Our Little Paranormal Thread
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Foopzheart
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Shadowstar1922
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Foopzheart
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Re: Our Little Paranormal Thread
She's supposedly "alone" in the room before the kid runs out.
vaguely present
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Lamb
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Re: Our Little Paranormal Thread
Fuipui wrote:She's supposedly "alone" in the room before the kid runs out.
She No longer wants "it"...
I've lost my pieces.
Re: Our Little Paranormal Thread
I see that this thread is hanging by one "thread" Well, I'll fix it up with sad creepy pasta.
Violets
Growing up, I’d been a fan of being told stories when I went to sleep at night. My mother would tuck me in, making sure I was as comfortable as I could be under my blue-and-green covers before diving into another anecdote of her own choice. Her stories were always pleasant, and in the event that I found one a bit scary, she’d tone it down a bit for me. They ranged from all origins: some had been passed down through her family, some she’d memorized from books and fairy tales. Some were her own creations, and some were true stories, but typically I liked each and every one of them. A select few had appealed to me greatly, and I’d memorized them, able to retell them by heart whenever I desired.
The year of my ninth birthday, my mother fell ill. She would have various spasms throughout the day, vomiting all that she consumed. Some days were worse than others, and she would vomit blood instead. Her arms developed new scars on their own, and we never knew where they came from. Some were shallow and barely left a mark, while others were deep enough to spurt blood and beg for stitches. She’d cry in pain throughout the night, weeping out “it hurts, it hurts” all night long. I began to fear the night, began to tear up every time I saw the moon rise and tell me that my mother’s pain was about to begin anew, that the cycle was about to repeat yet again.
Even through her pain and suffering, my mother still always summed up the strength to limp into my room, ease herself onto the edge of my bed and comfort me with a story.
In her last few days, her stories would become shorter and shorter, as though she were trying to adjust to the thought of a night without telling me a story, or at least trying to get me to. A night which she would sleep and not awaken. A night which was foreshadowed by her condition. She tended to stay to telling me true stories in those last days of hers, weaving tales of her childhood and the memories of her graduation from college to pass the fleeting hours by. The shorter her stories became, the more anguished I was at the thought of losing my mother.
One night, the night she passed away, to be precise, she told me a story I’d never heard before, in a tone I’d never heard her use. It wasn’t evil or dark, per-say. It struck me more as a soft, motherly tone, but with a hidden inlay of sadness and depression, and just a hint of malevolence locked into the words. She’d been looking particularly sad and tormented by her pain that night. She’d cried and cried all day, gashes having opened in her legs overnight. I was considering offering to let her skip her story tonight, although she hadn’t missed a single story since I was a baby. It was like a tradition, a ritual. However, my less child-like instincts had told me, in a dark cloud in the back of my mind, that this may be the last story my mother ever tells me. It had been telling me this for weeks, but I believed the voice now more than ever.
She’d sat down on the foot of my bed again tonight, as she always had. She looked weary, exhausted, crippled, ready to finally submit to death’s embrace after her battle. She held my hand this night: she typically only held my hand while telling me a story if it was a stormy night, or if I’d felt scared for one reason or another. Tonight, I only felt sadness at her composure, at the way she was presented. I found myself more disturbed that she was doing this to me tonight, since there wasn’t a cloud to be found in the sky. She took a deep breath and began, her voice as weary as the rest of her.
“Flowers are a delicate thing, my son. Always remember that. They have just as much voice and volume as the rest of us, and yet they choose to stay rooted in the ground, portraying messages to one another silently. Over the centuries, we’ve begun to understand these messages. Think of how flowers are used today, what signs they convey. We pass roses onto our lovers. White carnations are an aspect of weddings, often. Sunflowers may be the sort of thing we grow with our loved ones, to remember and cherish them by. Every flower has a meaning, and we have long yet to understand them all. As you live your life, examine each and every flower you see, for it may be trying to tell you something important.”
Violets
Growing up, I’d been a fan of being told stories when I went to sleep at night. My mother would tuck me in, making sure I was as comfortable as I could be under my blue-and-green covers before diving into another anecdote of her own choice. Her stories were always pleasant, and in the event that I found one a bit scary, she’d tone it down a bit for me. They ranged from all origins: some had been passed down through her family, some she’d memorized from books and fairy tales. Some were her own creations, and some were true stories, but typically I liked each and every one of them. A select few had appealed to me greatly, and I’d memorized them, able to retell them by heart whenever I desired.
The year of my ninth birthday, my mother fell ill. She would have various spasms throughout the day, vomiting all that she consumed. Some days were worse than others, and she would vomit blood instead. Her arms developed new scars on their own, and we never knew where they came from. Some were shallow and barely left a mark, while others were deep enough to spurt blood and beg for stitches. She’d cry in pain throughout the night, weeping out “it hurts, it hurts” all night long. I began to fear the night, began to tear up every time I saw the moon rise and tell me that my mother’s pain was about to begin anew, that the cycle was about to repeat yet again.
Even through her pain and suffering, my mother still always summed up the strength to limp into my room, ease herself onto the edge of my bed and comfort me with a story.
In her last few days, her stories would become shorter and shorter, as though she were trying to adjust to the thought of a night without telling me a story, or at least trying to get me to. A night which she would sleep and not awaken. A night which was foreshadowed by her condition. She tended to stay to telling me true stories in those last days of hers, weaving tales of her childhood and the memories of her graduation from college to pass the fleeting hours by. The shorter her stories became, the more anguished I was at the thought of losing my mother.
One night, the night she passed away, to be precise, she told me a story I’d never heard before, in a tone I’d never heard her use. It wasn’t evil or dark, per-say. It struck me more as a soft, motherly tone, but with a hidden inlay of sadness and depression, and just a hint of malevolence locked into the words. She’d been looking particularly sad and tormented by her pain that night. She’d cried and cried all day, gashes having opened in her legs overnight. I was considering offering to let her skip her story tonight, although she hadn’t missed a single story since I was a baby. It was like a tradition, a ritual. However, my less child-like instincts had told me, in a dark cloud in the back of my mind, that this may be the last story my mother ever tells me. It had been telling me this for weeks, but I believed the voice now more than ever.
