Spookverhalen!

[Cocosmeisje]

Hee allemaal!

Ik was op zoek naar spookverhalen, je weet wel, gewoon leuke, en toen kwam bij de volgende topic:

http://forum.scholieren.com/showthre...=752519&page=6

Ik kon alleen geen berichten meer toevoegen. Dus leek het me leuk om een nieuwe topic voor spookverhalen op te zetten.

Als je een leuke hebt, deel hem dan! Ben wel benieuwd of die van ons beter zijn dan de vorige

[Cocosmeisje]

Ik zal wel beginnen..

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Er was eens een meisje, en die vond het eng om alleen thuis te zijn. Al haar vriendinnetjes lachten haar uit. Toen haar ouders een avondje weg gingen besloot ze om het toch maar een keertje te proberen. Zodra haar ouders weg waren, sprintte ze naar boven, poetste razendsnel haar tanden en ging in haar bed liggen. Het meisje had een hondje, zo`n schoothondje en megaklein. Hij was haar maatje als ze bang was. Ze had hem een soort trucje geleerd, als je je hand uistak likte hij eraan. Het gaf haar een beetje veilig gevoel, net zoals duimzuigen dat geeft voor kleine kinderen. Dus toen ze in haar bed ging liggen, stak ze haar hand uit, en het hondje likte eraan. Ze trok haar dekbed over zich heen, en draaide zich om. Toen begon het: drup... drup... drup...drup... Het klonk als een kraan die lekte. "Shit! " dacht het meisje, want nu moest ze haar warme bed weer uit om door dat grote, donkere, enge huis te gaan om de lekkende kraan te vinden. Haar ouders waren nogal rijk, dus ze hadden veel kranen in huis. Ze sprintte naar de kelder, maar nee, die kraan was het niet. In de bijkeuken dan? Nee, ook niet. In de waskamer misschien? Maar nee, daar lekte de kraan ook niet. Ze rende vliegensvlug door het hele huis, op zoek naar de lekkende kraan. Alle kamers ging ze door, behalve de badkamer, want daar had ze zojuist nog haar tanden gepoetst. Daar kon het dus niet zijn. Toen ze niks kon vinden ging ze weer naar haar kamer. Ze ging in bed liggen, trok de dekens over zich heen en stak haar hand uit. Het hondje likte weer aan haar hand. Ze hoorde het weer: drup...drup...drup...drup... Weer ging ze het hele huis langs, behalve de badkamer. Weer vond ze de kraan niet. Toen besloot ze toch maar even in de badkamer te kijken, je weet wel, voor de zekerheid. Dat had ze beter niet kunnen doen. Toen ze in de badkamer kwam, kreeg ze de schrik van haar leven: Ze zag haar hondje, haar lieve kleine hondje, haar maatje, opgehangen aan het plafond in de badkamer. In zijn buik was een diepe snee gemaakt, waar het bloed uitdruppelde: drup...drup...drup...drup... Met dat zelfde bloed was op het raam geschreven: Maar wie likte er dan aan je hand?

-----

Er was eens een meisje van een jaar of tien, en die was jarig. Ze kreeg allemaal leuke spulletjes, maar met een ding was ze niet zo blij.. Van haar oudtante, die ze toch al niet mocht, kreeg ze een pop. Een lelijk oud ding, hij was nog van de oma van die tante geweest. 's Avonds nam ze al haar cadeautjes mee naar boven, behalve die pop, die smeet ze in de prullenbak. Ze was er sowieso veel te oud voor! Ze ging slapen, en was al een heel eind weg toen ze een sinistere stem, steeds sneller en hoger hoorde zingen:

Ik sta in de prullenbak,
Ik sta naast de prullenbak,
Ik sta in de kamer,
Ik sta in de hal,
Ik sta onder aan de trap,
Ik sta op de trap,
Ik sta bovenaan de trap,
Ik sta in de gang,
Ik sta bij je deur,
Ik sta in je kamer,
Ik sta bij je bed...

Toen schrok ze wakker. Had ze gedroomd? Naar haar idee was het geen droom geweest... Ze was hartstikke bang en knipte haar bedlampje aan. Toen ze verschrikt om zich heen keek, zag ze die lelijke, oude pop van haar tante op de grond liggen. Ze werd woedend, want die wou ze helemaal niet op haar kamer hebben! Ze smeet hem uit het raam, weg, ver weg, naar het veld tegenover haar huis. Ze ging weer in haar bed liggen.

Hetzelfde gebeurde nog een keer, maar nu klonk de stem nog veel harder, alsof iemand in haar oor stond te praten..

Ik sta op het gras,
Ik sta op de straat,
Ik sta bij de achterdeur,
Ik sta in de keuken,
Ik sta in de hal
Ik sta onder aan de trap,
Ik sta op de trap,
Ik sta bovenaan de trap,
Ik sta in de gang,
Ik sta bij je deur,
Ik sta in je kamer,
Ik sta bij je bed,
Ik sta op je AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

De gil van het meisje was drie straten verder nog te horen. Toen haar ouders naar hun dochters kamer renden, was ze al niet meet te redden. Een grote bloedvlek verspreidde zich over de nachtjapon van het meisje. De pop, met haar eeuwige glimlach, lag naast het bed, het gezichtje vol met bloed...

