Scary Halloween Stories Collection: Packed with adventure, mystery and thrills, these Halloween stories are great ways to bring the family together over some shared scary fun. For kids, a good Halloween story lets them experience these stories through the characters’ eyes, filling in the details of their worlds with their own imaginations. It also introduces children to the downright fun of being scared silly.
At one narrative per page, these stories are adapted for young listeners, making them especially great as Halloween party entertainment. Tell these stories aloud and discover the joy of storytelling — with a scary twist.
Scary Halloween Stories Collection
Please enjoy this collection of great stories, featuring ghosts, ghouls, vampires and other supernatural phenomenon. These stories are a fun and entertaining way to get in the mood for Halloween….Happy Halloween……
Callahan was huddled in a cavern near the Pacific Ocean when the Feds closed in. There were still shreds of human flesh under his fingernails when the serial killer surrendered to the inevitable capture. They could put him behind bars, he vowed as they dragged him down the narrow path toward the waiting cars, but he would escape. And then they’d be sorry. He lashed out at the nearest officer, landing a crippling blow on his kneecap. The remaining men knocked him to the ground and bound him foot and hand to ensure his cooperation.
He was sentenced to a lonely prison for the criminally insane; his only companions the wardens and fellow madmen. Over the next seventeen years, Callahan spent every spare second planning his escape. He studied every weakness in the prison system. He knew every guards movements. He spent several years contriving to get a ground-floor cell so he could dig his way out. That plan nearly succeeded, until he reached bedrock a few feet below the cell floor. With every failed plan, his anger grew. He would escape this wretched cell if it killed him.
As the years passed, Callahan noticed that one elderly prisoner – Old Ben – had become the general handyman and undertaker around the remote prison. It was Old Ben’s job to put deceased prisoners into a pine coffin where they lay in state overnight in the prison chapel. The next morning, Old Ben and the warden would ride out to the cemetery a mile or so outside the prison gates and bury the deceased prisoner. Then the warden left Old Ben behind to fill in the hole while he drove back to the prison for his morning coffee.
With this knowledge, it didn’t take Callahan long to come up with a new escape plan. It was simple. The next time a prisoner passed away, he would creep into the chapel after dark and slip into the coffin with the dead body. In the morning, the warder and old Ben would take the coffin out of the prison to the cemetery to bury the deceased. As soon as the warden left, old Ben would open the coffin and let Callahan out, with no one the wiser. It didn’t take the serial killer long to befriend Old Ben and get the undertaker to agree to help Callahan gain his freedom.
Unfortunately, the prisoners were all very healthy that summer and through the long, colorful autumn that followed. No one caught so much as a chill and when the New Year came with no prisoner fatalities in nearly eight months. Day after day, he listened for the bell that tolled whenever a prisoner died, but it did not ring.
Callahan was tempted to expedite matters by killing someone with his bare hands, but such an action – if discovered – would mean solitary confinement for the serial killer, and he would be unable to enact his brilliant plan. So he waited. And waited.
It was late February when the expected bell tolled dolefully through the prison. Snow was falling in the yard where Callahan marched with his fellow prisoners during their daily exercise routine when the bell tolled. “Wonder who it is this time?” muttered a burly man just ahead of Callahan. The serial killer, hands shaking with joy, could care less who it was. The time had come! Tomorrow, he would be free.
That night, Callahan entered the dark chapel and felt his way to the front. Yes, there was a coffin standing on top of two pine benches. He lifted the lid and the smell of embalming chemicals filled his nostrils. He jerked back a little. Old Ben had done his job well. Callahan groped his way inside the coffin and lay down on top of the inert mass inside. Then he closed the lid.
As he lay in the coffin waiting for dawn, the serial killer felt his skin begin to crawl. He’d killed more than twenty-five people in his life without qualm or remorse, but this death-watch made itch all over. The chemical smell of the corpse below him made his stomach roil. Only the determination of seventeen years of planning kept him in the coffin. It would soon be over. In the morning, he would be free of this foul air and of his rotting companion. Old Ben would free him as soon as the warden was gone.
Callahan dozed off toward dawn and awakened to feel the coffin shaking as it was lifted of the wooden benches. He heard mumbled voices overhead. Old Ben and the warden must be moving the coffin into the waiting car. Callahan shivered as the cold February air encompassed the coffin. The constant shaking of the coffin increased his nausea, but Callahan forced down the bile in his throat. Almost free. Almost free. He chanted the words silently in his mind; ignoring the foul smell emanating from his dead companion.
Finally, the car stopped and the coffin was lifted down. Callahan felt a thump as it landed in the bottom of the grave. His heart thudded with joy. Now was his moment. Now the warden would leave Old Ben to fill in the grave while he went back to the prison to have his morning coffee. Instead, something thudded onto the lid of the coffin just above over Callahan’s head.
He strained his eyes against the pitch-darkness of the coffin. It must be the warden, throwing a bit of symbolic dirt onto the coffin at the end of the ceremony. But the thudding continued, and Callahan’s heart pounded in sudden fear. They were burying the coffin with him in it! How could that be? After all these years, had the warden chosen this of all days to help frail Old Ben?
