True Old Short Scary Stories +18 Creepy Tales To Read At Night
True Old Short Scary Stories +18 Creepy Tales To Read At Night titled article is about world most scary stories ever told. Lets start with Aunt Agatha
Aunt Agatha Short Scary Story
She was not the one he had hoped to see that night. But because the young man was savoring old sights and sounds, and all that is quickly forgotten on the other side of the grave, he turned his attention briefly to the woman seated in the remembered room. She wasn’t old. But the eyes under her graying hair had lost their fire, making her seem older than she was. She kept those eyes steadily fixed on him, nor did her lids flicker. She accepted him—he supposed—as she had accepted odd new pieces of furniture in her room; as perhaps she accepted the even odder painting, all cubes and circles, that hung in the place of—Wasn’t it a drab watercolor?
His wife’s Aunt Agatha, he thought. Memories rushed back. He said in sheer surprise, “I never imagined you’d change this place. I always thought of you, Aunt Agatha, as . . .oh, set in your ways; and this—” He shrugged and glanced at one beautiful shell on an asymmetrical table. He sighed a little. “It must be fun to be alive now.”
“Some think it is.”
“But I didn’t come back,” he explained swiftly, “to talk to you. I came to see Connie.” Once more he looked around the room. “Connie must have egged you into making all these changes. She was always so full of life, so ready to—to do anything.”
“Yes, anything.” Her voice was quietly bitter.
Aunt Agatha Short Scary Story Section 2
The young man paid little attention. He asked with urgency, “Connie—my wife—does she still live with you as the two of us did when I was alive?” He looked at the woman’s handsome, impassive face for a clue; at the eyes that were black but not brilliant, the hawklike nose, the finely cut mouth. But there was no clue in them. They held only one comment on the universe, on all that was in it. They said, I am tired of you. Nothing more.
The young man cried to that baffling face, “Tonight Connie thought of me—hard, hard. It must have been that way. She brought me back. I always knew she would. I must see Connie.”
“To haunt her?” The woman’s voice was flat.
The young man went toward her impulsively. “Who are you to judge Connie?” he demanded. “You—an old, staid woman—less alive than I am! Don’t you know that Connie made her own laws? Only by those could she live. Perhaps tonight she’ll laugh at me, laugh harder and more bitterly than the night she killed me. Perhaps even now she’ll taunt me with Robert. I can still hear her tell what Robert meant to her. And I don’t care. I came back to Connie, not to haunt her, but because someone as vibrant as Connie draws people, because—”
She tried to hush him with her hand but he went on, “Aunt Agatha, help me. Earth is strange to me. I don’t know what year it is, nor any of the things that happened after I was poisoned. Where is Robert now? And . . . and Connie?” Suddenly his lips twisted. “Connie! Constance! Why did anyone name her Constance?”
Aunt Agatha Short Scary Story Section 3
The murdered man walked to and fro, his footfalls soundless but his eyes bright with excitement. “My wife was Carmen. That’s what they ought to have called her. Maybe I should have fought with a woman like that- whipped the gipsy out of her.”
The woman’s middle-aged eyes suddenly turned ugly. He felt her look him all over with envy.
“How young you are!” she muttered.
“You always said that. Connie and I used to laugh at it. ’ ’ The comers of his eyes crinkled, for elderly aunts are elderly aunts no matter on which side of the grave a man stands. Then he grew earnest. “Tell me, Aunt Agatha, did they—did they punish her?”
“Could anyone punish your wild Carmen but Carmen herself?”
“Don’t ask me questions. My time—I know it will be brief, though I’ve almost forgotten time’s strange workings. I thought that I’d see Connie right away.”
The woman got up. “Go away! Go away! I’ll make you.” If her low voice had been a shout it could not have been more startling. “Take your damned youth out of my place!”
He stared at her in amazement. She no longer saw him; he was sure of that. She rubbed her eyes sleepily, as she half listened to a man’s petulant growl from the bedroom. She waited for the man’s “Aren’t you ever coming, Connie?” before she called back through a yawn:
“Yes, Robert, in a minute.”
The Boulevard of Broken Dreams Short Creepy Story
The demitasse cup of thick, sludgy espresso stopped midway between the saucer and Patrick Fenton’s slightly parted lips. His arm froze and he fe it cold, as if beads of fever-sweat covered his forehead. He stared past his luncheon companions, across the tiny French restaurant, through the front window that faced onto East Fifty-sixth Street, eyes widened, as the old man strode by outside.
“Jesus Christ!” he said, almost whispering in wonder.
“What’s the matter?” Damon said, looking worried.
