JosephTheSnail

Here they come, around the corner, sliding into the driveway in their family sedan. They’re back from the market, the father’s pockets no doubt lined with fresh 50s. The tires roll easily along the gravel, and I pray that lying somewhere in that collection of pebbles and stones is a glass shard, or a rock sharp enough to pierce the tires.

Last year, I spent six months participating in what I was told was a psychological experiment. I found an ad in my local paper looking for imaginative people looking to make good money, and since it was the only ad that week that I was remotely qualified for, I gave them a call and we arranged an interview.

Halle and I had only been living in Brunswick, Georgia for a few months. We moved here from Tallahassee over the summer and honestly, we missed home. But hey, the area had grown on us. We liked the beaches and the culture. But one place we hadn’t checked out yet was Jekyll Island. Jekyll had a mystique to it to say the least. It had history given that it once served as a vacation destination for many of America’s wealthy elites during The Gilded Age. The opportunity to visit said island arose…

I was driving home from work late one night, tired and ready to let my head slam down onto my soft pillow. It had been a very long day. Sales were slow, and I had just finished a meeting with my employees to figure out how we could improve them. I'm the owner of a Tech Start-up. We design customized automated machinery for various construction and Manufacturing industries.

Annabelle was the focus of a case that famed paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren took part in during the early 1970s, and is highlighted in the book The Demonologist. It has been stated that this is one of the most unusual cases of a possessed object on record.

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.

Oct 10 - Today is cloudy Starting today, I'm going to keep a diary! My family includes little Jack, my mom, and the "Red Devil" too! My mom and the Red Devil are always getting into fights! It’s a total blast—whenever the Red Devil comes home drunk, a fight with Mom breaks out. Little Jack is really timid and just cries when he sees it, but I actually find it fun! Oct 11 - Today is warm

During my childhood my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belong to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger.

My father told me a story once. I'll never forget it, for a few reasons. I think its the first story he ever told me, as a child. Its also the story of how my grandfather died. But honestly, that isn't the reason. You hear stories, on TV, or sometimes you over hear something in a public place. People talk about ghosts and aliens, and you think to yourself “that ain't real. They're making it up, or they're mistaken, or they're crazy.” or something like that. You just can't believe it.

I never really did want to go to that Christmas party, but I have to say it turned out all right in the end. The Christmas party was to be held on the great stage at the Opera House downtown, and it was open to all employees of the law firm Goble & Mundorff and their immediate families.  That last part was a problem for my brother Henry and me, because our mom was a paralegal at G&M, and she’d made it clear that she expected us to put in an appearance.

“How do you eradicate death itself?” There was a strange life in this apartment complex, one that practically begged you to look the other way. From the outside, the place offered nothing. It was just a decrepit gray structure looking as if it would collapse under a single harsh gust of wind. It stood out solely because within a fifty-mile radius, no other human life existed. Questions went unasked. Certain answers were better left unknown, and if ignorance was bliss, so be it.

There's a misconception that sadness can lessen one's life. That a broken heart is the first step into the grave. We see it countless times where a true love is lost and the other follows not long after. Empty sympathies are offered, claiming the poor soul died of a broken heart. But what if I told you that broken heart was the key to everlasting life?

Throughout my time observing the everyday activities of humans, I've noticed several quirks about them. Many of these can be used to my advantage. One such quirk is that people seldom look up. Whether sitting alone in a dark room, running panicked through a forest, or dining in a crowded restaurant, they rarely glance skyward. I'm uncertain of the reason for this lack of upward glances, but it works in my favor.

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 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.”

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.

There are a lot of clichéd "traditions" that I don't think anyone has actually participated in for about hundred years or so. Wishing on a star, for example. A shooting star, maybe... but just an average, normal star that's there every night? Never seen someone do that. Tying a string around your finger to remind you of something. Might've been helpful to someone at some point in history, but it's more likely they just wrote it down.

I'm getting a headache, everything sounds painfully loud in an empty basement.

Every marriage reaches a point where one partner looks at the other and thinks the same thing. "You are NOT the person I married." Often, this is because someone forgot an anniversary, gained a little weight, or suddenly developed strong political opinions after listening to a few episodes of a popular podcast.

I remember when I first woke up here just a couple of weeks ago. It’s probably not like any place you’ve ever seen. Not that it matters anymore, now that I'm stuck here. You see, for the past few weeks, I've been stuck in some sort of hell. Because I have found myself trapped. Trapped in a never-ending expanse of cardboard. I don't know if I'm alone here or not; I'm mostly writing this so my mind has something to do. Hell, I don't know if I’ll even get out of here, wherever this place is.

Last night, and the one before I had the strangest dreams. On the first night I opened my eyes and found my bedroom present in a dark aura despite the light being off. Above me, where my ceiling should have been blank (I have nothing in particular on my ceiling) was the outline of what appeared to be a window. I stared in shock, convinced I was asleep and dreaming. But it felt so real.

There’s a floor in my apartment building that doesn’t exist. Not Thirteen. That would be too cliché. Although, it doesn’t have a thirteenth floor, but not for supernatural reasons. It just doesn’t go that high. Some of the residents call it Floor Three and a Half, or Three and Three-quarters to invoke a Harry Potter vibe, but both of those are far too whimsical for my tastes. I just call it the Dead Floor, which I know isn’t any less cliché than floor Thirteen, but it feels appropriate.

As a kid, I loved the Toy Story film, and you know what else I loved? The Genesis game. Played that game every time I got back from school, before I went to bed, every time I got a chance. A fantastic game. It was pretty much Disney's answer to Donkey Kong Country.

I've been a bartender for 6 years. I cover the bar and take drink-orders from the wait-staff. Last week, one of the waitresses, Leslie, set an order-slip on the bar. It said: "Table 11 -- Angel Shot" My eyes grew wide. I'm pretty sure you know why, but I'll explain it anyway: Ordering an "Angel Shot" is bar-code for "I'm in trouble -- help me!" It's a way for a vulnerable woman to surreptitiously call for help. All bartenders know this.

CONTENT WARNING This story contains implicit and explicit descriptions of suicide, depression, and mental health illnesses. Reader discretion is strongly advised. You have been warned. “Why?” That question has always stuck with me. Out of all the questions of mortals, reasoning appeals to me most. Why do the flowers sing as the breeze passes by? Why does the moon borrow and illuminate? Why is the agony of not knowing harsher than the truth? Why can a heart break without touch?