Aug. 23, 2025

Introducing: They're Not Shadows - Terrifying True Ghost Stories You’ve Never Heard

Introducing: They're Not Shadows - Terrifying True Ghost Stories You’ve Never Heard

👻 Feed Drop: They’re Not Shadows – Real Ghost Stories, Campfire Style This week, we’re sharing a special episode from one of our favorite spooky storytelling shows: They’re Not Shadows. Every episode delivers a mix of real paranormal stories—ghostly...

👻 Feed Drop: They’re Not Shadows – Real Ghost Stories, Campfire Style

This week, we’re sharing a special episode from one of our favorite spooky storytelling shows: They’re Not Shadows.

Every episode delivers a mix of real paranormal stories—ghostly encounters, supernatural creatures, creepy shadow people, and more—all told in a gripping, campfire-style format. No chit-chat, no fluff—just story after eerie story that will keep you hooked (and maybe a little paranoid).

🎤 Hosted by Chris Griffiths
🎧 Smooth narration + tight pacing = perfect spooky binge
🔊 Subtle sound design for max atmosphere

If you like Spooked, Radio Rental, or Campfire, this one’s a must-listen.


Subscribe to They’re Not Shadows wherever you get your podcasts → https://pod.link/1574448401
WEBVTT

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Hello, my spookies. Tonight we have a very special feed

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drop to share with you. It's a show that's been

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creeping up my spine as of late. It's called They're

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Not Shadows. If you love spooky stories, and I know

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you do, told like you're huddled around a campfire, well

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this one is for you. Each episode delivers several real

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life paranormal encounters, whether it's ghosts, creepy Ouiji board moments,

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shadow people, or more, all told with zero filler, just

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pure goosebumps. It's hosted by Chris Griffiths, whose voice is

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so smooth it might just lull you to sleep if

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the stories didn't keep you in a cold sweat. So

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sit back, relax and enjoy this episode of Their Not Shadows.

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And when you're done, head over to the show notes

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or search Their Not Shadows on your favorite podcasting app

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and give them a subscribe tell them weekly. Spooky Cenya.

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We have four stories today, a mix of the spooky

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and the strange. The first is genuinely taken. The old

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rotary phone, the one we still keep because Sarah likes

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vintage things, sprang to life. I picked it up. Genuinely

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taken aback.

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Hello, you know what you have to do, don't you?

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David?

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Who is this?

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I looked at the receiver, then at Sarah, who was

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scrolling on her phone.

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Well that was a little weird.

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But she didn't seem interested.

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It still rings, sometimes, mostly from salespeople.

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Later that day, we were at the supermarket in the

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produce aisle. A woman in a bright pink tracksuit stopped

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beside me. She leaned in her eyes, glinting.

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Are you still trying to close it?

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David?

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Some doors, once opened can never truly close.

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Excuse me? I felt an actual do I know you?

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But she just walked away, disappearing down the aisle. I

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went down with to Sarah.

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That woman knew my name and said something about a

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door being opened.

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David, what are you talking about.

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The woman wearing pink? You're being weird today. No, she

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just old watermelon. Forget it.

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Let to check out. A young kid with far too

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many piercings scanned down groceries. Just before I tacked my card,

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he looked at me with a strange, knowing smile.

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The door still opened.

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Dude, what did you say?

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I asked? If you had a loyalty card?

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No, you didn't you said something about a door.

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Stop it?

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I didn't, I swear, admit it, David, stop it.

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I'm sorry.

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Let's go.

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On the drive home. I was still trying to process everything.

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I turned on the radio, hoping for a distraction.

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The station with the best music.

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Coming up next on Hits and Oldies eighty nine point seven.

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We got some classic rock and a special shout out

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to David, who I know is listening. When will you

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accept the truth?

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Did you hear that some jibber jabber about classic rock?

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It's my numbing That's why I listened to NPR.

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What was happening to me? Was I losing my mind?

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We put into the.

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Driveway, the silence thick with my unspoken dread. As I

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turned off the ignition, Sarah turned to me, her eyes

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wide and unblinking, her gaze unnervingly direct.

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Time to wake up, David. This isn't your home.

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It never was.

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The world was blurry for a moment, then coalesced into

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the familiarity of my bedroom, the sunlight, gentle and warm,

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filtered through the blinds. It was a dream, just a terrible,

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vivid dream. I found Sarah in the kitchen.

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Hey, rough night.

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I didn't sleep well.

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I began recounting my dream, telling Sarah about my strange

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encounters with the woman in pink, the cashier, and the

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radio DJ.

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And then you said it's time to wake up. This

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is not your home. It never was.

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Sarah looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.

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David, I didn't say that, you said it to me.

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What then you went back to sleep, Sarah, you're still dreaming, David.

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Sarah, this isn't funny.

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The old rotary phone, the one we still keep because

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Sarah likes vintage things, sprang to life. I picked it up,

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genuinely taken back.

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Hello, David, who is this? Where do you work? David?

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Where did you go to school?

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I don't wait.

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Can you remember anything other than going to the supermarket

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and driving home?

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Well, of course I can. I went to the.

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You know what you have to do, don't you, David?

