Creepy Encounters

Creepy Encounters

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 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…

  2. 1d 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.

  3. 2d 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.

  4. 3d ago

    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.

  5. 4d ago

    Episode 108: A seasonal guy at my tax office refilled my stapler every Monday all winter and I barely ever said two words to him

    Submitted by Tess — Toledo, Ohio. 41. I have worked the front desk at a tax office in a strip mall on Monroe Street for six seasons now. January to the middle of April, six days a week, and then the rest of the year I do bookkeeping out of my kitchen. The office is four desks, a copier, a coffee maker that leaks, and a back room with a lock on it where the finished returns sit in a filing cabinet until the client comes in to sign. My job is the paper. People bring me a grocery bag of W-2s and 1099s and a receipt from the Goodwill for a couch, and I sort it, and when the preparer is done I print the return, put the client's documents behind it, and staple the whole packet in the top left corner. Then it goes in the back room. I staple maybe forty packets a week in February. The stapler is mine. It was my dad's, from the hardware store he managed, heavy black metal, the kind you could stop a door with. I brought it from home my first season because the office ones jam on anything over twenty pages. Last winter they hired a seasonal preparer named Dale. Older, quiet, wore a tie every day even though nobody else did. He had the desk by the back room. I barely talked to him. Good morning. Do you want coffee. That was about it, for three months. The first Monday in February, my stapler was sitting in the middle of my desk, lined up square with the edge, and it was full. I had run it empty Friday afternoon on the Ferrante packet and meant to refill it Monday. Somebody had done it for me. I asked around and nobody knew, and the manager said Dale opened up on Saturdays, so probably Dale. I thanked him. He said, "It's no trouble," and went back to his screen. It kept happening. Every Monday, all season. Didn't matter if I'd left it half full or empty. It was always loaded with a new strip, always lined up square with the edge of the desk, and it always felt a little warm, like it had been sitting under the lamp. I started leaving it in my drawer instead of on top, and it was still on top Monday, square, full. I thought that was the sweetest thing. My sister said it sounded like he had a crush on me and I said he was seventy if he was a day. The only thing that bothered me, and it did not bother me much, was that the cleaning crew was rough on the back room. On Mondays a lot of my packets from the week before had extra holes in the corner. Two little pinpricks next to the staple, sometimes four. Like the pages had been knocked loose and somebody stapled them back. The manager said the crew probably dropped a drawer and was too embarrassed to say. That made sense to me. The packets were all still there. Nobody's paperwork was ever missing. I did my own return there in March, after hours. The manager does mine for free. My daughter was born in October, so for the first time I had a dependent on it, and I remember printing it and stapling it with my dad's stapler and putting it in the back room with everybody else's, because that's where they go. The next Monday Dale stopped at my desk on his way in, which he had never done, and said, "Congratulations on Nora." That's my daughter's name. I hadn't brought her in yet. I figured the manager told him. I said thank you, and he said, "October is a good month," and went to his desk. On the last day of the season he shook everybody's hand and left. The manager said he'd be back in January. He comes back every year, apparently. He has been coming back since before I started. I brought my stapler home in April like I always do. It is in the drawer of my kitchen table, under the checkbook. Last week I opened that drawer for a stamp and it was sitting square with the edge, full. I don't remember putting it that way. I don't remember refilling it either. Anyway, January is coming up, and I'll bring it back in.

  6. 5d ago

    Episode 107: My boss said I had the best eyes in the building for catching mistakes on expense sheets and the state unemployment office read me who made them

