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When I was a child, I recall a show called Fear the Devil; it was something that my parents allowed me to watch. They thought it was just another biblical show in a similar vein to content like VeggieTales and The Beginner’s Bible. It was created in 1999 and ran for thirteen episodes before it was pulled from the air. Private schools and churches refused to play it, and anyone who discussed it in too much detail risked being kicked out permanently.

I already know what you’re thinking. A gnome? Despite what the term I use might suggest, these creatures aren't rosy cheeked little bearded men with a pointy hats and quaint little tunics. As my friend would later find out, and as I'd feared for a long time, these beings are much stranger and far different from what is typically portrayed.

Hi there, I'm Gabriel. Today, I discovered something strange. I was chilling in my bedroom, only when I heard a sound. I followed where it came from, but it turned out to be my basement. Yeah, the basement. That room where it always had that stuff, VHS Tapes.

I want to start this off with the simple fact that I don’t believe in ghosts, at least I didn’t, I’m not sure anymore. Sorry, let me give you a quick background of my situation. Have you ever found yourself making your way into a gas station at the edge of town and turned your gaze towards the sleep deprived clerk quietly minding his business? Well shit, you may have met me.

“Beneath the world’s frail skin it breeds, Where stars lie drowned in the deep; For centuries, with scorn, it heeds The ones who whisper to the sheep.” “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” I pulled out an earbud and turned toward the speaker. “Sorry, did you say something?” “The view,” the man beside me repeated, using his beer glass as a pointer. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” “Yes, you’re right indeed. Prost!”

The first thing you notice isn't the cold or the smell of damp concrete it’s the silence. When you finally blink your eyes open, the world is a blur of grey shadows and a single, flickering lightbulb hanging from a low ceiling. Your wrists ache, and when you try to reach for your phone, the heavy rattle of a steel chain snaps you into a cold reality. You aren't in your bedroom. You’re in a basement clean, organized, but windowless. There’s a plate of your favorite food sitting on a small wooden…

CONTENT WARNING This story contains implicit and explicit descriptions of suicide, depression, and mental health illnesses. Reader discretion is strongly advised. You have been warned. “Why?” That question has always stuck with me. Out of all the questions of mortals, reasoning appeals to me most. Why do the flowers sing as the breeze passes by? Why does the moon borrow and illuminate? Why is the agony of not knowing harsher than the truth? Why can a heart break without touch?

I've been talking to this cute punk girl online for a few months, and eventually I asked her to move in with me. This was 2008, and websites like Myspace were in full swing. We met on a site called VampireFreaks.com, which was basically Myspace for emos, punks, goths, and metalheads. I stood at the Greyhound station, excited to meet my once-online, now real-life girlfriend, and really hoping she was who she presented herself to be. The moment she stepped off the bus, I melted.

I didn’t want to move there. Even now, when I try to remember the first day in that apartment, it feels wrong somehow, like the memory belongs to somebody else and I only inherited it after they disappeared. My father kept calling it “a fresh start” after my mother died, but nothing about that place felt fresh. The building stood at the far end of the city where the streetlights flickered even before sunset and every balcony looked abandoned. The elevator smelled like wet concrete and…

I opened the messenger app. I hadn’t done much. It was my day off as I had submitted my assignment on the Duke of Wellington’s strategy at the Battle of Waterloo the day before. I was bored and in a bad mood. John had called me but missed. He had also left a message on my desktop. I read it:

Chapter 3: The One Who Understands All Requiem looked down at his right hand carrying the claymore with thorned rosary binding them together. He let his blade drop next to him to hang freely by the rosary so he may use both hands to climb the vine. He dug his fingers into the vine making it bleed, and started climbing.

Elizabeth Dappa had grown tired of the radically unhealthy city life, so she hopped in her car and drove a day’s time to her old hometown in Utah. Her grandfather’s home was still in the family, so securing it as her temporary quarters was easy enough to do. Standing in front of the sprawling farmhouse, she looked to her left and then to her right. She could see the faint twinkle of the neighbor’s farmhouse, some many miles away, she was alone; not cramped into a little box that shared walls…

I have never been one to recount the fantastical, as it is in my nature to look towards the factual and tested, instead of resorting to the supernatural and guessed. John Byrne is a man of many things, but superstition is not one of them. But, it could be said since I have bore witness to the seemingly fantastic and weird happenings I am about to describe to you, that they are indeed no longer mere silly stories, and instead evidential and witnessed truths. To begin the story, we must go back…

When Tom and I first met, he was the kind of careful, deliberate man who made you feel entirely safe in a loud and chaotic world. He anticipated my needs before I voiced them, remembered every small detail I mentioned in passing, and looked at me with a steady, possessive intensity that I mistook for profound devotion. It was intoxicating. Within a year, we were married in a quiet ceremony, and we moved into an isolated, sprawling Victorian house at the edge of the woods—a place Tom insisted…

"Vincent, I got a job for you!" someone shouted from the other side of the bathroom door. "For me!? Can't you give it to someone else!?" "They asked for you, it seems to be one of your clients!" "Damn it, I want to go on vacation for once." His colleagues started to laugh. "That's the downside of being famous in the business" yelled one of them over the showers noise.

The howls of aberrant mutants filled the night sky, low and ominous. Their disgusting skittering could be heard all around me. Inhuman forms swam in the dark, never allowing my eyes to pin down their true shapes. At once, I saw a dog, a feline, a bird, and a man. Dread filled my bowels as I watched from my perch. I checked my weapon again; the magazine was still empty. I sighed and checked my sidearm: one full-charge magazine, not nearly enough. That left my blade, a sixteen-inch, heat-sheathed…

18th January 2016 You: "Yeah men, I´m sure I´m here, in front of my apartment building." Charles: "But I still can´t see you Ray." You: [You sent a photo] "See Charles? I´m right here." Charles: [Charles sent a photo] "Look Ray, I´m on same spot..." You: "What... the actually... fuck...?" Charles: "Hey bro... I have an idea... Can we go to the Penn station?" You: "Ehmm... Okey, but only if we stay texting." Charles: "Of course. Im little scared too." You: "I did... never mind."

Don’t go in there! It’s all a trap." Josh was a 25-year-old hotel receptionist in Black Stone, a town in northern Pennsylvania. He had started the job shortly after graduating from university in Michigan. He was a quiet, down-to-earth kind of guy who always tried to find a rational explanation for everything. But that night, something happened at the hotel that put his sense of reality to the ultimate test.

On the morning of the 13th June 1997, an unidentified federal agent was found dead at his workstation deep within a secret government facility at an undisclosed location. The cause of his death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The following extract consists of the final entry logs of said agent prior to his suicide. Despite the lack of context and supporting evidence, this document was received from a trusted source.

Evelyn was sitting on the bed, knees to her bosom and hugged by her hands. Her nightshirt drenched with sweat, she was cold. She hunched up but would not bundle herself up with her blanket: she needed the cold feeling that swept her skin, like the air itself. It was there to tell her that she'd come to, she was there, that the horror of her dream hadn't torn her soul to pieces. Evelyn remembered the dream very well, but the horror was gone: it had escaped with her frenzied scream. She thought…