Best rated stories

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.

Have you ever heard of Elf on the Shelf? It was a children’s book released in 2005 that follows an elf who reports to Santa on who’s been naughty or nice. Later on they made it into t.v. movie and now it’s a really popular game with kids around Christmas time. I’ll never forget that elf. The one that terrorized me only a few weeks ago. I consider it a miracle I’m still here today to tell you about it.

“And of course, my wonderful and wunderbar blast furnaces are the heart of my Foundry’s operations,” Raubritter boasted proudly as he led the young and aloof Petra down across the factory floor towards the upstairs offices.

The steady droning of fluorescent lights buzzed through the perpetually cold morgue. A sound that, after three years, had woven its way into my sense of peace as comforting and familiar as my own breathing. Carl muttered under his breath as he wrestled with the finicky coffee machine before it spurted out the coveted drink. It wasn’t just the vending machine that put him in such a grumpy mood. We had gotten another new intern. Some emo kid with a gauge piercing and nose ring, obsessed with…

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.

Aside from the slow and steady hoof-falls of the large draft horses against the ancient stone road, or the continuous creaking of the nearly-as-ancient caravan wagon’s wheels, Horace was sure he couldn’t hear anything at all. In the fading autumn light, all he could see for miles around were the silhouettes of enormous petrified trees, having stood dead now for centuries but still refusing to fall. Their bark had turned an unnatural and oddly lustrous black, one that seemed almost liquid as it…

Hello, I’ve been expecting you! I can see fear and confusion in your eyes. It’s okay, I don’t blame you. Clearly I have some explaining to do.

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!"

Sarah and David had been very happy once. They were the type of couple that made other people envious and deprived. They had hit jackpot when they had met each other those many years ago. Knowing Sarah and David Bright you would know that they were good people. They would do just about anything to help out a friend in need. Knowing this, makes it so much harder to believe they ever deserved what happened to them. So, if the rule goes that no matter how kind and gentle and law abiding you are,…