Fenton’s hand began to shake. He set the cup down very carefully. Damon continued to stare at him with concern. Then Katherine perceived the luncheon had come to a halt and she looked back and forth between them. “What’s happening?”
Fenton pulled his napkin off his lap and wiped his upper lip. “I can’t believe what I just saw. It couldn’t be.”
The Boulevard of Broken Dreams Short Creepy Story Section 2
Damon shoved his plate away and leaned forward. He had been the only one Fenton had communicated with during the month in the hospital; they were good friends. “Tell me.”
“Forget it. I didn’t see it.”
Katherine was getting impatient. “I don’t think it’s nice to play these nasty little word games. Just because I’m facing the kitchen and you’re not, is no reason to taunt me. What did you see, Pat?”
Fenton sipped water. He took a long pause, then said, “I was a clerk at the Nuremberg trials in forty-six. You know. There was an officer, an Oberstleutnant Johann Hagen. He was in charge of the mass grave digging detail at Bergen-Belsen. He did things to women and small boys with a pickax. He was hung in June of 1946. I was there. I saw him hang.”
Damon stared across at his old friend. Fenton was in his nineties and he had been sick. “Take it easy, Pat.”
“I just saw him walk past the window.”
They stared at him for a moment. Damon cleared his throat, moved his coffee cup, cleared his throat again. Katherine continued chewing and looked at each of them without speaking. Finally, when the light failed to fade from Fenton’s eyes, she said, “You must be mistaken.” He spoke softly, without argument. “I’m not mistaken. You don’t see a man hang and ever forget his face.”
Damon laid a hand on Fenton’s wrist. “Take it easy. It’s getting dark. A resemblance, that’s all.”
The Boulevard of Broken Dreams Short Creepy Story Section 3
They sat that way for a long time, and Fenton continued to stare out the window. Finally, he started to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He gasped and moaned softly. His eyes widened at something seen outside on the sidewalk. Damon turned with difficulty—he was an extremely fat man, a successful attorney—and looked out the window.
Katherine turned and looked. The street was thronged with late-afternoon crowds hurrying to get inside before the darkness that promised rain could envelop them. “What now?” she said.
“Another one,” Fenton said. “Another one. Dear God, what’s happening . . . ?”
“What do you mean: another one?”
“Katherine,” Damon said snappishly, “Shut up. Pat, what was it?”
Fenton was holding himself, arms wrapped around his body like a straitjacket. “Kreichbaum.” He said the name the way an internist would say inoperable. “From Treblinka. They shot him in forty-five. A monster; bonfires, furnaces, fire was his medium. They shot him.”
“Yes? And . . . ?” Katherine let the question hang.
“He just walked by that window, going toward Fifth Avenue.”
“Pat, you’ve got to stop this,” Damon said.
The Boulevard of Broken Dreams Short Creepy Story Section 4
Fenton just stared, saying nothing. Then, after a moment, he moaned again. They didn’t turn, they just watched him. “Kupsch,” he said. Softly, very softly. And after a few seconds, he said, “Stackmann.” Shadows deepened in the little French restaurant. They were the only ones left dining, and their food had grown as cold as the tablecloths. “Oh, God,” Fenton said, “Rade- macher. ’ ’
Then he leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair, and screamed, “What kind of street is this?!”
Damon tried to reach across to touch him, to get him to sit down, but Fenton was spiraling toward hysteria. “What kind of day is this, where am I? They’re dead, all of them! They went to the gallows or the wall thirty years ago. I was a young man, I saw it, all of it . . . what’s happening here today?”
They tried to stop him as he pushed past them and ran out into the street.
The Boulevard of Broken Dreams Short Creepy Story Section 5
It was almost totally dark now, even in late afternoon, as though charcoal dust had been sifted down over the city. Crowds moved past him, jostling him. Only the pale purple glow of the dead Nazi war criminals who walked slowly past him provided illumination.
He saw them all, one by one, as they walked past, strolling in both directions, free as the air, saying nothing, hands empty, wearing good shoes.
He tried to grab one of them, Wichmann, as he came by. But the tall, dark-haired Nazi shrugged him off, smiled at the yellow armband Fenton wore, smiled at the six-pointed star on the armband, and shoved past, walking free.
“Changed at Ellis Island!” Fenton screamed at Wichmann’s retreating back. “I had nothing to do with it!”
Then he saw the purple glow beginning to form around him.
The street became night
At the Bureau Short Weird Story
I’ve been the administrator of these offices for twenty- five years now. I wish my employees were as steady. Most of them last only six months or so before they start complaining of boredom. It’s next to impossible to find good help. But I’ve always been content here.
