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Plot: It is the year 1929. Stanley Fontaine, an American writer of mystical horror novels, is forced to leave his city after losing his inspiration. After many years, he decides to travel to Louisiana on the Eastern Express, where the staff is of the highest calibre and nothing seems to foreshadow any misfortune. Yet soon he begins to realise that what we see is not always reality, and that most people have grown accustomed to living in sweet flattery. This very carriage conceals a multitude of…

In June this year, my son came up in one of my lobster pots. He'd been dead nearly seven years. I'll explain that. But I wanted you to have it first, the way I had it, on the deck of my boat at half five on a Sunday morning in June, with the tide going slack in the Narrows and the gulls screaming and the pot coming up over the gunwale dripping, and something in it that wasn't a lobster. Once you know the rest, you'll not hear it the same.

If you've ever done a walking tour of the Derry Walls, there's a fair chance I've told you about the fetch.

There's a name tattooed on the inside of my left wrist.

The first thing my granny ever taught me about food was that you never, ever leave the house without a bit of bread in your pocket.

This was supposed to be a radio documentary.

On the morning of Tuesday the 16th of December 2025, I took a dead woman off the stones below the Old Cross at Ardboe.

The following are notes I wrote on my phone during my night shifts in December 2025, mostly on my breaks, sometimes in the toilets, once lying on the floor of a linen cupboard. I've fixed the spelling and nothing else. I'm posting them because the Trust's investigation has closed, and it says what it says, and this says what happened. — Clare

My wife has been buried in the old graveyard at Killevy, under Slieve Gullion, since the 9th of October 2025.

If you were on TikTok or Instagram in the week before Christmas 2024, there's a good chance you've seen my brother die.

Documents relating to the events at Slaghtaverty, near Garvagh, 23rd-31st October 2025. Compiled by Hannah Moore My name is Hannah Moore. I'm 35. I'm a freelance audio producer, which means I make podcasts and radio documentaries for people who can afford to pay me, and I record everything, and I label everything, and I keep everything. That habit is the only reason this document exists, and I think it's the only reason I'm not in prison.

[Originally posted to a forum in March 2026 under the title "Anyone from Carrick remember what happened in January last year? I was there. This is all of it." Reproduced here in full.] My daughter says if I don't write this down she'll do it herself, and she'll put in the bits I'd leave out. She's eighteen now, and she means it, so here we are.

[Originally posted as a reply in a thread titled "Irish folklore creatures that are actually terrifying," on a paranormal forum, January 2026. The reply was long enough that the poster later moved it into its own thread. Reproduced here in full.]

[Originally posted to a paranormal forum in March 2023, split across four posts because of the character limit. Reproduced here in full, with the poster's section headings.] My counsellor thinks I should write this down. Not to post, necessarily. Just to get it out of my head and onto something that isn't my head. I'm posting it because if I only write it down, it's just me and the page again, and I've spent five years being the only person who knows the whole of it.

I'm awoken by a bright golden light. Carefully I open my eyes, the bright light hurting them in the process. So I rub them for the pain to go away. In order to protect my sight further, I sit up, creating shadow. It takes a moment for my eyes to finally adjust to and at last I'm finally able to see my surroundings, something by which I'm taken by surprise. There's water above me... I'm sitting on what seems like the sand at the bottom of the sea.

“Hey y’all, it’s Red, White, and Ruin here with a new ghostbox urban exploration for you to watch from the safety of your home. Lucky you! Today, we’re walking through the dead Cherry Hill Mall. Let’s take a look, huh?” I said in my chipper announcer voice. I hit stop on the video I was recording and sighed. Being this perky all the time was exhausting. I sighed, took in my surroundings, and frowned. “Jesus, what a dump.”

Notice: This is 'section 2' of the story Ad Nauseam, I have ran into a unique issue due to the size of Ad Nauseam that I had to make this separate story just to continue until said issue is fixed; if you are new and interested please begin reading here: https://nightscri.be/s/89368/ad-nauseam If you are caught up to Chapter 33 then continue to the next page and enjoy! If you came later during this whole max size debacle, then you can skip some.

Welcome to Part 2 of The Book of Broken Trust (Ash). This is a continuation of Chapter 10 through Chapter 20.T Hope you enjoy. ~ The hallway swallowed Hellen's footsteps the moment she turned the corner. The door to the judges' room remained shut, but the air around it fell thinner now, Like the building itself had leaned in to listen. Inside, papers rustled. A chair was scraped. Someone laughed too loudly, trying to force the sound back into something normal.

At ten years old my parents and I had moved away from my childhood home and into an underdeveloped city, within a quaint little cul de sac. Moving away from all of my friends, especially when we were off from school hit me pretty hard, and my parents knew that. One of the things they had tried to do to make up for it, was move into a neighborhood they made sure was full of other kids. What’s more, is that one street over from this new home there was a large park. It had everything: tennis and…

6/29/1316 ... My name is Edith, and I have not prayed in four months. I used to. God knows, or perhaps He does not, that I used to. Every morning, before the rooster crowed, I would kneel on the cold floor of our cottage and press my hands together until my knuckles whitened, and I would speak to Him the way my mother taught me, soft and grateful, the way you speak to someone who is listening. I do not kneel anymore. The floor may be the same cold stone it always was, but I have changed.