#paranoia

THERE EXIST such places where every fragment, every corner is pierced by pain, suffering, darkness, and oppression. It is so dense and stifling there that in some places it makes you want to vomit. The mind is drilled through as if by an auger, and every second of drilling feels like an eternity. It is as if someone has sat on a chair full of spikes in a dark, merciless torture chamber full of cruelty, blood, and pain. Time is not measured here because time does not exist here at all.…

Annabella was a Witch, She lived in a house made of sticks. Through the woods, and over a stream Where very few people are ever seen. ~ In the village, she loved a man. Jeremiah, as he stands. But no matter how hard Annabella tried... She could never catch Jeremiah's eye. ~ In her House of Sticks, she cried. Feeling her heart slowly die. But soon a vile plan was born, To get Jeremiah, this, Annabella had sworn. ~ For the toxin of love: an ingredient was needed.

The first warning sign came about eighteen months in. I remember it precisely because I had been sweating my ass off—hunched over a server tower in the equipment room, staring at temperature readouts that were climbing way too fast. The fan wall was choking itself to death on all the dust bunnies that accumulated on its intake. I couldn’t afford to take a server offline, since it communicated with all the others. Which meant I was doing it live—on my hands and knees, myself.

Jeanette moved closer to the glass, and besides a bony hand, she also saw the terrifying face of an old woman with a scarred face and 4 eyeballs. Jeanette was completely paralyzed, not knowing what to do. "Who are you and what do you want from me?" "You are the one who summoned me along with your friends during the evening séance, remember that, Darling?" "Siltani, come here" — and so I came, from the Land of the Whispering Bones and Shadows, here I am, and from now on I will give you no…

It’s 3:00 AM. The house is quiet. My room is pitch black save for the blue light of my monitor, and my reflection is starting to look like a stranger. I’d heard about Megan Is Missing. Heard it was controversial, banned in some places, a found-footage nightmare that leaves you terrified to blink. Naturally, I had to see it. A torrent file, a quick download, and there it was: a murky, grainy file on my desktop, waiting.

Mr. Pike arrived shortly after noon. I knew it was him before father said anything. There was something about the way the man approached the house that made him uneasy. Most visitors, as in would imagine, would look towards the farmhouse first. Not Pike. He looked straight to the woods. He came up the road in a dark green truck that coughed smoke behind it and rattled like loose bones. The truck stopped near the barn, but Pike didn’t immediately get out of the truck.

By the end of our first week, father had stopped talking about Boston. That was how I knew he was happy. Every morning he woke before sunrise, dressed without lighting a lamp, and went outside with an axe over one shoulder. By breakfast, he had already split enough wood to last us for several days. He repaired the barn roof. He cleared the weeds from the garden for mother. He even found an old plow beneath a pile of rotten boards and spent the better part of two days repairing it.

Hynensborgs Skogar Det höll på att bli höst i staden Hynensborg, en av årets mörkaste och regnigaste perioder. Det är också den tid då unga människor vill fördriva tiden med något, då folk ofta sätter sig tillsammans runt en eldspruta och berättar mörka historier för varandra. En grupp kemistudenter och vänner – Noah, Freyr och Vidar – bestämde sig för att spendera en av septemberkvällarna under den inledande helgen på precis det sättet... Befriade från vardagens bekymmer och oro bestämde de…

I was bored out of my mind at two in the morning, scrolling through random, dead forums on my phone, when I found the link. It was dropped in the middle of a five-year-old message thread on a public archive site, with no context other than a string of numbers that looked like coordinates. Curiosity got the better of me. I clicked it, and my phone automatically opened Discord, pulling me straight into an invite screen.

November 1756 Quebec Canadian Wilderness

There are plenty of abandoned places at Walt Disney World. Most people know about River Country. But there was another one. A place almost nobody remembers. Willie’s Fishin’ Adventure! It opened on February 16, 2002. Exactly four years later, on February 16, 2006, it closed. And that was supposed to be the end of it. It wasn't. I first heard about Willie’s Fishin’ Adventure! because of an old attraction list.

Most people know about Disney's famous parks. Fewer know that Disney has experimented with smaller attractions around Florida. These included traveling exhibits, promotional experiences, and temporary entertainment venues. Most were documented, but some quietly vanished.  Growing up in St. Petersburg, an older neighbor occasionally mentioned one place when Disney came up. Oswald's Play House. Whenever someone brought it up, the conversation always ended the same way.  "...It closed after…

A beautiful August afternoon, with its gorgeously blazing sun, encouraged them to hit the road and abandon the comfort of their couches and armchairs. Out of the corner of his eye, Garreth admired the lovely surroundings of Woodblacke. • It's so beautiful here! - he said aloud to his travelling companions. Nick nodded in agreement. Susan had just woken up and began her ritual of stretching in the back seat. • We're almost there, just a few hundred metres more and we'll be at our destination…

Julian Vance had always been the forgotten child. While other teenagers spent their weekends with friends, he spent his days in the basement restoring antique dolls and carving porcelain into lifelike figures that seemed capable of almost breathing. Every scratch of his tools hushed the noise in his head, a place where nobody could interrupt him. His younger sister, Chloe, however, always found a way. To her, breaking Julian's creations was entertainment, and to their parents, it was simply…

Samantha was a young, pretty, active girl with a positive outlook on life. Above all, she was down-to-earth, didn't believe in any ghosts, phantoms, or other such things, and had a very analytical mind. She loved long forest hikes, which relaxed and calmed her down greatly, allowing her to rest and escape from everyday problems. That day, right after finishing her lectures, she decided to head down to the river. She packed her backpack, put on a denim jacket, denim pants, and sturdy, heavy…

She opened her eyes when the car finally stopped. Ana had gone to bed late the night before, talking on the phone with Marina about nonsense, not remembering she had to wake up early for this…ritual as she liked to call it.

My wife and I always dreamed of living off-grid on our own land, but we were never able to afford anything—not even a small quarter-acre lot. We were sick of paying rent for shitty houses and apartments that charged way too much for the condition they were in, so we started wondering if there was anywhere we could actually afford to live.

Stacy was a diligent office worker-meticulous and thorough. It was a typical, sunny summer day, just like any other. She sat at her desk, buried under a pile of documents to sign and a long list of emails to send. Nothing indicated that her peace was about to be shattered. Her colleague, Michelle, walked into the office, announcing that there was an issue with the ventilation system and that the computers were running louder than usual, though no one knew why.

I didn't open the door. On mine and violets life I didn't, but my head was pounding the same way as it did when I went through a door.

I didn’t really like either of the sons-of-bitches. The only problem was I was married to Ed. At thirty years old, I’d gone from Sharon Wilson to Sharon Wam. I know. Changing to such a silly last name was only an awful beginning to an awful marriage. Unlike me, Ed didn’t like going out much. He much preferred to drink at our little house on East University Street. The married months weren’t kind to us. Ed’s curly golden hair was always a mess, his good-looking face hindered by constant anger.