This is your place to go for the paranormal, supernatural, and all around creepy. Have fun. If you want a 99% chance of me answering your question, you're going to have to come off anon. I dont like posting all the questions I get publicly. I own nothing unless stated otherwise. Usuarios online

17th August 2014

Photoset reblogged from Ignore the cow wearing pants in the background with 19,999 notes

caseyanthonyofficial:

dickcraft:

sixpenceee:

Found from this video titled “something crawling on the walls of the houses on Samara” 

Damn

What the fccfyihcdguvjkkkkk

Wild

Source: sixpenceee

2nd August 2014

Photoset reblogged from Unexplained Spoopies with 1,353 notes

unexplained-events:

Enfield Poltergeist

11-year old Janet Hodgson was the center of a horrifying poltergeist. Janet was photographed, by Graham Morris, in mid air. She was believed to be channeling the spirit of the former residence of their home in Enfield, he called himself Bill Wilkins.

There were also reports of furniture being moved through the air, and flying objects swirling towards witnesses. There were cold breezes, physical assaults, graffiti, water appearing on the floor, and even claims of matches spontaneously bursting into flame.

Janet was also the mouth piece of Bill Wilkins. Paranormal investigators were brought in to figure out what was happening. Voices of dogs barking and growling also started to come out of Janet, along with Bill’s voice. No explanation was given to what happened in Enfield, other than from paranormal investigators. The voices coming from Janet were taped, I will upload those as well.

SOURCE

1st August 2014

Question with 13 notes

nmirra said: Hi there, I've got a request for you. I just came across your "Wandering Bus" post from October 5, 2012. I wrote that story, on my personal blog back in 2011. I can't insert a link in this question, but a Duck Duck Go search for "wandering bus SEPTA" returns it as the 3rd result. I realize that this is very much after the fact, but I'm requesting that you modify that post with an attribution. My name (Nicholas Mirra) and a link to that post would be perfect. Cheers, ~NM

Yeah no problem!

27th July 2014

Photoset reblogged from too tired to care with 13,738 notes

creepy-stuff-i-just-made-up:

The Pencee Scarecrows 

On April 30, 2009, Pencee McLane left with five of her closest friends on a camping trip. What occurred to Pencee and her friends that night has become a mystery for the ages.

It’s reported that the group arrived at their planned destination at 7 PM. The group made camp and spent the night drinking and having a good time. When Pencee awoke the following morning, all of the people in her group were gone.

Upon investigating the campsite, she found nothing out of the ordinary.

The SUV was still there.

The tents were still there. All of the group’s food and clothing was still in their respective tents.

Nothing had been disturbed.

She spent the next hour texting and calling her friends, but not one person responded. She even called their parents. Beginning to panic, Pencee called the police.

Authorities arrived on scene, but were just as confused as Pencee. No signs of struggle, no signs of other people.

The strangest thing to come out of the initial investigation was the discovery that the only footprints at the campsite were Pencee’s.

Bizarre, right?

It gets worse.

On May 1, 2010, the first body appeared.

Sara Paella was found in the middle of a field, right on the spot where the original group camped. As seen in the pictures above, her desiccated corpse was found tied to a rough crucifix with barbed wire. A stitched burlap sack was thrown over her head and a collar of barbed wire adorned her neck.

Police determined that the cause of death was strangulation with the barbed wire.

On May 1, 2011, the second body appeared. Kitty Sigmon was found crucified across the street from where Pencee was living at the time. The crucifix appeared in her neighbor’s backyard. Residents on the street all reported that the only thing they heard that night was a droning noise that sounded like a plane.

Pencee McLane relocated to a new city shortly after this occurred.

On May 1, 2012, the third body appeared. Melissa Green was found crucified and hung with barbed wire. Once again, the body appeared across the street from where Pencee McLane lived. This time in the front yard.

Pencee once again moved to a new city.

On May 1, 2013, the fourth body appeared. Willis Timmermen was found crucified in Pencee’s own front yard, his body in the same shape as the others.

May 1, 2014 will be here soon and the fifth member of the group still hasn’t been found.

