scary story about the missing bouncer

 At Rumbottums, the night was alive with the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses, but an unsettling tension lingered in the air. I was handling the parking lot when a black van rolled up, its engine growling like a predator. The driver, a shadowy figure, leaned out and barked for either Ronnie or Robbie, the club's notorious bouncers.


Ronnie was deep in conversation with a couple of regulars, but Robbie, known for his knack for getting into trouble, stepped forward. Ignoring the nervous chuckles from the crowd, he approached the van. “What’s this about?” he asked, his bravado flickering in the headlights' glare.


The driver gestured for him to get in, his face obscured by the darkness within the van. Robbie hesitated, shooting a glance back at the bar where his friends were waiting. But the lure of easy money—rumored to stem from a gambling debt—was too powerful. With a resigned sigh, he climbed inside, and the door slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the silence.


The van roared away, leaving only the fading headlights in its wake. As the hours dragged on, Robbie’s absence turned into a whispered concern. “He’ll be back,” I assured everyone, but doubt gnawed at my stomach.


Days turned to weeks, but there was no sign of Robbie. The rumors began to swirl: some said he’d skipped town, while others whispered of darker fates. One night, as a storm raged outside, Ronnie confided in me. “I know something’s wrong. He wouldn’t just leave us.”


Determined to get to the bottom of it, we decided to investigate. As we crept through the parking lot toward where the van had parked that night, a chill swept through the air. It felt heavy, like the weight of unspoken truths.


Suddenly, a noise shattered the silence—a clattering sound from behind the dumpster. We exchanged uneasy glances before edging closer. What we found, however, would haunt us forever: a torn shirt with Robbie’s name tag and a single black shoe, caked in dirt.


To this day, nobody knows what happened to Robbie. The black van became a ghost, and the bouncers had to take their places at the door with eyes always watching, waiting for the next shadow lurking in the night. All they could hope was that the darkness wouldn’t claim them next.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

That time we didnt rob the bank

--- It was a cold, gray morning in Cleveland, Ohio, the kind of day that made you want to stay in bed and curse the world. But not Mr. Jeff. No, today was the day he and his two goombahs, Tony "Two-Times" and Sal "The Sniffler," were going to rob the First National Bank of Cleveland. Or at least, that was the plan. The three of them sat in a beat-up 1998 Honda Civic parked a block away from the bank. The car smelled like stale cigarettes, old coffee, and regret. Mr. Jeff, the self-proclaimed "mastermind," was in the driver’s seat, nervously tapping the steering wheel. "Alright, you f***ing idiots," Jeff said, turning to his crew. "This is it. We go in, we get the cash, and we’re out in five minutes. No f***ing around, got it?" Tony, a stocky guy with a face like a bulldog, nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. But, uh, can we stop at Dunkin’ after? I didn’t eat breakfast, and I’m starving." Jeff glared at him. "Are you f***ing s...
Read more

Antipowerhouse

 Here’s a lighthearted, funny short story that treats the situation with humor and love: Jeff Korn’s girlfriend, Emily, used to be a powerhouse—cycling every morning, whipping up kale smoothies, and dragging Jeff to yoga classes despite his protests that his body "wasn't designed for downward dog." But that was before the stroke. The recovery was tough, but Emily handled it with grit. That is, until she saw a therapist who, for some inexplicable reason, told her, “You’ll probably never get back to where you were.” Emily took that as divine permission to transform into the queen of couch life. Now, her days revolve around chain-smoking Marlboro Lights, devouring bags of Cool Ranch Doritos, and binge-watching true crime documentaries while giving unsolicited commentary. “See, Jeff? If you leave me, I won’t have to kill you. The sodium will do it for me!” she'd say, between drags of her cigarette and bites of greasy takeout. The family tried to be supportive, but Em...
Read more

This is real

  Peanut Butter & Jelly at 3 AM Joey had always been a night owl, but making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at 3 AM wasn’t exactly how he pictured spending his late nights. Yet, here he was, carefully spreading peanut butter on one slice and jelly on the other while his girlfriend, Lisa, sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket like a sleepy burrito. Two years ago, Lisa had moved in after her stroke turned life upside down. She lost her job, her house, and a bit of her balance—but never her sass. Joey had stepped up, taking care of her, because, well… he was a sucker for her stubborn little face. But tonight was a milestone. Out of nowhere, Lisa had looked at him with big, pleading eyes and said, "Joey… I need a peanut butter and jelly sandwich." Joey had frozen. Not because he didn’t know how to make one, but because— why now? She’d been living with him for two years and had never once asked for PB&J. It was adorable. It was ridiculous. It was Lisa . ...
Read more