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As a single dad, the quiet moments after tucking my six-year-old daughter, Jessie, into bed are usually my only chance to catch my breath. But last Tuesday, that quiet was shattered by a plastic, mechanical giggle echoing from the hallway. I found Jessie sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, bathed in the pale glow of the television. In her lap sat a doll I had never seen before in my life.

The heavy mahogany door clicked shut, sealing out the relentless autumn drizzle. Ashley leaned back against it, exhaling a breath she felt she’d been holding all evening. The wedding reception had been a blur of champagne flutes, blinding flashbulbs, and well-meaning relatives. Now, finally, it was just her and Dave.

I'm awoken by a bright golden light. Carefully I open my eyes, the bright light hurting them in the process. So I rub them for the pain to go away. In order to protect my sight further, I sit up, creating shadow. It takes a moment for my eyes to finally adjust to and at last I'm finally able to see my surroundings, something by which I'm taken by surprise. There's water above me... I'm sitting on what seems like the sand at the bottom of the sea.

I used to believe that the worst thing that could happen at a restaurant was getting food poisoning. I was wrong. My name is Emily Carter, and what happened to me three years ago is something I still cannot explain without feeling like I am going to be sick. I have never told the entire story to anyone. Not my friends, not the police, and certainly not my father. Maybe writing it down is the only way I can finally get it out of my head.

It's late and I've just gotten home from work, I walk up to the front door and stick my key in. When the familiar, soft click reaches my ears I push it open. Behind it the dark hallway greets me. Normally I don't hesitate to enter, but today something feels... off. I remain standing just outside, staring inside the building. It looks the way it has always looked. It smell the way it has always smelled. So what is it that makes me feel this way?

THERE EXIST such places where every fragment, every corner is pierced by pain, suffering, darkness, and oppression. It is so dense and stifling there that in some places it makes you want to vomit. The mind is drilled through as if by an auger, and every second of drilling feels like an eternity. It is as if someone has sat on a chair full of spikes in a dark, merciless torture chamber full of cruelty, blood, and pain. Time is not measured here because time does not exist here at all.…

Once upon a time, back to when I was young. I played and laughed with the shadows of my room. A fall night, she came. late into the night, in her violet dress and veil; she spoked softly to me. "Little one, why still wide wake?" she asked. I didn't reply, I didn't speak. I stared at her.

DATE OF INCIDENT: 2306-04-29 REPORTING OFFICER: Captain L. Voss, Service No. 4071, District 9 LOCATION: BLACKGULL-9A-0102-THALASSA INCIDENT TYPE: ANOMALOUS EVENT INCIDENT SEVERITY: CRITICAL

*Originally published in the Flash Phantoms June 2026 issue

“It’s going to happen, Jack. Nothing we can do about it. The wheels are already in motion. Higher-ups tell me I need to release the staff by the end of the week.” “Then ‘AM 640 - Talk of the Town’ becomes what, exactly?” Ron sighed. “Another DJ-less, auto-programmed, adult easy listening station.” “Aww, Christ on a bike,” I said. “They’re stealing the soul of this industry. Our Arbitron numbers grew last ratings cycle.”

When Tom and I first met, he was the kind of careful, deliberate man who made you feel entirely safe in a loud and chaotic world. He anticipated my needs before I voiced them, remembered every small detail I mentioned in passing, and looked at me with a steady, possessive intensity that I mistook for profound devotion. It was intoxicating. Within a year, we were married in a quiet ceremony, and we moved into an isolated, sprawling Victorian house at the edge of the woods—a place Tom insisted…

On the morning of the 13th June 1997, an unidentified federal agent was found dead at his workstation deep within a secret government facility at an undisclosed location. The cause of his death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The following extract consists of the final entry logs of said agent prior to his suicide. Despite the lack of context and supporting evidence, this document was received from a trusted source.

My story started the same as so many others. The loss of a job, the breakdown of a five-year relationship, and the urgent need to find a new place to live, lest I end up sleeping in my car.

I guess you could call me an old codger – the kind who’s spent his entire life living in the same small village on the west coast of Ireland. Call me the parochial type – wedded to the land, having spent my working life as a small hold farmer before enjoying my retirement amongst old friends and family. These days I prop up the bar at McCafferty’s pub, sipping pints of Guiness whilst telling tales of years past.

Every person has their own fears. Spiders, reptiles, darkness, or even death. But have you ever heard that people are afraid of silence itself? Yes, you could say that silence is peace, a state of stillness. But sometimes, something can happen in silence that no spider or monster can compare to. Today I’m going to tell you why something can happen in silence that I’ll remember for the rest of my life — and I’m afraid to recall what I saw. My name is Tom, I’m 20 years old, and I’m a single…

First, let me introduce myself. My name is Anthony Salaria, and this is my story. I used to think the world was a big place. Now I know better. The world is only as big as the distance between you and whatever is trying to kill you.

Please stop writing creepypastas. It's not funny, anymore. Just when I thought the genre was dead, a bunch of brand new chucklefucks start trying their hand at creating the next internet urban legend. Oh, wow, look at you... you live in a small town, right? There's a strange tradition, isn't there? Maybe a figure that's "entirely too" this with "way too many" that... For fuck's sake, just give it up. You want to go viral, to get noticed, reap accolades and secure a movie deal.

Annabella was a Witch, She lived in a house made of sticks. Through the woods, and over a stream Where very few people are ever seen. ~ In the village, she loved a man. Jeremiah, as he stands. But no matter how hard Annabella tried... She could never catch Jeremiah's eye. ~ In her House of Sticks, she cried. Feeling her heart slowly die. But soon a vile plan was born, To get Jeremiah, this, Annabella had sworn. ~ For the toxin of love: an ingredient was needed.

The knocking starts precisely at 3:14 AM. It isn't frantic, and it isn't loud. It’s a rhythmic, heavy double-tap—knock-knock—followed by a pause just long enough for me to take a breath, and then another double-tap. Knock-knock.

Pentimento I spent two years working on a single sentence.