Best rated stories

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…

I have never been a good flyer. Anxiety mixed with a fear of heights makes airplanes my personal hell. Currently, I find myself in the terminal solely for my mother. She was diagnosed with cancer recently and is rapidly deteriorating. My mom is the only person in my immediate family I truly care about, as I have no siblings and my father passed away years ago. Flying is the only option to reach her before she passes. With each passing minute, my anxiety intensifies. The plane has been delayed…

Our lost, loitering kind paced in infinite death spirals within the confines of our grotty, ghetto pens. Enrichment was sorely that, as well as mumbling our mantras of madness to our audience of one. The BMs anchored to our decayed craniums were garbled with feedback and distortion, their tones bland, colorless, no soul backing them up. A blinding ruby radiance flashed from their cores every second on the second. It was the only manner to determine if we had succumbed to the glorious embrace of…

I remember the day because nothing about it felt wrong at first, and that’s what makes it stay with me. The normal days are the ones that rot the deepest when something inside them isn’t right. My name is William Marston, and I teach children how to put their thoughts on paper, how to shape fear into something harmless, something you can hold at arm’s length and say, “this is only a drawing.” I believed that. I needed to believe that. So when I told them that morning to draw a monster—anything…

18th January 2016 You: "Yeah men, I´m sure I´m here, in front of my apartment building." Charles: "But I still can´t see you Ray." You: [You sent a photo] "See Charles? I´m right here." Charles: [Charles sent a photo] "Look Ray, I´m on same spot..." You: "What... the actually... fuck...?" Charles: "Hey bro... I have an idea... Can we go to the Penn station?" You: "Ehmm... Okey, but only if we stay texting." Charles: "Of course. Im little scared too." You: "I did... never mind."

Subject: I think I found my living room on a Deep Web website, but the rug is the wrong color. Entry 1: Posted 3 hours ago. I’m shaking while I type this. I always been a digital explorer... another idiot who browses the Deep Web just to see the weird things people host. Mostly it’s just broken links or forums for people obsessed with 90s stuff. But tonight I found a site called The Staging.

I have worn countless masks, but those most beloved is my mask of words. They refer to me as a play. A lie. A plague lay down in ink and breath. They tell me I am nothing more than a character within those pages of the volume, that yellow book whose words pour through comprehension. They are in error. I was not written. I wrote myself.

There’s no way I could be alone in this. My family wanted to send me to the psych ward when I told them. And I am not delusional enough to believe that if evil existed in this universe or any other, it would only have eyes for me. So I'm throwing this out into the ether of the internet. If you have ever found yourself on the outskirts of the bends of Oklahoma and happened upon a similar place. Please, I’m begging you, share your story as well. I need to know I’m not crazy.

This account was not meant to be kept with the others. It was filed incorrectly at first, tucked between some water damage report and a handwritten inventory of seasonal decorations. No one noticed because no one ever looks too closely at Christmas. We prefer it softened, rounded at the edges, safe to touch.  There are entire kinds of damage that go unrecorded when they happen in December. It is a season built on reassurance, and reassurance has a way of smoothing over things that should have…

The verdict was final. I wished I had just died then. The people tasked with performing this ritual drank, Drank until they couldn't anymore, For if they were sober, They wouldn't have been able to go through with it. They stripped me of my clothing. They flogged me. Scraps of metal and shards of glass, Embedded into each tail of the flogger. Each tail would wrap around me, Glass and metal digging into my flesh. Then they would pull it back, Shards dragging inside my skin,

Tick… tick… tick… tick… tick. The slow rhythm of the clock pulled me out of my sleep webs as it grew stronger by the second. Then I felt an unpleasant pressure on my right ear and wetness under my hand, which came from a small pool of saliva flowing onto the wooden bench.

Up and up the rough-hewn steps tramp the wormy feet of countless dark denizens. They move in silence through the earth's bowels with a singular purpose. Stirred from restless sleep and unholy dreams. Stirred from aimless wriggling and horrid scavenging. Stirred by the voice of their beloved mother, vast and terrible. She bids them rise, and rise they do. None shall disobey their doting matriarch. And so, they rise the ancient steps and forgotten causeways. Passing through slimy tunnels filled…

“Pluggy the Plug-in,” that is the name I keep remembering for some reason, even after those posts of the lost show titled Sammy the Cat. I wonder who that character is; I might as well talk to the creator of the show about it. Yes, it has been a long time since Richard Turner was arrested. Even after my two posts, I never heard anything about him being released.

Any child born and raised around the end of the 90s and early 2000s will probably know what place I’m talking about. If you live outside of the town of Radcliff or, hell even outside of Kentucky, this place may be foreign to you.

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.