She’d sat down on the foot of my bed again tonight, as she always had. She looked weary, exhausted, crippled, ready to finally submit to death’s embrace after her battle. She held my hand this night: she typically only held my hand while telling me a story if it was a stormy night, or if I’d felt scared for one reason or another. Tonight, I only felt sadness at her composure, at the way she was presented. I found myself more disturbed that she was doing this to me tonight, since there wasn’t a cloud to be found in the sky. She took a deep breath and began, her voice as weary as the rest of her.
“Flowers are a delicate thing, my son. Always remember that. They have just as much voice and volume as the rest of us, and yet they choose to stay rooted in the ground, portraying messages to one another silently. Over the centuries, we’ve begun to understand these messages. Think of how flowers are used today, what signs they convey. We pass roses onto our lovers. White carnations are an aspect of weddings, often. Sunflowers may be the sort of thing we grow with our loved ones, to remember and cherish them by. Every flower has a meaning, and we have long yet to understand them all. As you live your life, examine each and every flower you see, for it may be trying to tell you something important.”
Hi guys!
Re: Our Little Paranormal Thread
Violets 2
Sleeping that night was rough, as I was tossing and turning, trying to ignore my mother’s cries of pain. They were more jagged tonight, more agonized, more foreboding of her passing than ever. Around 11:00, they ceased for good. I sobbed quietly into my pillow, reciting my mother’s stories to myself in the depths of my mind, trying to keep her next to me as long as I possibly could.
Her funeral was arranged, and I was stone-faced as I gazed at the spectacle of my mother’s burying on that day. My father was crying, my aunts and uncles were crying, my grandparents were crying, and yet, standing there, dressed in a mourning shade of black, I felt not a drop of sadness. Her agony was gone, and she was in a better place now. I still had her stories, and every time I heard one I felt warmer.
With the exception of the her final story, that is. No matter how many times I’d recited it to myself, having stored it deep in my memory, I never felt a single drop of warmth from it. It sounded too depressed and laced with surrender to enjoy. It didn’t feel like a story, more like a passage you might see in a textbook, or something similar. Over the years, I’d finally forgotten the entire story, save the general idea of it, the explanation of the messages of the flowers. Unable to follow in my mother’s footsteps, I never saw anything special about the flowers as she did, or might have.
Nine years after her death, as my eighteenth birthday drew near, I went to visit my mother’s grave. Our soil was quite fertile where I had grown up, and naturally, flowers had sprung up around her gravestone, which, in itself, was faded and riddled with vines and leaves. I was no expert on flowers, but I recognized the plants themselves to be violets. One, I noticed, was tenderly pushing at the topsoil, trying to bathe itself in the warmth of the sun and evolve into the beauty of those around it. Although it had been so long since I’d heard her story or visited her grave, I felt drawn, attached, almost, to this tiny bud beneath the soil. I felt as though there was a secret tangled in its roots, and I shook my head at the thought that a plant, of all things, could be hiding something from me.
Nevertheless, that night, I vomited for no reason. I called in sick to work, and my girlfriend, who’d been staying with me for several months, called up a doctor to make a house call and examine me. I was feverish, and felt flu-like symptoms, but there was nothing the doctor saw that was out of the ordinary. Albeit our confusion at the causeless symptoms, he ordered me to be put on bedrest for several days, and gave me medicine for the nausea.
The next morning, I went to visit my mother’s grave again, almost drawn there by an invisible force. Something compelled me to visit, and I wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. I prayed to her, as I always did, and told her about my day. As I was just about to leave, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the violet seedling had germinated a bit more, just beginning to develop its first leaves.
The next day, I awoke with slashes on my arms that burned, swelling and oozing as though they were infected. My girlfriend, who was trained in First Aid, immediately wrapped them in tight bandages after coating them in a thick layer of disinfectant. There were four total, all of varying depths and severities. The pain became more intense at night, and the moment the moon climbed to the top of the night sky, I shouted in agony at the stars, my wounds ablaze in unseen pain, as though someone was tearing away at my skin just beneath them. Even through this pain, I awoke at the crack of dawn to visit my mother’s grave once more. The baby violet was growing at a steady pace, its leaf halfway grown, and four small buds protruding from the stem.
The following hours of the day, I was weary, my pain having dulled during the day from my gashes, and spent most of the day lying in bed as my girlfriend checked on me occasionally, leaving a fresh wet cloth on my forehead, or sitting and spooning hot soup into my mouth. I was lethargic and desired sleep more than anything on this planet, but found my body wracked with insomnia. My exhaustion tormented me to the point where I was seeing things. Shadows moving out of the corners of my eyes. Objects moving ever so slightly, as though they were being pushed or pulled. Everything seemed to fuel my paranoia. Nevertheless, I was drawn to my mother’s grave by a magnetic force yet again, my eyes heavy and blurry from the lack of rest. Although the view blurred and swam before my eyes, I could clearly see the slowly blossoming buds on the stem of the growing violet.
That morning, I began to see the first symptoms of my vision fading. I couldn’t tell certain objects apart anymore, and obviously I was unable to read. My skin was becoming pale, my best features leaving me one by one. Even with glasses I was barely unable to tell my girlfriend apart from a man walking down the street, or a child playing tag with his friends outside. As the day progressed, my vision blurred and darkened, so that by night, there wasn’t much difference between what I saw when I closed my eyes and what I saw when I opened them. My wounds burned again as usual, and I knew my time was coming soon. Even so, I found myself begging my girlfriend to drive me to my mother’s grave the next morning, and she watched helplessly as I limped to my mother’s grave, giving her a brief prayer before gazing down at the plant. It was too large to call a seedling now, as it was nearing complete maturity, its buds slowly opening and nearing full bloom before my dimming eyes.
The fifth day of my nightmarish sickness, there were no new symptoms, and everything seemed to dull, as though my pain was nearing its end at last, but with its passing would follow my whole life, my being, my existence. That day, my girlfriend sobbed as I told her that I was nearing the end. I jotted down a detailed will as I awaited the doctor’s arrival as we called him once more. He told me solemnly that there was nothing he could do, and yet I felt no remorse that I would finally be relieved of my illness. After all the preparations were made, including my girlfriend calling up a funeral home tearfully in advance, I asked for one last drive to my mother’s grave.
