4 True Scary Horror Stories Animated

My friend Jake and I ran a YouTube

channel [music] about abandoned places

and local urban legends. It had just

about 15,000 subscribers, but we took it

seriously.

We were researching places for Halloween

content when Jake came across this post

about an abandoned riverside cemetery.

It sat past a stretch of woods on the

edge of town, fenced off with most gates

chained, and hadn't been used since the

early '9s.

We'd heard rumors about illegal burials

being light closed, but nobody could

verify that.

We went just before sunset on a Saturday

in late October. The fence had gaps

where kids had torn through the chain

link. Jake had his camera out

immediately and was filming the crooked

headstones and collapsed mausoleiums.

At first, it felt normal. The place had

overgrown paths, worn names, and stones,

and toppled crosses. Jake was doing his

usual commentary about the history while

I fall with the extra battery pack. The

sun dropped fast once we got deeper in.

That's when I started noticing things

that didn't fit. There were fresh

bootprints in the dirt between graves.

Multiple treads were all converging near

the older section. A camping lantern

hung from a low tree branch. And when I

touched the metal casing, it was still

warm.

I told Jake we should wrap it up. He

checked his watch and said we had 20

minutes of good light left.

He wanted to push further into the older

section where the graves were [music]

packed closer together.

We kept walking when we heard loud

screeches along with a faint sound of

metal scraping on stone.

It would happen for a few seconds,

[music] stop, then start again. Jake

instantly started whispering about it to

the camera and was already moving toward

it while I kept hissing at him to leave.

The sound led us to a clearing near a

collapsed crypt. Someone had cleared the

brush maybe 20 ft across.

I could see a stone bench between two

graves, but from where we were standing,

I couldn't tell [music] if anyone was

there.

Jake moved ahead of me to get a better

angle while I stayed back, trying to see

[music] around the crip's edge. I didn't

realize when my foot came down on a

branch.

As soon as the snap echoed, something

let out a sharp screech. Jake flinched

hard and stepped back, nearly running

into me.

That was when I finally got a clear look

past the trees. A man was sitting on a

stone bench between two grays. He was

wearing a wolf mask with gray fur that

looked dirty and matted. The eyeholes

were completely dark, and I couldn't see

his face at all. Right next to him,

perched on top of a headstone, was a

small monkey, maybe a capy shin. It was

the one making the noise.

The man hadn't moved yet. One of his

hands rested on the bench and his

fingers were tapping against the stone.

I realized that was the scraping sound

we've been hearing the whole time. Then

he turned his head toward us and I

nearly crap my pants.

Within seconds, lights came on from all

around us, aimed straight in our

direction. They were too bright to see

who was holding them. All I could make

out were dark shapes standing [music]

between the headstones.

I hurly grabbed Jake's wrists and we

took off, cutting between the graves and

trying to retrace our way back. One of

the lights stayed on us the entire time,

tracking our movement no matter where we

turned.

The ground was a mess with roots

everywhere, uneven dirt, and holes you

couldn't see until you were almost on

top of them. I jumped over a sunken

grave and nearly went down when I

landed. behind us. I could hear people

moving through the cemetery.

Jake asked where [music] the exit was. I

told him I didn't know. Once we started

running, everything looked the same. My

foot clipped the edge of an open grade

and I went down hard. Jake called me

back up by my jacket and we kept moving.

Branches slapped across my face and arms

as we pushed through the brush.

Somewhere behind us, I could hear the

monkey screeching again. We hit the

fence and started climbing. The chain

link rattled under our weight. At the

top was barbed wire we hadn't seen

coming in. It caught my jeans and tore

through as I went over.

Jake came after me. We hit the ground on

the other side and kept running through

the woods. My leg was bleeding. My lungs

felt like they were going to burst, but

I didn't stop until we made it to the

row. Jake was bent over, hands on his

knees, trying to breathe. I turned back

toward the tree line. The monkey was

still making noise somewhere in there,

but the footsteps had stopped. Like

whoever was following us got to the

fence and just decided to stop.

