I accidently sprayed my guardian angels with RAID!

To Doc Paranormal

From: PN in TN

This all started in late March when my husband Bob and I began using our back porch for barbeques—and even a bracing breakfast or two.

We live on a lake in east Tennessee and we both love fresh air—although I must confess to being squeamish about bugs. That’s why we have a screened porch instead of a cedar deck.

Anyway, we were relaxing one night after a meal of grilled tri-tips and Bush’s baked beans when an unusually persistent swarm of bugs began assaulting the screen. It was dark and hard to tell what they were through the screen.

My heart skipped a beat because they didn’t seem to be flying at random. It was as if they were aggressively trying to get in, like a hungry dog banging at the door.

And the sound they made wasn’t that of mosquitos, flying beetles or gnats. It was more like a weird kind of singing—the distorted, staticky kind you hear on a distant radio station when a storm is coming your way.

Knowing how much I hate bugs, Bob grabbed two cans of Raid—one in each hand—and began mowing the insects down. That’s when—and I swear this is true—the screaming began.

(Sorry, I need to pause here for a moment to regain my composure…)

…Anyway, I thought Bob would laugh when I said I heard screams.

But his face was white as a sheet.

Trembling, he replied, “You must have been reading my mind. Those were screams. Millions of tiny screams.” He looked with disgust at the cans of Raid still in his hands. He heaved them into a corner.

The night suddenly silent, Bob carefully opened the porch door to examine the creatures he’d just killed. But he found nothing, nothing at all. No carcasses—only a light evening dew on the grass.

Now, I’m going to throw you a curveball. I’d been trying to get pregnant for twelve years when this happened. Bob and I had attempted everything. We were so desperate we’d even flown to Switzerland where I underwent experimental treatment.

But shortly after the tiny creatures visited that night, I felt something stirring inside. I secretly took a pregnancy test and was overjoyed when it was positive. My doctor confirmed it and I gave birth over the holidays.

Bob and I now firmly believe that the buzzing creatures he sprayed with Raid were actually tiny guardian angels. They had arrived in a swarm to bless us with a child.

Thankfully, a few of them were able to fly through the poisonous cloud, although Bob made a back-of-the-envelope calculation that he had caused several hundred thousand guardian angels to die a horrible death.

Bob’s been diagnosed with PTSD. He whimpers in his sleep.

I can’t watch a Raid commercial today without weeping uncontrollably.

We gained a baby and lost our souls.

Note from Doc Paranormal;

While the veracity of this tale has yet to be determined, caution should be exercised when using insect spray during the Spring and Summer bug seasons. The risk of collateral damage to unknown entities outweighs the benefit of a mosquito-free picnic, IMHO.

 

 

Crop Circles Appear On Hairy Guy's Back.

 I’m a man with an excess body hair problem that has made me the object of ridicule since puberty. At the age of thirteen, when most of my buddies sported a whisker or two, I grew a full hipster beard to hide my acne. I became successful with girls, I guess, as sort of a whiskery novelty item. They called me the Bearded Man, like I was some kind of sideshow act. They kept coming around, so I didn’t mind.

     

But things went haywire over the next few years. By the age of sixteen, I had thick tufts of wiry black hair on the top of my shoulders and so much “fur” on my torso and legs that the gym coach made me wear a full-body wet suit during swim class. He said he was worried my loose hairs would clog the filter, but I think he did it just to humiliate me.

     

I became an introvert. After graduating from high school, I took a job as a night janitor in an empty office tower so no one could see me. I threw in the towel and gave up on shaving. One Christmas I dyed my beard white and played Santa Claus at a shopping mall. I wound up being so popular with the kids that I quit my janitor gig. Now, I’m already booked solid for the next two holiday seasons. Amazingly, I earn enough as Santa Claus every winter to take the summer months off—when I allow my beard to go back to black.

     

This is where my problems with crop circles began. My confidence renewed, I started going out more, even venturing to the beaches of Lake Michigan near where I live. I’m sure I must have been a ridiculous sight to some eyes, what with thick body hair everywhere, but secretly knowing I was the Midwest’s #1 Santa Claus helped their wisecracks roll off my back.

     

Then, a few days ago, while on my favorite remote part of the beach, I woke up from a pleasant slumber to notice something strange on my back. Parts of it were completely bare. Large clumps of hair were in the sand surrounding my towel. I ran to my car two hundred yards away. Looking in the rear view mirror, I got the surprise of my life: an intricate pattern had been shaved on my back hair.

