I was 17, It was my first year of college and I had started attending school in Los Angeles. My parents lived up north near San Francisco, and I got homesick a lot, being new to the big city and all. So I liked to surprise them on weekends and randomly make the drive up north. During the day it took 7 hours; at night it took 5. So I really enjoyed going at night.

Driving fast, 400 miles of city roads that eventually turn to inland and then desert roads with sand on both sides of you, and a dusty smell from the air outside. I paired this drive with fun audiobooks about mythology, or a nirvana playlist; it was the best.

I made this drive many times, but I still liked to have my iphone's map on, just cause. This time, the map told me to take a different route up, in the middle of the drive, desert part. This was to maybe save time or something? So I pulled off an exit from the main road, and turned right onto this road.

This was a one-way road, with only one single lane for my car. There were absolutely no cars in sight, around in front or behind me, no lights. It was so dark at night, and there was a bit of dust so I slowed down my driving. As time went on, I got more comfortable with this road, and tuned into my audiobook and my attention drifted for a bit. Then, all of a sudden, I saw a big shape on the road up ahead. I WOKE the F up and SLAMMED on my breaks. It was an old car. And I mean OLD. It was the curved shape of a bug-type or 1920's car (I'm not good with car brands), and it was turned horizontal to the road, blocking a lot of it. The car type was also hard to remember because it was also completely burned and black. Imagine you're playing GTA and you blow up a car - it's black skeleton is what remains. That's what I was looking at.

I was stopped on the road completely, and my curiosity was edging me to open my car door. But I didn't. This felt so off. I took a breath then I drove forward and did my best to maneuver around the car, even getting into the sand a bit, and when I was past, I kept driving, eventually finding a way to get off that road.

I was spooked in that moment, and honestly really glad I was paying attention to my driving. It's so natural to just drift off because you assume the road will always be clear for you, no matter what. This was super weird.

In the years after, I heard that this was a technique for people to get you out of your car so they can do god knows what. But I only heard about that once, I don't even know from who, and also, that explanation just didn't really sit well with me. The car was OLD. It looked like it had been there for a VERY long time. Not like some people had just put it there recently. Even the ground it was lying on was caved in and dusty and the road cracked. That's why it didn't make sense to me. How long was it there? How was I the first person to see this? When there's something blocking the road, it usually gets taken care of asap, in my city experience at least. Like what would happen to the next car if they didn't stop? Should I have done something?

I had so many questions lol, I just had to stop thinking about it until recently.

i live in Eastern Europe and if you’ve ever been there, you know what it’s like. old soviet-era five-story buildings with a creepy-looking entrances, that smell awful and most of them are already falling apart. four apartments on one floor. so, basically, I’ve got three neighbours on my floor.

this woman lives on the same floor as mine and she’s probably in her 70s or even 80s. she’s pretty withdrawn and never greets me back when I say hello to her.

once (it was the first time we actually met) she knocked at my door and said that someone is about to tow my car from the parking lot nearby. I thought she probably saw it out of her window. but, when I went out to look at my car, everything was ok with it.

the next time she said that someone is about to cover my car in concrete and it’s already buried in concrete up to the tires. of course, it wasn’t true, but I thanked her anyway. it was unsettling though.

it was weird, but then this shit turns out. some time after that story with my car, I heard a loud banging noice at the staircase. and when I say “loud”, I really mean LOUD. probably, everyone heard that. so I went out of my apartment and figured that it’s her, knocking at the door of the apartment above her. when she went back (no one opened the door to her), I asked her about what’s going on.

she said “they’re holding her hostage and they’re keeping her there, in their apartment. she’s handcuffed to the radiator and every night I hear her moaning. she wants me to free her”. so then I asked her who she was talking about. she answered that she was talking about her daughter.

but you know what? I was taking about her with my other neighbour before it, when we’ve met at the staircase. he said that she’d lost her mind after her daughter died, because she had a serious disease.

so I said to her “but your daughter is dead”.
“yes! and she was in the coffin for a five days, so how could she just get up and go to their apartment? but she did that”

today this neighbour has knocked at their door again. it’s more tragic than creepy, if you think about it. she lives alone and every night thinks that her dead daughter is suffering, asking her to help her, but she can’t. that’s it.

About 15 or 16 years ago a friend invited me to a rave or music festival located at a campsite in Wisconsin. my friend brought his girlfriend at the time. It was supposed to last all weekend. I was having a great time, vibing and playing with my flow toys. I was mostly swinging a light staff around. I remember a member of the staff approaching me to inspect my light staff. Thinking back the guy was definitely sizing me up to see if I was gonna be a threat. I didn’t bear witness to the male staff dragging an unconscious young woman into a back room but my friends girl did. I saw the police talking to the staff at the campsite. I remember my friend leaning towards me and telling me “we have to go now”. Behind him, at the bar, was all the male camp staff looking at him and me with anger in their eyes. We took down our camp in the dark and left. To the staff at the camp that night, let’s never meet.

