I’m Glad I live in Australia…
The legend has circulated for years in several forms. A version naming a suspect and specific location was posted to a web site in the late 1990s by a “Timothy C. Forbes”. This version states that in 1904, an asylum prison in Clifton, Virginia was shut down by successful petition of the growing population of residents in Fairfax County. During the transfer of inmates to a new facility, the transport carrying the inmates crashes; some prisoners escaped or were found dead. A search party finds all but one of them.
During this time, locals allegedly began to find hundreds of cleanly skinned, half-eaten carcasses of rabbits hanging from the trees in the surrounding areas. Another search of the area was ordered and the police located the remains of Marcus Wallster, left in a similar fashion to the rabbit carcasses hanging in a nearby tree or under a bridge overpass—known locally as the “Bunny Man Bridge”—along the railroad tracks at Colchester Road. Officials name the last missing inmate, Douglas J. Grifon, as their suspect and call him “the bunny man”.
In this version, officials finally manage to locate Grifon but, during their attempt to apprehend him at the overpass, he nearly escapes before being hit by an oncoming train where the original transport crashed. They say after the train passed the police said that they heard laughter coming from the site. It is eventually revealed that Grifon was institutionalized for killing his family and children on Easter Sunday.
For years after the “Bunny Man’s” death, in the time approaching Halloween carcasses are said to be found hanging from the overpass and surrounding areas. A figure is reportedly seen by passersby making their way through the one lane bridge tunnel.
Conley says this version is demonstrably false. Among other inconsistencies, Conley notes that “there has never been an asylum for the insane in Fairfax County” and that “Lorton Prison didn’t come into existence until 1910, and even then it was an arm of the District of Columbia Corrections system, not Virginia’s.” Court records show neither a Grifon nor a Wallster and, writes Conley, “there is not and never has been a Clifton Town Library.”
Personally, this place doesn’t seem as creepy to me.
Prypiat is in the northern Ukraine and once housed the workers and scientists of the Chernobyl Nuclear Plant. Founded in the 70s, it held as many as 50,000 people. Then in 1986, according to a footnote in the official Soviet records, there was a small malfunction in the Chernobyl reactor, so for safety reasons the city was evacuated.
Since then, Prypiat has been desolated, its buildings decaying, the giant Ferris Wheel just standing there all alone with nobody to ride it. The city actually had an entire amusement park for the families of the Chernobyl employees. Because when you are living next to a nuclear reactor which was outdated even by 1986 Soviet standards, the only thing on your mind is bumper cars.
The city is located in what is known as the Zone of Alienation, the 30-kilometer radius directly affected by the Chernobyl “minor technical difficulty” over 20 years ago. Despite that, Prypiat is now opened to the public because the radiation levels have apparently went down significantly over the years. We guess we have a different view on radiation than the government of Ukraine. They obviously have a scale for it, while we consider any radiation a very bad thing.
Aside from the inherent risk of getting bit by a radioactive snail and becoming the lamest superhero ever, there is another reason why you will never see us among the tourists occasionally visiting Prypiat.
We told you this was a place built for families and wouldn’t you know it, they have a nursery, which according to certain claims is currently paved with baby shoes and abandoned dolls. So, Prypiat is basically an abandoned radioactive ghost Soviet baby amusement park.
I’m not sure but I think they demolished this place in 2009.
The exclusive San Zhi resort in Taiwan was supposed to be the destination for bored, rich folk who always wondered what it would be like to live inside an over-sized hockey puck. Construction of Pod City started around the 80s but was quickly shut down after a series of mysterious on-site fatal accidents… or it could have been due to Godzilla attacks for all we know. There is actually very little official information on San Zhi. We can’t even confirm how many people died there or if they screamed something about eyeless children eating their souls. The whole thing is shrouded in secrecy.
Currently, most of the information on the complex comes from the locals who—what a surprise—refuse to go near the damn thing. And thus the abandoned 90 pods just stand there, waiting for anyone foolish enough to wander in.
This video is apparently 100% true but I’ll let you be the judge of that.
