The Attack of the Baseball Cards: A Strange but True Story from Clark, New Jersey

On the evening of May 12th, 1989, 11-year-old Billy Michaels was in his bedroom in Clark, New Jersey going through his collection of baseball cards. Like many boys his age, Billy was utterly obsessed with his cards, spending hours each day sorting them, trading with his friends at school, and studying the stats and photos of his favorite players. But little did Billy know that this ordinary Friday night would become anything but ordinary.

Around 7:30 PM, as Billy was carefully placing some of his newly acquired 1989 Topps cards into protective plastic sleeves, he heard a strange noise coming from his closet. At first, he ignored it, assuming the old house was just settling like it sometimes did. The noise soon grew louder and more persistent. Becoming concerned, Billy got up from his bed and slowly walked over to the closet door.

“Hello?” Billy called out nervously, but received no response other than more bumping and scraping sounds from inside the closet. Grasping the doorknob tightly, Billy took a deep breath and flung the door open quickly, expecting to find some raccoon or possum had gotten trapped inside. But what he saw instead was something that would haunt his memories for years to come.

Towering before him were stacks upon stacks of his baseball cards, but they were moving and writhing in ways no inanimate objects should. The rookie cards of Kirby Puckett and Gregg Jefferies seemed to be leading the pack as they floated through the air, flapping their cardboard wings menacingly. Dozens of Ozzie Smiths glistened in the dim closet light, their foil signatures catching the eye. Trailing behind were whole teams of Mark McGwires and Jose Cansecos, their cardboard cleats clicking against the wooden floorboards as they advanced on the terrified boy.

Billy let out an ear-piercing scream and stumbled backwards onto his bed as the baseball card horde poured out of the closet. They swirled around him like a tornado, slapping him with the slick faces of Nolan Ryan, Cal Ripken Jr., and Dennis Eckersley. “No! Get away!” Billy cried, shielding himself with his arms as best he could against the onslaught.

Just when it seemed the cards might overwhelm the poor boy, they suddenly stopped their attack and floated in mid-air, seeming to size Billy up. A 1989 Ken Griffey Jr. Rookie floated to the front of the pack, its eyes glowing an eerie red. “We have come for your collection, boy,” it hissed in a gravelly voice. “These cards belong to us now. Surrender them or face the consequences.”

Billy was stunned speechless. He had no idea how or why his baseball cards had come alive, but they clearly meant business. As the Griffey glared at him expectantly, waiting for his response, Billy slowly nodded and pointed to his desk where his prized binders and boxes were kept. “P-Please…take them…just don’t hurt me,” he stammered.

The Griffey let out a raspy laugh and signaled to the other cards with a flick of its corner. They swarmed the collection with renewed fervor, tearing open packages and shredding plastic pages in their quest for more cards to join their ranks. Within moments, Billy’s entire hoard was completely decimated, leaving only scraps of cardboard littering his bedroom floor.

Satisfied with their work, the baseball cards began to retreat back toward the closet. The Griffey lingered behind, fixing Billy with one last unnerving look. “This is only the beginning, boy. Mark my words – we will be back for more. The Card Army is growing, and soon we’ll claim collections across the land!” With that ominous warning, it zipped into the closet, slamming the door behind it as the last of its comrades disappeared within.

Billy didn’t sleep a wink that night, too terrified by what he had witnessed to even close his eyes. The next morning, he told his parents and friends about the attack, but of course nobody believed such a fantastic story. They all assumed he’d had a nightmare or was pulling some kind of prank. But Billy knew deep down that what happened was all too real.

In the following weeks, more strange incidents were reported throughout Clark and nearby towns. Neighbors would find their baseball card collections in tatters, as if something – or somethings – had torn through them with razor-sharp claws. Some witnesses even claimed to see fleeting glimpses of the cards flying through the air together in unnaturally organized flocks.

The local police and newspapers were baffled. There was no rational explanation for how so many valuable vintage and rookie cards could be systematically destroyed without leaving any clues behind. Fingers were pointed at everything from pranksters to animals to faulty collectors’ organization, but the truth was far more unbelievable.

The Card Army, as the Griffey had called it, was growing bolder and more widespread in its attacks. Its members were recruiting new cards through whatever dark magic or science had animated them in the first place. And its leader, the 1989 Ken Griffey Jr., was amassing a formidable force with which to take over collections everywhere.

Billy Michaels was the only one who knew the real threat that was looming, but without proof or support, he was powerless to stop it. The baseball cards had marked him as their enemy that fateful night, and he lived in constant fear that the Card Army would one day return to finish what it started. His childhood was forever scarred by the trauma of the attack.

To this day, the mystery of the baseball cards in Clark remains unsolved. While most folks dismissed it as an odd local legend, Billy has held firm to his story. And every so often, rumors still surface of collections being ravaged under the cover of night, with only a glimpse of cardboard wings in the moonlight to hint at the culprit. Whether the Card Army is still out there or not, one thing is clear – you’d better keep your cards locked up tight, just in case…

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.