    

I thought I had been the victim of pranksters until I saw an online photo of a crop circle that had appeared in a farmer’s wheat field. Shockingly, it was the exact same pattern that had been fashioned in my body hair this September. I tried to find who had posted the picture with no success. It appeared have been generated from somewhere in Eastern Europe. And it was gone when I searched again just before creating this post.  

     

That, to say the least, was a crushing disappointment. However, I will swear to this day that the same entities that created the crop circle in the farmer’s wheat field cut the pattern on my back.

     

While I feel honored that I was chosen as the first human “canvas” for their mysterious art, I am now afraid to go outside for fear they will strike again. And Christmas is coming up soon. I’m terrified I’ll have to cancel all my Santa Claus bookings. My sole source of income will disappear. I’ll get evicted from my apartment. Where will I hide then?

Here’s what I’m urgently trying to get through to all readers of my cautionary tale:

   

This is a horror story not just for me, but for all hirsute men.

by: Anonymous

Transcribed by Dawnlee Hope, Jr. 

Paranormal Journalism Curriculum

Edgar Allan Poe Community College

Woman becomes invisible spontaneously.

 Unfortunately, scientific studies have shown there is no way to turn invisible by choice.

But a prominent hypnotherapist claims there have been cases of spontaneous invisibility. She's received numerous reports of the phenomena, including the case of "Vera," who experienced a strange physical sensation while watching TV on her couch. 

When the odd feeling ended, Vera's husband asked where she'd been. He'd been sitting in a nearby wingchair for fifteen minutes, but had not seen her.

The reality: Vera had become invisible without knowing it!

Doc Paranormal
Adjunct Professor without Portfolio
Edgar Allan Poe Community College

Startled Christmas carolers spout Satanic slogans.

An eastern European chorale group stopped all performances after shocked members spontaneously spouted Satanic slogans.

The choir of twenty was gathered on a village street, when, in the midst of O Holy Night, the lead soprano began shouting demonic epithets.

After her head was secured in a plastic bag and she was dragged away, the choir launched into the jaunty Jingle Bell Rock. However, during the second chorus, the entire group surprised onlookers by singing “Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock, s**k my satanic c**k around the clock.”

Other songs followed with more blasphemous lyrics inserted into familiar tunes, including:* “Hairy nuts roasted over an open fire…” * “I saw mommy ******* Santa Claus…” * “Rudolph the ****-nosed reindeer…” Members of the chorale group began crying and screaming over their inability to control their filthy mouths. Finally, as angry listeners pelted them with inch-thick candy canes, frozen snowballs, petrol-filled vodka bottles and flaming chestnuts that had just been roasted on an open fire, they clambered into a horse-drawn cart and fled.

The choirmaster has cancelled all further public activities until the problem is sorted out. Meanwhile, five of the group’s twenty members, all superb tenors, have been burned alive in the village square. Needy bachelors were rewarded with the singers’ wives and homes.

A ventriloquist's dummy talked me into marriage.

His name is “Benjamin Byrd” and I love him more than words can say.  Because of this wonderful woodenhead, I’m now the mother of three healthy children and the wife of a hardworking provider.

   
It all started the day I met Ben’s shy, soft-spoken human pal “Cliff.”  We worked together in different departments of a huge corporation.  I first noticed him in the hallway:  tall and good-looking with a boyish quality.  I tried my girlish best to snare him into talking, but had no luck until we rode the elevator by ourselves one lunch hour.

   
Cliff sputtered and stammered but was finally able to ask for a date.  I was elated.  Unfortunately, the evening became a disaster when Cliff could barely get a word out and spilled his drink on my new dress.

I wrote off the dress and the relationship until Cliff nervously invited me to play Frisbee with him and a friend in the park.  I decided to give him one last chance, and an hour later met him sitting on a park bench.  There was a patent-leather suitcase beside him.

“Looks like your friend is late,” I noted.

   
“No, he’s right here,” Cliff stammered.  Then he eagerly opened the expensive-looking case and lifted out a wooden dummy with wavy hair, a bulbous nose and a goofy expression on his shiny face.

