Top 13 Scary Urban Legends

I've written two books on horrible urban legends. The first, Scary Urban Legends, was illustrated by John C. Eng, and is, really, quite good, if I do say so myself. It was published by Schiffer publishing, long, long ago.

In that book, I recount the great urban legends, retelling them in my own inimitable fashion. I do this excellently, of course, and, the darn thing is terrific reading for children young and old. I'm glad we've established that fact. NOW...

Let's get to the meat of this little article, shall we? Since Halloween time again is fast approaching, I've decided that YOU, Dear and Constant Reader, should have a little refresher in the rotten, a quick and dirty ride through of the TOP THIRTEEN SCARIEST URBAN LEGENDS ever conceived; proffered by the thick, wagging tongues of the Great Unwashed around watercoolers, coffee urns; posted upon bulletin boards and whispered in hot and eager ears on dark nights when the forces from beyond tap at the door of our troubled consciousness. They ring in the social anxieties, underscoring our post-nuclear paranoia in a manner most like what Stephen King once called a "kiss from a lover in the dark."

These stories chill the blood, cut to the bone, sever our ties with the happy, conformist world of bourgeois and suburban safety, showing us the black underbelly of our social conventions, our happy consumerist comforts; the evil and twisted and threatening side of what is, otherwise, banal and mediocre. And THEY COULD HAVE HAPPENED TO ANYONE. And probably did. A friend of a friend, after all.

So, strap yourself in. Unless, of course, there's a "Killer in the Backseat." Then, you'll need to get the HELL OUT OF THIS CAR AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.

1. The Vanishing Hitchhiker

A story we've rewritten so many times, we could tell it in our uneasy sleep. A man, or a couple, or someone, is driving along a country road when they spot a weird young woman in a diaphanous white gown. Stopping to pick up the stranded young lady (often outside of an old cemetery) they note how strange and quiet she is. And cold too, right down to the bone. The man may give her his jacket, which becomes an integral plot point later.

The weird girl guides him to an old country house he, at first, takes to be deserted. Pulling up to the door, she leaps from the car, seemingly vanishing with a weird fog that seems to be creeping across the ground. The man, or couple, go to the door, their knock answered by a strange old woman. When they tell her they have picked up her stranded daughter, she replies that, indeed, her daughter has been trying to "get home" for quite some time.

"You see," says the lonely old woman. "She was killed coming home from a school dance, in an auto accident. That was thirty years ago, and every year at this hour, someone else comes by who has stopped to 'pick her up.' Now, if you'll excuse me, it's getting late..."

Feeling a little scared yet?

The additional detail is that, when going back to the graveyard they passed earlier, to confirm what the old lady has told them, they find the man's jacket placed neatly upon the headstone of the poor girl, whose ghost will, we assume, forever be trying to hitch a ride, to "come home."

2. Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the light?

We've rewritten this one a number of times, too. A girl moves into a college dorm with her weird, (ahem) rather "loose" new roommate, a young lass that, the story implies, is of rather questionable moral virtue.

But, not our female protagonist, who is quiet, clean, sober, studious, and reveres all things sacred and traditional. Or, so the story seems to suggest.

Coming home late one night from a study date, the roommate, the "good girl," hears some moaning and grunting coming from her roomie's bunk. Assuming she is fornicating her brains out with a young suitor, and not wanting to interrupt their passionate lovemaking, she decides to NOT turn on the lights, but, instead, undresses and gets into bed herself. Ah, modern mores.

In the middle of the night, a small detail: The male lovemaker gets up, bumps into her bed, awakens her, and then, dressing quickly, leaves. She never sees his face in the dark, even by the trickling moonlight.

She awakes in the morning to a scene that would give Jack the Ripper jollies. A mad butchery, her roommate lying in a pool of her own wet, dripping grue, her intestines thrown over one shoulder; her tongue cut out and her face carved into a Black Dahlia death grin. (Okay, we're adding our own details here, but, really, it's rather a lot of fun, isn't it?)

On the wall, scrawled in blood, are the words: "Helter Skelter."

