#paranormal

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.

Most people have never heard someone die. The moaning. The crying. The pleading. The last tortured breath before they go quiet. Most people will never hear those things. I do. Daily. No, I’m not a serial killer on a hellbent mission to cleanse the Earth. I’m a 911 operator. When I took the job ten years ago, I assumed I’d more or less be like an air traffic controller, but for emergency response teams. For a large portion of my job, that’s true. That’s the easy part. Death is harder.

WELL! Turns out he was right, and now “Tilna McGleek” Means “to ever-so-quickly go nuts” – But I’m sure that you’ll find only things that you seek When you stride forth as Grayven McFutz!

I already know what you’re thinking. A gnome? Despite what the term I use might suggest, these creatures aren't rosy cheeked little bearded men with a pointy hats and quaint little tunics. As my friend would later find out, and as I'd feared for a long time, these beings are much stranger and far different from what is typically portrayed.

Ice spread from within my soul. I felt myself falling in silent darkness. Cold... it's so cold... I can't breathe and I can't move... I tried to fight: to open my eyes or recall what happened that rendered me at such a state, only to find my mind equally rigid and frozen. The coldness webbed around my body, squeezing air out of my lungs. It's too cold... My arms reached out in the dark void. Seeking, grappling, pleading for something -- anything, to stop the freeze.

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.

The past is not dead. It is not even past." — William Faulkner • I don't remember who called me about the funeral. I assume it was Aunt Lillian's neighbor, or maybe someone from the church, but the truth is, I picked up the phone, I heard my name, and everything after that is a smear of static and vowels. Now I'm standing on the porch of my great-aunt's house, our family's house surrounded by pines, decay, and a smell I can't name but instinctively hate. The front door is already open.

Evander Adipocere sat in his darkened office as he sipped on the bottle of ginger ale and felt sorry for himself, he might be being harsh, but there was really no other way to describe it. He was about to lose everything, his business, and his freedom. Evander had never been a bad person, in fact, he considered himself quite good. He donated to charity when he could, was always respectful to people even when they really didn’t deserve it, and tried to limit whenever he’d raise his voice or…

Of the early days of the world, after our ancestors crossed the Bering Straight and millennia before any of the tribes we know of today existed, very little is actually remembered. Sure, there are tales of the beginning of Man, and of the Earth, but those are only fables… legends told to explain what was then unexplainable. This, however, is not a fable, but a story. A story probably distorted by time, but at its core true, nonetheless.

STATEMENT OF MICHAEL COLLINS Unnecessary sounds, such as “ums” and “ahs” have been omitted from the following statement for the purpose of making this statement easier to read. Det. Lori Denny: Mr. Collins, thank you for coming, I'm Detective Denny. I would like to remind you that our conversation will be recorded… With that out of the way, how are you doing? Need a coffee or water? I can get one for you.

Once upon a time in a remote village there was a very old house and the people who lived around the house used to say that this particular house is haunted and if people go inside that house many kinds of apparitions can be seen inside this house.There were also a few young boys and girls living in this village who used to laugh at those people who used to say that this particular house is haunted.So one day when it was night time and everyone was sleeping in the village these young boys and…

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.

She arrived without warning one day, tall and pale with a pretty face. Dark hair hanging down, tangling with the wind. It was a Sunday, the only day the mines of Gavinvill were closed. With slender hands curled, she rapped her knuckles on the door. And when it opened, she would simply ask: “Need a stitchin’? Need a fix’en?”

The morning came gently, the way it often did in late spring - without urgency, without noise, as if the world itself had decided to stretch before speaking. Sunlight spilled across the small street in soft, slanted lines. It touched the rooftops first, then the windows, then slowly made its way down to the pavement where it shimmered faintly like water. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle passed, its wheels clicking in a steady rhythm that faded as quickly as it arrived.

A hard copy of the following document was discovered in a disused office suite on the outskirts of Manchester, New Hampshire. Extensive research has so far failed to turn up any information about the former tenants or the provenance of the “report”.  The investigation continues. – A. A. EXECUTIVE SUMMARY This after-action report recommends the complete and immediate abandonment of high-value target SODA BOTTLE despite the costs to be incurred by the Organization as a result. BACKGROUND

In the heart of the city stands an abandoned bakery. It is a high, sprawling complex of brick and granite, and its great smokestack still stands watch over the loading bays where fleets of gleaming trucks once began their journeys to supermarkets across New England.

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.

I have 847 hours of field recording across three years of this work. I can tell you the exact timestamp — 2:14:37 AM — when a door opened by itself in a farmhouse outside Carbondale. Baseline decibel reading before it moved, the spike, the return to baseline in 0.4 seconds. Filed, labeled, cross-referenced with humidity readings and structural reports. Probable explanation still listed as HVAC pressure differential, confirm with building superintendent. The superintendent retired in 2019.

The body hasn’t even gone cold and the police already called for her. The desperation in the officer’s voice on the other end of the line was a far cry from the usual belittling tone she’s met with. “Solomon’s Hotel. Body fitting all your criteria. Please be quick.”

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.