[Balance]

Dit topic lijkt mij meer iets voor DK dan L&G, dus ik verplaats hem

Haar ouders waren nogal rijk, dus ze hadden veel kranen in huis.

[Just_Wanna_Jump]

Cocosmeisje schreef:

Ik zal wel beginnen..

-------
Er was eens een meisje, en die vond het eng om alleen thuis te zijn. Al haar vriendinnetjes lachten haar uit. Toen haar ouders een avondje weg gingen besloot ze om het toch maar een keertje te proberen. Zodra haar ouders weg waren, sprintte ze naar boven, poetste razendsnel haar tanden en ging in haar bed liggen. Het meisje had een hondje, zo`n schoothondje en megaklein. Hij was haar maatje als ze bang was. Ze had hem een soort trucje geleerd, als je je hand uistak likte hij eraan. Het gaf haar een beetje veilig gevoel, net zoals duimzuigen dat geeft voor kleine kinderen. Dus toen ze in haar bed ging liggen, stak ze haar hand uit, en het hondje likte eraan. Ze trok haar dekbed over zich heen, en draaide zich om. Toen begon het: drup... drup... drup...drup... Het klonk als een kraan die lekte. "Shit! " dacht het meisje, want nu moest ze haar warme bed weer uit om door dat grote, donkere, enge huis te gaan om de lekkende kraan te vinden. Haar ouders waren nogal rijk, dus ze hadden veel kranen in huis. Ze sprintte naar de kelder, maar nee, die kraan was het niet. In de bijkeuken dan? Nee, ook niet. In de waskamer misschien? Maar nee, daar lekte de kraan ook niet. Ze rende vliegensvlug door het hele huis, op zoek naar de lekkende kraan. Alle kamers ging ze door, behalve de badkamer, want daar had ze zojuist nog haar tanden gepoetst. Daar kon het dus niet zijn. Toen ze niks kon vinden ging ze weer naar haar kamer. Ze ging in bed liggen, trok de dekens over zich heen en stak haar hand uit. Het hondje likte weer aan haar hand. Ze hoorde het weer: drup...drup...drup...drup... Weer ging ze het hele huis langs, behalve de badkamer. Weer vond ze de kraan niet. Toen besloot ze toch maar even in de badkamer te kijken, je weet wel, voor de zekerheid. Dat had ze beter niet kunnen doen. Toen ze in de badkamer kwam, kreeg ze de schrik van haar leven: Ze zag haar hondje, haar lieve kleine hondje, haar maatje, opgehangen aan het plafond in de badkamer. In zijn buik was een diepe snee gemaakt, waar het bloed uitdruppelde: drup...drup...drup...drup... Met dat zelfde bloed was op het raam geschreven: Maar wie likte er dan aan je hand?

-----

Er was eens een meisje van een jaar of tien, en die was jarig. Ze kreeg allemaal leuke spulletjes, maar met een ding was ze niet zo blij.. Van haar oudtante, die ze toch al niet mocht, kreeg ze een pop. Een lelijk oud ding, hij was nog van de oma van die tante geweest. 's Avonds nam ze al haar cadeautjes mee naar boven, behalve die pop, die smeet ze in de prullenbak. Ze was er sowieso veel te oud voor! Ze ging slapen, en was al een heel eind weg toen ze een sinistere stem, steeds sneller en hoger hoorde zingen:

Ik sta in de prullenbak,
Ik sta naast de prullenbak,
Ik sta in de kamer,
Ik sta in de hal,
Ik sta onder aan de trap,
Ik sta op de trap,
Ik sta bovenaan de trap,
Ik sta in de gang,
Ik sta bij je deur,
Ik sta in je kamer,
Ik sta bij je bed...

Toen schrok ze wakker. Had ze gedroomd? Naar haar idee was het geen droom geweest... Ze was hartstikke bang en knipte haar bedlampje aan. Toen ze verschrikt om zich heen keek, zag ze die lelijke, oude pop van haar tante op de grond liggen. Ze werd woedend, want die wou ze helemaal niet op haar kamer hebben! Ze smeet hem uit het raam, weg, ver weg, naar het veld tegenover haar huis. Ze ging weer in haar bed liggen.

Hetzelfde gebeurde nog een keer, maar nu klonk de stem nog veel harder, alsof iemand in haar oor stond te praten..

Ik sta op het gras,
Ik sta op de straat,
Ik sta bij de achterdeur,
Ik sta in de keuken,
Ik sta in de hal
Ik sta onder aan de trap,
Ik sta op de trap,
Ik sta bovenaan de trap,
Ik sta in de gang,
Ik sta bij je deur,
Ik sta in je kamer,
Ik sta bij je bed,
Ik sta op je AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

De gil van het meisje was drie straten verder nog te horen. Toen haar ouders naar hun dochters kamer renden, was ze al niet meet te redden. Een grote bloedvlek verspreidde zich over de nachtjapon van het meisje. De pop, met haar eeuwige glimlach, lag naast het bed, het gezichtje vol met bloed...

ik ken die verhalen xD
het is het zelfde soort..,alleen anders vertelt

[Cocosmeisje]

Balance schreef:

Dit topic lijkt mij meer iets voor DK dan L&G, dus ik verplaats hem

Okee!

[Cocosmeisje]

Just_Wanna_Jump schreef:

ik ken die verhalen xD
het is het zelfde soort..,alleen anders vertelt

Weet jij nog een?

