A couple of years ago I was out for a run with my dog. Over the fields behind my house. We came across this old abandoned mansion. It hadn’t been lived in in at least fifteen, maybe twenty years. The rich guy who owned it had went bankrupt and now the bank owned the house.
I decided I’d take a look through the house. It was pretty cool. Run down but it looked like someone had left in a hurry.
I decide to head home. Once I get back I go for a shower. Afterwards I walk into the kitchen and start to make a sandwich. I bring it over to the table and there it is. A post-it note. “You come into my house, I come into your house.”
Naturally I freaked out. Got my dog and got out of my house. Phoned my parents who then passed it on to the police. They said it was likely squatters and some guy had followed me home but it was nothing to worry about.
That was the last we heard about it. No way I’m ever going back to that house.
As kids, my cousin had an imaginary friend. He called him “Bee-jebuh” (we never got around to how it was actually spelled, but I’m spelling it the way he pronounced it.) He claimed that his Bee-jebuh was a monster but he was a nice monster, and he would occasionally tell him to do things. After a few weeks of this, he was told never to talk of Bee-jebuh again.
Apparently, this name was strikingly close to Beelzebub, so his mother (who is fairly religious) put a stop to that. Now the creepy part. I was recently telling my girlfriend this story. It was dusk, and we were in the car, parked, but the car was on. As I told this story, the internal lights on the car came on, as if the door was open, and both of our phone simultaneously went haywire. She forced me to stop talking about it after that, and to never mention it again.