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Hello and Welcome to Part 3 of The Ballerina! I'm currently also working on making these parts into a whole book! Sadly, the physical version of The Ballerina will not be ready for some time; however, please enjoy the online version I have written for you all! Now, Let's begin! Davian went to his laptop and went to that blog, where he found more information about Bella's death. Just who was the blogger? Who was 'HorrorsofNights31'? He found the blog, and this page was all about him....

Hi, my name is Paul Lipson. People used to call me Henry. As a child, I was born with a Siamese twin. My twin could not see me, but sometimes… sometimes he controlled my body or whispered thoughts into my mind. At first, it was subtle—a hand I didn’t want to move, a voice I didn’t speak—but as I grew older, the whispers became screams.

Every school has had a teacher during their formative years that all the students hate, or at least seriously dislike. My case is no exception. For me and my classmates, this teacher was Mrs. Rowena Greene. She was the type of teacher that parents often liked because they saw her as a "nonsense" teacher. For us, it was a living nightmare and with good reason.    Now, when I tell you about Mrs. Greene, I think you'll agree that she was anything but a good person. Why she ever chose a profession…

I want to start this off with the simple fact that I don’t believe in ghosts, at least I didn’t, I’m not sure anymore. Sorry, let me give you a quick background of my situation. Have you ever found yourself making your way into a gas station at the edge of town and turned your gaze towards the sleep deprived clerk quietly minding his business? Well shit, you may have met me.

The date was perfect. The kind of perfect that makes you look for the catch. The food was good, the laughter was easy, and the chemistry felt natural. Still, I couldn't help but notice their pants. They were ill-fitted, sagging in the back in a way that looked almost like a diaper butt. It was a bizarre silhouette for someone so otherwise put together. "You look great," I said, leaning in. "But are those pants a little uncomfortable? They seem to sit a bit weird on you."

Oct 10 - Today is cloudy Starting today, I'm going to keep a diary! My family includes little Jack, my mom, and the "Red Devil" too! My mom and the Red Devil are always getting into fights! It’s a total blast—whenever the Red Devil comes home drunk, a fight with Mom breaks out. Little Jack is really timid and just cries when he sees it, but I actually find it fun! Oct 11 - Today is warm

This was supposed to be a radio documentary.

EVIL_BILLY57 AKA BILLIAM DALE EDWARDS IS AN ROBLOX HACKER BUT THE ONLY GAME HE WOULD HACK IS DANDY'S WORLD, HE HACK THE GAME IN AN WAY TO MAKE IT THAT 1 RANDOM TOON YOU'RE PLAYING WITH WIIL HAS AN HYPNOTIZED SMILE , CLOSED EYES AND AN SOMETHING USED FOR MURDER, THERE IS NO KNOWN WAYS TO SAVE THAT TOON FROM KILLING THEIRSELF AND WHEN IT HAPPEN, YOU WOULD HAS AN 5 STAGES VIRUS

“How do you eradicate death itself?” There was a strange life in this apartment complex, one that practically begged you to look the other way. From the outside, the place offered nothing. It was just a decrepit gray structure looking as if it would collapse under a single harsh gust of wind. It stood out solely because within a fifty-mile radius, no other human life existed. Questions went unasked. Certain answers were better left unknown, and if ignorance was bliss, so be it.

[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.

This is another I posted on /r/nosleep several years ago. I wanted to write something in the style of the horror anthologies I enjoyed as a kid in the '90s, such as Ask the Bones, The Scary Story Reader, or the classic Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. ----

When Tom and I first met, he was the kind of careful, deliberate man who made you feel entirely safe in a loud and chaotic world. He anticipated my needs before I voiced them, remembered every small detail I mentioned in passing, and looked at me with a steady, possessive intensity that I mistook for profound devotion. It was intoxicating. Within a year, we were married in a quiet ceremony, and we moved into an isolated, sprawling Victorian house at the edge of the woods—a place Tom insisted…

First, let me introduce myself. My name is Anthony Salaria, and this is my story. I used to think the world was a big place. Now I know better. The world is only as big as the distance between you and whatever is trying to kill you.

The clock was ticking. Like a pickaxe in my skull. It's now 2:45. Fifteen minutes until I hear your footsteps; not that bare feet can make much noise on that gravel road. Seventeen minutes until I hear your broken nails on the wooden door. Blindly scratching away, trying to find the handle. Twenty minutes until your voice is calling out to me. But it will be strangled, like always. It's hard to talk with maggots eating at your vocal cords.

My name is Marcus. For the past six years, my friend Jace and I have run a small urban exploration channel online, documenting the decaying remnants of closed theme park attractions. Most of the time, "abandoned" Disney properties are a disappointment—stripped down to bare concrete, scrubbed of anything interesting, and guarded by motion sensors that trigger local rent-a-cops within minutes. We thought Epcot’s Wonders of Life pavilion would be more of the same.

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.

I've been a bartender for 6 years. I cover the bar and take drink-orders from the wait-staff. Last week, one of the waitresses, Leslie, set an order-slip on the bar. It said: "Table 11 -- Angel Shot" My eyes grew wide. I'm pretty sure you know why, but I'll explain it anyway: Ordering an "Angel Shot" is bar-code for "I'm in trouble -- help me!" It's a way for a vulnerable woman to surreptitiously call for help. All bartenders know this.

I've been talking to this cute punk girl online for a few months, and eventually I asked her to move in with me. This was 2008, and websites like Myspace were in full swing. We met on a site called VampireFreaks.com, which was basically Myspace for emos, punks, goths, and metalheads. I stood at the Greyhound station, excited to meet my once-online, now real-life girlfriend, and really hoping she was who she presented herself to be. The moment she stepped off the bus, I melted.

My brain couldn’t cooperate with what I was seeing. It was 39 minutes past 12, and my 58 year old father was standing outside my front door, looking especially tired and zombified. And he was asking me… “Are you sure you haven’t seen your sister?” He questioned in a raspy, hollow voice. I continued gaping at him, shaking my head. I forced my jaw to shut. “No, Dad. I don’t have a sister, I’m the only child.” I said, for the millionth time. “Are you… okay?”

I was just finishing up an essay at midnight when somebody knocked on my door. My face twisted with confusion as I wondered why somebody would knock on my door instead of using the doorbell. Plus, it was MIDNIGHT. I stood up slowly and heard another knock on the door. Annoyed, I ran downstairs. Another knock. It was rhythmic, like the beat on a drum. KNOCK-KNOCK… KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Feeling my dinner crawl up my esophagus, I opened the door. “Dude, it’s midnight. What are you d-”