Soulmate Notebook vampire

I bought this notebook computer in September, 2001. It is the one which has to be shutdown first before turning off the power switch. The computer knows if this shutdown procedure is followed lest it does extra steps during startup.

So what has a computer got to do with the paranormal? Well, during shutdown the read/write head of the hard drive makes some rapid knocking sounds, like di-dit, di-di-dit, di-di-di-dit, then a short message, "SAFE TO SWITCH POWER OFF" displays on the screen before the screen goes black.

Before I bought this notebook, perhaps over a year or so ago, I had heard this exact knocking sound on several different occasions. I heard it regularly just before going to bed, after staying up reading my books till the wee hours of the mornings. The "dits" sound appeared to come from outside the window of my apartment. Every time I heard the sound I'd wonder what was making it and I'd search for the source.

So what was this sound I had been hearing? Was it a similar sound made by a woodpecker, a toy, water hammer in a plumbing some place, or a lunatic knocking on wood, plastic or steel, or anything else for that matter? The answer, I'm quite sure, is NO.

The knocking sound is a sound like no other. It is a unique sound made by this type of notebook computers only.

Could there have been an identical computer being shutdown elsewhere in the building or on the street? This is the closest possibility, I think.

But on second thought, NO, the computer has to be no more than about 3 to 5 feet from the ears for the knocking sound to be heard, because it is not really loud. Also, the surrounding must be absolutely noiseless or you won't hear it.

Here is the eerie part: Since I bought a notebook—this one— I’ve not heard the knocking sound from outside the window anymore.

Nowadays, my notebook and I are frequently up till the wee hours in the morning. It makes the unique, but familiar, knocking sound when I shut it down: dit..dit..didit.

I believe my notebook and I were destined to meet. It was only a matter of time.

Do you believe there is something out there that belongs to you and IT knows it? Could it be that it’s waiting for you to come for it?

Rodolfo B Martin

This weird thing first started on October 16, around 6 o'clock in the evening; I was twelve years old then. I was midway in my lat pulldowns when I heard a voice in my head. It was loud, and it had a German accent—like Arnold the Terminator.

"I CAN LIFT MORE THAN YOU, LITTLE BOY!" He said.

The voice was so loud it startled me. I let go of the pullbar and pressed tightly onto my ears with both hands. The voice was ‘that' loud. Obviously, letting go of the pullbar meant the weights plates came crashing down—"Bam!" As the iron plates crashed onto the ones below, the locking pin somehow slipped out from the plates' keyhole and landed on the floor. Reposing myself after the shock, I went round the back and picked up the pin. As I was about to insert the pin back into plates' keyhole, I heard the voice again.

"PUT ON TWICE AS MUCH AS YOU HAD ON!"

Totally shocked, I dropped the pin and rushed to bed. I wondered seriously if all those years of head hitting I took playing football had resulted in some kind of brain damage.

The next evening, I was ready again for a work-out, and walked to my weight room. I stopped and stared at the equipment; I normally started with my lat pulls, but that evening, I was hesitant.

"Screw that, man," I said under my breath, and walked over to the dumbbells rack instead. Halfway through my curls, I heard it again— Arnold !

"IS THAT ALL YOU GOT, SISSY BOY!"

It was a yell that time. I sort of lost my cool and I slammed the dumbbells onto the floor. I yelled back.

"PISS OFF YA' P___K. I'M TWELVE YEARS OLD!"

I didn't want to admit then, but I was quite freaked out by the psychotic episode and stopped doing weights for a week. Soon, of course, it all seemed like a bad dream, and I got over it. I thought whatever cause the voice to be in my head must have healed by then.

After almost a week with no exercise, I felt lethargic and decided to start lifting weights again. I started, as always, with my lat pulldown.

Low and behold, the voice had not left me. It yelled!

"I CAN LIFT MORE THAN YOU LITTLE BOY!"

"F__K! DO IT THEN!"

I yelled back in anger, then stood up and went to stand behind the seat with my arms crossed. I waited for almost two minutes, then, I heard the voice whisper.

"Put the weight to maximum."

