“Well girls, which car should we take on our little road trip? Dad’s Chevy Nomad would be practical, but the Chevy Nova’s got a bit more flair to her. Of course, if it’s flair we’re going for, I don’t think anything we have can compete with a classic Cadillac,” James Darling said as he surveyed his automotive fleet with a sense of satisfied pride. The Darlings had acquired many vehicles over their long and nefarious career, more often than not stolen from their victims and repurposed into future instruments of entrapment and torment. James had kept their favourites running flawlessly over the years, modifying them as necessary with his own mechatronic inventions when conventional parts simply wouldn’t do. “That’s a…

“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.” — Matthew 7:13 Faith is a strange thing. An invisible current, tugging people toward something they couldn’t see, couldn’t prove, yet clung to with unwavering certainty. Some found comfort in it. Others, like me, found it incomprehensible—a construct built on nothing but hope and fear. A way to explain the unexplainable. A reason to kneel when the world felt too heavy to stand. I never thought much about it. Religion, faith, belief… they were like relics from another time, things people inherited rather than chose. I grew up watching others pray before meals, cross themselves in front…

Standing on the edge of the roof of that old building, the man could feel that he was standing on the rubble of his lost youth, that every step taken on those dirty streets had left memories that now formed piles of rotting and wormy corpses over which carrion birds flew. The cold winter wind chilled him to the bone, his back began to constrict and his jaw to tremble, his teeth chattering. A blizzard shook the branches of the trees and their black windbreaks, while tears slid down his purple face and fell on his white hands. Guilt-filled thoughts came to mind—his mother’s smile as she made him coffee in the morning, his father telling him his story while…

Rosemary Cain was known for being the best baker in the county. She would always win the first prize ribbon in every contest. One evening, while Rosemary was getting ingredients for baking, she saw her husband Bennie flirting with Charlotte Berry. How could Bennie cheat on her? Gripping the paper bag tightly against her chest, she went home. After entering the kitchen and dropping off the groceries, Rosemary returned to her garden. She hummed to herself, plucking a skeletal poinsettia. ‘Just a few petals will do,’ Rosemary thought as she returned inside—the kitchen filled with the scent of cinnamon and oatmeal. The door opened, letting the evening cool air into the unbearably hot kitchen as Bennie walked in. Rosemary pulled…

This is a story of a boy I met when I was still young. His name was James Elkin, and he lived in the house two doors down from me. We weren’t friends, but I did greet him a few times when I saw him. He always looked small for a nine-year-old and had long, uneven hair. I remember walking past his home on my way to school each day. Many times, I saw him out collecting insects. He never harmed them. He wasn’t very friendly, but he wasn’t cruel either. His parents were always very kind, often offering jobs to us younger kids so we could earn a little change for bubble gum or something we wanted. Because of…

My name’s Missy, and I’m a 32B. When I turned 30, I felt it was time to boost my health, so I decided to take up jogging again.  I’d been on the track team in high school and looked forward to savoring the boost of “runner’s high” and the pride of achievement as my physique grew stronger. Of course, one necessity for a wannabe female athlete is the almighty sports bra.  I knew from painful experience that regular bras just don’t cut it for athletic exertion—the damned straps are murder when they dig into your shoulder blades. I went to a store called Hex Athletics and, within minutes, found the bra I wanted.  It was an audacious cherry red.  I…

I Every man fears something, whether they want to admit it or not, and I must admit that I myself am still afraid of windows 10 years after what happened to the Surfadelics. I’ll recount what happened that night in the most detail possible, just to see if anyone could possibly relate or share a similar experience to what me and my friends had gone through. II I was playing in the garage band with my friends, we’ll call them Deakin, the backup-drummer, Toby, the guitarist, Jay, the drummer, and myself, the bassist and pianist. We called ourselves the “Surfadelics”, since we incorporated a lot of surf and funk music into our jams, as well as because we only knew…

My therapist told me that writing about things could help. She kind of looked away when she said it, so I’m not sure she believes that. If I’m honest, I think she just doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It doesn’t matter though. I’m gonna write about it anyway. I’m gonna write about it because it DID happen, and it doesn’t matter what she thinks. At least if I post it here, someone might actually read it. If I post it here, maybe it can help. I should probably start with the move. My dad had taken a job outside of Cleveland. It was a spur of the moment thing. He didn’t really have a choice, given the circumstances.…

After discovering the lost episode of Gilligan’s Island, I started thinking about finding an episode of another favorite show of mine, The Three Stooges. According to a source I found, the episode was called Ghost Encounters. It was supposed to be shown in movie theaters and on television (as episodes were being aired on TV as well and released on DVD, of course). This episode was cut for being disturbing, but before you roll your eyes and think I’m going to talk about characters dying in brutal ways—well, that’s not the case at all, surprisingly. What made it disturbing was the ghost itself. Think about that for a second. The actors—Moe, Larry, and Curly (this was made before Curly had…

Prologue The legend of the cursed samurai is a legend as old as time. An urban legend that tells the tale of a lone swordsman who is possessed by the ghost of vengeance and doomed to forever travel the nine realms in search of monsters, evil spirits, and unwanted creatures to vanquish with a single slash from his trusted spirit sword. It is said that this swordsman possesses a range of special abilities many of which are enhanced by the ghost of vengeance which plagues his mind and body. Super speed, lightning-fast reflexes, enhanced vision, smell, hearing, and strength. These are just a few of the abilities the cursed samurai is capable of. But his most prized possession, the most…

