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Ed was a night watchman at Mr. Mitchell’s company, a firm that manufactured engines for motorboats. He was 54 years old—tall, thin, and never without his glasses. His night shift usually followed a set routine: he would circle the warehouse several times and then spend the rest of the night either napping or buried in a crime novel.

Part 1 Episode 1 Afghanistan, Kandahar Province The night belonged to dust and silence. Lou Phillips moved at the front of the stack, body low, rifle steady, breathing slow enough to disappear. The compound rose out of the dark like a tumor—mud walls, a single rusted gate, no lights. Intel said weapons cache. Lou trusted patterns more than intel. Martinez raised two fingers. Hold. Lou froze. Not because of the signal—but because something tugged at the back of

10/11/2010 ...

September 17, 20-- To whoever is reading: Please pardon my recollections and remembrances, as the events that have occurred in the past 24 hours have been the oddest, most appalling, and most confusing that I, and perhaps any other man, have experienced. The consistent knocking and banging on the other side of the steel door only adds to my frustration.

Lisa was an ordinary teenager who loved going for walks and hanging out with her friends. She was helpful and kind-hearted toward everyone. Her parents were teachers; her mother was French and her father was German. Lately, however, misunderstandings between them had become more frequent. They couldn't find a common language anymore, and the air between them was thick with the threat of divorce.

“Beneath the world’s frail skin it breeds, Where stars lie drowned in the deep; For centuries, with scorn, it heeds The ones who whisper to the sheep.” “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” I pulled out an earbud and turned toward the speaker. “Sorry, did you say something?” “The view,” the man beside me repeated, using his beer glass as a pointer. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” “Yes, you’re right indeed. Prost!”

The attic hatch didn’t just open; it fell away with a deafening crack, dangling by a single, twisted hinge. I scrambled backward, my heels drumming against the dusty floorboards until my spine hit the cold glass of the circular window. The creature didn't climb in. Instead, it reached up with those impossible, elongated fingers and gripped the edge of the opening. It pulled itself up just enough for me to see the top of its head—the same smooth, featureless grey skin, pulsing like a heartbeat.

12/8/2011 ... A figure of shadow stands before one of light. He regards the other in silence, bearing that same pensive furrow he affords all things not yet understood. There is, for a time, no movement between them. No greeting offered, none returned. He does not speak, not yet. There remains the question of whether he is perceived at all. Should he remain unseen, it would not be the first time.

A few years ago, I had returned from Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida and I nostalgically wanted to watch some old Mickey Mouse shorts for VHS. Among all of the other Mickey Mouse tapes, I noticed an out-of-place Mickey Mouse tape labelled, "Mickey's Book". What was odd was that the tape's date was 01/29/1995, even though old, black and white Mickey Mouse shorts were being produced much earlier.

Steve was a respected city official who, from time to time, liked to break away from his daily routine and visit his hometown, located about 30 kilometers away. He stood at the station dressed in an elegant suit and hat, carrying a large suitcase. The weather that day was drowsy and rainy; he had forgotten to bring an umbrella. Thus, when the train arrived, he boarded quickly, took a window seat, and began to read a book. The front of the locomotive bore a sign: "Train to Nowhere."

I never believed in urban legends, not at all. Until I saw him. This is a very generic way to start, but it started one evening when I was walking home from working; the streets were empty, but then I saw the man in the distance of the streets at an outdoor market. There was a small man hunched over with a massive, overstuffed pack with various masks on it. That grin, that GRIN... it was the first thing that caught me; it stretched past his cheeks and just stayed there.

I already know what you’re thinking. A gnome? Despite what the term I use might suggest, these creatures aren't rosy cheeked little bearded men with a pointy hats and quaint little tunics. As my friend would later find out, and as I'd feared for a long time, these beings are much stranger and far different from what is typically portrayed.

You think you understand the whole system? Read again. The door only sticks sometimes, but it always opens when I need it to. I noticed it first during the rainy season when the air felt heavier and everything in the house took longer to settle. The wood swelled a little, I think. It pressed into the frame and made the handle feel tighter than usual. Most people would panic at that. They would force it. Shake the handle. And make a scene out of something that just needs time.

Sara and Tom scrambled through the castle corridors, hoping to find Roy. They checked everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, Tom spotted Roy between two suits of armor-huddled, trembling, and paralyzed with fear. "Man, why are you shaking like that?" Tom asked. "I... I... I saw her..." "Who did you see?" "The Mourner... I mean, the ghost of the Mourner. She was gliding down the hallway, "Man, why are you shaking like that?" Tom asked. "I... I... I saw her..."

The old wooden floorboards didn't just creak; they groaned like dying men. It was 3:17 AM when I woke to the sound of my bedroom door clicking open. I didn't move. I didn't breathe. From the doorway, the heavy, dragging footsteps of my grandmother shuffled toward the bed. She had been dead for three weeks, but there she was, pulling the cold air of the hallway behind her.

This story is dedicated to those who have experienced irremediable anguish regarding a family member. Written by a forlorn individual. ~ This was written from the fleshy net interior in which held every fibre of my then decomposing being. The sunken, hard shelled exterior managed to tear chunks out, sprawl them across a diary, in display for all to devour. Humanity's greed of consuming fleeting tragedy for selfish curiosity. ꜱᴇᴘᴛᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 𝟹ʀᴅ, 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟼.

“Well, that was ominous!” I said putting the can back on the shelf. “Totally! Maybe we are haunted!” Rudy said jokingly. “That would be kind of awesome!” I jokingly said back. Oh, how right we were, and we did not even know it yet. So, we finally called it a night and went to sleep. The next morning, I got up like usual and hopped into the shower. The water pressure in this house was nice and the water got hot, and it always left fresh fog on the mirrors. I turned off the water and stepped out…

“I have good news and bad news,” my boss Chester said. If there is a more butthole clenching phrase said at a struggling company during a sudden all hands meeting, I don’t know what it is. Thing was, Chester didn’t need to say a single syllable. His slouched shoulders, pale(er) face, and hangdog expression told us the entire story. The company was going under.

The shining bright light of a VTOL passing by illuminates his apartment for just an instant through his shutters, the pitter-patter of the downpouring rain thankfully drowning out the deafening hum of its rotors. Still, the LED lights casting a bright blue hue throughout his entire home stir him awake, despite his best wishes not to be.

Life had always been hectic: the constant push forward through time, the ever repeating change of scenery every time his family had to move. But there was always one place where life — for just a few short moments — managed to feel more like a calm ocean wave lapping onto shore than the tsunami it usually had been. The little oceanside town his parents always chose for their vacation, with its salty, warm breeze, the calming sound of the seagulls circling above, and the small, colorful fishing…