Last week, a pdf was sent to me from an email address I didn’t recognize, which isn’t uncommon in my line of work. Strangers send me scary stories and bizarre documents on an almost daily basis and I encourage it. But the pdf in question was unlike anything I had ever been sent and I decided that the only way to properly convey its effect would be to simply let you read it for yourself.
My daughter was sleeping when the convulsions started.
Police tape was draped across the entrance to the parking garage and two officers in full riot gear were stationed beside it. I rolled down my window and asked them what had happened.
“Do you believe in God?” she asked.
Are these spirits messing around, or is this something more sinister?
The door is a good inch or two off the ground so I bent down to see if there was someone standing at our door or the one across the hall. When I was eye level with the crack I saw a pair of boots facing our door.
Real or fake?
We were finally getting a baby and afterwards, she could disappear for all I cared.
As soon as I realized that what I have, in a third-world country, is something senseless, selfish and superficial, yes, but more so something praised for its self-discipline and commonalities with Mary-Kate Olsen, I stopped talking about it. I refuse to be lauded for this disorder.
I was a youth leader at a christian youth camp. It was during a worship session.