Some of you may have heard that the Disney corporation is responsible for at least one real, “live” Ghost Town.
Disney built the “Treasure Island” resort in Baker’s Bay in the Bahamas. It didn’t START as a ghost town! Disney’s cruise ships would actually stop at the resort and leave tourists there to relax in luxury.
This is a FACT. Look it up.
Disney blew $30,000,000 on the place… yes, Thirty Million Dollars.
Then they abandoned it.
Disney blamed the shallow waters (too shallow for their ships to safely operate) and there was even blame cast on the workers, saying that since they were from the Bahamas, they were too lazy to work a regular schedule.
That’s where the factual nature of their story ends. It wasn’t because of sand, and it obviously wasn’t because “foreigners are lazy”. Both are convenient excuses.
No, I sincerely doubt those reasons were legitimate. Why don’t I buy the official story?
Because of Mowgli’s Palace.
Near the beachside city of Emerald Isle in North Carolina, Disney began construction of “Mowgli’s Palace” in the late 1990s. The concept was a Jungle-themed resort with…
I read a book as a child. I summed it up and added a few details.
“Mr. Weston the doctor will see you now.” The nurse hung up the intercom.
Even though Sam was really nervous, he started to laugh at the fact that the lady called him Mister. That was his Dad’s name.
It was October 31, 1973, and 9 year old Sam Weston was in the hospital, about to go into surgery. He had to have his tonsils removed.
He followed his parents to the doctor’s office in the back of the hospital.
“Alright son.” said the Doctor. “Whoops, my mistake. I was told a 9 year old named Sam was coming here for surgery. You’re as big as I am.”
Sam laughed. “I’m only nine!” He thought it was hilarious that the entire hospital thought he was an adult.
The doctor checked his clipboard. “Hah! Tonsil surgery? Is that what your parents said you were scared of? Let me tell you something Mr. Weston, tonsil surgery is not scary at all. It won’t hurt but just for a second. Have…
“…Victims of these horrific crimes were reported to have their limbs either extremely mutilated or completely sawed off. He or she is targeting only women so far. The culprit still has not been caught and is still on the rampage…”
I flipped my TV set off and slumped down in my bed. I rolled over to check my clock. “Man… 3:29 and still not a wink of sleep…” I mumbled, sliding down in bed and staring at the wall. This was the fourth night of insomnia I had suffered. I could not sleep whatsoever. I tried everything – counting sheep, relaxing my body – you name it, I had tried it. Nothing seemed to work.
I would only doze off maybe once, and it was only for about 10 or 15 minutes. When I did sleep, however, I began to have very ominous dreams. It was the same each time. I would be standing in a blank, wide room. The only thing in sight was this girl. She was young, only 7 or 8. Her hair covered her face. She kept…
The night was dark. The only light emitted into the tiny bedroom was from the door that stood slightly ajar. The room was clean for a four year old little boy. There weren’t any toys covering the floor and no clothes thrown about the room.
The little boy slept soundly; light snores could be heard coming deep from within his chest. His arm twitched fervently, but became still after a few seconds. The sound of his breathing rang out across the silent room.
Seeing the child deep in his slumber, the tiny little man clambered out from under the boy’s bed. He was a short fellow with a quirky mustache set above his crooked lips. His eyes, which were enlarged, set close to his forehead. He had no nose, but his ears made up for that. On top of his head, sat a velvet black top hat with fifteen little red cards sticking out of the band wrapped around it. He stood up on the haunches of his feet and stretched his tiny body out, a sigh leaving his parched lips.
The little boy stirred, but didn’t wake. The tiny man giggled lightly and stepped back from the bed a bit. His eyes glanced around the small room, but slid back onto the little boy after mere seconds. He smiled a crooked smile and allowed his fingers to glide across the soft down comforter. The boy’s eyes jerked open at that motion and he nearly screamed if not for the calming manner of the man standing before him.
“H-hello. What’s y-your name?” the little boy stuttered out, gazing at the awkward little man.
The man merely smiled and clutched at his hat. “My name is Hat Man Williams, but you can call me Hat Man,” he paused a second and the boy continued to stare at him in wonder. “I’ve never seen you before. What’s your name, my dear boy?”
“My name’s Jake. We just moved here.”
