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In the early years of social media, there was a cult following or I’d prefer to say secret society of fast food coinsures. We’d scowler message boards and chat rooms to find the most iconic or rarest off menu foods, or better referred to today as “secret menu” items. When I first learned about this trend I was immediately hooked, I mean who wouldn’t be. At the time these were the first internet scavenger hunts that pushed in to the real world. And at the end of it all, you would either try the…

My dad Don may as well have been dead this past year. Hell, you could make the argument he may as well have been dead for nearly the past fifty… ever since his brother Tommy passed away from cancer in 1973.

I've always wanted to be a writer. I've always so desperately tried, to then always fail. I've written stories about dragons, stories about strange civilizations, and yet it seems to be that all my hard work has been for naught. I grasp to every chance to write something, be it a competition or just for others. And I always end up getting hurt, again and again and again and again and again. Perhaps they've been right all along, I just don't have any talent.

The first thing my granny ever taught me about food was that you never, ever leave the house without a bit of bread in your pocket.

James Locke had always been a quiet man, the sort whose presence barely registered in a crowded room, and he had grown used to it. There was a strange comfort in being unnoticed, in blending into the gray pattern of city life without anyone truly looking at him.

Feedback "This, too, shall pass." — Persian Proverb . . I woke up lying on the cold floor, my cheek pressed against splinters. No wind. No storm. No voices. Just quiet. Dry, suffocating quiet. Dust drifted in the shafts of pale light like falling ash. My mouth tasted like old rust. I stood slowly, my footfalls creaked loud in the emptiness, and wandered into the bedroom. There, resting on the bed, was my notebook.

o begin with, I should say that I'm not a huge fan of The Simpsons. I haven't watched many episodes, but I do know a few things about it. I remember hearing about the "Dead Bart" storyline, and it was pretty good. Also, I'm a fan of online horror stories. About three days ago, I was looking for horror stories related to The Simpsons. I actually found several good ones and enjoyed reading them. Some were strangely entertaining, like the whole family being burned alive, a character committing…

"Flabbergasted. F - L - A - B - B - E - R - G -A - S - T - E - D. Flabbergasted." Sweat rolled down Natalie's forehead as she watched the three judges chatter amongst themselves. Her heart was beating so vibrantly, she felt like wheezing. Each aching moment was like a nail being gradually driven between her fingernails. After what felt like an eternity of suspended animation, the female judge tilted her glasses on the bridge of her nose and nodded. "Good job, Ms. Flowers."

Bright colors, brat's laughter, lastly arcade pixels beaming on teens faces while playing left me with an odd expression. I was never used to this kind of scenery when I was 6. Jess, the popular girl that every teacher and classmates love to see in the hallways or in class, invited me to her birthday party. Why did she even acknowledge me in the first place? We never talked nor had any projects together so why?

I've always seen strange stuff, but this one's not a theory or anything. This is an actual experience I had once with VHS tapes. It even felt so confusing that it changed my point of view on SpongeBob. Just for a few days.

It's dark. An oppressive silence prevails. Only to those who live close to the ground, a loud rhythmic noise can be heard. This is of course exclusive for those like mice and creatures much smaller. Creatures with a good sense of hearing. To a cat or a dog it might still be audible, though they would probably only hear a soft tapping. Something tapping across the floor at an almost unearthly speed. Driven by something unknown to any breathing kind.

Being a single dad to a seven-year-old like Miya means you learn to pick your battles. When she gets hooked on a new cartoon, you just pray it isn't one of those hyperactive, neon-flashing nightmares that melts their brains. So, when she trotted into the living room one Tuesday afternoon holding a blank white DVD case and asked, "Daddy, can we watch The Hummionds?" I barely looked up from my laptop. "Sure, kiddo. Pop it in," I mumbled, sipping my coffee.

November 1756 Quebec Canadian Wilderness

Samantha was a young, pretty, active girl with a positive outlook on life. Above all, she was down-to-earth, didn't believe in any ghosts, phantoms, or other such things, and had a very analytical mind. She loved long forest hikes, which relaxed and calmed her down greatly, allowing her to rest and escape from everyday problems. That day, right after finishing her lectures, she decided to head down to the river. She packed her backpack, put on a denim jacket, denim pants, and sturdy, heavy…

As darkness fell and the researchers at the Michigan laboratory finished their work and prepared to leave, something was happening that none of them were aware of. In one of the electric crucible furnaces, where they had been experimenting with creating new, extraordinary substances, something was bubbling restlessly. It seemed to have spiraled out of control, yet no one noticed. Almost all the staff had already gone home, leaving only Mike, who was notoriously slow and phlegmatic.

{ In Rekteia, a small (fictional) town on the Greek island of Evia (Euboea), Nature plants the seed of horror among the ashes of burned ancient trees. What lies deep in the sacred soil seeks vengeance against human greed, using a child and a mysterious rabbit as accomplices. }

Year 157, Near the end of the fall season. I'm not sure what day it is. I am a regular guy who lives in the peaceful village of "Unut." And today, I am helping the village elder by chopping some logs for him. "But he's not going to pay me shit." I said as I swung my axe. I'm only helping him because he's like a father to me. I was a little child when my family abandoned me. Yet he took me in and raised me to this age. "And I am going to do his chores for the rest of his lifetime."

I lost my wife a few years ago. Most people hear that and picture someone older–fifties or sixties. I’m twenty-one. Rose and I were born in Insurrection County, West Virginia. Rose was a southern belle, even though she always said that West Virginia wasn’t the real South. Rose’s hair was strawberry blonde, and she had deep green eyes and freckles that would pop when her face was sunburnt.

The attic hatch didn’t just open; it fell away with a deafening crack, dangling by a single, twisted hinge. I scrambled backward, my heels drumming against the dusty floorboards until my spine hit the cold glass of the circular window. The creature didn't climb in. Instead, it reached up with those impossible, elongated fingers and gripped the edge of the opening. It pulled itself up just enough for me to see the top of its head—the same smooth, featureless grey skin, pulsing like a heartbeat.

12/8/2011 ... A figure of shadow stands before one of light. He regards the other in silence, bearing that same pensive furrow he affords all things not yet understood. There is, for a time, no movement between them. No greeting offered, none returned. He does not speak, not yet. There remains the question of whether he is perceived at all. Should he remain unseen, it would not be the first time.