[Cherry Springs]

Op broodjeaap.nl staan er heel veel, onder Griezel. Ik las ze vroeger graag.

Oh, jammer ik wilde Mystiek gaan aanhalen, maar daar kom je dus al vandaan.

Mss dat ik later nog enge dingen post.

[fizzle-fluffy]

Nou, mijn moeder had laatst wel een heeele akelige. We zaten te ontbijten met een grote groep en het ging over bang zijn enzo. En toen zei mijn moeder tegen een vriendin:
Als je echt iets heel akeligs en engs wilt zien,

Spoiler

moet je achter je kijken.

[Cocosmeisje]

fizzle-fluffy schreef:

Nou, mijn moeder had laatst wel een heeele akelige. We zaten te ontbijten met een grote groep en het ging over bang zijn enzo. En toen zei mijn moeder tegen een vriendin:
Als je echt iets heel akeligs en engs wilt zien,

Spoiler

moet je achter je kijken.

die is echt geniaal!

[Cocosmeisje]

Hee allemaal!

DIt verhaal komt uit Ameland, op de vorige Spookverhalen! topic werd er ook al over gesproken, maar die hebben het verhaal helemaal vernaggeld, dus hier komt de goede:

-----
Lang geleden, leefde er een vrouw op Ameland. Ze heette Rixt. Alle vrouwen uit haar dorp bleven thuis om voor de kinderen te zorgen, maar zij was altijd op het strand te vinden om te jutten. Haar zoon was op zee. Toen er bijna niks meer te vinden was, had ze een trucje bedacht: als ze grote vuren zou maken op het strand zouden alle schepen denken dat daar de haven was en strandden. Zij kreeg dan alle spullen die waren aangespoeld. Dit deed zij al een tijdje, toen ze lucht kreeg van een schip met een grote vracht kostbare spullen. Ze stookte een vuur, zo groot als het maar kon, en het schip strandde, alle aanwezigen verdronken. Toen de lichamen aanspoelden, samen met de vracht, zag ze dat haar zoon een van de doden was. Dat was op zaterdag avond, om 12 uur. Het schijnt dat je haar gil nog steeds kunt horen vanaf het strand en een aantal mensen zeggen haar te hebben gezien.

[Uice]

Deze vind ik wel leuk.

There was a hunter in the woods, who, after a long day hunting, was in the middle of an immense forest. It was getting dark, and having lost his bearings, he decided to head in one direction until he was clear of the increasingly oppressive foliage. After a what seemed like hours, he came across a cabin in a small clearing. Realizing how dark it had grown, he decided to see if he could stay there for the night. He approached, and found the door ajar. Nobody was inside. The hunter flopped down on the single bed, deciding to explain himself to the owner in the morning. As he looked around, he was suprised to see the walls adorned by many portraits, all painted in incredible detail. Without exception, they appeared to be staring down at him, their features twisted into looks of hatred. Staring back, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Making a concerted effort to ignore the many hateful faces, he turned to face the wall, and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

Face down in an unfamiliar bed, he turned blinking in unexpected sunlight. Looking up, he discovered that the cabin had no portraits, only windows.

Oef, ik krijg het nog koud ook daarvan

http://forum.scholieren.com/showthre...ht=creepypasta Creepypasta!

[SacredRose]

op de hoop dat ik het goed vertaald heb.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
de vrouw volgde de politieagent naar de wc's van het gebouw. het was donker en alle lichten waren uit.
de vrouw volgde de instructies van de politieagent en ging de wc in en ze wachten tot ze de stem weer hoorden.
en toen hoorden ze de stem: "wil je een rode mantel?" het licht knipperde. en de vrouw doodsbang antwoordde de vrouw "j-ja" en toen was het even stil.
tot dat er opeens een ijzingwekkende schreeuw uit de wc kwam. de politieagent trok de wc deur open en zag dat de vrouw helemaal bedekt was onder het bloed alsof ze een rode mantel droeg.

Een politieagent die een vrouw meeneemt naar de wc's van een gebouw? Waarom? Ligt het nou aan mij of is 90% van het verhaal niet verteld?

[Cocosmeisje]

sacredrose schreef:

op de hoop dat ik het goed vertaald heb.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
de vrouw volgde de politieagent naar de wc's van het gebouw. het was donker en alle lichten waren uit.
de vrouw volgde de instructies van de politieagent en ging de wc in en ze wachten tot ze de stem weer hoorden.
en toen hoorden ze de stem: "wil je een rode mantel?" het licht knipperde. en de vrouw doodsbang antwoordde de vrouw "j-ja" en toen was het even stil.
tot dat er opeens een ijzingwekkende schreeuw uit de wc kwam. de politieagent trok de wc deur open en zag dat de vrouw helemaal bedekt was onder het bloed alsof ze een rode mantel droeg.

Kun je mij anders het normale verhaal sturen? Volgens mij klopt er iets niet....

[Kingofthemall]

Cocosmeisje schreef:

Kun je mij anders het normale verhaal sturen? Volgens mij klopt er iets niet....

Nou ik vind ze zo ook wel goed! Waarom zou je ze veranderen

[Cocosmeisje]

Ik wil ook gewoon het echte verhaal lezen en fouten maken is menselijk, dus...