Hat Man smiled crookedly and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Ah, that would explain why I’ve never seen the likes of you before.” His mouth twitched a…
l once knew a man who was afraid of nothing. No monstrosity man made nor fictitious could subdue his spirits, and the mere mention of the word ‘supernatural’ would elicit a most cynical example of laughter. This bravery was both his greatest strength and his most profound weakness, for ignorance and heedlessness can often be mistaken for a deep and foolhardy sense of courage. He was to learn the limits of his bravery down in those oppressive tunnels, deep below the streets of Amsterdam.
His name was Henke, due mainly to his Finnish ancestry on his father’s side, and although his parents had passed away at an early age, it was clear that he believed his courageous convictions could be attributed to his father’s character.
I had met Henke four years earlier while travelling with some friends on a rather common rites of passage: Backpacking through Europe during a university break. He and a few of his friends were on a similar trip and happened to be staying at the same youth hostel as myself and my companions in Rome. We all got on well, but both Henke and I struck up an immediate rapport with one another as he was a keen musician and I was at the time still filled with the self promise, or should I say delusion, of stardom through my own musical pursuits.
This friendship continued onwards and we maintained it via email; swapping musical discoveries, talking about politics, and generally getting to know one another as best two people can through simple correspondence. I grew to enjoy our friendly debates over the years and on a few occasions we even visited one another. Henke moved around a lot and as such it gave me a good excuse to visit a number of mainland European countries, not to mention that he always knew which local pubs served the best beer and which restaurants were to be best avoided.
Last year I visited Henke in Amsterdam. The Dutch city seemed to be a good fit for him as he always liked to live in the liveliest of places, and…
My Father was a great, noble, man. He gave us food, a respectable place called home, raised us, he even gave my older brother his kidney when he needed surgery. None of us knew why ANYONE would do this to him. What was left of him was just laying there … just … just laying there on the kitchen table.
My name is Aiden, Aiden J. Morgan. I am currently 22 years old. My father was, well I really want to leave it as “Dispatched.” My Dad’s name is Grant. He turned 48 today, and was divorced back in 01’. I have two siblings, Amy and Alex. Alex is 24 and Amy is 17. Amy is currently living with me while she is finishing high school. We, well at least I, haven’t talk with our mother, Rebecca, since my Dad divorced her. Honestly, too much has happened, that I will NOT go into detail about that mess. Maybe another time mate’. But for now, I will tell you what has happened before my arrival here.
It was 2:29pm, “Yes, thank you so much,” as I spoke in the phone. “Amy, it’s time to see Mom.” “Great! I have to see the woman who probably killed Dad!” Amy said in an un-forgivable tone. “Please Cookie,” as I said to calm her down, “you and I both know she has done horrible things to Dad, nevertheless, we don’t know for sure she had anything to do with this. Now come on, we have to meet her and Alex”
Later, I drove my sister down to the police station to give our interviews. My sister didn’t say one word to my mother. Amy didn’t even look at her; I don’t blame her at all. Mom has done shameful, unspeakable things. Plus, Rebecca saw us as these titles: Alex was Dad’s favorite, Aiden the one who gets things done, and Amy was “MeiMei.” MeiMei means “Little Sister” in Chinese. Why Chinese? She absolutely loves to read anime books. I mean,…
It’s hard to imagine what it is like to be kidnapped. I’ve tried, often, probably every day for the last four years. Imaging the unlimited scenarios, anything from the kidnapper’s first contact to the actual abduction and the subsequent transport, has plagued me for many sleepless nights. It is hard not to focus on the betrayal he must have felt trusting that stranger. The absolute fear and possible pain he felt while maybe getting dragged away into some van or truck. Thinking of how they may have subdued him if he started to fightback. Sadly, the only thing that brings me some measure of comfort is imagining him poking an eye out or busting the son of a bitch’s testicle with a hard kick. I wish that’s where my imagination ends when I dwell on my son’s kidnapping. But it is not. That rabbit hole is deep and filled with things that take days off my life by just the thought of it. Truth is, neither myself nor my now ex-husband know what really happened.
At times I believe I am literally in Hell on Earth. My world has been upside down since my son went missing from my yard. Thinking towards the future is impossible for me now. So my days are cramped up in my home, reliving every detail of the day he went missing. Most disturbing,however, is that the most mundane of things torture the worst; veering through the kitchen window into the backyard I haven’t visited in four years and seeing the sun-drained, abandoned swing set and slide; hearing the theme song for the kid shows he routinely watched; seeing the back of a head on a child, who slightly resembles mine if he were four years older, at the grocery story or park or everywhere. The worst however is the sound of the phone ringing. Every time it sounds, my body gets filled with the most conflicting emotions. Is this the call I find out he is alive or dead? Or worst, that it is neither. Truth be told, a knock on the door is…
I can hear them when it’s quiet. They hide in the vents. They laugh at me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because they know they’ve got me. I can’t do anything to stop them. There’s no one I can tell, everyone would think I’m insane. Now I just have to wait. They’ll come to collect me when they’re ready. Not on my time, god no. They won’t come for me until long after my mind has completely unhinged.