The thudding grew fainter as the grave was filled in above Callahan. After a few minutes, the foul air inside the coffin grew thin and hot and the chemical smell was almost overwhelming. Callahan vomited all over his clothes before he could stop himself. He pounded the lid of the coffin in the darkness and shouted: “Come on, Old Ben! Kill the warden if you must! Hurry up….”
Then a terrible thought struck him, making his heart pound in sudden horror. What if…what if… Callahan fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a match. He struck it and in the sudden flickering brightness he turned his head and looked below him. Into the pale dead face of Old Ben.
By -Spooky Montana
I found it extremely annoying that one of the bathrooms on my dorm was permanently closed. Especially since the cause was an urban legend. An urban legend, I tell you! According to the story, years and years ago some bloke got himself massively drunk at a bar in downtown Helena and had passed out in the bathroom on the fourth floor.
Apparently, he hit his head on the sink as he fell, and his blood had spattered the sink as he slid senseless to the floor and silently hemorrhaged to death. His death was considered a “sad accident” by faculty, staff and townspeople. But that was no reason to shut up the bathroom for decades! I completely discounted the story of the bleeding sink. That was just an urban legend the students circulated to explain the locked door.
“I’m sick of sharing a bathroom with you disgusting lot,” I grumbled to my roommate. “I’m going to break into the fourth-floor bathroom.”
My roommate’s eyes widened. “Don’t you know that bathroom is haunted?” he exclaimed. “The bloodstains on the sink are as fresh today as they were when the accident happened back in the 1960, and sometimes you can hear the boy moaning as his life ebbs away on the bathroom floor!”
“Romantic twaddle,” I snapped. “My granny lives in a haunted castle in Scotland with ghost stories that would make your hair stand on end. She’d laugh at me if she found out I ignored a perfectly good bathroom because of a few bloodstains. Besides, the maintenance staff told me the bathroom was shut up pending renovations. No big deal!”
“You’ll be sorry,” my roommate said darkly. I ignored him. He was just sore because I’d lumped him in with the disgusting lot of fellows who mucked up the bathroom on my floor. You’d think someone would teach them to pick up their dirty clothes and clean the sink once in awhile.
When the dorm quieted down for the night – which wasn’t until late – I hurried up to the fourth floor with a bit of wire I’d purchased at a local hardware store. My little brother and I had become expert lock-pickers over the years, since our mother had a bad habit of locking her keys into the house or the car at least once a week. With all that experience, the lock on the bathroom door gave me no problems.
The bathroom was rather old-fashioned in appearance and had a disused air. There was dust in the corners, and a spider web drooped from the ceiling. But I heard no unearthly groaning, no mysterious footsteps. I carefully inspected the sink, the walls and the floor.
Other than a smallish orange discoloration on the sink, there was no blood anywhere. Ha! So much for urban legends. There was probably something in the water that caused discoloration over time. I turned a tap experimentally, sure that the maintenance staff had shut off the water long ago. To my surprise, water gushed forth instantly. I smiled. Well, well. It looked like I had a bathroom to myself after all! I carefully locked the door behind me when I left.
I got up late the next morning, and had the downstairs bathroom all to myself. So it wasn’t until evening, when everyone was back in the dorm, crowding in and out of the bathrooms, that I slipped away to use the locked up facilities. It was still early in the evening, and I made sure no one was around before I headed to the abandoned bathroom. With a few twists of the wire, I opened the lock. As I stepped inside, the air temperature plummeted twenty degrees or more and my nose was hit by the pungent, strong smell of fresh blood. A second later, I saw the blood-spattered sink.
Bright-red gore was everywhere – on the porcelain, on the walls, oozing down the sides of the sink. And hovering before it, his feet a good six-inches off the ground, was the luminous form of a college-aged boy wearing old-fashioned clothes in the style of the 1960.
His forehead had a disfiguring dent smashed into it, and blood was dripping down his face. As I gaped at him, horrified and frozen in terror, he turned and looked at me. Then he held out a blood-stained hand. His eyes were desperate, pleading for help, and I heard a low moaning sound coming from between his blood-stained lips.
The sound raised every hair on my body and made the skin prickle in sheer, cold horror. I backpedaled fiercely, my legs scrambling to get away while my eyes and head remained fixed on the ghost, on the bloody sink. A drop of red blood fell from his outstretched hand as I stared at him.
Then the momentum of my legs carried me through the door, which slammed shut behind me, and the hot, pungent smell of fresh blood followed me through the halls and down the staircases until I was outside into the chilly air of autumn, breathing deeply. My knees shook so bad that I fell onto the nearest patch of grass, stomach heaving.
Oh lord! The ghost was real! No wonder they kept the place locked up. I lay on the grass for a long time, ignoring the chill in the air. This was a natural chill which comforted, not that unnatural chill that had frightened me upstairs. I breathed in and out, in and out, watching the stars above me, bright even through the campus lights. I took comfort from the huge, clear expanse of sky. But I still felt reluctant to go back inside that haunted building.
I shuddered once, from head to toe. Oh how my granny would laugh if she knew her big brave grandson was too scared to go back inside a haunted dormitory. It was the thought of granny that got me back onto my feet and upstairs to my room. But I didn’t care what granny or anyone else thought of me. I was never going back to the fourth floor bathroom. Once was enough.
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