We didn't talk on the walk back to

Jake's car. When we got in, he checked

his camera. The recording had stopped

right before we got to the clearing. He

deleted the footage. Then we got back to

his place.

I asked him why. He said it felt wrong

to bring people to [music] that place.

Said whoever was in there clearly didn't

want to be found and we got lucky they

let us walk out. I couldn't agree more.

A few weeks later, I looked up the

cemetery online and found this article

from 2003 about cops checking [music]

out reports of weird activity there at

night. I looked up the cemetery online.

They didn't find anything. The article

said a few people had gone missing in

that area over the years, but no bodies

turned up in the cemetery.

We stopped making videos after that,

deleted the whole channel maybe 3 months

later. If anyone asked, we said we lost

interest. We never talked about the

cemetery. I drive past those woods

sometimes on my way to work. The fence

is still there. You can still see the

gaps in the chain link, but I've never

gone back because I still think about

that guy in the wolf mash just sitting

there between the graves, fingers

tapping on stone, the monkey on its

chain, and ended up deeper in there

instead of finding that fence.

I was a freelance journalist covering

local government stories that bigger

outlets wouldn't touch. It was boring

but paid the bills.

Last April, my editor at the Valley

Register had asked me to document the

condition of a lakeside property tied up

in ownership dispute since the late '9s.

The assessor's office had tried twice to

send inspectors, but both times they

reported feeling uncomfortable and left

without [music] finishing. I figured it

was the usual excuse for not wanting to

drive 40 minutes into the woods.

I got the addresses from the county

clerk and headed out on a Thursday

afternoon around 2:00. The house sat at

the end of a long gravel driveway hidden

from the main road by overgrown pines

and thick brush. The gate was rusted

open.

I parked near the front and started

taking exterior shots. It was a

three-story building with a wraparound

porch rotted through in places and had

paint peeling everywhere.

I was walking the perimeter for more

photos when I noticed the back door

standing partially open. I called out

twice, but when I didn't get any

answers, I pushed open the door and got

in. Inside, the kitchen had dishes

stacked by the sink and cabinets hanging

open with expired food from the '9s. A

calendar on the wall was still turned in

May 1997, and old newspapers were

scattered everywhere. The first red flag

was the dust. It wasn't thick enough for

20 plus years of abandonment. I made a

note for it and I moved through the

downstairs taking photos. The living

room furniture was covered in yellow

sheets. The first bedroom had a made bed

with dresser drawers pulled open and

empty. The master bedroom had heavy

curtains drawn. When I pulled them back,

I found the windows boarded over from

the inside with fresh [music] lumber

that didn't match the rod everywhere

else. The closet doors padlock look new.

Deep scratches scored the floor in front

of it, like something heavy had been

dragged.

I should have left then, and I was about

to until I stumbled to the basement door

off the kitchen hallway.

Cold air rolled up when I opened it,

carrying the smell of damp concrete and

sweet iron. I used my phone's flashlight

going down. The basement extended beyond

the house's footprint, probably under an

old addition. had stone walls, a

concrete floor, and metal shelving along

one side with paint cans and tools.

The other side had heavy metal hooks

embedded in the stone at shoulder

height. Restraints with rusted buckles

were bolted into the floor, and someone

had cut drains into the rusted concrete

and installed industrial lighting on a

separate electrical system. There was no

attempt to hide what the room was for.

My hand shook as I raised my phone to

take photos.

That's when I heard footsteps upstairs

and stopped directly above me. Seconds

later, the basement door opened. My

stomach dropped. I instantly killed the

light and frantically searched for a way

out. I squinted and spotted a small

ground level window at the [music] far

end, half covered by a rotting shutter,

barely big enough to squeeze through,

but I didn't have options.

I moved fast while the footsteps kept

getting closer. I reached the window,

shoved the shutter aside, and pulled

myself up. The glass was already broken.

