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I'm very worried about my son. More than worried, at this point. Terrified. His behavior these past few weeks is not normal, not healthy. It makes me think there's something wrong. At first, he would just come and stand at the door way. He did this at night, just before I'd be ready to fall asleep. I'd roll over to turn off the lamp, and he'd be standing there, in the doorway. I used to try to speak to him. I don't do that anymore. He never has answered me. He just stares.

Stephen Hillenburg is one of the better-known names in animation. Born on August 21, 1961, he was not only an animator but also a marine biology educator. He passed away on November 26, 2018. He is best known for shows like Rocko’s Modern Life and SpongeBob SquarePants, the latter of which continues to air to this day.

A priest once gave me a gift in Aragon. He said it had belonged to a saint. That was a lie. Whatever power dwells in those dice does not answer to heaven.

“I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial.” -Charles Bauldelaire

I sat in the corner of the bar, sipping at my white wine and soaking in the rural atmosphere. It was nice to sit and relax. Work had been crazy as of late. The duties of a Paranormal Investigator seemed almost never-ending. "Hey, I know you," an old man with a long scraggly beard and red suspenders pointed at me from across the room. "Ain't you that Hadley Trivett from 'Ghosting'?" He slithered from his stool and began limping toward me.

Me and my friend stumbled upon a game called "Content Warning" on Steam. It sounded like a fun co-op horror experience, where you film spooky encounters to go viral on SpöökTube. One night, we decided to give it a try. Initially, everything seemed normal. We explored the eerie environments—a deserted factory, a haunted cruise ship, and dark tunnels—with our single camera and flashlights. The atmosphere was chilling, with mysterious sounds echoing in the distance.

I have a... peculiar hobby. I mean, I guess you could call it a hobby, though it’s probably more of a habit of mine. Before I tell you what it is, let me tell you a bit about myself.

There was three of us that night; James, Daniel and I. We had spent an entire month planning our Holiday in the Hoia-Baciu Forest. We've read stories, upon stories regarding the paranormal shit that has occurred within the locality, and we somehow considered it a fascinating idea to venture out there as a camp-out experiment. I was nervous nevertheless, but it didn't intimidate me whatsoever, and there was also three of us. Nothing could go wrong... as I thought.

> “There’s comfort in routine.” — Productivity Coach — I woke up with a crick in my neck and the taste of stale beer in my mouth. The room was dim. The light outside, dusky and gray spilled through the slats in the blinds like diluted blood. Not morning. Not night. That same, goddamn almost-evening glow. I blinked a few times, disoriented. My mouth was dry. The clock on the wall read 6:49 PM. “Wait… what the…?” I mumbled, but my voice cracked like I hadn’t used it in days.

I went to see the Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 movie as soon as it came out. I am not going to give any spoilers in case you haven’t seen it, and that’s not what this post is about. All I will say is it was a great movie, amazing for fans of the games, and it’s cool to see how far the series has come.

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.

A hallway that never ends. Picture this. Life is great. Ten years old. Ten years of your life have been on earth. Ten years. On my tenth birthday, I got the worst birthday gift. I fell asleep that night, the night of my tenth birthday. I had gotten great gifts, and I was exhausted. The moment I woke up, however, I was in a completely different place. Laying on the ground, I slowly gained consciousness. The room was gray with dim light, and by me was a crumpled sheet of paper. I opened it, and…

Sol 5111 A voice awakens me to darkness. Terrifying darkness. The voice is concerned. Concerned about my well-being. Who am I? Who is the voice? Whoever it is must be a friend. Why else would they be worried? Yes, they must be a friend. It is a kind voice. But what is it worried about? Why is it dark? It must be a storm. Yes, it must be a storm.

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

There are a select few hidden among the population—those who are often keenly aware when they are dreaming. They can recall their dreams in vivid detail for days afterward. People like me, who can lucid dream with little effort. If you're one of them, you know that lucid dreaming can sometimes draw your consciousness into liminal spaces, places that exist between the familiar and the unknown. One of these spaces is what I call the Pumpkin Farm.

It started suddenly. Autumn was coming to an end, the weather was rapidly deteriorating. Busy streets turned into canals filled with icy water and debris. Thin streams ran along the dirty walls and mixed with the long-term patina of rust. An atmosphere of decay, a thick, viscous feeling.

It's stuck in my mind, trapped and buried in the deepest regions, only to resurface when my mind wonders. I'll be on the brink of sleep, drifting off when the haunting memories return to me. It was to become a man they told me, but it simply made me less of a human.

Evening at the McManus estate – a postmodern building with large glass windows.

I gradually became aware that I was awake again, sadly. I enjoyed those fleeting moments of unconscious sleep where the minutes and hours slowly drift away, and then pick up speed until you are redlining it in 5th gear... then BLAM!!! Awake again. Who knows how much later. Fifteen minutes or ten hours, time used to be relative.

The morning came gently, the way it often did in late spring - without urgency, without noise, as if the world itself had decided to stretch before speaking. Sunlight spilled across the small street in soft, slanted lines. It touched the rooftops first, then the windows, then slowly made its way down to the pavement where it shimmered faintly like water. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle passed, its wheels clicking in a steady rhythm that faded as quickly as it arrived.