I wonder where that scarecrow will appear…

Source: marrowhouse.blogspot.co.nz

25th June 2014

Photo with 1,131 notes

The Velveteen Rabbit: An Alternate Version
By Mallory Ortberg
THERE was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. Later he was different, but this was the beginning. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. It was Christmas, and the Rabbit was awake for the first time, and he moved in the world and he knew himself by his own name.
There were other things in the stocking, but the Rabbit was the best of all. For at least two hours the Boy loved him, and then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and there was a great unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents the Velveteen Rabbit was ignored.
And the Velveteen Rabbit knew what it was to be ignored, and he remembered it, and he did not forget it.
For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him. Being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. He did not forget that either. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every one else. The model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms. The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn’t know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself.
Sometimes at night he imagined what the other toys would look like stuffed and crammed with sawdust; sawdust jammed by the fistful into their open eyes and their painted throats and sawdusts in their hearts and in their stomachs.
Between them all the Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.
Whose skin do you have, the Rabbit had asked him, and the Skin Horse had shivered to hear the excitement in his voice. Whose skin did you get.
Not like that, he explained. Not skin like that. And the Rabbit sat in silence, and the Skin Horse knew he had not liked the answer.
The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else.
And the Rabbit knew he would not be like the mechanical toys, and the Rabbit would not let himself pass away, and the Rabbit would not break for anything.
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Can you hurt something else,” asked the Rabbit, “when you get Real?”
“I don’t know,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.
“Can you take someone else’s Real,” he asked, “or are you stuck getting it on your own?”
The Skin Horse looked at the Rabbit then.
“What I mean is,” the Rabbit said carefully. “If something else was already Real. Could you take it from them, and keep it for yourself.”
“No,” the Skin Horse said, and his voice was a crawling black thing across the floor. “You can’t take Real from another toy.”
But the Rabbit wasn’t finished. “Can you take the Real out of a boy? Can you take his heart in your own self and leave him with a sawdust heart on the nursery floor in your place?”
And the Skin Horse did not say anything.
“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And the Skin Horse was afraid for the first time in a long time.
“Yes,” he said quickly, closing his eyes. “From the boy’s Uncle. That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
“How did you make him,” the Rabbit said, no longer lying down. “How did you make him give it to you.” But the Skin Horse did not move and did not talk. The walls of the room were yellow and old and streaked with shadows, and the Skin Horse felt he had lived too long.
And after that there was no more Skin Horse in the nursery, and the Rabbit’s eyes gleamed a brighter black and his ears glowed a livelier pink.
There was a person called Nana who ruled the nursery. Sometimes she took no notice of the playthings lying about, and sometimes, for no reason whatever, she went swooping about like a great wind and hustled them away in cupboards. She called this “tidying up,” and the playthings all hated it, especially the tin ones. The Rabbit did not forget her either. The Rabbit did not forget anything, once the Rabbit had decided he had been cheated.
Nana had cheated the Rabbit, and he would remember it. Nana was not Real. Nothing in the nursery was Real; it was entirely possible that nothing at all was Real and that Real had been a lie from the beginning. But if there was Real, the Rabbit would find it. And if there was not, the Rabbit would decide what would happen next.
***
One evening, when the Boy was going to bed, he couldn’t find the china dog that always slept with him. The china dog slipped and the china dog was gone and tumbled into nothing and there was no more of the china dog, not that night and not any other night. Nana was in a hurry, so she simply looked about her, and seeing that the toy cupboard door stood open, she made a swoop.
“Here,” she said, “take your old Bunny! He’ll do to sleep with you!” And she dragged the Rabbit out by one ear, and put him into the Boy’s arms, and the Rabbit felt the Realness of the Boy’s warm heartbeat and the Boy’s soft and fluttering throat and the Boy’s arms.
That night, and for many nights after, the Velveteen Rabbit slept in the Boy’s bed. At first he found it rather uncomfortable, for the Boy hugged him very tight, and sometimes he rolled over on him, and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow that the Rabbit could scarcely breathe. And the Rabbit waited.