I scraped through, cutting my shoulder

on the frame, and dropped into the wet

dirt outside. I ran for the treeine,

staying low, moving through the woods

parallel to the driveway. When I got

close enough to see the front, I stopped

behind a thick pine. A dark blue pickup

was parked next to my car. A man stood

between the vehicles, photographing my

license plate with his phone. He looked

to be in his 40s, heavy built and had

workc clothes on. He walked slowly

around my car, looking through the

windows. Then he leaned against his

truck's hood and crossed his arms. He

was waiting. I stayed hidden for nearly

20 minutes. My shoulder was bleeding and

legs were cramping, but I didn't move.

Finally, he got back in his truck and

drove off. I waited five more minutes,

then ran to my car. My hand shook so bad

I could barely start it. I drove out

fast, checking the rear view constantly.

I didn't stop until I was back in the

city. The next morning, I called my

editor and said I was too sick to finish

the assignment.

He wasn't happy, but accepted it.

An hour later, I got a call from an

unknown number. When I answered, it was

just breathing for 5 seconds.

Then they hung up. It happened again the

next day. The third time, the man said I

should be more careful about where I go

and what I look at before the line went

dead. I filed a police report and gave

them everything. The number was traced

to a burner phone. They said they'd

increased patrols near my apartment, but

couldn't do much else.

The call stopped after that, but 2 days

later, I saw a dark blue pickup parked

down the street from my building. It was

gone by afternoon, but I knew it was the

same one. Maybe I was paranoid, or maybe

I was still under the radar. Anyway, I

quit 2 weeks later, citing personal

reasons, and moved to Portland. A cousin

of mine got me an office job that had

nothing to do with investigative

journalism. 6 months later, I saw a

brief article in the register. The

county had condemned the property and

seized it through eminent domain. The

house was demolished due to structural

hazards, and the land was clear. I never

followed up or told anyone about what I

saw in that basement because some

stories just aren't meant to be

published.

Not because they aren't true, but

because knowing them comes with a cost

that doesn't end when you walk away. I

still check my rearview mirror more than

I should. Still think about those hooks

in the basement wall and the restraints

bolted to the floor. Someone had been

using that chamber for a purpose I'd

never want to know. I'm just glad I

never found out who was behind that

padlock closet door.

I've been driving 18-wheelers for 6

years. Long enough to know when I'm

pushing. That night, I went past what I

should have. Even though I kept telling

myself I was still fine, I'd taken two

overnight runs back to back for a rush

load up to Portland. The company was

paying double for it, and I needed the

money. By the second night, I was

running on gas station coffee and some 4

hours of sleep spread across two days.

The route took me onto a coastal highway

most truckers avoid. The lanes are

tight. There's no shoulder in a lot of

places. And once you're out there, there

aren't many spots [music] to pull over.

Normally, I wouldn't take it either, but

it shaved almost 2 hours off the drive.

For the first hour or so, everything was

fine. Around 2:00 in the morning, fog

rolled in heavy enough that the road

just disappeared [music] in front of me.

Around mile marker 37, my eyes started

getting heavy. I turned the radio up,

cracked the window, and even smacked

myself in the face a couple times.

That bought me maybe 10 minutes before

my eyelid started dropping again.

I was thinking about pulling over when a

figure in a red hoodie appeared in my

lane. I slammed the brakes and yanked

the wheel hard to the right. The truck

fish tail. I felt the rear end swing out

and the whole rig tipping.

My head cracked against the side window

and everything went sideways.

When I came to, I was slumped against

the steering wheel with the airbag

deflated in my lap. Blood was running

down from above my right eye.

I sat there trying to catch my breath

and figure out what had happened. The

truck had gone off the road and hit a

tree at an angle. I checked my arms and

legs. Everything worked, even though my

ribs were screaming. I climbed out

carefully and looked back at the road,

expecting to see whoever I'd swerve to

miss.

But the road was empty in both

directions.

I walked around the truck trying to get

my head straight. I was exhausted and

rattled. After a minute, I convinced

myself I'd imagined it. But my phone was

dead, and the closest town was at least

10 mi back.

