For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of flying. I mean… who hasn’t dreamed of flying? It’s the most wonderful thing there is. I still remember, as a youngster, my afternoons spent scanning the sky, trying to make out shapes in the clouds. Who hasn’t? A rabbit, a dragon, a monster or even a car. Watching the clouds has never been so stimulating for our imagination. However, I wanted to be more than just a spectator. I wanted to swim in this ocean of lightness, to split the skies like a bird: free as a bird and with no one to disturb you. What a wonderful feeling! I even remember believing that clouds were actually made of cotton,…

Under gravel and twisting roots there lies an intricate system of life, hundreds of sizes smaller than our species. Like pale, empty veins they stretch out to dig downwards into damp soil. It is dark. Darker than sunless skies. The realm underground is the realm of corpses. They settle between debris like shells pushed under sand by careless ocean waves. Deeper, and deeper. While you walk overhead on solid ground, thinking of the casual facets of life, corpses are clawing overhead themselves, grasping those roots and pulling at them with a vengeful desperation to return to life. We never hear their wailing, but the earth’s surface shakes with their conviction. Ghosts are known to protest against going quietly. If they…

The Visit Henry had always been a bit different. As a child, he was quiet, more interested in books and toys than in other children. He grew up alone, but he never seemed to mind. His mother, Grace, worried that her son wasn’t making any friends, but Henry always reassured her that he was fine just the way he was. One day, after returning from work, I received an unusual phone call from Henry. “Mom, you need to come over. I want to introduce you to someone.” Henry’s tone was different than usual—more excited, which made me feel a sense of relief. Maybe he had finally found a girlfriend? There was a reason to think so—my son had unexpectedly gone…

I used to think grown-ups always knew what was right. They seemed to have all the answers, like they were in control of everything. Back then, I thought there were rules for how things worked, even in little moments—like the way someone should look at you, or how a touch was supposed to feel. But nobody ever explained what it meant when something felt… different. When a look lingered too long, or a hand stayed where it shouldn’t. I didn’t know back then. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. I was just a kid. I was just eight. Ruben was my best friend’s neighbor. He was older, maybe seventeen, and that was the best part—he was older.…

I would like to unburden myself a little, because I am very worried about this. To begin with, I don’t know if you’ll understand me when I say that we, as individuals, have a kind of ‘vibe’—the thing that helps us differentiate and recognize people. It’s like an aura, or maybe it’s the soul. An example of this would be when you meet someone you haven’t seen in a long time, and even if their appearance has changed, you still recognize them, like they have an inner spark that remains the same. We all get certain vibes from people, objects, places, or family. I’m sure at some point you’ve seen something and thought, ‘This gives me the same vibe as…

Parker looked in the mirror. He felt his scar, a smile that was forcefully stitched in his face. Although the stitches were thankfully taken out, his scar persisted. Parker exhaled; everything had happened so quickly. His sister was insane, his parents had passed away, and now he was by himself. Parker was lucky to get an apartment with his father’s credit card. However, not only would Parker need to find some way to pay it off, but if the authorities found out, he’d be put in an orphanage. Parker was only 13. Parker stepped out of the bathroom and fixed his gaze on his baseball bat. Parker recalled what the police had stated regarding his sister’s visit to the hospital prior to she went…

It was a cold, uneventful evening, just like every other since the quarantine had started. I was scrolling through random VRChat worlds, bored and alone in my room. Most of the worlds were empty, just floating in digital silence, but one caught my eye. The world was called “Nyras’ Crypt”—no description, no tags, just the name. I figured it was probably some forgotten fan-made map. Curiosity got the better of me, and with a click, I joined. The loading screen seemed to take longer than usual, and the sound of my headset hummed louder, but eventually, I was transported into the world. It was a dim, eerie space, a blend of dark medieval architecture and glitchy, futuristic elements. The walls…

I had everything a man could ever want. A beautiful wife, two wonderful kids, and a cozy house on a quiet street. Life was good—perfect, even. My wife, Emily, had the kind of laugh that could light up a room. Our kids, Lily and James, were the most precious little souls. I remember taking Lily to her first day of school, watching James learn to ride his bike. Simple, mundane moments that filled my heart with a warmth I never knew I could feel. Years passed in what felt like a blissful blur. Family dinners, vacations, late-night talks with Emily after the kids went to bed—everything was so vivid. I could feel the warmth of her hand in mine, the…

I hate snow. Not in the way most people hate the inconvenience of shoveling their driveways or the sting of icy wind slicing through their scarves. Not in the way someone groans when their morning commute is slowed to a crawl or when their favorite shoes soak through, leaving their socks clammy and cold. No, my hatred runs deeper than that—bone-deep, marrow-deep, settling into the cracks of my ribs like frost that never thaws. Most people love snow. They welcome it, yearn for it even. Their faces light up the moment the first flakes begin to fall, delicate as whispers, like the world itself is speaking some long-forgotten lullaby. Snow is magical to them, a crystalline promise of laughter, snowball…

I am a single mother of three boys who was recently divorced. James, my eldest son, is twelve years old and has just begun secondary school. He is very smart; loves science and wishes to work as a biologist after he graduates from varsity. Without a doubt, I see him pursuing a career in that area. George, my 10-year-old second oldest son, is a creative little prodigy who enjoys painting and modeling clay sculptures. Lastly, Kevin, my 4-year-old son. Kevin is such a sweetheart! Even though he can drive me insane with his silly little questions such as “Why do you tie your shoelaces like that?”, “Why do you tie your hair like that?”, “Why do you like like the…

