for the walk to the corner. Then for the bathroom at night, because it was quicker and the hallway was dark. Priya asked me in August who had decided on the chair. I told her it was only for outside. She wrote something down. In October she discharged him. The paperwork said patient had plateaued, and she held the pen a second before she handed it to me, like she wanted to say something else, and then she didn't. By Christmas Dad didn't get out of the chair at all. I'd ask him to try the walker and he'd say Lonnie says there's no sense in it. He was cheerful. He'd put on weight. Lonnie salted that ramp every night it snowed, and every morning it was perfectly clear, and Mrs. Kowalski told me twice how lucky I was to have found him. In March our dog went under the ramp after something and wouldn't come out. I got down on my back in the wet gravel with a flashlight and wormed in after her, under the landing, where the boards are close enough to your face that you can smell the treatment. There was pencil on the underside of the boards. Carpenter's pencil, the flat kind, neat block letters running board to board along the joists. It was a list. A street, a first name, a date, and then a second date. Plum Street, Ed, and two dates eight months apart. West 26th, Lorraine, a little over a year. Peninsula Drive, Gus. Seven of them, going back to 2011. They weren't all in Erie. One was out in Millcreek, one up in North East. At the bottom it said Wayne Street, Frank, and the day the ramp went up. Then a dash. Nothing after it. I lay there a long time. The dog came back on her own and licked my ear. I don't know what the second dates are. I called the agency, and the woman said Lonnie had been with them six years and had excellent reviews and was I calling to complain. I said no. I don't know what I'd be complaining about. He's never hurt anybody. He's good to my dad. I haven't told my brother. I haven't moved Dad. I priced out a new walker online and closed the tab. Lonnie came at ten last night, like always. It's supposed to snow again Thursday.…

  3. 2d ago

    Episode 114: A home health nurse checked my blood pressure every Tuesday for two years after my gallbladder and my discharge papers say I said no

    Submitted by Dot — Tulsa, Oklahoma. 68. I had my gallbladder out at Saint Francis the spring after my husband passed, and the Tuesday after I got home a woman named Carol was on my porch in navy scrubs with a canvas tote bag on her shoulder. She said she was with home health. She said Medicare covers it after a surgery and I didn't have to do a thing but sit down. I want to say what she brought, because it matters. A home blood pressure cuff, the gray kind with the soft sleeve and the screen the size of a playing card, the kind they sell at the pharmacy next to the reading glasses. She took my pressure with it that first Tuesday and made a little face, and then she left it on the arm of Ray's chair and said, "That one's yours now, hon. Mornings, before coffee. Write it down for me." I wrote it down for two years. I have a spiral pad by the chair with every morning in it. The numbers were high. Not frightening high at first. Carol would read down the pad on Tuesdays with her lips moving and say, "Well, we're not where I want us." Then the numbers kept climbing, and Carol got quieter, and that was worse than her saying anything. She was very gentle about the things I should stop. Driving, first, because what if it spiked on the Broken Arrow Expressway. Then the stairs at my church, which are steep, and the potluck after, which is all salt anyhow. My sister in Muskogee wanted me down for Thanksgiving and Carol said a two-hour drive with my numbers was a thing she personally could not sign off on. My son, Danny, lives in Denver, and when he called I'd read him the pad, and he'd say, "Mom, just listen to the nurse." So I listened to the nurse. I sold Ray's Buick the second summer. Carol helped me write the ad. By then Tuesday was the day I got dressed. She'd come at ten, wrap the cuff on my arm herself, hold my wrist while it squeezed, and tell me about her week. She never once asked me to pay anything. She brought me a pound cake at Christmas and told me not to eat more than a sliver of it. What changed was the mail. I'd always set those Medicare Summary Notices on the pile without opening them, because they say right on top that they aren't a bill. This April Danny was home for a long weekend and he went through the pile, and he asked me which home health company Carol was with, because he wanted to call and thank them. I told him. He looked at the notices, all eight of them, two years of every service anyone ever billed for me. The surgery was on there. My eye doctor. My flu shots at the Reasor's pharmacy counter. There was no home health. Not one visit. Not one Tuesday. He called the company. They had never heard of her. Then he got my discharge folder out of the hall closet, because I keep everything, and he found the page. Home health referral, and a box checked, and my own signature from the morning they let me go, still loopy from the medicine. The box said declined. I don't remember checking it. I don't remember anyone asking. Danny took me to a walk-in clinic that same afternoon, the one by the Target, and a girl younger than my granddaughter put a cuff on my arm, their cuff, and said a number. I asked her to say it again. She said it was a very nice number for sixty-eight and was I on anything, and I said no, I'd just been careful. Danny wanted to call the police. I asked him what he would tell them. That a woman came to my house and was kind to me and took nothing. He flew back to Denver on the Monday. I haven't called anyone. I don't have a number for Carol. I never needed one. She has always just come. It's Tuesday. The cuff is on the arm of Ray's chair where she left it, and I took my pressure this morning, before coffee, and wrote it down.

