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…

Nyoka lived in Giverny, where she owned a bakery shop called Reverie. She was beautiful with her long golden curly hair that went to her waist and bright blue eyes. The townsfolk swore that she looked straight out of a fairytale. Nyoka always ensured that everything she baked, from the sweet to the savory, was made ‘just right.’ She aspired always to make people smile and feel welcome in her bakery. Berard, however, disliked Nyoka. He said she was too nice and fooled all the townspeople. He needed to get rid of her, but the only way to do that was to ensure they were alone. It had been raining that day, and he saw her walking in the rain…

Alice arrived at Clare View Point. She had saved just enough money to get there but needed to save the rest for lodging and food. It meant taking other forms of transportation was out. Alice had decided to see if someone would be willing to give her a ride. After all, the last stop she was heading to was pretty close; it would still be a long walk on foot. Alice scanned the faces of the people standing outside the bus station. There stood a handsome man walking to the parking lot. “Excuse me!” she cheerily spoke, walking up to him, who stopped to listen.”By chance, could you give me a ride?” Alice asked. The man looked at her. “Where…

When I was a kid I used to play down by the creek that was behind my house. I’d throw rocks, play with plastic army men, make little houses out of mud and sticks having them sink into the creek. On a particular hot day in July when I was about nine I was sitting by the edge of the creek. I had my feet in the water trying to cool down as the day was unbearably humid. I had my eyes closed and didn’t hear her walk up. “Hello” I heard an older voice say. I open my eyes and see a thin middle aged woman wearing a thin white dress, walking barefoot carrying a box under an arm.…

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 was 10:13 a.m. on a gray Wednesday morning when the internet first went out. Initially I thought it was just the piece of shit app I was scrolling through, but after several failed Google searches I realized the issue stretched much further. I sighed and slammed my laptop shut before stumbling out of bed. I was on the tail end of an especially heinous bender and was feeling a little light on my feet. Life had been throwing me curveball after curveball lately and I was swinging and missing like it was my job. Yawning, I staggered out into the hallway and made my way over to the router. Nestled neatly between a stack of unread books, it blinked…

I sat in the corner of the bar, sipping at my white wine and soaking in the rural atmosphere. It was nice to sit and relax. Work had been crazy as of late. The duties of a Paranormal Investigator seemed almost never-ending. “Hey, I know you,” an old man with a long scraggly beard and red suspenders pointed at me from across the room. “Ain’t you that Hadley Trivett from ‘Ghosting’?” He slithered from his stool and began limping toward me. “Yes, sir,” I winced. “I am. We just wrapped up our latest episode. I’m just passing through here on my way home. We’ll be on hiatus until next season.” I gulped down the remainder of my liquid refreshment. “Well,…

The Spelunker’s Cave had been one of my favorite rides since I was a kid. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was almost fourteen. But, I still loved it. My friends did too. Toni, Andra, Caroline, and I piled into the boat, ready for the darkness. Five other boats were lined in front of us. Ours was the sixth and final boat. A long, long line of amusement park thrill seekers awaited their turns. We jerked forward; whooping and hollering. Toni clapped and whistled. Andra waved her hands through the cool, pumped-in air, and Caroline crooned in deep, ominous tones. “Don’t scare me, y’all,” I laughed. “Oh, poor Lilah,” Toni teased, “boogedy, boogedy.” She pulled my hair from the back…

“Why did I choose this job?” Vanessa wondered. She never wanted to work with people, especially not in mental hospitals. She had always preferred remote work, but for now, this job would do. She handled both day and night shifts because no one else wanted to work with these individuals. She understood why. But who was she to judge? Besides, it was the only way to reduce her sentence. All she needed to do was pass out medication and keep an eye on them—how hard could that be? She did her daily rounds, checking on patients, distributing their meds, and ensuring they were fed. It wasn’t the hardest job, and interacting with most of them was actually enjoyable. Her heart…

Sarah had always been an early riser. Her job as a nurse required it, and after years on the same schedule, her body woke her before the sun even began to rise. This morning was no different. As she shuffled into the kitchen, she flicked on the light and set the kettle to boil. While waiting for her tea, Sarah glanced out the window. It was still dark outside, but she could just make out the silhouette of the large oak tree in her backyard, its branches swaying gently in the pre-dawn breeze. But something was different today. There, among the leaves, she saw a figure. Her heart skipped a beat. It looked like a person, standing perfectly still in…

