Chilling Images

Go to any high traffic bathroom. It must be a high traffic bathroom; otherwise the room won’t have enough latent residual energy to carry out the task. A hotel bathroom is perfect. Make sure it's after 12 AM, and make sure you have two clove cigarettes. The stronger the cigarette, the higher your success rate is. Sit in the dark and begin smoking one of the cigarettes. Make sure there is a mirror present, and that you look at your reflection at all times. The burning cherry should provide just enough light for this. When you’ve smoked the cigarette within a 1/4 in of the filter, the room should be full of smoke. Your eyes will no doubt be watering, but don’t blink. Don’t take your eyes off of the mirror or your reflection whatever you do. To blink will make all you’ve done at this point for naught.

You’ll begin to notice that your reflection will begin to fade into black. The reflection of the cherry from your cigarette will begin to separate into two red eyes. The smoke in the room will begin to condense, and before you even realize it’s happened, a shade will be sitting on the ledge of the sink. He’ll ask you for a cigarette, which is why you’re instructed to bring two. Give the shade a cigarette, which will light itself once he brings it to his withered lips. At this point, you can ask the shade any question you want, and he'll answer true. You can ask who shot JFK, who was Jack the Ripper. Anything you could possibly think of. Be sure to keep an eye on how much of the cigarette he’s smoked. When it gets to the point where it will only take a few more hits to kill it, the smoke from the other cigarette will begin to define more of his features, making him more material than ethereal.

At this point, stand up and snatch out his eyes in one sweeping motion. He should still be mostly smoke, so your hands should pass easily through his head. If you let him finish the cigarette he WILL attack you, almost surely taking your life in the process. The shade will begin screaming and cursing you and the hand holding his eyes will be burning intensely. DO NOT OPEN YOUR HAND! Even though the eyes are disembodied, they can see if they are out in the open. Run to the light switch and flip it on. This will banish the shades physical form and send him back into the ether. Leave the room and wait until 3:00 AM to open your hand. The burning will be unbearable until then, but to do so will blow all the lights out in your house, allowing the shade to return and seek vengeance. You will have four burn marks on your palm when you open it. All cauterized of course, and mostly healed.

From then on you can never be in a dark room with a mirror, because the shade will be able to track you through the burns in your hand. He'll have black hell dogs now, given his loss of sight, and they are far more terrible than the shade could ever be. The number of hell dogs depends on the strength of the shade you made contact with. After this, you’ll always be cold, no matter how warm it is, and you’ll be given the ability to perform minor miracles. Your dreams will always be nightmares, but in them, you will be granted a kind of third sight. You’ll never be able to see anything good, only the most horrific future events. And these events will only be known to you at a point where you can’t do anything to stop them.

A small price to pay for absolute knowledge.

You just hailed a taxi and are about to get in when a pale young woman pushes past you and collapses on the front seat. Just when you start to protest, you notice the way she presses her left arm against her chest and the blood that soaks her coat. She's been badly cut.
Feeling bad because you almost snapped at this poor girl you step back so the driver can take her to a hospital. As the driver pulls out you feel something crunch beneath your foot. It's a tiny brass cog, covered in blood.

***

Being a doctor at the State's Prison wasn't really your dream job – the pay's bad and most of the inmates are psychopaths. But sometimes one of them dies and then you call your buddy who knows people and he gives you a list of what to harvest. The heart of a man who killed seven people? The hands of the guy who throttled his own mother? People pay ridiculous amounts of money for that stuff and it's not like anybody's going to miss it.

But the new guy, the one who killed all those kids? Should he snuff it – he probably will, given how the other inmates feel about his kind – you'll make sure that he gets cremated as soon as possible. His liver and spleen would make you a rich man, true. But your buddy let slip what it would be used for.

Interesting, chilling some of them anyhow. here's a true story. I know because it happened to me. This is not fiction, just something that perhaps will never be solved.

It was several years ago, almost seven now, and i was laying in bed with my pregnant girlfriend. I wrapped my arm around her belly, holding her and our child. The warmth of love was something that few will ever know. I was content, and yet so worried. Something didn't feel right. Something was wrong.

