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It was a cool midsummer night when me and my friends start to head home we both split of from each other until it was just me I still had a mile to walk so I kept me head down but when I was walking I kept hearing strange cracking and jingling like bones from the woods around me you see we lived on a dirt road no houses for around a mile out I got home around dinner time mom and I had a good meal dad often wasn't there he was a trucker so he had to stay on long trips away from home but me and…

Heavy rain, shaking thunder. Laser sharp lightning. Muggy gloom. A beautifully Victorian castle lit hazily from within burns bright on the center of nothing, and nowhere. Painted sepia shades descending darker than the darkness of night itself. Our distressed protagonist, drenched, hurriedly scurries up the stone steps to the bronze Baphomet-shaped door knocker. Thud. Thud. The door slowly scrapes open to reveal a rather unfortunate looking young man, around twenty years of age at most.

In truth I've always known that the house I live in is haunted. The soft sounds of soft footsteps when you're home alone, the whispers when the house is empty... You know all the signs. All have been told before already after all. We were just lucky that it never got worse than that, yes sometimes small objects would have been placed elsewhere, but we never got the feeling that we were dealing with something that was dangerous or angry. So we just let it be, whatever it was.

I thought it strange when I suddenly got an invitation from a friend of mine whom I had long lost contact with. We hadn't seen or been in contact with each other since our academy days. Apparently he had gotten married and had a young son. The reason why he contacted me was because he knew I had studied medicine and wondered if I could possibly help him with his sickly child. The same day as his letter arrived I wrote a response and sent it his way.

I am not trying to pull any Shane Dawson conspiracies, like saying a specific pizza joint’s pizza is recycled, or at the very least, this isn’t about Chuck E. Cheese. Also, I should warn you that if you are eating pizzas or, at the very least, very squeamish about what I am going to speak about and are uncomfortable with the mention of arteries and stuff. Please stop reading beyond this point; however, this may be important to read regardless.

Good day. My name is not important. What matters is what I found… and what I was never supposed to find. This document comes from archived police records dated back to the late 1980s. I discovered it by accident while going through old, partially damaged files. At first, I thought it was just another closed case, something routine, something forgotten for a reason.

One day a terrible plague entered my village and wiped out most of the population. I should have died back then, but my father made a deal with the healer, an old lady whom lived on the edge of our village. In return however we would be enslaved by her, unable to disagree with her and forced to work until we drop. My father knew full well that this was the outcome, but he didn't want to let me go.

Annabella was a Witch, She lived in a house made of sticks. Through the woods, and over a stream Where very few people are ever seen. ~ In the village, she loved a man. Jeremiah, as he stands. But no matter how hard Annabella tried... She could never catch Jeremiah's eye. ~ In her House of Sticks, she cried. Feeling her heart slowly die. But soon a vile plan was born, To get Jeremiah, this, Annabella had sworn. ~ For the toxin of love: an ingredient was needed.

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."

The Doorman

I lived in an old cabin in the middle of the forest, a place far from people and noise, which was exactly what I longed for. I didn't like being among people or hearing loud voices, so I only went to town to buy food and a few supplies, then I'd return straight to my quiet cabin. Solitude comforted me, and I found everything I needed in the embrace of nature.

I've always wanted to be a writer. I've always so desperately tried, to then always fail. I've written stories about dragons, stories about strange civilizations, and yet it seems to be that all my hard work has been for naught. I grasp to every chance to write something, be it a competition or just for others. And I always end up getting hurt, again and again and again and again and again. Perhaps they've been right all along, I just don't have any talent.

James Locke had always been a quiet man, the sort whose presence barely registered in a crowded room, and he had grown used to it. There was a strange comfort in being unnoticed, in blending into the gray pattern of city life without anyone truly looking at him.

Feedback "This, too, shall pass." — Persian Proverb . . I woke up lying on the cold floor, my cheek pressed against splinters. No wind. No storm. No voices. Just quiet. Dry, suffocating quiet. Dust drifted in the shafts of pale light like falling ash. My mouth tasted like old rust. I stood slowly, my footfalls creaked loud in the emptiness, and wandered into the bedroom. There, resting on the bed, was my notebook.

o begin with, I should say that I'm not a huge fan of The Simpsons. I haven't watched many episodes, but I do know a few things about it. I remember hearing about the "Dead Bart" storyline, and it was pretty good. Also, I'm a fan of online horror stories. About three days ago, I was looking for horror stories related to The Simpsons. I actually found several good ones and enjoyed reading them. Some were strangely entertaining, like the whole family being burned alive, a character committing…

Bright colors, brat's laughter, lastly arcade pixels beaming on teens faces while playing left me with an odd expression. I was never used to this kind of scenery when I was 6. Jess, the popular girl that every teacher and classmates love to see in the hallways or in class, invited me to her birthday party. Why did she even acknowledge me in the first place? We never talked nor had any projects together so why?

I've always seen strange stuff, but this one's not a theory or anything. This is an actual experience I had once with VHS tapes. It even felt so confusing that it changed my point of view on SpongeBob. Just for a few days.

It's dark. An oppressive silence prevails. Only to those who live close to the ground, a loud rhythmic noise can be heard. This is of course exclusive for those like mice and creatures much smaller. Creatures with a good sense of hearing. To a cat or a dog it might still be audible, though they would probably only hear a soft tapping. Something tapping across the floor at an almost unearthly speed. Driven by something unknown to any breathing kind.

Being a single dad to a seven-year-old like Miya means you learn to pick your battles. When she gets hooked on a new cartoon, you just pray it isn't one of those hyperactive, neon-flashing nightmares that melts their brains. So, when she trotted into the living room one Tuesday afternoon holding a blank white DVD case and asked, "Daddy, can we watch The Hummionds?" I barely looked up from my laptop. "Sure, kiddo. Pop it in," I mumbled, sipping my coffee.

November 1756 Quebec Canadian Wilderness