“This is the true story behind Barney and Friends—and it’s genuinely terrifying.”

In the early 1990s, a small studio in Dallas hired a struggling children’s performer named Barnaby Grin to test a purple dinosaur mascot costume. The producers wanted something soft and harmless. From the first recording session, the crew noticed that whenever Barnaby put on the suit, his voice changed in a way that didn’t sound like acting.

Then people started disappearing.

The first was cameraman Phil McCracken. The last tape he shot showed Barnaby in full costume, standing alone on the set, staring directly into the camera long after everyone else had left. Over the next few months, three more crew members vanished. The studio replaced them quietly and kept filming. After each disappearance, the Barney suit was found somewhere it shouldn’t have been—on a chair, in a hallway, once sitting in the driver’s seat of someone’s car.

Eventually, the producers went to Barnaby’s apartment to confront him. The door was unlocked. The place was empty. No clothes, no furniture—nothing but the purple dinosaur suit sitting upright on the couch, as if someone invisible was still wearing it. Up close, they saw thin, stretched pieces of skin stitched into the lining.

At the throat of the costume, next to a dried handprint, a message had been written in purple paint:

“You don’t just wear Barney. Barney wears you.”