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[This is not a story about objects] It's that time again. The time to clean up unwanted, unneeded things. It's not always fun, but not always that bad either. With each object there are memories. Those can be difficult to get rid of, though there are some simpler cases. For example, simple candy wrappers are easily thrown away, while something like stuffed animals that have known and given warmth are more difficult. I don't like to admit it, but it does get easier eventually.

“Born to be a star” — that’s what my grandma always said, anyway.

This story is based off something my friend told me, there’s is no evidence of this being true but I believe it is, enjoy reading it…

I put on my running shoes with springs, designed to cushion the impact on the ground. It was my nightly ritual, something I did every single day without fail: running to the neighboring town, keeping my body busy and my mind free of thoughts. It was almost five o’clock, and the sun still stubbornly lingered in the sky, painting everything with a pale golden light.

The release wing door buzzed before it opened. There was no ceremony to it. No applause. No relief. Just a metal door that opened and closed without emotion. Daniel Danvers stood beside his car in the visitor lot, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke unraveling into the cloudy afternoon sky. The gravel shifted under his shoes when he adjusted his stance. He checked his phone again. No new messages from Alexander.

“Where do you live, man?” I asked, reaching out to grab the Skol can left by the window. “Cuiabá.” “Man… that’s a beautiful city.” “You’ve been there?” “Yeah. Made a lot of deliveries in the capital.” “So why do you want to go to Nova Esperança?” “For my grandmother’s wake…” “I’m sorry, kid. Losing a relative right at the start of the year…” The young man lowered his head.

Part I Jake, Mike, Brian, and Josephine were a tight-knit group of friends who had known each other since childhood. They loved spending time together after school. With Mike’s birthday approaching the following week, his parents decided to throw a party to celebrate. All his friends were thrilled and full of joy about their friend's upcoming big day. His parents even had a special gift ready—one he had been waiting for for a very long time.

day 1 Hello. I'm Michael W. Johnson, a private detective. I usually don’t do things like this, but I think we are in danger. I’ve been given several reports about a drug being used to make people immortal for decades. I don’t know the side effects yet. I don’t even know what the drug is called or where it’s being made.

Post 1: 6:00 PM, Wednesday September 5th, 2026 It’s Wednesday night, I keep earring weird noises outside. It’s been days since I’ve talked to anyone outside, people say I’m crazy for not leaving my house, but the voices are out there at night. They say since it’s at night just leave during the day but no I can’t because if i do they may still get me. Post 2: 12:00 AM, Friday September 7th, 2026 There’s scratching at my walls. They’re outside, they want me to go to them.

Amelia loved everything new, mysterious, and unusual anything unconventional and alluring. She loved music that made adults react with disbelief. She dressed like a Goth; in short, she defied all conventions. Her best friend, Diana, shared her musical passions. The girls liked to experiment, not only with their image but also with new experiences.

Part 1 Episode 1 Afghanistan, Kandahar Province The night belonged to dust and silence. Lou Phillips moved at the front of the stack, body low, rifle steady, breathing slow enough to disappear. The compound rose out of the dark like a tumor—mud walls, a single rusted gate, no lights. Intel said weapons cache. Lou trusted patterns more than intel. Martinez raised two fingers. Hold. Lou froze. Not because of the signal—but because something tugged at the back of

10/11/2010 ...

“Beneath the world’s frail skin it breeds, Where stars lie drowned in the deep; For centuries, with scorn, it heeds The ones who whisper to the sheep.” “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” I pulled out an earbud and turned toward the speaker. “Sorry, did you say something?” “The view,” the man beside me repeated, using his beer glass as a pointer. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” “Yes, you’re right indeed. Prost!”

The attic hatch didn’t just open; it fell away with a deafening crack, dangling by a single, twisted hinge. I scrambled backward, my heels drumming against the dusty floorboards until my spine hit the cold glass of the circular window. The creature didn't climb in. Instead, it reached up with those impossible, elongated fingers and gripped the edge of the opening. It pulled itself up just enough for me to see the top of its head—the same smooth, featureless grey skin, pulsing like a heartbeat.

12/8/2011 ... A figure of shadow stands before one of light. He regards the other in silence, bearing that same pensive furrow he affords all things not yet understood. There is, for a time, no movement between them. No greeting offered, none returned. He does not speak, not yet. There remains the question of whether he is perceived at all. Should he remain unseen, it would not be the first time.

A few years ago, I had returned from Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida and I nostalgically wanted to watch some old Mickey Mouse shorts for VHS. Among all of the other Mickey Mouse tapes, I noticed an out-of-place Mickey Mouse tape labelled, "Mickey's Book". What was odd was that the tape's date was 01/29/1995, even though old, black and white Mickey Mouse shorts were being produced much earlier.

Sara and Tom scrambled through the castle corridors, hoping to find Roy. They checked everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, Tom spotted Roy between two suits of armor-huddled, trembling, and paralyzed with fear. "Man, why are you shaking like that?" Tom asked. "I... I... I saw her..." "Who did you see?" "The Mourner... I mean, the ghost of the Mourner. She was gliding down the hallway, "Man, why are you shaking like that?" Tom asked. "I... I... I saw her..."

This story is dedicated to those who have experienced irremediable anguish regarding a family member. Written by a forlorn individual. ~ This was written from the fleshy net interior in which held every fibre of my then decomposing being. The sunken, hard shelled exterior managed to tear chunks out, sprawl them across a diary, in display for all to devour. Humanity's greed of consuming fleeting tragedy for selfish curiosity. ꜱᴇᴘᴛᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 𝟹ʀᴅ, 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟼.

“Well, that was ominous!” I said putting the can back on the shelf. “Totally! Maybe we are haunted!” Rudy said jokingly. “That would be kind of awesome!” I jokingly said back. Oh, how right we were, and we did not even know it yet. So, we finally called it a night and went to sleep. The next morning, I got up like usual and hopped into the shower. The water pressure in this house was nice and the water got hot, and it always left fresh fog on the mirrors. I turned off the water and stepped out…

The shining bright light of a VTOL passing by illuminates his apartment for just an instant through his shutters, the pitter-patter of the downpouring rain thankfully drowning out the deafening hum of its rotors. Still, the LED lights casting a bright blue hue throughout his entire home stir him awake, despite his best wishes not to be.