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First, I need to describe my appearance. It's important because if you ever see someone who looks exactly like the person I'm about to describe, that is not me, and it is not human.

{A simple injury dragged me into a living liminal nightmare: That empty concrete city became my trap, those unnatural children my sadistic observers, and the videos of reporter Stavros Ioannidis my weird companion… I still wonder if all this happened because I gave it space. }

I was seventeen years old when my father took us out of Boston. I loved the idea! Or at least I thought I would. For many years afterward, whenever someone asked where the trouble began, I told them it began in those mountains. That wasn’t true… It began long before we saw them.

It was just past midnight as I walked down the road. I might have been a bit tipsy as I had been drinking since about 6. We had just closed a deal on the Tanner account and were celebrating. I was not drunk enough to hinder my walking, though. I had gotten a bit cold even though it was still early autumn. I walked quietly along thinking of my day ahead and how I shouldn’t have stayed so late. There was a light mist covering my way. As I approached the woods I noticed a figure up ahead about…

“That caint be the number. Just caint,” Wes said, taking off his faded John Deere hat and slapping it against his leg. “I dried the corn before I hauled it over. I know what the moisture level is!” “Wes, I’m just the messenger. The machine checks and gives back a level.” “Well, your gosh-darn machine must be broken!” “It’s just recently been recalibrated. I can run another sample if you want.”

Hiking has been an obsession of mine for a while. Finding a new trail and exploring the woods just makes me feel alive. I remember living in Birmingham, Alabama, and hiking the trails at Oak Mountain State Park. The blue trail was my favorite cause it led to a waterfall at the end. It's been a dream of mine to hike the Appalachian Trail, which stretches across 14 states, and tomorrow I was going to start my 2,198-mile hike. The start of the Appalachian Trail begins at the top of Springer…

In December of 2015, Marceline Nightingale was declared missing. The lack of evidence, like many other older cases in this town, entices me. Maybe if this one could be solved so could the other ones.

No one remembers her name. Her real name anyway. She was a girl once- a regular girl, a good girl- who worked as a harlequin for her family's tiny traveling show. She had a white painted face, with a happy painted red smile. Jolly jinglin' shoes, and bright purple-dyed pigtails that bobbed comically as she capered about on the stage of some, now long-fallen kingdom. She made nobles and peasants alike laugh.

“Sir, we found a body!” I trailed toward the frantic yelling of my Assistant Officer. “Jesus Christ, the smell is unbearable!” The living quarters reeked heavily of thick rot and sharp iron. The overwhelmingly pungent odor hit me like a physical wall, forcing me to step out of the room immediately to catch my breath. “What are we thinking?” I asked, steadying myself before stepping back into the doorway. “What do you mean, Sir?” My Assistant Officer shot me a genuinely puzzled look.

5/2/2015 ...

Parkside Inn was a small Bed and Breakfast hotel in the town I live in. It was barely twenty-three rooms in total. I had passed it many times, as it sat in the heart of the city. Its location was its strong point. Across from the hotel was a big park, the one that gave it its name. Cafes and restaurants ringed the park, keeping the area busy. And there, amidst the families and the children playing under the trees, stood this colossus of concrete and steel.

My wife has been buried in the old graveyard at Killevy, under Slieve Gullion, since the 9th of October 2025.

Chapter 7: Reputable Amongst the Worst The ground was slowly taken out from under Requiem’s feet before he was yanked to the ceiling. He landed hard on his back with his arms splayed out. Little by little, all the rubble from the ground below did the same. Wrath's body fell up landing directly on Requiem with the stone foundation below soon to follow.

Mark Fischer was infamous in his hometown. Much to his own disdain, he was largely harmless. Even still, he had a notoriety similar to that of a local serial killer that violently forced their way into a place's history. The act that earned him his infamy was not violent, though it did have a certain aggressiveness to it. His act was that he walked every day. He made it his mission to be a one-man parade for the residents of his hometown. He didn’t want to go out every day but didn’t need to…

The following are notes I wrote on my phone during my night shifts in December 2025, mostly on my breaks, sometimes in the toilets, once lying on the floor of a linen cupboard. I've fixed the spelling and nothing else. I'm posting them because the Trust's investigation has closed, and it says what it says, and this says what happened. — Clare

Lucas Thorne gulped as he turned the corner and saw the rotting corpse of a house that sat at the edge of town. The house seemed twisted as its warped wooden frame sagged under its weight. Grime smeared the windows, reflecting only the fading light of dusk. As his eyes darted around, he confirmed one thing: he was alone. He reconsidered his choice to volunteer for the cleanup.

I think it all started when I dreamt of my own death. I was only 10. This isn’t the first time I’ve died in a dream. We've all felt the jolt of a fall or a hit. Shaking us out of slumber and into the dark comfort of our bed.

Data Log #16358 I gave the remaining crew of The Rubellion a few days to bring up their troubles from our last raid. Not one spoke up. I commanded my first mate to, "set course for Odin's Eye, then tell everyone to meet in the hangar in ten."

The first warning sign came about eighteen months in. I remember it precisely because I had been sweating my ass off—hunched over a server tower in the equipment room, staring at temperature readouts that were climbing way too fast. The fan wall was choking itself to death on all the dust bunnies that accumulated on its intake. I couldn’t afford to take a server offline, since it communicated with all the others. Which meant I was doing it live—on my hands and knees, myself.

Every school has had a teacher during their formative years that all the students hate, or at least seriously dislike. My case is no exception. For me and my classmates, this teacher was Mrs. Rowena Greene. She was the type of teacher that parents often liked because they saw her as a "nonsense" teacher. For us, it was a living nightmare and with good reason.    Now, when I tell you about Mrs. Greene, I think you'll agree that she was anything but a good person. Why she ever chose a profession…