Ik zou de rest van het verhaal inderdaad ook wel willen lezen, hij lijkt nogal incompleet zo.

[Cocosmeisje]

-------
Een vriendin van me ging een poosje geleden oppassen, toen de ouders weg waren hoorde ze op de autoradio dat er een tbser is ontsnapt uit een tbs kliniek in hun omgeving.
Het meisje zat in de woonkamer tv te kijken, en zag opeens dat ze een beeld van een clown in de woonkamer hadden staan, dat met een grijns op zijn gezicht in haar richting keek.. Ze vond het vreemd want de vorige keer hadden ze hem nog niet. Ze bracht de kinderen naar bed, en toen ze weer beneden kwam leek het beeld anders te staan. Ze vertrouwde het niet en belde de ouders voor bevestiging dat het een beeld is. 'We hebben geen beeld van een clown in onze woonkamer.' Zeiden ze. Toen ze ophing was het beeld opeens verdwenen.
Uit schrik pakte ze de kinderen uit bed en rende het huis uit.
Daarna heeft ze nooit meer durven oppassen.

---

Oooh die kende ik al maar dan in 't Engels, en die vind ik eigenlijk enger

---
A few years ago, a mother and father decided they needed a break, so they wanted to head out for a night on the town. They called their most trusted babysitter. When the babysitter arrived, the two children were already fast asleep in bed. So the babysitter just got to sit around and make sure everything was okay with the children. Later that night, the babysitter got bored and went to watch TV, but she couldn't watch it downstairs because they did not have cable downstairs (the parents didn't want children watching too much garbage).

So, she called them and asked them if she could watch cable in the parent's room. Of course, the parents said it was ok, but the babysitter had one final request... she asked if she could cover up the angel statue outside the bedroom window with a blanket or cloth, at the very least close the blinds, because it made her nervous. The phone line was silent for a moment, and the father who was talking to the babysitter at the time said, "Take the children and get out of the house... we will call the police. We do not have an angel statue."

The police found all three of the house occupants dead within three minutes of the call. No angel statue was ever found

[Chick Rock]

Die is idd enger ja

Behalve dan dat ie enger is met een clown dan met een engel.

[Chick Rock]

Dat is zo, clowns zijn echt supereng

[Cocosmeisje]

Sidhe schreef:

Oooh die kende ik al maar dan in 't Engels, en die vind ik eigenlijk enger

---
A few years ago, a mother and father decided they needed a break, so they wanted to head out for a night on the town. They called their most trusted babysitter. When the babysitter arrived, the two children were already fast asleep in bed. So the babysitter just got to sit around and make sure everything was okay with the children. Later that night, the babysitter got bored and went to watch TV, but she couldn't watch it downstairs because they did not have cable downstairs (the parents didn't want children watching too much garbage).

So, she called them and asked them if she could watch cable in the parent's room. Of course, the parents said it was ok, but the babysitter had one final request... she asked if she could cover up the angel statue outside the bedroom window with a blanket or cloth, at the very least close the blinds, because it made her nervous. The phone line was silent for a moment, and the father who was talking to the babysitter at the time said, "Take the children and get out of the house... we will call the police. We do not have an angel statue."

The police found all three of the house occupants dead within three minutes of the call. No angel statue was ever found

Die staat op de link naar Creepypasta, daarom had ik die r niet opgezet

Freyja schreef:

Behalve dan dat ie enger is met een clown dan met een engel.

oh haha dat vond ik juist niet

[Cocosmeisje]

Dat komt omdat clowns gewoon ENORM eng zijn! Brrrr...

[Yoshimare]

Vannacht was eng om te gaan slapen. Mn broer moest gisteravond zonodig vertellen dat er allemaal rare dingen in zijn huis gebeuren. Toen zaten we allemaal enge ervaringen uit te wisselen enzo.
En toen ik in bed lag hoorde ik luid en duidelijk het geluid van een lepel ofzo dat met kracht in de gootsteen werd gegooid.
Geen idee wat dat ineens was.

[Biertank 52]

[Laisve]

Een babysitter is op een avond aan het oppassen. Dan gaat de telefoon. En nog een keer, en nog een keer. Het houdt maar niet op. Wanneer ze opneemt zegt een onbekende stem dat ze naar de kinderen moet kijken. Ze hangt op. Maar na het vijfde telefoontje is de babysitter het zat.

Ze belt de politie die belooft de telefoontjes na te trekken. Even later wordt er aangebeld. Aan de deur staan twee agenten met getrokken pistool. De telefoontjes blijken uit het huis zelf te komen. De agenten stormen naar de kinderkamer. De kinderen lijken vredig te slapen, maar wanneer een van de agenten de dekens wegtrekt, blijken alleen de hoofdjes er nog te liggen.

[Chick Rock]

Gatverdegatver Nu durf ik nooit meer op te passen!

Wat een vieze verhalen

[Cocosmeisje]

Laisve schreef:

Een babysitter is op een avond aan het oppassen. Dan gaat de telefoon. En nog een keer, en nog een keer. Het houdt maar niet op. Wanneer ze opneemt zegt een onbekende stem dat ze naar de kinderen moet kijken. Ze hangt op. Maar na het vijfde telefoontje is de babysitter het zat.

