Most read stories

> “Smile for the camera.” — Unknown — - That night, I crashed on the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Across from me, Sam lay stretched out, one arm slung over his face. We’d been there for hours, maybe more. No words. Just silence thick enough to suffocate. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he said finally, voice barely audible. He didn’t move, just spoke into the dark.

Hi my name is Anna Johnson I live in Brazil and go to Westville High not many people know me, I don't interact much but, because of that I met my best friend Catherine she was the complete opposite of me she would invite me to parties and I would usually say no cause I was scared but my life isn't boring especially since I have my high school crush with me Logan Walker.

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.

When I read the articles about him. I spent three weeks looking through my window. I was terrified by the thought of him being in the woods. I thought it was hunting me at first, trying to get me into a tragedy; it wanted me to suffer, but I was entirely wrong. I know, what a way to start, but I have been suffering from sudden explosive nosebleeds and migraines.

My dad shared with me a story that happened a long time ago. I apologize if some details do not make sense; my dad was younger back then, so details may be a bit fuzzy.

The drinks had been flowing for three hours by the time we started telling stories; otherwise, I doubt all this would have happened. My lab-colleagues and I had just submitted our yearly grant-request to the National Science Foundation. We were all on edge: if Uncle Sam rejected our request, our lab would be bankrupt and we'd all be out of work. So to boost our spirits, our lab's leader, Leo, invited us all out to the local bar and grill -- his treat.

I never believed in cursed videos. I grew up when the internet was saturated with them—grainy clips passed through forums, chain emails promising death in seven days, mirrors that whispered your name if you stared long enough. None of it ever held weight. There was always a tell: an obvious splice, a cheap audio sting, a scream jammed in at the end. Fear sold clicks. Nothing more. So when the link began circulating again, I ignored it.

When we finished going through the rules Catherine decided that we should play a game of cat and mouse in the mansion, (I thought the idea was stupid) two people would be the cats while the others are mouses. Cathy and I were the mouses and Danel and Logan were the cats.

After it all happened, I could never explain just what about the little wooden jewelry box had caught my eye. It was simple and unornamented. When questioned about what was inside it, Maggie, the antique shop’s keeper, hesitated before speaking. “That’s a collection of old silver, mostly jewelry and coins.” I nodded. “So a few thousand dollars, I suppose?” I went to put the box back.

There was a warp before his eyes, before his right eye, an uncommon warp—something like two faces, like two halves of different faces. One for real, living, responsive to the world. And the other . . . about which, echoing your senses, you would say: Whatever for? It shouldn’t be there. It shouldn’t be born in the first place, because whatever’s born is there to embrace life, not repel it, not clam up, not frighten it, not for it to repel the born, not one about which you would say: He’s…

Every small town seems to have its own claim to fame. Something that draws in the looky-loos to spend their big-city cash. I’m sure you’ve made your fair share of roadside stops or taken a backroad to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, toured the mistress’s house of Blackbeard, where he may or may not have buried his treasure, or touched the hanging tree of those poor ethereal women. Well, my town is famous for red pumpkins.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because if I don’t, it will stay in my head forever, scratching at the inside of my skull like something that wants out. My name is John, and a few months ago I found something I should have left buried. It happened during a trip out west, far from any marked trails, in a place where the silence feels wrong, like it’s not empty but waiting. I came across an old shack, barely standing, hidden between dead trees and dry grass. It looked like no one had…

(Based on A Real-life Encounter With a Cryptid Nov 25, 2025) (text was edited with the use of ai, but shares the same irl story as intended) It was one of those bright, harmless days this place likes to lie with — sun glinting off the beachside distractions, tourists buzzing around like mindless moths. Out there, everything looked normal. But I’ve never been much for sunlight or crowds, and the few of you reading this already know that.

Returning from the Amazon was one of the most exhausting and exhilarating experiences of my life. That trip to South America had been the perfect escape from my suffocating routine as a rising attorney in the United States. After years of hard work, I’d secured a solid position at Marston & Associates, and with a recent promotion offer, life finally seemed to be heading in the right direction. But since I returned, something hasn’t felt right.

“It’s going to happen, Jack. Nothing we can do about it. The wheels are already in motion. Higher-ups tell me I need to release the staff by the end of the week.” “Then ‘AM 640 - Talk of the Town’ becomes what, exactly?” Ron sighed. “Another DJ-less, auto-programmed, adult easy listening station.” “Aww, Christ on a bike,” I said. “They’re stealing the soul of this industry. Our Arbitron numbers grew last ratings cycle.”

Hi, my name is Michael. This happened a few years ago, on Halloween. It’s something I haven’t told anyone properly. Not like this. Not in full. But I think about it almost every night… and it doesn’t feel like it’s fading. It was supposed to be a normal Halloween.

Two months ago, I almost died. When you imagine your death, most people think they're gonna go peacefully in their sleep at a ripe old age. Very few imagine you'll die because you slipped in an oil puddle in your driveway and cracked your skull on the cement. That's what happened to me, though. My car, an aging beater I had kept for longer than any rational person would have, nearly took me out before I had a chance to sell it. The betrayal cut me deep.

Subject: I think I found my living room on a Deep Web website, but the rug is the wrong color. Entry 1: Posted 3 hours ago. I’m shaking while I type this. I always been a digital explorer... another idiot who browses the Deep Web just to see the weird things people host. Mostly it’s just broken links or forums for people obsessed with 90s stuff. But tonight I found a site called The Staging.

"I heard birds singing outside. I didn't know birds still came here." "It is a beautiful day to be alive." — Unknown ... I wake to warm light slanting through the curtains. The air smells of toasted bread and coffee, and in the distance, I hear my mother humming a familiar tune, soft, gentle, but off-key. It sounds like she's humming with her mouth closed.

I uncapped the red pen and added another "X" to our calendar. A small one, as not to take up more space than needed. After all, the box already had three others inside just like it. Who knew how many more we would have to add?