#eerie

“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

‘Tom went mad,’ Gilbert said. ‘Schizophrenia or something, I think. He stopped leaving the place completely. After a month of being pent up inside he died of starvation.’ ‘He was a hoarder. A serious one. It took weeks to get the home cleaned up, and even then there’s still some junk in the basement the cleaners left there. I’d be curious to have a look and see if there’s anything valuable.’ He snorted. ‘I doubt it though.’

It's funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the…

I had always liked watching her hands. Emma, my babysitter, had these nails she painted herself—a soft, glossy lavender that caught the light just right. She was neat, careful, precise, and she promised me, as she usually did when she babysat, that after she came back with our dinner, we'd paint mine together. "You'll pick the color," she said, wiggling her fingers, "and I'll show you how to do it just right." I smiled at her nails, imagining mine looking the same: neat, perfect and lavender.

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.

I know you're probably wondering why the hell I'm telling you this. I should have kept my mouth shut, should've stayed quiet like everyone else does when they've seen something they shouldn't have. People do it for all sorts of reasons. Some are too scared to talk, afraid that speaking out might invite whatever it is they saw back into their lives. Others stay silent because they can't put the pieces together, can't explain what happened, and the fear of not being believed is worse than…

I was around 8 at the time, when I was told to go to bed at 8:00 pm. My parents would just watch TV whilst I'm in bed until midnight. I was very obedient at the time as well, the only reason I would get out of bed after 8:00 is to either grab some water or head to the bathroom. However, that was only until that night when I was too scared to even do both of those things.

I consider myself a pretty average resident of Indianapolis, Indiana. I was born and raised here, went to school here, and I'm currently attending Martin University to earn my degree in Environmental Science. Just like my dad always wanted. I enjoy motorsports and home makeover shows, and I love me a good sugar cream pie. I've been called a 'Midwestern stereotype' more than once, but only by new acquaintances from uni. By people who don't know I haven't always been this way.

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.

I didn't remember how I got there. One moment, I was somewhere ordinary—a grocery store, maybe my car—and the next, I was standing in the polished hallway of a sprawling mansion. The floors gleamed like polished obsidian under chandeliers that glittered coldly overhead. The place was immaculate, almost painfully so, but something about it felt wrong.

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…

This story is about a young guy named Finn who lived and survived in a dark thick forest where snow fell often and anything that could move was still and frozen. Finn was ice fishing with his regular gear, near a hut he had found which was made from tree bark and vines growing over a structure formed from ice. He smiled as he reeled in a large catch, and he began to dance. However he slipped on the ice and hit his head on a rock. Looking around for any witnesses of his embarrassment, he saw…

There is a fresh, blank page sitting in front of me, and as I stare at it it seems to stare back.