‘Tom went mad,’ Gilbert said. ‘Schizophrenia or something, I think. He stopped leaving the place completely. After a month of being pent up inside he died of starvation.’ ‘He was a hoarder. A serious one. It took weeks to get the home cleaned up, and even then there’s still some junk in the basement the cleaners left there. I’d be curious to have a look and see if there’s anything valuable.’ He snorted. ‘I doubt it though.’ I sorted through what remained of the clutter and determined most of it to be worthless. There were shelves full of dusty tools and stacks of used furniture. Shoved up against the wall was a large mattress with dirty, stained sheets and old…

“Gabriel! Gabriel!” I screamed. “Who is Gabriel?” the police officer in front of me asked. I was in the police station’s interrogation room. My neighbors called the cops on me, saying that I “went crazy” and that there was “an insane lunatic running down the street in a t-rex onesie, screaming ‘Gabriel!’” The cops showed up, handcuffed me for “public disturbance,” and put me in the back of the cop car. “Answer the question, Spencer!” the officer yelled at me. “Gabriel! Gabriel! His name is Gabriel!” I yelled over and over again, screaming constantly. The officer thought I was going to tear my vocal cords from me screaming so much. “WHO IN THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF CRAYOLA IS GABRIEL?!?!” the…

His death was painfully slow. So slow, in fact, that he could see every single speck of his killer’s features, as his eyes slowly started to become blurry. His brother’s eyes. The colour of dark, dark coal. His friend’s hair. The colour of a warm, dark brown layered with what he could have described as light browns here and there. His killer’s lips. A pale rose tinted colour. The fact that those lips had folded back into a grin while his killer laughed maniacally had made him cry. Cry for his mother, his father, for someone to help him. The sad part is, his life was over and he could do nothing about it. Christopher Park stared down at his…

Hello, Mother, I feel like tonight may be my last in these trenches, for better or worse. Last night the enemy pushed us back to the perimeter of the town we’ve been defending for the past three months. Unfortunately, I’m not sure how much longer we can hold out for. Reinforcements and supplies are two to three days out, I have two insta-chow syringes left and three and a half magazines to hold me through the next few nights. We have about two more hours of sunlight left. I’ll be sure to give the mail carrier this letter before it heads back to command. I just need to be honest with you. Don’t get me wrong, I love you very…

It was a dark, foggy night, as it really should be whenever something eerie happens. I was walking from my dad’s house over to my mom’s. I’d had a fight with my dad about something, the topic of which I’ve since forgotten, and realized at 17 years old that I was old enough and capable enough to walk alone back to my mom’s house, instead of stewing in my room at dad’s. Besides, both of my sisters were asleep already, so I wasn’t worried about them not getting their homework done or needing help with dinner. No, my self-appointed duties were done for the evening, and the only thing that stood in between me and the relative freedom of my…

Aside from the slow and steady hoof-falls of the large draft horses against the ancient stone road, or the continuous creaking of the nearly-as-ancient caravan wagon’s wheels, Horace was sure he couldn’t hear anything at all. In the fading autumn light, all he could see for miles around were the silhouettes of enormous petrified trees, having stood dead now for centuries but still refusing to fall. Their bark had turned an unnatural and oddly lustrous black, one that seemed almost liquid as it glistened in whatever light happened to gleam off its surface. They seemed more like geysers of oil that had burst forth from the Earth only to freeze in place before a single drop could fall back to…

You can’t help yourself anymore when you see the man in black Cold. One, simple, ever so small word. Or that’s what you can say, and lie about. That’s what I wake up to. That’s the same thing I wake up to every morning. The same gruesome cold I’m forced to live with, in my small, unassuming apartment. I’m the kind of guy some would consider “A waste of space.” Personally, that’s a little much. I’m the kind of guy to work low-paying jobs and night shifts at dingy beat down places, or just some not out of the ordinary fast food restaurant. Hey, who serves you that food you get at your favorite fast food restaurant? That low-life guy…

You don’t know me. But perhaps you know my voice. I’m a narrator. Specifically, I narrate horror stories online. I scour the internet with a raven’s eye, searching for gems buried amongst the thousands of short fiction stories posted to places like nosleep and Nightscribe. It’s a time-consuming task. Believe me, I’ve lost entire evenings descending deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole of the worst scenarios a human mind can imagine. There are more stories out there than a single person could read in a lifetime of lightless nights. I discard many: those that are too amateurish, too derivative, or that are churned out by AI. But if I keep searching, I am rewarded with something truly terrifying, or…

I stood alone on the deck of the “Research Vessel Nautilus”, staring out across the wide, endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean. It was a clear day, the kinda where the horizon blurs into the sky, making it hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. The gentle rocking of the ship below served as a momentary anchor for the whirlwind of emotions inside. I’m about to dive into the Mariana Trench, the deepest ocean in the world. The depth is such that Everest could fit inside and still have room left. As a marine biologist, this is, undoubtedly, the peak of my life’s work – a chance to descend over 36,000 feet into an area still largely…

I jumped and dropped my paint brush when I heard the front door slam shut. My nerves were immediately settled when I heard the familiar voice of my husband. “I’m home!” My painting could wait. I smiled and made a beeline to the front door. He wasn’t supposed to be back from his work trip till tomorrow. “You usually text me when you’re getting home early,” I commented as I went in for a hug. “I lost my phone. I’ll have to go get a new one tomorrow,” he replied. I let out a chuckle. I was usually the one losing things in our relationship. “Sounds like I’m rubbing off on you,” I said as I grabbed his suit collar…