Ze belt de politie die belooft de telefoontjes na te trekken. Even later wordt er aangebeld. Aan de deur staan twee agenten met getrokken pistool. De telefoontjes blijken uit het huis zelf te komen. De agenten stormen naar de kinderkamer. De kinderen lijken vredig te slapen, maar wanneer een van de agenten de dekens wegtrekt, blijken alleen de hoofdjes er nog te liggen.

Die ken ik,die is van die film van de televisie!

Toen ik dit topic zag dacht ik dat het nogal kinderachtig was maar sommige verhalen zijn echt eng, vooral die van die clown

[Yoshimare]

Laisve schreef:

Een babysitter is op een avond aan het oppassen. Dan gaat de telefoon. En nog een keer, en nog een keer. Het houdt maar niet op. Wanneer ze opneemt zegt een onbekende stem dat ze naar de kinderen moet kijken. Ze hangt op. Maar na het vijfde telefoontje is de babysitter het zat.

Ze belt de politie die belooft de telefoontjes na te trekken. Even later wordt er aangebeld. Aan de deur staan twee agenten met getrokken pistool. De telefoontjes blijken uit het huis zelf te komen. De agenten stormen naar de kinderkamer. De kinderen lijken vredig te slapen, maar wanneer een van de agenten de dekens wegtrekt, blijken alleen de hoofdjes er nog te liggen.

Is dat nu die ene film of niet? Want die laatste zin ken ik me niet herinneren.

[Yoshimare]

Cocosmeisje schreef:

Ik zal wel beginnen..

-------
Er was eens een meisje, en die vond het eng om alleen thuis te zijn. Al haar vriendinnetjes lachten haar uit. Toen haar ouders een avondje weg gingen besloot ze om het toch maar een keertje te proberen. Zodra haar ouders weg waren, sprintte ze naar boven, poetste razendsnel haar tanden en ging in haar bed liggen. Het meisje had een hondje, zo`n schoothondje en megaklein. Hij was haar maatje als ze bang was. Ze had hem een soort trucje geleerd, als je je hand uistak likte hij eraan. Het gaf haar een beetje veilig gevoel, net zoals duimzuigen dat geeft voor kleine kinderen. Dus toen ze in haar bed ging liggen, stak ze haar hand uit, en het hondje likte eraan. Ze trok haar dekbed over zich heen, en draaide zich om. Toen begon het: drup... drup... drup...drup... Het klonk als een kraan die lekte. "Shit! " dacht het meisje, want nu moest ze haar warme bed weer uit om door dat grote, donkere, enge huis te gaan om de lekkende kraan te vinden. Haar ouders waren nogal rijk, dus ze hadden veel kranen in huis. Ze sprintte naar de kelder, maar nee, die kraan was het niet. In de bijkeuken dan? Nee, ook niet. In de waskamer misschien? Maar nee, daar lekte de kraan ook niet. Ze rende vliegensvlug door het hele huis, op zoek naar de lekkende kraan. Alle kamers ging ze door, behalve de badkamer, want daar had ze zojuist nog haar tanden gepoetst. Daar kon het dus niet zijn. Toen ze niks kon vinden ging ze weer naar haar kamer. Ze ging in bed liggen, trok de dekens over zich heen en stak haar hand uit. Het hondje likte weer aan haar hand. Ze hoorde het weer: drup...drup...drup...drup... Weer ging ze het hele huis langs, behalve de badkamer. Weer vond ze de kraan niet. Toen besloot ze toch maar even in de badkamer te kijken, je weet wel, voor de zekerheid. Dat had ze beter niet kunnen doen. Toen ze in de badkamer kwam, kreeg ze de schrik van haar leven: Ze zag haar hondje, haar lieve kleine hondje, haar maatje, opgehangen aan het plafond in de badkamer. In zijn buik was een diepe snee gemaakt, waar het bloed uitdruppelde: drup...drup...drup...drup... Met dat zelfde bloed was op het raam geschreven: Maar wie likte er dan aan je hand?

-----

Er was eens een meisje van een jaar of tien, en die was jarig. Ze kreeg allemaal leuke spulletjes, maar met een ding was ze niet zo blij.. Van haar oudtante, die ze toch al niet mocht, kreeg ze een pop. Een lelijk oud ding, hij was nog van de oma van die tante geweest. 's Avonds nam ze al haar cadeautjes mee naar boven, behalve die pop, die smeet ze in de prullenbak. Ze was er sowieso veel te oud voor! Ze ging slapen, en was al een heel eind weg toen ze een sinistere stem, steeds sneller en hoger hoorde zingen:

Ik sta in de prullenbak,
Ik sta naast de prullenbak,
Ik sta in de kamer,
Ik sta in de hal,
Ik sta onder aan de trap,
Ik sta op de trap,
Ik sta bovenaan de trap,
Ik sta in de gang,
Ik sta bij je deur,
Ik sta in je kamer,
Ik sta bij je bed...

Toen schrok ze wakker. Had ze gedroomd? Naar haar idee was het geen droom geweest... Ze was hartstikke bang en knipte haar bedlampje aan. Toen ze verschrikt om zich heen keek, zag ze die lelijke, oude pop van haar tante op de grond liggen. Ze werd woedend, want die wou ze helemaal niet op haar kamer hebben! Ze smeet hem uit het raam, weg, ver weg, naar het veld tegenover haar huis. Ze ging weer in haar bed liggen.