(Okay, actually that's another murder.) What was actually written there, as far as this story is concerned, are the words:

"Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the light?"

Note: The very real serial killer Harvey Murray Glatman once scrawled on the wall of a crime scene: "Please catch me before I kill again." Jack the Ripper famously chalked in Goulston Street alleyway: "The Juwes are the Men That will Not be Blamed for Nothing." Or, something along those lines. Make of that what thou wilt.

3. The Killer in the Backseat

A very simple, even comic little tale.

A woman (almost invariably) pulls into a service station. While fueling up, a man in another car comes bounding out, trying seemingly to warn her of something. He acts so strange that she hops back into her car, driving off. Because, you see, the radio has announced that a mad killer has escaped from an institution, and is at large, on the prowl.

After a merry chase something happens, and the woman is forced off the road, the car of the strange man having chased her at an increasing speed. She bounds from the car, the car chasing her having pulled up behind. Maybe outside of a cemetery.

Shockingly, her backdoor opens, and a man that was concealed on the seat in back ALSO jumps from the car, running away into the night. It is then that the man whom she lead on the car chase explains:

"I was coming out of the gas station, lady, when I saw that guy crouched down, hiding in your backseat. I was trying to warn you. I was scared he would jump up and hurt you, though, if I made it too obvious. Lady, do you realize, there was a KILLER IN YOUR BACKSEAT?"

4. The Boyfriend's Death

Another classic "Lover's Lane Turned Grand Guignol" tale, short and sweet. Two randy teens are making out in their car on an old country lane, when the radio announces that there is an escaped lunatic from the mental lunatic asylum that is at large, and likes to stalk lovers' lanes, where he finds his randy teenage victims, we must assume.

There is a noise in the bushes. Very wisely, the young man gets out to investigate. He tells his girlfriend, "Stay right here. I'll BE RIGHT BACK."

(As observed in Wes Craven's original horror slasher classic from the Nineties, Scream, when they say "I'll be right back," it is a bit of a horror cinema fib: they never DO come back.)

While he is gone, she begins to hear weird noises from the roof of the car, like someone beating on it, a weird, thumping rhythm. Panicking, she hunkers down in the seat before passing out. When morning comes, she is escorted from her car by a Sheriff or deputy, who instructs her, "Now miss, whatever you do, DON'T LOOK BACK." She disobeys this sage advice, and, looking back, sees her boyfriend has been hung from a branch of a tree overhanging the parked car. The sound she heard was his feet pounding the roof of the car as he strangled to death. So, the killer was outside the car, watching her, the whole time. (But, one may well wonder: Why did he not attempt to kill her, too?)

5. The Hook

A variation on the above theme, which is a sort of morality tale about wayward teens doing it in dark and lonely places, premaritally of course, is the old tale Stephen King has designated "Tale of the Hook," in his excellent study of horror movies and fiction called Dance Macabre.

Two horny teens are necking on a lovers' lane (you'd think these damn urban legends teens would get the point about NOT parking in make out spots, particularly with all these escaped lunatics mucking about; but, I guess, no...)

The radio announcer announces that an escaped mental patient is lurking, looking for lovers to lustily lance. Presumably with his "hook hand" the announcer says he is fitted with. Girl says, "We ought to be leaving, I'm scared." Boy says, "Nonsense, baby. Let's make out." Girl says, "No Billy, I'm really scared. I mean like, really, really, scared. Take me home! "

Boy says, "Okie dokie."

Weird noise outside of car alerts both. Like a scraping. Then, Boy fires away at top speed. They get home. Girl says, "I am so glad to be home. Man, I was really scared."

Boy says, "There was no reason to be scared, babe. I was here to protect you! That weird noise was probably just a branch scraping against the back of the car, in the wind."

Getting out, he goes around to examine the back of the car. There, hanging from the rear bumper, is a rusted metal...hook! The Killer was right outside the car, when they drove away. (Pulled off his hand, too, so he had to, presumably, get another prosthesis.)

