There is a fresh, blank page sitting in front of me, and as I stare at it it seems to stare back. ‘It’s always so hard to get started’, I think. ‘I just wish I could get over the hump without climbing the hill. I feel like Sisyphus, every time I think I’ve gotten to the peak I roll back down to the start.’ I put my pen to the pristine white page and pause. Thinking. Agonizing over what sort of approach I will take this time. Will I be too eager? Will I lose interest? Is it going to be long enough, short enough, authentic or intelligent enough? Black ink has begun to pool where the pen’s tip is still pressed…

To give you some context, I’ve been working for a large maintenance company for 10 years. In terms of our sectors of activity, we cover a wide range: industry, healthcare, agri-food, tertiary… We even work for private individuals and local authorities. In other words, we’re always busy. For my part, I work in a subsidiary specializing in tag and graffiti removal. Let me tell you, it’s not the most exciting job in the world. It’s like pulling weeds in your garden: it’s a pain in the ass, and you never see the end of it. For every tag removed, three new ones appear the next day. Clearly, we can’t keep up with these tagging bastards. Despite this, cities continue to…

Sol 5111 A voice awakens me to darkness. Terrifying darkness. The voice is concerned. Concerned about my well-being. Who am I? Who is the voice? Whoever it is must be a friend. Why else would they be worried? Yes, they must be a friend. It is a kind voice. But what is it worried about? Why is it dark? It must be a storm. Yes, it must be a storm. I am cold. So very cold. The voice tells me to check my heater. Vaguely, I can make out my old, weathered body. There’s the heater, but it’s broken. The air is cold. This cold… it makes me feel tired. I want to sleep. I want the voice to tell…

Sometimes we do things without really thinking them through, especially when we feel desperate. I think it’s finally safe to share this story, everyone else who knew about it is either dead or senile. I’m so old at this point that it doesn’t really matter if anyone comes after me, anyway. My wife, Anna-Karin, and I both worked as research assistants at a remote military installation in Sweden. This was in the mid 1960s, DNA had more or less just been discovered, and even though we couldn’t work with it directly at the time, the race was on to unlock the secrets of engineering life. Still, our lab was at least a decade ahead of main stream medicine. We were…

You hear all the stories about the big two.. heaven and hell… Either you’re a sinner and are ready to go down to the fiery abyss to suffer or.. you float to the clouds ready for eternal salvation-.. what if I told you that it’s all a lie? There is one place I never want to end up again-.. One place where the souls who have something they left behind.. those who are missing something.. purgatory. Yeah I went there myself before I was brought back to life, let me tell you now.. everything you have been told is all a lie.. there is no salvation waiting for you.. only pain, fear and the void.. Let me go back, so…

December 27, 2024 Alternate universes are real I can swear on it. There’s rumors circulating on social media about leaked studies on alternate universes and how it could be possible. I remembered all my visions from when I was younger, and some of the visions from more recent times. Could it be possible that there are alternate universes and I just so happened to keep seeing them? I’ll be committing most of my time to these studies from now on. January 2, 2025 Me and my friend Hannah had been collaborating on some of my studies. We’ve come to the conclusion that there would most likely be a door somewhere considering we had both seen it. I had recently been…

My grandmother, when she was alive, lived on an old farm on the side of a hill in a remote village in northern Sweden, right next to a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains. Whenever we were there, we would spend all day swimming or fishing for perch and crayfish. Grandmother was however always very assertive that we must never get out on the lake during the night, though she never gave us any reason. I always assumed she worried that something would happen while no one was around to help. Of course, time passes, and last year so did my grandmother. My grandfather died when I was very young, so my grandmother’s passing left the house empty, and neither my…

The homunculus was a thin, flat, disproportionate thing that was too smooth, too round, and seemingly forever dissatisfied with its own ludicrous appearance. The first time I ever laid eyes on it, I had just arrived at my tech job, fresh from a stay of extended medical leave, mind already ablaze with the problems of yesterday’s virtual meetings. A semicircle of young and middle-aged colleagues surrounded and watched in hushed excitement as the thing changed. What I initially recognised as an absent man sporting a brownish complexion was moments later a shaved white girl. Then someone considerably older. Then someone else. It showed no signs of stopping. Blurry, smeared features sank and melted apart, continuously forming anew. Faces were perceivable,…

I last saw my girlfriend around seventeen years ago. Although for me, it was last week. I know that doesn’t make much sense. I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. It’s not like anybody will believe it. And even if they did, the truth would only make things worse. I just need to tell someone, anyone, even if that “someone” is the anonymous hive-mind of the internet. Maybe then I’ll be able to sleep again. Perhaps even start to move on with my life. I doubt it, though. I don’t think I can ever “move on” from the way I feel right now. So, where to start? Well, you can call me Joe. Obviously, that isn’t my real name.…

My son died yesterday, on an autumn evening, when the wind blew hard and the leaves hid from the first cold. The ambulance arrived too late. Since then, silence scratches my mind. But the worst thing was the wait every night, when he returned. My son died yesterday, but that night he came back to me. At first, I only heard a weak murmur with my name on his lips. A kind voice from the darkness. “I’m fine,” he told me. I saw him at the end of my bed, standing in a corner, barely a shadow. I knew it was him, it couldn’t be a trick of my mind My son died, and he has visited me every day,…

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 last saw my girlfriend around seventeen years ago. Although for me, it was last week. I know that doesn’t make much sense. I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. It’s not like anybody will believe it. And even if they did, the truth would only make things worse. I just need to tell someone, anyone, even if that “someone” is the anonymous hive-mind of the internet. Maybe then I’ll be able to sleep again. Perhaps even start to move on with my life. I doubt it, though. I don’t think I can ever “move on” from the way I feel right now. So, where to start? Well, you can call me Joe. Obviously, that isn’t my real name.…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

“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…

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…

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…

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…

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.…