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No, I really don't. We'll try again tomorrow. Tell me goodbye, David. Please.

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This next one is a soldier's tale. We were on

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night patrol through a string of abandoned villages south of Kandahar,

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ghost towns, places the Soviets had bled in and the

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Taliban had finished emptying. There were six of us in

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my fire team, moving in a staggered file. The cold

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air bit at any exposed skin, a stark contrast to

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the oppressive heat of the day. The world was painted

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in the green and black of our night vision, a

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ghostly ethereal landscape. The buildings were mostly mud brick, what

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they called colat compounds, with high walls and flat roofs.

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They were crumbling, their riches softened by time and the

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relentless wind, looking like melted sand castles under the ghostly

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green of my envygs. Then sniper, one of our guys,

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went down. The rest of us scattered, diving for whatever

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cover we could find. There was another shot from the

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sniper and returned fire from my team. I scrambled into

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what was left of a large building, and when the

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dust settled, I was alone. I was pinned down. The

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sniper had a beat on my position. Every time I

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even thought about leaving the building, another round would thud

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into the wall whole. I backed up, going deeper into

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the darkness of the ruined building. The air inside was

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thick and stagnant, heavy with the smell of dust and

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something old and unsettling.

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Bravo is your position?

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I keyed my mic, pinned down east side of the

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main structure.

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Cannot move, sniper as me zeroed. We're pulling back and

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calling in support.

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Do not repeat, do not leave that building. We'll come you.

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At first light, that.

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Landed like a stone in my gout. First light was

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a couple of hours away. I moved even deeper into

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the building, my M four helped tight against my shoulder.

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The interior was a maze of small, interconnected rooms. The

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floor was littered with debris, the detritus of lives hastily abandoned.

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Moonlight filtered through cracks in the ceiling, casting long, distorted shadows.

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And that's when I heard it, a sound that slid

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into my brain by passing the normal channels of hearing.

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I scanned the room through my envy g's but there

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was nothing, just shadows. The whispers came again, not in

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English or Peshto or any other language I could identify.

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I wasn't a superstitious man. I believed in what I

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could see and what I could shoot. But the feeling

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in that room, it was primal, a kind of fear

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without reason that goes straight for the lizard part of

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your brain. I backed into a smaller room. The whispers

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had stopped, but now there was a smell ozone, like

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a coming storm. I remembered stories our interpreter used to

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tell us, half jokingly around the fire back at base,

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stories about the old ones. These creatures are the gin,

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made of smokeless fire, unseen but always watching, he said.

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They haunted places of ruin and sorrow. Then in the

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far corner, something shifted, but it wasn't a threat that

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I could shoot. It was tall, stretching to the low ceiling,

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a column of shimmering heat, like the mirage you see

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on a hot road, but darker and tinged with a faint,

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ethereal glow. And then it spoke, not with the mouth,

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but inside my head.

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You are a guest in this place of dust and shadows,

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this land of forgotten gods. Tread lightly, warrior, for you

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are not the only one who fights in the darkness.

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My blood ran cold. I could feel the immense power

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of this thing. The air in the room returned to normal.

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It was gone, but the memory of that voice, of

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that shimmering darkness is etched into me. Story number three

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concerns the daily commute hitter boring, pretty doable. The evening

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train is my decompression chamber, a metal tube that hurtles

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me from the day's chaos to the quiet of home.

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I find the rhythmic clacking helps me unwind. I know

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the journey by heart, the lurch of the acceleration, the

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groan of the brakes, and the familiar sequence of stops

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that mark the path home. I was about halfway home,

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scrolling through my phone. Then the rhythm broke. The train slowed,

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the usual rocking motion, easing into a smooth, silent glide.

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I looked up from my screen, annoyed. Unscheduled stops were rare.

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Outside the window, there was no station. I recognized this

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place was ancient. The platform was made of wood. Black

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ivy crept over everything in a slow motion sliver. The

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only signage was the station name morning Gate Morning with

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a ewe. I looked around the carriage to see what

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the remaining three passengers were making of it, but they

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hadn't even noticed. A woman across the aisle was texting,

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a man in a suit was slumped against the window,

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fast asleep, and two rows in front of me, a

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man in a tweed coat sat reading a newspaper. The

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massive broadsheet was completely obscuring his view of the strangeness.

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My brain couldn't reconcile it. I felt like I'd fallen

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asleep and woken up in some one else's nightmare. I

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knew I hadn't got on the wrong train. I've been

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catching the same one for six years, and all the

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other stops were correct. The doors opened, and I turned

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my head to see if any one would get off,

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or god forbid on The platform had been empty, but

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when I looked again, there was some one there, a

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lone man standing beneath one of the gas lamps. He

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was tall and gaunt, dressed in a dark, simple suit.

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It looked like an old photograph come to life. As

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I watched, he lifted his head and his eyes locked

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on to mine. I wanted to turn away, but I

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was transfixed. A sad smile touched his lips, and he

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gave me a nod, as if we were old acquaintances.