My girlfriend helped me limp towards the symbolic stone, yet again, and I felt my strength fading the closer I drew to it. Just as I reached down to touch the stone one last time before I passed on, the ground came out from under me, meeting the side of my face head on. My girlfriend shrieked, picking up the phone and pounding the keys for 911 to do what they could for me. As blood trickled from both my skull and my mouth, I saw, just as my eyes began to close for the final time, that the violet was in full bloom, a deep indigo, as though all this time it had leeched off of my spirit.
Who would be next to fertilize the violets, as my mother and I had?
Sleeping that night was rough, as I was tossing and turning, trying to ignore my mother’s cries of pain. They were more jagged tonight, more agonized, more foreboding of her passing than ever. Around 11:00, they ceased for good. I sobbed quietly into my pillow, reciting my mother’s stories to myself in the depths of my mind, trying to keep her next to me as long as I possibly could.
Her funeral was arranged, and I was stone-faced as I gazed at the spectacle of my mother’s burying on that day. My father was crying, my aunts and uncles were crying, my grandparents were crying, and yet, standing there, dressed in a mourning shade of black, I felt not a drop of sadness. Her agony was gone, and she was in a better place now. I still had her stories, and every time I heard one I felt warmer.
With the exception of the her final story, that is. No matter how many times I’d recited it to myself, having stored it deep in my memory, I never felt a single drop of warmth from it. It sounded too depressed and laced with surrender to enjoy. It didn’t feel like a story, more like a passage you might see in a textbook, or something similar. Over the years, I’d finally forgotten the entire story, save the general idea of it, the explanation of the messages of the flowers. Unable to follow in my mother’s footsteps, I never saw anything special about the flowers as she did, or might have.
Nine years after her death, as my eighteenth birthday drew near, I went to visit my mother’s grave. Our soil was quite fertile where I had grown up, and naturally, flowers had sprung up around her gravestone, which, in itself, was faded and riddled with vines and leaves. I was no expert on flowers, but I recognized the plants themselves to be violets. One, I noticed, was tenderly pushing at the topsoil, trying to bathe itself in the warmth of the sun and evolve into the beauty of those around it. Although it had been so long since I’d heard her story or visited her grave, I felt drawn, attached, almost, to this tiny bud beneath the soil. I felt as though there was a secret tangled in its roots, and I shook my head at the thought that a plant, of all things, could be hiding something from me.
Nevertheless, that night, I vomited for no reason. I called in sick to work, and my girlfriend, who’d been staying with me for several months, called up a doctor to make a house call and examine me. I was feverish, and felt flu-like symptoms, but there was nothing the doctor saw that was out of the ordinary. Albeit our confusion at the causeless symptoms, he ordered me to be put on bedrest for several days, and gave me medicine for the nausea.
The next morning, I went to visit my mother’s grave again, almost drawn there by an invisible force. Something compelled me to visit, and I wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. I prayed to her, as I always did, and told her about my day. As I was just about to leave, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the violet seedling had germinated a bit more, just beginning to develop its first leaves.
The next day, I awoke with slashes on my arms that burned, swelling and oozing as though they were infected. My girlfriend, who was trained in First Aid, immediately wrapped them in tight bandages after coating them in a thick layer of disinfectant. There were four total, all of varying depths and severities. The pain became more intense at night, and the moment the moon climbed to the top of the night sky, I shouted in agony at the stars, my wounds ablaze in unseen pain, as though someone was tearing away at my skin just beneath them. Even through this pain, I awoke at the crack of dawn to visit my mother’s grave once more. The baby violet was growing at a steady pace, its leaf halfway grown, and four small buds protruding from the stem.
The following hours of the day, I was weary, my pain having dulled during the day from my gashes, and spent most of the day lying in bed as my girlfriend checked on me occasionally, leaving a fresh wet cloth on my forehead, or sitting and spooning hot soup into my mouth. I was lethargic and desired sleep more than anything on this planet, but found my body wracked with insomnia. My exhaustion tormented me to the point where I was seeing things. Shadows moving out of the corners of my eyes. Objects moving ever so slightly, as though they were being pushed or pulled. Everything seemed to fuel my paranoia. Nevertheless, I was drawn to my mother’s grave by a magnetic force yet again, my eyes heavy and blurry from the lack of rest. Although the view blurred and swam before my eyes, I could clearly see the slowly blossoming buds on the stem of the growing violet.
That morning, I began to see the first symptoms of my vision fading. I couldn’t tell certain objects apart anymore, and obviously I was unable to read. My skin was becoming pale, my best features leaving me one by one. Even with glasses I was barely unable to tell my girlfriend apart from a man walking down the street, or a child playing tag with his friends outside. As the day progressed, my vision blurred and darkened, so that by night, there wasn’t much difference between what I saw when I closed my eyes and what I saw when I opened them. My wounds burned again as usual, and I knew my time was coming soon. Even so, I found myself begging my girlfriend to drive me to my mother’s grave the next morning, and she watched helplessly as I limped to my mother’s grave, giving her a brief prayer before gazing down at the plant. It was too large to call a seedling now, as it was nearing complete maturity, its buds slowly opening and nearing full bloom before my dimming eyes.
The fifth day of my nightmarish sickness, there were no new symptoms, and everything seemed to dull, as though my pain was nearing its end at last, but with its passing would follow my whole life, my being, my existence. That day, my girlfriend sobbed as I told her that I was nearing the end. I jotted down a detailed will as I awaited the doctor’s arrival as we called him once more. He told me solemnly that there was nothing he could do, and yet I felt no remorse that I would finally be relieved of my illness. After all the preparations were made, including my girlfriend calling up a funeral home tearfully in advance, I asked for one last drive to my mother’s grave.
My girlfriend helped me limp towards the symbolic stone, yet again, and I felt my strength fading the closer I drew to it. Just as I reached down to touch the stone one last time before I passed on, the ground came out from under me, meeting the side of my face head on. My girlfriend shrieked, picking up the phone and pounding the keys for 911 to do what they could for me. As blood trickled from both my skull and my mouth, I saw, just as my eyes began to close for the final time, that the violet was in full bloom, a deep indigo, as though all this time it had leeched off of my spirit.