So, I did as he asked. Then, with arms crossed and foot tapping, I stood aside and waited in anticipation for what was to come. I waited for four or five minutes. Obviously I was fooling myself expecting something to happen; nothing at all materialised—no Arnold , nothing. Sighed, I thought I was surely going loony. I laughed to myself and walked over to the machine. As I put my butt down, I realised I didn't feel the seat cushion, instead, I felt something else—like someone's rock hard muscular thighs.

Immediately, I sprung up. I had sprung with such a force that I ended up seven feet across the room. It took me a couple of seconds to realise I had put my butt down on another male's lap, it disgusted me. I'm too macho to accept that, and it infuriated me. But what I saw next made me forget my anger. The full 200-pound-plates were being lifted effortlessly by the invisible force—the weights went up and down, up and down, with the pulldown bar yo-yoing like a bungee jumper would.

I was still on the floor, stunned out with mouth wide open and fear running through my veins. I was so fear struck thatI didn't even notice the excruciating pain of my "almonds" being crushed by a dumbbell that had fallen over me. I felt almost like a boy drugged to ecstasy—totally filled with adrenalin.

Then, the voice thundered. "I TOLD YOU I COULD LIFT MORE THAN YOU!"

I remember saying "yup you sure can" before blacking out on the floor of my home gym. I awoke in the hospital thinking I had just had a surgery or something, and that the whole ‘ Arnold ' thing was just a weird side effect of the anesthetics. But what surgery? I scrutinised myself and found I had bruises on my arms. I remembered I had hit the dumbbells rack when I flew seven feet across the room. Then I remembered the dumbbell that had squashed my balls; in a quick flash, I felt for them under the covers. Thank god my jewels were still there!

I had blacked out for more than two hours on the gym floor, with the dumbbell on my groins. If not for my father's quick decision to send me to the hospital, I think I would be a eunuch now—oh shit, thanks for saving my manhood, dad.

Every so often, I get a visit from the ‘ Arnold voice' but I do not let him bother me anymore. I have grown to accept him as part of my being. At times, I even compete with him, and truth be told, if he was not there to push me, I would slack for sure.

I have not told anyone about this, and have no intention to—ever. But since I am bored to dickens tonight, I thought I'd share this story with you all at ‘eerietales.com' But please keep me anonymous.

*lat pulldown – The Pulldown exercise or the Cable Lat Pulldown is a compound exercise designed to stress and develop the Latissimus dorsi (Lat).

This is the bizarre true story of a life-long struggle with the supernatural/horror.

Synopsis: If Poltergeist was a graphic novel set to rap music, you would have the life of Reynaldo Reyes.

Welcome to his neighborhood in Brooklyn, N.Y. where the front stoops are littered with sorcerers, back stabbers, blackmailers, criminal conspirators, and welfare families.  Where rappers Run DMC are involved in a bizarre mystery.

When he is a teenager, a series of strange events culminate in a fright night: the kitchen blazes with flames that don't burn, "something" steps through the ring of fire, and Reynaldo's reaction is so severe he is rushed to the hospital.

Whatever entity came through that night, it doesn't leave.  It harasses Reynaldo and frightens others in the building.  Reynaldo's behavior changes, often for the worse.  There are arguments, physical fights, and trouble with the police.  Violence swirls around him. At the same time, the deeply religious Reynaldo has confusing visions of heaven and hell, as well as the future. 

For example, he suddenly and frantically announces that terrorists are going to blow up the Empire State Building.  No one believes him.  Three days later, terrorists attack the World Trade Center. Soon after Reynaldo creates a rap song about three apparitions he experienced over a four-year period, he has premonitions in which a mysterious deity speaks to the well-known lead singer of the rap group Run DMC and starts a rumor that inspires the group's 1986 hit album "Raising Hell."  Less than a month after Reynaldo's book is accepted for publication, Jam Master Jay of the rap group Run DMC is murdered in what Reynaldo strongly believes is a supernatural crime cover-up. 

Reynaldo's book is published on July 1, 2003, precisely one year after Jam Master Jay's death. Today, the killers have not been captured, and the death remains unsolved.  Nor have the demons left Reynaldo alone.

