Behind the Shed:
It was a cold Friday night in the winter of 1993, and my friends and I decided to have a sleepover at Ethan's house. His parents were out of town for the weekend, so we figured it was the perfect chance to hang out, eat junk food, and stay up all night. There were four of us: me, Ethan, Alex, and Jay.
Ethan lived on the outskirts of town, where the houses grew farther apart, and the woods crept closer to the backyards. His place was older, with creaky floors and an attic we all thought was haunted—though none of us would admit it. We had big plans for the night: arcade games on Ethan's console, pranking each other, and maybe sneaking into his dad's collection of old action movies.
The night started off great. We demolished a couple of pizzas and had an intense session of "Street Fighter," where Alex wouldn't stop bragging about his unbeatable combo moves. Around 11 p.m., as the laughter and trash talk hit its peak, Jay had an idea.
"Let’s make this night interesting," he said, leaning back on the beanbag. "How about truth or dare?"
We groaned at first—truth or dare sounded like something we’d outgrown—but eventually, we caved. The potential for ridiculous dares was too tempting.
The first few rounds were harmless. Ethan had to chug a can of root beer in one go, Alex revealed his embarrassing crush on a girl from school, and I got dared to prank-call a neighbor. It was all fun and games until it was Jay’s turn.
He grinned, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Dare," he said confidently.
Alex leaned forward, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain. "I dare you to go into the old tool shed out back and bring back the giant wrench."
Ethan laughed nervously. "Dude, that shed’s creepy. My dad says it’s been falling apart for years."
"Scared?" Jay teased, grabbing the flashlight from the kitchen counter. "Piece of cake."
We watched from the back window as Jay walked out into the frigid night. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness, bouncing off the frost-covered grass. The shed, silhouetted against the woods, looked like something out of a horror movie.
A few minutes passed. We joked about Jay chickening out, but then there was a loud crash from the direction of the shed.
"What was that?" Alex asked, his voice quieter now.
"Probably just some junk falling over," I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure.
When another few minutes passed with no sign of Jay, Ethan started to look genuinely concerned. "We should check on him," he said.
We bundled up in jackets and sneakers and headed out. The air was biting, and every step crunched against the frost. The shed door was slightly ajar, swaying in the breeze.
"Jay?" Ethan called out.
There was no answer. Inside, the shed was cluttered with old tools, broken furniture, and cobwebs that hung like curtains. But Jay wasn’t there.
Panic began to set in. We called his name again, louder this time, and then we heard it—a faint, muffled yell coming from behind the shed.
We sprinted around the side and found him. Jay was on the ground, his hands tied behind his back with a thick rope, and his mouth gagged with a grimy rag. His flashlight lay a few feet away, its beam flickering weakly.
"Help me!" he shouted as soon as we pulled the gag off. His face was pale, and his eyes darted around nervously.
We untied him as fast as we could, our hands shaking. "What happened?" Ethan demanded.
"There was someone in the shed," Jay stammered. "I didn’t see his face. He grabbed me when I bent down for the wrench. He dragged me out here, tied me up, and ran into the woods when he heard you guys calling."
We didn’t wait around to see if the guy would come back. We bolted back to the house, locked every door and window, and called the police.
When they arrived, the officers searched the area with flashlights and dogs. They didn’t find anyone, but they did find evidence: a pair of muddy footprints leading into the woods, the rope that had been used to tie Jay, and a cigarette butt near the shed.
One of the officers told us about a man who had been spotted in the area recently—a drifter with a record of breaking and entering. It sent chills down our spines to think he had been so close, lurking in the shadows.
The rest of the night, we huddled in the living room, too scared to sleep. The police stayed on patrol until dawn, but it didn’t erase the feeling of vulnerability. Jay was shaken but unharmed, though it took him weeks to joke about it.
That night stuck with us. We never had another sleepover at Ethan’s, and we avoided the shed like the plague. It was a harsh reminder that even in a quiet town, danger could be closer than you think.
