Most read stories

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!'

No word, uttered or inscribed, can claim that all they tell is true to the letter; in every slip and stutter of the human voice, every unspoken detail in fine print, a lie takes root and defiles the same soil that nourishes it, until it burgeons into a carnivorous parasite. Last summer, Rosenthal Manor snatched me away from my life with a bouquet of hopes and walled me into her cold, high corridors, where every step that falls on the marble floor, every voice whispered in its chambers, does so…

This is a shitty day, it started all kinds of wrong. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the signs. 'Fabrizio, Fabrizio, are you there? Over' The radio started spewing words and ruining my smoke time. 'The fuck do you want, Marcello? Over' 'We are going to move to the north. Enrio saw some little fucks running around a few hours ago, we think there is a horde somewhere. Have you seen anything? Over' 'Nah! Haven't seen any lately, but you never know with those things. Over'

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.

My grandmother, when she was alive, lived on an old farm on the side of a hill in a remote village in northern Sweden, right next to a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains. Whenever we were there, we would spend all day swimming or fishing for perch and crayfish. Grandmother was however always very assertive that we must never get out on the lake during the night, though she never gave us any reason. I always assumed she worried that something would happen while no one was around to help.

Cheap masks and Halloween themed clothing were the only ‘costumes’ at the Sprucer Halloween Festival. People in barely decorated Trunk-or-Treat trunks shoved canned food and/or random secondhand objects into kids’ hands. The ‘craft stations’ were several ancient fold-out tables someone had covered in literal trash.

“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.

The old Kaymoore’s residence sat empty along Route 7, miles from town. It was a dreary night, the sky releasing an unrelenting mist when an officer was dispatched to check on the decrepit home. Officer Dawson walked up to the two story home, taking in the dark frame and vine-covered siding.

# Chapter 1: The Unraveling It started with whispers. Small, unnoticed events—skirmishes on the borders of far-off countries, unusual troop movements, the sudden disappearance of entire villages. The world was too busy to care, engrossed in its own daily struggles and minor victories. But beneath the surface, a darkness was brewing.

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.

Standing on the edge of the roof of that old building, the man could feel that he was standing on the rubble of his lost youth, that every step taken on those dirty streets had left memories that now formed piles of rotting and wormy corpses over which carrion birds flew. The cold winter wind chilled him to the bone, his back began to constrict and his jaw to tremble, his teeth chattering. A blizzard shook the branches of the trees and their black windbreaks, while tears slid down his purple…

Sometimes, people get stuck somewhere in time. Hours pass, but the world seems like it’s already stopped. The second hand on your watch keeps ticking, the ice in your drink melts away and yet time refuses to move forward.

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.

There are a select few hidden among the population—those who are often keenly aware when they are dreaming. They can recall their dreams in vivid detail for days afterward. People like me, who can lucid dream with little effort. If you're one of them, you know that lucid dreaming can sometimes draw your consciousness into liminal spaces, places that exist between the familiar and the unknown. One of these spaces is what I call the Pumpkin Farm.

I’m only a few years old, but I already know your name, date of birth, address, and the number on your government issued ID. I even know, to within the minute, the last time you used the bathroom. This isn’t difficult, and if you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll explain how I know this.