  4. 3d ago

    Episode 113: Somebody hung an umbrella on my apartment door every rainy morning for two years and I baked the wrong neighbor banana bread the whole time

    Submitted by Tess — Seattle, Washington. 33. I want to start with the date, because for two years I didn't think the date had anything to do with it. It was November, a Hinge match, a guy named Grant who did logistics for a shelving company. We met at a bar on Capitol Hill. He was fine. He talked about his commute for maybe twenty minutes, he asked me zero questions, and he ordered my drink without asking. The only thing I really remember is that he showed up with an umbrella. Black, compact, with a curved wooden handle. In Seattle that's like walking in wearing a cape. Nobody here carries an umbrella. It's how you spot people who just moved here. I told him that, teasing, and he laughed and said, "So what do you do when it pours?" And I said I just get wet. I said I'd owned exactly one umbrella in my adult life and I left it on the 49 bus in 2016. It was raining when we left, and he walked me the four blocks home under it. I said, "This was nice," at the front door of my building, which is what you say. I didn't text him. He sent one message, "Get inside, it's coming down," and I didn't answer that either. That was it. About three weeks later I opened my door to go to work and there was an umbrella hanging on the outside knob by its handle. Black, compact, curved wooden handle. It was raining. I live on the third floor, and across the hall from me was Lorraine, who was eighty-one and had lived in 3C since before the building was condos. I had complained to her, more than once, dripping on the carpet, that I could never keep an umbrella. So I knew right away it was her. I knocked, she didn't answer, she never answered before ten, and I took it to work and felt looked after all day. It kept happening. Not every day. Only on mornings it rained, and in Seattle that's a lot of mornings, but it was never there on a dry one. Not once. Not even on days the forecast was wrong. Always hooked over the knob, always the same kind. I'd lose it on a bus or leave it at a bar, and the next wet morning there'd be another one. I made Lorraine banana bread probably six times over two winters, and I'd leave it on her mat with a note that said Thank you for keeping me dry, and she'd tell me in the hall that it was very good bread, and that was our whole friendship. It was the sweetest thing that ever happened to me in this city. I told people at work about my umbrella lady. At one point I had eleven of them in my hall closet, and I gave some away. Last March Lorraine went into assisted living in Shoreline, and her daughter drove up from Olympia to clear out 3C. I helped her carry boxes. On the second day I said, "Tell your mom I'm going to miss the umbrellas." And her daughter set down the box she was holding and looked at me. Not confused, exactly. More like she was trying to work out how to be careful with me. She said, "Mom hasn't gotten out of that chair before ten in four years. Who's been doing your umbrellas?" Then she looked past me at my door. It was raining that day. I'd been looking at that wooden handle on rainy mornings for two years, and I had never once put it next to the four blocks home. I moved in May. I didn't give the new address to anybody I couldn't name. It rains in my new neighborhood too. There hasn't been one yet. I don't know how he got into my building, and I don't know why only when it rained, and I don't know what he wanted, because he never once asked me for anything. What I keep coming back to is how ordinary that night was. A man walks you home in the rain. You stand at your door and say this was nice and go inside. Most women I know have done exactly that and never thought about it again, because it was polite, because it was raining, because the whole point of somebody walking you home is that they find out where home is.

