Good evening, it’s Spooky Boo, once again bringing you the scary stories of the Internet from my studio in the lighthouse overlooking Sandcastle Beach in Sandcastle, California.
Tonight I have for you a very strange and spooky story about beings from the internet or beyond. Considering the numerology number of the computer is 666, we might have already sealed our own doom using the devices of evil.
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Come with me and watch Creature Features on Saturday nights in their YouTube chat room. We love talking about the old horror movies while horror host Vincent Van Dahl interviews fun guests and Mr. Livingston puts up with Tangella’s shenanigans. Find out your watch time at www.creaturefeatures.tv.
Now let’s begin…
Story Number One
The Faceless Mourner
I was wondering if anyone could be able to help me with this. I’ve been asking for quite a while and haven’t gotten any responses other than people telling me that this is fake, or that this is a good short story. It’s not a short story. I need help with this, people’s lives are at stake. Possibly mine. I don’t know yet.
I live out in the country, basically in the middle of nowhere. I tend to a small farm, nothing much, but enough to live comfortably off of. I rely wholly upon my car to get to the city for groceries, and to go to farmer’s markets and meet wholesalers who would want to buy a portion of my crop.
That is, until it vanished.
One day, I woke up, got dressed, prepared to go into town to set up at the farmer’s market, and I found that my car was missing. I didn’t know if it had been stolen or if it just disappeared, but I went to go call the police.
That’s when I found out the phone lines don’t work either.
I’ve tried to call the police, call my family, hell, I think I called for a pizza one time, but every time I do, I hear noises on the other end instead of whoever I should be talking to, or at least their voicemail. Not screams, or latin chants like I’m sure you expect from one of these “stories”, but peaceful noises. Birds chirping, running water, stuff like that. One time I heard a woman’s voice say something in what I think was Italian. She sounded happy, not excited, but at peace. I tried to look up what she said on the internet but I can’t transcribe a language; I don’t know.
Speaking of the internet, I suppose you’re wondering why I haven’t contacted someone that way, tried to tell one of my clients of my situation in hopes they’d bring a car or something that I could use to get out of here. Every time I go to email someone I know, I get some bullshit response that I’m very very sure is not being sent directly by them. For example, I sent this message to a friend of mine, Dave, in hope he could help me out.
“Yo, Dave. Someone stole my car. Can you give me a lift to the police station? TY in advance.
-Jerry.”
This was the response I got.
“Brother Jeremiah,
Be at peace. God is with you now. You do not need to leave your little Garden of Eden. Or rather, farm of Eden. I would visit you, but the walls are too thick right now. They’ll wear down eventually. All things do.
-Ezekiel.”
I don’t know anyone called Ezekiel. I never get any responses that are signed by the people that supposedly sent them to me. I’ve gotten emails from lots of other people though. People with old, old names that make me think of Amish farmers or pilgrims navigating the Oregon trail. Ezekiel, Hekeziah, Jonah, Deborah, Eunice… the list goes on. I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of these names applied to anyone I’ve ever known, or even people I’ve heard of in the last century. They sound Amish. Maybe a bunch of Amish people are just fucking with me or something.
They’re all nice but very insistent on one thing: that I can’t – or as they put it, ‘don’t need to’ – leave. Well, they’re all nice, but with one exception. Whenever I try to message one person in particular, one of my clients, Mr. Drake, I get messages from someone calling themselves Isaac. Where all of the other people I get messages from are relatively kind and peaceful, Isaac is cruel. Here’s an example.
“Mr. Drake,
I’m sorry I couldn’t come to our arranged meeting. I’m currently stranded without a car. Would you mind coming to pick me up so I can report the theft of my car to the police? Thanks.
Jerry Franklin.”
This is that I got back:
“Foolish heathen, thinkst thou that thou art too good for the gift thou hast received? Thou hast been blessed, and thou art as blessed as thou art ungrateful. Thou wilt burn in the fires of Satan, surely, for refusing to let God into thine black heart!
-Isaac.”
I don’t understand who any of these people are or what they want from me – although with Isaac, it’s probably a minute to tell me “the good news” – or why they’re messaging me. I don’t know why Isaac is the only one using old English. If this was all that was happening, I’d think it was a bizarre prank by a deranged cult.
I know it isn’t though, because at the same time as these occurances started happening, HE showed up.