Reynaldo Reyes is a freelance artist.  His designs have appeared on T-shirts and his commisioned paintings hang in St. Thomas Catholic Church and the Parapsychology Foundation.  He has been interviewed at length by internationally renowned paranormal researcher John Zaffis for his TV show and for Zaffis's documentary, which is shown around the country. All of the witnesses are ready to testify on camera and are preparing to take a lie detector test and an MRI to prove that this true story is very REAL!

Author & Screenwriter/Reynaldo Reyes
146 Olympia Blvd., 1st Floor. Staten Island, N.Y.  10305     
E-mail: xorangehalloween@yahoo.com      Phone: (718) 696-9256

We are so tiny and are immersed in the unimaginable size of the universe. What else could be lurking out there? Do we wonder about the bigger picture? What does our tiny existence mean within the context of the universe? Why do we exist at all? Are our physical forms all that represent us, or do we exist after our bodies wither away into dust? Do we become spirits of the universe and travel the unimaginable distances at the speed of light? Where do we go? If there is somewhere to go in the universe, why do we remain imprisoned on this tiny brutalised planet?  

Do the dead live amongst us? What does the blowing wind hold? Do we know who might be within it? A long lost relative perhaps, or just a forlorn soul reaching out; clinging onto the hope that someone might someday be able to see it, and maybe help it cross some obstacle preventing it from soaring through space. Or maybe, it is more sinister: a shadow spectre watching our every move in sheer envy of our living encasement.  

Forlorn or hateful, the entity lives forever in the invisible state. Some may walk among us, not even knowing they have died. They don't know we can't see them so they pass us off as cold and indifferent; we seem not to care about their existence; pass them by without a smile or a hello; be deaf to their needs for a kind gesture and acceptance.  

With the lead above, I'd like to begin my story:

It began on a cold autumn day in 1982. The small town of Jackson Tennessee has seen its fair share of eerie happenings: everything from past civil war visions to sightings of Ol' Casey Jones himself. But the story I'm about to tell you does not go that far behind. This is a tale of a child, one who has special friends no one else can see.   

Her name was Emery Blue, a precious little eight years old girl with shiny blonde hair, pale complexion, and big beautiful blue eyes.

Since she was born, Emery had lived with her mother and stepfather, Brian, in a two story house just outside Jackson Tennessee. Brian was an alcoholic truck driver. He would be gone for days, or even weeks at a time, when he was hired. Those were the only times little Emery Blue would be free to play as she pleased because Brian would never allow Emery to play much; mostly he grounded her in her room.

Emery despised Brian, and his treatment of her. Her weak mother, Debbie, would never dare stand up against him. She was happy that he gave her and Emery a roof over their heads and food on the table. Emery Blue was precious, but Brian was necessary for survival.

Debbie had always known Emery was different, but had never probed; she had more pressing issues at hand—the drunken burly truck driver husband of hers demanded most of her attention most of the time.  

As a toddler, Emery would point and babble at things Debbie could not see. Passing it off as nothing significant, Debbie would leave Emery to babble on. As Emery got older, she began to form words, and had lengthy conversations with her invisible ‘friends.' The names, Julie and Amy, had by then become constant in Emery's vocabulary. Debbie still passed Emery's constant mention of the two names as a normal behaviour of a three-year-old.  

Emery had lived mostly at home, in the upper story of the house. — The ground floor of the house was rented to a barber who served the locals in the neighbourhood. The closest neighbour lived almost a mile away on either sides of the long stretched highway in front of the house. — Emery was never allowed to play outside alone; Debbie feared she would run across the highway. Sometimes, Debbie would bring Emery behind the house and let her play there but she never allowed Emery out of her sight.

In the distance, about a hundred meters behind the house was an abandoned railroad track. On the track stood a rusty old railcar which no one had ever bothered to scrap. Ferns and crawlies had long resided in the car, and it looked more like a large fern pot more than a machine on wheels.

Emery liked looking at the railcar. She would sometimes stare at it for a lengthy period of time. Debbie often called on Emery asking why she stared at the old railcar, but Emery never talked about it.