  5. 4d ago

    Episode 112: I joined a little online group that keeps an eye on a girl who jogs the Monon Trail alone and she still has no idea how many of us care about her

    Submitted by Lou — Carmel, Indiana. 64. My father had one of those Neighborhood Watch signs screwed to our mailbox post in Muncie, the yellow one with the big open eye, and when I was a girl he walked the block every night after the news with a flashlight he never turned on. He used to say the whole point was that people knew somebody was paying attention. I think he'd be proud of what we do. We are a small group. Fourteen of us at the most, eleven now. It started on a neighborhood page two springs ago, when somebody posted that a young woman was running the Monon Trail alone at six in the morning, every morning, earbuds in, ponytail, a teal jacket, and wasn't anybody worried about her. A lot of people were. A man who goes by Traildad made a separate group for the ones who were serious, and I was invited because I'd commented that I walk my dog Biscuit on that stretch anyway. Traildad is the one who made the printout. Her route, the loop down past the Arts District and back up by the water tower, with times written beside each stretch so we'd know where she ought to be and when. I don't know how he worked it out and I never asked. I printed it at the library and taped it to the side of my refrigerator, and that is still where it lives. Mile two is a bench by the bridge. That became mine. Biscuit and I were on it at 6:20 every morning, and when the teal jacket went by I posted a little green check. Somebody further up would post the next one. If a check didn't come, we'd all know something had happened. That was the whole idea. She never knew any of us. That was also the idea. Traildad was strict about it. Nobody talks to her, nobody scares her, we are just there. In June she stopped wearing the earbuds. I thought that was wonderful. I posted that it looked like she was finally being careful, and people agreed. In July she started running with a big gray dog, and we were glad about that too. Then in August she changed the route. She went north instead of south and came back on the side streets. Three mornings in a row there were no checks at all and I could not sleep. Traildad had the new loop by the end of the week, and I printed it and taped it over the first one, and a woman who calls herself MelC took the corner by the coffee place, and things were all right again. She started going at different times after that. Five-fifteen. Then seven. Then some days after dark, which frightened everyone. She'd look back over her shoulder on the bridge. She started carrying something closed up in her fist. I remember writing that she seemed jumpy lately, that something must have happened to her, and that it proved we were right to be out there. Somebody replied that it broke their heart. It broke mine. In October there was a police cruiser parked by my bench three mornings running. The officer looked at me, and at Biscuit, and didn't say anything, and I thought, well, good. Somebody finally listened. I posted about it, and that afternoon two people left the group, and Traildad said we should all stay off the trail for a little while and keep things inside the group. I didn't really understand why, but I did what he said. She hasn't run since the week before Thanksgiving. Not once, not at any hour. Somebody posted that the gray dog was in a yard over in Westfield now, and that there had been a moving truck, and then nobody posted anything for a long time. I still go to the bench. I can't explain it. Biscuit expects it. I sit there at 6:20 with my coffee and watch the bridge, and when the runners come by I look at every one of them, the young ones especially, the ones who are out there by themselves. There's one now. A girl in a red knit hat, alone, about the same time most mornings. She goes right past me with her earbuds in. She has no idea. Last week I took the old printout down off the refrigerator and turned it over. The back…

  6. 5d ago

    Episode 111: I spent every Friday of tenth grade in my homeroom teacher's detention and twenty years later another mom in the pickup line asked if I was one of the Friday kids