So, I grabbed my flashlight from the cab

and started walking along the road,

hoping I'd see headlights or find a

house with a light on. The fog was

getting thicker. I couldn't stop

shaking. That's when I noticed a

building set back [music] from the road,

maybe 40 yards into the brush

with concrete walls and some kind of

antenna [music] tower sticking up behind

it. It looked abandoned, but it had a

roof and maybe if I were lucky, there'd

be a phone inside that still worked. I

walked toward it. The front gate was

hanging crooked on rusted hinges. Up

close, the place looked like it had been

empty for decades.

The main door was metal and slightly a

jar. I pushed it open.

Inside smelled like wet concrete and

rust. My flashlight swept over an old

monitoring room with desks and chairs

tipped over and papers scattered across

the floor. It looked like some kind of

relay station. I figured I wait there

until morning and then try flagging down

a passing truck. Most of the rooms were

empty or full of broken equipment, but

something felt off.

A chair was pulled away from a desk as

if someone had just stood up, and there

were drag marks in the dust that looked

recent. Toward the back, I noticed a

narrow hallway with a faint glow coming

from it, like a light was still burning

somewhere.

I started toward it, thinking maybe

someone was actually there. I was about

halfway down the hall when the floor

gave out, and I dropped straight through

rotted boards [music] and landed hard on

my side in a pile of broken wood and

debris. The impact knocked the air out

of me. My flashlight skidded away and

came to rest against the concrete wall.

I laid there for a minute trying to

breathe. Everything hurt. I rolled onto

my back and looked up at the hole I'd

fallen through, maybe 8 ft above me. I

sat up slowly and took. It was some kind

of lower level, maybe a basement. I

crawled over to grab my flashlight when

I felt a breath of air against my neck.

I spun around and my light caught the

edge of a figure sitting in the corner

of the room just outside the reach of my

beam. My stomach dropped. He might have

felt my eyes on him because he spoke. He

said I wasn't supposed to be there.

I got to my feet even though the pain

shot through my ribs. On the far side of

the room, I spotted a doorway that

looked like it might lead to stairs. I

didn't answer it. I just started moving

toward it. My flashlight bounced against

the walls.

Behind me, I heard ruffles as if he'd

just gotten up. Panic shot through and I

bolted for the doorway. It had a narrow

metal staircase. I took the steps two at

a time. My rib screamed, but I didn't

stop. The footsteps got closer behind

me. I burst through a door at the top

into another hallway. I could see dim

light ahead near what looked like the

entrance.

I ran straight for it, crashed through

the door, and didn't stop until I hit

the road.

A truck came up from the south about 10

minutes later. I stepped into the lane

and waved my arms. He drove me to the

nearest town, and dropped me at the ER.

The doctor said I had three bruised

ribs, a mild concussion, and needed six

stitches above my eye. They kept me

[music] overnight for observation.

2 days later, the sheriff's department

called.

They said they found my truck and

checked the building I described. It was

an old weather monitoring station, and

it had been abandoned since the8s.

There was no one inside and no sign

anyone had been there recently.

They asked if I'd been drinking. I told

them I was just exhausted. That seemed

to satisfy them. They shut the file.

But I couldn't shut the nightmares that

still haunt me every night.

The quarry was one of those places

everyone knew about, but nobody actually

went to. It sat at the end of a logging

road about 30 minutes outside town.

Hidden behind state forest land and a

bunch of no trespassing signs that had

been there so long they were faded and

full of bullet holes. We'd heard about

it from some seniors who said the cliffs

were perfect for jumping and the water

was deep enough that you wouldn't hit

the bottom. Marcus had been talking

about checking it out all summer. And by

late August, we'd run out of reasons not

to go.

We left around 2 on a Saturday afternoon

at Marcus' Honda. The logging road was

worse than we expected. It was full of

deep ruts and loose gravel that made the

car bottom out twice. We passed a few

faded signs warning about blasting zones

and private property,

but nothing that looked recent enough to

make us turn around.