So this happened to me when I (39M) was around 18 or 19 years old. I had had a difficult childhood, and standard therapy was going nowhere. I turned to my eldest sister (we'll call her Jane) for spiritual advice. She has always been a believer that there is a higher wisdom to the universe. When we talked, I mentioned hearing of a book I had seen on the news about the afterlife.

She knew the title immediately but first pointed me in the direction of a local spiritualist church. They had a guided meditation evening and she said she'd been there before to help calm her mind when she needed it. I was - and remain - very anxious socially, especially in new places with new people, but for some reason I felt compelled to go one evening on my own.

When I arrived, I tried to mask my anxiety with a polite smile and the usual introductions. The many people there seemed to be between their 20s and 70s. One person stopped me as I approached him to say hello. An older man who raised a palm and told me to stay back. He said that his spirit guides had told him that I had an 'attachment', and that it would be dangerous for his spiritual well-being to allow me closer. I had no idea what this meant and I was a skeptic so I put this all down to him just being a little eccentric.

After the session, Jane asked how my first experience meditating was. I said that even guided, I could never quiet my mind long enough to peacefully relinquish control. I had stayed fully awake, but just sat quietly. She reassured me, consoled my failed efforts, and I mentioned the eccentric man, paraphrasing his declaration that I was a danger to him and his spirit guides because I had an attachment. It made me feel like an anxious email.

She was immediately infuriated. She said he was irresponsible to bring that subject to someone who had little to no experience with spiritual matters. She then explained that an attachment is when a spirit can essentially haunt a person, rather than a place. She said they tend to find it easier to attach to people with darker emotions dwelling, because positivity makes a person more whole and there is no gap to hang onto. She said she would speak with her spiritual adviser Georgina for guidance.

A few days later she told me her adviser had been just as angry at the man as Jane had been, and said it was incredibly cruel to put this new anxiety onto such a young fragile person. She said she would visit in the next few days and we could perform a ritual to rid me of the attachment.

I won't go into the specifics, partly because it's been over 20 years and my feeble mind can't hold onto the specific wording too well, but the events of that evening are burned into my memory. I remember exactly where we sat. It was in the hallway of the family home. I was sat with my back to the staircase, and my sister sat opposite me. The lights were off and a candle lit between us. The doors were closed and only the family cat was there in the house.

Side note, our cat used to love going upstairs and getting into the Divan drawers of our middle sister's bed and taking dumps, so she had been banned from going upstairs years earlier. She would even run downstairs when one of us relented and wanted to show her the upstairs again.

Along with repeating some words, we also had to mentally paint the spirit out of the house room by room. I struggled with this element because I have a mild aphantasia and can only imagine what equates to a chalk outline, nothing vivid or even with depth. We imagined the attic together, then each of the bedrooms. I struggled on some of these because I just couldn't picture them.

We were sat on the carpet floor next to an old wardrobe with a translucent side. In there was a drawing of Simba (from the Lion King) and in my peripheral vision I remember it growing into a contorted face of angered screaming. I mentioned it and Jane said these images were reflective of the attachment growing desperate, and we should continue. We finished the bathroom and the only part of the upstairs left was the staircase and landing we were sat at the bottom of. Without prompt, she said insistently, "Do not look behind you!"

I couldn't help it when I was finding it hard to concentrate on the repetition, so I looked. I have always been accustomed to the dark. I see well in it. I was able to see the wallpaper, carpet, hand rail, and the doorway to the bathroom which was directly at the top of the stairs. But in front of this was a shifting darkness I cannot fully describe. It didn't look like anything. Like there was a void. I could see the things in the dark, but I couldn't see this one spot about the shape of an adult person standing up, and it emanated a fury I can still remember. I know it wasn't my shadow or the phantom retinal burn of the candle flame either. I checked.

I turned away and my sister said not to be scared. That was what it was trying to make me feel so it could cement itself to me even harder than before. I took a deep breath and continued the repetition as I mentally painted the hallway white. When we finally managed to get to this mental point, it was only the downstairs left, and the Simba drawing now appeared pleasant and smiling. Our cat in the living room had been spooked by something and was yowling at us and clawing at the door to the hallway.

