#horror

Plot: It is the year 1929. Stanley Fontaine, an American writer of mystical horror novels, is forced to leave his city after losing his inspiration. After many years, he decides to travel to Louisiana on the Eastern Express, where the staff is of the highest calibre and nothing seems to foreshadow any misfortune. Yet soon he begins to realise that what we see is not always reality, and that most people have grown accustomed to living in sweet flattery. This very carriage conceals a multitude of…

There's a name tattooed on the inside of my left wrist.

The first thing my granny ever taught me about food was that you never, ever leave the house without a bit of bread in your pocket.

On the morning of Tuesday the 16th of December 2025, I took a dead woman off the stones below the Old Cross at Ardboe.

The following are notes I wrote on my phone during my night shifts in December 2025, mostly on my breaks, sometimes in the toilets, once lying on the floor of a linen cupboard. I've fixed the spelling and nothing else. I'm posting them because the Trust's investigation has closed, and it says what it says, and this says what happened. — Clare

Documents relating to the events at Slaghtaverty, near Garvagh, 23rd-31st October 2025. Compiled by Hannah Moore My name is Hannah Moore. I'm 35. I'm a freelance audio producer, which means I make podcasts and radio documentaries for people who can afford to pay me, and I record everything, and I label everything, and I keep everything. That habit is the only reason this document exists, and I think it's the only reason I'm not in prison.

I'm awoken by a bright golden light. Carefully I open my eyes, the bright light hurting them in the process. So I rub them for the pain to go away. In order to protect my sight further, I sit up, creating shadow. It takes a moment for my eyes to finally adjust to and at last I'm finally able to see my surroundings, something by which I'm taken by surprise. There's water above me... I'm sitting on what seems like the sand at the bottom of the sea.

“Hey y’all, it’s Red, White, and Ruin here with a new ghostbox urban exploration for you to watch from the safety of your home. Lucky you! Today, we’re walking through the dead Cherry Hill Mall. Let’s take a look, huh?” I said in my chipper announcer voice. I hit stop on the video I was recording and sighed. Being this perky all the time was exhausting. I sighed, took in my surroundings, and frowned. “Jesus, what a dump.”

Notice: This is 'section 2' of the story Ad Nauseam, I have ran into a unique issue due to the size of Ad Nauseam that I had to make this separate story just to continue until said issue is fixed; if you are new and interested please begin reading here: https://nightscri.be/s/89368/ad-nauseam If you are caught up to Chapter 33 then continue to the next page and enjoy! If you came later during this whole max size debacle, then you can skip some.

Welcome to Part 2 of The Book of Broken Trust (Ash). This is a continuation of Chapter 10 through Chapter 20.T Hope you enjoy. ~ The hallway swallowed Hellen's footsteps the moment she turned the corner. The door to the judges' room remained shut, but the air around it fell thinner now, Like the building itself had leaned in to listen. Inside, papers rustled. A chair was scraped. Someone laughed too loudly, trying to force the sound back into something normal.

Year 157, Near the end of the fall season. I'm not sure what day it is. I am a regular guy who lives in the peaceful village of "Unut." And today, I am helping the village elder by chopping some logs for him. "But he's not going to pay me shit." I said as I swung my axe. I'm only helping him because he's like a father to me. I was a little child when my family abandoned me. Yet he took me in and raised me to this age. "And I am going to do his chores for the rest of his lifetime."

Part 1 Episode 1 Afghanistan, Kandahar Province The night belonged to dust and silence. Lou Phillips moved at the front of the stack, body low, rifle steady, breathing slow enough to disappear. The compound rose out of the dark like a tumor—mud walls, a single rusted gate, no lights. Intel said weapons cache. Lou trusted patterns more than intel. Martinez raised two fingers. Hold. Lou froze. Not because of the signal—but because something tugged at the back of

"Lady Valtin! Lady Rudova!" Béla, who had dozed on the steps of the gazebo, lifted his head and mustered a lazy bark toward the path. An elderly man, wearing a messenger's garb, stood past the bed of daffodils and looked around in confusion. The presence of my large hound didn't seem to concern him, or perhaps he sensed that Béla was not in the mood to cause any trouble on such a nice day.

I'm going to die here, or maybe I can't. The only thing I have here is a pen that never seems to run out, and this book that has infinite pages and funnily enough is waterproof. I originally woke up in a strange room with yellow wallpaper, fluorescent lights that hummed, smelling the mold and mildew infesting the walls.

DAY 1

I uncapped the red pen and added another "X" to our calendar. A small one, as not to take up more space than needed. After all, the box already had three others inside just like it. Who knew how many more we would have to add?

Something changed after the first broadcast, but not in a way people could easily name, and that was what made it dangerous, because without a clear shape, fear has space to grow into anything, and anything is always worse than something defined. The world did not stopnot collapse, did not react in any unified or immediate way, and that absence of visible consequence created a fragile illusion that whatever had happened during the night had been insignificant, forgettable, something that could…

“Jalen, you sell drugs?” “What? No.” “Family sell drugs?” I laughed. “You for real right now?” His stoic face answered for him. “Not that it should matter, but I don’t really have a family. So, no, they aren’t kingpins in the drug game.” “Consider yourself lucky. No family is the way to go. No hassles. No buying gifts for ungrateful nieces and nephews who think just because you own a coupla properties, you’re Diamond Jim Brady. Gives me heartburn just thinkin’ about it.”

I naturally fell into babysitting around the age of 14. As the oldest of two older siblings, I was used to watching younger kids a fair amount of the time. So through friends and family, I got leads for babysitting to score some cash, which definitely beat having to work at a restaurant. The job had its ups and downs, but overall it wasn’t a bad gig at all. Yet, as many good experiences as I had, they were all eclipsed by one night.

Both the best and worst kept secret of the generation is that the technology of the United States military is much more advanced than what is available to the public. It’s the worst-kept secret because everyone knows it. No one is walking around thinking they can buy all the parts of a B-2 and have it run with the efficiency and accuracy of the U. S. Air Force. However, it’s the best-kept secret because people don’t understand just how advanced their technology really is. Hell, even I don’t…