    Submitted by Toby — Fort Wayne, Indiana. 38. Mr. Hollis was my homeroom teacher for all four years at North Side, and from the fall of tenth grade to the end of junior year I had Friday detention with him almost every week. I always told it as a funny thing. I was not a bad kid. I was a late kid. Three tardies got you a Friday, and I lived on the far side of the river and my mom worked first shift at the plant and I was never, not once, there for the bell. Friday detention ran from 2:45 to 4:00 in room 114. The thing everybody remembers about it is the binder. A navy three-ring binder, the cheap kind with the clear plastic cover, and every Friday you walked in and signed the sheet on top. Name. Time in. Reason. And then a last column, which he filled in himself when you left, that said Released To. In Indiana the late activity bus didn't run on Fridays, so you couldn't just walk out at four. A grown-up had to come to the door of 114 and Mr. Hollis had to write down who it was. Most kids got picked up right at four. My mom never came before six. So for two years I sat in that room with him for two extra hours every Friday after everybody else was gone. He'd grade papers. He'd ask me things. What I had for dinner, who was home on weekends, whether my mom's boyfriend was still around. He wrote in the margins of the binder while I talked, small and neat. I thought he was the only teacher who cared whether I ate. I said that at my own graduation party. People nodded. My daughter started at North Side this year. She got her third tardy in September, which I thought was hilarious, and I drove over at four on a Friday to get her. I didn't know he was still there. I walked down that hallway and room 114 had the same door with the same wire glass, and he was at the desk, gray now, and the binder was on the corner of it. Navy. Clear cover. There were three other parents waiting in the hall for their kids. I said to the woman next to me, oh my gosh, Hollis, I was in his Friday detention every single week in 2004. I was laughing. She wasn't. She looked at me for a long second and then she said, very quietly, You were one of the Friday kids? Not in his detention. One of the Friday kids. Like it was a list. I said I guess so. She looked at the man next to her, and he looked at the floor, and nobody said anything else until the door opened. My daughter came out and Mr. Hollis came out behind her with the binder open and a pen, and he looked at me, and he smiled like he'd been waiting, and he said, Released to mom. And he wrote it. I called my mother that night. I asked her why she never once came before six. There was a pause long enough that I checked the screen to see if the call dropped. Then she said, That was what the school asked. And I said who at the school. And she said, Toby, everybody knew about Fridays. You were fine. It was handled. And she asked how my daughter was liking it. I went back the next week and asked at the front office. The woman at the desk has been there since I was a student. I told her my name and she said, Oh, I remember you, before I had finished saying it. I asked if Mr. Hollis still kept the binders from back then. She said he kept all of them. She said it the way you'd say a man keeps a garden. When I asked if I could see mine she said that wasn't something she could help me with, and then she said, You turned out so well. My daughter got another tardy Wednesday. That makes three. I haven't told her she has to go, and I haven't told her she doesn't. I keep thinking about the woman in the hallway, and the way the man next to her looked at the floor, and how none of them seemed surprised to see me.

  7. 6d ago

    Episode 110: The best kid at hide and seek on my street won every single game for three summers and his sister told me where he was hiding at the Kroger deli counter

    Submitted by Wes — Toledo, Ohio. 41. Every street had one kid who never got found, and on Delmont Street it was Corey. We played hide and seek every summer night from the last day of school to Labor Day, eight or nine of us, and the rule was the rule every kid in Ohio had. The game ended when the streetlights came on. Not when you found everybody. When the lights buzzed and went orange, you were done, and whoever was still hidden won. Corey won every game I can remember. Not most. Every one. He was my best friend from first grade until his family moved out to Perrysburg the summer I turned twelve. For my ninth birthday he gave me half of a pair of walkie-talkies, the gray Radio Shack kind with the antenna that pulled out in sections. He kept the other half. The idea was that whoever was it carried one, and if you got tired of looking, you pushed the button and said olly olly oxen free, and everybody had to come out. Mine never worked. Not one time. Corey said he'd keep them both going because his dad got batteries cheap from work, so every afternoon I handed mine over his fence, and every evening before the game he handed it back. I used to touch the nine-volt to my tongue the way every kid did, waiting for that little sting. It never stung. I'd push the button anyway and say olly olly oxen free into nothing, and nobody came out, so I kept looking. I was it a lot. I didn't mind. I was the kind of kid who liked having a job. Once, I think I was ten, I said out loud at a block cookout that Corey didn't really hide, he just went inside somewhere. Somebody's dad laughed and said that boy could fold himself into a mailbox. My mom told me not to be a sore loser. The other kids said I was just mad I could never find him, and I was, a little, so I let it go. Corey's mom was standing right there with a paper plate. She didn't laugh. She didn't say anything either. After that I thought about him the way everybody did. Corey was good at hiding. It was his thing, the way Danny could burp the alphabet. My mom worked second shift at the Jeep plant those summers. She left at two-thirty and got home after eleven. I had a key on a shoelace, but I never needed it, because nobody on Delmont locked anything. When the lights came on, Corey would come strolling up from the far end of the street, grinning, and I'd go home and make a box of macaroni and watch TV until I fell asleep. Three summers of that. This past March I was at the Kroger in Maumee and a woman at the deli counter said my name like a question. It was Lisa, Corey's older sister. We did the whole thing right there by the potato salad. Corey's doing good, she said. Two kids, a cul-de-sac out past Perrysburg. Then she said, You know, Mom always felt bad about your house. I asked her what she meant. About Corey hiding in it, she said. Every night her mom had to walk over right before the streetlights came on and get him out from under my bed, then take him out the back way, through the yards, so he could come up the street like he'd been somewhere. She told it like a funny family story. She said her mom figured it was fine with my mom, since we were best friends. He always said you knew, she said. I told her I didn't know. She looked at me for a second, and then she said, Well, he was a strange little kid, and the man handed her the turkey, and that was it. I still have my half of the walkie-talkies. It's in a box of things from my mom's house, in my garage, with the battery door shut. I haven't opened it. I've told this to maybe a dozen people now. Almost every one of them had a Corey on their street, the kid nobody ever found, and they bring him up right away. They all say it the way I said it for thirty years. A little fond. A little proud of him, even. He was really good at hiding.