6. Bloody Mary

Kids play with Ouija Boards, dabble in the occult, have seances, drink in cemeteries, listen to death metal bands glorify Satanism and murder, and generally go through a period where they are intrigued by the world of the occult.

To wit: a curious legend or game or something has developed, where in, if you go usually into a darkened bathroom, or maybe go with a single candle, and say, "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary" THREE TIMES, turning counter-clockwise, you are then supposed to be able to see, in the bathroom mirror, the image of a hideous crone covered in blood. She may then REACH OUT A CLAW AND SCRATCH YOUR FACE.

Or, so it is claimed.

Is it true? How should I know? I don't fool with that sort of thing, mister.

But you may wish to try it yourself. Best of luck.

7. The Death Car

Not really scary so much as morbid, this little gem concerns a man who, looking for a deal on a used car, goes to a dealership, where a used car salesman that looks like the late actor Kenneth McMillian, wearing, obviously, a Hawaiian shirt and gold chains, as well as polyester pants and white, pointed-toed shoes with zips up the sides, sells him a car at a ridiculously low price.

"She's a beaut!" he says, still chomping away at his cigar.

The guy, thinking he's just got the deal of his life, buys the car...and soon begins to notice this funny odor. He at first tries to ignore it, but it just seems to overwhelm him. Makes him feel right sick, too. A weird funky odor it is, like rotting garbage. Like something has DIED in that car.

He scrubs the thing out, top to bottom. At first, he thinks this must have done the trick, but, then, just like certain bloodstains on the floors of haunted houses, the damn odor will just not...go away. It continues to linger.

In frustration, he takes the car back to the dealership, where the slimy used car dealer finally fesses up.

"Oh yeah, that odor," he says. "Everyone notices it. No one yet has been able to stand it for very long. They always bring that car back. You see, what it is," and here, the fat, sweaty dealer lowers his voice, and now, he isn't sweating so much, but looks as if he's a little cold; like maybe he has the shivers.

"You see pal, some guy killed himself in that car. Yeah. Hooked up a hose to the exhaust, ran it in through the window. Didn't find him for three days. Smell must have been terrible. Now, that car stinks. Don't notice it much at first, but then, after a while, it just becomes too much for anyone. So they always bring it back to the lot. Don't matter what we do, either. Hell, I've ripped up and replaced the upholstery a dozen times. Still has that smell. I call it the 'Death Car,' for obvious reasons."

8. The Hippy Babysitter

A young couple go out for a night on the town. They can't get ahold of their regular babysitter, so they contact another high school rocket scientist to come and sit with their little brat. Upon meeting her, they are a little worried because she looks like a whacked-out hippy LSD user. They leave.

The movie or whatever stinks, so they decide to come home early. Driving up to the house, they find, to their horror, that there is a party or something going on inside. There's a bunch of dirty pot heads in the living room, grooving to Hendrix or something, and no sign of the babysitter. Finally, they find her in the kitchen; because, you know, she has the munchies, right?

"Oh, hi Mrs. C, Mr. C!" says the clearly zonked-out-of-her-brain flower child. She says, "I just had to have some friends over. Hope you don't mind. By the way, in case you're hungry, I put that turkey I found in the oven."

Turkey, thinks Mrs. C. We didn't have a turkey in the fridge!

She suddenly realizes with horror that there is no sign of THE BABY ANYWHERE.

She runs to the door of the oven, flings it open in terror!

Bon appetite! (You get the picture.)

9. Spiders in Her Hairdo!

Back in the Sixties, girls use to hairspray their hair into tremendous, conical "beehive" hairdos, all the while listening to cuts from The Ronettes and other groups threatened with firearms by Phil Spector. One such girl, excelling in narcissistic one-upmanship, teased and ratted her hair into the BIGGEST AND HARDEST DAMN B52 FUSEALGE the world had ever seen.

Her and her boyfriend went out to the woods behind the school to neck. Unbeknownst to her, while walking under a spider web, she picked up a deadly little friend she didn't even know she had. It proceeded to make a nest of her hair.

Also, it laid eggs. A lot of them.