This would be one of the places I want to visit
Called “the perfect place to die,” the Aokigahara forest has the unfortunate distinction as the world’s second most popular place to take one’s life. (The first is the Golden Gate Bridge.) Since the 1950s, Japanese businessmen have wandered in, and at least 500 of them haven’t wandered out, at an increasing rate of between 10 and 30 per year. Recently these numbers have increased even more, with a record 78 suicides in 2002.
Japanese spiritualists believe that the suicides committed in the forest have permeated Aokigahara’s trees, generating paranormal activity and preventing many who enter from escaping the forest’s depths. Complicating matters further is the common experience of compasses being rendered useless by the rich deposits of magnetic iron in the area’s volcanic soil.
Due to the vastness of the forest, desperate visitors are unlikely to encounter anyone once inside the so-called “Sea of Trees,” so the police have mounted signs reading “Your life is a precious gift from your parents,” and “Please consult the police before you decide to die!” on trees throughout.
Contemporary news outlets noted the recent spike in suicides in the forest, blamed more on Japan’s economic downturn than on the romantic ending of Seicho Matsumoto’s novel Kuroi Jukai, which revitalized the so-called Suicide Forest’s popularity among those determined to take their final walk. (The novel culminates in Aokigahara as the characters are driven to joint-suicide.)
Locals say they can easily spot the three types of visitors to the forest: trekkers interested in scenic vistas of Mount Fuji, the curious hoping for a glimpse of the macabre, and those souls who don’t plan on returning.
What those hoping to take their lives may not consider is the impact the suicides have on the locals and forest workers. In the words of one local man, “It bugs the hell out of me that the area’s famous for being a suicide spot.” And a local police officer said, “I’ve seen plenty of bodies that have been really badly decomposed, or been picked at by wild animals… There’s nothing beautiful about dying in there.”
The forest workers have it even worse than the police. The workers must carry the bodies down from the forest to the local station, where the bodies are put in a special room used specifically to house suicide corpses. The forest workers then play jan-ken-pon—which English-speakers call rock, paper, scissors—to see who has to sleep in the room with the corpse.
It is believed that if the corpse is left alone, it is very bad luck for the yurei (ghost) of the suicide victims. Their spirits are said to scream through the night, and their bodies will move on their own.
This is a story I found on the Internet. Apparently this is true.
When I was little, Daddy always gave me a bath. Every night. It was always just the right sort of warm, but I’ve never liked water. Not since that one night.
When you’re underwater and you open your eyes, you look up into another world that seems completely distorted from reality. I didn’t mind having my head underwater, but opening my eyes would let the soapy water into them and made them sting, so I usually left them shut.
Daddy always made me put my head all the way under to wash my hair through. He would take the back of my head on one hand and lay the other on my stomach, and I would count to three before forcing my head above the surface.
Sometimes the soapy water would get in my eyes even if I didn’t open them, and when I came out of the water they would sting. I pushed the palms of my hands into them until there were little fireworks, and it made them feel better.
One night when I was about four Daddy was giving me a bath as usual. I was excited today, because I got a new rubber ducky - a pink one. Blue was my favorite color. But Mummy always said that pink was more of a girls color.
Anyway, after a little while in the bath, Daddy told me it was time to put my head under. I could feel the shampoo starting to drip down along my hairline and I didn’t want it to sting my eyes so I shut them as tightly as I could before his hand gently held my head down.
One. Two. Three. Push. I tried to sit up but Daddy’s hand on my stomach held me firmly in place. Of course I struggled, but he was a grown man, so my attempts were to no avail. After what felt like forever but was probably only a couple of seconds, I opened my eyes underwater.
I will never forget what I saw then.
Daddy was there, over me. But he didn’t look like Daddy anymore. His mouth was smiling, but he didn’t look happy; I couldn’t tell for sure, but his teeth looked sharper, longer, and rotten. But the worst part was his eyes.
It looked like someone had scooped them out of his face, all I could see were two wells that appeared to ooze blackness. The longer he held me underwater, the bigger they grew. Soon all I could see was black.