Story 1
The autumn air was crisp as Ethan Carter wandered through the small yard sale on the outskirts of town. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just killing time before his shift at the hospital. The tables were cluttered with the usual junk: chipped dishes, outdated electronics, yellowed paperbacks. TRUE Yard Sale Horror Stories
Then, a small wooden box caught his eye. Inside, a tangle of old jewelry glinted dully under the weak sunlight. He sifted through it absently—costume necklaces, broken watches, a few tarnished rings.
His fingers brushed against something cold and heavy.
A class ring.
Ethan’s breath hitched. The dark metal was worn, the insignia faded, but the initials engraved inside were unmistakable:
**J.M.**
*Jessica Marie Carter.*
His sister’s ring.
His pulse roared in his ears. Jessica had vanished ten years ago, just after her high school graduation. She’d gone for a walk by the river and never came back. The police had searched for months, dragging the water, scouring the woods. Nothing.
And now here was her ring, sitting in a stranger’s yard sale like it was nothing.
Ethan’s hands trembled as he turned to the man behind the table—a wiry figure with greasy hair and a slow, unsettling smile.
“Where did you get this?” Ethan’s voice was tight, barely controlled.
The man’s grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “Found it at the river.”
A chill slithered down Ethan’s spine. *The river.* The same place Jessica had disappeared.
“When?” Ethan demanded.
The man shrugged. “Oh, years ago. Picked up all sorts of things down there.” He leaned in, his breath sour. “You interested?” Ethan’s skin crawled. He bought the ring without haggling, his mind racing.
That night, Ethan couldn’t sleep. He turned the ring over in his hands, the weight of it like a leaden secret. He needed answers.
The next morning, he drove to the police station. Detective Reyes, the officer who had handled Jessica’s case, listened with growing unease as Ethan told him about the ring.
“You’re sure it’s hers?” Reyes asked.
“Positive.” Ethan’s jaw clenched. “And the guy *knew* where it came from. Missing persons—hikers, joggers, people who vanished near that river. No bodies. No leads.”
Ethan’s stomach twisted. “You think he’s—?”
“I think,” Reyes said grimly, “we need to pay that man a visit.”
—
The raid happened at dawn.
Ethan waited outside as the police stormed the seller’s dilapidated house. The air was thick with tension, the only sounds the crunch of gravel under boots and the distant caw of crows.
Then, shouts from inside.
Reyes emerged, his face ashen. “Ethan… you need to see this.”
The house was a nightmare.
Boxes lined the walls, filled with watches, wallets, wedding bands—all meticulously organized. A macabre collection.
And then, the photographs.
Polaroids pinned to a corkboard, each showing a different person—some smiling, some terrified, all with the same river in the background.
Jessica was among them.
Ethan’s legs gave out.
Reyes gripped his shoulder. “We’ll find him.
And he knew Ethan was onto him.
Story 2
The autumn air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and damp earth as Ethan Mercer wandered through the rows of tables at the annual Black Hollow Yard Sale. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just killing time, distracting himself from the gnawing emptiness that had plagued him for the past seven years.
A small wooden box sat half-buried under a pile of tarnished silverware. Inside, an assortment of old jewelry glinted dully in the morning light. Ethan idly sifted through it—costume brooches, tangled chains, a cracked pocket watch—until his fingers brushed against something heavier. Cold. Familiar.
He pulled it out, and his breath hitched.
A class ring. Black onyx set in tarnished silver, the initials *J.M.* engraved inside.
*Jenna Mercer.*
His sister’s ring.
Ethan’s hands trembled. Jenna had been wearing this very ring the night she disappeared. The night she went for a walk by the river and never came back. The police had searched for weeks, dragging the water, scouring the woods. Nothing. Just like the others who had vanished near Black Hollow over the years.
And now here it was, lying in a stranger’s junk box like it was nothing.
Heart pounding, Ethan turned to the seller—a gaunt man with greasy hair and a slow, unsettling smile. “Where did you get this?” Ethan demanded, holding up the ring.
The man’s grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “Found it at the river.”
He pulled out his laptop and searched the man’s name—*Garrett Voss*—and what he found made his blood run cold.
Garrett had been a person of interest in two disappearances over the past decade. Never charged. Never even arrested. Just… lingering at the edges of the investigations.
And then Ethan found something worse.
A local forum thread from two years ago: *”Found a locket at the river—anyone recognize it?”* The photo showed a delicate silver locket, engraved with the name *Lila*. Ethan recognized that name too. *Lila Dawson.* Another missing girl.
Garrett had replied to the post: *”Pretty thing. Wonder who it belonged to?”*
Ethan’s hands shook as he dialed the police again.
The raid happened at dawn.
Police swarmed Garrett Voss’s crumbling farmhouse at the edge of town. Ethan watched from his car, his stomach in knots, as officers carried out boxes—*so many boxes*—filled with jewelry, wallets, even clothing.
Then, the worst part.
They found the cellar.
Ethan’s throat tightened. “And… her?”
The detective hesitated. Then, just a single shake of her head.
Garrett Voss was arrested without a fight. As they led him to the squad car in cuffs, he turned his head—slowly, deliberately—and locked eyes with Ethan.
And smiled.
*”You should’ve bought the ring,”* he whispered. *”I had more to show you.”*
The thought haunted him long after the police tape came down.
Because some secrets never stayed buried.
And some monsters didn’t just *take* their victims.
They *sold* them.
Story 3
The mirror was beautiful—an ornate, full-length antique with a gilded frame, its glass slightly smoky with age. It stood out among the chipped dishes and moth-eaten sweaters at the yard sale, as if waiting just for them.
*”Fifty bucks,”* the old man running the sale said, his voice rough.
Claire ran her fingers over the intricate carvings. “It’s perfect for the bedroom,” she whispered to her husband, Mark.