It gets dark very early this time of year this far north. By 4:00 PM, the sun is already set, and dusk is upon us. Definitely not the ideal conditions for a girl who looks as young as I do to be walking home alone. The route that I’d chosen from the Junior high school to the house was particularly off the beaten track and took me through several tranquil and deserted areas of town. No parent with even a shred of love in their heart for their child would allow them to make this walk at any time of year, let alone in the depths of winter. It was just after I’d passed the cemetery and was about to…

Paul was a security guard at the Silent Centre Museum in Oak Heart. Though he had been working there for a while now, he had never worked the night shift. Anthony was usually the guy who did, but he was currently on vacation. That would mean it would be up to Paul to take over that shift. “Paul, we need to talk,” Anthony said to him, coming in for his shift that day. They had never spoken to one another before, so it was strange for Anthony to start a conversation now. “Sure, man, what’s up?” Paul answered, figuring it was due to their work protocol differences, as he put his gear away. Anthony looked around, making sure they were…

There’s a quote I once read, buried in some forgotten philosophy book: “To peel away the layers of the world is to expose what hides beneath, and what hides beneath is not meant to be seen.” At the time, it seemed like one of those lines people throw around when they want to sound profound, but they don’t really know what it means. The kind of thing you hear at a party from someone who’s had one too many drinks and thinks they’re the next Nietzsche. I’d rolled my eyes at it then, thought it was all too abstract to have any real meaning. But now… now I can’t stop thinking about it. The words gnaw at me. They crawl…

I remember when the nightmares first started. I think it was ten, maybe twelve years ago. We had just gotten a new house, one of those old buildings that cracked and groaned when anything moved inside it, the ones they sell real cheap to poor families like mine instead of demolishing. I was only 16 at the time, and my dad thought that he, my brother, and I could use a rest start away from the city. Sometimes I wish we never started, I wish we never moved out of our old apartment, but sometimes, I understand that maybe it was fate that brought me here, fate that dragged me to the front steps of a nightmare. I remember that…

Eric, my precious little boy. Just look at those precious eyes! They’re big and bulging out of their sockets, staring in opposite directions. He has such a nice face—sure, he’s missing a nose, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Now, look at that wide smile and those white, clean teeth. I helped brush them yesterday; don’t they look nice? They look nice to me! See that striped sweater of his? Yeah, I bought it for him at a thrift store, but he doesn’t seem to show any emotion towards me, even though I got him some good clothes. I told my wife about our son, but she said something I wasn’t aware of: “Dear, our child has been dead for…

June 17th, 2024 My therapist suggested I start writing my thoughts down in a journal, saying it will supposedly help me understand and process my emotions, and I’ll get to know myself better as a result. I am sceptical, but what the hell, I’ll give it a shot! I have never kept a journal before, so I have no clue how to start… Uhm, hello, I guess. I’m me and I’m writing this to myself… Do I introduce myself now? To whom? I already know myself, and I highly doubt anyone else is ever going to read this, except my therapist maybe. I’m just rambling about nothing to a bunch of pages now, I can’t really think of anything interesting…

This whole story started three days ago. I was on the bus, listening to music, when I spotted a black umbrella on one of the empty seats. At first, I hesitated to take it. It may sound strange, but I always feel a little guilty taking something that doesn’t belong to me, even when it’s abandoned. However, it never lasts very long and I end up taking it home. If I don’t get it back, who will? I grabbed it as I got off the bus. It was a bit of a windfall. That day, it was pouring with rain and, like an idiot, I had come without my k-way. As I began to open it, I was surprised to…

Monica knew that whatever this was, impersonating him was not her best friend. His skin hung loosely upon his frame. His eye sockets were sunken and dark, and only two tiny dots shone within the swirling darkness. When he walked, he dragged his feet. He no longer spoke, and yet everyone else thought it was normal. ‘How could this be normal?’ she thought to herself. Was everyone seeing the same person as her? Monica knew what to do, but first, she needed proof. So she set up a camera one evening, inviting him over to her home. When Monica excused herself and left him alone, she hoped it would let its guard down and reveal what it was. Upon reviewing…

I never thought much about puppets. They were relics of another time, something my grandparents might have found amusing before the age of screens. I’d seen them in dusty attics and antique shops, their faces painted in stiff, eternal grins. They were lifeless, inert things that didn’t deserve a second thought. But that was before it came to town. It started in the early days of October, when the air was thick with the promise of decay and endings. The traveling puppet show arrived without fanfare—no posters, no announcements. One day, there was simply a tent in the empty lot at the edge of town, its canvas tattered but grand, striped red and black like a bloodstained circus. Kids at…

This story is based off of the famous ABANDONED BY DISNEY creepypasta series that was made by Slimebeast  I won’t deny that anything creepy happens at Disney’s parks, in fact, quite the opposite. I believe in all the stories, all the urban myths and legends, I believe them because I have seen one. I know all the stories. People disappearing, strange scenery, animatronics moving on their own,out of place objects. More importantly, the Utilidors. But this story takes place in a much deeper place, deep below the wretched facade of the family friendly mouse. This story takes place in a world below the Utilidors, a place that a very low amount of people know about, and that even fewer believe…