Who would be next to fertilize the violets, as my mother and I had?
Hi guys!
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Percyception
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Re: Our Little Paranormal Thread
;le revive;
That Squidward one scared the daylights out of me.
That Squidward one scared the daylights out of me.
twenty one pilots is so dumb. there isn't even 21 of them
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Awesome Creep
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Re: Our Little Paranormal Thread
FWG Leader wrote:a zombie pony?
Awwww, that is adorable!
All my friends are heathens, take it slow...
WATCH IT!
|-/
WATCH IT!
|-/
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Foopzheart
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Re: Our Little Paranormal Thread
Hello, creepy little noodles, I have something to post:
Candle Cove Experiences: Tales of the Laughingstock
Occurring to the fact that most kiddie shows have turned up dead ends, one show, Candle Cove, has made an impact here. I made myself hunt down whatever cast remained of the show, regardless of their fear. I wanted to know EVERYTHING about this show. But in the process, I came to understand that there hid something much darker aboard it than just what I was told and what I had heard. I have posted some of my thoughts into the page at points, to have a feel for the interviewees here. I note that those being interviewed are indicated by the quotation marks around them. You may notice that a censor will appear. I did that so no one may want to bombard me with questions and such. It's a privacy thing and I'm sorry if I offended the readers. With that, I present to you this page in the lore...
CANDLE COVE EXPERIENCES: TALES OF THE LAUGHINGSTOCK
DAY 1
My first knowing of the CANDLE COVE lore came out on the NetNostalgia Forum back some time, however many of the episodes have never been found and many of the props are either long gone or spread out over the world, however after this mention of the show, I had to dig further into it.
What I discovered over my round trip was something dark residing within the studios itself...
The show, originally called "Pirate Place" was loosely based on an old, quite lost short story called "The Nickerbocker's Tale" from 1767 about a little Irish boy arriving to a land of pirates to find his way back home. The story's writer, a man believed to be named Collin Caulkry, vanished into the dark. Stories about it say that he was a madman who married well and had a daughter who vanished without a trace near his home. This inspired him to write the story and shortly after, he was found dead by his wife.
The story was lost for several years until in 1970, when a local TV station in Ashland found the rights to the story and converted it into a children's series. I managed to find some of the studios workers but none of them were able to tell me about it...Well, there was one...
DAY 2
Asking this woman to nearly relive her nightmare of 1971 was nearly impossible. But thankfully she decided to, reluctantly anyways...
"Ok Ms..." "I'm not comfortable giving my last name OR my first." Okay then, mind if I call you 'Jane'?" "No, I don't." "Okay then. Well Jane, I understand you had a part in the kiddie show 'Candle Cove' correct?" "Set designer, well part of it. I helped in the construction of The Laughingstock and many of the characters as well." "I see, was it a good experience?" "Oh very. It was a great one, until towards the end of the show itself." "How so?" "Well that damn Grimes, that's what it was." Grimes? Emerson Grimes, the show's director? "Is there another Grimes you know on the series?"
Here she lit a cigarette, something that from her appearance and fear of Grimes fortold, I actually expected from her.
"Well how did he manage to scare you?" "How did he...HE WAS A NUTJOB! A LOONEY! He forced a five year old girl (Jodie Silver) to near heatstroke, changed scripts. Everything was fine until the show grew darker and darker." How dark was it getting?
Now this I kind of knew about, the infamous question to the Skin-Taker and his answer to Janice.
"When a skeleton named the Skin Taker proclaims that the reason for his mouth to move weird is for grinding your skin, you will have some problems. Grimes was insane. But the last straw was the LAST episode of the series."
I knew about this and moved onto her designs of the show. She explained that it was a damned kiddie show that turned into a "puppet show from hell" overnight. She wanted to end the conversation but not before I asked about any surviving members or crew...
"There are a few of them still around but you'll have to find them on your own..."
DAY 3
I did however manage to find Jodie Silver, who played Janice on the show, now an adult of 45. She resides with her husband, Damon Louis and her two kids. If you see her now, she has lost all of that childhood spunk that she had on the show. She works as a writer of Pirate stories and haunted mysteries. I managed to record, on tape, an interview with her...
"Um, are you Ms. Jodie Silver?" "Why I haven't been called that in years. Yes, I am Jodie Silver, but people call me Jodie Louis nowadays." Oh, I'm sorry about the mixup, I'm (censored) and I am writing a book on an old kiddie show you used to be on." "Jesus Christ. Please tell me you are joking!"
It was here that I noticed she seemed agitated at the sound of a book being written on something she was trying so hard to put behind her.
"It's no joke Mrs. Louis." "Well I won't warn you that you are a total nutcase for doing it. That show has given me bad dreams, ruined my childhood and I have even had therapy because of it. I don't wish to speak about..." "Please Jodie, just one interview, that's all I'm asking for. Just one. Hell, if you have to go through therapy again for it, I'll personally pay out of pocket."
It was here she stood long and hard.
"Christ! Fine fine, meet me here for an interview."
With that, she handed me a card with her address on it. I promised she wouldn't regret this, but I had a feeling that she already was...
DAY 4
"Hello there Mrs. Louis." "Well, hi there. Come on in."
Her house wasn't big, but not small either. I could tell she had little ones running about from the sounds of kiddie shows floating faintly from the television set and many toys scattered about. It was like trying to walk through a forest of mousetraps without setting one off. Eventually we got to the small dining area of the home, with a good outlook over the water. A place to dream dreams.
Okay, now about the show. "Well (censored) it started out as a dream come true. I was a huge fan of shows like Jumbo's Circus, Sunshine City and Fisherman Fred, and I really wanted to be on a kiddie show. I got my wish when I heard the studio was looking for a young girl to play the role of 'Janice' for their new show. And sure there were many little girls who wanted the role so badly, so i did my best to win the studio over, which happened. I loved the idea of the show. I did my very best to do everything right. Turned out you should be careful of what you wish for." Why is that now? "I really don't want to tell you but I must...You see, on set, some changes started happening. Grimes would change scripts, things seemed to be a bit scary. And for the first episode to seem so mean and such was odd for a kid's show. And then that horrible last episode..." "What episode, the last episode of the first season?" "Wow (censored), you REALLY need to brush up on your history of this. There were two seasons of the show. The final episode of the second season was the worst ever."
