#paranoia

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…

I know, what a generic thing to talk about in a story like this, as stories about creepy dolls were shared around to death, but hey, surely someone on here will be interested in what I am talking about as I have something similar to share.

It’s been three years since the day I fled from that abandoned building and discovered the truth about the hanging shadow glitch in Luigi’s Mansion, witnessing that disturbing cutscene. I haven’t been able to sleep at all recently. For those wondering, yes, it was me—the original person who wrote about the shadow.

My therapist told me that writing about things could help. She kind of looked away when she said it, so I’m not sure she believes that. If I’m honest, I think she just doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It doesn’t matter though. I’m gonna write about it anyway. I’m gonna write about it because it DID happen, and it doesn’t matter what she thinks. At least if I post it here, someone might actually read it. If I post it here, maybe it can help. I should probably start with the move.

My therapist suggested I start writing my thoughts down in a journal, saying it will supposedly help me understand and process my emotions, and I’ll get to know myself better as a result. I am sceptical, but what the hell, I’ll give it a shot! I have never kept a journal before, so I have no clue how to start… Uhm, hello, I guess. I’m me and I’m writing this to myself… Do I introduce myself now? To whom? I already know myself, and I highly doubt anyone else is ever going to read this, except my…

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.

I do not know this man. I do not know this man in the mirror. The one staring right back at me, moving his eyes to reflect wherever I look. He does every single thing I do. Makes every single face, pokes back at fingers aimed against the glass, and turns his back when I turn mine. To the untrained eye, it looks as any normal reflection does; behaves as any mirror is designed to do. There is nothing obviously out of the ordinary that would arouse suspicions otherwise.

In the late 18th century in upstate New York a pastor and his family; his wife, young daughter, maid and himself were all found dead inside their home. Cause of death was identified as quadruple suicide.

This morning, I cleaned out my closet to create space, and I discovered a plastic bin filled with childhood memories. Being sentimental, I removed the bin and began searching through it. The bin mostly contained artwork from my elementary school years, and the majority of them were scribbles or fingerpaintings on bright construction paper. In particular, a crayon drawing of my entire 3rd grade class drew my attention. I have to say that I must have been quite the artist back in the day because…

There are stories that cling to the edges of reality, rumors whispered in bars by old sailors with trembling hands and distant eyes. Stories of ships that drift into the harbor with no crew, no signs of struggle... just eerie silence. But until last week, I thought they were just that... stories.

*Disclaimer: This story was based on true events that have happened to me* Everyone has that eerie sensation some time in their life. Some are able to explain the phenomenon, while others can’t. It’s that feeling of someone, or something, watching you. It’s that unknown experience when either dread or curiosity can get the best of you.

A single unfinished opera entitled 'The Matinee of the Damned' is an incomplete and cursed piece of music that has plagued the eyes, ears and hearts of those who bear witness to this piece and has taken the lives of those who dare to try and finish the ballad.

Before my best friend's wedding, we rented a cabin in South Carolina from a company called Moose Estates. We stayed there a full week with four of our closest buddies who were the rest of the groomsmen. The cabin was situated near Redwood Lake, and a river named Cripple Creek fed into the lake about a half mile from the property. It really was a peaceful place. I remember lying in bed and being able to hear the river babbling along if I listened close enough. There was an eerie calmness that…

In 1976 a new roll coaster was unveiled in Kings Island amusement park in Mason, Ohio. The roller coaster was called 'The Depths' and was at the time the longest roller coaster ever built; and it was only to be operated during October to celebrate Halloween. Having an 'annual' coaster was the park's latest idea of a holiday gimmick to keep attendance up during the chilly autumn season. Their big promotion and tagline for the coaster was: 'While in the Depths no can hear you scream'.

Earlier in the month, I was sitting on my window seat and daydreaming, watching the sun disappear behind the Sierra Nevada mountains. I had been reading a crime novel when I recalled an old family tradition. During the holidays, my mother would light candles and place them on the window sill. As I was growing up, I never knew the real purpose of lighting these candles. I always thought they were a part of decorating our house for Christmas, and my mother insisted that the candles helped Santa…

In case you’ve been following along with the events at the gas station on my blog, I apologize that my website was taken down so abruptly. For some reason, the city council found my public record of local events to be “troubling”--to the point that they hired a fancy Orwellian legal team to bury me in cease and desists. I tried fighting back, but as of last week, it looks like my entire site has been retroactively erased from existence. Presumably, these are the same guys who’ve been scrubbing…

In 2007 I had taken a trip to Walt Disney World with my six year old son. It was our first family vacation since my husband had passed way, and so I wanted to make sure this vacation was as memorable and fun as possible for my son. My son's favorite movie at the time was 'Pirates of the Caribbean' and as a result we spent many hours in Fantasy Land. Time after time my son insisted on returning to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, each time he seemed more eager than the last.

It was just like any other day when I received the call. I had been sketching the horizon for the past hour when my phone began ringing with with an unfamiliar number. I would have ignored it if the call hadn't been from my home town. Fast forward 24 hours later, and I'm sitting in a stark conference room and waiting for a team of doctors to arrive. I would have never imagined myself in this position. Who could? My mind was racing, and I wished that the doctor had given me a clearer explanation…

For my niece's sixth birthday I bought her a Barbie doll. She loved dolls and stuffed animals, and loved playing pretend with them even more. Whenever I stopped by my sister's house I could always hear my niece playing with her toys, speaking to them as if she was having a wonderful conversation and would sometimes make her dolls talk back.

The nonstop pitter-patter of the cold rain against my bedroom window set the mood. I found myself rubbing my eyes, unable to follow the now swaying lines. My book was a jumbled mess of dyslexic text. I spent another minute trying to decipher the words, but my exhausted state of mind could not put meaning to them. I folded the top right corner of the page and gingerly placed Bram Stoker’s, Dracula, back on the windowsill.