I found journals of an agoraphobic man who liv…

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warning: long story.

My friend recently bought a foreclosed home, and while helping him clean it out of the previous owners leftover belongings, I came across a box of journals in the attic. What I learned in the early entries was that the man who lived there, Allan, was agoraphobic. For those unfamiliar with the term, agoraphobia is the fear of places or situations that might cause panic, helplessness, or embarrassment. In its most extreme form, agoraphobia can lead to the sufferer being confined to their home, fearful of the entire outside world. Allan fell into this category. I thought it would be interesting to get a peek inside the mind of someone who confined themselves to their home, so I decided to read them. I noticed they started when he was somewhere in his late 30’s. At first the entries were pretty normal, and gave a little insight into the man’s psyche. It’s quite sad, actually. Anything he would have to go outside for, be it food, home necessities, etc., his sister takes care of and then delivers to his house. But towards the end of the first journal, and mainly beginning with the second, the man started talking about really weird happenings, and it seems he was under the impression that his home, his only safe place in the world, was haunted. Without further ado, let me transcribe these journals. The following are from 2012. They become more frequent in the following years, if you are interested I will continue to transcribe them.

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I found a ritual on Tumblr.

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I don’t leave my house that much. My social anxiety doesn’t allow me to. For that reason, I spend a lot of time on Tumblr, posting original stories and reblogging whatever catches my attention. Most nights I stay up into the early hours of the morning, spiralling into the darkest depths of the creepy shit people post. Conspiracy theories, paranormal experiences, gruesome stories – you name it, I’ll read it. It’s kind of like 4chan without the child pornography.

The other night I was doing my thing at around 3am – the time people refer to as “dead time”, when spirits and demons and all that freaky shit are at their strongest. I rarely sleep before 4, but even when I get tired I wait until after the dead hour is over. The idea of something watching me while my eyes are closed makes it impossible for me to fall asleep.

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The First Girl.

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She’s perfect.

“So, are we gonna go to your place after this?” she asks.

Met her this month. It’s been rough, really. Seven months, seven girls. But I have a good feeling about her.

“Uh, hello?”

I come back to reality with a start. “Oh, um, oh. Sorry, I uh, was distracted by your… your eyes.”

Grey-green. God’s gift to her. And me.

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Being bullied is rough when you’re an orphan.

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When I was eight years old, a terrible accident claimed my parents and the better half of my right arm. With no other family, I was quickly transferred to a run-down little foster home in the middle of a dusty old town with only a brass locket to my name.

Growing up with only one arm wasn’t easy. Fortunately I was still young enough to train myself to be left-handed without too much difficulty, but there was no end to the insults and pranks coming from the other boys in my class. Alas, it was a time where sticks, stones, and words all hurt equally.

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Survivor’s Diary.

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August 7th, 2017:

Dear Diary,

I’m still mad that Dad won’t get me an iPhone until I turn 12. Whatever. I totally feel like I’m doing cave paintings, writing in a diary. On paper. With ink!

But it’s fine. Just 8 more months to go until I get my new phone. I’ve already bookmarked a few awesome case designs that I want.

In class, Kellen joked that I wouldn’t make it to 12 and that pretty soon we’d all be dead because of the war and the nukes and stuff.

He’s an asshole. Plus I think he’s into me. Which is creepy.

Talk to you later…maybe.

Love, Maddie.

18th of March, 2029

Found this notebook in a house we were picking through a few months ago. I guess it belonged to Maddie. I wonder if she’s still alive?

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Airlock.

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In the cold distance of space Alexis dreamed. As she slept in her cryopod, she dreamed of lying on her stomach, on her surfboard in the cool waters of the Atlantic ocean. The wave gently rocked her board back and fourth, she then mounted it on her two feet, and felt a bigger wave, giving her the momentum to ride with the rough surf. Like a pro she saw a wave 16 feet high, she entered its inner vortex.

She suddenly woke up to the emergency siren. She saw blood on the broken window of her cryopod, electric sparks from the ship shooting out from the ceiling. Crew members aboard the S.S Argos ran frantically, trying to put out a fire in the cryochamber. Marcus, talked loudly above the siren “Rodriquez, we have been hit by asteroid fragments and crashed landed on SR#1123. You are being placed in a medpod, you had hurt your head pretty badly. You will be in cold sleep till you are better.“ She lost consciousness and suddenly everything went dark

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Regular

Blind Maiden is an internet urban legend supposedly from Spain. The story goes that a young boy goes on the site called Blind Maiden, and his home was entered by the titular Blind Maiden, who is described as having no eyes. The story goes that the kid flipped out and hit his head.falling unconscious and unintentionally tricking the Blind Maiden into thinking he died. This urban legend is interesting because it reads as both a creepy pasta and a paranormal game. The rules for the Blind Maiden encourages the visitor to be alone, have no lights on, and access the site at midnight on a moonless night. The legend says that if all of those steps are successful the flashing images of screaming faces are everywhere until a pop up asking to accept or decline appears on screen. If the person clicks accept the blind maiden will come to the house and kill the person partaking in the ritual, taking a screenshot of their face and placing it on the front page of the website

My parents adopted a dead boy.

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My English is not perfect, so please pardon me if there are any mistakes.

I live in a small country in Southeast Asia called Singapore. A few years back, I had converted to Christianity but I was raised in a Buddhist household like the majority of Singaporean Chinese families. Though my parents were not strict in their beliefs, they still kept an altar in the corridor of our home and offered incense to it religiously.

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