While sitting in class one day, she got a funny look on her face. As if she were in shock. Her eyes became twin moons, and blood trickled down from her forehead.

She suddenly fell over onto the floor. She was dead!

It was just then that one of the students noticed her tremendous beehive do was....moving.

The panicked students heard a tremendous POP! and a black cloud of hundreds of spiders went flying all over the walls and floor and ceiling from the dead girl's head. Horrified students shrieked in terror, brushing frantically at their clothing and faces and hair, trying to get the little black horrors off of them as they tripped over desks and eachother, finally bounding out the door.

So, herein is a lesson about vanity.

10. Pop Rocks and Soda Pop

Don't mix, apparently. If you eat the little crackling candies (do they even still sell them? I've not seen them since the 1980s I don't think) and then drink a swig of soda...blammo! Your head explodes.

Don't believe me? Happened to a friend of a friend's uncle's cousins chiropractor's daughter-in-law's son's next door neighbor. Sure. Unimpeachable source of truth.

That kid scoffed at the idea, but, going into the boys' room during passing period, he and some friends, who dared him to swallow POP ROCKS and soda pop, laughed while he did so.

"See," he said. "Nothing to it. Nothing happened, and ain't nothing going to. Just a rumor..."

All of a sudden, little man's eyes grew wide. Pink fizz started to drool from the sides of his quivering lips, as his face turned a scarlet color. Blood oozed from his nose, along with other substances. Then, there was a tiny poof, a noise muffled by the thickness of his cracking skull, and...

His eyeball popped out, trailing thick gooey strands of HUMAN BRAIN....

Or, maybe the little bastard just got sick and puked everywhere. How the hell should I know?

Anyway, as they say, DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME, KIDS.

11. The Babysitter and the Man Upstairs

Back before the invention of fire and the discovery of the wheel, when men used carrier pigeons to send emails to Antarctica so penguin attacks could be well-documented, the telephone had a cord and was hooked into the wall. It didn't go into your pocket, generally, unless you were shoplifting one from a department store.

At Halloween time, a babysitter babysitting babies (what else?) is sitting on her probably thin and shapely rumpus watching all-night reruns of the Highway to Heaven Halloween special when she receives a call. Heavy breather.

"Screw you, perv!" she says, angrily slamming down the phone. Ring, ring goes the little telephone bell, a few minutes later. Same perv. Heavy breathing. Then:

"I can see you. and, I know YOU'RE ALONE WITH THE CHILDREN."

"Give it up, sicko! I'm not amused!" she slams the phone down, saying this angrily in rising, hysterical tones.

But she is worried now. Sort-of big time. So she calls the police.

Ringy, ringy...

"Yes? Police."

"Yes, my name's Tina Gina, and I keep getting calls from this sicko. I know it's Halloween, and probably just a prank, but, I'm a little worried, all the same. You see, the last time he called, he said he could see me, and that I'm alone with the children. Well, I'm babysitting, so that's, like, true. Could you trace that call and see what is going on here?"

"Sure," says the voice on the other end. "We'll put the experts in our call-tracing department right on it, and call you back. Okay?"

"Sure." Tina says, a little reassured.

She waits a few minutes. The phone rings. She jumps out of her skin.

She picks it up with shaky fingers. The voice at the other end says:

"Tina! This is the dispatcher at the Police Dept. We're sending a car over right away. Listen: You've got to get out of that house! Right away! Now! That phone call? We traced it. It's coming from INSIDE YOUR HOUSE. Upstairs! In the children's bedroom!"

12. The Body Under the Bed

Sol and Mitzy are vacationing in Vegas. Sol is a used car salesman that looks like the lost brother of Rodney Dangerfield. Mitzy looks like Alice Kramden if she put on fifty pounds, knitted, smiled uncomprehendingly, and had orange base makeup crusted in the folds of her sagging face.

They check into a hotel room. Nice, but not too nice. They go out, have dinner, hit the casinos, buy souvenirs, have a good time spending Sol's Christmas bonus from the dealership. They get back to the hotel late. They plan on lounging around the pool a lot the next day, sort of taking it easy.

