I never thought much about puppets. They were relics of another time, something my grandparents might have found amusing before the age of screens. I’d seen them in dusty attics and antique shops, their faces painted in stiff, eternal grins. They were lifeless, inert things that didn’t deserve a second thought. But that was before it came to town. It started in the early days of October, when the air was thick with the promise of decay and endings. The traveling puppet show arrived without fanfare—no posters, no announcements. One day, there was simply a tent in the empty lot at the edge of town, its canvas tattered but grand, striped red and black like a bloodstained circus. Kids at…

I didn’t remember how I got there. One moment, I was somewhere ordinary—a grocery store, maybe my car—and the next, I was standing in the polished hallway of a sprawling mansion. The floors gleamed like polished obsidian under chandeliers that glittered coldly overhead. The place was immaculate, almost painfully so, but something about it felt wrong. It wasn’t the silence—no, the silence was welcome. It was the way the air pressed down on me, thick and humid, as though the house had lungs, and I was breathing what it exhaled. I wasn’t alone. My brothers were with me, talking quietly near the massive oak doors we’d apparently come through. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their presence was…

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…

After a whirlwind of festivities at a recent wedding, my wife and I decided to take a much-needed break and booked a charming stone cottage for a night at a tranquil hill station. When we arrived at the cottage in the early afternoon, we were greeted by the breathtaking sight of a cluster of cottages nestled along the hill slopes. The road to the resort wound its way up the hill, ending at our destination—a secluded haven at the hilltop, overlooking the city below. The cottages, each made of sturdy stone blocks, exuded a rustic charm and promised a cozy retreat. We chose this place not only for its tranquility but also for my long-standing desire to try astrophotography, as…

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…

I didn’t remember how I got there. One moment, I was somewhere ordinary—a grocery store, maybe my car—and the next, I was standing in the polished hallway of a sprawling mansion. The floors gleamed like polished obsidian under chandeliers that glittered coldly overhead. The place was immaculate, almost painfully so, but something about it felt wrong. It wasn’t the silence—no, the silence was welcome. It was the way the air pressed down on me, thick and humid, as though the house had lungs, and I was breathing what it exhaled. I wasn’t alone. My brothers were with me, talking quietly near the massive oak doors we’d apparently come through. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their presence was…

I never thought much about puppets. They were relics of another time, something my grandparents might have found amusing before the age of screens. I’d seen them in dusty attics and antique shops, their faces painted in stiff, eternal grins. They were lifeless, inert things that didn’t deserve a second thought. But that was before it came to town. It started in the early days of October, when the air was thick with the promise of decay and endings. The traveling puppet show arrived without fanfare—no posters, no announcements. One day, there was simply a tent in the empty lot at the edge of town, its canvas tattered but grand, striped red and black like a bloodstained circus. Kids at…

After a whirlwind of festivities at a recent wedding, my wife and I decided to take a much-needed break and booked a charming stone cottage for a night at a tranquil hill station. When we arrived at the cottage in the early afternoon, we were greeted by the breathtaking sight of a cluster of cottages nestled along the hill slopes. The road to the resort wound its way up the hill, ending at our destination—a secluded haven at the hilltop, overlooking the city below. The cottages, each made of sturdy stone blocks, exuded a rustic charm and promised a cozy retreat. We chose this place not only for its tranquility but also for my long-standing desire to try astrophotography, as…

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…

After a whirlwind of festivities at a recent wedding, my wife and I decided to take a much-needed break and booked a charming stone cottage for a night at a tranquil hill station. When we arrived at the cottage in the early afternoon, we were greeted by the breathtaking sight of a cluster of cottages nestled along the hill slopes. The road to the resort wound its way up the hill, ending at our destination—a secluded haven at the hilltop, overlooking the city below. The cottages, each made of sturdy stone blocks, exuded a rustic charm and promised a cozy retreat. We chose this place not only for its tranquility but also for my long-standing desire to try astrophotography, as…

I didn’t remember how I got there. One moment, I was somewhere ordinary—a grocery store, maybe my car—and the next, I was standing in the polished hallway of a sprawling mansion. The floors gleamed like polished obsidian under chandeliers that glittered coldly overhead. The place was immaculate, almost painfully so, but something about it felt wrong. It wasn’t the silence—no, the silence was welcome. It was the way the air pressed down on me, thick and humid, as though the house had lungs, and I was breathing what it exhaled. I wasn’t alone. My brothers were with me, talking quietly near the massive oak doors we’d apparently come through. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their presence was…

I never thought much about puppets. They were relics of another time, something my grandparents might have found amusing before the age of screens. I’d seen them in dusty attics and antique shops, their faces painted in stiff, eternal grins. They were lifeless, inert things that didn’t deserve a second thought. But that was before it came to town. It started in the early days of October, when the air was thick with the promise of decay and endings. The traveling puppet show arrived without fanfare—no posters, no announcements. One day, there was simply a tent in the empty lot at the edge of town, its canvas tattered but grand, striped red and black like a bloodstained circus. Kids at…