Campfire Story: Drip, Drip, Drip

This story isn’t a typical ghost story, but it is always identified as one. Drip, Drip, Drip is often told around a campfire or at a slumber party. 

I have heard and read many versions but the one I share here I consider to be one of the creepiest. Once understood, this story is not easy to forget.

My best friend in middle school was a girl named Sarah. Sarah was a “latchkey kid.” 

She often came over to my home after school because both her parents worked into the early evening. We would do our homework together, and then my mother would inevitably invite her to dinner, but she rarely accepted this invitation stating she needed to get home to see her dog.

Sarah loved Brownie her dog more than anything. 

The few times I had walked Sarah home, I was greeted by him. He was an overgrown mutt with more joy than sense. He would jump on me and try to lick my face. 

One afternoon as I walked home with Sarah, I asked her if she was ever afraid of being alone. She hesitated and then confided that she always checked to make sure all was well before she entered her home.

Once at her house Sarah showed me how she did this. 

She placed her hand through the mail slot on the front door--she waited then giggled and pulled her hand back out. She turned to me, holding her hand up for my inspection. She announced, “Brownie licked it so everything must be okay inside.” 

She pulled her key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. I followed her inside.

An eerie silence greeted us as we stood in the entryway. Sarah looked around with concern. “That’s odd, Brownie always greets me.” 

An uneasy cold settled around me as I tried to reassure her. “Let’s check in the back, Brownie probably just went outside to get through.” As we headed to the kitchen, I heard a soft drip, drip, drip. 

Sarah veered off and headed toward the guest bathroom. “Someone must have left the facet on.” She emerged a moment later, “Well, it's not this one.”

Once in the kitchen we realized the drip, drip, drip we were hearing was not in there. Sarah opened the back door and called out for Brownie, but he didn’t respond. “He’s not in the backyard.”

She then turned and went back in the hallway and called out his name again. “That’s strange, he always comes when I call.”

Now in a panic, Sarah rushed out of the kitchen and headed toward the home’s bedrooms. As we drew closer to her room, the drip, drip, drip sounds became louder and louder.

As Sarah rushed into her room, she called out Brownies’ name, but her voice turned to a scream. On her dresser, a bowl was catching blood dripping from above.

Horrified, I saw Brownie hanging upside down from the ceiling. His throat had been slit. Sarah was screaming.

I grabbed her and forced her from the room. Silent now, she turned pale. I pulled on her arm as I led her quickly to the kitchen back door. She seemed to come to her senses as I tried to push her out the door.

It took all my strength to force her out and away from the house. Sarah sobbed quietly as she pulled away from my grip.

She turned and started to walk back toward her home. She stopped with my next words, “Who licked your hand?”