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I stand in a dark room. It is very large and I can barely see the black outlines of the walls. Around me are golden cages which hang from the ceiling by long chains. Peering into them, I see the most peculiar objects; much like the strange ornate cages, gold glints through many of the bars. There are crowns, golden bars, sceptres with emeralds and other gems embedded in their hilts, golden necklaces and lockets amongst other things. One has bronze weighing scales. Other cages have bones in…

One day a terrible plague entered my village and wiped out most of the population. I should have died back then, but my father made a deal with the healer, an old lady whom lived on the edge of our village. In return however we would be enslaved by her, unable to disagree with her and forced to work until we drop. My father knew full well that this was the outcome, but he didn't want to let me go.

This story is based on the chilling true events that inspired A Nightmare on Elm Street the "Asian Death Syndrome" cases of the 1980s, where young men died in their sleep after experiencing petrifying night terrors. Asher hadn't slept in four days. He kept his eyes pried open with caffeine and the sheer terror of what was waiting behind his eyelids.

Tick tock tick tock. The clock chimed midnight. The air feels cool and clammy on my skin. I shiver and draw the covers up around my chin. I can hear the footsteps as they hit the bottom of the stairs slowly ascending to the landing. I feel the fear rising in my chest as I do every night.

Someone asked me, “Who are you?” I answered quickly, “I’m glory.” But they smiled. They looked into my eyes, not kindly. “No,” they said, “Who are you?” The question didn’t leave. It followed me home, sat at the edge of my bed. Who am I? Who is glory? I try to think. A depressed soul? Too easy. A tired one? That’s just the surface. Glory. Glory. Glory. I’m limited by my problems, That I can't see past them. Glory. Glory. Glory. Say it enough times,

The trip was fun. From what we could remember at least. Olivia and I had made the weekend trip down to St. Augustine, Florida with her younger brother John. The four hour drive from Albany, Georgia to one of America’s oldest cities was long and boring. The four-lane highways we traveled along were barren and isolated, surrounded by nothing but miles of impenetrable forest save for the occasional shithole rest stop.

The first thing you notice isn't the cold or the smell of damp concrete it’s the silence. When you finally blink your eyes open, the world is a blur of grey shadows and a single, flickering lightbulb hanging from a low ceiling. Your wrists ache, and when you try to reach for your phone, the heavy rattle of a steel chain snaps you into a cold reality. You aren't in your bedroom. You’re in a basement clean, organized, but windowless. There’s a plate of your favorite food sitting on a small wooden…

The PHEN-228 Incident (The Boiled One) In the late summer of 2003, a broadcast hijacking occurred in Southern Pennsylvania that would change the lives of 530 people forever. This is the story of The Boiled One Phenomenon, a terrifying example of a "cognito-hazard" an idea so dangerous that simply knowing it can destroy you.

DAY 1

Witch of the Eclipse is an ongoing collaborative AIRPG, presented here as an experimental seriesWhat began as a private AIRPG—a private adventure between the Author and an AI Game Master—has grown into something far larger. Scene by scene, chapter by chapter, the world of Eryndor expanded. The lore deepened. The cast multiplied.At the time of this writing, the campaign spans over fifty-five books.The following works have been edited for clearer prose and a more seamless reading experience.The…

Call me tasteless but I enjoyed running Southern Fried Murder. Growing up, I loved horror movies, especially slashers, but as I got older I became more drawn to true crime… To the real life monsters walking among us. Like most people, I was initially drawn to the sensationalized Bundys and Dahmers of the world but the local cases scared me more. I became more intrigued by the murders and vicious crimes that happened in my neck of the woods here in the American South. These were also the crimes…

I watched as my father coughed and wheezed himself into an early grave. Every breath sounded as though his lungs were densely packed with small stones. He lay on the floor, naked aside from a thin blanket, and did only two things: cough and sleep. By spring, he had found his way deep within the West Virginia earth. My daddy was a coal miner, like his daddy, and his daddy before him.

In the early morning my liquored mind found sleep. It wasn’t restful, but drowning and cruel, as if my own body resented me for finding a moment of respite. I woke after what felt like hours, but found it to be only a few minutes since sprawling across the old, stained couch. I sat upright, and felt my legs protest to yet stand. I thought it better to find the Marlboro man tucked inside the pocket of my pearl snap shirt- the pack crumpled from my restless crash. My hands shakily flicked the…

My friends and I have a hideout, hidden away from all the annoying adults in our lives. It’s a secret place only we know of and it’s really well hidden! There are days we come here and days we don’t come here, because we really don’t want our parents to know. It’s a small, low hut in the middle of the woods close by.

4/13/2015 ...

This story is heavily based on the original King in Yellow lore from the 1890s. While it does have several original elements, it ties heavily to that specific lore. If you do not know what the King in Yellow is, this story may not be for you. I don’t really know when this all first started—this nightmare of the same damn color. That bright, sunny shade that I used to love, I have now learned to fear and to hate. That sickening color. Yellow.

December 10th, 1935. The sound of the aggressive wind blowing the rigged trees to bend like wire.  Little snowflakes drop on the green grass to cover them in nothing but pure white frost, a wooden cabin lives beyond the woods. The roof was drowned in snow, ice sickles hang from the side. A man named Frank Williams and his boy John Williams lives in the wooden cabin in the woods. Frank Williams used to live in the town of Tapperson, where he owned a carpenter shop, selling his handmade furniture…

The sound of the rain was calming, but only the rain. Walking in the mud, making that squishy sound, as I take one step at a time. Looking around, the tree's length was high, the leaves covering the night sky, shaking  aggressively from the wind. The flashlight could only give so much light,  I could see, but only a couple feet from me. The rest, darkness. “JAKE!” I yelled, “JAAAKE! COME BOY!” Jake was the only reason I was out in this shithole, just trying to head back home from our little…

The year 1985, a year of the things that brought us joy, a year that life was really going somewhere, a year that Dads were Dads, Moms were Moms, children were in process of life, plenty of time to grow. A year most can agree was amazing, but for some, 1985 was the year that turned me into a mad man, my mind tricking from my left and right, but I think I know what I saw.  I was only 12, I lied about where I went. Places that should have been, the school, friends house, ect.  Only instead to…

I always found Baba Yaga as a concept, a rather disturbing idea. That witch from Russian folklore that would snatch bad kids away, never to be seen again, or a figure that would punish those that had wronged it. I always found those stories stupid. Not because I don’t believe, but because I know the truth: there IS something in the Russian forests, a cruel, inhuman being that is nothing like the way people paint it in the stories. I have seen Baba Yaga, and I know what it really is.