I tenatively and carefully asked her to tell me...
"Screams! Just screams. Everyone screaming and that sick man Grimes destroying the sets. He told everyone to just scream, and loudly; many did. It got to the point where one of the actors, the man who played the Skin Taker (referring to Michael Colon) started to bleed. He nearly choked on his own blood. I bawled my eyes out."
It was there she started to cry, all of these memories coming back to her. She asked me to stop and I did. I explained I was sorry to bring back these memories. I never meant that as my intention.
"I remember the Skin Taker. He hung, his head tilted and low, his jaw hanging from one socket and parts of his arms torn off..."
DAY 5
I left to go find Michael Colon when I came across a yard sale (I know Creepypasta-ish right?). I asked them about some old recorded tapes I saw and they said they were mostly shows for their son when he was young. I noticed that some of them were from Candle Cove. Although they were very smudged and probably in horrible condition, I bought the videos from them anyway.
(Now its probably here where you would expect me to say that I popped in the tape and evil shit happened, blah blah blah yadda yadda Satan appeared threatening to rape my soul and Pirate Percy came at me in a dream as a cannibalistic demon. Something like a Creepypasta-ish event, right? That's not the case, folks.)
I popped it in and sure enough, static. But eventually it came on. Sure it was jumpy and it was a static juncture but eh, it was the show nonetheless. It was an odd first show, being that Janice was made fun of so horribly and that Percy would proclaim for her to not kill him. And the thought of kidnapping on the show was an odd tidbit to be in there. But I had to continue, sadly I didn't make it past Episode 2.
DAY 8
There was a gap due to a break for a while. I pursued my interest in finding any contact with crew members or cast member aside from 'Jane' and Jodie. I managed to find a Mr. Walter Shay, who was a stagehand on the show. I managed to write this letter:
Dear Mr. Shay,
My name is (censored), and I am writing a book entitled Candle Cove Experiences: Tales of the Laughingstock. I am interviewing whatever remaining crew and cast there are from the show. I was wondering if we could arrange a possible meeting with one another, or an actual interview. Of course, if that is alright with you? I can be contacted at the Nohoma Motel address (censored) thank you for your time.
I received a letter some time later...
Candle Cove Experiences: Tales of the Laughingstock
Occurring to the fact that most kiddie shows have turned up dead ends, one show, Candle Cove, has made an impact here. I made myself hunt down whatever cast remained of the show, regardless of their fear. I wanted to know EVERYTHING about this show. But in the process, I came to understand that there hid something much darker aboard it than just what I was told and what I had heard. I have posted some of my thoughts into the page at points, to have a feel for the interviewees here. I note that those being interviewed are indicated by the quotation marks around them. You may notice that a censor will appear. I did that so no one may want to bombard me with questions and such. It's a privacy thing and I'm sorry if I offended the readers. With that, I present to you this page in the lore...
CANDLE COVE EXPERIENCES: TALES OF THE LAUGHINGSTOCK
DAY 1
My first knowing of the CANDLE COVE lore came out on the NetNostalgia Forum back some time, however many of the episodes have never been found and many of the props are either long gone or spread out over the world, however after this mention of the show, I had to dig further into it.
What I discovered over my round trip was something dark residing within the studios itself...
The show, originally called "Pirate Place" was loosely based on an old, quite lost short story called "The Nickerbocker's Tale" from 1767 about a little Irish boy arriving to a land of pirates to find his way back home. The story's writer, a man believed to be named Collin Caulkry, vanished into the dark. Stories about it say that he was a madman who married well and had a daughter who vanished without a trace near his home. This inspired him to write the story and shortly after, he was found dead by his wife.
The story was lost for several years until in 1970, when a local TV station in Ashland found the rights to the story and converted it into a children's series. I managed to find some of the studios workers but none of them were able to tell me about it...Well, there was one...
DAY 2
Asking this woman to nearly relive her nightmare of 1971 was nearly impossible. But thankfully she decided to, reluctantly anyways...
"Ok Ms..." "I'm not comfortable giving my last name OR my first." Okay then, mind if I call you 'Jane'?" "No, I don't." "Okay then. Well Jane, I understand you had a part in the kiddie show 'Candle Cove' correct?" "Set designer, well part of it. I helped in the construction of The Laughingstock and many of the characters as well." "I see, was it a good experience?" "Oh very. It was a great one, until towards the end of the show itself." "How so?" "Well that damn Grimes, that's what it was." Grimes? Emerson Grimes, the show's director? "Is there another Grimes you know on the series?"
Here she lit a cigarette, something that from her appearance and fear of Grimes fortold, I actually expected from her.
"Well how did he manage to scare you?" "How did he...HE WAS A NUTJOB! A LOONEY! He forced a five year old girl (Jodie Silver) to near heatstroke, changed scripts. Everything was fine until the show grew darker and darker." How dark was it getting?
Now this I kind of knew about, the infamous question to the Skin-Taker and his answer to Janice.
"When a skeleton named the Skin Taker proclaims that the reason for his mouth to move weird is for grinding your skin, you will have some problems. Grimes was insane. But the last straw was the LAST episode of the series."
I knew about this and moved onto her designs of the show. She explained that it was a damned kiddie show that turned into a "puppet show from hell" overnight. She wanted to end the conversation but not before I asked about any surviving members or crew...
"There are a few of them still around but you'll have to find them on your own..."
DAY 3
I did however manage to find Jodie Silver, who played Janice on the show, now an adult of 45. She resides with her husband, Damon Louis and her two kids. If you see her now, she has lost all of that childhood spunk that she had on the show. She works as a writer of Pirate stories and haunted mysteries. I managed to record, on tape, an interview with her...
"Um, are you Ms. Jodie Silver?" "Why I haven't been called that in years. Yes, I am Jodie Silver, but people call me Jodie Louis nowadays." Oh, I'm sorry about the mixup, I'm (censored) and I am writing a book on an old kiddie show you used to be on." "Jesus Christ. Please tell me you are joking!"