    Submitted by Ronnie — Wichita, Kansas. 46. I worked accounts payable for a heating and air distributor in Wichita for fourteen years, and for nine of them my boss, Glen, told anyone who would listen that I had the best eyes in the building. That was his phrase. Best eyes in the building. He said it at the Christmas party at the Olive Garden on Rock Road and in every one of my reviews. But the part of my job he loved was the expense sheets. The sales reps and the field techs turned them in every other Friday, receipts stapled to the back, and Glen walked them over to my desk himself in a manila folder. I checked every line against every receipt. When something was off, I circled it in purple felt-tip and wrote my initials beside the circle. R.T. Small and neat. Then the sheet went back to Glen. It was almost never anything. A tip added twice. Fourteen dollars of lunch on a day the rep was marked out on PTO. But Glen treated every one like I had found a body. He would stand at my desk holding the sheet up to the window and say, "See, this is why we pay her." Over those nine years, eleven people left the company within a week or two of one of my circles. I knew that. I am not going to pretend I didn't. But in Kansas they can let you go for no reason at all, and I told myself the circles weren't the reason, they were just the paper. Glen said that too. "You just find it. What happens after isn't on you." Carla was the eleventh. She had been a tech for six years, and she was the only one who ever brought her daughter's Girl Scout cookie sheet down to accounting. Her expense sheet had a receipt from a Love's truck stop for forty-one dollars, and the line on the sheet said ninety-one. I circled it. R.T. She was gone the next Thursday. In March I got a letter from the state. Carla had been denied unemployment, because the company told them she was terminated for misconduct, and she had appealed. There would be a phone hearing, and since my initials were on the exhibit, I was listed as the company's witness. Patrice from HR prepped me. She said, "Just tell them what you saw." That was easy. I had seen a four turn into a nine. The hearing was on speakerphone. The hearing officer had a soft, slow voice and read everything twice. He asked me to describe the exhibit, and I did. Then he said the claimant had submitted something too. Not a receipt. A printout of the history page for her own expense sheet from the shared drive at work, which she had printed because Glen asked her to resend it and she wanted proof she already had. He read it to us. Submitted Friday, 4:12 p.m. Total, forty-one dollars. Modified Monday, 7:50 a.m. Total, ninety-one dollars. Routed to accounting for review. Then he read who it was modified by. He read that line twice too. Patrice put the call on mute and looked at me. I didn't say anything. I was thinking about Monday mornings. He always brought the folder over himself. He always said it was because he liked to see my face when I found something. Carla got her benefits. Glen still works there. Patrice told me there has been a conversation, that it is being handled, and that I am not to discuss it with other staff. Nobody has said one word to me about the other ten. Last month I went down to the records room and pulled them. Ten folders. Ten expense sheets, each with a purple circle on it and, beside the circle, my initials, small and neat. I don't know which of them were real mistakes. I don't know if any of them were. There is no history page in any of those folders. There is just me. Glen came by my desk on Friday with a new folder. He set it down and said, "Best eyes in the building," the way he always does. I haven't opened it. It's in my top drawer. What I keep coming back to isn't him. It's that there are ten pieces of paper in that basement saying ten people lied about their lunch, and the only…

  7. 6d ago

    Episode 106: My neighbor put a trail camera on the birch between our yards for the deer and showed me every picture it took for four months

    Submitted by Rae — Gaylord, Michigan. 52. I bought the house outside Gaylord the spring after my divorce, three acres and a pole barn and a back line of birch so white they look lit up at dusk. The listing said "wildlife." It did not say Del, but Del came with it the way the well came with it. He was retired from the county road commission, lived alone on the forty next door, and the first week I was there he walked over with a coffee can of venison jerky and told me the trick to my furnace. That August he strapped a trail camera to one of the birches on our property line. He told me about it before he did it, which I thought was considerate. Green plastic box, camouflage strap, about chest high on the tree. "For the deer," he said. "Big eight-point been coming through. I want to pattern him before opener." If you didn't grow up in northern Michigan, opener is November fifteenth, and it is close to a holiday. Schools used to shut down for it. A man with a trail camera in August is about the least strange thing you can see up there. So I didn't think about it. And Del never once tried to hide it. That's the part I have to keep saying. Every Saturday at the mailboxes he'd pull out his phone and show me what the camera got that week. A doe and twins at four in the morning. A raccoon. A coyote, gray and skinny, staring right into the lens. And he'd always laugh and swipe to one more. "Caught you, too." Me on the back step with my coffee. Me carrying the recycling out. Me at the kitchen window, a blur of yellow light, at eleven at night. "You're up late," he'd say. "You ought to sleep more." I laughed. Every time. What else do you do. The camera can't tell a deer from a lady in a bathrobe, I figured. It catches whatever moves. My nephew Ty came up for opener last year. He's nineteen, hunts with his dad down by Jackson, and he'd never been to my place. The first morning, before light, he went out in his orange to walk the line and find a spot. When he came back in he didn't take his boots off. He just stood on the mat dripping. "Aunt Rae," he said, "where's the trail?" I said what trail. "The camera. On the birch. There's no trail there. There's no scrape, there's no rub, there's no corn. Nobody puts a camera where nothing walks." He looked at me like I was the one who'd hung it. "And it's not pointed at the woods. It's pointed up. At your house." I told him Del was after an eight-point. Ty's face did something I've only seen once before, on a doctor. He took his phone out and pulled up a picture he'd just taken. The camera, the strap, and behind it, framed almost perfectly in the gap between two trunks, my kitchen window. Not the edge of the woods where the deer actually come out. The window over my sink, and to the left of it, the corner of my bedroom. "Has he ever shown you a picture of the eight-point?" Ty said. I opened my mouth to say yes. Then I stood there in my own kitchen and went through four months of Saturdays. The doe. The raccoon. The coyote. Me. Me. Me. Ty took it down that morning. He cut the strap with his knife and brought the box inside and set it on my counter, and it sat there all through opener like a guest nobody wanted to talk to. Del came over on the seventeenth. He didn't knock. He stood at the bottom of the back step, right where the camera always caught me, and he said, "Somebody moved my camera," the way you'd say somebody moved your truck. Ty handed it to him through the door. Del said thank you. He walked home. He still waves. I still wave. I'm still there. What I think about now isn't Del. It's the mailbox. It's how many times a person can hold something right up to your face, smiling, and wait, and wait, and you laugh, because laughing is easier than looking, and they learn exactly how much you'll let them show you.

