I used to work security at a vehicle safety testing facility – a crash test facility, really – just outside of Gothenburg in Sweden. The place has been around for a long time, and many of the most popular models around here have been tested at this facility. The purpose of security in this context was mostly to keep trespassers out and ensure that doors were locked and alarms primed. There were three of us on the security team; Jakob had the day shift while Micke and I handled the night shift. I was 24 years old at the time, Jakob was around the same age and Micke was in his 50’s. I never actually got to know Jakob very…

It’s funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

“How the hell am I supposed to memorize all of this?” I texted my girlfriend. Century-old floorboards creaked beneath me as I paced back and forth nervously. “It’s gonna be fine,” she responded. “You got this.” I sighed. It felt like a thousand rubber bands were wound tight around the base of my skull, slowly squeezing every last bit of meaningful focus out of me. I knew I had to do well on this test. Anything less than an 80% would surely get me dropped from the class and if I got dropped from the class, I knew that I would never end up becoming a paramedic. And if I never became a paramedic, I knew that I would never…

Fran Laurent was a curious girl. She was a good student, kind and soft-spoken, but the other children avoided her. She liked to sit on the grass near the school fence, making little houses out of sticks and leaves. She rather enjoyed her time this way. In fact , she didn’t mind being alone, because her one true friend in the world was always there for her, waiting patiently at home. He was a beautiful black cat she had named Mr. Midnight. “Good morning, Mr. Midnight!” She greeted her cat on a frigid Monday morning. “Hello my dear Fran! Did you sleep well?” Mr. Midnight replied, stretching. His silky dark fur reflected the overhead light like a shard of obsidian.…

It’s funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

Fran Laurent was a curious girl. She was a good student, kind and soft-spoken, but the other children avoided her. She liked to sit on the grass near the school fence, making little houses out of sticks and leaves. She rather enjoyed her time this way. In fact , she didn’t mind being alone, because her one true friend in the world was always there for her, waiting patiently at home. He was a beautiful black cat she had named Mr. Midnight. “Good morning, Mr. Midnight!” She greeted her cat on a frigid Monday morning. “Hello my dear Fran! Did you sleep well?” Mr. Midnight replied, stretching. His silky dark fur reflected the overhead light like a shard of obsidian.…

“How the hell am I supposed to memorize all of this?” I texted my girlfriend. Century-old floorboards creaked beneath me as I paced back and forth nervously. “It’s gonna be fine,” she responded. “You got this.” I sighed. It felt like a thousand rubber bands were wound tight around the base of my skull, slowly squeezing every last bit of meaningful focus out of me. I knew I had to do well on this test. Anything less than an 80% would surely get me dropped from the class and if I got dropped from the class, I knew that I would never end up becoming a paramedic. And if I never became a paramedic, I knew that I would never…

It’s funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

“How the hell am I supposed to memorize all of this?” I texted my girlfriend. Century-old floorboards creaked beneath me as I paced back and forth nervously. “It’s gonna be fine,” she responded. “You got this.” I sighed. It felt like a thousand rubber bands were wound tight around the base of my skull, slowly squeezing every last bit of meaningful focus out of me. I knew I had to do well on this test. Anything less than an 80% would surely get me dropped from the class and if I got dropped from the class, I knew that I would never end up becoming a paramedic. And if I never became a paramedic, I knew that I would never…

Fran Laurent was a curious girl. She was a good student, kind and soft-spoken, but the other children avoided her. She liked to sit on the grass near the school fence, making little houses out of sticks and leaves. She rather enjoyed her time this way. In fact , she didn’t mind being alone, because her one true friend in the world was always there for her, waiting patiently at home. He was a beautiful black cat she had named Mr. Midnight. “Good morning, Mr. Midnight!” She greeted her cat on a frigid Monday morning. “Hello my dear Fran! Did you sleep well?” Mr. Midnight replied, stretching. His silky dark fur reflected the overhead light like a shard of obsidian.…