The shed still stands, a silent witness to the night’s events, and every now and then, when I pass by Ethan’s place, I can’t help but glance at it, half-expecting to see a shadow moving inside.
Summer of 2000:
It was the summer of 2000, a time of frosted tips, cargo shorts, and endless possibilities. I was 14, and with my parents out of town for the weekend, I convinced my two best friends, Jake and Ryan, to come over for a sleepover. It was going to be epic—no rules, no curfew, just a weekend of junk food, video games, and scary movies in our own little world.
We set up shop in the basement. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours for the weekend. The couch was old but comfortable, and the TV was just big enough for late-night horror marathons. A mini-fridge hummed in the corner, stocked with sodas and leftover pizza. The basement had a single, small window that let in a faint orange glow from the streetlamp outside, but it was mostly dark and quiet—perfect for our plans.
The night kicked off with some intense rounds of video games, the kind where you end up shouting at each other over who cheated or missed the shot. By the time we switched to horror movies, the energy shifted. We dimmed the lights and let the flickering glow of the screen set the mood. Jake, always the jokester, tried to scare us with random noises during jump-scare scenes, but even he started to quiet down as the hours stretched on.
After the third movie, the adrenaline started to fade, and we decided to take turns telling scary stories. Jake, of course, launched into one about a local urban legend—a man called “The Midnight Prowler,” who was said to stalk the neighborhood on warm summer nights, slipping into unlocked homes. Ryan rolled his eyes, but I could tell he was getting spooked.
Then we heard it—a faint thud from upstairs.
“Did you hear that?” Jake asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt. “Probably just the house settling.”
Ryan didn’t look convinced. “That didn’t sound like settling. It sounded like… footsteps.”
We all fell silent, listening intently. Another sound followed, this time louder. It was a slow, deliberate scraping noise, like something heavy being dragged across the kitchen floor. My stomach twisted.
“Okay,” I said, grabbing the flashlight from the side table. “I’ll go check.”
“You’re insane,” Ryan hissed. “What if it’s, like, someone?”
“It’s probably nothing,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Stay here.”
Of course, neither of them stayed. They followed close behind me as I crept up the stairs, the flashlight trembling in my hand. The kitchen was dark, lit only by the pale glow of moonlight through the windows. Everything looked normal—no overturned chairs, no broken glass. I let out a shaky breath.
“See? Nothing,” I whispered.
Then came a sound that made my blood run cold—a soft click from the back door. The handle jiggled, slow and deliberate.
Jake grabbed my arm. “Someone’s out there.”
“Let’s just hide,” Ryan urged.
“No, we need to lock the door,” I whispered back, stepping closer to the kitchen.
But before I could reach it, the jiggling stopped. The silence was somehow worse. My mind raced with possibilities—was someone still there, waiting, or had they moved to another part of the house?
“Let’s go to my room,” I said, my voice shaky. “It has a lock.”
We bolted down the hallway and into my room. I locked the door and jammed a chair under the handle, just like they did in the movies. We huddled on the floor, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Outside, the house was eerily silent.
Then came the footsteps. Slow, deliberate, moving down the hall toward my room. My heart was pounding so loudly I thought whoever it was could hear it.
“Who’s there?” I croaked.
No response. Just the sound of the doorknob being tested. Then, finally, a voice: “Police. We got a call about suspicious activity. Open the door.”
Jake and Ryan exchanged a look. None of us had called the police.
“How do we know you’re really the cops?” Jake shouted.
There was a pause, then, “Just open the door. It’s not safe.”
Something about the voice felt… off. Before we could respond, we heard real sirens outside. Flashing lights danced across the walls through the window. The person at the door suddenly bolted, their heavy footsteps fading down the hall.
We stayed frozen until there was a loud knock on the front door and a voice called out, “This is the police!”
The real police had arrived. A neighbor had seen someone trying to break into the house and called them. They caught the man in the backyard trying to climb the fence. He was a known burglar who had been targeting empty homes, and his trick was pretending to be a cop to get people to let him inside.
That night stuck with us. It wasn’t just the thrill of a close call—it was the realization that the world outside wasn’t always as safe as we thought. Sleepovers weren’t the same after that, and neither was the summer of 2000.