The quarry itself was bigger than the

satellite images suggested. Sheer rock

walls dropped maybe 40 ft down to dark

green water that look calm. There were

lower ledges you could climb down to,

and the whole place had that abandoned

feel [music] that made it seem like we

had it to ourselves.

Dylan jumped first from one of the lower

ledges. Then Marcus and Caleb followed.

I went last because I'm not great with

heights. The cold hit me harder than I

expected when I surfaced, but it was

fun. We climbed back up and tried a

higher spot, taking turns when Marcus

filmed everything on his phone.

Around 4, we noticed a white pickup

truck on the access road above us. It

sat there with the engine running for

maybe 2 minutes. then drove off without

anyone getting out.

Dylan said it was probably just someone

turning around. Caleb said it felt off

and that we should probably leave, but

Marcus wanted to do one more jump before

heading out. So, we agreed. We were

walking along the upper path when a rock

about the size of a softball hit the

water near where we've been standing

seconds before. Caleb jumped and Marcus

yelled up toward the treeine, asking who

it was.

The response was another rock aimed at

Dylan's feet. He jumped back and nearly

fell off. He shouted, "We weren't doing

anything wrong and asked him to come

out."

They answered with another rock, being

close enough that pieces of shattered

stone sprayed against her legs. Caleb

yelled, raised his hands, and insisted

we were leaving. But whoever was up

there didn't care. A rock landed right

in front of him, then another just past

Marcus. We hurriedly grabbed her stuff

and started toward the path that [music]

led back to the access row, but rocks

kept coming.

One narrowly missed Dylan. Another

whooed past my car. The throws were

hurled to block certain routes and steer

us away from the main path. Whoever was

up there knew the terrain well and was

controlling where we went. We cut

sideways toward the tree line instead,

scrambling through thick brush. Marcus

was behind me and I heard him swear as a

rock skipped past his elbow close enough

that I heard it whistle through the air.

I could hear movement in the woods

paralleling us. Branches were snapping

as footsteps kept pace but stayed just

out of sight.

Dylan tripped over a route and went down

hard. I grabbed his arm to help him up.

And right then, a rock hit the tree next

to us at head height, exactly where

we've been standing a second earlier.

Bark exploded outward. I felt pieces hit

my face, and one cut my cheek deep

enough that I tasted blood. We ran after

that. Didn't care about the noise of the

branches whipping our arms and faces. My

heart was pounding so hard I thought I'd

throw up. We didn't stop until we hit

the access road.

Marcus' car was maybe 50 yards down. We

sprinted for it, but a white pickup

rolled back up the road from the

opposite direction and stopped about 20

ft from Marcus' car, blocking our path.

The man inside looked to be in his 30s

with a thick beard. He was wearing a

hunting jacket despite the heat. He

rolled down his window and just stared

at us. The four of us instinctively

huddled closer. Cayla was literally

shaking beside me. My heart was pounding

hard. He mockingly asked if we had a

nice swim. Marcus started to answer, but

the man cut him off and told us the road

back to the highway was that way. Said

we probably wanted to get going before

it got dark. Said it was easy to get

lost out here. He drove past a slope,

tires [music] crunching on gravel. I

watched him in the side mirror until he

disappeared around the curb. We got back

in Marcus's car. Caleb's hands were

[music] shaking so badly he couldn't

buckle a seat belt. I pressed a shirt

against Dylan's forehead, trying to stop

the bleeding. Marcus started the engine

and drove out faster than he should

have, hitting every rut hard enough that

we bounced in her seats. He didn't slow

down until he reached the highway. Dylan

lied to his family about his injury.

Caleb had to take therapy to get it out

of his [music] system. Marcus deleted

all the footage from his phone that

night. He said he didn't want any

evidence we'd been there. We never

reported it. What will we even say? But

someone defended their property after we

ignored multiple warning signs. I still

think about all the whatifs and

unanswered questions sometimes.

We never really found out who was up

there or why they did it. I just know if

anything had gone slightly differently.