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. The lullaby she sings isn't for me. It's to keep something else asleep. Based on the story of a terrified teen. — I don't know why I'm doing this. I just... I need someone to hear it. In case... In case something happens. . I stopped sleeping with the lights off when I was eight. That's when I first heard her talking to the hallway closet. Not angrily, not loudly. Just whispering, except the words weren't in any language I knew.

A flame burst from the darkness. It was hesitant for a moment, but flashed for an instant, showing the faint glimpse of a lone figure. A second flame was made, but it sizzled low before fading away. The third, like the first, was shy for a moment. However, soon it became full of thorns and nipped at the fingers of its master, but it was held in its place. It would not go its own way, no, it must be sealed in a cage of iron and glass.

Tommy Morgan did not have the best life. Coming from a broken home, the young 11-year-old only experienced the worst: his father would return home drunken like a skunk, and he would get into heated arguments with his wife over money and how since he was the bread maker, he could do with his earnings what he saw fit. Tommy’s mother would do chores around the house, her eyes red from sobbing.

Amid the seemingly infinite expanse of the night-shrouded ocean, a solitary fishing boat ventured forth, its journey towards Bunker Island guided by the lone, silvery light of the moon. As the vessel gently rocked on the ebb and flow of the dark waters, its name, the 'Elizabeth Dane,' barely clung to the peeling paint at the stern, a testament to the countless expeditions it had weathered.

Not much is known about Dr Michael Kessler's past, other than he was born in Ohio around the 1970s and had graduated with outstanding accolades in all scientific fields, however his distant and cold personality mixed with questionable views and theories led to many scientific groups ridiculing him. He was laughed out of many colleges and other such establishments when he would ever bring up his main interest of study; the "paranormal".

We all knew Spirit Halloween, a store that is filled to the brim with the most messed up animatronics out there, ranging from screaming clowns, decayed zombies, demonically possessed children, and other stuff. Every year, they always push the limits with the level of gore and blood. But what if I told you that there was an animatronic that never made it to the shelves? Well, you’re in for a treat, so keep on reading.

I usually don’t write my experiences down in journals like this. Typically, I’d prefer to just keep my unsavory memories in my head to let them rot away over time, which makes the pain easier to cope with. However, with everything that has happened to me recently, I’d feel guilty if I just let all those traumatic experiences simply be forgotten about, especially since they involve friends and people so dear to me… So, I shall tell the story of that godforsaken Airbnb and how it led me down a…

It is the Summer of 2022, and I cannot escape the heat. The heat that is the crowded, cloying musk of Kilkenny city on a sweaty Saturday night. It grimes against my mind like the late June humidity on my skin. I had been robbed of what felt like half the Summer, having suffered a bad case of Achilles tendinosis, and had spent most of May and June endlessly stretching and pacing like a caged cat in a bid to nurse it back to functionality.

A twenty something years old man enters a cafeteria. White skin, maybe a bit too skinny, straight unkempt hair, a beard of a few days, and bloodshot brown eyes. He was dressed with a blue shirt, blue jeans, and black shoes. The young man looked around and then walked to the furthest table in the corner and sat down in front of an older man. The older man lowers his cell phone and looks up to the young man. “What do you want, kid?”

New York City, 1980: Giuseppe Russo sat in his small city apartment. It felt no larger than a jail cell, but had just about everything he ever dreamt of. His bed sat in a window nook on the right wall across from the entrance. Two bookshelves sat on both ends of his bed.

Chatrove / Topic: Confessions Posted by Anonymous 2003-07-16 23:14 [Archived] I'll call her Amelia. Not her real name, of course, but the vibe matches. She and I were always cut from the same invisible cloth (anxious, awkward, forgettable). If we didn’t sit together in lectures, we simply evaporated into the crowd. When New Year’s came, we made a pact: we’d change. Not in some dramatic way, just enough to stop melting into the scenery. We wanted to be more outgoing, more open, easier to like.

After it all happened, I could never explain just what about the little wooden jewelry box had caught my eye. It was simple and unornamented. When questioned about what was inside it, Maggie, the antique shop’s keeper, hesitated before speaking. “That’s a collection of old silver, mostly jewelry and coins.” I nodded. “So a few thousand dollars, I suppose?” I went to put the box back.

“And of course, my wonderful and wunderbar blast furnaces are the heart of my Foundry’s operations,” Raubritter boasted proudly as he led the young and aloof Petra down across the factory floor towards the upstairs offices.

The sound of the gentle tapping of the rain on my window awakens me. Just by glancing over at the window I can see the dark autumn sky even though it must still be around noon. Slowly I get up from the couch, I must have dozed off for a minute or so. I walk over to my kitchen to see if there is anything to eat. Opening all the cabinets and finally the freezer, I discover that I'm all out of food. Damn, I forgot, it's grocery day today... and I still have to go out with this shitty weather.

I like to drive past spooky places.

I had always liked watching her hands. Emma, my babysitter, had these nails she painted herself—a soft, glossy lavender that caught the light just right. She was neat, careful, precise, and she promised me, as she usually did when she babysat, that after she came back with our dinner, we'd paint mine together. "You'll pick the color," she said, wiggling her fingers, "and I'll show you how to do it just right." I smiled at her nails, imagining mine looking the same: neat, perfect and lavender.

After cleaning the shop, packing the last of my gear, and loading it onto my pickup. I closed up and locked the door. I made sure to hang a sign on the door that read, “Gone Fishing.” I was all set to leave. I took another look at the place, knowing I wouldn’t see it for at least a week. I loved coming here, to work, and to serve my customers, but I was headed on a long-overdue vacation.

It’s a commonly held belief in the world that machines can do anything, that, given enough time and resources, robots and computers will one day replace humankind, or that the constant evolution of machines could bring back what we lost. But I remember when we learned our lesson, when we understood that maybe, the dead should stay dead.

There was a sound, once, in Black Hollow that wasn’t made by men. Before the pickaxes and drills, before the coal trains and dead canaries before the mountain was stripped naked and hung with wires there was something else. The old ones called it “The Hollowing,” a word whispered by toothless women by firelight. They said it came when the ground was too deep, the hunger too great. Not a cave-in or gas, not even hell. Something worse.

Content Warning: This story contains graphic depictions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, psychological distress, and body horror. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Art is suffering. Suffering is what fuels creativity. I’m an artist. Not professionally at least. Although some would argue the moment you exchange paint for profit, you’ve already sold your soul.