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The ring light is staring at me like a cold, neon eye. I hate how much I need it. "Okay, so for the night-time routine, consistency is literally everything," I tell the camera, rubbing the serum into my cheeks. I'm watching the little heart icons bubble up the side of the screen. 1.8k viewers. My pulse does that little flutter, the one that feels like winning. "If you aren't double-cleansing, you're basically just..."

It was a dusty night, the sun had set over the horizon leaving the mesas scattered in a navy blue almost green shade. The cowboy had been traveling for weeks now, his horse tired and both were desperate for a peaceful night's sleep. Luckily for the pair there was a town just above the horizon, no lights left on but a faint peaceful glow surrounding a few of the houses. The cowboy clicked his tongue aiming his horse northwest toward the town. A small kick of spurs sent the horse trotting quickly…

In the early 1990s, police in Germany found something strange at a crime scene. A trace. A tiny piece of DNA. At first, it meant nothing. Just another clue. But then… it showed up again. Another crime. Different place. Same DNA. Months passed. Then years. The same DNA kept appearing—at burglaries, thefts, and other serious incidents. Not just in one city, but across regions… even in nearby countries like Austria and France. Police started to realize something unsettling.

I have never been one to recount the fantastical, as it is in my nature to look towards the factual and tested, instead of resorting to the supernatural and guessed. John Byrne is a man of many things, but superstition is not one of them. But, it could be said since I have bore witness to the seemingly fantastic and weird happenings I am about to describe to you, that they are indeed no longer mere silly stories, and instead evidential and witnessed truths. To begin the story, we must go back…

okay, so.. today I was playing the original 1989 super Mario land on a game-cube I got from a yard sale.. but, I started noticing some strange things like faces in the backgrounds of the levels, like.. weird large JAGGED grins. I tried searching it up on my phone to see if that's a known bug, nothing on reddit nothing on tik-tok OR you-tube.. just nothing, NOTHING. it was like the internet went dark or something aside from occasional emulators popping up here and there as that was the usual…

Mystery of the Courtyard is a horror and emotional fanfiction by Joseph Arrington (JosephTheSnail), inspired by the Super Mario 64 urban legend “L is Real 2401.” During Bowser’s attack on Peach’s Castle, Luigi is trapped within the courtyard fountain and left behind as Mario continues his journey to save the princess. Presumed missing for decades, Luigi survives in silence until his body finally gives out, binding his spirit to the fountain itself.

9/9/2010 ... Syrup1292: I think for our final we should go with just a normal trifold. Dangerturnip: Nah, that’d be so boring. Think about it. We’re competing with the bigwigs here. The straight-As are gonna go big. We need to stand out. Syrup1292: But it’s haarrrd. We need ideas. Dangerturnip: Maybe something performative? Syrup1292: We haven’t even chosen a topic yet. Dangerturnip: Well, do you remember anything we learned this year?

This story is based on the chilling true events that inspired A Nightmare on Elm Street the "Asian Death Syndrome" cases of the 1980s, where young men died in their sleep after experiencing petrifying night terrors. Asher hadn't slept in four days. He kept his eyes pried open with caffeine and the sheer terror of what was waiting behind his eyelids.

Tick tock tick tock. The clock chimed midnight. The air feels cool and clammy on my skin. I shiver and draw the covers up around my chin. I can hear the footsteps as they hit the bottom of the stairs slowly ascending to the landing. I feel the fear rising in my chest as I do every night.

The first thing you notice isn't the cold or the smell of damp concrete it’s the silence. When you finally blink your eyes open, the world is a blur of grey shadows and a single, flickering lightbulb hanging from a low ceiling. Your wrists ache, and when you try to reach for your phone, the heavy rattle of a steel chain snaps you into a cold reality. You aren't in your bedroom. You’re in a basement clean, organized, but windowless. There’s a plate of your favorite food sitting on a small wooden…

The PHEN-228 Incident (The Boiled One) In the late summer of 2003, a broadcast hijacking occurred in Southern Pennsylvania that would change the lives of 530 people forever. This is the story of The Boiled One Phenomenon, a terrifying example of a "cognito-hazard" an idea so dangerous that simply knowing it can destroy you.

Call me tasteless but I enjoyed running Southern Fried Murder. Growing up, I loved horror movies, especially slashers, but as I got older I became more drawn to true crime… To the real life monsters walking among us. Like most people, I was initially drawn to the sensationalized Bundys and Dahmers of the world but the local cases scared me more. I became more intrigued by the murders and vicious crimes that happened in my neck of the woods here in the American South. These were also the crimes…

I watched as my father coughed and wheezed himself into an early grave. Every breath sounded as though his lungs were densely packed with small stones. He lay on the floor, naked aside from a thin blanket, and did only two things: cough and sleep. By spring, he had found his way deep within the West Virginia earth. My daddy was a coal miner, like his daddy, and his daddy before him.

In the early morning my liquored mind found sleep. It wasn’t restful, but drowning and cruel, as if my own body resented me for finding a moment of respite. I woke after what felt like hours, but found it to be only a few minutes since sprawling across the old, stained couch. I sat upright, and felt my legs protest to yet stand. I thought it better to find the Marlboro man tucked inside the pocket of my pearl snap shirt- the pack crumpled from my restless crash. My hands shakily flicked the…

My friends and I have a hideout, hidden away from all the annoying adults in our lives. It’s a secret place only we know of and it’s really well hidden! There are days we come here and days we don’t come here, because we really don’t want our parents to know. It’s a small, low hut in the middle of the woods close by.

December 10th, 1935. The sound of the aggressive wind blowing the rigged trees to bend like wire.  Little snowflakes drop on the green grass to cover them in nothing but pure white frost, a wooden cabin lives beyond the woods. The roof was drowned in snow, ice sickles hang from the side. A man named Frank Williams and his boy John Williams lives in the wooden cabin in the woods. Frank Williams used to live in the town of Tapperson, where he owned a carpenter shop, selling his handmade furniture…

The sound of the rain was calming, but only the rain. Walking in the mud, making that squishy sound, as I take one step at a time. Looking around, the tree's length was high, the leaves covering the night sky, shaking  aggressively from the wind. The flashlight could only give so much light,  I could see, but only a couple feet from me. The rest, darkness. “JAKE!” I yelled, “JAAAKE! COME BOY!” Jake was the only reason I was out in this shithole, just trying to head back home from our little…

The year 1985, a year of the things that brought us joy, a year that life was really going somewhere, a year that Dads were Dads, Moms were Moms, children were in process of life, plenty of time to grow. A year most can agree was amazing, but for some, 1985 was the year that turned me into a mad man, my mind tricking from my left and right, but I think I know what I saw.  I was only 12, I lied about where I went. Places that should have been, the school, friends house, ect.  Only instead to…

College was supposed to be more fun. Especially considering how lame high school was for a quiet geek like me. These were supposed to be the best years of my life but so far, they'd been far from it. It was more of the same alienation I’d felt in high school. I don’t know, I guess I could only hope grad school would be better. Maybe if I went to a bigger university or moved to an actual college town with lots of culture, things would be different.

By WedgeOverPotato