The person, or perhaps thing, I am referring to is an entity I have dubbed the Faceless Mourner. It, or he, is the thing I need help with. He is the reason there are lives in danger.
He’s about five feet and ten inches tall. He is always wearing the same thing when I see him: a black suit and tie, something that looks like it would be worn at a funeral, white silk gloves, and a ski mask with no holes in it. At least, I think it’s a ski mask. He might not be wearing gloves either. He’s either wearing a ski mask and gloves or his skin is made of cloth.
Either way, I’m confident he does not have a face. Every time I’m close enough to see him clearly, I can see that he has no facial features beneath his “mask”. You know how you see the sloping slants of a person’s visage under their mask? This guy I swear has almost rounded facial features. He has a pointed chin, a high brow, and that’s it. I can’t identify any eyes, mouth, or nose-like bumps under his cloth exterior. It’s odd, I can’t tell whether his face is a flat surface, or almost rounded.
He also is carrying an opened pink umbrella every time I see him. It’s reddish pink, with a white floral design. The handle is plain and wooden. It is either open or closed, depending on the weather, but he will have it open on either days where it is raining, snowing, or in excess sunshine. He never shows any discomfort about the weather, despite how harsh the conditions here have become. He doesn’t normally move, but when he does, he either does it in quick and short increments, or slowly and gradually, like a flower turning towards the sun. One last thing.
Every time he appears, he brings a corpse with him.
Now you see why I said lives were in danger.
I’m not sure whether it’s him killing them. I’m not even sure how they get here, as I never see them appear during my stakeouts, and he can’t be carrying them, as his frame is quite diminutive. They appear differently depending on what season it is. That’s right, I said SEASON. This has been happening for what I can only seem to measure in years. The first time the Faceless Mourner came, I noticed a small calendar on my nightstand, a little thing you’d see on someone’s desk rather than their wall. Nothing was remarkable about it, other than a week’s worth of days had passed since I fell asleep. Time passes faster here. Seasons change in the span of weeks. One year here lasts fifty-two days.
Back to the corpses. I always find him standing over them, as if silently contemplating the loss of a friend. The conditions are the same every time, and they change depending on the season. For convienence, I will describe these events as “Burials”. The seasons won’t change correctly, and the day won’t end until I either bury the corpse, or burn it. I’ve taken to burning them as this has been happening so long I’m running out of space in my yard – although I’ve noticed the makeshift grave markers I prepared for them disappearing and the ground levelling after a while.
In winter, the Burial takes place in a blizzard. The Faceless Mourner stands stock-still against the raging winds and tearing snow. His umbrella seems to shield him adequately, as I’ve never seen him get wet in either a spring or winter Burial. The corpse is always frozen solid, under a foot of snow. This is probably the hardest Burial for me, as I not only have to dig the corpse up, I also have to find enough dry wood to get a proper fire going. It always stops snowing after I have enough firewood, so I can dig a proper fire pit and burn the corpse. The Faceless Mourner, often, not always, pulls out a notepad at this point, scribbles something down on it, and tears the page away, handing it to me. He always writes things like “Bundle up, Jeremiah. You’ll catch cold.”, or “I’m making cocoa. Do you want some?”. I was going to accept on the cocoa, but whenever I look up from reading these, he’s gone.
In spring, the Burial takes place in a light rain. The Faceless Mourner stands above a corpse floating face-down in a puddle of rainwater. About these corpses, the winter and spring ones don’t seem to have any wounds betraying their cause of death. If I had to guess, I’d say they froze or drowned, but why would they be under a foot of snow or lying down in a puddle? Anyway, this Burial is the easiest, because I can just dig a hole in the wet dirt and lay the poor soul to rest there. I usually put together a few boards or something like that as a grave marker. When I do make grave markers, the Faceless Mourner walks over to them and pins a note from his notepad to them. The things he writes are really odd. It seems he makes up his own causes of death. Here are some examples:
“Here lies Uriel. Died of sadness.”
“Here lies Meredith. I tried to help her. He didn’t.”
And, oddly enough, “Here lies Ben. I’m not quite sure where he went. I’ll find him eventually.” I’m not sure whether he means spiritually or physically, but after pinning the note there, he nods at it, and just sort of stands there until I look away. When I do, he disappears.
The fall Burials are probably my second-to-least favourite. The Mourner knocks on my door. If I open it, he walks away and motions to follow. If I don’t, he won’t go away. When I follow him, he leads me to a grove of trees that is never there except in the fall. The corpse is always hanging from a tree. There’s always a sticky note pinned to it. It always says “Do you feel guilt?”
