Volume 92, Issue 32

Friday, October 30, 1998

big money


FOCUS
 

Some real life scary stories



Some Gazette staffers have had some close encounters of their own, and despite the chilling memories which had remained quiet since the incidents, they opted to share their stories.



The setting was perfect for one of those teenage blood and guts slasher films – but what really happened that night was much, much scarier.

One of my friends had decided to have a house party, since his family was away and he lived in the middle of nowhere. Of course, as with most teenage parties, there was a lot of drinking, loud music and general destruction going on. After hours of mayhem, we were feeling hungry and a bit tired, so six of us piled into a car and headed towards town.

The night was very dark, as there are no street lights on country roads. And to top it all off, a thick fog had settled in.

All of a sudden, everyone in the car stopped talking immediately. Out of the mist, on the road ahead, we saw something none of us will ever forget.

In the centre of the road was a thin, seven foot tall man, waving his arms slowly, motioning as though he wanted us to stop. As we got closer, I noticed his skin was very pale, as were as his torn jeans and white shirt. His hair was whispy and dead white.

Of course, we all screamed and locked the doors. As we sped past, this ghostly man disappeared into the fog.

We continued on our path, into town, for some food and drove back along the same route, curious. The man, however, was nowhere to be found.

Skeptics may say this was just an ordinary encounter with some crazy kids and a man in the dark. But we knew the area and every single person who lived within miles – he wasn't one of them. And you can't dismiss the chills this story gives me every time I tell it.

–VERY SCARY LISA WEAVER



Autumn had fallen on Toronto. Red and yellow leaves were strewn on the quiet downtown streets as Mark and I walked from the SkyDome to Union Station after the football game, in order to catch the train home. We transferred from Union to Bloor Station and descended into the cool, empty station. I remember looking up at the digital clock hanging from the ceiling – it read 11:50 p.m..

A few minutes later, we felt the vibrations of an oncoming train. There were loud screeching noises coming from the tunnel which were presumably the brakes bringing the train to a halt. The tunnel became lit while the two of us watched a single car slowly make its way through the station.

The subway car was unlike any I had seen before. Its windows were oval and the rounded body of the car reminded me of what I had seen in pictures my grandfather had shown me of old Toronto.

The car did not travel quickly, yet the people in the car were only a blur and almost translucent. However, it was not the passengers which instilled horror within the two of us. Through the driver's window, stood a man whose face I will never forget.

His hair was stringy and seemed to be blowing in the wind, which even at the time made little sense since the windows were closed. Yet, it was his smile which still makes me cringe. His lips seemed to span his entire narrow face and the blank look in his eyes, which remain the clearest memory, screamed insanity. We did not talk about it the whole way home until in the safety of Mark's father's car.

The next morning I called the station to find out if anybody had taken out an old fashioned subway car for a joy ride. The women on the other end laughed at me, mockingly replying that maybe I had smoked a few to many of the "crazy cigarettes," as she put it.

I left it alone for a couple of years, but the event that September night still haunted me.

Two years ago, I decided to look into the history of the Toronto Transit Commission and was not overly comforted with what I found out. Fifty years ago a disgruntled employee had loosened the joint between a subway's first car and the rest of the train. During his ride the car broke away from the rest of the train and hurtled toward Bloor Station.

Two men stood on the platform that day and as the train entered the station it lept off the track, sliding down the platform into the two men. All passengers in the train as well as the two young men were killed. Perhaps the screams we had heard were not of brakes but of the last breaths of those people in anticipation of their own deaths.

–JOHN "THE AXE" INTINI


To Contact The Focus Department: gazette.focus@julian.uwo.ca

Copyright The Gazette 1998