The Darkness:
It was the summer of 1992, and I was thirteen. My parents had finally agreed to let me have a sleepover with my best friends, Jake and Ethan, in our basement. It was our sanctuary, a world away from parents and rules, with its old couch, beanbags, and a TV that was perfect for movie marathons. We had it all planned: sleeping bags sprawled out, a stash of snacks big enough to last a week, and a pile of horror movies that we knew we probably shouldn't be watching. Little did we know, that night would give us a real-life horror story—one we’d never forget.
The evening began like every other sleepover. We stuffed ourselves with pizza, drank way too much soda, and laughed until our stomachs hurt. Jake was always the joker, cracking us up with his terrible impressions of movie villains. Ethan was the more serious one, always the first to point out plot holes in the movies we watched. And then there was me—kind of the glue that held our trio together.
By the time the clock struck midnight, we were buzzing with the energy only sugar and preteen excitement could provide. That’s when Jake suggested we up the ante.
“Let’s play Truth or Dare,” he said with a mischievous grin.
Ethan rolled his eyes. “Come on, Jake. What are we, nine?”
Jake smirked. “Fine, you scared? I’ll start. Truth or dare?”
Ethan sighed. “Dare.”
Jake’s grin widened. “I dare you to call that creepy number from the paper—the one about the missing girl.”
I froze. We all knew what he was talking about. It was the story that had been haunting our town for months. A girl around our age had disappeared while riding her bike home from a friend’s house. They found her bike a few miles away but never her. The police set up a hotline for tips, and her picture had been plastered on every street corner.
Ethan hesitated. “That’s not funny, Jake.”
“Come on,” Jake taunted. “What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a phone call.”
Before Ethan could protest further, Jake grabbed the rotary phone from the corner and dialed the number. The sound of the spinning dial seemed deafening in the otherwise quiet basement. We all leaned in, holding our breath as the line rang once, twice, three times.
Finally, someone picked up.
“Hello?” A deep voice answered. It was calm, too calm. “Do you have information about the case?”
Ethan froze, his hand gripping the phone like it might bite him. “Uh… no. Wrong number,” he stammered and quickly slammed the phone down.
For a moment, we sat there in silence, the gravity of what we’d just done sinking in. Then Jake burst out laughing, trying to shake off the tension. “See? Told you nothing would happen.”
We laughed nervously, but the unease lingered. Deciding we’d had enough excitement, we switched back to our movies. But just as we were settling in, the phone rang.
We all jumped.
Jake, trying to act tough, said, “Relax, it’s probably just a telemarketer.”
I wasn’t so sure. My hands were shaking as I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
There was a pause on the other end. Then that same calm voice spoke, but now it was colder, darker.
“Wrong number, huh?” the man said. His tone sent chills down my spine. “You kids shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand.”
I slammed the phone down, my heart racing. “It was him,” I whispered.
Ethan’s face went pale. Jake’s bravado vanished.
“What do we do?” Jake asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“We tell my parents,” I said, though part of me hesitated. What if they ended the sleepover? What if they didn’t believe us?
In the end, we decided to wait it out, turning off the lights and huddling together on the couch. Every creak of the house, every gust of wind outside made us jump. We whispered in the dark, our imaginations running wild.
“What if he knows where we are?” Ethan asked.
“He doesn’t,” I said, though I wasn’t sure.
We stayed awake all night, too scared to sleep. By the time the first rays of sunlight streamed through the basement windows, we were exhausted but relieved.
We told my parents everything. They called the police, who traced the call to a payphone just a few blocks away. The officers assured us it was probably a prank, but their serious expressions said otherwise.
Months later, the man responsible for the girl’s disappearance was caught. He had a history of stalking and had been living just a few towns over. Whether the man on the phone that night was him or just someone playing a sick joke, we never found out.
That sleepover changed us. The carefree days of stupid dares and harmless pranks were over. We realized how thin the line was between fun and danger—and how lucky we were to come out on the other side.