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Then he lifted a hand to his throat and drew

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his thumb across it in a long, deliberate line from

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ear to ear, and somehow the flesh parted a clean

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black line opened up in his throat, yet his smile

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never faltered, and his eyes never left mine. He held

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my gaze for another second or two before his knees

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buckled and he collapsed onto the wooden platform, folding in

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on himself like a discarded puppet. My phone was in

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my hand, the camera a single tap away, but the

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thought to use it never even formed. It was like

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watching a silent horror film being played just for me.

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The man in tweed rustled his newspaper, the woman kept texting,

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and the other man kept sleeping. The doors slid shut

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with a soft sigh, and the train began to move,

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pulling away from morning Gate and the body on its platform.

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I pressed my face to the glass until the horrific

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scene was out of sight. The woman was putting her

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phone away, The man in the suit was stretching, waking up,

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and two rows ahead, the old man was folding his newspaper,

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tucking it into a leather briefcase. He hadn't seen a thing,

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None of them had. The weekend was a blur. I

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barely spoke, I barely ate. Every time I closed my

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eyes I saw him, the sad smile, the nod of acknowledgment,

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and of course, the grotesque sight of the gaping wound

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in his throat. I replayed it dozens of times, searching

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for a rational explanation, but there was none. And now

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it's Monday morning. I'm standing on the platform, waiting for

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the train to take me back into the city, and

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a single question pounds in my head with the rhythm

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of an approaching train. We stop at morning Gate. Again.

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Part of me is sick at the thought of it.

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But there's a smaller, darker part of me that was

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strangely beguiled by the horror and did wants to see

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it again.

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The train is now approaching platform one. Please stand clear

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the edge of the platform.

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We have one more. It's titled a Demon's Gifts. We'll

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see you next time. They say about eight percent of

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the population experiences sleep paralysis, a misfire in the brain.

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Your body is asleep, but your mind wakes up and

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you're trapped a prisoner in your own body. It always

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starts the same way. The top of my head tingles,

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then I hear a humming sound, and then then I'm

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paralyzed and it comes. I can't move, I can't scram

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but my eyes are open, darting around my familiar bedroom,

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searching the corners.

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And that's when I see it. It's never fully clear,

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more of a suggestion of a shape, a jagged silhouette

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standing in the corner. It just watches, and that's when

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I close my eyes. I've suffered from it on and

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off since I was a kid. But last week something changed.

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I finally got control of my limbs back and as

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I reached for my phone, my fingers brushed against something,

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something that wasn't there when I went to bed. It

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was a feather, black and shiny.

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I live in a fourth floor apartment in the middle

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of the city. My windows were closed. Later, when I

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got up, I threw it away. But the next night

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it happened again. And when I woke up, how there

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was a brooch on the night stand, its pin open

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and facing upward. What the hell it drew blood?

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You look like hal Melanie, Are you sleeping at all?

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It's just weird dreams, you know how it is?

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No?

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I don't know how it is.

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Is it the paralysis thing again?

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It's evolved, evolved, How.

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Melanie talk to me?

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It's leaving things on my nightstand.

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Leaving things what are you talking about.

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A feather and a brooch? And last night it was

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a porcelain doll's eye, just sitting there staring up at

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the ceiling.

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Okay, stop, that's seriously creepy. There has to be an explanation,

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a new medication.

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I'm not on anything, Anna. I know how it sounds,

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but it's real. It feels intentional, like they're gifts.

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Gifts, Melanie, those aren't gifts, they're threats. You need to

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see someone, a doctor, a therapist. Hell, girl, put a

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camera in your room.

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To record what a high def video of my own

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personal tormentor? And what if it knows? What if it

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gets you know, angry?

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Angry? It's a hallucination. How can it get angry? Please, Melanie,

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just promise me you'll call doctor Evans.

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Okay, I'll call her.

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I didn't call her. What would I say? My sleep

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paralysis demon is giving me gifts. I know what Anna

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thinks that I'm cracking up. Maybe i am. But tonight

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I'm not going to sleep. I'm going to stay awake

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and see what happens when it thinks I'm under its spell.

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My eyelids feel like they're lined with sandpaper. And then

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it began.

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This time.

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I'm keeping my eyes open.

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Tonight.

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I need to see it. Oh God, there it is.

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It's moving. I've never seen it move before. It's coming

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out of the corner. It's just a shape, a dark

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hole in the room. It's not walking, it's gliding toward

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my bed. It's leaning over me. I can't see a face,

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but I can feel its attention, a cold, ancient curiosity.

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Then a shift, a release, a scramble for the lamp.

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And there, next to the doll's eye that I was

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too afraid to throw away, is a silver necklace.

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No, it can't be.

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Not just any necklace, but Sarah's necklace, the one she

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never took off. It was a gift from our grandmother.

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That necklace was a part of her, as much as

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her smile or the freckles on her nose. Oh God,

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when the police found her body days later, it wasn't there.

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Another piece of her taken or perhaps simply lost in

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the chaos of that terrible day. And now it's here

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in my room, and it's not just watching anymore. It's interacting.

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And its gifts aren't gifts at all. They're a twisted game,

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each one a whisper of beauty, hiding a brutal, undeniable

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proof that it was there, that it knows my deepest wound,

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And I know with a cold certainty that the game

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has only just begun