And the Rabbit missed the long dark silence of the nursery, when everything else in the house slept as if it had died. The Boy did not sleep like something that had died. The Boy slept in motion, and snored, and rolled over, and grunted, and chapped his lips and muttered in his sleep. The Boy had jam on his bedclothes and ate crackers with his flat and flabby mouth, and the Rabbit kept perfect silence.
And the Boy would talk to him too, and tell him the secrets of his stupid and inane Boy’s heart, and made ridiculous tunnels for the Rabbit under the bedclothes that he said were like the burrows the real rabbits lived in. And the Rabbit thought, So there are others like me, and you have kept me from them, and he did not forget that. And the Boy made him play his insipid games after Nana had gone for the evening, and the Rabbit burned in shame and anger.
But when the Boy dropped off to sleep, the Rabbit would wriggle down underneath his small hot chin and above his small hot heart and listen to his dreams. And then it was the Rabbit’s turn to play.
And some mornings the Boy would wake up dizzy and hot-faced and cross, and some mornings the Boy could not get out of bed at all. And one morning the Boy woke up and was sick in the hallway and afraid of his own body. The Rabbit was his only comfort then, on the mornings when his limbs were so sluggish he stumbled on the way to the kitchen and spilled his breakfast with a trembling hand and his nose ran blood down his mouth.
And so time went on, and the little Rabbit was very happy.
Spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too. He had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, (the Boy could not make it past the flower border now without getting quite short of breath and complaining of dark stars behind his eyes). And once, when the Boy stumbled and fell and had to be carried inside, the Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the Boy couldn’t go to sleep unless he was there.
He was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the Boy had made for him in the flower bed, and Nana grumbled as she rubbed him off with a corner of her apron.
“You must have your old Bunny!” she said. “Fancy all that fuss for a toy!”
The Boy sat up in bed and stretched out his white and shaking hands. His breath was hot, and his eyes were hot and shimmering gloss.
“You mustn’t say that. He isn’t a toy. He’s REAL!”
When the little Rabbit heard that he was happy. Too happy to sleep that night. And that night he grew fatter and sleeker and stronger and into his boot-button eyes — that had long ago lost their polish — their came a look of happiness so that even Nana noticed it next morning when she picked him up, and she smiled to see it.
That morning the Boy was very ill, and complained of a thick and a dusty feeling in his lungs, and his eyes had lost all depth to them. And Nana was cross in her heart at him, for there is nothing the healthy find more tiresome than the chronically ill.
Is there anything else you need, love, she would say, and the Rabbit could see in her false mouth the words Why don’t you get up and get better.
It was Summer, and the sun shone so and the wind blew so that all for the next month the menservants found fox after fox lying on the grounds, mouth open and flecked with white, quite dead from the heat. The Rabbit knew they were gifts for him.
Near the house where they lived there was a wood, and in the long June evenings the Boy liked to go there after tea to play, on the evenings that he could. He would march off brokenly, dragging a wheelbarrow with the Rabbit in it behind him. Some nights when the sun set his ears bled, and the Boy would cry a long, stupid, noisy child’s cry, and the Rabbit would endure it with perfect patience. And the Boy would build him a nest and tell him all his stupid child’s sorrows.
One evening, while the Rabbit was lying there alone, watching the ants that ran to and fro between his velvet paws in the grass, he saw two strange beings creep out of the tall bracken near him.
They were rabbits like himself, but quite furry and brand-new. They must have been very well made, for their seams didn’t show at all, and they changed shape in a queer way when they moved; one minute they were long and thin and the next minute fat and bunchy, instead of always staying the same like he did. They moved like liquid, and like they were their own masters. Their feet padded softly on the ground, and they crept quite close to him, twitching their noses, while the Rabbit stared hard to see which side the clockwork stuck out, for he knew that people who jump generally have something to wind them up.
They stared at him, and the Rabbit stared back. And all the time their noses twitched.
“Why don’t you get up and play with us?” one of them asked.
“I don’t feel like it,” said the Rabbit.
“Ho!” said the furry rabbit. “It’s as easy as anything,” And he gave a big hop sideways and stood on his hind legs.
“I don’t believe you can!” he said.
“I can!” said the little Rabbit. “I can jump higher than anything!” He meant it too.
