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Someone asked me, “Who are you?” I answered quickly, “I’m glory.” But they smiled. They looked into my eyes, not kindly. “No,” they said, “Who are you?” The question didn’t leave. It followed me home, sat at the edge of my bed. Who am I? Who is glory? I try to think. A depressed soul? Too easy. A tired one? That’s just the surface. Glory. Glory. Glory. I’m limited by my problems, That I can't see past them. Glory. Glory. Glory. Say it enough times,

During late June of 2023, reports surfaced from the southern United States about a strange creature. It once gained some attention in an obscure article before mysteriously being wiped off the face of the internet. Most sightings occurred in Georgia, with older reports dating back to March of the same year. Witnesses have described an unknown creature who had the appearance of a white bird-headed animal with empty eyes and a black lizard-like body.

I remember the day because nothing about it felt wrong at first, and that’s what makes it stay with me. The normal days are the ones that rot the deepest when something inside them isn’t right. My name is William Marston, and I teach children how to put their thoughts on paper, how to shape fear into something harmless, something you can hold at arm’s length and say, “this is only a drawing.” I believed that. I needed to believe that. So when I told them that morning to draw a monster—anything…

The moment the air dropped, everything went haywire. It felt like the room got smaller by the second as people dragged in empty breaths. A woman in diamonds tried to fan herself with a napkin and started crying when it ripped. The man beside her, in a bright velvet suit, clawed at his shirt until all the buttons flew off.

WELL! Turns out he was right, and now “Tilna McGleek” Means “to ever-so-quickly go nuts” – But I’m sure that you’ll find only things that you seek When you stride forth as Grayven McFutz!

Honestly, I liked the drive. It was the scenic route and those beautiful country roads were part of the reason why I didn’t mind the commute. Driving became an escape for me. Cathartic even.

Everyone thinks they have an idea of what madness is, but in reality, you don't. I've come to accept that our physical death is nothing compared to what happens in the other plane, and there is nothing we can do about it. An unseen world that we share with our counterparts. The madness I will never understand. Yet, I was able to realize at a very young age that they will take us all a lot sooner than we think.

> “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.