Hetzelfde gebeurde nog een keer, maar nu klonk de stem nog veel harder, alsof iemand in haar oor stond te praten..

Ik sta op het gras,
Ik sta op de straat,
Ik sta bij de achterdeur,
Ik sta in de keuken,
Ik sta in de hal
Ik sta onder aan de trap,
Ik sta op de trap,
Ik sta bovenaan de trap,
Ik sta in de gang,
Ik sta bij je deur,
Ik sta in je kamer,
Ik sta bij je bed,
Ik sta op je AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

De gil van het meisje was drie straten verder nog te horen. Toen haar ouders naar hun dochters kamer renden, was ze al niet meet te redden. Een grote bloedvlek verspreidde zich over de nachtjapon van het meisje. De pop, met haar eeuwige glimlach, lag naast het bed, het gezichtje vol met bloed...

Ik dacht dat het hier om waargebeurde verhalen ging!

Uice schreef:

Deze vind ik wel leuk.

There was a hunter in the woods, who, after a long day hunting, was in the middle of an immense forest. It was getting dark, and having lost his bearings, he decided to head in one direction until he was clear of the increasingly oppressive foliage. After a what seemed like hours, he came across a cabin in a small clearing. Realizing how dark it had grown, he decided to see if he could stay there for the night. He approached, and found the door ajar. Nobody was inside. The hunter flopped down on the single bed, deciding to explain himself to the owner in the morning. As he looked around, he was suprised to see the walls adorned by many portraits, all painted in incredible detail. Without exception, they appeared to be staring down at him, their features twisted into looks of hatred. Staring back, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Making a concerted effort to ignore the many hateful faces, he turned to face the wall, and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

Face down in an unfamiliar bed, he turned blinking in unexpected sunlight. Looking up, he discovered that the cabin had no portraits, only windows.

Creepy.

[Cocosmeisje]

Nee joh Wat denk je nou zelf, een levende pop?

Er zou in Amerika, ik geloof dat het die stad is waar men al die auto's produceert, ieder jaar op een welbepaalde datum, om middernacht een trein aankomen. Een trein van veroudert model. De trein houdt er halt op het anders ongebrukte buitenste spoor. De trein heeft stipt 2 minuten zijn deuren open, waarna die weer sluiten en de trein zijn reis vervolgt. Niemand weet waar die trein vandaan komt en waar hij naartoe reidt. De trein bereikt nooit het volgend station. Op miraculeuse weize is de trein onderweg weer in hetzelfde niets verdwenen, als waar het uit vandaan kwam.

Soms gebeurt het dat gedurende de 2 minutten dat de deuren open zijn, er mensen instappen. Vaak onwetende toeristen die per ongeluk op het buitenste spoor zijn beland en menen de laatste trein terug te hebben gehaald. En die mensen worden nooit meer terug gezien...

Sommigen zeggen dat de trein in werkelijkheid een geestverscheining is. Het fantoom van een trein die nu bijna 80 jaar terug, tragisch ontspoord was. De machinist zou op die fatale rit gek zijn geworden en tegen veel te hoge snelheid de trein de boch in hebben gejaagd. Hij zou vervloekt zijn om sinsdien elke jaar die rit opnieuw te doen. Crash & Burn. A one way drive straight to hell...

---

Stok oud verhaal. Komt ook in licht aangepaste vorm voor in een aflevering van Hey Arnold dacht ik. En bestaan ook nog een handvol moderne varianten op. Gaande zelfs van een film crew die per ongeluk op die trein terecht kwam. De tapes zouden zijn teruggevonden maar door de Amerikaanse veiligheidsdienst geconfisceerd zijn. Ze zouden tonen hoe de hel eruit ziet...

Aan jullie om te geloven wat er waar van mogen zijn in ieder geval.

[Trimm Trabb]

Guts van Chuck Palahniuk

Spoiler

Inhale.

Take in as much air as you can.

This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now.

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.

That something too awful to name.

People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French: Esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…

As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.

That's the Spirit of the Stairway.

The trouble is even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.

Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.

Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.

It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.

After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.

He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.

On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.

Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.

Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.

The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.

From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.

It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.

This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.

The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.

This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.

On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.

They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.

Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.

What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.

Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.

That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the uncle.

In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.

As the French would say: Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?

Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.

One minute, I'm settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.

One minute, I've got enough air, and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.

My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.

I do this again and again.

This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.

And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.

It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.

Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.

People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.

Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.

Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.

The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.

That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.

So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.

Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.

It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.

It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.

Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working - unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.

What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctor's call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.

That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding onto what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.

God forbid my folks see my dick.

My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.

You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.

A lamb-skin condom, that's just plain old intestine.

You can see what I'm up against.

You let go for a second, and you're gutted.

You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.

You don't swim, and you drown.

It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.

What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.

Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped swim trunks.

What even the French won't talk about.

That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say: "I need that like I need a hole in my head…" Russian people say: "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole…"

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse

Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.

Hell… even if you're Russian, some day you just might want those teeth.

Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.

It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night.

If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.

It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.

All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…

I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.

After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was thirteen.

Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."

Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second…"

Then my sister missed her period.

Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.

Ever.

That is our invisible carrot.

You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.

I still have not.

End

[mepsteen]

http://forum.scholieren.com/showthre...ht=creepypasta

[fizzle-fluffy]

Ik moet die verhalen echt niet lezen, bah.