One night, before going to bed, Debbie passed by Emery's room and noticed a bright white light coming from under the door. Curious, she went to the door. Before touching the doorknob, she heard Emery's voice murmuring. Thinking Emery was talking in her sleep, she touched the doorknob and was about to turn it when she heard laughter. She recognised that the laughter was not Emery's so Debbie quickly turned the doorknob and pushed the door in. The room was suddenly quiet; the bright white light was then nothing more than the normal strawberry shortcake nightlight on the bedroom wall. Debbie walked in to check on her daughter—Emery was sound asleep. Satisfied all was well, Debbie went to bed herself.

The next morning, still concerned about her daughter, Debbie opened Emery's bedroom door and was aghast to find it in a mess: dressing drawers opened, and clothes and toys were strewn all over the floor. Emery was still in bed, sleeping peacefully and oblivious to the mess around her.  

"How could this be?" The dumbstruct Debbie uttered. "Emery is too small to reached the dressing drawers. What could have happened in here?" Debbie cupped her mouth and stood silently staring at the mess.

"It was them, mommy, I swear!" Emery said in defence when Debbie asked her about it later. "It was Amy and Julie," Emery added.

"How did they get in your room?" Debbie asked, playing along. "Well, why don't you ask them?" Debbie waited with arms folded. "You know there was no one else in this room but you, Emery." Debbie then stated angrily.

It was difficult for Debbie to question her daughter on doing something she herself found impossible for her daughter to do, so Debbie left it alone when Emery became silent.

In the momentary silence, Emery looked up at her mother and said in a soft voice, "They came through the wall, mommy. They are magic."  

Silence was one thing, but lies were something Debbie could not accept. She felt a surge of anger overwhelming her, and feared she may strike her daughter, Debbie stomped out of the bedroom. The thought that her daughter may need psychological help, swirled in her head momentarily but it didn't stay there long.  

As weeks passed, and seeing Emery not up to mischief—with the exception of talking to her imaginary friends—Debbie fell into denial that there was anything wrong with her daughter at all, and assumed it was normal for girls Emery's age to make up stories. But Debbie still could not grasp how Emery could have ransacked her room, considering the dresser drawers were too high and heavy for a three-year-old to open.

As years passed, Debbie had become accustomed to Amy and Julie as Emery's imaginary friends, and sometimes even brought their names up herself. One day, however, Emery tugged at Debbie's skirt saying she wanted to go with Amy and Julie to the railcar.  

"No! Absolutely not! You can never go there, you understand, Emery?" Debbie said, almost scolding.  

"But they said they want to show me something important." The eight-year-old replied with welling eyes.  

Debbie looked lovingly at her daughter and touched her face. "Sweetheart, my darling, I'm sorry mommy yelled at you but it's dangerous over there. You can't ever go there. You must promise mommy that." Debbie looked at Emery in the eyes, waiting for her reply.  

Emery nodded quietly and hung her head low.

"That's a good girl. Now chin up and go play with your dolls." Debbie said, and walked to the kitchen.  

All was fine that day, and at bedtime Debbie tucked her daughter in bed and went to bed herself. Only a few hours had she been asleep then she was awoken by repeated banging sounds. She sprang out of bed and grabbed a kimono to cover her almost naked body. She shivered, as a cold wind had begun blowing through the windows. As she walked through the living room, she was shocked to find the television turned on and Michael Jackson's thriller video playing at low volume. She walked through the hallway and toward Emery's room. Her heart pumped heavily when she noticed her daughter's bedroom door opened wide. Emery was not in bed.

"Emery!" She gasped.  

Quickly, like a mad woman, she ran around the house calling for her eight-year-old girl.

"Emery! Emery! Where are you?"

She ran toward the source of the banging; the screen door downstairs at the back of the house had been left to sail wildly in the wind. She dashed through it.

Although the night was brightly lit by the full moon, the clouds were collecting and the wind was getting wilder. Debbie looked up at the moon, it was floating in the centre of the hole in the sky. In a few minutes, the moon would disappear totally behind the thickening clouds; Debbie had to hurry before the pour.

"Oh god, the railcar." She muttered when she saw three figures in the distance.  

They were skipping along happily toward the railcar. The moonlight was bright enough for her to recognise that Emery was in the middle.  

