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I never thought much about puppets. They were relics of another time, something my grandparents might have found amusing before the age of screens. I'd seen them in dusty attics and antique shops, their faces painted in stiff, eternal grins. They were lifeless, inert things that didn't deserve a second thought. But that was before it came to town.

Bordering my property line, a manufactured home is left to be devoured by mother nature, abandoned. I have owned my property for multiple years, and, throughout that time, an owner has never been present, nor had I seen anything suspicious — until recently.

Old father long-Legs Can’t say his prayers. Take him by the left leg And throw him down the stairs. And when he’s at the bottom, Before he long has lain, Take him by the right leg And throw him up again. ~ Nursery rhyme

Vigilantly I take one last look around the house. Making sure again not to miss any little sound or the movement of someone or something, making sure that there really is only me. My mother should be at work and my sister at school, double checking really won't hurt me. If I want to do this ritual, I need to be all alone, or at least I don't want anyone to find out or intrude. Right... the ritual... I hope it works.

Have you ever searched for employment for so long that pretty much any offer looked like a dream job? That was me a few summers ago. Fresh out of college, broke as shit, and desperate enough to answer a CraigsList ad. Yes, people still use CraigsList. Yes, it’s mostly sketchy as Hell. The post was titled “WANTED: WATER SAFETY EXPERT. START IMMEDIATELY.” It sounded like an official title, something important… but then again, so do “Sanitation Engineer” and “Sandwich Artist”.

Dear Diary, I do not know how long it has been since I've experienced my last surge of brilliance. You see, I'm an established author. Albeit a published one - renowned to most for my fictional writings in dystopian novels.

Our journey began at the end of everything. The world had ended, but ours had just begun. We had lived our lives in solitude, confined for as long as we could remember, but that was about to change. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?” I asked seemingly no one. After a while, a voice I’d never heard rang out. “Hello! Yes, I can hear you. Who am I speaking with?” The British voice crackled out, and a wave of excitement overcame me.

Content Warning: This story contains graphic depictions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, psychological distress, and body horror. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Art is suffering. Suffering is what fuels creativity. I’m an artist. Not professionally at least. Although some would argue the moment you exchange paint for profit, you’ve already sold your soul.

In the murky confines of the Slums, a stray cat and its drone companion, B-12, scuttled along the endless expanse of labyrinthine alleys, the drone's light casting an eerie glow on the moss-ridden walls and dilapidated machinery. The cat, a feline anomaly in this mechanical world, surveyed their surroundings with gleaming eyes, ears perked to the distant hum of rusted gears and sputtering engines. B-12, his thrusters operating on silent, ensured they remained undetected by the wandering robotic…

Sarah had always been an early riser. Her job as a nurse required it, and after years on the same schedule, her body woke her before the sun even began to rise. This morning was no different. As she shuffled into the kitchen, she flicked on the light and set the kettle to boil.

I’ve been a security guard at Somatic Self Storage for a few years now. I’d lost my previous job due to the first round of Covid lockdowns, and at the time, getting hired here seemed like a godsend. It pays more than double the average rate for a security guard around here, despite it otherwise being a pretty standard job. The only catch was that I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding exactly what it was we were keeping in storage.

The warnings first came through on social media. It was a fairly ordinary Sunday morning as I sat behind the intriguing screen of my computer. For some many hours I had been checking my feed on Facebook, when an article caught my eye. Now, I'm not some sucker who gets drawn to obviously fake messages spawned by trolls online, but hey, it was Sunday and I was bored. One of my friends had shared an article entitled 'The end', and if I had half my wits about me then I wouldn't have even…

In the late 18th century in upstate New York a pastor and his family; his wife, young daughter, maid and himself were all found dead inside their home. Cause of death was identified as quadruple suicide.

Stephen Hillenburg is one of the better-known names in animation. Born on August 21, 1961, he was not only an animator but also a marine biology educator. He passed away on November 26, 2018. He is best known for shows like Rocko’s Modern Life and SpongeBob SquarePants, the latter of which continues to air to this day.

Me and my friend stumbled upon a game called "Content Warning" on Steam. It sounded like a fun co-op horror experience, where you film spooky encounters to go viral on SpöökTube. One night, we decided to give it a try. Initially, everything seemed normal. We explored the eerie environments—a deserted factory, a haunted cruise ship, and dark tunnels—with our single camera and flashlights. The atmosphere was chilling, with mysterious sounds echoing in the distance.

Michael sat down on the bench, checking his watch as his leg nervously tapped the floor. The bus was running late today. That wasn’t good for him. He needed to make a good impression at this interview. This job could be a great stepping stone in his career—he had to get it. And if the bus didn’t hurry up, he wouldn’t! “C’mon, c’mon!” he murmured. “Let’s hurry this on up!”

My parents live up North, and so every Christmas my drive to their house is defined by a lot of grey, brown and white, as well as bitter cold. Never liked the cold. I spent the first 18 years of my life in it, so I think I definitely have an educated opinion on it.

You shuffle across the parking lot to your car, exhausted after working all morning, but excited because it was finally April 2nd. A friend is coming to visit. He drove from Gable Mel, Georgia, and you cannot wait to see him. Your boyfriend Lander has taken the day off and is waiting for you to get home. As you drive down the road in your busted car, you catch glimpses of your emerald eyes and the puffy white clouds in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t let her fool you.” I tilted my head as I read my mother’s strange text. There was no context in a previous conversation or build up to warrant the strange cryptic message. I hadn’t texted my mother in a few hours and even then, it was to remind her to pick up dog food on her way home from church that night. “Who are we talking about?” I replied and waited… nothing.

Has anyone ever told you about the Night of the Emerald moon? It seems to be a tale passed on through generations in my hometown. Halloween originated in Ireland from our beliefs of a night that thinned the vail between our world and that of the spirits. The night of the emerald moon is known to thin the veil so finely that the more dark and deadly entities can have free reign among the town. The legend goes that the village council of Ballyfer deeply offended a lone traveller who was passing…