I always do. I don’t know why, because these are people I don’t really know. I vaguely remember some of them being mean to me a while ago, maybe a few years at the latest, but I never wished Mrs. Rosetti, my third-grade math teacher, dead. I certainly never hoped I’d find her here, hanging from a tree. The corpses are always on the higher branches and I have to cut them down to bury them. The soil is still good, so I can usually bury them. I normally just bury them in the forest, but one time I did that and found the corpse in the tree again so I took it into the yard. The person was obviously killed by hanging, and there was a wound around their neck to indicate so. The thing is, how do the corpses get up there? The taller trees are around twenty feet, and the Mourner doesn’t seem like the tree-climbing-with-a-corpse type. A more obvious question would be “Where does the forest come from or go?”, but I can’t even begin to get into that one.
The summer Burials are the worst. Easily the worst. I retch thinking of them in May. I can’t sleep more than a few minutes of the last night/week before June. During the summer Burials, the ground is cracked like it would be in a desert. All the grass is gone, and the few trees that are left are dead. The sun is so strong, I actually have to put on sunblock, or I will get burned so badly I won’t be able to walk the next day. The Mourner stands over a decomposing corpse that has been gruesomely murdered. The wounds range from bullets to the head to having had their stomach ripped open and all their organs stuffed down their throat. The mourner writes a note pre-emptively, pinning it to the corpses. They always have an accusatory tone, saying things like “Monster”, “Unforgiven” and “Repent”. I don’t understand what he means by this. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life, and now this motherfucker starts bringing corpses onto my property and blames me for their deaths. The third time this happened, I tried to punch him in the face, but, with reflexes that would put a cat to shame, he batted my hand out of the way with his umbrella, striking so fast that he almost broke my wrist.
I can’t bury the corpse in the summer. The ground is too hard. Thankfully, the trees are all dead so I can use them for easy firewood. The bad part is the smell. It smells like every dead thing in the world combined into one big dead thing and decided I needed to vomit right then. I always did. The first time it took me four tries to stop. When I finally did, I looked up and noticed the Mourner offering me a flask. I knew whatever he had in there wasn’t water. I didn’t care. I just needed to get the smell of corpse out of my nose and the taste of bile out of my mouth.
I grabbed it and took a long swig. It’s hard to describe the taste. It tasted not so much like apples as it did apple peels. It hardly tasted like anything, with a crisp aftertaste. Right then, it could have been ditchwater and I still would have drank the whole thing. I handed the flask back to him. He put it in his suit and left in the way he is accustomed, by not leaving until I don’t watch him leave.
The Burials come about once a “month”, although I’ve had two before. I’ve never had two in summer, fortunately. I never recognize any of the corpses, excepting some from the fall Burials. This has been going on for what I’ve faultily counted out to be about two years. I’ve buried or burned almost a hundred people now I think.
This is all I have. I know it sounds fake, but please, I need help. Does anyone know if I’ve been cursed, or if I’m being haunted? I know there’s no logical explanation for this. If you know anything that could help me, please contact me immediately. I’ll leave you with this letter I got back from Isaac about the summer Burials:
“Isaac,
Please, just tell me something. I need to know about what I’m dealing with. Why is summer so fucked up? Please, just help me.
-Jerry.”
“Jeremiah,
Summer is a painful time for us all. The ground heats up, and we can feel His anger and hatred from the deep below. Thou may not remember now, but thou buried me. I wish greatly that thou had not. The ground wouldst not be such a terrible place, were it not for the song he doth sing. The song is one of hatred and black malice. It hath no words I can recognize save one, Jeremiah, and it bodes not well for thou.
The word is thine own name Jeremiah.
I will pray for you, but it will do nothing now.
-Isaac.”
Story Number 2
Crimson Butterfly
I’m always waiting for that strange, paranormal thing to happen to me, because I just didn’t believe in that kind of stuff. It sounded so far fetched, but I wanted to believe. My friends and I are horror fanatics, even after the things that happened to us eight years ago.
We were fourteen, loved watching scary movies, and playing scary video games. One of my friends, Angela, had a favorite game called Fatal Frame. She had played it some time ago, but it was a rented copy, so she couldn’t show it to us. However, we went over to Blockbuster (heh, remember those?) and tried to find the game. They didn’t have it, but they did have Fatal Frame II: Crimson Butterfly.
