#paranoia

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.

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.

We humans pride ourselves on being social creatures of moral thought. We thoroughly believe that we are superior compared to every other animal on the planet because we are able to perform action only based on morals. Charitable donations, helping the environment around us and simple acts of kindness present a portrait that we concern ourselves with the existence of others. And with that, we think ourselves better than creatures. But we’re not superior. The Un-rapture proved that.

Two Days Before the Harvest Festival Sky’s End Annual Harvest Festival Fall, fun, and tradition! Join us for the annual March to St. Asbeel Stay for the bonfire! - flier in Sky’s End “It’s a church,” Mom said, staring at the stained glass windows of Jesus hanging on the cross. Her narrowed eyes and pursed lips told me she was clearly holding back additional commentary. “It was a church,” I said. “Now it’s a bookstore. My bookstore.” “What?” “I bought it! That was the surprise!”

Note: This is a story I posted on Reddit's nosleep around 2021. They removed it for being "not horror" but I disagree. Yeah, it's comedic. I was a comedy writer for several years and wanted to try writing something funny and creepy. I think it turned out well. -------- A weird thing happened to me recently, and I've struggled with how to talk about it. Basically, there's no way to do it without sounding bugfuck insane, so here it is: ALF spoke to me through my television.

One day, my mommy and daddy decided to buy a new house so we could move out of our apartment. Mommy had just given birth to my baby sister, Anna. She was nine months old, and I was five. My name is Leon.

I want to tell you about what happened with my sister and her boyfriend.  It was a long time ago now, but I still feel like someone ought to know. My sister’s name is Diffie.  I mean, her real name is Eugenia, but no one calls her that.  You know how it goes.  When this all happened, she working part-time at the Food Ministry downtown and living upstairs in our parents’ big old farmhouse.

I never saw the faces of the men who kidnapped me. I'd been too busy working when the gang of them burst through the front door. Like smoke from an explosion, the kidnappers spread through the entire building. They demanded victims and turned our world upside down searching for them. They didn't speak outside of grunted demands and language so blue that if you could see the words spilling from their mouths, it'd be a dam breaking.

Every school has had a teacher during their formative years that all the students hate, or at least seriously dislike. My case is no exception. For me and my classmates, this teacher was Mrs. Rowena Greene. She was the type of teacher that parents often liked because they saw her as a "nonsense" teacher. For us, it was a living nightmare and with good reason.    Now, when I tell you about Mrs. Greene, I think you'll agree that she was anything but a good person. Why she ever chose a profession…

Think about this for a second, when you delete a file, a video, an image, literally anything on the internet, where does it go? Is it technically still out there? Is it in the hands of someone else? Well, I sure as hell found out.

I’ve been thinking of him-er-her (it?) for the past week. I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve barely eaten anything. I quit my job. Or stopped going to work is more like it. I assume I’m no longer employed there. My eyes are sunken in. I sit at my computer day and night mindlessly trying to keep myself entertained… or awake, more importantly. For if I sleep I’m afraid I may never wake up. I’m afraid he - she - or, it will get me. I don’t know what I mean by “get”. I don’t believe it was out to…

I think Captain Gold is worried that I'm losing it. Sometimes I think I might be. I haven’t seen Marty for days. He was supposed to meet me at the Larrabee last night, but never showed. I’m starting to get very concerned. Casey is gone. I think I lost her a long time ago, but now she’s gone for good. It occurs to me that I’m jumping ahead of myself. I need to stop and recollect my thoughts. There’s a lot I don’t remember, and even more that I do, but it might not be true.

"The best memories are made with friends." — Field journal, undated. 1985. — That morning began with brushing. I stepped into the hall and found Sam frozen mid-step, toothbrush in hand, eyes fixed on the bathroom. I followed his gaze. Ray stood at the sink, back to us, scrubbing his teeth in slow, mechanical strokes...up, down, up, down, as if he'd been at it for hours. Sam turned to me, brow knotted. "I just saw him outside," Sam whispered. "What?"

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.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Rain fogged up the window. A soft crackle sounded from the fireplace. It was supposed to be a cold, comfortable night. But I couldn’t help the chill that ran down my spine. My day was spent with powdery mountains and snowboarding and hot chocolate. It was supposed to be a day for me to forget. Tap. Tap. Tap.

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…

Jacky's Prince Of Dreams 1.5+ Psychic Crime Fiction by Andre Michael Pietroschek Disclaimer: No warranties!

The clock was ticking. Like a pickaxe in my skull. It's now 2:45. Fifteen minutes until I hear your footsteps; not that bare feet can make much noise on that gravel road. Seventeen minutes until I hear your broken nails on the wooden door. Blindly scratching away, trying to find the handle. Twenty minutes until your voice is calling out to me. But it will be strangled, like always. It's hard to talk with maggots eating at your vocal cords.

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?

By WedgeOverPotato "What do you seek? What do you hear? What do you fear? For fate is, my Witherin, inevitable to your undying likeness. That man's biggest creation is more of a brute than man itself. That we all clasp our hands together and prance around for mercy till the undying showers us with the pleasure of death, for it is we, whom shall not die." Witherin. For it is we, whom shall not die.