My wife doesn’t understand how I could remain with the job this long. She says it’s a dead end; I’m at the top of my pay scale, there’ll be no further promotions, or increase in responsibilities. I’ve no place to go but down, she says. Her complaints about my job always lead to complaints about the marriage itself, of course. No children. Few fnends. All the magic’s gone, she says. But I’ve always been content.
When I started in the office we handled building permits. After a few years we were switched to peddling, parade, demolition licenses. Two years ago it was dog licenses. Last year they switched us to nothing but fishing permits.
Not too many people fish these days; the streams are too polluted. Last month I sold one permit. None the two months before. They plan to change our function again, I’m told, but a final decision apparently hasn’t been made. I really don’t care, as long as my offices continue to run smoothly.
At the Bureau Short Weird Story Section 2
A photograph of my wife taken the day of our marriage has sat on my desk the full twenty-five years, watching over me. At least she doesn’t visit the office. I’m grateful for that.
Last week they reopened the offices next door. About time, I thought; the space had been vacant for five years. Ours was the last office still occupied in the old City Building. I was afraid maybe we too would be moved.
But I haven’t been able as yet to determine just what it is exactly they do next door. They’vera small staff, just one lone man at a telephone, I think. No one comes in or out of the office all day, until five, when he goes home.
I feel it’s my business to find out what he does over there, and what it is he wants from me. A few days ago I looked up from my newspaper and saw a shadow on the frosted glass of our front door. Imagine my irritation when I rushed out into the hallway only to see his door just closing. I walked over there, intending to knock, and ask him what it was he wanted, but I saw his shadow within the office, bent over his desk. For some reason this stopped me, and I returned to my own office.
At the Bureau Short Weird Story Section 3
The next day the same thing happened. Then the day after that. I then refused to leave my desk. I wouldn’t chase a shadow; he would not use me in such a fashion. I soon discovered that when I didn’t go to the door, the shadow remained in my frosted glass all day long. He was standing outside my door all day long, every day.
Once there were two shadows. That brought me to my feet immediately. But when I jerked the door open I discovered two city janitors, sent to scrape off the words “Fish Permits” from my sign, “Bureau of Fish Permits.” When I asked them what the sign was to be changed to, they told me they hadn’t received those instructions yet. Typical, I thought; nor had I been told.
Of course, after the two janitors had left, the single shadow was back again. It was there until five.
The next morning I walked over to his office door. The lights were out; I was early. I had hoped that the sign painters had labeled his activity for me, but his sign had not yet been filled in. “Bureau Of . . .” There were a few black streaks where the paint had been scraped away years ago, bare fragments of the letters that I couldn’t decipher.
I’m not a man given to emotion. But the next day I lost my temper. I saw the shadow before the office door and I exploded. I ordered him away from my door at the top of my voice. When three hours had passed and he still hadn’t left, I began to weep. I pleaded with him. But he was still there.
At the Bureau Short Weird Story Section 3
The next day I moaned. I shouted obscenities. But he was always there.
Perhaps my wife is right; I’m not very decisive, I don’t like to make waves. But it’s been days. He is always there.
Today I discovered the key to another empty office adjacent to mine. It fits a door between the two offices. I can go from my office to this vacant office without being seen from the hallway. At last, I can catch this crazy man in the act.
I sit quietly at my desk, pretending to read the newspaper. He hasn’t moved for hours, except to occasionally peer closer at the frosted glass in my door, simulating binoculars wjth his two hands to his eyes.
I take off my coat and put it on the back of my chair. A strategically placed flower pot will give the impression of my head. I crawl over to the door to the vacant office, open it as quietly as possible, and slip through.
Cobwebs trace the outlines of the furniture. Files are scattered everywhere, some of the papers beginning to mold. The remains of someone’s lunch are drying on one desk. I have to wonder at the city’s janitorial division.
At the Bureau Short Weird Story Section 4
Unaccountably, I worry over the grocery list my wife gave me, now lying on my desk. I wonder if I should go back after it. Why? It bothers me terribly, the list unattended, unguarded on my desk. But I must push on. I step over a scattered pile of newspapers by the main desk, and reach the doorway leading into the hall.
I leap through the doorway with one mighty swing, prepared to shout the rude man down, in the middle of his act. The hall is empty. I am suddenly tired. I walk slowly to the man’s office door, the door to the other bureau. I stand waiting.
I can see his shadow through the office door. He sits at his desk, apparently reading a newspaper. I step closer, forming my hands into imaginary binoculars. I press against the glass, right below the phrase, “Bureau Of,” lettered in bold, black characters.
He orders me away from his door. He weeps. He pleads. Now he is shouting obscenities.
I’ve been here for days
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