Being an amateur photographer, I often stop when I see an opportunity for a great picture, especially in the country. Travelling on my own – against my mother’s wishes – I have the freedom to stop anywhere I choose, where possible. Never afraid of haunted stories or urban myths, I usually ignore people who try to frighten me away from a shoot.
A few years ago I was travelling through the mid-west and decided to stop at a marshland to eat my picnic lunch.
I sat on a blanket in a section near the water and checked out my equipment, not seeing the old man coming over.
He approached cautiously and smiled when I looked up. He apologized for startling me and asked what I was doing.
When I told him that I planned to take some photos, he cautioned against going too deep into the grasslands.
He told me that there had been a young serial killer who – fifty years earlier – had slaughtered over twenty people.
Even though I’m not easily scared, the details around the fact that he’d buried them close by was a little disturbing.
I now have a healthy respect for haunted stories
After the old man left I ignored his warnings, going deeper into the grasslands, enjoying the sun and gentle breeze.
I snapped many pictures and while reviewing them – standing among the tall bulrushes – I saw a strange image.
Enlarging one of the photos, I was shocked to see a long hand with bloody fingers poking up from the grass.
At that moment, the wind cooled down at least fifteen degrees and a weird sound came rushing from nowhere.
It was like a dull roar, building from the ground up. I lowered my camera and saw that dark clouds were swarming.
Funnily enough, the sun was still shining in patches, while the dark sky moved like a kaleidoscope of patches.
Fear started to grip me as I heard a deep groan coming from underneath my feet and spreading out about thirty feet.
I felt a rumble in the earth and while I paid attention to the ground, I didn’t notice the bulrushes shifting about.
Then I felt more than just the grasses and bulrushes brushing my skin. I slowly looked up and screamed.
At least ten arms were waving among the bulrushes. Some of the hands were scratched – like they’d been digging!
Then I saw a skinny man with a bandaged head
He was naked and looked like he’d been stretched. His bandages covered the upper-most part of his head and neck.
Walking straight towards me, I saw his mouth murmuring – uttering words and sounds I couldn’t understand.
Too scared to turn and run – for fear of the hands grabbing me and pulling me down, it seemed like a horror movie.
Suddenly a pair of hands grabbed my legs and tried to drag me down. I screamed and resisted, trying to escape.
The murmuring man was now reaching his long arms towards me and grabbing at my face. I kicked and screamed.
As I wrenched myself around, one of the hands dragged my camera from my neck and I slammed down hard.
Now I was on the ground, with many hands reaching out of the soil and ripping at my clothes and hair.
I felt the two hands – belonging to the bandaged man – slipping under my arms and hoisting me up.
The chanting built to a fever pitch. I pulled away angrily and ran for my life, not stopping until I was back at my car.
When I turned around, there was no sign of the beastly man and his army of grasping hands. I drove off in a wild panic, crying and praying for hours.
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