By this time I know they don’t want to be seen, and I have a feeling I don’t want to see them either. They come for me when I’m weakest. The first time I felt their icy breath at my neck was also the first time I tried to shower after I had first heard them. I closed my eyes to wash my hair and suddenly the water became freezing. I felt a large menacing presence behind me, simultaneously the laughter came from everywhere. What was this thing? Or these things? I heard them in the smallest cracks and crevices and it felt monstrous. Perhaps it always had felt this way but my mind had hidden the real fear. Only a moment had passed since I began to feel it while these thoughts raced through my mind. I spun to face it only to find my self staring at the wall. Startled, I got out of the shower and quickly dressed myself somehow I knew they were watching me. It will come back, of this I am sure. I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t dare to close my eyes for fear that they would return. Every few hours, though, I could hear their piercing laughter cutting through the silence of my once safe home.
It has been about two weeks since that night and I haven’t slept, showered, or left my house since. I hardly eat, only when they stop screaming long enough for me to remember that I need to eat to survive. They are trying to keep me alive, just barely, I don’t know what they’re waiting…
Owen was my pal. Maybe the best one, if I had to rank them. One of the good guys. He didn’t have many friends. We met in high school, drawn together by a mutual love in turn based strategy games. Master of Orion, Heroes of Might and Magic. Owen was an absolute beast at those games. He had a queer talent for memorizing patterns, statistics and maps. He’d devour games like a man possessed, teasing out exploits and secrets while the rest of us were cursing and swearing at the cheating, conniving tactics of our computerized opponent.
Even five years out of college, Owen remained thin as a rake, his eyes looking perpetually surprised through thick spectacles. Life happened to the rest of our little circle of friends. We went corporate. Chased the dream, ran the rat race. We never kept in touch like we should have, other than meeting up every few months for a meal. I gathered that he worked in a bank somewhere, cruising along and meeting his targets without excelling.
The last time I saw Owen was a little over 4 months ago. He had arranged to meet me at one of our favourite bars in a quiet part of town. At least, it used to be until jobs and the pressures of grown up life just expanded and expanded, filling up my life like so much bubble wrap. I got to the bar first. Or so I thought. I searched the crowd fruitlessly until my eyes focused on a lone figure in a scruffy coat sitting at the bar. I had to swallow a gasp as the man turned around. I hadn’t seen Owen in the better part of a year but he looked like he’d aged a dozen. He was thin before but he was nothing more than skin and bones. His cheeks were sunken in, unshaven, with a wispy beard framing his mouth. He smelled of sweat and grime and worse. One thing hadn’t changed, his eyes still blazed with a fierce intelligence. He gestured at the seat next to him.
The doctor told me it was a figment of my imagination. A hallucination. A phantom limb. Cut off, but the ghost of a feeling remains. The doctor tutted and prescribed me a different pill. I’ve lost count of how many pills I’ve tried. There was the yellow one. And the red and white capsule. And the green one. They have succeeded in giving me incontinence, nausea and hair loss. But they haven’t taken my girl away.
My doctor told me to talk about it. Tell people. Who the hell am I supposed to tell something like this? My last friends abandoned me when Sylvia left. It’s late here..
Where to start, when there is so much to tell? At the beginning I suppose, it’s always a good place.
We thought we’d had it made when we moved into the suburbs. We had well paying jobs. Fluke or competence had saved us when the waves of cuts hit around 2010. For once in our lives, money wasn’t a problem. Eight years earlier, we had Annabelle, Belle for short. She was our little angel. Parents out there will know. A child shifts the centre of gavity of your life. The move was good for her. Good for us. Away from the hustle and danger of the city. Busy streets, missing children, the sticky hands and staring eyes of sexual predators.
It wasn’t the house of our dreams, but it was close enough. A lawn for the balmy summer months. Fireplace for the chill of winter. Space for us to grow into, especially for a young girl. It came fully furnished. And it was a steal. A distressed sale, our agent called it. At least a tenth off what a similar property would set us back.
The euphoria and novelty lasted me till the first night.