   
The dummy’s mouth opened.  “Hi, doll!  Benjamin Byrd here.  What’s a pretty thing like you doing with old stone face?  He this week’s charity case?”

   
I chuckled.  “Don’t say that.  Cliff’s a very sweet fellow.”

   
“He’s sweet, all right,” Ben cackled, “sweet as a freakin’ lemon.”

   
I laughed again.  Amazingly, I then proceeded to enjoy an hour’s conversation with Ben, whom I found to be witty, charming, and quite a wonderful companion.  I was impressed that Cliff’s lips didn’t move the entire time.  He was very talented.

   
Over the ensuing weeks and months, Ben and I talked endlessly almost every day.  Through Ben, I came to know Cliff very well.  This magic time climaxed when Ben asked me to marry Cliff.  I’ll never forget Cliff down on one knee with Ben perched on the other.

We were wed in a quiet civil ceremony, with Ben, of course, the best man in a tiny tuxedo I sewed for the occasion.

   
We’ve been married for eight years now, with three happy kids.  (He may not be much of a talker, but there are some great things Cliff can do on his own!)  Sometimes, when we really want to get romantic, Cliff, Ben and I snuggle under a blanket in front of the fireplace—not too close to the roaring fire, of course!  Cliff and I let Benjamin do all the talking while we kiss and cuddle.

by: Anonymous
as told to Doc Paranormal

Baby's diaper deposits tell gambler grandad how to bet.

 Dear Doc Paranormal:

Sometimes a gift falls into your lap in the strangest of ways. Whether it was the work of god, fate or spirits from another plane of existence, I have been so blessed. That’s because I have been taken from poverty and the edge of despair to prosperity and an extended cab Ford 350 pickup thanks to my nine-month-old grandson.

   

I live on the coast of Oregon and let me tell you something—if you think unemployment is bad where you live, move out here where the good jobs in fishing and timber disappeared decades ago. The only way to earn money is twisting wax paper wrappers around salt water taffy for the wealthy whale watchers who come here from all over the world. Call me lazy, but I’m not doing that, not at age sixty-seven, no sir.

    

So I was living on disability and odd jobs I could scrounge up until my grandson was born nine months back. Now “Brad” is a wonderful kid, already feisty and plump, so it was no problem for me when my son and daughter-in-law started dropping him off when they had out-of-state business to attend to.

    

Anyway, I found that taking care of Brad at home got tired real quick, so I decided to combine baby-sitting with pleasure and bring him gambling with me. There are a couple of Indian casinos hereabouts, and I have been known to attempt to augment my income on the roulette wheel.

    

One fine evening, I was at such a casino and down in the dumps. I was losing pretty big and was worried because the $500 I’d lost had been borrowed from my son’s cookie jar. I decided to take a break from the misery and look in on lovable little Brad, who was having the time of his life in the casino day care center.

    

Well, when I showed up, the day care girl was changing Brad’s diapers. He had just gone #1. Since my usual roulette system wasn’t working, I hit on a brainstorm: When Brad went #1, I’d put my chips on red. When he went #2, I’d play black.

    

Inspired, I raced back to the roulette wheel and placed my last nine dollars on red. I won! The hot streak kept going for about six minutes, at the end of which I was up five hundred and thirty-seven dollars.

    

At this point I took another break and strutted like a bandy cock back to the day care center to see if Brad had made another “prediction.” He hadn’t, so I decided to kick back at the all-you-can-eat popcorn shrimp buffet. Man, those suckers tasted good dipped in catsup.

    

After this, I returned to the day care center where blessed Brad had just gone #2. Electrified with excitement, I ran to the roulette wheel and won another seven hundred and one dollars playing black. Weirdly, this made me hungry again, so I splurged on a hot fudge sundae—making sure, of course, to reward Brad with a heaping spoonful.

     

To make a long story short, I have since discovered through trial and error that Brad’s power of prediction is only good for about six or seven minutes after he does his duty. Why, I don’t know, but beyond that, his ability fades.

    

Brad and I are inseparable now. I baby sit him all of the time. The ladies at the Indian casinos dote on that little boy.

    

I plan to buy Brad his own F-350 when he gets older. My only big worry is whether his forecasting ability will continue when he’s out of diapers and into pants. And how he’ll react when I knock on the stall door when he goes to the men’s room.

Thanks for opportunity to tell my story!

Daniel in Florence, Oregon