It freaked me out because she knew she was not allowed upstairs. She never went near that door for years! Not long after, our mum arrived home and we had to yell to her not to come inside yet. She pleaded because she'd just come home from a long day at work and needed to use the bathroom. We quickly finished our ritual and the cat immediately calmed down and settled back where she had been sitting. We explained it all to our mum and she was more upset that she couldn't urinate immediately.

This was a long story with a lot of context, so I know if you've read this far you might have some questions. Well, for one, a back ache which had plagued me for years evaporated. I did return to the spiritualist church and had other uncanny experiences which I won't explain yet. The cat had often looked at corners and been freaked out in that house, but never so much as that night, and never since. She passed years ago and I miss booping her tortoise shell nose. I am still a skeptic and, although I'm confirmed Catholic, I am agnostic too. Happy to answer any other queries too.

Peace

Hola, quiero grabar un video contando historias de terror que les hayan pasado, de cualquier cosa para este Halloween, pueden dejar sus historias en los comentarios🤍.

If you have spent any extensive amount of time in the Southwest, no matter what sort of background you happen to belong to, you have probably heard stories about La Llorona, a morose ghost who roams the night crying out for her missing children. 
There are different versions of the legend of the Weeping Woman, but most end with this: after being betrayed by a man (isn’t that always how it goes?), she- like a more modern-day Medea- killed her children in a fit of rage. However, after realizing what she had done, she became distraught. Some versions end with her killing herself, usually in the same way she dispatched her children, which many say was by drowning them. 
Much as there are many accounts on just who she was and what happened, there are also differences in just who she chooses to go after. Most often, her victims are said to be naughty children out after dark that she catches and drags to whatever dark place she hides during the day, as replacements for her own dead little ones. Sometimes, however, you will also hear tales of an unfaithful man, often a drunkard, being charmed by a lovely woman at a bar that he later comes to find out is the horrific, decaying body of a ghost. Whichever tales you choose to believe, there is no doubt in the minds of many that she is out there, her vengeful spirit wandering the night. I have had my own visit from La Llorona, though I must admit it wasn’t nearly as exciting as most of the others. 
My mother often refers to me as her “ghouly girl,” and I like to consider myself a connoisseur of all things paranormal folklore related. I have countless books on the subject, detailing the backstories of ghosts from the Eastern Seaboard to my very own home in the state of Arizona. The stories surrounding cities I know perhaps fascinate me the most, as instead of passing by places day-to-day, I now have some character to attribute to them. 
It’s funny that I tend this way, as I’ve never been much the sort for horror movies or any sort of overly gory media. I guess I’m just too visual of a person for that kind of thing, preferring reading over watching, where I am able to picture things to my level of comfort. Still, it has never stopped my ever-whirling mind from thinking of some of the most disgusting, horrific nightmares, usually causing me to wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing, and reaching for the rosary in the drawer beside my bed. 
It was in this way that I first encountered the Weeping Woman, and I hope it shall be the only time I ever come across her for the rest of my life. It’s all very strange, things happening the way they did, to begin with, as I’m not much of a night person. I am the type to throw on a cozy pair of pajamas or soft pants the second I get home, whether that be eleven in the morning or nine at night. I don’t like being out much once it gets late. My mother always told me that nothing good ever happens after 10 pm, and the more time I spend in this city, the more I am inclined to believe her. Most of the outrageous crime stories I read about seem to take place sometime between 10:30 and 6 am, hours when I am peacefully at home sleeping. 
It was a few months back, early spring I think, when La Llorona decided to make her presence known to me. Like most nights, I was in bed early, slowly drifting off to the sounds of the train and streetcar in the distance, a podcast on low volume playing on my phone. 
I think this podcast was likely where my fatal mistake lay. You see, being invested in all things creepy like I am, I have a tendency to also like true crime. While this may be fine for a short nap during the day, or even as a sort of white noise while I am working on whatever project happens to have my attention at the moment, it is not necessarily the best choice for heavy-duty sleeping. When I am in a deeper part of my circadian rhythm, the descriptions of the grisly murders that have been carefully recorded by some millennial YouTuber find their way into my subconscious, conjuring up all sorts of uncomfortable images that then dance across the screen of my mind as I slumber on. 
While I am one of the lucky sort that is able to lucid dream very easily and very often, it is something of a two-edged sword. More often than not, I end up caught in a loop, desperately trying to escape whatever strange or odd entity has decided to play a prank that night, and failing each and every time. It is also not uncommon for dream paralysis to occur when I am caught in one of these loops, each escape attempt becoming increasingly more difficult. My legs turn to stone, and my eyes refuse to open wide enough to take in everything that is going on around me, so I am left blind and helpless in the middle of I-don’t-know-where. 
With all the times I’ve experienced dream paralysis, you think I would have had my share of rounds with the regular sleep paralysis that most experience, but, strangely, I have not. Until one time, that is. 
As I believe I’ve mentioned, my dreams tend to be extremely vivid. My brain could be filtering out the most absurd nonsense anyone has ever heard of while I am asleep, and yet it still manages to feel so real to me. On the night in question, I believe I was dreaming of being bedridden, a case of being trapped in one’s own body, where I could hear and see those around me, but they more often than not didn’t respond to me at all. 
I was watching two older women stand over me, talking about me, when suddenly another figure appeared in the corner of the bedroom. She looked like a bride, strangely, dressed in a grubby white dress with tangled black hair falling out of a loose veil. For a second, her face appeared beautiful, until I saw what lay beneath: death-bleached skin barely clinging to her bones, with large, dark red circles under her eyes. Somehow, I knew instinctively that all those legends I’d read were now making an appearance: La Llorona had come for a visit. 
She began pointing at me, talking about horrible things I couldn’t remember doing, and telling the other two women that it had come my time to be taken to the bleak underworld the Weeping Woman has called her home for God only knows how many centuries now. 
I could only watch in horror as she made her way over to the bed, climbing on top of me, sucking the life out of me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She was suffocating me, her black eyes boring straight through me. 
With a start, I woke up, but the nightmare wasn’t over. While the other two women from my dream had vanished, I could still feel something sitting on my chest, a something much too heavy to be my cat. She was still there, I could feel her, and I swear I saw the pale outline of leg sweep in a swift arc across the mattress. 
I tried to scream, but nothing came out. It was like my lips were glued together. The pressing continued, and I felt my heart rate speed up. I was quickly descending into a panic. I had to end this– and fast. 
I tried to yell again, about half a syllable of the Good Lord’s name making it past my lips. No. I was not going to die tonight. Not here, not like this. I am only in my early twenties– I still have so much life ahead of me! 
I struggled against the specter’s grip, fighting whatever held my tongue down until I was finally able to croak out, “Jesus!” 
The second the name left my lips, she was gone. I felt the pressure from my chest ease, and the room was once more empty, as though she’d never been there at all. And perhaps she wasn’t. Even as a scholar of psychology, it is far beyond me to understand all the workings of the human mind, why it conjures the things it does, and if they are ever in any way connected with the paranormal. I’ve had my run-ins with ghosts and ghouls, of course, everyone has, but quite a few were harmless and have only ever bothered me when I was awake and about. 
I lay there in bed, breathing heavily for a few moments, before reaching for the aforementioned rosary I keep in a drawer on my bedside table. Running my sweaty fingers over the cold beads brought a huge sense of relief, and after a while I found myself able to calm down and go back to sleep, before my alarm clock woke me with its obnoxious ringing a little while later. 
That was my first and only encounter with the weeping woman. I still get nightmares from time to time, but never sleep paralysis. I hope I never do again, because if I never see La Llorona’s horrid, sorrowful face again it will be too soon. 
However, there are some nights when, lying in bed, I think I can hear her mournful wailing somewhere out in the distance. For as long as there are people tormented by night, she will be out there, waiting.

