Audio version of this story on our YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GL4Qh1rIOK8 this can also be found Spotify and most other podcast platforms!
This week we have a pretty awesome story from a fan named Cheesebotodoom/Kenn from California where he had an encounter with a blood covered spirit that happened to them in the early 2000’s.
I don’t remember the exact street in Long Beach where that apartment sat. I’ve tried to scrub the map from my mind, partly because I only visited twice, but mostly because some places are better left lost.
The first time I went was right after my father signed the lease. The apartment was mostly hollow, a shell of white walls and hardwood waiting for his furniture to arrive. I was there alone just to collect the mail for him while he was away. I remember sitting at the dining room table, the late afternoon sun casting long, distorted shadows across the floor.
From where I sat, I had a clear line of sight through the kitchen to the laundry room doorway. At first, it was just an empty frame—a dark rectangle leading into a small, windowless utility space.
Then, the air changed.
It started as a prickly, heavy discomfort, the kind that makes the hair on your arms stand up before your brain knows why. I looked away, staring toward the front room, searching for a draft or a logical reason for the sudden chill. Finding nothing, I glanced back toward the kitchen.
She was there.
A woman was hanging in the laundry room doorway, suspended by a thick, coarse rope. She wore a white shift—perhaps a nightdress—that hung loosely around her thin frame, torn and jagged at the hem. But it wasn’t white anymore. It was stained with a violent, blooming red.
I couldn’t look away from her hands. Blood was dripping from her hands. But as terrifying as the sight was, the fear wasn’t the worst part.
As I stared at her limp form, a wave of crushing, suffocating depression slammed into me. It wasn’t my own; it felt external, like a physical weight pressing the oxygen out of my lungs. It was an overwhelming sense of hopelessness so thick I felt my eyes well up with tears that weren’t mine to cry.
I bolted. I didn’t look up the history of the building. I didn’t want to know her name or what had happened in that small, cramped laundry room to leave behind such a jagged scar on the world.
A few years later, my father needed me to dog-sit while he was away on business. I couldn’t say no, but I couldn’t stay there sober, either. I spent those nights in a blurred, drunken haze, clinging to the edge of the bed and refusing to look toward the kitchen. Even through the alcohol, I could feel that same hollow sadness radiating from the walls, waiting for the room to go quiet enough to be seen again
Thank you Cheesebotodoom/Kenn for this story! It gave me the chills when I first read it.
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Thank you patreons
Alvin, Charles, Danielle, Donald, Jeff, Jordan, Julia, Linda, Shannon, Taylor, and Werewolf Radar
