There is a legend that few people know about. If you stand in front of the mirror, in the dark, with a single candle lit, and issue the call, “Here piggy, piggy, piggy.” The big man will appear. When the pig man appears, you must remain absolutely still, or the pig man will devour you in minutes. This was the story told to me by my older brother who claimed he’d done this and survived. I was ten years old at the time. I can’t say that I believed him, and yet, I can’t say, fully, that I didn’t. It was a really hard story to believe but then, there were stranger stories that turned out to be the absolute…

The village of Driftwood Cove sat at the edge of the world—or so it felt. Waves crashed endlessly against jagged cliffs, their spray licking the stones like hungry tongues. The cries of gulls mingled with the low whispers of old sailors’ tales, carried on the wind like secrets best left unspoken. Here, the sea ruled everything, its storms a reminder of its unrelenting power, its rare moments of calm a fleeting grace. At the heart of the village, an ancient inn leaned against the wind, its timbers groaning with age. Inside, villagers gathered in uneasy silence by the hearth, their words low and deliberate. They spoke of a thing—a presence—they called the Lantern Man. “Don’t follow the light.”, muttered old…

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…

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…

The village of Driftwood Cove sat at the edge of the world—or so it felt. Waves crashed endlessly against jagged cliffs, their spray licking the stones like hungry tongues. The cries of gulls mingled with the low whispers of old sailors’ tales, carried on the wind like secrets best left unspoken. Here, the sea ruled everything, its storms a reminder of its unrelenting power, its rare moments of calm a fleeting grace. At the heart of the village, an ancient inn leaned against the wind, its timbers groaning with age. Inside, villagers gathered in uneasy silence by the hearth, their words low and deliberate. They spoke of a thing—a presence—they called the Lantern Man. “Don’t follow the light.”, muttered old…

There is a legend that few people know about. If you stand in front of the mirror, in the dark, with a single candle lit, and issue the call, “Here piggy, piggy, piggy.” The big man will appear. When the pig man appears, you must remain absolutely still, or the pig man will devour you in minutes. This was the story told to me by my older brother who claimed he’d done this and survived. I was ten years old at the time. I can’t say that I believed him, and yet, I can’t say, fully, that I didn’t. It was a really hard story to believe but then, there were stranger stories that turned out to be the absolute…

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…

The village of Driftwood Cove sat at the edge of the world—or so it felt. Waves crashed endlessly against jagged cliffs, their spray licking the stones like hungry tongues. The cries of gulls mingled with the low whispers of old sailors’ tales, carried on the wind like secrets best left unspoken. Here, the sea ruled everything, its storms a reminder of its unrelenting power, its rare moments of calm a fleeting grace. At the heart of the village, an ancient inn leaned against the wind, its timbers groaning with age. Inside, villagers gathered in uneasy silence by the hearth, their words low and deliberate. They spoke of a thing—a presence—they called the Lantern Man. “Don’t follow the light.”, muttered old…

There is a legend that few people know about. If you stand in front of the mirror, in the dark, with a single candle lit, and issue the call, “Here piggy, piggy, piggy.” The big man will appear. When the pig man appears, you must remain absolutely still, or the pig man will devour you in minutes. This was the story told to me by my older brother who claimed he’d done this and survived. I was ten years old at the time. I can’t say that I believed him, and yet, I can’t say, fully, that I didn’t. It was a really hard story to believe but then, there were stranger stories that turned out to be the absolute…