Sylvia was asleep next to me. The moonlight sparkled off the fine hairs on her bare shoulder. We shared a celebratory drink after dinner. And then another after that. I was lying in bed, basking in the warm glow of alcohol when I first heard it. My first thought was rats. That…
I guess I won’t escape the water on this spring evening. As rain pounds on me with the rhythm of an icy waterfall, the pain of the cold is warming me more than my nightgown ever could. The warmth of my breath fights through the bitter darkness of the evening only to be beaten back by the unrelenting frigidity of the wind at my face. Perhaps the warmness of the gulf would radiate just enough to find some comfort in this depressing storm.
The waves quickly roll in, one after another, bashing my stomach and chest. I turn my head to avoid the violent aggression of the water as it pummels me and attempts to intrude my body through my nose and mouth. The gulf’s hospitality sure is lacking tonight, a drastic change from the filled beaches of the morning past; children building sand castles, couples floating and drinking and cuddling in the water, snowbirds out to roost under umbrella tents and the shadow of books. No, tonight is so much different, so much bleaker. The kindness of the gulf seems to have set with the sun.
It seemed too small of a beach community for so many people to litter this little slice of heaven during the day. The beach house, light tan with soft pastel and white colored accents with a large sun bathing balcony, only rents four beds and yet this beautiful beach had several dozens of visitors on its little stretch of land. They could have spread out to the shores on either sides of this lot but they did not. They did not because they knew what I knew, that this section of beach was perfect. The sun stretched over us and was offered no invitation for quarter by monstrous condos, gray clouds, or tall trees. The gulf breeze swayed against our bodies as though it were dancing to its own serenade while the sugary white sands warmed our feet and massaged our heals. The saltwater offered refreshing retreat as it frolicked on our lips like the salted rim of a frozen margarita. Gentle…
The flames are in full force now. Glass is shattering from the heat generated from this inferno. Even the charred wood is beginning to splinter, unable to withstand the weight of the 2nd and 3rd floors above. You know, it is fires like these that made me want to become a fireman. To see raging death dance across the floors, walls and ceilings is an incredibly beautiful and mystical sight. Don’t you agree?
With each person I pulled out of this burning tomb I saw more and more flashes of cameras from my fans and admirers. It feels incredible to be loved and honored like a hero. It is intoxicating even. I cannot get enough of it. That’s why I keep going into the jaws of death to save these irrelevant people. People like you. What they do not know is that I already know how the flame is going to spread and I know where it is safe and where it is not. That’s why I started the fire there…there…and over there.
Unfortunately, for you, I cannot pull you from this beautiful place. You are the last one in the building…well besides me. My fans tend to question how dangerous fires like these can be if no one dies within them. That’s why I must leave you here. My people must know how much danger I put myself in. The adoration is more sincere this way. You understand don’t you? Look, here is some advice for you my friend. Inhale the smoke. Trust me when I say that it is better than the alternative. Okay then…see ya after the cinders die out.
“Oh look baby, the price of gas is a whole dollar cheaper at that gas station! Pull in and top off.”
“Awe bay, it’s packed over there. It’s gonna take twenty minutes to just to get to the pump.”
“So what? The money we save right now pays for your lunch tomorrow. Don’t be so lazy!”
Ron reluctantly follows his wife’s request and pulls into the local Shell station to take advantage of the amazing deal on gasoline. The longer he waits the more and more aggravated he gets. The person directly in front of him is taking an abnormally long amount of time to fill up his small Prius. He also seems to be stroking the grip of the pump a little too awkwardly for Ron’s comfort. It was cold outside and the weird man had gloves on so he figured he was just trying to warm up his hand.
“Ron, when you finish pumping can you run inside and get me and Sophie some Icee’s?”
Ron’s truck was nearly on empty and taking forever to fill. The breeze shooting under the canopy was much colder than he anticipated. He notices his fingers and hand started to tingle and numb from the frigidity. Once he is done, he goes inside to get the drinks. As he was pouring he started feeling a violent tingling sensation crawl up his arm at an alarming pace. When he pulls up his sleeve he notices several red vein-like streaks bulging up passed his wrists toward his shoulders. As the streaks hit his neck and carotid artery he begins to feel like his blood is boiling within him. Wave after wave of crimson blood begins to spray out of his mouth and nose, hitting the entire line of customers at the counter. As he slowly stumbles out of the store he can hear screams and sounds of vomiting behind him.
Ron finally makes it to his car and his wife opens the door in a panic to see what was wrong with her husband. As he falls within her grip and into the car, she notices his skin slides…