"Keeping it real," Sol says, half jokingly. This is what their son Drago would call it. "Mom, Dad, I'm just 'keeping it real.'" Kid was a loser, Sol knew.

They lie down to sleep. Sniff-sniff. "Hey, honey, you smell that?"

Mitzy, half-asleep, rolls over, says "Smell what?"

She had smelled something, but she assumed it was just Sol's dirty socks.

"That odor. Whew! it seems to be getting stronger and stronger. Man, it smells like something died in here?"

"Just...try to ignore it, and go to sleep." Mitzy replies, going back to sleep. Before she so goes though, Sol protests, "Ignore it? How can I ignore a smell?"

The next day, they do indeed lounge around the pool, Sol taking in an eyeful of beach-ready cyber babes falling out of their string bikinis, much to the chagrin of Mitzy, who stopped her incessant knitting, now and again, to punch him in his cabbage.

"What? What did I get that for?" he would ask innocently, wide-eyed with faux surprise. Getting back to their room, they smelled the smell. Both of them. Stronger this time. Almost overpowering.

"Sol. Sol, honey, you were right: it's like something died in here. We need to get the management."

The management was a pimply kid with buck teeth and oily bangs. He looked annoyed at their complaint, but, heaving a gusty sigh, headed up to their room anyway.

Going inside, he found himself almost bowled over at the now sickening stench.

He knew immediately where it was coming from. This had happened here once before.

He pulled the covers off the bed. Then, he pulled off the huge mattress. There, as he suspected, hidden in a space hollowed out of the box springs, was what was causing the stink.

It grinned up at him, a rotting smile crossing it's maggoty lips.

These gangland killings were bad. They'd bring a guy to a hotel, off him. Leave the body in the room. Here, they hollowed-out the box springs beneath the mattress, put the body in there. The old couple were, literally, sleeping on top of this poor bastard's stiff.

"Great," thought the kid. "Leave your mess behind for me to clean up!"

13. The Hole to HELL!

We've saved the best for last.

Yes, there is a hole to the netherworld of punishment and terror. It's like that house in Amityville, only, it's in Siberia, so the property values are way less. Even for a place boasting a HOLE TO HELL.

Two thoroughly politically orthodox Good Comrades and scientists in the old Soviet-era Russia lead an expedition to Siberia...for what, we never do learn. BUT, they find some deep damn hole. I don't know, maybe they think that's where their government is hiding all the food during those pesky Union of Soviet Socialist Soup Shortages we've all heard so much about.

Anyway, they send a microphone down on a line, for some strange reason, and one says, "Gregor, by the beard of V.I. Lenin, I do believe we have come across something unique!"

His good comrade Gregor thus replied, "Da, Vladimir! We have made a discovery that raises the very hackles of my old grey head! There are... dissidents being tortured in the earth below!"

But, of course, these howls and moans and screams and shudders and groans and mad imprecations and blasphemies were most certainly NOT the mere ululations of pain and torment coming from the lips of common political prisoners. They were the tortured cries and please for mercy of damned souls, being tormented by fork-tailed, split-tongued, scaly red devils with pitchforks during a hot happening hoedown of hellacious hellishness. (Try saying that nine time six hundred, threescore and six times fast, okay?)

The late, great Art Bell once played a tape on hisCoast to Coast AM radio show of the supposed cries of these damned souls in the Siberian "Hole to Hell." When a caller suggested they might simply be the voices of people in an underground base or civilization, Art retorted: "Whoever they are, they are not having a good time." Let's hope that, wherever he is, Art is having a good time. Forever.

The story ends without ever having made it clear whether the discovery of the Hell Hole changed Vlad and Gregor's communistic, atheistic philosophical perspective, rooted in "dialectical materialism." Probably a debate for another time and place.

And there you have it, Dear and Constant Readers of Mine. A perusal of THIRTEEN FLAVORS OF FEAR, straight from the pages of my own hot little book, which is fun for the whole family, and good for man and bestial. Buy it. Read it. You'll love it. I swear.

I got it on good authority. I heard it from a friend of a friend.