"That must be Amy and Julie with her? God, they are real! Emery wasn't imagining at all!" Debbie exclaimed under her breath. Then she shouted at the top of her voice. "EMERY! EMERY!"

Suddenly, by some sheer luck, Emery tripped. The two other figures skipped along as though nothing was amiss. Seeing Emery on the ground, Debbie saw a glimpse of hope in catching up with her. She sprinted as fast as she could and embraced her daughter tightly.  

"What's going on, Emery?" Debbie asked frantically.  

"It's okay mommy. That's Amy and Julie. They are my friends..." Emery replied, pointing to the railcar.

Debbie looked at Amy and Julie skipping along.

"Yes, I can see them too. I'm so sorry I doubted you." Debbie turned to Emery and said.

"They live there. They are taking me to see their home. Let's go to them mummy!" Emery said excitedly and tried to free herself from her mother's grasp.

"But that's an abandoned car, Emery. No one lives there. It's been rotting away for years."  

"But Amy and Julie are living there! They want me to live there too. They said I will be happy forever, just like them."  

Debbie's skin crawled with chills when she heard her dauhter's last statement. She looked up and watched as the two girls skipped without a care toward the railcar. Then, Debbie almost collapsed when she saw the girls skip right through the metal body of the railcar, and disappeared.

With her entire body trembling uncontrollably, Debbie grabbed her daughter and rushed back toward the house. As they ran, Debbie heard laugher and singing in the wind. The laughter and singing circled around her and Emery, and then the voices flew pass them and disappeared.

Still shivering, she put Emery in the car and rushed upstairs. She searched frantically for the keys and rushed back to the car.

The warm interior of the car had caused the windows inside to fog up and it was hard to make out anything outside. Debbie turned the ignition key and the engine coughed a reluctant crank.

Suddenly, from the corner of her eye Debbie saw movement outside. She turned abruptly, and saw a tiny handprint on her side of the fogged-up window—it was freshly made, and made in the inside! But how could it be; Emery was seated too far away, and Debbie was sure Emery never touched it? It could only have been made by Amy or Julie!

Outside, the flash of lighting suddenly lit the night. Debbie caugh a glimpse of a figure dashing away from the car. Her heart thumped and made her gasped. She quinted through the fogged and bubbled windscreen, hoping to catch who it was.

Suddenly, BOOOOOOOM! The thunder finally arrived.

Emery screamed! So did Debbie. They huddled together for a brief moment.

"Are you okay baby? Let's get going okay?" debbie said to Emery.

The wide-eyed and petrified Debbie cursed for the car to start. After several tries turning the key, the engine rumbled. She put the car in gear and pressed on the accelerator pedal. The windscreen wipers squeaked against the glass screen, clearing her vision to the outside world. Debbie looked out for Amy and Julie, but all she saw was the long stretched highway some one hundred feet in front of her. The car jerked as it climbed from the flat earth to the raised tarmac. They were on their way.

"Where are we going mommy?" Little Emery said in a squeaky voice.  

"We'll stay at grandma's till morning, okay baby?" Debbie's voice hinted a slight quiver.  

She put Emery to bed and talked with her mother about the incident. They sat holding hands and embracing each other. Before them, teacups and saucers lay on the coffee table.  

"If you saw them too, Debbs, then surely there's something there." The old, slightly overweight, woman said in a husky voice. "You should inform the police, just in case."  

"You don't think..." Debbie looked into her mother's eyes, her jaw hanging.  

"Well, you can't know until you know, Debbs." Her mother replied. "I must tell you...whenever I'm at your house, I do feel some supernatural force around the rail track area, you know. I just never told you."  

They sipped the last drop of tea and retired to bed.  

Emery and Debbie awoke to the scent of bacon and eggs roasting on the iron stove. "Oh mom, it smells heavenly," said Debbie as she dashed water on her face at the kitchen sink.  

Grandma poured milk into a plastic cup and handed it to Emery. "Did Amy and Julie ever hurt you, darling?" Grandma asked as gently as she could.  

Emery shook her head in short rapid moves. "No, they wanted me to stay with them. They wanted to show me a secret." She said in a lovable little girl's voice.  

