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As the fire of the crimson candle flickered and danced... The darkness moved with the candlelight. I sat watching the darkness of the night outside. For I watched the starless night down to my driveway. There at the end of the driveway was a single lamppost stood tall, a creature covered head to toe in black, darkness, and shadows.... The only thing I could see of this creature was its eyes of amber glow. Then the light of the lamppost flickered and shuttered as it broke with a loud 'CRACK!'

Okay, look, I didn’t think I would ACTUALLY see him. Not really. I mean, you read about the shadow people and sleep paralysis stuff all the time and “Hat Man” being this thing that stands in the corner of your room. It’s one of those things people would swear is real until it happens to you, and even then, you’re supposed to brush it off. It was often chalked up to brain misfire, half-dreaming, and stress. That’s what I told myself anyway.

“As Mark Twain famously never said; buy moons – they’re not making more of them,” the spryly old man said as he fanned out brochures advertising Lunar Real Estate in front of me. Orville’s Old-Fashioned Oddity Outlet was one of Sombermorey’s more infamous tourist traps, shelling out all manner of alleged paranormal paraphernalia. Whether it was clairvoyant goggles, haunted paintings, or possessed Halloween masks, you were guaranteed to find something out of the ordinary whenever you stopped in.

July 4th, 2028, the police are at their busiest on a hot Los Angeles summer evening. The station is fully staffed with officers going in and out on calls. All while Gordon sits at the front desk with his eyes going back and forth between his monitor and the front door. He was pretty pissed he had to work a double shift into the morning. Let alone miss the fireworks with his kids.

In the heart of the city stands an abandoned bakery. It is a high, sprawling complex of brick and granite, and its great smokestack still stands watch over the loading bays where fleets of gleaming trucks once began their journeys to supermarkets across New England.

Another bullshit Friday night. That was all it was. I was back home from the college dorms at Georgia Southwestern State University and back home in Albany, Georgia for the summer. The June heat was torture. My thirst further increased by the heat and the constant loneliness. At nineteen, I had no money, no girlfriend, no friends for comfort to go clubbing with, and needless to say, I didn’t have a fake I.D. to buy booze for these most lonely nights.

All the groups made by the teacher go to sit together, talking all the while, almost like when class has already ended. I too go to the group I will be making this project with. I'm glad to be in a good class, everyone seems to be getting along well even if we don't talk everyday or have the same hobbies or even clothing style. The project we've been given is to make a movie and really the only rules are to speak proper English and have at least 15 minutes of footage.

It's all white... The room I'm in and the rest of this building is probably also all white. I don't know where I am. This cold blinding white, everything is this pale color, every object, all the furniture, every.... Everything. I'm all alone, in this unending place with only one color. At first, I didn't see it as much of a problem, I am quite introverted after all. Put other people in this room and I would find it all the more terrifying.

the first time you crossed paths, they were sitting alone at a bus stop, chewing the inside of their cheek as if trying to swallow themself from the inside out. shoelaces untied, coat a size too big, and had a look of something unfinished. you saw it in the way they held their shoulders; rounded, caving in, and in the way they stared past things instead of directly at them. the thought occurred to you that some people live like they’re already ghosts. you watched as they fumbled with a bag of…

A flame burst from the darkness. It was hesitant for a moment, but flashed for an instant, showing the faint glimpse of a lone figure. A second flame was made, but it sizzled low before fading away. The third, like the first, was shy for a moment. However, soon it became full of thorns and nipped at the fingers of its master, but it was held in its place. It would not go its own way, no, it must be sealed in a cage of iron and glass.

The sound of the gentle tapping of the rain on my window awakens me. Just by glancing over at the window I can see the dark autumn sky even though it must still be around noon. Slowly I get up from the couch, I must have dozed off for a minute or so. I walk over to my kitchen to see if there is anything to eat. Opening all the cabinets and finally the freezer, I discover that I'm all out of food. Damn, I forgot, it's grocery day today... and I still have to go out with this shitty weather.

I have worn countless masks, but those most beloved is my mask of words. They refer to me as a play. A lie. A plague lay down in ink and breath. They tell me I am nothing more than a character within those pages of the volume, that yellow book whose words pour through comprehension. They are in error. I was not written. I wrote myself.

Audio Transcript: Date: March 15, 2018 Time: 4:07 PM Location: NYPD interview room -- Officer Decha Noi: Before we begin our chat, would you mind stating your name? Nicholas Myers: Umm, yeah, sure. I'm Nicholas Myers, I'm turning 32 years old on December 8th, I live on 89 Elizabeth Street and... uh, is that enough?

The morning came gently, the way it often did in late spring - without urgency, without noise, as if the world itself had decided to stretch before speaking. Sunlight spilled across the small street in soft, slanted lines. It touched the rooftops first, then the windows, then slowly made its way down to the pavement where it shimmered faintly like water. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle passed, its wheels clicking in a steady rhythm that faded as quickly as it arrived.

My name is Edward Polist, and for most of my life I was a detective. People used to say I had a gift for seeing things others missed, that I could notice patterns hidden in chaos, that I could follow the smallest detail until it led me somewhere real. I believed them, maybe more than I should have. My work became the only thing that made sense to me, the only place where the world followed rules. Evidence led to answers, actions had consequences, and nothing simply happened without a reason.…

Most people have never heard someone die. The moaning. The crying. The pleading. The last tortured breath before they go quiet. Most people will never hear those things. I do. Daily. No, I’m not a serial killer on a hellbent mission to cleanse the Earth. I’m a 911 operator. When I took the job ten years ago, I assumed I’d more or less be like an air traffic controller, but for emergency response teams. For a large portion of my job, that’s true. That’s the easy part. Death is harder.

A cold snowflake greets the warm skin of my face, melting immediately. I ignore the sensation and look forward instead, just like the rest of my group. “Holy shit! The legends did have some truth in them!” Jess yells over the howling wind. David shakes his head: “I’ve been telling you this a thousand times! This is the whole reason for this expedition.” He can’t contain his excitement. I look at the snow-covered ruins.

I still have the book.  And, reluctant as I am to share it with anybody, I can see no other way. Very well, then. This is how it begins: The Knights are lined up all the way down the hall To be blessed by the Queen and the King, With their shields and their sigils and armor and guns And their magical-gagical rings! - They’ve come from afar and they’ve come from a-near To kneel down and mount up and fight, They’re strong and they’re tall and they’re brave one and all –

Of the early days of the world, after our ancestors crossed the Bering Straight and millennia before any of the tribes we know of today existed, very little is actually remembered. Sure, there are tales of the beginning of Man, and of the Earth, but those are only fables… legends told to explain what was then unexplainable. This, however, is not a fable, but a story. A story probably distorted by time, but at its core true, nonetheless.

It all started with my neighbors’ dog. Their pet corgi, Suzie, was the first to start acting strange. She stopped playing and barking at passers-by like she normally did. She became standoffish to her owners, spending most of her time sitting in the corner. Then, one day, Suzie was gone. A hole was dug under my neighbors’ backyard fence with tufts of red hair lodged in the fence’s boards being the only sign of her. They searched the neighborhood, put up flyers, and offered rewards, but Suzie…