Hello, I'm new in reddit and I'll introduce myself as Zeyeanne,, call me Zeyezeye or yeanne in short(pls let my grammar slid, ik it's bad). This is very disturbing for me because this experience stayed in my mind. So if your a person who gets scared easily, this isn't recommended for you.

Around December in 2018, my mom asked me to buy meat so she can cook because my cousins and aunts, also uncs, will visit, I agreed because i know my mom is tired.

I asked my older brother to come with me since he has a motorbike, he agreed because he knows if he disagreed,, I'm telling mom.

(Lets skip the ride, nothing wrong, just normal atmosphere and etc.)

We arrived at the market, and we saw a meat shop, many people were buying there, so me and my brother entered that shop.

The man was quick so the line is easily moving quickly.

There was just one person left before it's our turn to buy, after that person, the man gave us a sweet smile.

I felt safe because he looks like a good guy who doesn't plan anything bad, but that's what WE thought.

The man said "take your time, it's almost 2pm so only few people will buy"

My brother chose the whatever meat that is because idk anything about meat.

After 5 minutes, just waited for my brother outside.

(Skip againnn)

At home, my mom said "took you long enough"

While she was preparing the seasonings, ingredients and the cooking pan.

I took the meat out to wash it, while I'm washing it, I can feel it. It's moving, like really.

My mom was confused why I threw the meat(I threw the meat after i felt it moving).

Until she saw it. It's moving, like wobbling.

I couldn't recover after that. And the man who sells it? He disappeared

And spam me if you guys want me to continue thiss