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I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home we pass, a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. It reminds us that we are still living. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.

“Houston, come in. This is UN Space Station Libra. Come in, Houston.” No reply, just like every other time. I throw the receiver in disgust, the weightless environment causing it to float mockingly in front of my face at the end of its retention strap. I'm bathed in the soft red glow of emergency lights that serve to illuminate every inch of my tiny cell. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves before returning to fiddle at the maintenance panel. I've been in here for two weeks now.

It has been reported that some victims of torture, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not wake up. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren’t being tortured. The only way that they realized they needed to wake up was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to wake up. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their…

Finally, I’m home. After working a late night, I finally finished a project that my boss pushed on me. It was all worth it though, because I had a great day ahead of me. The part I was most excited for though, was seeing my son. I finally won the custody battle against my ex-wife, so now I actually get to see him. I fixed up my old spare bedroom for him, although it looked bland in all white. I figured we would have some spare time later and we could make any changes he wanted. I lumbered up…

A little girl’s parents went out for a business dinner so they hired a babysitter to watch her. “Can I have some ice cream?” the little girl, Holly asked after supper. “Sure” the babysitter, Beatrice said. “Where’s the freezer?” “In the basement, so are the nuts, cherries and candy and stuff.” When she went down to get the ice cream, she looked out the window to see a little girl standing outside. This didn’t strike her as too suspicious and she simply brushed it off.

My eyes struggle to open. I blink several times, trying to take in my surroundings. A stark white ceiling looms above me. Even from a distance, I can make out the little cracks that scour the surface; hundreds of tiny passages into darkness. Shifting around a bit, I feel the starchy sheets beneath my outstretched hands. They feel stale and unwashed. Unsurprisingly, the rigid mattress beneath me is no more comforting.

Let me guess, you're on here trying to freak yourself out or find a pasta worth sharing, right? Me too, but nothing seems to spike your interest or really sends a chill down your spine. Take a look at the videos too, yet still - there's nothing. You really are getting bored now, aren't you? To me, this ritual seems to happen quite a lot, what about you? An idea has probably just popped into your head - "why am I reading this?"

Ever wake up in the middle of the night, or randomly check your watch in the daytime, to see the same thing following you around? For me it’s 11:17. I would say one out of every 3 times I check my watch it’s 11:17. You may have another one, like 3:33, or 12:50. If you don’t have one, count your blessings and stop reading. If you do have a time that you can’t seem to shake, follow these instructions.

“Don’t let her fool you.” I tilted my head as I read my mother’s strange text. There was no context in a previous conversation or build up to warrant the strange cryptic message. I hadn’t texted my mother in a few hours and even then, it was to remind her to pick up dog food on her way home from church that night. “Who are we talking about?” I replied and waited… nothing.

I wandered through the stalls a bit, trying to use my map to figure out where I was, and the quickest way to get to the lake. The way I saw it, I wouldn’t have to struggle as much to put the candle out since it would already be surrounded by water, but first, I’d have to actually navigate my way to the lake.

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.

English professors have told me that born-writers can sit by a computer and make up a story in an hour, without even having to think. Their stories flow like water from their finger tips. I am most definitely not a born-writer. People like me, people without born artistic talent– we need pain to create. We need horrible tragedies to write our stories. This is how we profit. We take our mothers’ deaths and make the widest selling and most beloved children’s books of all time. We need…

I’d had them ever since I was a kid. I can remember being incredibly self-conscious about them, hiding them in my pockets under books and bags. The kids at school never said anything to my face, but I knew they were laughing behind my back. I remember asking my parents to take me to the doctor, to get them checked out. The growths on my hands seemed to be the elephant in the room back then, since they’d just say I was fine and change the subject. But I knew better.

The child jolted awake in the middle of the night, a scream lost in his throat. He was covered in cold sweat and trembling all over. The nightlight next to his bed illuminated his room. There was no monster. He had simply imagined everything in a brief, terrifying nightmare. His hand reached through the darkness and pulled the cord to his lamp. The bulb flashed on and his room was liberated from the blackness. He would sleep with the light on just in case.

When people who died and come back to life say they saw a bright light, they are full of shit. It’s not necessarily their fault though. The mind has a difficult time figuring out things it has never experienced, therefore the mind cannot understand. I’m one of the special, select few who have experienced death and rebirth…often.

“Come in friend and take a seat. My name? Call me Jack….I run this establishment. I’ve been working this bar for the better part of a hundred years. Got a nice stage, we got entertainment later if you’re sticking around?” “Uh-huh. Well do you have time for a drink? Okay. What was that? The hundred years thing ? Yeah, friend, I’m a little older than I look. I’m a demon”

The chairs were the old school folding kind, brown metal with tan cushions that were almost comfortable. They were usually folded and stacked neatly against the wall in the basement of the church on Dionin street. Three times a week they were unfolded and made into a circle: once for bible book club on Monday afternoons, another time for prayer group on Tuesday mornings, and then every Friday night for meetings.

Chapter 6: Face of the Forgotten He pressed forward with his claymore resting on his shoulder, leaving bloody footprints behind him. His feet regrew the muscles and skin with every step he took further into the labyrinth. Requiem walked through the labyrinth that took the shape of a dungeon. Every room he passed was vacant as he progressed through the torchless hallway that seemed to have no end.

The bell on the door chimed softly as Joe entered the small flower shop. Sandra was pissed at him for working late again; she'd made that much clear when he'd rolled in past ten last night. Who is she, Joe? Who is who? The woman you're screwing. What are you talking about, Sandy? You know I have the Brinkman proposal to finish by next week. It's requiring more time and effort than Bob anticipated when he signed us up for the damn thing.

"BRING THAT ONE UP!" A blinding light explodes in my eyes and a rough claw nearly rips my arm out of its socket. I am being dragged by my t-shirt over a jagged wooden floor, splinters ripping off into my calves, but I can't feel them. My vision starts to clear as I lift my hand to my head. I feel around and draw back a hand full of sticky blood. I hear a slam behind me and a voice shout out, "LOOKS LIKE WE'VE GOT A LIVE ONE!"