Uhhh. I'll do it later.

I've had three major paranormal encounters which have left me shook, and maybe five more minor encounters which just got me all "huh. strange."

My most terrifying experience was encountering a being that I've never seen in a movie, folklore on cryptids, or anything like this being. It walked up the stairs silently despite those stairs creaking horribly, and it looked like it weighed at least 300lbs and was at least six feet tall. When it reached the top of the stairs, I saw it in the dim light from outside street lamps through my curtain-less bedroom windows: a big, bulky vaguely humanoid without a head, wrapped completely in what looked like oil-soaked rags, with long huge arms and short thick legs.

It whipped around at me fast as an eye-blink and emitted this snarl-roar-screech like nothing I've ever heard in any horror media, and that's when I saw it had a tiny head on a long neck sprouting from the top of its chest (nothing on its shoulders) with a hooked bird beak but still was covered in oily rags except for the beak. After several seconds of deafening scream-cry it slowly turned and walked into the other room. After I regained my composure after like twenty minutes of a racing heart and shallow breathing, I went in there and the room was empty.

When I first told this personal tale on the most infamous paranormal forum over 15 years ago, one anonymous poster gave this thing it's name: oil-rag banshee.

こわい

I sat alone in the opera house, the lanterns dimming with scarce oil.
I had been awaited the entertainment for hours, the write of the play for years.
Before I drifted into my dreams the curtains were drawn agape.
The stage, illuminated but lifeless, did all but intrigue.

An actor took the stage, masked and swaddled with cloth.
He was soon accompanied by and elderly woman, who comforted him and clothed him.
The woman then lay with a rose, and ascended by ropes beyond my view.
The actor, distraught, sent himself off the stage as the light dimmed to dark.

When the illumination returned, the actor was received into the home of strangers.
As he enjoyed the years of blessing from his caretakers, the theme slowly devolved into poverty.
An argument ignited between the man and his wife over their dependent as the lights signaled the shift from night to morn.
The lights focused on the actor, his head concealed in a sack and his limbs in bondage: He was pushed inanimate into a well.

The church bell was rolled onto the stage.
For whom the bell tolled I was certain.
The theater quickly gained shade as the room went void around me.
I arose and gave my homage to the actors who had played role in my story.




(this isn't that, given more time I could have made something better.)

You don't need to worry about anything ever again. I'm worried enough about you as I'm always watching.

A creeping crawl about the ground.
I could not mistake that baleful sound.
A figure arose to speak a word.
Its opaque self foggy and blurred.
I knew my thread had been overtaken,
the moment I saw its eyes awaken.
At least I heard that fateful squeel,
"Don't think, feel...
and∵be..∴∵∴
∴∵∵tanasinn∴∵∴
　　∵∴∵∵∵

He really wished he hadn't left the beaten path within the cave.

There wasn't much light, and it didn't seem like his voice was carrying properly. The air was somewhat stale and smelled unhealthy, but there was clearly still a link to the surface world. He was exhausted, dizzy, hungry, and he had given into the temptation to drink some of the liquid he was half-submerged in after the tenth hour of his ordeal.

What a mistake. His guts felt like they were on fire. He would have been better off dying of thirst.

Still, his friends should have called for help. He wasn't alone in his journey. Over ten hours, and he heard no signs of anyone searching for him. Did they just leave? Bastards.

He was certain he was going to die here in a slurry of rotten water, soaked in his own wastes, too exhausted to even scream.

He saw visions. Beautiful angels with rotting wings seemed to show him the way, but every time his hand slapped upon the rough walls in the darkness, the visions faded and the handholds he thought were there were nothing but delusions.

As the hours passed, as the hope faded, as the aches and nausea increased without limit, he wondered if he would even die.

He wondered if he was already dead. Maybe he was in hell. His laughter was weak. There was no joy in it, just a resigned acceptance of his fate.

His best friend cried out, "Oi, we found him!"

Too late.