“Can you hop on your hind legs?” asked the furry rabbit.
That was a dreadful question, for the Velveteen Rabbit had no hind legs at all. The back of him was made all in one piece, like a pincushion. He sat still in the bracken.
“I don’t want to,” he said again.
But the wild rabbits have very sharp eyes. And this one stretched out his neck and looked.
“He hasn’t got any hind legs!” he called out. “Fancy a rabbit without any hind legs!” And he began to laugh.
“I have!” cried the little Rabbit. “I have got hind legs! I am sitting on them!”
The strange rabbit stopped dancing, and came quite close. He came so close this time that his long whiskers brushed the Velveteen Rabbit’s ear, and then he wrinkled his nose suddenly and flattened his ears and jumped backwards.
“He doesn’t smell right!” he exclaimed. “He isn’t a rabbit at all! He isn’t real!”
And the little Rabbit imagined what he would look like with his heart and his throat and his eyes torn out and pooled at his feet.
Just then there was a sound of footsteps, and with a stamp of feet the two strange rabbits disappeared.
For a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken. Presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the Boy came limping over and carried him home.
Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew a bit worn and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. And the Rabbit thought, I will love you back then, and he loved the Boy until the Boy’s lining to his ears turned grey, and his freckles faded, and his fingers jerked and trembled when he tried to hold him, and sometimes he woke up with black eyes.
And then, one day, the Boy was caught a fever. The Rabbit dreamed it to him.
***
His face grew very flushed, and he wept in his sleep, and his little body was so hot that it burned the Rabbit when he held him close. Strange people came and went in the nursery, and a light burned all night and through it all the little Velveteen Rabbit lay there, hidden from sight under the bedclothes, and he never stirred, for he was afraid that if they found him some one might take him away, and he still needed the Boy.
The Rabbit found it a long and weary time. But the Rabbit knew how to be patient. He thought of the stupid Skin Horse, who had waited years to get Real, and he smiled to himself.
He thought very hard about when the Boy should be well again, and they would go out in the garden amongst the flowers and the butterflies and play splendid games in the raspberry thicket like they used to. All sorts of delightful things he planned, and while the Boy lay half asleep he crept up close to the pillow and whispered them in his ear. And the Boy’s skin grew white and thin as moth’s wings. And the Boy’s joints swelled up hot and blocky and he cried out when he had to move them. And the Boy’s teeth got loose and his brain held a fire in it. And the Boy hurt. And the Rabbit got Realer and Realer by the minute.
The Boy no longer whispered his old and stupid secrets to the Rabbit, because his tongue had swollen up into his whole aching mouth. The Boy barely moved. The Boy gazed at the Rabbit and loved him, and the Rabbit loved him back very hard. Then at last the Boy stopped moving.
It was a bright, sunny morning, and the windows stood wide open. They had carried the Boy out of the room, wrapped in a sheet, and the little Rabbit lay tangled up among the bedclothes, thinking.
Everything was arranged, and now it only remained to carry out the doctor’s orders. They talked about it all, while the little Rabbit lay under the bedclothes, with just his head peeping out, and listened. The room was to be disinfected, and all the books and toys that the Boy had ever touched must be burnt.
And the Rabbit was very happy, to think of them all burnt.
Just then Nana caught sight of him.
“How about his old Bunny?” she asked.
“That?” said the doctor. “Why, it’s a mass of scarlet fever germs!–Burn it at once.”
And so the little Rabbit was put into a sack with the old picture-books and a lot of rubbish, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the fowl-house. That was a fine place to make a bonfire, only the gardener was too busy just then to attend to it. Next morning he promised to come quite early and burn the whole lot. And the Rabbit was not too sorry then; he would rather burn with them than have nothing be burnt at all.
They wrapped the boy in white and put dirt over him. Dirt in his eyes, dirt in his mouth, dirt in his heart, the Rabbit thought to himself. Nothing real lived in the dirt; therefore the boy was no longer Real.
And while the Boy was in the dirt, dreaming over whatever not-Real things do, the little Rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house. The sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out.
Everything around him was going to be burned, all the boats and the tin soldiers and the little wheeled dogs on drawstrings, and the Rabbit only wished he could stay to see it.
But he had a forest to visit, and two very particular Rabbits to see. He tested out his left leg, and that was Real. He tested out his right leg, and that was Real too. He felt his heart beating inside his chest, as strong and as fast as a Boy’s.

