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The Bainbridge Ghost Tours used to be a tradition in my hometown around Halloween. It was always cheap and heavy on the schlock. Hammy tour guides, cheesy music, cheap decorations. Picture ‘Monster Mash’ as a two-hour ghost tour and you get the idea. But given the town's limited history and questionable urban legends, I couldn't really blame Mr. and Mrs. Wesley for going all out with their prized attraction.

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.

[Originally posted to a paranormal forum in March 2023, split across four posts because of the character limit. Reproduced here in full, with the poster's section headings.] My counsellor thinks I should write this down. Not to post, necessarily. Just to get it out of my head and onto something that isn't my head. I'm posting it because if I only write it down, it's just me and the page again, and I've spent five years being the only person who knows the whole of it.

Content warning: child death 1

The lily pad rocked like a small, stubborn idea—barely there, stubbornly afloat. I stood on it because standing felt better than sinking, because the pond was quieter than the house and quieter than the questions that had been circling me all week. The city lights blurred into a distant constellation; here, the world reduced itself to water, breath, and the thin green circle beneath my feet.

The knocking starts precisely at 3:14 AM. It isn't frantic, and it isn't loud. It’s a rhythmic, heavy double-tap—knock-knock—followed by a pause just long enough for me to take a breath, and then another double-tap. Knock-knock.

Part 1 Episode 1 Afghanistan, Kandahar Province The night belonged to dust and silence. Lou Phillips moved at the front of the stack, body low, rifle steady, breathing slow enough to disappear. The compound rose out of the dark like a tumor—mud walls, a single rusted gate, no lights. Intel said weapons cache. Lou trusted patterns more than intel. Martinez raised two fingers. Hold. Lou froze. Not because of the signal—but because something tugged at the back of

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.

When I was a child, I recall a show called Fear the Devil; it was something that my parents allowed me to watch. They thought it was just another biblical show in a similar vein to content like VeggieTales and The Beginner’s Bible. It was created in 1999 and ran for thirteen episodes before it was pulled from the air. Private schools and churches refused to play it, and anyone who discussed it in too much detail risked being kicked out permanently.

I already know what you’re thinking. A gnome? Despite what the term I use might suggest, these creatures aren't rosy cheeked little bearded men with a pointy hats and quaint little tunics. As my friend would later find out, and as I'd feared for a long time, these beings are much stranger and far different from what is typically portrayed.

Hi there, I'm Gabriel. Today, I discovered something strange. I was chilling in my bedroom, only when I heard a sound. I followed where it came from, but it turned out to be my basement. Yeah, the basement. That room where it always had that stuff, VHS Tapes.

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.

“Beneath the world’s frail skin it breeds, Where stars lie drowned in the deep; For centuries, with scorn, it heeds The ones who whisper to the sheep.” “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” I pulled out an earbud and turned toward the speaker. “Sorry, did you say something?” “The view,” the man beside me repeated, using his beer glass as a pointer. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” “Yes, you’re right indeed. Prost!”

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…

CONTENT WARNING This story contains implicit and explicit descriptions of suicide, depression, and mental health illnesses. Reader discretion is strongly advised. You have been warned. “Why?” That question has always stuck with me. Out of all the questions of mortals, reasoning appeals to me most. Why do the flowers sing as the breeze passes by? Why does the moon borrow and illuminate? Why is the agony of not knowing harsher than the truth? Why can a heart break without touch?

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.

I didn’t want to move there. Even now, when I try to remember the first day in that apartment, it feels wrong somehow, like the memory belongs to somebody else and I only inherited it after they disappeared. My father kept calling it “a fresh start” after my mother died, but nothing about that place felt fresh. The building stood at the far end of the city where the streetlights flickered even before sunset and every balcony looked abandoned. The elevator smelled like wet concrete and…

I opened the messenger app. I hadn’t done much. It was my day off as I had submitted my assignment on the Duke of Wellington’s strategy at the Battle of Waterloo the day before. I was bored and in a bad mood. John had called me but missed. He had also left a message on my desktop. I read it:

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…

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…