"Well, let's find out what the secret is, shall we?" Grandma said, sifting her eyes to Debbie.  

Debbie picked up the telephone from the kitchen wall and began pressing the buttons. Emery bit on a piece of bacon and watched her mother speak into the mouthpiece.  

"Hi, morning ma'am, my name is Debbie...from the barber shop house? By the highway? Right. This may be nothing, but there's probably something you would want to look at..."

As Debbie drove off the highway and towards her house, she saw a police car parked near the railcar and drove to it. One of the policemen approached her car and raised his hand for her to stop. Behind the young rookie, a caution tape spanned, cordoning the area.

Debbie stepped out of the car and introduced herself. "I'm Debbie, I was the one who called you guys. That's my house." She pointed to the only house standing some three hundred feet away. "So, what have you found?"  

"Two badly decomposed bodies, probably girls, aged five or six." Said the young rookie as he turned to look at the railcar.  

The coroners were still at the scene talking with some other plain clothes police personnel. Debbie walked closer but the young rookie stopped her.

"Sorry ma'am, you can't cross the tape."  

After giving details to the police as were she could be contacted, Debbie and Emery headed back to the car. Debbie felt compelled to look up at her house. She was shocked to see the two girls smiling at her from Emery's room window. They waved, as if to say thank you.  

From that day onwards, Emery had not had any more visits from Amy or Julie.  

Jeffery Allen Delozier, 30.
Musician, Writer, Artist.
Co-Written by Shan

Haunted House in McKenzie Towne
My wife and I moved into our Calgary home a little over 5 years ago. Our house was newly built, along with a few hundred other new homes, in a neighbourhood called McKenzie Towne. Up until a few years ago, we were both confirmed non-believers in ghosts. Although we have heard ghost stories, we believed there were rational explanations to clear up any mysteries. But now...

The events at our house began right after an encounter one of our neighbours had. Our neighbour, Isabella, (not her real name) was at home from work one day when she noticed that her pots and pans that were suspended from her kitchen ceiling started to swing back and forth. Her smoke detector began to buzz and wouldn't turn off no matter what she did. Upon a friend's advice on the phone, she spoke loudly and clearly to her kitchen, and explained to whoever was causing the disturbance that although she appreciated the visit she was freaking out and could they please stop. The smoke detector stopped buzzing and the pots and pans mysteriously stopped swinging.

Our first occurrence happened a few weeks after our neighbour's traumatic experience with the pots and pans. We had just returned from a vacation, and our suitcases were scattered in the hallway. Out from the corner of my eye, I noticed my wife's hand sticking out from our hallway closet. She was obviously trying to scare me by hiding in the closet, and of course she'd yell "boo!" when I open the closet door. I approached the closet with the intention of ripping open the door and giving her a scare instead when I heard her voice call to me from the Bedroom. So, if she's in the bedroom . . . who's in the closet? Scared stiff, I couldn't bring out my voice to answer. My wife kept asking me what I was doing in the Hallway. I don't know how but I slowly reached for the door (the hair on the back of my neck is rising right now just thinking about it) and turned the handle of the lock. Of course, there was nothing in the closet, but I'm very sure I clearly saw a hand and fingers wrapped around that door.

The last and freakiest occurence happened in our master bathroom a few weeks later. We were both relaxing in the tub and joking about that goofy ghost mishap. Suddenly, my wife had a crazy idea to contact the ghost. She spoke to the ceiling loudly and asked whoever was there to make the flame of one of the candles we had lit go flat. I stared at the flame and I willed it to do nothing (I really didn't want to believe). Suddenly, the flame started to flicker and it bent low, almost flat, as if someone was trying very hard to blow it out. It stayed low for about 3 seconds. Our mouths gaped wide as we stared at each other. Suddenly, the flicker stopped and the flame came to a verticle calm again. We jumped out of the tub, grabbed the towels, and rushed out of the bathroom.

We swore that we'd never ever do anything like that again. Needless to say we can't honestly call ourselves non-believers anymore.

Paul Redlich | Sales | Nexus Exhibits Ltd.
2424-2nd Avenue S.E. | Calgary , AB T2E-6J9

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