When I was young, we were left unattended. My friends and I rode our bikes deep into the fields and returned at our leisure. We rarely played in the same location and often ditched it after a few days. With each new adventure, we drifted further from civilization, and one day, we struck gold, figuratively speaking of course. We came across a massive field which seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions. It appeared to be abandoned farmland, and the grasses and weeds had grown past our waists. The entire area was completely silent as if we had broken the sound barrier, and to some degree, our voices seemed several octaves higher than normal. Whenever we went there, we lifted…

I saw it one night. A shape moving into my kitchen like it was afraid of the fact I saw it. Always I go to the kitchen to see if it’s still there in the dark or not. I’m always too slow to catch up to it. By the time I reach the kitchen it’s always gone. By the time the shape sees light it’s gone. Ducking behind the wall that covers the kitchen like if a neighbor got caught looking at your yard through his hedges. No matter what I try it always hides before I can reach it and curiosity slowly consumes me by the passing nights when I do see the shape. I can’t really make out…

In the late 18th century in upstate New York a pastor and his family; his wife, young daughter, maid and himself were all found dead inside their home. Cause of death was identified as quadruple suicide. The pastor had been devoted to both the church and his family for years, when his behavior suddenly changed. His sermons began spreading fear and paranoia through the town as he claimed that the Devil and his demons had infiltrated the town. He even claimed to have heard the voice of the Devil inside his home, telling him to hurt his wife or to ‘touch’ his own child. The voice even told him to kill his neighbors as they were all two faced liars…

October 1st, 2024 I don’t know what’s happening to me. It started small—a little itch under the skin of my left arm. At first, I thought it was just a bug bite. But then the itching spread. Now, it feels like something’s moving underneath my flesh. I’ve started documenting it to make sense of it all. Maybe this is just a weird infection. Maybe I’m overreacting. October 3rd, 2024 The itching has gotten worse. I woke up last night to a searing pain in my arm. In the bathroom mirror, I saw it—something *pulsing* beneath the skin. It looked like a vein, but it was moving independently, wriggling just under the surface. I tried to ignore it, but my mind…

By my word, this is the truth I tell. When I was a young boy, I used to live at a secluded farm next to an abandoned railroad. The nearest town wasn’t for hundreds of miles; my father drove there once a week to get groceries for the week. One day, I was playing in the woods around our property when I heard a voice calling for help. I ventured deeper into the woods until I saw a man. He was different though, with a beard and clothes that resembled my own, only in gray. I asked him, “What on God’s green earth are you doing in the middle of nowhere?” My Lord! Was I taken aback when he said…

This morning, I cleaned out my closet to create space, and I discovered a plastic bin filled with childhood memories. Being sentimental, I removed the bin and began searching through it. The bin mostly contained artwork from my elementary school years, and the majority of them were scribbles or fingerpaintings on bright construction paper. In particular, a crayon drawing of my entire 3rd grade class drew my attention. I have to say that I must have been quite the artist back in the day because I actually recognized some of my classmates. It helped that I had tried to spell their names next to each stick figure, even if I misspelled them horribly. It just gave me that warm and…

There are stories that cling to the edges of reality, rumors whispered in bars by old sailors with trembling hands and distant eyes. Stories of ships that drift into the harbor with no crew, no signs of struggle… just eerie silence. But until last week, I thought they were just that… stories. The Nautica appeared in the mist on a quiet Tuesday morning. No distress signals, and no records of departure. A 70-year-old cargo vessel, long thought scrapped just… appeared. It was found adrift off the coast, slowly floating toward the docks with not a soul on board. No crew. No captain. Nothing. Naturally, the news caught my attention. As a freelance journalist, I made a living chasing down stories…

*Disclaimer: This story was based on true events that have happened to me* Everyone has that eerie sensation some time in their life. Some are able to explain the phenomenon, while others can’t. It’s that feeling of someone, or something, watching you. It’s that unknown experience when either dread or curiosity can get the best of you. You could be quietly sitting at home, earbuds in, and immersed in your technology when it hits you. You look up from your phone to see your parents sitting, watching television; paying you no mind. Your siblings are sitting on the floor; drowned in a video game, but you find no reason for the feeling you just had. Some people brush it off,…

A single unfinished opera entitled ‘The Matinee of the Damned’ is an incomplete and cursed piece of music that has plagued the eyes, ears and hearts of those who bear witness to this piece and has taken the lives of those who dare to try and finish the ballad. The opera originated in France by the hand of Jean-Baptiste Lully. Said to have been inspired by the nightmare induced by a fever, Lully began composing the opera in 1686. A few months after he began the laborious task of writing the initial composition he began complaining of strange noises emanating from the walls and floors of his own home, which soon became a constant nuisance as the sounds began tormenting…

Before my best friend’s wedding, we rented a cabin in South Carolina from a company called Moose Estates. We stayed there a full week with four of our closest buddies who were the rest of the groomsmen. The cabin was situated near Redwood Lake, and a river named Cripple Creek fed into the lake about a half mile from the property. It really was a peaceful place. I remember lying in bed and being able to hear the river babbling along if I listened close enough. There was an eerie calmness that appeared at nightfall, something that you’d never find in the city. It’s probably because there were no other log cabins around for miles. I mean, you could stand…