I was about to close my eyes when I heard something thump. I opened my eyes and looked around the dark room. The door was closed, the window locked and shut. My girlfriend was sound asleep. I sat up in bed and stretched. After wiping my eyes, I noticed something very different about the room. There was light coming in from the window, though closed, a small amount came in anyhow. But still, it was not enough. The room was darker than usual. I looked around again, the clock was working. It was early morning and the red digital letters show 2:15 am.

After a few moments, I rolled out of bed, careful not to wake her. She was sleeping so soundly, I didn't want to disturb her dream. I stood up on my side of the bed and stretched again. As the blood rushed to my head, that's when I noticed it. The lava lamp was on the floor behind the small shelf where our DVD were stacked in disarray.

I walked over and reached behind the shelf and picked up the lamp. I looked it and at the shelf. There was a small ridge on the shelf, the lamp had a thick and heavy base. After all, it was nearly a foot tall, filled with liquid and it was off. It was plugged in, but no longer worked. Had it fallen? Obviously it did, but what caused it? I set the lamp on the shelf again and then shook the shelf trying to knock it off again. It did not fall. I moved the dresser that our TV sat on, to see if perhaps it somehow bumped it during an earthquake that I missed. Again, the lava lamp did not move. I checked the door and found that it was locked. Our roommates were sound asleep in their room. I set the Lava lamp back on the shelf where it belonged and went to get a glass of water from the fridge.

When I returned to the room, the lamp was still where I set it. My girlfriend was still asleep. I went back to bed. The next morning, the lamp was on the floor again.

It's late at night, and you just unpacked your last set of books to put them in your library. Moving to the city wasn't easy, especially alone, but you're settled now. You get on a chair, grab a beer and look at your new living room. A guy passes by the open window and nod, and you nod back, smiling and happy to see one of your new neighbours. You've finished your second beer by the time you realise that you're not at your old place anymore : you're not on the first floor here, but on the 11th...

You are a student at a well to do college. One day, while attending a lecture, you hear screams. The Professor stop mid-sentence and tells everyone to stay where they are as he steps outside to see what is going on. Moments later, the school intercom announces that there is a gunman loose on Campus. Your heart pounding, your blood roaring in your ears, you shiver and wait. The door to the lecture hall slams open and you see professor tumble back and down the steps, gurgling his last breath. The gunman steps into the hall as your fellow student start to run, screaming. He guns them down, mercilessly, but stops when he looks upon you. You don't know this man, but when he looks at you, he stops. You see grim satisfaction turn to terror moments before he flees the hall... You hear the final loud crack of gunfire as the police sniper takes him down.

Please Sirs/Madams may I have some more? Please

bricks

I shat em

bump for more

as far as really creepy art goes; i've found using the art from those 90s ghost stories books (the black and white drawings) are the most terrible vile things to show someone if they plan on sleeping
Scary stories to tell in the dark; easily the most disturbing art in any children's book

You're inside your house on an apparently windy day.  The wind outside is howling, and as you go about your business, you here a banging on the door.  The man outside screams, "It's coming to get me!  It's coming to get me, let me in!"  You head downstairs, the wind growing louder and louder, shaking the windows and rattling the house.  The noise is almost deafening as you get to the front door, the man's screams of terror ringing in your ears.  Then the wind and the screams stop completely, leaving the place silent.

...One by one, the people in the crowd scene photo you have start to disappear. You wake up, and scribbled across the inside of the glass is a phrase

"PLEASE HELP ITS COMING FOR ME NEXT"


------------------

It seems, recently, that all of the homeless people in the city have started... looking the same. They stop asking for change, stop holding up signs, just sit there, and wait. You stop and ask one their name. They look at you and smile

"I'm Noone, sir. Don't mind me"

Every day, you check your face to see who you are.



-----

I can't talk any more... the Slender Man needs me to help with his next piece.

She smiles slyly at him and presses her body against him, the slinky nightgown an almost nonexistent barrier between them. "I thought maybe we could just stay in all day tomorrow. In..bed..that is..."

His brows lift and he grins that shit eating grin. "Ooo yeah? Who are you and what have you done with my normally shy girlfriend? No wait, nevermind, you can stay," he says, cupping her bottom and kissing her deeply.


On the other side you scream and cry, pounding at the barrier keeping you from the couple. Its not you! You want to shake him, slap him, anything to make him look at you.