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 following document is from a journal found in an abandoned mental facility. Please note that the probability that any of this is real is low, and most likely the result of the patient’s broken mind. I doubt anyone will believe me, I doubt any of you who might have stumbled upon this will even care afterwards. This is my story. I’m writing this down because somehow that thing got in here. I don’t know how much time I have, maybe an hour, maybe a few seconds before it breaks the door down. It all started the day I bought my first house. I had lived in apartments and flats, but never owned a place of my own. It was…

The Spelunker’s Cave had been one of my favorite rides since I was a kid. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was almost fourteen. But, I still loved it. My friends did too. Toni, Andra, Caroline, and I piled into the boat, ready for the darkness. Five other boats were lined in front of us. Ours was the sixth and final boat. A long, long line of amusement park thrill seekers awaited their turns. We jerked forward; whooping and hollering. Toni clapped and whistled. Andra waved her hands through the cool, pumped-in air, and Caroline crooned in deep, ominous tones. “Don’t scare me, y’all,” I laughed. “Oh, poor Lilah,” Toni teased, “boogedy, boogedy.” She pulled my hair from the back…

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…

Sarah had always been an early riser. Her job as a nurse required it, and after years on the same schedule, her body woke her before the sun even began to rise. This morning was no different. As she shuffled into the kitchen, she flicked on the light and set the kettle to boil. While waiting for her tea, Sarah glanced out the window. It was still dark outside, but she could just make out the silhouette of the large oak tree in her backyard, its branches swaying gently in the pre-dawn breeze. But something was different today. There, among the leaves, she saw a figure. Her heart skipped a beat. It looked like a person, standing perfectly still in…

When I was a kid I used to play down by the creek that was behind my house. I’d throw rocks, play with plastic army men, make little houses out of mud and sticks having them sink into the creek. On a particular hot day in July when I was about nine I was sitting by the edge of the creek. I had my feet in the water trying to cool down as the day was unbearably humid. I had my eyes closed and didn’t hear her walk up. “Hello” I heard an older voice say. I open my eyes and see a thin middle aged woman wearing a thin white dress, walking barefoot carrying a box under an arm.…

I used to hear in school to never sleep with a mirror facing your bed. People said that mirrors were portals to other dimensions and realities. I always thought it was a load of rubbish. How could a mirror, a simple reflection, be the gateway to something so powerful? Like I was saying, it was something kids in my class used to talk about, but I never actually gave it a second thought until now. I’m a 20-year-old who’s just moved out of my parents’ house, living it up in ‘The Big Apple’. Ironic how they can call it the big apple yet I have to walk 10 miles to get fruit that isn’t coated in additives and preservatives. Not…

It was 10:13 a.m. on a gray Wednesday morning when the internet first went out. Initially I thought it was just the piece of shit app I was scrolling through, but after several failed Google searches I realized the issue stretched much further. I sighed and slammed my laptop shut before stumbling out of bed. I was on the tail end of an especially heinous bender and was feeling a little light on my feet. Life had been throwing me curveball after curveball lately and I was swinging and missing like it was my job. Yawning, I staggered out into the hallway and made my way over to the router. Nestled neatly between a stack of unread books, it blinked…

Alice arrived at Clare View Point. She had saved just enough money to get there but needed to save the rest for lodging and food. It meant taking other forms of transportation was out. Alice had decided to see if someone would be willing to give her a ride. After all, the last stop she was heading to was pretty close; it would still be a long walk on foot. Alice scanned the faces of the people standing outside the bus station. There stood a handsome man walking to the parking lot. “Excuse me!” she cheerily spoke, walking up to him, who stopped to listen.”By chance, could you give me a ride?” Alice asked. The man looked at her. “Where…

Nyoka lived in Giverny, where she owned a bakery shop called Reverie. She was beautiful with her long golden curly hair that went to her waist and bright blue eyes. The townsfolk swore that she looked straight out of a fairytale. Nyoka always ensured that everything she baked, from the sweet to the savory, was made ‘just right.’ She aspired always to make people smile and feel welcome in her bakery. Berard, however, disliked Nyoka. He said she was too nice and fooled all the townspeople. He needed to get rid of her, but the only way to do that was to ensure they were alone. It had been raining that day, and he saw her walking in the rain…

