Library

I watched as my father coughed and wheezed himself into an early grave. Every breath sounded as though his lungs were densely packed with small stones. He lay on the floor, naked aside from a thin blanket, and did only two things: cough and sleep. By spring, he had found his way deep within the West Virginia earth. My daddy was a coal miner, like his daddy, and his daddy before him.

In the early morning my liquored mind found sleep. It wasn’t restful, but drowning and cruel, as if my own body resented me for finding a moment of respite. I woke after what felt like hours, but found it to be only a few minutes since sprawling across the old, stained couch. I sat upright, and felt my legs protest to yet stand. I thought it better to find the Marlboro man tucked inside the pocket of my pearl snap shirt- the pack crumpled from my restless crash. My hands shakily flicked the…

My friends and I have a hideout, hidden away from all the annoying adults in our lives. It’s a secret place only we know of and it’s really well hidden! There are days we come here and days we don’t come here, because we really don’t want our parents to know. It’s a small, low hut in the middle of the woods close by.

This story is heavily based on the original King in Yellow lore from the 1890s. While it does have several original elements, it ties heavily to that specific lore. If you do not know what the King in Yellow is, this story may not be for you. I don’t really know when this all first started—this nightmare of the same damn color. That bright, sunny shade that I used to love, I have now learned to fear and to hate. That sickening color. Yellow.

December 10th, 1935. The sound of the aggressive wind blowing the rigged trees to bend like wire.  Little snowflakes drop on the green grass to cover them in nothing but pure white frost, a wooden cabin lives beyond the woods. The roof was drowned in snow, ice sickles hang from the side. A man named Frank Williams and his boy John Williams lives in the wooden cabin in the woods. Frank Williams used to live in the town of Tapperson, where he owned a carpenter shop, selling his handmade furniture…

The year 1985, a year of the things that brought us joy, a year that life was really going somewhere, a year that Dads were Dads, Moms were Moms, children were in process of life, plenty of time to grow. A year most can agree was amazing, but for some, 1985 was the year that turned me into a mad man, my mind tricking from my left and right, but I think I know what I saw.  I was only 12, I lied about where I went. Places that should have been, the school, friends house, ect.  Only instead to…

I always found Baba Yaga as a concept, a rather disturbing idea. That witch from Russian folklore that would snatch bad kids away, never to be seen again, or a figure that would punish those that had wronged it. I always found those stories stupid. Not because I don’t believe, but because I know the truth: there IS something in the Russian forests, a cruel, inhuman being that is nothing like the way people paint it in the stories. I have seen Baba Yaga, and I know what it really is.

Think about this for a second, when you delete a file, a video, an image, literally anything on the internet, where does it go? Is it technically still out there? Is it in the hands of someone else? Well, I sure as hell found out.

By WedgeOverPotato

In truth I've always known that the house I live in is haunted. The soft sounds of soft footsteps when you're home alone, the whispers when the house is empty... You know all the signs. All have been told before already after all. We were just lucky that it never got worse than that, yes sometimes small objects would have been placed elsewhere, but we never got the feeling that we were dealing with something that was dangerous or angry. So we just let it be, whatever it was.

By WedgeOverPotato "What do you seek? What do you hear? What do you fear? For fate is, my Witherin, inevitable to your undying likeness. That man's biggest creation is more of a brute than man itself. That we all clasp our hands together and prance around for mercy till the undying showers us with the pleasure of death, for it is we, whom shall not die." Witherin. For it is we, whom shall not die.

One night, there was pure white snow, five feet deep, below my window panel as I looked outside at the winter wonderland in awe and fear, a pair of eyes watching me from across the street. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start with the bringing of this day, before creatures of snow and ice came to my doorstep. My name is Rose Winters, I'm 31 and I have dark red hair with pale blue eyes. I dress very girly and I never stop talking about something.... dear to me.... Let's start...

It's 11:11, a time for a wish as nightly thoughts dip into the dark abyss... Nightly Thoughts are wishes and dreams written with a dark red ink... Nightly Thoughts are poems left to rot, during the moonlit night... Nightly Thoughts are stories no one reads during the morning light... Nightly Thoughts is our artwork made with ink and dried rose petals... It's 12:12, a time for a wish, to dream of far-off lands and space that no one dares to face....

To sell your dream. Dreamselling Sold dreams Someone decides their dreams impossible and sells them to someone without dreams "I've had it!" I yell: "Mine is just simply unachievable!" My colleague laughs: "Some dreams just are that way, many people here sell them, here there's no need for them anyway. Dreams just get in the way of getting finished." We're sitting inside the grey lunch room of our workplace. I turn to him and lean back: "Did you sell yours?"

4/5/2015 ... To: Dr. Felix Dusk From: Prof. Robert Newman Subject: Research venture

I thought it strange when I suddenly got an invitation from a friend of mine whom I had long lost contact with. We hadn't seen or been in contact with each other since our academy days. Apparently he had gotten married and had a young son. The reason why he contacted me was because he knew I had studied medicine and wondered if I could possibly help him with his sickly child. The same day as his letter arrived I wrote a response and sent it his way.

I woke up under the shade of a tree. I was tired and had a headache, and I didn't understand what was happening. There were police cars in front of me, and a large crowd of people were gathered around, but I still couldn't grasp what was going on. I walked a little way and saw my friend's car. I tried to grab the door handle, but I couldn't. I tried several times, and at first, I thought the car was locked, but then suddenly, I reached through the door.

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.

Tap, tap, tap… Tap, tap. Silence... tap.

(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.