35 Bone-Chilling Campfire Stories That Will Haunt You Long After the Flames Die Out
“I am sure my love,” Mary Sue said pulling the end of her bow. The bow fell to the ground shortly followed by her head then the rest of her body.
You ever notice when the fires going you cant help but stare at it?
It’s called the Devil’s distraction.
My dad used to tell this one. He said he read it in a book when he was a teenager.
There was once a pastor and his wife who came from the city to an old parish in a rural area. The people of the church had driven every single pastor out of the church since its founding. No one was good enough for them and some people said they would have found fault with the angels. The pastor and his wife didn’t stand a chance.
They were both heavily criticized by the members. The pastor preached the bible too much, he preached it too little, his wife dressed up too much, his wife underdressed, the pastor was greedy and wanted all their money, the wife (Alice) was a snob, and worst of all they were from the city. They refused to pay them enough to move away and the couple were, unfortunately, trapped there.
The criticism continued and increased and became extremely malicious, until tragically Alice could take it no longer and killed herself.
The very next Sunday night after the funeral they had a business meeting. The church elders cruelly belittled the pastor for his many ‘faults’ and some even implied he was the reason his wife had died.
At this final cruel criticism, there was a horrible scream, and down from the belfry came Alice shrieking accusations at the elders. She was dressed in her funeral clothes, with her hair loose, and her eyes wild and full of hatred. They all fled.
The next Sunday morning, Alice again came shrieking down. Every time the church tried to meet, there would be Alice, and they were finally forced to abandon the building after a failed exorcism. To this day the church remains empty, and anyone that tries to buy or meet in it, is driven off by the vengeful ghost of Alice.
Sidenote: My Dad is a pastor and I always thought it was weird he told us this ghost story about vengeful ministers wife.
When I was a kid, I used to have a recurring character in my dreams. It was an old man with a white mustache. He usually wasn’t front and center in my dreams, but at the fringes. Somebody I’d pass on the sidewalk, for example. He was always looking at me with a kind of blank stare, eyes wide open in the way people get when filled with adrenaline. He was noticeable enough that I recognized him in subsequent dreams and would remember him sometimes when waking up from a dream with him in it.
As I got older, he stopped appearing eventually. One day, when I was maybe 15 or so and it had been a few years since I had dreamt about him, some unexpected visitors came to the house. They were family of the previous homeowners and wanted to reminisce. We let them see around the yard a bit. The woman, who was the granddaughter of the previous owners, showed me a picture of them. It was the old man with the white mustache.
When we moved in the house initially, I knew that the previous owner had died of a heart attack in what became my bedroom. It scared me but I never thought much of it really. But I always got this tingling sensation that he was still there or something.
I was lost in the woods as night was falling. I’d been walking all day and was desperate to find somewhere to shelter. In the darkness I came across a lonely cabin, and without even thinking I knocked on the door. When there was no answer, I decided to try the handle. The door was unlocked.
I got in and threw myself on the single bed in the middle of the room. I felt bad about breaking in, but I was exhausted and fell asleep almost instantly.
In the middle of the night, I woke up. But something kept me from going back to sleep. I hadn’t noticed before, but on the wooden walls hung the most sinister paintings I’d ever seen.
They were portraits. Horrible portraits of faces twisted in rage and fear, as if all the ugliness in the world was glaring down at me. Lying there in the dark, I shivered and somehow knew that the faces in the paintings were looking at me as an intruder… and how they hated me for it!
Eventually my tiredness must’ve overcome my fear and I drifted off into the darkness of a dreamless sleep.
That morning when I woke up, with the call of the forest birds flitting through the air, I opened my eyes, but I almost wished I hadn’t. Because when I looked around the sagging walls, I realised that those things I’d seen the night before weren’t paintings at all. They were windows.
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