Angela and I were immediately attracted to its beautiful cover; creepy and dark, two identical girls with long black hair and a red rope tied to their kimonos, linking them together. There were candles and red butterflies in the background, and the image was bordered with what looked like red paint strokes. We rented it, very excited to play.
I was staying with Angela because my parents went on vacation to France for four weeks. We invited our friend Sarah over to spend the night. Sarah was also excited to see the game, even though she was not as “brave” as us, for lack of a better word. It was pretty late at night, for it was the summer and we didn’t care about sleeping late in the mornings. As I popped the disk into her PlayStation 2, Angela read the back of the case and laughed.
“What?” I asked, and she showed my the back of the case.
“It says, ‘warning: do not play this game alone,'” she replied. Sarah and I laughed.
Warning on back cover
“I’m gonna enjoy this!” I said excitedly. Sarah and I were Angela’s audience, for she was the best in horror games. I thoroughly enjoy watching people play video games, even as much as I enjoy playing them myself. Sarah was sitting on Angela’s bed, and Angela and I were sitting on the floor right in front of the TV. I know, I know… bad for your eyes, yadda yadda…
We played through the night. At some point, we got so lost, we had to look at a walkthrough. We didn’t like doing that, but sometimes… you just gotta. We reached the ghost called Kusabi, who seemed to be summoned by Sae, one of the ghost twins who looked just like Mio and Mayu. We learned the hard way that we couldn’t defeat Kusabi at all. He wouldn’t take damage, and guess what! He killed us in one hit! So we had to start again from the last save point, which was found in front of the door that lead into Kusabi’s room.
Now, I’ll need to tell you that Angela’s PS2 has seen a lot of action, meaning, it was getting old and frequently caused disks to either freeze or load very slowly. So, upon entering the Kusabi room, the game froze on the completely black loading screen. We waited a few minutes, and finally realized we were going to be waiting for a long time.
So, for at least a half an hour, Angela, Sarah, and I were talking about stupid crap like all teenagers do, when Angela wanted to get up to get a snack. I loved her to death, but truth was, she wasn’t exactly… skinny. She was actually quite heavy. So what she did to stand up was put both hands behind her, resting on the edge of the bed, and pushed herself up. She ended up doing some odd twisting thing that amused Sarah and I, so we asked her to try it again. She sat back on the floor and was about to repeat the action, when she stared at the TV, horrified.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“I… just saw a face… on the TV…” she said quietly. When Angela is scared, she rarely actually screams. I do however, and so does Sarah. Anyway, we looked at the TV and saw nothing but black screen.
“You must be smoking something,” I joked. None of us did drugs, of course, but we would say things like that for a laugh.
“Just watch, maybe it’ll happen again…” said Angela. Sarah moved to the end of the bed to where we were sitting and held onto us. Then, as we stared, a frighteningly white ghostly face faded into view on the screen. It was a woman with a sunken-in face, and eyes dark and lifeless. Her hair was black, stringy, and sticking out at odd angles. There was no blood on her, but her face alone was disturbing enough without it. The three of us screamed, including Angela, and we flashed out of the room, shutting the bedroom door behind us.
Sitting on the living room couch, we were completely silent, petrified. None of us had actually seen a real ghost! But was that an actual ghost, or was it part of the game? I ran this by the girls.
“It’s a ghost game,” I whispered. “Maybe the game unfroze, but it was left alone long enough for some sort of… screen saver to show.”
“Video games don’t usually have screen savers,” said Sarah, trembling. “That was something… oh God… that was something…”
“Calm down, maybe Sam is right,” said Angela. “Let’s… let’s go check the game…”
“I’m not going back in there!” Sarah exclaimed.
“Fine,” said Angela, sounding annoyed. “I’ll go.” She went back down the short hall and into her room. After a few seconds, she called out, “It’s okay! The game unfroze!” Sarah and I slowly entered the room, looking at the screen. Mio and Mayu were standing next to the red lantern, which was the save point. I exhaled softly.
“Let’s play something else…” I suggested, and the others agreed. Angela took out the Fatal Frame II disk and replaced it with the Sims 2.
We played for quite some time, trying to see whose character would last longer without a shower, while Sarah watched from the bed again. Then, one of my goals was to change clothes, so I went to the dresser. It loaded slowly, but eventually got there. I put my alien girl into something sexy, and then exited. We waited, watching the familiar screen saying, “Saving game. Please do not turn off your console or disconnect controller.”
