#horror

“I have good news and bad news,” my boss Chester said. If there is a more butthole clenching phrase said at a struggling company during a sudden all hands meeting, I don’t know what it is. Thing was, Chester didn’t need to say a single syllable. His slouched shoulders, pale(er) face, and hangdog expression told us the entire story. The company was going under.

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…

EVIL_BILLY57 AKA BILLIAM DALE EDWARDS IS AN ROBLOX HACKER BUT THE ONLY GAME HE WOULD HACK IS DANDY'S WORLD, HE HACK THE GAME IN AN WAY TO MAKE IT THAT 1 RANDOM TOON YOU'RE PLAYING WITH WIIL HAS AN HYPNOTIZED SMILE , CLOSED EYES AND AN SOMETHING USED FOR MURDER, THERE IS NO KNOWN WAYS TO SAVE THAT TOON FROM KILLING THEIRSELF AND WHEN IT HAPPEN, YOU WOULD HAS AN 5 STAGES VIRUS

“How do you eradicate death itself?” There was a strange life in this apartment complex, one that practically begged you to look the other way. From the outside, the place offered nothing. It was just a decrepit gray structure looking as if it would collapse under a single harsh gust of wind. It stood out solely because within a fifty-mile radius, no other human life existed. Questions went unasked. Certain answers were better left unknown, and if ignorance was bliss, so be it.

Mark Fischer was infamous in his hometown. Much to his own disdain, he was largely harmless. Even still, he had a notoriety similar to that of a local serial killer that violently forced their way into a place's history. The act that earned him his infamy was not violent, though it did have a certain aggressiveness to it. His act was that he walked every day. He made it his mission to be a one-man parade for the residents of his hometown. He didn’t want to go out every day but didn’t need to…

It's all white... The room I'm in and the rest of this building is probably also all white. I don't know where I am. This cold blinding white, everything is this pale color, every object, all the furniture, every.... Everything. I'm all alone, in this unending place with only one color. At first, I didn't see it as much of a problem, I am quite introverted after all. Put other people in this room and I would find it all the more terrifying.

This story is heavily based on the original King in Yellow lore from the 1890s. While it does have several original elements, it ties heavily to that specific lore. If you do not know what the King in Yellow is, this story may not be for you. I don’t really know when this all first started—this nightmare of the same damn color. That bright, sunny shade that I used to love, I have now learned to fear and to hate. That sickening color. Yellow.

I I wished it with my whole being, which is to say I wished it with something I didn't know yet was a cage. Let me tell you about Delia first. Not because she's the main point—she isn't—but because you need to understand my obsession. Delia is the kind of pretty that makes pretty people feel plain. She wakes up, and her hair is already in order. Her laugh hypnotizes you and puts you in a trance. People lean toward her as plants do toward light, without even knowing it.

Hi. My name is Rick Leave. If you are reading this, you are alive, or at least foolish enough to seek danger where it waits. That is appropriate. Curiosity can be fatal in my world. People called me insane, a threat, someone who should be locked away and discarded. They were right—only in that they never understood. They never understood the way my mind observes patterns, how life moves like clockwork when seen through careful eyes, and how fear can be orchestrated, anticipated, controlled.

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

Click, click, click, thunk! It could not comprehend what it saw above us. A scarlet red sky greets us as we finally left the dusty old warehouse. Dark buildings casted their shadows over the old and empty streets, only letting red light stream into view at specifical parts, showing what I wish not to see, almost like a spotlight on a stage. To be honest I'm glad that the package I have to deliver can walk by itself. The thing would be way too heavy to carry.

Three weeks ago, my husband and I had our first baby. I have been dealing with terrible postpartum depression ever since. The weight of being a parent is unmanageable. And in the numb state of purgatory, I haven't been sleeping. I have started connecting the dots about my young adulthood. And my family. My therapist says this is a phenomenal breakthrough, as I haven't been able to remember much of the last year with my family. So, even though I’m going to sound crazy, I've decided to recount it…

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.

We moved in on a Tuesday, and by Friday I had learned the house repeated me. Not everything. It was selective, like a bad line that only keeps the important words. I would be at the sink and hear, from the landing above, my own voice at low volume, finishing a sentence I had not started. The first time I thought it was a phone, a radio, a neighbour's television bleeding through the wall. We had no neighbours. The house was the last on the road and the woods did the rest.

I like podcasts, I just don’t have time for them. I work from home and can’t work and listen at the same time. One of the two things always goes wrong. Either I stop working, or I stop listening. So when my friend Owen said he was starting a podcast, I acted supportive. After all, it was about spooky shit. One of my favorite subjects. In reality, though, I was thinking to myself that there was no way I’d ever listen to it. That was true until Owen brought me the recording of the call-in guest.

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…

Five..four…three..two..one…Lift off. Those were the last words I heard on earth, as the new deep space craft lifted from ground and the rocket boosters engaged, we lifted off. First it was slow as we climbed and the G force hit us like a ton of bricks, the craft shaking violently as we struggled against the lift.

Outlaws sucked. It was just another shithole bar in Columbus, Georgia. One of many I might add. Not that I was an expert given I wasn’t much for the party scene. This college student struggled to meet friends, much less find girls who wanted to talk to me. I had no wingman after all. No one to go out with.

My brother could wear my voice before he could find his own. Our mother would call us down to dinner and he would answer in my throat, and she would set the table for one boy twice. At nine I heard him explaining me to our father. Not reporting. Explaining, the way you explain weather. He used my voice, and the words were mine, arranged the way I would never have arranged them, and he was right about every one. I asked how. He said, I listen. I am always listening.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because if I don’t, it will stay in my head forever, scratching at the inside of my skull like something that wants out. My name is John, and a few months ago I found something I should have left buried. It happened during a trip out west, far from any marked trails, in a place where the silence feels wrong, like it’s not empty but waiting. I came across an old shack, barely standing, hidden between dead trees and dry grass. It looked like no one had…