The old man’s face darkened. *”Don’t hang it where you sleep.”*
Mark laughed. “What, is it haunted or something?”
The man didn’t smile. *”Just don’t.”*
They bought it anyway.
—
That night, Claire woke suddenly, her skin prickling with the uneasy sense of being watched. The room was silent except for Mark’s steady breathing beside her. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting long shadows—and illuminating the mirror across from the bed.
Something moved in the reflection.
A figure—pale, gaunt, standing directly behind her.
Claire gasped and whipped around.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
Her heart hammered as she turned back to the mirror. Just her own wide-eyed reflection stared back.
*Just my imagination,* she told herself. *Just the shadows.*
—
The next night, it was Mark who woke with a choked gasp.
Claire jolted awake to see him staring at the mirror, his face ashen.
*”There’s someone in it,”* he breathed.
She followed his gaze—and saw nothing. But Mark insisted.
*”A woman. She was right behind you.”*
By morning, the sheet lay in a heap on the floor.
Claire’s hands shook as she picked it up. They hadn’t left any windows open. No draft could have done that.
That night, they draped the mirror again—this time securing the sheet with heavy books.
The sheet lay crumpled at the base of the mirror.
And in the glass, the pale figure stood closer now—close enough to see the hollows of its eyes, the dark streaks down its cheeks like tears.
Or blood.
The mirror shattered with a sound like a scream.
Glass rained onto the floor, jagged and glittering.
For a moment, there was silence. Then—relief.
They cleaned up the shards, laughing nervously, trying to convince themselves it was over.
But the next morning, the mirror hung whole again.
Not a single crack.
Not a single splinter out of place.
And in its depths, the figure was no longer alone.
Now, there were two.
—
The antique dealer’s records revealed the truth:
The mirror had once belonged to a woman named Eleanor Voss, who had died in front of it—not peacefully. It was showing her fate.”*
That night, Claire and Mark packed their bags.
They would leave. They would run. And in the mirror, three figures now stood watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Story 4
The yard sale had been an unexpected find. Claire had been driving through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Hollowbrook when a hand-painted sign caught her eye: **”Estate Sale – Everything Must Go!”** Curious, she pulled over. The house was an old Victorian, its white paint peeling, the porch sagging slightly under the weight of time. A few tables were set up in the front yard, covered in dusty trinkets—porcelain dolls with cracked faces, tarnished silverware, yellowed books.
“How much for this?” she asked. The woman’s smile widened. “Ah, that one’s special. It plays the sweetest lullaby. Just five dollars.” Claire handed over the money, eager to leave. The woman’s gaze lingered on her as she walked away. That night, Claire placed the music box on her dresser. After a few tries, she gave up and went to bed.
*”Hush now, darling, don’t you cry…”* Claire stumbled back. The voice was coming from inside the box. She gasped, dropping it. The music stopped. Silence. The next morning, Claire drove back to the Victorian, the music box wrapped tightly in a towel on her passenger seat. She was going to return it, demand answers. The house was **boarded up.** The windows were covered in plywood, the yard overgrown with weeds. A rusted “CONDEMNED” sign hung crookedly on the front door.
Claire stepped out, heart pounding. A neighbor across the street, an older man raking leaves, eyed her warily. “Excuse me,” she called. “Was there a yard sale here yesterday?” The man’s face paled. “No one’s lived in that house for twenty years. Not since…” He hesitated. “Since what?” He lowered his voice. “Since Eleanor Grayson murdered her children inside. You don’t want to know.”
Claire’s stomach twisted. “What lullaby?” The man hummed a few notes. Claire’s blood ran cold. It was the same tune. That night, she locked the music box in her closet, burying it under old blankets. *”Sleep now, sleep now, close your eyes…”* The closet door creaked open. And from the darkness, something whispered back. **”Mommy’s here.”**
Story 5
The yard sale on Elm Street seemed like any other—tables cluttered with mismatched dishes, yellowed paperbacks, and forgotten knickknacks. Tucked between an old lamp and a stack of vinyl records stood a mannequin. It was eerily lifelike, with delicate features, slender fingers, and glossy dark hair. The seller, a gaunt man in a frayed flannel shirt, noticed her interest. “Twenty bucks,” he said, his voice rough like gravel. “Perfect for displaying clothes.”
Marissa hesitated. The mannequin was beautiful—almost too realistic—but for $20, it was a steal. She handed over the cash, and the man helped her load it into her car. As he shut the trunk, she thought she saw him smile. Not a friendly smile. A *relieved* one.
At home, Marissa positioned the mannequin in the corner of her bedroom, draping a vintage dress over its stiff limbs. But something felt… off. That night, she woke to a faint sound—*breathing*. Slow, rhythmic, barely audible. She sat up, heart pounding, and flicked on the light. The mannequin stood exactly where she’d left it. *Just your imagination*, she told herself.
The hair.
It wasn’t synthetic. And the fingernails… yellowed at the edges, with tiny ridges. Like *human* nails. Her stomach twisted. She reached out, brushing a finger against the mannequin’s wrist. *Cold. A *subtle rise and fall.* She screamed. The police arrived within minutes. What they confirmed made Marissa vomit in the hallway. It wasn’t a mannequin. It was a *corpse*.
A young woman, preserved through some unholy method, posed like a store display. The skin had been treated, the limbs stiffened, the eyes replaced with glass replicas—but she had once been alive. And the worst part? She was *still breathing*. The detectives scoured records, searching for missing persons who matched the victim’s description. The seller had vanished, leaving no name, no address—just a lingering dread in Marissa’s home. For weeks, she couldn’t sleep. Every shadow felt alive. Every creak of the house sounded like *breathing*. The door was open. This one had *blonde hair*. And it was *smiling*.