This honestly took forever. Angela started complaining about her piece of shit PlayStation, when the screen suddenly started to flicker.
“Aw, don’t tell me my TV’s going out too!” she exclaimed. The screen turned completely black, and the Sims 2 background music began skipping like an extremely scratched CD. Then, to our horror, that same ghostly face appeared right before our eyes. I couldn’t breathe.
“No…” said Sarah weakly. “No no no no no no no…” She was letting out terrified squeaks as we stared, unable to take our eyes off the face. The ghost’s eyes slowly looked right at us, and then began to move her lips, as if speaking, though no sound came out. Angela jabbed the power button, turning the TV off, and all three of us ran into the living room again.
All of us agreed to sleep out there instead of the room; we just couldn’t handle being in there. It was so unbelievable, we had trouble sleeping. Finally, somehow, we managed it.
We slept in until like one o’clock in the morning. Angela’s mother complained about the noise last night and wondered why the hell we slept in the living room. Angela was about to tell her what happened, when we suddenly noticed Sarah was gone.
“Maybe she went home in the middle of the night?” I suggested.
“Let’s go check,” said Angela. We got properly dressed, left the house, and made our way down the road; Sarah didn’t live too far away. We knocked on the door, and her mom answered.
“Is Sarah here?” I asked her.
“No, I thought she spent the night at your house,” said her mother. Angela and I exchanged worried looks and hurried back to her house. We searched every room, including Angela’s, but Sarah was nowhere to be found.
The police were called, and they conducted a search. Angela and I spent a few days trying to get a hold of our other friends to check if they’d seen her, but no one had. Her mother was a wreck, but the police assured her they’d find Sarah.
“Should we tell them what happened?” I asked.
“Sam, do you really think they’d believe that we saw a ghost?” she said angrily. “I dunno what we should do, okay? What the hell happened? Why did that ghost show up?”
“Maybe it was the game…” I said softly.
“A haunted horror game? How often do you hear about those? Usually it’s completely innocent games like Majora’s Mask or Sonic the Hedgehog.”
“I can’t think of anything else it could be…”
“Let’s go see if the other copies at Blockbuster have the same warning on the back cover,” said Angela. We took the game with us so that we could return it. After dropping into the return slot, we went over to check the other copies. Each one said, “WARNING: Do not play this game alone!”
“Well that’s not it,” I said. “Did we just… get a haunted copy or something?”
“I don’t know,” said Angela. “But it appeared when playing the Sims, so it must’ve transferred onto my PS2! That bitch!”
“What do we do?” I asked timidly.
“We could go around the internet and see if anyone has seen her too,” Angela replied.
Returning to her house, we immediately hopped onto the computer and feverishly searched Fatal Frame forums for any hint of a haunted copy. We found absolutely nothing. We decided to create an account on one of the forums and post a new thread.
- “my friends and I recently rented fatal frame 2 for ps2, and somthing really strange hapened. my crappy PS2 froze and after a wile we saw a ghost woman on the screen we though it was part of the game but than we were playing the sims 2 and she showed up again! now our other friend is missing, and we dont know what to do!!! sas any one else experenced this????”
“How is that?” said Angela after she finished writing the post.
“Sounds good, but…” I fixed all the spelling and punctuation errors in the post and submitted it. We actually sat there and refreshed it like every ten minutes, but we only got replies saying, “you’re BSing,” or, “it’s a fuckin ghost game!”
It wasn’t until a week later we finally got a response. Sarah was still missing, and she was put on Amber Alert. We checked the forum again and saw a response from someone called AnOnOmOuS, and they had no icon.
- “Hello, I saw your post and was shocked. This happened to me a long time ago, but I rented my copy from GameStop. After seeing the ghost woman on my screen, I tried playing my other games, but no matter which game I put in, she would always appear. I took the game back, thinking that would help, but it didn’t. Then I looked at my memory card and saw that every single save icon for every single game was just a black box. And then she appeared AGAIN without even being in game. I deleted the Fatal Frame II data, but that didn’t keep her away. I got a new memory card, transferred all my data onto it, but again it didn’t help. It seemed like the ghost had actually infected the games’ data completely. So then I tried erasing all game data on both cards, which was really sad because I had a lot of Final Fantasy on there, and those games are long. I tried playing another game, but she still appeared! I was so scared and so frustrated, I took both memory cards and smashed them with a hammer. They SCREAMED at me! I was so shocked, but then tried my game once again. I played for a few hours without any appearance of the ghost.
