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“She opened her arms. I should have kept mine closed.” It was a sunny day in a new neighborhood, the third one I had moved into that year. I walked slowly, observing the streets. The houses all looked alike, fences lined with rusted gates, stray dogs wandering aimlessly, and children playing and shouting somewhere far off.

The sidewalk had a way of holding onto things, not objects or anything a person could reach down and pick up, but something far heavier and far more stubborn, something that clung beneath the surface of cracked concrete and refused to fade no matter how much time tried to grind it away, and it stretched through that forgotten part of the city like a scar that had never healed, uneven and silent and wrong in a way that people could feel without ever understanding, which was why most avoided it…

Ghosting Hour - The Last Days of Raoul Makumbe Remake 2026 Copyright: Andre Michael Pietroschek Disclaimer: No warranties! I use Grammarly Proofreading, which includes AI that I cannot turn off, and a wonderful rephrase tool that explains to me, WHY Native speakers would never speak like us Non-Native speakers consider it to be!

I didn’t want to leave Miller County High School. I didn’t want to leave my friends and essentially leave my whole social life in Colquitt, Georgia behind. My stepdad got a new job in Columbus, Georgia. I guess the pay was great, the new house amazing. So naturally my mom talked my younger brother Jimmy and I into the move. She had a new job as a middle school secretary already lined up too so neither my brother nor I had a choice really.

I don’t remember the exact moment it began, which is strange, because people always say you remember the worst thing that ever happened to you with perfect clarity. I remember the grass under my shoes, slightly wet, bending with a quiet sound every time I shifted my weight. I remember thinking about nothing important, just counting steps like it mattered. I remember the air being cold enough to make my fingers stiff. And then there’s a gap. Not darkness, not even fear at first—just a gap, like…

From the moment I closed my eyes to the accident I had gotten myself into, I knew that it would never be the same ever again. Never would I have guessed though, that I would survive pretty much unharmed. Well... that's still a bit of an understatement. My arms and legs work the way they're supposed to. But my mind... not so much anymore. I've started to see things. The world and the people have changed since the moment I woke up. It's almost as if I've entered another world entirely.

I always said that pain is just the tax you pay for looking decent. Every third Thursday, I visit the spa. It’s sterile, expensive, and private. Yesterday, my usual aesthetician wasn’t holding a wooden spatula. She was standing next to a metal arm that looked more like a dentist set up than a spa fixture. “The ‘Aura-Wax’,” the aesthetician beamed. “State-of-the-art. It uses thermal mapping and haptic sensors. It’s faster, more precise, and more private. No human eyes. Just the machine.”

Outlaws sucked. It was just another shithole bar in Columbus, Georgia. One of many I might add. Not that I was an expert given I wasn’t much for the party scene. This college student struggled to meet friends, much less find girls who wanted to talk to me. I had no wingman after all. No one to go out with.

Jacky's Prince Of Dreams 1.5+ Psychic Crime Fiction by Andre Michael Pietroschek Disclaimer: No warranties!

Unfortunately, my brother is a bit of a loner. He likes to be alone most of the time and loves playing video games. He doesn't have many friends because he's not very social. I don't remember much about him, and his memories are almost forgotten, but there's one thing that my family and I all remember: Nan 102. I don't know how to explain it. It might sound silly and illogical, but, my brother, all I remember from that night and that incident is that he was playing a video game. He was playing…

You will dream of me. You will dream of me. You will dream of me. I will appear to you every night. And frighten you, and you will think I am just a ghost. I will appear in your worst nightmares. I will be your worst fear. I will be your fear. You will dream of me. You will dream of me. I am not just a ghost. I am not just a ghost. You will find me watching you every night.

I lived in an old cabin in the middle of the forest, a place far from people and noise, which was exactly what I longed for. I didn't like being among people or hearing loud voices, so I only went to town to buy food and a few supplies, then I'd return straight to my quiet cabin. Solitude comforted me, and I found everything I needed in the embrace of nature.

Feedback "This, too, shall pass." — Persian Proverb . . I woke up lying on the cold floor, my cheek pressed against splinters. No wind. No storm. No voices. Just quiet. Dry, suffocating quiet. Dust drifted in the shafts of pale light like falling ash. My mouth tasted like old rust. I stood slowly, my footfalls creaked loud in the emptiness, and wandered into the bedroom. There, resting on the bed, was my notebook.

I've been such a coward. Never before have I stooped this low. Never before have I done something like this out of fear. Yes, it's all because of a fear that can thoroughly be explained and the reason is an understandable one. But somehow the feeling I got from doing it hasn't left me. It's like it's slowly rubbing my back, poisoning my skin. It has burned itself deep into my soul and the chills I got from that day still haven't disappeared in the slightest. I dislike this feeling.

I remember the day because nothing about it felt wrong at first, and that’s what makes it stay with me. The normal days are the ones that rot the deepest when something inside them isn’t right. My name is William Marston, and I teach children how to put their thoughts on paper, how to shape fear into something harmless, something you can hold at arm’s length and say, “this is only a drawing.” I believed that. I needed to believe that. So when I told them that morning to draw a monster—anything…

You wake up in a cramped, windowless room, and see blood on the walls. As you walk a little, you trip over something and look underneath… It's a small child's skull. Looking closer, you notice his clothes. You wake up from this terrifying dream… But you realize you're still stuck in the same place, and that it wasn't a dream. Blood is everywhere, and you've been sleeping next to your little brother's skull for about three weeks. You keep forgetting why you're there, how it all happened…

Like most people of my generation, I'm a huge SpongeBob fan. Back then, the internet was relatively new it was 2010. I was browsing through SpongeBob related stuff when I suddenly saw a strange link. I don't remember the exact details, but I do remember the website's logo; it was red, and the link read: "SpongeBob Episode “This Is Not Hell."

Dear Diary, I was so sad when I lost my old diary, but with this brand new one, I can say that it’s the start of a new me. I’m a freshman, after all, so it’s fittingly time for a fresh start. I can’t believe it, I’m going to the same college as Clarisse-chan! I’m so excited! A new experience! Away from all those horrible, loud-mouthed idiots that keep picking on me just because I like anime and dark stuff. There’s nothing wrong with liking that sort of thing. But what do they know?

I don’t remember falling asleep, and that’s the part that keeps scratching at me the most. There was no slow drift, no soft surrender into dreams, no moment where the world dimmed and gave me permission to leave it. One second I existed somewhere real—my room, I think, something familiar, something that should have grounded me—and the next I was standing on a sidewalk that stretched too far in both directions, like it had forgotten how to end. The sky above me was a pale, exhausted gray, not…

Most people have never heard someone die. The moaning. The crying. The pleading. The last tortured breath before they go quiet. Most people will never hear those things. I do. Daily. No, I’m not a serial killer on a hellbent mission to cleanse the Earth. I’m a 911 operator. When I took the job ten years ago, I assumed I’d more or less be like an air traffic controller, but for emergency response teams. For a large portion of my job, that’s true. That’s the easy part. Death is harder.