The Attack of the Baseball Cards: The Clark Incident
On a sunny Saturday afternoon in May 1995, a routine trip to the local baseball card shop turned into a nightmare for 10-year-old Clark Johnson of suburban Detroit. What started as an innocent search for rookie cards to add to his growing collection spiraled into a harrowing ordeal that has since become the stuff of legend in the world of collecting.
Clark had saved up his allowance for weeks in anticipation of the shop’s monthly restock. As was his habit, he began meticulously sorting through boxes of newly delivered packs, searching for gems from the past and present to fuel his passion. But on this day, something seemed different. The cards themselves appeared agitated, their glossy surfaces twitching and shuddering as if possessed by some unseen malevolent force.
At first Clark thought nothing of it, attributing the movement to a trick of the light. But as he delved deeper, the disturbance among the cardboard grew more pronounced and disturbing. Entire stacks of cards were quivering as if gripped by a mild earthquake. A strange low moaning sound arose, seeming to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Alarmed, Clark dropped the pack in his hand and backed away slowly. That’s when all hell broke loose. With a deafening roar, the cards exploded from their boxes and swarmed Clark in a furious whirlwind. He was instantly overwhelmed, flailing helplessly as the storm of sharp edges and statistics assaulted him from all sides. The moaning had escalated to an earsplitting shriek that chilled Clark to his core.
Panicked customers and employees fled the shop in a mad scramble, leaving Clark at the mercy of his once beloved collection turned savage. He collapsed to the floor, curled into a ball, and prayed for deliverance as the cards rained blows upon his helpless form. Just when it seemed his end had come, the frenzied mass suddenly withdrew as quickly as it had attacked, receding back into their containers in eerie, wordless unison.
Clark lay dazed and bleeding, barely conscious amid the wreckage. When paramedics arrived and took stock of the scene, they were stunned. Not a single card remained out of place, as if the event had never occurred. Clark’s wounds, while severe, were strangely superficial—more scratches than gashes or punctures. His description of the incident was deemed the delirious rambling of a traumatized boy.
In the aftermath, most dismissed Clark’s story as the product of an overactive imagination. But a devoted cult following soon emerged who believed that day in 1995 marked the awakening of a sinister new force among the cardboard legions. Some claimed to have witnessed similar, if less violent, disturbances at shops and shows across the country in the years since. Rumors spread of entire collections found rearranged or gone missing, with only cryptic messages scrawled on walls as the only sign of intrusion.
Today, nearly 25 years later, the legend of the Attack of the Baseball Cards lives on in hushed whispers among aficionados of the obscure and bizarre. While most remain skeptical, a dedicated group of investigators and experiencers continue probing the unexplained incidents for clues to the true nature and purpose of whatever entity or intelligence may lurk within the cardboard realm. As for Clark Johnson, the trauma of that fateful day never fully subsided. He has not set foot in a card shop since and still bears the scars, both physical and mental, of his brush with the unthinkable. The cards’ thirst for blood may have been temporarily slaked, but some insist the next outbreak is only a matter of time. The stacks have been stirred, and their dormant malevolence waits to be triggered once more.
So if you find yourself alone after hours in a dimly lit card emporium, be wary of stray packs left unattended. You never know when those glossy faces may take on a life—and malevolence—of their own. The cards are watching, and their patience has limits. This much, at least, the legend of Clark Johnson and the Attack of the Baseball Cards has taught us. Their vendetta is far from finished, and the next victim may very well be you.
