#paranormal

This is the continued part of The Ballerina. Let's begin. The next day, in school. Davian walked over to Amy and tapped her shoulder. Amy looked at him with surprised eyes. He asked: "Would tonight be a good day to study for the midterm for history?" Amy was so excited that her dark prince was asking her. She had to reply quickly before Davian changed his mind. Amy replied, sweetly: "Sure. Let me ask my dad quick."

Why Does My New Born Baby Have Memories Of My Dead Brother? Our baby, Lily, is barely two weeks old, but she's taken to crying at exactly 3:14 AM. It started on the third night in the hospital, a high-pitched keening that rattled the monitors and made me bolt upright. My husband, Jacob, sleep-shy but determined to comfort her, reached into the bassinet. When he came back, his face was pale. "She did it again," he whispered. "She sounded like…like Matt."

I am Joshua L. Greene. And I am responsible for the fire that destroyed Briarwood Winery on October 19th. My reasoning for doing so will be explained in this confession. On the night of October 19th, I stayed at work late to help clean up after the tasting event. We had brought extra glasses up from storage in the cellar, and I was helping clean them so they could be returned to the dusty boxes they called home. My coworker, Sam, was rushing the dishes, leaving remnants of lipstick on the rims.

It was a dark, foggy night, as it really should be whenever something eerie happens. I was walking from my dad’s house over to my mom’s. I’d had a fight with my dad about something, the topic of which I’ve since forgotten, and realized at 17 years old that I was old enough and capable enough to walk alone back to my mom’s house, instead of stewing in my room at dad’s. Besides, both of my sisters were asleep already, so I wasn’t worried about them not getting their homework done or needing help…

I jumped and dropped my paint brush when I heard the front door slam shut. My nerves were immediately settled when I heard the familiar voice of my husband. “I’m home!” My painting could wait. I smiled and made a beeline to the front door. He wasn’t supposed to be back from his work trip till tomorrow. “You usually text me when you’re getting home early,” I commented as I went in for a hug. “I lost my phone. I’ll have to go get a new one tomorrow,” he replied.

Paramedics are incredibly superstitious. It’s surprising how much people will argue with me about this simple fact. “Oh, definitely not. They’re too reasonable, too smart, too calm in a crisis to engage with something as irrational as superstitions.”

This is a story of a boy I met when I was still young. His name was James Elkin, and he lived in the house two doors down from me. We weren’t friends, but I did greet him a few times when I saw him. He always looked small for a nine-year-old and had long, uneven hair.

What is more loyal than a friend but also as sticky as chewing gum? At first glance, the question may seem strange. Well! OK! It's strange. It was asked of me by a drunk friend in the middle of a New Year's Eve party. Let's just say it quickly left my mind. And yet, as short and abstract as it is, it has the merit of resonating with my situation.

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.

My fingers shake involuntarily as I slouch like a giant insect and type this on the computer. I don't want to write it, but I have no choice but to document what happened here. I could write it slowly, thoughtfully, and clearly, but I can't—I've never been a writer, and I'm in no position to turn this into a professional essay. After all, I have to hurry, we all have to hurry. The pieces of plaster that have fallen from the walls are starting to move like little cockroaches, which means I don't…

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…

Welcome the Horrify, A Halloween, and October tales. Where monsters roam wilder, and demons pass through. There will be 31 stories to tell. Throughout October. We had begun with the Haunted series. The tale and horror of The Ballerina. Let's begin and enter the shadows of night.

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.

As usual; I was exhausted after yet another long day at work at an unimportant job in an unimportant place. I have a big social circle of friends and family. Christmas holidays were coming up. Had lots of traveling and festivity related preparations that had to be done by morning. Of course I had to do them all at the last minute because that’s what the cool kids do. Which meant I didn’t get home until very late.

Chapter 1: The Arrival My name is Emily Parker, and I've always been drawn to the mysteries of the supernatural. So, when rumors of a haunted mansion hidden deep in the woods reached my ears, I couldn't resist the pull of curiosity. Little did I know that my quest for answers would lead me into the heart of darkness itself.

I remember that night all too vividly, as if the memories were etched into my very soul. It was a cold, moonless evening, the kind that sends shivers down your spine and makes you wish for the warmth and safety of home. But little did I know that home would offer no sanctuary from the horrors that awaited me.