It was here that I noticed she seemed agitated at the sound of a book being written on something she was trying so hard to put behind her.
"It's no joke Mrs. Louis." "Well I won't warn you that you are a total nutcase for doing it. That show has given me bad dreams, ruined my childhood and I have even had therapy because of it. I don't wish to speak about..." "Please Jodie, just one interview, that's all I'm asking for. Just one. Hell, if you have to go through therapy again for it, I'll personally pay out of pocket."
It was here she stood long and hard.
"Christ! Fine fine, meet me here for an interview."
With that, she handed me a card with her address on it. I promised she wouldn't regret this, but I had a feeling that she already was...
DAY 4
"Hello there Mrs. Louis." "Well, hi there. Come on in."
Her house wasn't big, but not small either. I could tell she had little ones running about from the sounds of kiddie shows floating faintly from the television set and many toys scattered about. It was like trying to walk through a forest of mousetraps without setting one off. Eventually we got to the small dining area of the home, with a good outlook over the water. A place to dream dreams.
Okay, now about the show. "Well (censored) it started out as a dream come true. I was a huge fan of shows like Jumbo's Circus, Sunshine City and Fisherman Fred, and I really wanted to be on a kiddie show. I got my wish when I heard the studio was looking for a young girl to play the role of 'Janice' for their new show. And sure there were many little girls who wanted the role so badly, so i did my best to win the studio over, which happened. I loved the idea of the show. I did my very best to do everything right. Turned out you should be careful of what you wish for." Why is that now? "I really don't want to tell you but I must...You see, on set, some changes started happening. Grimes would change scripts, things seemed to be a bit scary. And for the first episode to seem so mean and such was odd for a kid's show. And then that horrible last episode..." "What episode, the last episode of the first season?" "Wow (censored), you REALLY need to brush up on your history of this. There were two seasons of the show. The final episode of the second season was the worst ever."
I tenatively and carefully asked her to tell me...
"Screams! Just screams. Everyone screaming and that sick man Grimes destroying the sets. He told everyone to just scream, and loudly; many did. It got to the point where one of the actors, the man who played the Skin Taker (referring to Michael Colon) started to bleed. He nearly choked on his own blood. I bawled my eyes out."
It was there she started to cry, all of these memories coming back to her. She asked me to stop and I did. I explained I was sorry to bring back these memories. I never meant that as my intention.
"I remember the Skin Taker. He hung, his head tilted and low, his jaw hanging from one socket and parts of his arms torn off..."
DAY 5
I left to go find Michael Colon when I came across a yard sale (I know Creepypasta-ish right?). I asked them about some old recorded tapes I saw and they said they were mostly shows for their son when he was young. I noticed that some of them were from Candle Cove. Although they were very smudged and probably in horrible condition, I bought the videos from them anyway.
(Now its probably here where you would expect me to say that I popped in the tape and evil shit happened, blah blah blah yadda yadda Satan appeared threatening to rape my soul and Pirate Percy came at me in a dream as a cannibalistic demon. Something like a Creepypasta-ish event, right? That's not the case, folks.)
I popped it in and sure enough, static. But eventually it came on. Sure it was jumpy and it was a static juncture but eh, it was the show nonetheless. It was an odd first show, being that Janice was made fun of so horribly and that Percy would proclaim for her to not kill him. And the thought of kidnapping on the show was an odd tidbit to be in there. But I had to continue, sadly I didn't make it past Episode 2.
DAY 8
There was a gap due to a break for a while. I pursued my interest in finding any contact with crew members or cast member aside from 'Jane' and Jodie. I managed to find a Mr. Walter Shay, who was a stagehand on the show. I managed to write this letter:
Dear Mr. Shay,
My name is (censored), and I am writing a book entitled Candle Cove Experiences: Tales of the Laughingstock. I am interviewing whatever remaining crew and cast there are from the show. I was wondering if we could arrange a possible meeting with one another, or an actual interview. Of course, if that is alright with you? I can be contacted at the Nohoma Motel address (censored) thank you for your time.
I received a letter some time later...
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Re: Our Little Paranormal Thread
Dear (censored),
You may be the dumbest person I have ever met. Why in the hell would you dare to bring up such a subject that has haunted me and everyone else on that show. Do you know the absolute tragedy that has accumulated from that? But it's also a way to get things off of my chest from it. I will meet you for an interview, but what I say about that show is the 100% truth, eyewitness. You must not judge what I will say. If you do, I'll make sure that your journey will end with me. Enclosed is a card for where to meet me and at what time. I am not a snobbish man, but I won't do this again.
Sincerely,
Walter Shay.
DAY 15
I met with Walter Shay later on within the week, having to time it right. I left after Day 10 for Tulsa. It took some time to watch the other episodes but I managed. They did seem darker, as 'Jane' had stated before. Some of them are getting hard to watch, but i have to keep watching. The infamous 'To Grind Your Skin' episode came on. That was the worst, its one thing with a shitty motel tv that makes EVERY program like watching something from the 70's, its another when the damn tape keeps jumping and staticing out every two minutes. I felt like those people trying to watch porn on their old boxes, if you know what I mean. The scramblers.
Anyhow I got to meet him where he wanted. He came in on a wheelchair, explaining how he was paralyzed...
"Okay. Now Mr. Shay, you said you had information?" "Yeah. That whole damn show is a curse." "What do you mean by that?" "You only could dream of what I mean. It's exactly how i said it. That show is a curse." "I don't understand. Really, I don't." "I broke my leg on that show when a damn ladder fell off and smashed on my leg after I fell. I felt something when that hit, like something pushed that ladder down. Then the episodes got darker. There were two episodes that never aired in Season 2. Those two were the worst of the worst." What happened? "That Grimes in one episode has Janice, implied of course, to be cannibalized by The Skin Taker in a dream. Another one was to reveal that Nathan had been kidnapped and turned into part of a cape for that bastard. Hell, Grimes wanted to fucking have Janice killed and skinned alive. ON CAMERA! The end of the series was to have continued with Melrose winding up in the world looking for Janice. Me and the cast had to make sure that never happened so we shot those ideas down every time. This pissed him off, I think thats why he did that final episode, you know. The 'Screaming' Episode." "You mean he wanted to show a little girl being skinned alive?" "Yes. and that fucker is a monster too. He didn't vanish, I will tell you something I have never told anyone." "Go on..." "After we finished filming that episode, I went back to get something of mine. I saw Grimes pleading to the set pieces, as if they were all alive. He was pleading that he did his job right, he made sure. He started ripping his hair and teeth out. Screaming, trying to get whatever it was away from killing him. He fell backwards and hung himself on a cord. The sound of his neck snapping. God, it still haunts me." "They said that he just vanished. You're stating he lost it and accidentally killed himself?" "Yes!"