The Velveteen Rabbit: An Alternate Version

By Mallory Ortberg

THERE was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. Later he was different, but this was the beginning. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. It was Christmas, and the Rabbit was awake for the first time, and he moved in the world and he knew himself by his own name.

There were other things in the stocking, but the Rabbit was the best of all. For at least two hours the Boy loved him, and then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and there was a great unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents the Velveteen Rabbit was ignored.

And the Velveteen Rabbit knew what it was to be ignored, and he remembered it, and he did not forget it.

For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him. Being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. He did not forget that either. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every one else. The model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms. The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn’t know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself.

Sometimes at night he imagined what the other toys would look like stuffed and crammed with sawdust; sawdust jammed by the fistful into their open eyes and their painted throats and sawdusts in their hearts and in their stomachs.

Between them all the Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.

Whose skin do you have, the Rabbit had asked him, and the Skin Horse had shivered to hear the excitement in his voice. Whose skin did you get.

Not like that, he explained. Not skin like that. And the Rabbit sat in silence, and the Skin Horse knew he had not liked the answer.

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else.

And the Rabbit knew he would not be like the mechanical toys, and the Rabbit would not let himself pass away, and the Rabbit would not break for anything.

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Can you hurt something else,” asked the Rabbit, “when you get Real?”

“I don’t know,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.

“Can you take someone else’s Real,” he asked, “or are you stuck getting it on your own?”

The Skin Horse looked at the Rabbit then.

“What I mean is,” the Rabbit said carefully. “If something else was already Real. Could you take it from them, and keep it for yourself.”

“No,” the Skin Horse said, and his voice was a crawling black thing across the floor. “You can’t take Real from another toy.”

But the Rabbit wasn’t finished. “Can you take the Real out of a boy? Can you take his heart in your own self and leave him with a sawdust heart on the nursery floor in your place?”

And the Skin Horse did not say anything.

“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And the Skin Horse was afraid for the first time in a long time.

“Yes,” he said quickly, closing his eyes. “From the boy’s Uncle. That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

“How did you make him,” the Rabbit said, no longer lying down. “How did you make him give it to you.” But the Skin Horse did not move and did not talk. The walls of the room were yellow and old and streaked with shadows, and the Skin Horse felt he had lived too long.

And after that there was no more Skin Horse in the nursery, and the Rabbit’s eyes gleamed a brighter black and his ears glowed a livelier pink.

There was a person called Nana who ruled the nursery. Sometimes she took no notice of the playthings lying about, and sometimes, for no reason whatever, she went swooping about like a great wind and hustled them away in cupboards. She called this “tidying up,” and the playthings all hated it, especially the tin ones. The Rabbit did not forget her either. The Rabbit did not forget anything, once the Rabbit had decided he had been cheated.

Nana had cheated the Rabbit, and he would remember it. Nana was not Real. Nothing in the nursery was Real; it was entirely possible that nothing at all was Real and that Real had been a lie from the beginning. But if there was Real, the Rabbit would find it. And if there was not, the Rabbit would decide what would happen next.

***

One evening, when the Boy was going to bed, he couldn’t find the china dog that always slept with him. The china dog slipped and the china dog was gone and tumbled into nothing and there was no more of the china dog, not that night and not any other night. Nana was in a hurry, so she simply looked about her, and seeing that the toy cupboard door stood open, she made a swoop.

“Here,” she said, “take your old Bunny! He’ll do to sleep with you!” And she dragged the Rabbit out by one ear, and put him into the Boy’s arms, and the Rabbit felt the Realness of the Boy’s warm heartbeat and the Boy’s soft and fluttering throat and the Boy’s arms.

That night, and for many nights after, the Velveteen Rabbit slept in the Boy’s bed. At first he found it rather uncomfortable, for the Boy hugged him very tight, and sometimes he rolled over on him, and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow that the Rabbit could scarcely breathe. And the Rabbit waited.

And the Rabbit missed the long dark silence of the nursery, when everything else in the house slept as if it had died. The Boy did not sleep like something that had died. The Boy slept in motion, and snored, and rolled over, and grunted, and chapped his lips and muttered in his sleep. The Boy had jam on his bedclothes and ate crackers with his flat and flabby mouth, and the Rabbit kept perfect silence.

And the Boy would talk to him too, and tell him the secrets of his stupid and inane Boy’s heart, and made ridiculous tunnels for the Rabbit under the bedclothes that he said were like the burrows the real rabbits lived in. And the Rabbit thought, So there are others like me, and you have kept me from them, and he did not forget that. And the Boy made him play his insipid games after Nana had gone for the evening, and the Rabbit burned in shame and anger.

But when the Boy dropped off to sleep, the Rabbit would wriggle down underneath his small hot chin and above his small hot heart and listen to his dreams. And then it was the Rabbit’s turn to play.

And some mornings the Boy would wake up dizzy and hot-faced and cross, and some mornings the Boy could not get out of bed at all. And one morning the Boy woke up and was sick in the hallway and afraid of his own body. The Rabbit was his only comfort then, on the mornings when his limbs were so sluggish he stumbled on the way to the kitchen and spilled his breakfast with a trembling hand and his nose ran blood down his mouth.

And so time went on, and the little Rabbit was very happy.

Spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too. He had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, (the Boy could not make it past the flower border now without getting quite short of breath and complaining of dark stars behind his eyes). And once, when the Boy stumbled and fell and had to be carried inside, the Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the Boy couldn’t go to sleep unless he was there.

He was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the Boy had made for him in the flower bed, and Nana grumbled as she rubbed him off with a corner of her apron.

“You must have your old Bunny!” she said. “Fancy all that fuss for a toy!”

The Boy sat up in bed and stretched out his white and shaking hands. His breath was hot, and his eyes were hot and shimmering gloss.

“You mustn’t say that. He isn’t a toy. He’s REAL!”

When the little Rabbit heard that he was happy. Too happy to sleep that night. And that night he grew fatter and sleeker and stronger and into his boot-button eyes — that had long ago lost their polish — their came a look of happiness so that even Nana noticed it next morning when she picked him up, and she smiled to see it.

That morning the Boy was very ill, and complained of a thick and a dusty feeling in his lungs, and his eyes had lost all depth to them. And Nana was cross in her heart at him, for there is nothing the healthy find more tiresome than the chronically ill.

Is there anything else you need, love, she would say, and the Rabbit could see in her false mouth the words Why don’t you get up and get better.

It was Summer, and the sun shone so and the wind blew so that all for the next month the menservants found fox after fox lying on the grounds, mouth open and flecked with white, quite dead from the heat. The Rabbit knew they were gifts for him.

Near the house where they lived there was a wood, and in the long June evenings the Boy liked to go there after tea to play, on the evenings that he could. He would march off brokenly, dragging a wheelbarrow with the Rabbit in it behind him. Some nights when the sun set his ears bled, and the Boy would cry a long, stupid, noisy child’s cry, and the Rabbit would endure it with perfect patience. And the Boy would build him a nest and tell him all his stupid child’s sorrows.

One evening, while the Rabbit was lying there alone, watching the ants that ran to and fro between his velvet paws in the grass, he saw two strange beings creep out of the tall bracken near him.

They were rabbits like himself, but quite furry and brand-new. They must have been very well made, for their seams didn’t show at all, and they changed shape in a queer way when they moved; one minute they were long and thin and the next minute fat and bunchy, instead of always staying the same like he did. They moved like liquid, and like they were their own masters. Their feet padded softly on the ground, and they crept quite close to him, twitching their noses, while the Rabbit stared hard to see which side the clockwork stuck out, for he knew that people who jump generally have something to wind them up.

They stared at him, and the Rabbit stared back. And all the time their noses twitched.

“Why don’t you get up and play with us?” one of them asked.

“I don’t feel like it,” said the Rabbit.

“Ho!” said the furry rabbit. “It’s as easy as anything,” And he gave a big hop sideways and stood on his hind legs.

“I don’t believe you can!” he said.

“I can!” said the little Rabbit. “I can jump higher than anything!” He meant it too.

“Can you hop on your hind legs?” asked the furry rabbit.

That was a dreadful question, for the Velveteen Rabbit had no hind legs at all. The back of him was made all in one piece, like a pincushion. He sat still in the bracken.

“I don’t want to,” he said again.

But the wild rabbits have very sharp eyes. And this one stretched out his neck and looked.

“He hasn’t got any hind legs!” he called out. “Fancy a rabbit without any hind legs!” And he began to laugh.

“I have!” cried the little Rabbit. “I have got hind legs! I am sitting on them!”

The strange rabbit stopped dancing, and came quite close. He came so close this time that his long whiskers brushed the Velveteen Rabbit’s ear, and then he wrinkled his nose suddenly and flattened his ears and jumped backwards.

velveteen2“He doesn’t smell right!” he exclaimed. “He isn’t a rabbit at all! He isn’t real!”

And the little Rabbit imagined what he would look like with his heart and his throat and his eyes torn out and pooled at his feet.

Just then there was a sound of footsteps, and with a stamp of feet the two strange rabbits disappeared.

For a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken. Presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the Boy came limping over and carried him home.

Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew a bit worn and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. And the Rabbit thought, I will love you back then, and he loved the Boy until the Boy’s lining to his ears turned grey, and his freckles faded, and his fingers jerked and trembled when he tried to hold him, and sometimes he woke up with black eyes.

And then, one day, the Boy was caught a fever. The Rabbit dreamed it to him.

