The current date is the twenty-third of September 2004. I am Dr. Yankin of [REDACTED] company. Today we will be going through the research of the test subject known as “Ghoul”. SUBJECT: Soldier #3154 Private Peter Terrison. Now referred as “Ghoul” Age: Thirty years old The Private was a part of our 3rd company’s task force known as the “Cult watch”. They were tasked with the search and destruction of cult-like activities before they became too large or summoned something eldritch. This Private was believed to be “Dead In Action” several weeks ago after a failed attempt at stopping the “Risen Cult”. This Cult are known followers of an old god that wishes to turn the world into undead subjects.…

My story began as a simple cabin boy… There I was, manning the “Steamboat Willie” the feeling of content swayed through my body along with the sea waves crashing along the sides of the steel fortress I steered. It didn’t take long however for Captain P. to rear his ugly mug from the stairwell only to bark out orders to me. “Whaddya’ think yer’ doin’!?” He exclaimed, baffled as I was pulled by my backside now forced to stare at the captain. In silence I couldn’t respond, it felt as if my organs were misplaced/mismanaged by the sheer force of his pulling. I managed to pull myself back together somehow someway — he continued to bark orders. “Get back down…

“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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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 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…

I don’t know how much I can tell you readers. How much he will let me tell you! I thought this was a gift, for so long I did what he asked of me. Every “New Material” I brought him. Everytime he promised me a glimpse of paradise that he promised to take me too.. It must be nearly 700 years now since that time I took his “Gifts”, from that time he first showed me paradise. Now it’s my curse.. My affliction. You see I was first born in the 1300s, close to what you modern humans call “Kazakhstan”. Life was basically living out of mud and wooden huts, eating what you kill… Growing what you could and hoping…

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 scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

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’ve been a security guard at Somatic Self Storage for a few years now. I’d lost my previous job due to the first round of Covid lockdowns, and at the time, getting hired here seemed like a godsend. It pays more than double the average rate for a security guard around here, despite it otherwise being a pretty standard job. The only catch was that I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding exactly what it was we were keeping in storage. Maybe I was naïve to think that nothing nefarious was going on, or maybe I’m just a selfish prick who was persuaded to turn a blind eye for a few extra dollars, but up until recently, I honestly…

It’s a marvel how the road remains cloaked in darkness at the tender hour of 5 in the morning. I’ve never anticipated my day of work as much as today. Today will be a special day for myself, for sure, I can feel it constantly looming in the air. I’ve never been this thrilled going to work before… the thrill is similar to that of hunting animals, hunting bears. You never know when they’re going to suddenly emerge, but, once they appear, it becomes thrilling. Not scary, but thrilling. The thrill of hunting. Nights such as these, shrouded in darkness, are tailor-made for the pursuit of elusive prey. The very essence of hunting down creatures in the dawn is a…

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…

The ball streaked towards little Jimmy Hanson, covering the distance uncomfortably fast. The scrawny boy two sizes too small with the aviator glasses, cringed out of the way. It landed directly where he had been standing, and like that the game ended. “Damnit Jimmy, you’re supposed to catch the ball not hide from it!” a fat kid with a glove on one hand cried. A skinny boy with glasses turned from the pitcher’s mound to look at Jimmy disdain clearly visible on his face, “This is the third run you’ve allowed, and you wonder why we never let you play with us. You’re dog shit! Actually, I apologize to all loads of shit out there, you’re even more useless. I’d…

Interview held at West Hill State Hospital, Michigan. Documented on [07/09/██] Interviewed: Patient No.00129 [Natalie Ouelette] Interviewer: Dr. August Hooper Patient Notes: Patient No.00129 has been diagnosed with PTSD and Delusional Psychosis by Dr. Meryl Walker. Upon incarceration, Miss Ouelette had been criminally charged with five counts of murder. In court, Miss Ouelette pleaded insanity and was sectioned, and on the 6th of June was admitted to West Hill State Hospital for treatment. Miss Ouelette has several physical mutilations on her person, including a faded “Chelsea Grin” that has taken four stitches to close on either side. Patient is also missing her left eye due to heavy trauma caused by a stray bullet. Miss Ouelette has exhibited extremely violent episodes…

Hallucinations are a rare side effect of most of the psychiatric drugs I’ve taken. I’m by no means experienced in the field of pharmaceuticals, but after taking a whole range of serotonin reuptake inhibitors (fluoxetine, escitalopram, sertraline, etc.) I have collected my fair share of symptoms. In my opinion, hearing a skittering crawl outside my door or seeing a tall man looming in the corner is preferable to suicidal thoughts. Sure, the uncertainty of being unable to trust my eyes and ears took some getting used to, but at least I am capable of joy. Without my medication, relaxation and happiness are as elusive as a sunrise to a blind man. My hands may shake so badly that I struggle…