The thing wearing your face seems to smile back at you as the two retreat to the bedroom.

The air raid sirens are screaming again, tearing the quiet night with their shrill electronic screaming. The clouds are thick and low tonight so you cannot see their lights but still you hear the high pitched whine of the fighters or the deeper drone of the bombers, but the siren has sounded and the Chinese are coming again.

It's been on the radio day after day, the bombastic reports of great victories on battlefields getting ever closer to home. They started in the forests and hills of Russia, devolving into bitter battles in the ruined cities. Gradually, despite the victories the fighting was in Poland, then Austria and creeping into Germany and the edge of France. Things began getting more desperate, whispered rumours of a final strike and the ultimate weapons. Life was going past, each day shorter and harder than the one before. It began with food rationing, and then energy rationing and now water rationing. The old shelters are in use again, graffiti from 1940 overlaid with 1960's peace and love slogans and now all partially hidden beneath the grim propaganda of the darkest war yet.

Still, snapping from recollection you move rapidly to the shelters of new london. Following the blue signs you dive into the nearest deep shelter, number V32, the 'Battle of Vienna memorial bunker'. Descending into the brown lit depths, smelling of mould and damp concrete and sharp cigarettes. In there are huddled the cold shapes of those who moved faster: an old man hunched in his greatcoat that looks as if it remembers the last war. A mother cradling a daughter, her wide eyes stark in her pale face and clutching a small doll with ragged clipped 'Victory' hair in red and green. Last, two youths almost old enough for conscription, trying to look more than their years in short leather jackets, ripped jeans and tight 'Victory' red caps.

As you huddle close to the small heater the old man holds out a battered flask of sharp smelling liquor, taking it and letting the harsh spirit burn it's way down your throat you thank him. Handing the flask back you notice that as his face catches the pale light, underneath his cap, one side of his face is a smashed pale ruin - gashed bone and dead mortuary grey flesh look back.

Panicking and backing away you notice the child is not pale from the cold, or the rations, but long dead eyes regard you sorrowfully and death pale hands still grip the doll whose plastic flesh clearly shows the more vibrant and more pink against her skin. Not looking back you dart into the street as the all clear begins it's mournful dirge and people begin to emerge once more to pick up the pieces of another night survived.

Wandering through the dark streets you head shakily into the clear air of the park and sit shakily on a bench, whose dedication is long gone and which now declares that 'shaz loves a sailor'. Glancing down a fragment of a local newspaper, caught in a breeze, brushes your leg. It's headline immediately catches your eye "5 dead in direct hit on bunker". Snatching it up, you know almost without reading, the name of the bunker - it is dated 3 months ago.


This is loosely based on a short story I read as a child and has stayed with me - I've rewritten it from scratch and reshaped it for a new age.

It's been all over the news the past few weeks, "Local Children Missing," "Kidnapper Still At Large," "Child Snatcher on FBI Most Wanted," and many more. You didn't think it would hit your gated community, but this morning you saw the police car parked outside your neighbor's townhouse. Tommy, the Blake's youngest boy, went missing during the night and nobody saw or heard anything, even James, Karen and their kids slept through the break in and abduction. You tell them your thoughts are with them and if they need anything to let you know, amongst other sentiments.

You looked around but noticed nothing was smashed up at the house, the doors weren't kicked in, windows weren't smashed, nothing. You can't understand it, but maybe the kidnapper used a lockpick. That must be it, it's the only way to get in and out. As you head out you catch the last of Karen's sobbing, pained interview with the police, "...good was an alarm system, then?!"

That night you swear you won't let anyone get her, your little girl. She's all that you have left from your wife who gave her life to give you your sweet, innocent Virginia. You tuck her in, kissing her goodnight and clear the cold porcelain doll off her bed, carrying it over to her toy chest. Glancing at its face you start; why does it look like Tommy? Opening the chest you see more of her dolls, they all look like the missing children...why? You hear her sheets ruffle as she sits up.

"Careful, Daddy, don't hurt my friends."

Sweet !

I think someone should do short films based off the Chilling Images entries in this thread....

Speaking of films I think I found a film that is worthy to be Chilling Images material

Paranormal Activity: Evidence of a Haunting