***

His face grew very flushed, and he wept in his sleep, and his little body was so hot that it burned the Rabbit when he held him close. Strange people came and went in the nursery, and a light burned all night and through it all the little Velveteen Rabbit lay there, hidden from sight under the bedclothes, and he never stirred, for he was afraid that if they found him some one might take him away, and he still needed the Boy.

The Rabbit found it a long and weary time. But the Rabbit knew how to be patient. He thought of the stupid Skin Horse, who had waited years to get Real, and he smiled to himself.

He thought very hard about when the Boy should be well again, and they would go out in the garden amongst the flowers and the butterflies and play splendid games in the raspberry thicket like they used to. All sorts of delightful things he planned, and while the Boy lay half asleep he crept up close to the pillow and whispered them in his ear. And the Boy’s skin grew white and thin as moth’s wings. And the Boy’s joints swelled up hot and blocky and he cried out when he had to move them. And the Boy’s teeth got loose and his brain held a fire in it. And the Boy hurt. And the Rabbit got Realer and Realer by the minute.

The Boy no longer whispered his old and stupid secrets to the Rabbit, because his tongue had swollen up into his whole aching mouth. The Boy barely moved. The Boy gazed at the Rabbit and loved him, and the Rabbit loved him back very hard. Then at last the Boy stopped moving.

It was a bright, sunny morning, and the windows stood wide open. They had carried the Boy out of the room, wrapped in a sheet, and the little Rabbit lay tangled up among the bedclothes, thinking.

Everything was arranged, and now it only remained to carry out the doctor’s orders. They talked about it all, while the little Rabbit lay under the bedclothes, with just his head peeping out, and listened. The room was to be disinfected, and all the books and toys that the Boy had ever touched must be burnt.

And the Rabbit was very happy, to think of them all burnt.

Just then Nana caught sight of him.

“How about his old Bunny?” she asked.

That?” said the doctor. “Why, it’s a mass of scarlet fever germs!–Burn it at once.”

And so the little Rabbit was put into a sack with the old picture-books and a lot of rubbish, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the fowl-house. That was a fine place to make a bonfire, only the gardener was too busy just then to attend to it. Next morning he promised to come quite early and burn the whole lot. And the Rabbit was not too sorry then; he would rather burn with them than have nothing be burnt at all.

They wrapped the boy in white and put dirt over him. Dirt in his eyes, dirt in his mouth, dirt in his heart, the Rabbit thought to himself. Nothing real lived in the dirt; therefore the boy was no longer Real.

rabbitAnd while the Boy was in the dirt, dreaming over whatever not-Real things do, the little Rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house. The sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out.

Everything around him was going to be burned, all the boats and the tin soldiers and the little wheeled dogs on drawstrings, and the Rabbit only wished he could stay to see it.

But he had a forest to visit, and two very particular Rabbits to see. He tested out his left leg, and that was Real. He tested out his right leg, and that was Real too. He felt his heart beating inside his chest, as strong and as fast as a Boy’s.

23rd June 2014

Photo reblogged from with 19,679 notes

unexplained-events:

15 inch long human finger found in Egypt. Person that it came from had to be 16 ft. Tall. The fingernail is clearly visible.

unexplained-events:

15 inch long human finger found in Egypt. Person that it came from had to be 16 ft. Tall. The fingernail is clearly visible.

Source: unexplained-events

15th June 2014

Photo reblogged from Unexplained Spoopies with 29,681 notes

unexplained-events:

The photo above is the closest humanity has ever come to creating Medusa. If you were to look at this, you would die instantly. 
The image is of a reactor core lava formation in the basement of the Chernobyl nuclear plant. It’s called the Elephant’s Foot and weighs hundreds of tons, but is only a couple meters across.
Oh, and regarding the Medusa thing, this picture was taken through a mirror around the corner of the hallway. Because the wheeled camera they sent up to take pictures of it was destroyed by the radiation. The Elephant’s Foot is almost as if it is a living creature.

No thank you

unexplained-events:

The photo above is the closest humanity has ever come to creating Medusa. If you were to look at this, you would die instantly. 

The image is of a reactor core lava formation in the basement of the Chernobyl nuclear plant. It’s called the Elephant’s Foot and weighs hundreds of tons, but is only a couple meters across.

Oh, and regarding the Medusa thing, this picture was taken through a mirror around the corner of the hallway. Because the wheeled camera they sent up to take pictures of it was destroyed by the radiationThe Elephant’s Foot is almost as if it is a living creature.