“Good morning, Mei-Mei” every morning waking up I greeted the small doll usually tucked into my arm, snuggled closely into my chest. For a while Mei-mei was my only friend. For you see, I was born with a crippling condition that keeps me wheelchair bound, so you can guess how most of my life has played out…Hospital trips..bad days where I could hardly get out of bed, All the painful surgeries. Each time Mei-Mei has been by my side helping me through it. A gift to me on my 6th birthday, as I opened the box my eyes lit up seeing that doll box for the first time. I was so happy.. Now Mei-Mei is a small doll with a…

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,…

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 scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

Bloody and beaten from the journey you’ve had, you finally arrive. A haunting, immense palace of the long fallen kingdom comes into view. Crumbling staircases and ornate statues in every direction you look, each statue represents something, this kingdom… was built on fear. Fear of dying out. As you climb the stairs, you look at each engraving in the cracked stone walls. Horrific experiments displayed, various ways they have tried to impregnate their females, mutilation, torture, mutated fetuses, birth, death, and so much more. You step inside the palace. There is an eerie silence. Deafening in a way as if the people of this kingdom are watching you.The only hint that people even lived here, however, is the bodies. Hanging…

A smile covers my face as I look up to see Emily looking down at me as I awake from my nap. I never really took work seriously, something she always got after me for, but waking up to see her beautiful golden silky hair, her bright blue eyes resembling the waters of the Maldives, and well her figure wasn’t anything to scoff at either. This was enough to make me not care about napping on the job. “What is it this time honey?” I ask with a smirk She rolled her eyes before pulling me up from the chair “Come on it’s getting pretty busy now. I know we come in early but you are leaving me and Mathew…

I work the night shift at a local mom-and-pop convenience store at the front of my neighborhood. We sell snacks, drinks, milk, bread, all the normal stuff that people need but aren’t willing to make a traditional run to the grocery store for. There was talk about adding a gas pump out front, but it hasn’t happened yet. As a result, the night gets a bit slow at times. Of course, we got our usual druggie who strolls in to get his soda or to use the restroom, but sometimes I’ll sit at the counter for nearly an hour before someone strolls in. It can get a bit boring at times, but I’ve always got a good book or a…

Interview held at West Hill State Hospital, Michigan. Documented on [07/09/██] Interviewed: Patient No.00129 [Natalie Ouelette] Interviewer: Dr. August Hooper Patient Notes: Patient No.00129 has been diagnosed with PTSD and Delusional Psychosis by Dr. Meryl Walker. Upon incarceration, Miss Ouelette had been criminally charged with five counts of murder. In court, Miss Ouelette pleaded insanity and was sectioned, and on the 6th of June was admitted to West Hill State Hospital for treatment. Miss Ouelette has several physical mutilations on her person, including a faded “Chelsea Grin” that has taken four stitches to close on either side. Patient is also missing her left eye due to heavy trauma caused by a stray bullet. Miss Ouelette has exhibited extremely violent episodes…

Hallucinations are a rare side effect of most of the psychiatric drugs I’ve taken. I’m by no means experienced in the field of pharmaceuticals, but after taking a whole range of serotonin reuptake inhibitors (fluoxetine, escitalopram, sertraline, etc.) I have collected my fair share of symptoms. In my opinion, hearing a skittering crawl outside my door or seeing a tall man looming in the corner is preferable to suicidal thoughts. Sure, the uncertainty of being unable to trust my eyes and ears took some getting used to, but at least I am capable of joy. Without my medication, relaxation and happiness are as elusive as a sunrise to a blind man. My hands may shake so badly that I struggle…

“Boy, you’re entirely too old to be pussyfooting with a grown hog like that. If you intend to do a job, then do it, don’t hesitate,” said the blood-soaked farmer. I looked down at the horror stricken pig with pity in my eyes. It seemed to know what would happen next. The poor creature was beginning to squeal. It was too similar to the cries of a human. I felt sickened, like I was witnessing a murder. With one slash of the knife, one squirt of the arterial spray, one choked squeal, the job was done. James “Jimmy” O’Neil, a no-nonsense farmer old enough to feel the aches of a body abused by hard work, yet not old enough to…

The man’s mind was a blank slate, a void where the memory of how he came to be stranded on this small island should have been. He had woken on the shore, his body battered and bleeding, with the ghostly echo of an incessant beeping ringing in his ears. When he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of fire and twisted metal, but the meaning behind these fragmented visions eluded him. He spent the first day clinging to the safety of the shore, too afraid to venture into the unknown depths of the island. With his own hands, he built a fire, cracked open a coconut, and fashioned a crude shelter from the branches and leaves that lay scattered nearby.…

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…

The ball streaked towards little Jimmy Hanson, covering the distance uncomfortably fast. The scrawny boy two sizes too small with the aviator glasses, cringed out of the way. It landed directly where he had been standing, and like that the game ended. “Damnit Jimmy, you’re supposed to catch the ball not hide from it!” a fat kid with a glove on one hand cried. A skinny boy with glasses turned from the pitcher’s mound to look at Jimmy disdain clearly visible on his face, “This is the third run you’ve allowed, and you wonder why we never let you play with us. You’re dog shit! Actually, I apologize to all loads of shit out there, you’re even more useless. I’d…