  8. Oct 19

    Episode 105: My roommate had a chore wheel on the fridge with my name already on it and the leasing office says there was never a second bedroom

    Submitted by Tess — Columbus, Ohio. 26. I found the room on a Facebook group for Columbus apartments, the kind where half the posts are people subletting for the summer and the other half are people warning everybody about a guy named Kyle. Dana's post was short. Private room in a two-bedroom off Indianola, twelve fifty a month, utilities included, quiet, clean, no couples. Four photos. The kitchen looked like nobody had ever cooked in it. She met me in the parking lot the day I moved in and helped me carry the mattress up three flights. Before I had a single box open, she walked me into the kitchen and showed me the chore wheel on the fridge. It was two paper plates, the cheap white kind with the ridged edge, one smaller than the other, held together in the middle with a brass brad fastener, like a project from second grade. The big plate was split into eight slices in black Sharpie: trash, recycling, bathroom, kitchen, floors, fridge, mail, wheel. The little plate had two names in blue marker. Dana. Tess. My name was already on it. She said she liked things settled before anybody had a chance to resent anybody. Every Sunday you turned the small plate one notch. That was it. I thought it was the most adult thing I had ever seen. My last roommate in Kent left a frying pan in the sink so long it grew a skin. So I did my slices. You have to understand it looked fair. It was a circle. Every week the names moved. Some weeks I had bathroom and floors, some weeks trash and kitchen. Dana usually seemed to land on mail or wheel, but I figured that was just how the weeks fell, and she worked long hours at a hospital billing office, and honestly mail is a real job in that building, the boxes jam. Wheel meant you were the one who turned it on Sunday. I remember thinking that was cute. There was a little bump in the plate under my name, where the paper was thicker, like somebody had used white-out a few times. I figured she misspelled me before I got there. I did not think about it again. I sent her twelve fifty on Venmo on the first of every month for fourteen months. I always put a little house emoji in the memo. She always liked it. What ended it was the BMV. I needed to update the address on my license, and they wanted a lease or a utility bill with my name on it. I didn't have either, because utilities were included. So I walked down to the leasing office on the ground floor and asked for a copy of the lease, or a letter, anything. The woman at the desk pulled up 4C and read it, and then she looked at me for a second too long. She said, "There's only one person on 4C." I said I know, I'm the roommate. She said, "It's a one-bedroom with a den. Eleven hundred." Then she scrolled. "Her guest parking is busy, though." She turned the screen toward me. It was a list of guest permits for 4C going back to 2019, one name at a time, each one there about a year and then gone, and a new one starting the same month. Kayla. Brent. Josie. Marcus. Ann. Then Tess. Eleven hundred. I had been sending twelve fifty. I did not say anything to Dana. I still don't know why. I went upstairs and she was on the couch, and she said, "It's Sunday," and nodded at the fridge, because it was my week to be wheel. I went and stood there and turned the little plate one notch, and my thumb was right on that bump under my name, and it was not white-out from one mistake. It was layers. Ann and Marcus and Josie, under me, all the way down. I moved out in August with everybody else in that neighborhood, when the leases turn over. The room was listed again before my car was loaded. Same four photos. In the third one, if you zoom in, you can see the fridge. A lot of people in this city moved into a clean apartment this August, into a place where the rules were already written down before they got there. The rules were fair. They always look fair. That's what th…

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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
    112
  • Rating
    Explicit
  • Show Website
    Creepy Encounters