Now I knew something horrible did happen. It was freaking me out and now I wanted to stop, but I had to know what happened to Grimes.
"They never found the body. I got rid of it. I couldn't let them think that he had just wanted to make things happen to himself, I had to do something, out of the decency of my being at least." "What did you do?" "I buried him. I took his old lanky body out to the woods behind the studio and I buried him. I told myself there was nothing to fear but fear itself. But there was something there. I walked back through the studio and i felt something eerie present in the Skin-Taker puppet. Like it was watching me. I got out of there as quick as I could. Some time later, that damned final episode aired and I will never forget what I saw. It was horrible."
I was afraid of the show now. What was lying ahead of the episodes for me? I had some more stops to go to but I advised myself that if things get too deep, I would stop there and work with what I have....
DAY 19
Skin taker from candle cove by screamasinclair-d3axo95
A design photograph. Since none of the originals exist, someone did a concept design photograph of the Skin-Taker
Ischmael DugongAdded by Ischmael Dugong
It has been hard to sleep, I keep having the same nightmare: the Skin-Taker coming at me threatening to grind my skin. It's hard to wake up to just static because I can hear that fucking theme song in my head every time I do. I gave up a little but I had to keep going. I made a list of people who claimed to have items from the series. Some proved to be idiots who made the items themselves, indications were of the modern look to them. However, there were SOME who did have items. The items I have gotten so far are listed:
One of the Skin Taker's glass eyes
The arm of Pirate Percy
The Hat (albeit somewhat in tatters) of the Skin Taker
One of the eyes of Horrible Horace
Tooth belonging to The Laughingstock
The most unique item I found, and I swear to you I found this one at a house in Missouri. The original owner was a man named Kyle Bartlett. His daughter, Judith, was nice enough to show me part of a collection he had. He had the original Skin Taker head. Now I thought it was a fake since the jaw was intact, whereas 'Jane' had stated that the Jaw was partially torn off. As it turns out, Kyle was one of the crewmen on the show. He loved the Skin-Taker as a villain. When he found that it was so destroyed, he put much time inserting the jaw back in its place. I asked to have it, but she denied that request. I did see that it was missing one eye and its famed hat. I brought these items back and put them inside by myself. The head is now complete but she allowed no photography or video to be made, stating that her father wouldn't want his favorite to be spoiled. She sounded like a mother to a child.
I had to keep up. My search led me to New York, where one Mr. Michael Colon lived. The very SAME Michael Colon who voiced the Skin Taker on the show, the same Michael Colon whose son, Trevor Colon, was murdered in the Fall of 1981. Meeting him was hard, he wanted nothing to do with this but I had to interview him. Really I did. He refused for some time, until he decided to...
"Hello there Mr. Colon" "Yeah, Hi there." "Um, I am sorry about this." "Must not be REALLY sorry to make a man who lost his son TEN years after that goddamn episode had aired talk about this fucking show. The nightmares still haunt me! Every night, I can see that episode playing in my head!" "I'm sorry about your son and the nightmares."
He took a shot of Jack Daniels and said "Don't be. Not your fault this happened. My wife left me three years after he passed on. I had a dream the night, the very NIGHT it happened. It was the Skin Taker, holding a knife, chasing him and brutally murdering him. It's odd that he was in a neighborhood where a local gang known as the 'Walking Skulls' just so happen to be in. But they don't use knives in their crimes. So it was someone else." "I never knew that. "Never asked me to tell you. And that damn episode screwed my voice up. Which is why I sound so different that how I should." "I'm sorry to hear that." "Understand. You see, Grimes wanted the show to be dark; I thought he was nuts. I didn't want to do the 'grind your skin' episode at all since I read that damn script. He threatened to fire me and I couldn't do that; I had a wife and a kid on the way. I couldn't lose work like that. So I did it, unfortunately." "Ah, I see. What happened the night the last episode premiered?"
He sighed. took another shot of the Jack, and told me.
"After that damned episode, I got the hell out of there. I went directly home to get all that I could. I grabbed my wife and my infant son and got the hell out of town. I left that damn place with dignity and got to a nearby township. I had the misfortune to be in the hospital in time for that final fucking episode to air. I had no choice but to watch it. And I regret doing so." "Oh dear, I'm so sorry to hear that. If you want to, I could leave here. We could finish if you'd like for it to." "Sounds good. I'm sorry, I just can't do this. I'm just....Sorry!"
I left him there, crying, actually regretting that I'd left him. I wish I hadn't...
You may be the dumbest person I have ever met. Why in the hell would you dare to bring up such a subject that has haunted me and everyone else on that show. Do you know the absolute tragedy that has accumulated from that? But it's also a way to get things off of my chest from it. I will meet you for an interview, but what I say about that show is the 100% truth, eyewitness. You must not judge what I will say. If you do, I'll make sure that your journey will end with me. Enclosed is a card for where to meet me and at what time. I am not a snobbish man, but I won't do this again.
Sincerely,
Walter Shay.
DAY 15
I met with Walter Shay later on within the week, having to time it right. I left after Day 10 for Tulsa. It took some time to watch the other episodes but I managed. They did seem darker, as 'Jane' had stated before. Some of them are getting hard to watch, but i have to keep watching. The infamous 'To Grind Your Skin' episode came on. That was the worst, its one thing with a shitty motel tv that makes EVERY program like watching something from the 70's, its another when the damn tape keeps jumping and staticing out every two minutes. I felt like those people trying to watch porn on their old boxes, if you know what I mean. The scramblers.