No thank you

14th June 2014

Photoset reblogged from Mah nem es Jensen with 35,630 notes

joligirafeau:

sixpenceee:

Something strange is happening in Singapore today. 

On a busy street in Singapore, residents discovered a small doll leaning against a tree. The doll looked somewhat antique and had its eyes covered with a cloth. The cloth had some arabic text written on it. The doll’s backstory and the subsequent research hinted at the fact that the doll was possibly possessed.

In the words of the person who posted the pictures on Reddit, “The doll was found beside a busy street in Singapore. The Arabic word on the cloth is translated as ‘Bismillah’.

The ‘Bismillah’ maybe a blessing to keep the demon or jinn possessing it inside the doll at all times.

Stories from twitter revealed that the doll is possessed and has been moving around on its own when the original owner isn’t home. The owner binded the eyes and left it far away from home so it wouldn’t follow her back.

"Some say the doll can be heard talking when it’s left alone in a room and is found with its head turned in a different direction. It is said that it spoke in a Malay language and sound like an adult female.”

The original owner found that the only way to get rid of it and make sure it won’t come back is to cover its eyesight. The curse is rumored to have passed on to someone else who found it and untied the cloth unknowingly.

WHERE I GOT THIS INFORMATION FROM

I love stuff like this mmm

Source: sixpenceee

9th June 2014

Photoset reblogged from Curious History with 2,634 notes

odditiesoflife:

Curious History:  The Most Haunted Graveyard in the US - Bachelors Grove Cemetery

Possibly one of the most haunted places in the world is a one acre graveyard stuck far off the beaten path called Bachelors Grove Cemetery. Located in an isolated section of the Rubio Woods Forest Preserve in Chicago, Illinois, this one acre plot of land holds an unbelievable amount of unexplained phenomena. It is also the location of one of the world’s most recognizable ghost photos that captures a woman in white sitting on a tombstone (pictured above).

The cemetery was founded in the 1820’s and for years, was considered a peaceful, serene resting place for the departed. But by the 1960’s, it was increasingly isolated and abandoned and was often the site for wild parties, vandalism and possible satanic rituals. The chaos at the graveyard was so great that many bodies were moved to other cemeteries to avoid being desecrated and a large number of tombstones have been either stolen or knocked over.

This cemetery has reports of every type of paranormal activity. Many strange lights are seen in and around the tiny cemetery. A flashing blue light, similar to a police car’s light, was spotted many times flitting noiselessly amongst the tombstones. Orbs, bright lights, ectoplasm, unexplained mist, cold spots, and apparitions are frequently encountered in and around the cemetery.

But the oddest repeated sighting is that of a “phantom farm house”. What makes these reports so credible is that they come from people who had no idea that the house doesn’t actually exist. Each person who has seen the house describes an old, two-story farm house that is white washed, a large front porch with post to either side of the porch entrance, a porch swing and a light that cheerily burns in the front window.  As people approach the old house, it is reported that it seems to shrink until it finally just fades away. Local legend says that if a person does enter the house they will never return.

7th June 2014

Photo reblogged from She needs to sort out her priorities with 58,450 notes

contrarianne:

Hey, horror fans! The creepypasta wiki is currently running a fundraiser for the 12-year-old victim of yesterday’s stabbing in Waukesha, Wisconsin. You can read more about the incident here, but the gist of it is: this poor young girl was lured into the forest by two of her friends and stabbed nineteen times because they thought it would connect them with Slenderman. (Yes, that Slenderman.) News reports say that she crawled to safety and is currently in stable condition, but she still has a very long road of mental and physical recovery ahead of her. One of her stab wounds missed an essential artery by less than a centimeter. 
Please spread this around. This young woman needs all the help we can provide, and every little bit counts.

contrarianne:

Hey, horror fans! The creepypasta wiki is currently running a fundraiser for the 12-year-old victim of yesterday’s stabbing in Waukesha, Wisconsin. You can read more about the incident here, but the gist of it is: this poor young girl was lured into the forest by two of her friends and stabbed nineteen times because they thought it would connect them with Slenderman. (Yes, that Slenderman.) News reports say that she crawled to safety and is currently in stable condition, but she still has a very long road of mental and physical recovery ahead of her. One of her stab wounds missed an essential artery by less than a centimeter. 

Please spread this around. This young woman needs all the help we can provide, and every little bit counts.

Source: contrarianne