[mepsteen]

A few years ago, a mother and father decided they needed a break, so they wanted to head out for a night on the town. They called their most trusted babysitter. When the babysitter arrived, the two children were already fast asleep in bed. So the babysitter just got to sit around and make sure everything was okay with the children. Later that night, the babysitter got bored and went to watch TV, but she couldn't watch it downstairs because they did not have cable downstairs (the parents didn't want children watching too much garbage). So, she called them and asked them if she could watch cable in the parent's room. Of course, the parents said it was ok, but the babysitter had one final request... she asked if she could cover up the angel statue outside the bedroom window with a blanket or cloth, at the very least close the blinds, because it made her nervous. The phone line was silent for a moment, and the father who was talking to the babysitter at the time said, "Take the children and get out of the house... we will call the police. We do not have an angel statue."

The police found all three of the house occupants dead within three minutes of the call. No angel staue was ever found.

Cocosmeisje schreef:

Ik zal wel beginnen..

-------
Er was eens een meisje, en die vond het eng om alleen thuis te zijn. Al haar vriendinnetjes lachten haar uit. Toen haar ouders een avondje weg gingen besloot ze om het toch maar een keertje te proberen. Zodra haar ouders weg waren, sprintte ze naar boven, poetste razendsnel haar tanden en ging in haar bed liggen. Het meisje had een hondje, zo`n schoothondje en megaklein. Hij was haar maatje als ze bang was. Ze had hem een soort trucje geleerd, als je je hand uistak likte hij eraan. Het gaf haar een beetje veilig gevoel, net zoals duimzuigen dat geeft voor kleine kinderen. Dus toen ze in haar bed ging liggen, stak ze haar hand uit, en het hondje likte eraan. Ze trok haar dekbed over zich heen, en draaide zich om. Toen begon het: drup... drup... drup...drup... Het klonk als een kraan die lekte. "Shit! " dacht het meisje, want nu moest ze haar warme bed weer uit om door dat grote, donkere, enge huis te gaan om de lekkende kraan te vinden. Haar ouders waren nogal rijk, dus ze hadden veel kranen in huis. Ze sprintte naar de kelder, maar nee, die kraan was het niet. In de bijkeuken dan? Nee, ook niet. In de waskamer misschien? Maar nee, daar lekte de kraan ook niet. Ze rende vliegensvlug door het hele huis, op zoek naar de lekkende kraan. Alle kamers ging ze door, behalve de badkamer, want daar had ze zojuist nog haar tanden gepoetst. Daar kon het dus niet zijn. Toen ze niks kon vinden ging ze weer naar haar kamer. Ze ging in bed liggen, trok de dekens over zich heen en stak haar hand uit. Het hondje likte weer aan haar hand. Ze hoorde het weer: drup...drup...drup...drup... Weer ging ze het hele huis langs, behalve de badkamer. Weer vond ze de kraan niet. Toen besloot ze toch maar even in de badkamer te kijken, je weet wel, voor de zekerheid. Dat had ze beter niet kunnen doen. Toen ze in de badkamer kwam, kreeg ze de schrik van haar leven: Ze zag haar hondje, haar lieve kleine hondje, haar maatje, opgehangen aan het plafond in de badkamer. In zijn buik was een diepe snee gemaakt, waar het bloed uitdruppelde: drup...drup...drup...drup... Met dat zelfde bloed was op het raam geschreven: Maar wie likte er dan aan je hand?

Oh, die ken ik met 'MOORDENAARS KUNNEN OOK LIKKEN'

Trimm Trabb schreef:

Guts van Chuck Palahniuk

Spoiler

Inhale.

Take in as much air as you can.

This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now.

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.

That something too awful to name.

People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French: Esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…

As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.

That's the Spirit of the Stairway.

The trouble is even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.

Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.

Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.

It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.

After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.

He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.

On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.

Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.

Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.

The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.

From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.

It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.

This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.

The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.

This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.

On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.

They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.

Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.

What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.

Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.

That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the uncle.

In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.

As the French would say: Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?

Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.

One minute, I'm settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.

One minute, I've got enough air, and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.

My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.

I do this again and again.

This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.

And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.

It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.

Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.

People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.

Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.

Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.

The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.

That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.

So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.

Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.

It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.

It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.

Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working - unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.

What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctor's call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.

That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding onto what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.

God forbid my folks see my dick.

My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.

You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.

A lamb-skin condom, that's just plain old intestine.

You can see what I'm up against.

You let go for a second, and you're gutted.

You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.

You don't swim, and you drown.

It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.

What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.

Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped swim trunks.

What even the French won't talk about.

That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say: "I need that like I need a hole in my head…" Russian people say: "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole…"

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse

Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.

Hell… even if you're Russian, some day you just might want those teeth.

Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.

It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night.

If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.

It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.

All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…

I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.

After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was thirteen.

Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."

Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second…"

Then my sister missed her period.

Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.

Ever.

That is our invisible carrot.

You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.

I still have not.

End

Liefde. <3

Trimm Trabb schreef:

Guts van Chuck Palahniuk

Spoiler

Inhale.

Take in as much air as you can.

This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now.

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.

That something too awful to name.

People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French: Esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…

As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.

That's the Spirit of the Stairway.

The trouble is even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.

Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.

Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.

It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.

After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.

He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.

On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.

Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.

Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.

The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.

From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.

It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.

This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.