Anyhow I got to meet him where he wanted. He came in on a wheelchair, explaining how he was paralyzed...
"Okay. Now Mr. Shay, you said you had information?" "Yeah. That whole damn show is a curse." "What do you mean by that?" "You only could dream of what I mean. It's exactly how i said it. That show is a curse." "I don't understand. Really, I don't." "I broke my leg on that show when a damn ladder fell off and smashed on my leg after I fell. I felt something when that hit, like something pushed that ladder down. Then the episodes got darker. There were two episodes that never aired in Season 2. Those two were the worst of the worst." What happened? "That Grimes in one episode has Janice, implied of course, to be cannibalized by The Skin Taker in a dream. Another one was to reveal that Nathan had been kidnapped and turned into part of a cape for that bastard. Hell, Grimes wanted to fucking have Janice killed and skinned alive. ON CAMERA! The end of the series was to have continued with Melrose winding up in the world looking for Janice. Me and the cast had to make sure that never happened so we shot those ideas down every time. This pissed him off, I think thats why he did that final episode, you know. The 'Screaming' Episode." "You mean he wanted to show a little girl being skinned alive?" "Yes. and that fucker is a monster too. He didn't vanish, I will tell you something I have never told anyone." "Go on..." "After we finished filming that episode, I went back to get something of mine. I saw Grimes pleading to the set pieces, as if they were all alive. He was pleading that he did his job right, he made sure. He started ripping his hair and teeth out. Screaming, trying to get whatever it was away from killing him. He fell backwards and hung himself on a cord. The sound of his neck snapping. God, it still haunts me." "They said that he just vanished. You're stating he lost it and accidentally killed himself?" "Yes!"
Now I knew something horrible did happen. It was freaking me out and now I wanted to stop, but I had to know what happened to Grimes.
"They never found the body. I got rid of it. I couldn't let them think that he had just wanted to make things happen to himself, I had to do something, out of the decency of my being at least." "What did you do?" "I buried him. I took his old lanky body out to the woods behind the studio and I buried him. I told myself there was nothing to fear but fear itself. But there was something there. I walked back through the studio and i felt something eerie present in the Skin-Taker puppet. Like it was watching me. I got out of there as quick as I could. Some time later, that damned final episode aired and I will never forget what I saw. It was horrible."
I was afraid of the show now. What was lying ahead of the episodes for me? I had some more stops to go to but I advised myself that if things get too deep, I would stop there and work with what I have....
DAY 19
Skin taker from candle cove by screamasinclair-d3axo95
A design photograph. Since none of the originals exist, someone did a concept design photograph of the Skin-Taker
Ischmael DugongAdded by Ischmael Dugong
It has been hard to sleep, I keep having the same nightmare: the Skin-Taker coming at me threatening to grind my skin. It's hard to wake up to just static because I can hear that fucking theme song in my head every time I do. I gave up a little but I had to keep going. I made a list of people who claimed to have items from the series. Some proved to be idiots who made the items themselves, indications were of the modern look to them. However, there were SOME who did have items. The items I have gotten so far are listed:
One of the Skin Taker's glass eyes
The arm of Pirate Percy
The Hat (albeit somewhat in tatters) of the Skin Taker
One of the eyes of Horrible Horace
Tooth belonging to The Laughingstock
The most unique item I found, and I swear to you I found this one at a house in Missouri. The original owner was a man named Kyle Bartlett. His daughter, Judith, was nice enough to show me part of a collection he had. He had the original Skin Taker head. Now I thought it was a fake since the jaw was intact, whereas 'Jane' had stated that the Jaw was partially torn off. As it turns out, Kyle was one of the crewmen on the show. He loved the Skin-Taker as a villain. When he found that it was so destroyed, he put much time inserting the jaw back in its place. I asked to have it, but she denied that request. I did see that it was missing one eye and its famed hat. I brought these items back and put them inside by myself. The head is now complete but she allowed no photography or video to be made, stating that her father wouldn't want his favorite to be spoiled. She sounded like a mother to a child.
I had to keep up. My search led me to New York, where one Mr. Michael Colon lived. The very SAME Michael Colon who voiced the Skin Taker on the show, the same Michael Colon whose son, Trevor Colon, was murdered in the Fall of 1981. Meeting him was hard, he wanted nothing to do with this but I had to interview him. Really I did. He refused for some time, until he decided to...
"Hello there Mr. Colon" "Yeah, Hi there." "Um, I am sorry about this." "Must not be REALLY sorry to make a man who lost his son TEN years after that goddamn episode had aired talk about this fucking show. The nightmares still haunt me! Every night, I can see that episode playing in my head!" "I'm sorry about your son and the nightmares."
He took a shot of Jack Daniels and said "Don't be. Not your fault this happened. My wife left me three years after he passed on. I had a dream the night, the very NIGHT it happened. It was the Skin Taker, holding a knife, chasing him and brutally murdering him. It's odd that he was in a neighborhood where a local gang known as the 'Walking Skulls' just so happen to be in. But they don't use knives in their crimes. So it was someone else." "I never knew that. "Never asked me to tell you. And that damn episode screwed my voice up. Which is why I sound so different that how I should." "I'm sorry to hear that." "Understand. You see, Grimes wanted the show to be dark; I thought he was nuts. I didn't want to do the 'grind your skin' episode at all since I read that damn script. He threatened to fire me and I couldn't do that; I had a wife and a kid on the way. I couldn't lose work like that. So I did it, unfortunately." "Ah, I see. What happened the night the last episode premiered?"
He sighed. took another shot of the Jack, and told me.
"After that damned episode, I got the hell out of there. I went directly home to get all that I could. I grabbed my wife and my infant son and got the hell out of town. I left that damn place with dignity and got to a nearby township. I had the misfortune to be in the hospital in time for that final fucking episode to air. I had no choice but to watch it. And I regret doing so." "Oh dear, I'm so sorry to hear that. If you want to, I could leave here. We could finish if you'd like for it to." "Sounds good. I'm sorry, I just can't do this. I'm just....Sorry!"
I left him there, crying, actually regretting that I'd left him. I wish I hadn't...
vaguely present
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