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My name is Andrew Erics. I lived, once, in a city called New York. My mother is Terrie Erics. She’s in the phone book. If you know the city, and you read this, find her. Don’t show her this, but tell her I love her, and that I’m trying to come home. Please.

I’ve heard all about all of the little “games” from the internet, little rituals with beings that hunt you, games that people spread stories about, games that people get wishes for, I feel jealous of them, most of the time it's just a prank, or if something does happen, at least they’ll more than likely survive. I find it annoying whenever I spot one of those clickbait videos, (PLAYING BLOODY MARY AT 3:00 AM!), because they mock the people who made these stories, or in my case, encounters.

If I could travel back in time, I would have changed a lot of things. Would you? I wouldn't just do better at everything or undo certain mistakes, I would probably become your friend. Do you remember, when we were little, that we actually lived quite close to each other? Y'know when you're born here you just don't seem willing to leave. All the locals have this problem. Well anyway, your house was just a couple of streets away from mine.

The Ilchester Tunnel is located near the historic town of Ellicott City, Maryland. This old B&O Railroad tunnel also has a little known urban legend attached to it: The Legend of The Blink Man.

This is a game where the participants get the chance to meet the twin they've never known in life. It's a simple game to play, but the repercussions can overwhelming. The twin is a reflection of who you really are, not who you pretend to be. If you're a genuinely good person your twin encounter will be pleasant and gratifying. But if you're a bad person, someone who bullies, lies, steals, cheats, manipulates or hurts other people, then your experience will be dark and painful.

Hallucinations are a rare side effect of most of the psychiatric drugs I’ve taken. I’m by no means experienced in the field of pharmaceuticals, but after taking a whole range of serotonin reuptake inhibitors (fluoxetine, escitalopram, sertraline, etc.) I have collected my fair share of symptoms. In my opinion, hearing a skittering crawl outside my door or seeing a tall man looming in the corner is preferable to suicidal thoughts. Sure, the uncertainty of being unable to trust my eyes and ears…

Our lost, loitering kind paced in infinite death spirals within the confines of our grotty, ghetto pens. Enrichment was sorely that, as well as mumbling our mantras of madness to our audience of one. The BMs anchored to our decayed craniums were garbled with feedback and distortion, their tones bland, colorless, no soul backing them up. A blinding ruby radiance flashed from their cores every second on the second. It was the only manner to determine if we had succumbed to the glorious embrace of…

The verdict was final. I wished I had just died then. The people tasked with performing this ritual drank, Drank until they couldn't anymore, For if they were sober, They wouldn't have been able to go through with it. They stripped me of my clothing. They flogged me. Scraps of metal and shards of glass, Embedded into each tail of the flogger. Each tail would wrap around me, Glass and metal digging into my flesh. Then they would pull it back, Shards dragging inside my skin,

Leonard pushed his face firmly into the crease of his elbow as another scathing blast of frigid air blew through the valley. The snow piled up at his feet while he stumbled up a small incline, struggling to keep his balance, the biting cold permeating his winter jacket. Shivering, he turned, baring his back to the icy downpour and staring across the barren fields of white before him. At the very crest of the blizzard, a single tent was cartwheeling, leaving a trail of tiny dents as each of its…

Up and up the rough-hewn steps tramp the wormy feet of countless dark denizens. They move in silence through the earth's bowels with a singular purpose. Stirred from restless sleep and unholy dreams. Stirred from aimless wriggling and horrid scavenging. Stirred by the voice of their beloved mother, vast and terrible. She bids them rise, and rise they do. None shall disobey their doting matriarch. And so, they rise the ancient steps and forgotten causeways. Passing through slimy tunnels filled…

I don’t want to tell this story, I don’t want to tell it because I know no matter how much I warn people, somebody is bound to try it. I’m telling this story as a cautionary tale, if anyone ever finds instructions on how to play “The Subway Game” pretend you never saw it. I can’t state this enough.

I panicked my palms were sweating I felt dizzy and I couldn't breathe I felt a hand gently tapping my shoulders it was Logan I couldn't even think about blushing or smiling. " It's gonna be okay we will find Cathy," said Logan " No! let's ditch Cathy it's too late for her we need to leave now" said Danel " Danel calm down okay we need to find Cathy," said Logan " No! I knew this was a bad idea, but you wanted to go because Anna was coming" said Danel " Because ...of....m.me" I said

I hate pumpkins, I hate jack-o-lanterns, and I hate Halloween. I guess I hate Halloween mostly because it means I have to see those disgusting things all over the place. On every porch, in every yard, and at every store I see them. They leer at me with crooked grins and empty eyes. Empty eyes that somehow follow my every move. I break out in a cold sweat just thinking about them. Even now I can peer out my window and see one on my neighbor’s stoop. It sits there, still as a cadaver. God, it’s…

In the darkest night, where shadows creep, The Soulstitchers come when you should sleep. With gaunt and shadowy forms they stride, To haunted places, they will guide. Their flames are smoke, icy-cold and bleak, A formless fire that none can speak. Frantic movements, masks they wear, Tearing at their faces, a chilling scare. Yet in the silence, they move so sly, No sound to mark their passage by. To the site of trauma, they'll lead you near, In hopes that you will face your fear.

One afternoon, a couple was traveling on by car when at a far distance they saw a woman in the middle of the road, waving frantically.

I used to think grown-ups always knew what was right. They seemed to have all the answers, like they were in control of everything. Back then, I thought there were rules for how things worked, even in little moments—like the way someone should look at you, or how a touch was supposed to feel. But nobody ever explained what it meant when something felt… different. When a look lingered too long, or a hand stayed where it shouldn’t.

Hi, my name is Michael. This happened a few years ago, on Halloween. It’s something I haven’t told anyone properly. Not like this. Not in full. But I think about it almost every night… and it doesn’t feel like it’s fading. It was supposed to be a normal Halloween.

This story was archived and was sent to me by a 12-year-old woman from a small town in coastal South Georgia, near the Florida line, who just lost their family due to mysterious circumstances. Here’s their story: My parents have been gone for quite some time, and I always prayed for them to come home. I live alone, and I sat on the couch, holding my blanket until I saw my front door open slightly.

Keira sits on her bed and stares vacantly at the opposing wall. She’s tired and she’d sell her soul to get a few winks in, if only for bad dreams. It’s Halloween night, but she’s not done much to mark the occasion. Just a drink and a chat with her mates. Non-costumed. Somewhere unbusy. Mature. Just a drink and a chat.

It was a quiet, cold, windy night in the cornfield I was in with my dog. My father told me to search through the somewhat small yet vast cornfield. My father was always scared of people that weren't us in his field. We both grew up hearing stories of our family members encountering unexplainable shit in forests, old buildings, and that very cornfield my father sent me to search. I remember how my father used to tell me experiences he had in that field. Like seeing the stalks move on their own…