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I’ve been here before. Felt the sweat beating down my brow. That God awful sound. Droning on and on and on. The room is cramped. The people in it are loud. Noisy. “…and you find this watch on the beach. What the watchmaker analogy alludes to is… ” Blah, blah, blah. Philosophy of Religion. Jesus Christ.

I’m Nina Rodriguez, i’m a police officer, have been for a good seven years. In my time in the force I have seen some pretty… pretty fucked up shit to say the least: crazed druggies, abusive parents, and even a few calls for help from the suicides. But, none of those could ever hope to compare to an emergency call I’d taken last month.

I got a Wii on my 7th birthday on November 28th, 2006 (about 9 days after the Wii was released). I still remember the moment when my dad gave me the present and then I quickly ripped it open, "Wow, a Wii! Thanks, dad!" I exclaimed in happiness. After that, I begged my dad to help set it up. When he was done, he finally helped me set up the Wii in the living room. What surprised me about the Wii is the controller, because it reminded me so much of a TV remote. After my dad set it up he left me…

My friends and I used to do a lot of geocaching after our senior year in high school. For those who don’t know what geocaching is, it’s essentially a worldwide scavenger hunt. People will select sites and conceal a “geo-cache” somewhere unobtrusive, then post GPS coordinates on geocaching websites where other searchers can download the cords and locate the cache. Usually, people who have found the object (often it’s a chest or something hollow) will leave a note or small personal memento for…

Matt and I returned to our hometown after our first semester in college. We arranged to meet at a bar to catch up and trade stories. “How's UVA?” Matt asked, sipping his glass of Shiraz. “Pretty good,” I replied. “I think I'll major in physics.” I took a swallow of my beer. “How about you?” “Yale's everything I hoped for—and more,” Matt answered, “but I still haven't settled on a major yet. Philosophy maybe, or comparative lit…”

I need to be extremely clear to you that this is real. There is nothing fabricated in what I am about to tell you. There are what I can only describe as zombies out there, making their way to you right now.

It was simple, we thought. Take a few chromosomes, slice them up, put them over there, and hey, perfect human being. I’m still not sure what went wrong. Maybe a miscalculation? A misprocedure? Or maybe something beyond our control. Who knows? We (a few of my psychologist colleagues and I) were intrigued by human emotion. Anger, despair, euphoria. Was it possible to lock the mind into one emotion? To lock it into a euphoric state so that no sadness or anger would cloud its thought?…

Everyone always says there not real there just a figure of your imaginations fairytales they say, but I know they exist I've never seen them, but I've felt their presence, eyes looking through the window staring, observing almost as if taking notes of humanity itself. The feeling was unreal almost as if it made me at ease. I was once one of them the non-believers I had thought it was dumb to believe in something you couldn't see it was like believing in unicorns or the end of the rainbows.

Since the 1990s, people from all over the world have received a series of strange phone calls dubbed the ‘Wake Up Calls’, from an unknown caller. These calls at first, according to witnesses, seem like mundane calls from telemarketers or people calling the wrong number. Though shortly after, usually after the 3rd or 4th call, the calls seem to take on a more eerie and bizarre air about them.

Its been 6 hours since I sent my message. Seen, but no reply. Something must have happened. Maybe he’s hurt? It’s not unlikely that he tripped and hit his head. His apartment is a mess after all. I push my chair out, arising  into a panicked loop as I walk a figure eight around my room. My feet kick against bottles and cans, my foot swings and an old pizza box is sent flying, launching stale crusts across the room. Maybe he’s ignoring me? No, of course not. He’s not like that.

Under gravel and twisting roots there lies an intricate system of life, hundreds of sizes smaller than our species. Like pale, empty veins they stretch out to dig downwards into damp soil. It is dark. Darker than sunless skies. The realm underground is the realm of corpses. They settle between debris like shells pushed under sand by careless ocean waves. Deeper, and deeper. While you walk overhead on solid ground, thinking of the casual facets of life, corpses are clawing overhead themselves,…

My fiancée, Robert, had gone to his best friend Lewis’ house for a night of gaming and movies. You know, Guy’s Night In. I personally imagine a lot of manly grunting and crude jokes. Anyway, at around 5 pm he kissed me and said goodbye. I spent most of the evening working on my art. Drawing commissions are a pain because usually, what inspires my client is usually one of the things that turns my creative wheels the least.

Ever since I can remember I have been able to see things that others cannot. I still remember the days of my infancy when I would, for the first time, sleep in my own bed, in my own room, and how the shadows of unknown beings would haunt my room. Or perhaps my head? All I know is that I saw things, and that, at least to me, these things were as real as the other things that other people were able too see and touch.

Now, when I think back to the excuses my parents used to make, I feel like an idiot. I remember being twelve years old, standing at the top of the staircase and watching all of the people filing into our basement. Some men wore white masks, some women wore bonnets. But they all had small suitcases, as though there was a bus stop beneath our house. And every one of them looked pale, frightened.

This used to happen to me quite often when I was younger, but lately I have had “different” experiences. To start with, I would like to say that this is all true. Everything I write here is fact, and you don’t have to believe me.

It was a chilly October night, the kind where the wind howled through the trees and the moon cast an eerie glow on everything it touched. I had just moved to Willow Creek, a small town known for its quaint charm and haunted history. Halloween was approaching, and with it came stories of the old Wright house, an abandoned mansion on the outskirts that everyone whispered about.

One day you will wake up and find yourself walking on a dirt road at what appears to be midnight. The road is extremely long, and will look like it could take hours of travel to get to civilization. The road consists of only dirt, dust and pebbles. At first, you will wonder how you ventured to such a place. You will also wonder how and why it is so dark, yet somehow illuminated with light at the same time. You will quickly come to the conclusion that you're dreaming.

Why Does My New Born Baby Have Memories Of My Dead Brother? Our baby, Lily, is barely two weeks old, but she's taken to crying at exactly 3:14 AM. It started on the third night in the hospital, a high-pitched keening that rattled the monitors and made me bolt upright. My husband, Jacob, sleep-shy but determined to comfort her, reached into the bassinet. When he came back, his face was pale. "She did it again," he whispered. "She sounded like…like Matt."

You think you understand the whole system? Read again. The door only sticks sometimes, but it always opens when I need it to. I noticed it first during the rainy season when the air felt heavier and everything in the house took longer to settle. The wood swelled a little, I think. It pressed into the frame and made the handle feel tighter than usual. Most people would panic at that. They would force it. Shake the handle. And make a scene out of something that just needs time.

I have never been as happy as I was on my eighth birthday. My mother handed me a heavily wrapped present containing my very first gameboy and a mint Pokémon Gold edition.