#psychological

Her head felt hazy. Something was wrong—she could feel it, the way you feel a storm before it breaks. Something bad was coming. She tried to open her eyes. Her body felt heavy, weighted down, as if invisible hands were pressing her into the floor. And somewhere close, someone was crying. Her eyelids fluttered open. A girl was lying on top of her, weeping into her chest. Panic surged through Jasmine—she shoved the girl away before her mind could catch up with her body.

It's hard to imagine strange things like those you could hear on the road from chance fellow travelers. The muffled clatter of iron footsteps bringing a soothing rhythm to the capricious flow of life. Fragrant steam rising above an almost cozy little table infecting the soul with a sense of weightlessness. And memories out loud free from the etiquette of dependence.

Call me tasteless but I enjoyed running Southern Fried Murder. Growing up, I loved horror movies, especially slashers, but as I got older I became more drawn to true crime… To the real life monsters walking among us. Like most people, I was initially drawn to the sensationalized Bundys and Dahmers of the world but the local cases scared me more. I became more intrigued by the murders and vicious crimes that happened in my neck of the woods here in the American South. These were also the crimes…

There is nothing beyond our simple lives. This is what I'm told by mama and papa but I don't agree with them- they don't know this but I've already learned about the "Great Big Ones". Who are the Great Big Ones you might ask? well they call themselves "Humans" whatever that means... but to us they are akin to gods. Our lives revolve around them as much as it does food or water because they provide many things: shelter, food, water, and even protection against other bugs but with that comes a…

​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.…

Many people say Disney is a shady company for many reasons, but not everyone truly knows what's going on with them. Some people say the tunnels hide something; some say there used to be a tropical resort; some even say Disney kills.

There resides a local legend in Salem, Alabama. One tucked far away in the corner of rural America, far off the beaten path, and far from even the middle of nowhere. A legend that rears its head only once a year: Pope's Haunted Farm.

it starts with the reporter Dan come to ask my story, a no name reporter who wanted fame for himself but nobody, even police believe him enough to give him my story, so he secretly came into my room in the asylum, pretending to be my relative Dan:*coming to the cell* hey, your the guy named Alex, the white haired with red scarf you always hold like a lifeline? I heard you were hard to the staff I was barely awake in my white room y-yes?

It was Halloween in the year 2015. I remember waking up at 7AM, feeling stoked for Halloween and watching Charlie Brown. I saw people from outside my neighborhood decorating at the last minute because a lot of people like slacking on Halloween.

The ring light is staring at me like a cold, neon eye. I hate how much I need it. "Okay, so for the night-time routine, consistency is literally everything," I tell the camera, rubbing the serum into my cheeks. I'm watching the little heart icons bubble up the side of the screen. 1.8k viewers. My pulse does that little flutter, the one that feels like winning. "If you aren't double-cleansing, you're basically just..."

College was supposed to be more fun. Especially considering how lame high school was for a quiet geek like me. These were supposed to be the best years of my life but so far, they'd been far from it. It was more of the same alienation I’d felt in high school. I don’t know, I guess I could only hope grad school would be better. Maybe if I went to a bigger university or moved to an actual college town with lots of culture, things would be different.

[This is not a story about objects] It's that time again. The time to clean up unwanted, unneeded things. It's not always fun, but not always that bad either. With each object there are memories. Those can be difficult to get rid of, though there are some simpler cases. For example, simple candy wrappers are easily thrown away, while something like stuffed animals that have known and given warmth are more difficult. I don't like to admit it, but it does get easier eventually.

{ Isolation in Minnesota countryside and an unexpected snowfall in the heart of Spring set the scene for a nightmare of vast whiteness. } “Do you wanna hear a strange story?” K. asked me one winter evening. He did not even wait for my answer, because he knew how much I loved talking about unexplained cases.

"Breaking news tonight. Authorities have discovered the remains of four local Yakuza members in the Port District." The news anchor’s voice crackled from the TV. Her face flickered ghostly blue against yellowed, peeling wallpaper. Bad reception. Static danced across her eyes like digital maggots.

“HELP!” I yell, at least I believe I’m yelling, the feeling of my skin bubbling, is it bubbling… I don’t know. I can feel it, but I don’t know if it is what I think it is. I am or at least what I believe I am… I don’t know. It’s cold wait what does cold feel like again sigh I think I sighed. My body grows old and decayed, my flesh turning a colour I cannot perceive, my hair falling out of my grotesque scalp or what’s left of it. He… no, IT did this. My senses have been stripped away from me, I…

We bought the house in March, which my mother always said was the worst month to make decisions. Too late for winter clarity, too early for spring hope. The month where you mistake exhaustion for certainty.

“More red… it needs more red, there isn’t enough red.” “Where the hell is that stupid marker!? I just had it in my hand a moment ago!” “It must have fallen under the desk…” —I crouched down and started feeling around with my hand for the missing color from my pencil case palette.— “Ahhh, here you are.” —I picked up the marker from the floor with excitement, only to be met by the sour face of my homeroom teacher, staring right at me.—

By WedgeOverPotato

“Where do you live, man?” I asked, reaching out to grab the Skol can left by the window. “Cuiabá.” “Man… that’s a beautiful city.” “You’ve been there?” “Yeah. Made a lot of deliveries in the capital.” “So why do you want to go to Nova Esperança?” “For my grandmother’s wake…” “I’m sorry, kid. Losing a relative right at the start of the year…” The young man lowered his head.

"What are you gazing at...? What's there outside the window...?" "Outside the window...? Nothing." "Nothing? Looking at nothing?" "It's her... my... my ghostly girl." Beloved women... They, like a sudden downpour, come, turn you into themselves, and vanish… leaving you… leaving you alone with your own shadow called sorrow.