- “I know it’s hard for any gamer to lose their save data, but there’s no other way. You HAVE to destroy your memory card. That ghost is like a virus or something, spreading itself through that disk. God knows how many people have gotten it! I don’t know why she’s in that disk, and I don’t care, just as long as I never see her again. I’m never renting another game. I’ll just buy it if I want to play it so bad…
- “Sincerely, A Friend”
Angela and I stared at the response, which had also received many rude comments. Then we went into her room, turned on the PS2, and checked her memory card. Just as AnOnOmOuS had said, every icon for save data was a jet black, three dimensional cube, spinning slowly in their places. Just then, the ghost woman faded onto the screen, causing it to flicker with static.
“W-what do you want?” I asked the face, scared to the point that I started crying. The ghost moved her lips again, but we heard nothing. We even tried turning up the volume, but that didn’t make a difference.
“Why are you here?” asked Angela, much more brave than I was. The woman continued to mouth, but… nothing.
“Let’s just forget it!” I said, starting to feel a little hysterical. “Let’s just destroy the damn card!” Angela turned off the console and ripped the memory card out. Then we went into the tool shed in the backyard and found a hammer. Angela set it on the concrete of her back porch, raised the hammer, and hit the card viciously, once, twice, three times… a piercing scream emanated from the cartridge as it was broken.
“I think…” said Angela, shaking and taking shuddering breaths. “I think that will do it…”
“What’s that?!” I gasped, seeing a piece of the memory card that appeared to have scratches on it. It was the circuit that allowed the card to hold data. We found all the pieces and fit them together like a puzzle, and was astounded at what we found. “AnOnOmOuS” was the word scratched into the surface of the circuit. Was the ghost the one who replied to the thread we made? Why would she tell us how to destroy her?
“Sam, look…” said Angela suddenly. She was pointing at the ‘S’ written on it, and in very tiny letters was the name “SARAH” scratched into it.
“She took Sarah…” I whispered.
“Why…?” asked Angela. “And was it the ghost who responded to us, or was it Sarah?”
We went back inside and got back onto the computer, viewing our post. AnOnOmOuS’ reply was no longer there, and the entire thread had been locked. We searched Google for the mysterious username, but got absolutely nothing.
I’m sorry to say that we never found out who the ghost was, who AnOnOmOuS was, or where Sarah went. Like I said before, this really happened to us, and we never touched a rental game ever again. Even to this day, we try searching for the username, but we can never find it. Maybe you guys have seen it before? And every day I wonder who’s rented the disk… I wonder if they figured out how to destroy it… and what would happen if they didn’t…
What was the ghost woman trying to tell us? We never found that out either. We never found a name or anything. Why was she in a Fatal Frame game and not something else? How did she die? What was her connection to the game?
Angela ran an idea by me. She said that the first Fatal Frame was based off a true story. She said, “What if the second one had some truth to it too? What if that ghost was really in that village long ago?”
“But why would she haunt that specific copy?” I asked.
“Maybe she can only be in one disk, so she gets into the memory card?” she suggested. “I don’t know! I don’t know what goes on in a ghost’s head!” With that, we stopped discussing the matter. I wanted to just forget about it, but I couldn’t.
About a year and a half ago, Angela started doing drugs and became a whole different person, lying and using me and her other old friends. So I ditched her; I hate druggies with a passion. I have no idea what happened to her, but every now and then, I see her mom come into my work. I’ve never asked about her.
Without her around, my mind involuntarily started remembering the events that had taken place eight years ago… and that’s why I’m writing this. You may not believe me, you may refuse to believe me… but I want to warn you… to be careful when renting a game, especially Fatal Frame II. I know it’s kind of hard to find PS2 games now anyway, especially now they’ve announced the PS4, but some places have old and/or used copies, so just be careful. Since we never figured out what that ghost wanted, I can’t warn you of specific dangers, but it’s best to avoid it anyway. You can never be too careful.
And now, even though I’ve never seen another ghost, I can’t still say I don’t believe in them. I’m still a horror fanatic, but I can’t help looking over my shoulder periodically. I know I’m being repetitive, but I’m serious. Be careful, please.
—Sam