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 following document is from a journal found in an abandoned mental facility. Please note that the probability that any of this is real is low, and most likely the result of the patient’s broken mind. I doubt anyone will believe me, I doubt any of you who might have stumbled upon this will even care afterwards. This is my story. I’m writing this down because somehow that thing got in here. I don’t know how much time I have, maybe an hour, maybe a few seconds before it breaks the door down. It all started the day I bought my first house. I had lived in apartments and flats, but never owned a place of my own. It was…

The Spelunker’s Cave had been one of my favorite rides since I was a kid. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was almost fourteen. But, I still loved it. My friends did too. Toni, Andra, Caroline, and I piled into the boat, ready for the darkness. Five other boats were lined in front of us. Ours was the sixth and final boat. A long, long line of amusement park thrill seekers awaited their turns. We jerked forward; whooping and hollering. Toni clapped and whistled. Andra waved her hands through the cool, pumped-in air, and Caroline crooned in deep, ominous tones. “Don’t scare me, y’all,” I laughed. “Oh, poor Lilah,” Toni teased, “boogedy, boogedy.” She pulled my hair from the back…

Sarah had always been an early riser. Her job as a nurse required it, and after years on the same schedule, her body woke her before the sun even began to rise. This morning was no different. As she shuffled into the kitchen, she flicked on the light and set the kettle to boil. While waiting for her tea, Sarah glanced out the window. It was still dark outside, but she could just make out the silhouette of the large oak tree in her backyard, its branches swaying gently in the pre-dawn breeze. But something was different today. There, among the leaves, she saw a figure. Her heart skipped a beat. It looked like a person, standing perfectly still in…

I used to hear in school to never sleep with a mirror facing your bed. People said that mirrors were portals to other dimensions and realities. I always thought it was a load of rubbish. How could a mirror, a simple reflection, be the gateway to something so powerful? Like I was saying, it was something kids in my class used to talk about, but I never actually gave it a second thought until now. I’m a 20-year-old who’s just moved out of my parents’ house, living it up in ‘The Big Apple’. Ironic how they can call it the big apple yet I have to walk 10 miles to get fruit that isn’t coated in additives and preservatives. Not…

It was 10:13 a.m. on a gray Wednesday morning when the internet first went out. Initially I thought it was just the piece of shit app I was scrolling through, but after several failed Google searches I realized the issue stretched much further. I sighed and slammed my laptop shut before stumbling out of bed. I was on the tail end of an especially heinous bender and was feeling a little light on my feet. Life had been throwing me curveball after curveball lately and I was swinging and missing like it was my job. Yawning, I staggered out into the hallway and made my way over to the router. Nestled neatly between a stack of unread books, it blinked…

I sat in the corner of the bar, sipping at my white wine and soaking in the rural atmosphere. It was nice to sit and relax. Work had been crazy as of late. The duties of a Paranormal Investigator seemed almost never-ending. “Hey, I know you,” an old man with a long scraggly beard and red suspenders pointed at me from across the room. “Ain’t you that Hadley Trivett from ‘Ghosting’?” He slithered from his stool and began limping toward me. “Yes, sir,” I winced. “I am. We just wrapped up our latest episode. I’m just passing through here on my way home. We’ll be on hiatus until next season.” I gulped down the remainder of my liquid refreshment. “Well,…

“Why did I choose this job?” Vanessa wondered. She never wanted to work with people, especially not in mental hospitals. She had always preferred remote work, but for now, this job would do. She handled both day and night shifts because no one else wanted to work with these individuals. She understood why. But who was she to judge? Besides, it was the only way to reduce her sentence. All she needed to do was pass out medication and keep an eye on them—how hard could that be? She did her daily rounds, checking on patients, distributing their meds, and ensuring they were fed. It wasn’t the hardest job, and interacting with most of them was actually enjoyable. Her heart…

When I was a kid I used to play down by the creek that was behind my house. I’d throw rocks, play with plastic army men, make little houses out of mud and sticks having them sink into the creek. On a particular hot day in July when I was about nine I was sitting by the edge of the creek. I had my feet in the water trying to cool down as the day was unbearably humid. I had my eyes closed and didn’t hear her walk up. “Hello” I heard an older voice say. I open my eyes and see a thin middle aged woman wearing a thin white dress, walking barefoot carrying a box under an arm.…

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…