  8. Oct 23

    Episode 109: I kept getting return labels for things I never ordered and the nice lady on the phone said to just mail back anything that weighed about the same

    Submitted by Wes — Tulsa, Oklahoma. 63. The first one came about two years after my wife passed, in a plain white envelope with a window. Inside was a prepaid return label, the kind with the barcode and the little postage block, and up in the corner, in the From spot, was my name and my address on Fenwick Street. It was going to a returns center in a town in Indiana I had never heard of. There was an order number. Under that it said, Questions about your return? and a phone number. I had not ordered anything. My wife did all of that. So I called. A woman named Paula picked up on the second ring. She was warm. She had the kind of voice you hear at a church potluck. She looked me up and said yes, there was an order, a small kitchen appliance, and the system showed it delivered. I told her nothing had come. She said, oh, honey, that happens, it gets left on the wrong porch. The trouble is if a return doesn't come back on an open order, it goes to collections after ninety days. I was trying to refinance the house that spring. I told her that. She said she understood completely and she was going to help me. What she told me to do was mail something back. Anything. The warehouse, she said, only checks the weight against the order. Find something around four pounds, put it in a box, put the label on, and the order closes itself. She gave me her direct extension so I would not have to explain it all again to someone new. So I did. I sent an old waffle iron we never used. The second label came in July. The third in September. Every time I called the extension and every time it was Paula, and every time she was sorry and she was patient and she asked how I was doing, really. She asked whether I still had my wife's sewing things. She asked if I lived alone now, and she said that must be hard in a house that size. Once she said, you know what would be about the right weight for this one, is a photo album. Just one. You'll never miss it. I sent fourteen boxes over a year and a half. Sweaters. A clock radio. A bundle of my wife's letters from when I was stationed in Germany, because that one was only two pounds and I had nothing else that small. I did not think anything of it. I thought I had found the one person at a big company who was on my side. I told my son about her. I said there are still good people. Last March I sold the house and moved closer to him in Broken Arrow. I wanted the labels to stop coming to Fenwick Street, and I could not get Paula. The extension rang and rang. So I went to the company's actual website, the one my son pulled up on his phone, and I called the number on there, and I asked them to mail me my whole account history so I would have it for the move. It came two weeks later on letterhead. It said there was no account at my address and never had been. Orders, zero. Returns, zero. It said the returns center in Indiana was not one of their facilities. It said the phone number I had given them was not a number they owned, and that they do not have agents with direct extensions. At the bottom, someone had written by hand, Sir, please do not send anything further to the address on those labels. My son looked up the tracking on the last three. Every one of them was signed for. I still have one label I never used. It came the week before I moved. It has my name in the corner, and the old address, and the same Questions line, and it is a very nice label. It is exactly like the ones you get when you really did buy something. I keep thinking about how many of those are sitting in kitchen drawers all over this country right now, and how almost nobody reads the little block up in the corner. They just read the phone number underneath it, the way I did, and they call it, and somebody kind picks up.

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About

Short, first-person stories about the frightening things ordinary people run into — a neighbor, a stranger, a habit at home no one ever questioned. It's never a ghost.

Information

  • Creator
    Creepy Encounters
  • Years Active
    2026
  • Episodes
    116
  • Rating
    Explicit
  • Show Website
    Creepy Encounters