Most read stories

English professors have told me that born-writers can sit by a computer and make up a story in an hour, without even having to think. Their stories flow like water from their finger tips. I am most definitely not a born-writer. People like me, people without born artistic talent– we need pain to create. We need horrible tragedies to write our stories. This is how we profit. We take our mothers’ deaths and make the widest selling and most beloved children’s books of all time. We need…

-Breaking News – July 27, 2013- A third murder occurs at a luxury hotel just outside of Las Vegas, Nevada. The victims where a mother and her alleged son, little information is known about either of them, or the murderer at this time. Police will continue investigation while the hotel remains open for business. The only sure thing that has been publicly announced was a statement from a house detective staying in the hotel at the time, he said:

I live in a pretty small, relatively unknown town. This is the internet, so I won’t divulge too much information but I will tell you it’s in southern Wisconsin. I live on the corner of Lawn and Elm Street, and pretty near to my house is a stretch of road that most people called “Mirror Avenue”. Of course it’s not really technically an avenue, just an extension of Lawn Street, and it’s not the whole road, just a short stretch within the block adjacent to the one my house is on. I’ve lived here…

Growing up, no one had ever believe me. I knew it was out there; watching. Lurking. I could feel its eyes rest upon me like weights as I took to my daily on-foot adventures to and from various stores and school. But no one ever believed me. They thought since I was a kid, that I was just being irrational. They thought I was hysterical to believe in such a far-fetched, outlandish being. Hell, for a good portion of my life, I thought I was crazy. That was, until I had my first encounter with it.

It’s 8 PM at the National Science Research Centre Airbourne Warfare Department in Flin Flon, Saskatchewan. The Centre is tiny compared to most others in Canada, only 19 scientists and 127 soldiers. The research teams have all gone but the goons and several care takers are keeping Dr. Byron Floyd company as he watches over the pressure levels for one the new experiments. As he enjoys his dinner of a tuna sandwich and a coke, he presses the same button every 5 minutes. At the 4 minute 51 second…

I know I shouldn't have this written down. But I have to warn the world. My only fear is that other's will be curious instead of fearful. Ever see something in the corner of your eye and look at it, only to find that no matter how quick you look it's not there? Well, I saw it. And trust me when I tell you this, you do not want to see it.

It was perhaps my eighth birthday when it all started. It’s hard to recall from this far in the future. My grandfather, a gentle old man, bought me a doll to play with and together we sat around a small cake with only four candles upon the top. They weren’t the fancy candles that you see on all the cakes now a days. We didn’t have the money for such fanciful things when I was a kid. No, they were just small nubs of candles that were nearing the end of their usefulness.

It was another cold night that night. I remember it vividly. Mostly due to the fact that out here you have to be alert at all times. My name is Sergeant Johnson, and at the time I was deployed at a remote outpost in the Warduj Valley. This valley is known for its high level of insurgent activity in the Warduj District, Badakhshan Province, Afghanistan. I was deployed for seven months, and I have to say the toughest thing, other than the usual rocket attacks, was missing my new wife back home.…

Flat on my back, I wake in total darkness. Where am I? What the hell happened to me? It's so hard to remember... Was I driving?

I've always found it particularly difficult to start a story. It's easy to end one, but ever since grade school when my teachers would make me write a short story, I could never make a good start. I suppose I'll start by saying this is a story. A story about my best friend. He died about 2 years ago. He was in his living room, sitting, watching tv, and he had a heart attack. And boom. Just like that he's dead. Gone. Bye bye. See you later. It was really shocking when I found out.

Why is this happening to me? I'm not a bad person! I've never hurt anyone; hell, I've never even cheated on a math test! So, why is it here? Why did it choose me? I'm in the hall closet on the second floor, while that "thing" wanders around my home, searching for me! It's the only place I can hide, the only place I feel safe! I don't plan on staying here long, just long enough for it to pass me by. Then, I'll make a run for the front door downstairs!

Hello readers. I'm writing this because a few hours ago I woke up from a nightmare and there's this... Really weird coincidence, but I'll get to that in a minute. The dream was about this story I read in, I think, 2001 or maybe 2002 I can't quite remember, on a forum I used to go to called bourftforums.net, which was a forum built around this Norwegian indie band called Bourft. Their songs were okay, but I hardly ever listened to them. I only went there because my older sister did, and I stayed…

"BRING THAT ONE UP!" A blinding light explodes in my eyes and a rough claw nearly rips my arm out of its socket. I am being dragged by my t-shirt over a jagged wooden floor, splinters ripping off into my calves, but I can't feel them. My vision starts to clear as I lift my hand to my head. I feel around and draw back a hand full of sticky blood. I hear a slam behind me and a voice shout out, "LOOKS LIKE WE'VE GOT A LIVE ONE!"

"So tell me Mr. Harold, what ha-.." "M-Marcus is fine.." The psychologist was interrupted by the shaken man in the seat before him. He was shaking, head pointed towards the floor, staring into space with wide eyes as his clammy sweaty palms were clasped together tightly. "Ok, Marcus then. Can you tell me what happened on the night of April 23rd, 2014?" The psychologist finished his sentence and fixed his gaze on Marcus. Studying his body language.

James had just moved to upstate New York and he knew no one except for a few flaky work associates. One night during a January blizzard, he heard a faint “meow” emanating from the nearby alleyway adjacent his apartment. He ventured into the snowstorm and found a half frozen, gaunt kitten in the alley next to his apartment.

When I was younger I used to work as a night auditor for a very popular hotel chain in New Orleans. This particular hotel was once an old warehouse in the Central Business District. It had a long history that dated back to the Underground Railroad where tunnels built throughout the building were used to secretly lead slaves to boats on the Mississippi River. When the hotel owners started to demo the property to convert it into a hotel, they found old distillery equipment used during the…

The parking garage was the epitome of lifeless urbanization—cold, sterile and emotionless. The cement walls were painted a drab grey with yellow horizontal lines along the walls. Fluorescent lights filled the four-story garage with a dull, pale light. The garage shook each time a car drove from floor to floor and the shaking became increasingly more apparent as it neared the ticket booth on the bottom floor. Inside the ticket booth, Trevor waited with a disinterested look on his face. He had…

The dust was whirling behind their car as they sped down the gravel road. Dust and dirt swirled behind them like a dark cloud gaining on the small car. David glanced at the dash board to see how fast he was driving and it showed sixty-eight. He wasn’t sure why he was driving so fast; they weren’t exactly in a hurry. He and his friend, Ryan, were heading across the state after fall break to their school. They were both freshmen at Crestwood University.

I woke up again last night after hearing the same haunting noise that has plagued me since my early childhood. This time however, is the first time I have heard it during my adult life. When I was younger, I called the noise “sideways static”, but now I don’t give it a name, as I am trying to forget that it exists.

I don't want it. It needs to get out of my house. I thought it was gone. I had never been so wrong.