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I've worked as a lunch lady/cafeteria worker for close to a year now and it's the best job I've ever had.

I do not know this man. I do not know this man in the mirror. The one staring right back at me, moving his eyes to reflect wherever I look. He does every single thing I do. Makes every single face, pokes back at fingers aimed against the glass, and turns his back when I turn mine. To the untrained eye, it looks as any normal reflection does; behaves as any mirror is designed to do. There is nothing obviously out of the ordinary that would arouse suspicions otherwise.

I was always told to stay out of the old garden behind the house. My parents kept saying it was unsafe, overgrown, and full of thorns. I believed them, as children believe their parents. When I grew up and moved back into the family home after they passed away, I decided to clear out that forgotten space. I wanted to reclaim it, make it mine.

I didn't remember how I got there. One moment, I was somewhere ordinary—a grocery store, maybe my car—and the next, I was standing in the polished hallway of a sprawling mansion. The floors gleamed like polished obsidian under chandeliers that glittered coldly overhead. The place was immaculate, almost painfully so, but something about it felt wrong.

Since the 1990s, people from all over the world have received a series of strange phone calls dubbed the ‘Wake Up Calls’, from an unknown caller. These calls at first, according to witnesses, seem like mundane calls from telemarketers or people calling the wrong number. Though shortly after, usually after the 3rd or 4th call, the calls seem to take on a more eerie and bizarre air about them.

It was a quiet, cold, windy night in the cornfield I was in with my dog. My father told me to search through the somewhat small yet vast cornfield. My father was always scared of people that weren't us in his field. We both grew up hearing stories of our family members encountering unexplainable shit in forests, old buildings, and that very cornfield my father sent me to search. I remember how my father used to tell me experiences he had in that field. Like seeing the stalks move on their own…

For as long as I can remember, I've dreamed of flying. I mean... who hasn't dreamed of flying? It's the most wonderful thing there is. I still remember, as a youngster, my afternoons spent scanning the sky, trying to make out shapes in the clouds. Who hasn't? A rabbit, a dragon, a monster or even a car. Watching the clouds has never been so stimulating for our imagination. However, I wanted to be more than just a spectator. I wanted to swim in this ocean of lightness, to split the skies like a…

Under gravel and twisting roots there lies an intricate system of life, hundreds of sizes smaller than our species. Like pale, empty veins they stretch out to dig downwards into damp soil. It is dark. Darker than sunless skies. The realm underground is the realm of corpses. They settle between debris like shells pushed under sand by careless ocean waves. Deeper, and deeper. While you walk overhead on solid ground, thinking of the casual facets of life, corpses are clawing overhead themselves,…

Henry had always been a bit different. As a child, he was quiet, more interested in books and toys than in other children. He grew up alone, but he never seemed to mind. His mother, Grace, worried that her son wasn't making any friends, but Henry always reassured her that he was fine just the way he was.

I used to think grown-ups always knew what was right. They seemed to have all the answers, like they were in control of everything. Back then, I thought there were rules for how things worked, even in little moments—like the way someone should look at you, or how a touch was supposed to feel. But nobody ever explained what it meant when something felt… different. When a look lingered too long, or a hand stayed where it shouldn’t.

I would like to unburden myself a little, because I am very worried about this.To begin with, I don't know if you'll understand me when I say that we, as individuals, have a kind of 'vibe'—the thing that helps us differentiate and recognize people. It's like an aura, or maybe it's the soul. An example of this would be when you meet someone you haven't seen in a long time, and even if their appearance has changed, you still recognize them, like they have an inner spark that remains the same.We…

It was a cold, uneventful evening, just like every other since the quarantine had started. I was scrolling through random VRChat worlds, bored and alone in my room. Most of the worlds were empty, just floating in digital silence, but one caught my eye. The world was called "Nyras’ Crypt"—no description, no tags, just the name. I figured it was probably some forgotten fan-made map. Curiosity got the better of me, and with a click, I joined.

I had everything a man could ever want. A beautiful wife, two wonderful kids, and a cozy house on a quiet street. Life was good—perfect, even. My wife, Emily, had the kind of laugh that could light up a room. Our kids, Lily and James, were the most precious little souls. I remember taking Lily to her first day of school, watching James learn to ride his bike. Simple, mundane moments that filled my heart with a warmth I never knew I could feel.

I hate snow. Not in the way most people hate the inconvenience of shoveling their driveways or the sting of icy wind slicing through their scarves. Not in the way someone groans when their morning commute is slowed to a crawl or when their favorite shoes soak through, leaving their socks clammy and cold. No, my hatred runs deeper than that—bone-deep, marrow-deep, settling into the cracks of my ribs like frost that never thaws.

I am a single mother of three boys who was recently divorced. James, my eldest son, is twelve years old and has just begun secondary school. He is very smart; loves science and wishes to work as a biologist after he graduates from varsity. Without a doubt, I see him pursuing a career in that area. George, my 10-year-old second oldest son, is a creative little prodigy who enjoys painting and modeling clay sculptures. Lastly, Kevin, my 4-year-old son. Kevin is such a sweetheart! Even though he…

When I was young, we were left unattended. My friends and I rode our bikes deep into the fields and returned at our leisure. We rarely played in the same location and often ditched it after a few days. With each new adventure, we drifted further from civilization, and one day, we struck gold, figuratively speaking of course.

I saw it one night. A shape moving into my kitchen like it was afraid of the fact I saw it. Always I go to the kitchen to see if it's still there in the dark or not. I'm always too slow to catch up to it. By the time I reach the kitchen it's always gone. By the time the shape sees light it's gone. Ducking behind the wall that covers the kitchen like if a neighbor got caught looking at your yard through his hedges.

In the late 18th century in upstate New York a pastor and his family; his wife, young daughter, maid and himself were all found dead inside their home. Cause of death was identified as quadruple suicide.

October 1st, 2024 I don't know what's happening to me. It started small—a little itch under the skin of my left arm. At first, I thought it was just a bug bite. But then the itching spread. Now, it feels like something's moving underneath my flesh. I've started documenting it to make sense of it all. Maybe this is just a weird infection. Maybe I'm overreacting. October 3rd, 2024

By my word, this is the truth I tell. When I was a young boy, I used to live at a secluded farm next to an abandoned railroad. The nearest town wasn’t for hundreds of miles; my father drove there once a week to get groceries for the week. One day, I was playing in the woods around our property when I heard a voice calling for help. I ventured deeper into the woods until I saw a man.