The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.

This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.

On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.

They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.

Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.

What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.

Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.

That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the uncle.

In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.

As the French would say: Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?

Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.

One minute, I'm settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.

One minute, I've got enough air, and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.

My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.

I do this again and again.

This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.

And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.

It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.

Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.

People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.

Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.

Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.

The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.

That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.

So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.

Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.

It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.

It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.

Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working - unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.

What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctor's call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.

That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding onto what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.

God forbid my folks see my dick.

My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.

You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.

A lamb-skin condom, that's just plain old intestine.

You can see what I'm up against.

You let go for a second, and you're gutted.

You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.

You don't swim, and you drown.

It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.

What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.

Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped swim trunks.

What even the French won't talk about.

That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say: "I need that like I need a hole in my head…" Russian people say: "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole…"

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse

Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.

Hell… even if you're Russian, some day you just might want those teeth.

Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.

It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night.

If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.

It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.

All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…

I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.

After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was thirteen.

Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."

Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second…"

Then my sister missed her period.

Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.

Ever.

That is our invisible carrot.

You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.

I still have not.

End

heel dat boek waar dit fragment in staat is een grote heerlijke smerigheid inclusief kleuter realdoll sekspop waar scheermesjes inzitten etc

[Brrt]

Een buurvrouw wordt gevraagd om via de babyfoon een avondje op de baby te passen. De moeder waarschuwt de vrouw dat het kind altijd erg lang huilt voordat het in slaap valt, en dat ze liever heeft dat de buurvrouw dan niet gaat kijken. De baby moet namelijk leren om meteen te gaan slapen.

Door de babyfoon klinkt inderdaad een flink gehuil. De buurvrouw heeft wel medelijden met de baby, maar besluit het advies van de moeder op te volgen en niet te gaan kijken.

Als de baby na anderhalf uur nog steeds huilt, wordt het de vrouw te gek en loopt ze toch naar het huis van de buren, naar de babykamer. Daar begint een grote rat net aan het vijfde vingertje.

Trimm Trabb schreef:

Guts van Chuck Palahniuk

Spoiler

Inhale.

Take in as much air as you can.

This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now.

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.

That something too awful to name.

People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French: Esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…

As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.

That's the Spirit of the Stairway.

The trouble is even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.

Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.

Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.

It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.

After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.

He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.

On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.

Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.

Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.

The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.

From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.

It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.

This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.

The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.

This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.

On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.

They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.

Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.

What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.

Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.

That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the uncle.

In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.

As the French would say: Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?

Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.

One minute, I'm settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.

One minute, I've got enough air, and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.

My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.

I do this again and again.

This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.

And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.

It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.

Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.

People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.

Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.

Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.

The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.

That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.

So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.

Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.

It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.

It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.

Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working - unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.

What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctor's call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.

That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding onto what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.

God forbid my folks see my dick.

My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.

You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.

A lamb-skin condom, that's just plain old intestine.

You can see what I'm up against.

You let go for a second, and you're gutted.

You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.

You don't swim, and you drown.

It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.

What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.

Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped swim trunks.

What even the French won't talk about.

That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say: "I need that like I need a hole in my head…" Russian people say: "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole…"

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse

Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.

Hell… even if you're Russian, some day you just might want those teeth.

Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.

It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night.

If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.

It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.

All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…

I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.

After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was thirteen.

Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."

Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second…"

Then my sister missed her period.

Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.

Ever.

That is our invisible carrot.

You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.

I still have not.

End

Waarom lees ik dit nu pas, epic!

[TheCrispyAngle]

Ik ben pas lid en weet niet helemaal hoe het hier werkt enzo, maar ik weet echt een vet leuk verhaal!Misschien is het niet zo eng voor sommige, maar ik wil het gewoon effe kwijt

Er was eens een houthakker. Zijn naam was....Hans. Hij had een huisje midden in het bos en in dat huisje had hij een atelier. Wat hij daar deed....houten poppen maken. Hij had maar 1 speciale pop. Haar naam was Emily. Wat hij niet wist was dat er een geest in Emily zat...
Op een avond (of nacht ofzo, ik weet het ook niet meer) huppelde er een klein blond meisje in het bos met mooie blauwe ogen en een leuke glimlach Haar naam was....Anna.(Of Anne of Ans -_-) Hans was niet in zijn huisje, maar dat wist Anna niet. Ze zag het huisje daar en was nieuwschierig. Ze liep naar binnen en ja hoor...Precies voor haar stond er een houten plank en op die plank zat een houten pop met zwarte krullen en grote ogen. Emily. Naast Emily zat haar vader...Bob. Anna liep langzaam dichterbij. Uiteindlijk stond ze precies voor Emily. Bob keek Anna aan en opeens...*bliksemflitsen* *horrormuziek* draaide hij z'n oogballen naar achter en kwam er bloed uit stromen!!Hij zei met een kraakstem:"Pas op voor Emily!" Anna schrok zich dood en keek naar Emily. Emily giechelde en sprak met een dubbelstem:"Hehehehe...Hans had geen kinderen. Hij had alleen maar poppen. En als je hem ziet..." Emily sprok op het hoofd van Anna en zei:"Zeg hem dan dat het tijd is voor wraak...Gehehehe..." Anna gilde en Emily rolde langzaam met een mesje Anna's oogballen eruit...Over Hans weet ik niks meer =P
EINDE!!!=D