#supernatural

This is the culmination of the first series of stories, and the one that ties them together. It mostly stands on its own, but it was written for people who've read the rest. If you've only time for a few first, read 9 West, Stock and The Roll, which it leans on hardest. The full order is: The Road Over Crockanroe, The Hearthstone, Red Jenny, The Keeper's Bowl, The Brandy Pad, 9 West, Caldragh, Stock, Each Uisce, Hungry Grass, The Roll, The Fetch, The Narrows.

In June this year, my son came up in one of my lobster pots. He'd been dead nearly seven years. I'll explain that. But I wanted you to have it first, the way I had it, on the deck of my boat at half five on a Sunday morning in June, with the tide going slack in the Narrows and the gulls screaming and the pot coming up over the gunwale dripping, and something in it that wasn't a lobster. Once you know the rest, you'll not hear it the same.

If you've ever done a walking tour of the Derry Walls, there's a fair chance I've told you about the fetch.

There's a name tattooed on the inside of my left wrist.

The first thing my granny ever taught me about food was that you never, ever leave the house without a bit of bread in your pocket.

The following are notes I wrote on my phone during my night shifts in December 2025, mostly on my breaks, sometimes in the toilets, once lying on the floor of a linen cupboard. I've fixed the spelling and nothing else. I'm posting them because the Trust's investigation has closed, and it says what it says, and this says what happened. — Clare

My wife has been buried in the old graveyard at Killevy, under Slieve Gullion, since the 9th of October 2025.

Documents relating to the events at Slaghtaverty, near Garvagh, 23rd-31st October 2025. Compiled by Hannah Moore My name is Hannah Moore. I'm 35. I'm a freelance audio producer, which means I make podcasts and radio documentaries for people who can afford to pay me, and I record everything, and I label everything, and I keep everything. That habit is the only reason this document exists, and I think it's the only reason I'm not in prison.

Lainy held her cup of coffee to her chest, tried to trap its warmth inside her body. She should've dressed warmer. Autumn had arrived and it was forcing its chill through her body. Logan was twenty minutes late. She tried not to hold it against him, but her nose was starting to run. They had matched online, exchanged only a few messages before he asked her out on a date. It was bold but he was attractive enough, plus the cafe was filled with people. What could go wrong?

[Originally posted as a reply in a thread titled "Irish folklore creatures that are actually terrifying," on a paranormal forum, January 2026. The reply was long enough that the poster later moved it into its own thread. Reproduced here in full.]

Everyone loves Disney and their beloved cartoon characters like Mickey mouse, Donald duck, Goofy, Minne Mouse and Daisy duck, Pluto. But what if I tell you that there's something deeper in Disney that we all forgotten a long time ago? You can grab one of their files and it'll be titled. "The Disney Files" Welcome to this Alternative Universe, where it shows you the files of 'The Dark Reflection of Disney'

“Born to be a star” — that’s what my grandma always said, anyway.

Witch of the Eclipse is an ongoing collaborative AIRPG, presented here as an experimental seriesWhat began as a private AIRPG—a private adventure between the Author and an AI Game Master—has grown into something far larger. Scene by scene, chapter by chapter, the world of Eryndor expanded. The lore deepened. The cast multiplied.At the time of this writing, the campaign spans over fifty-five books.The following works have been edited for clearer prose and a more seamless reading experience.The…

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.

My name is Eliot, and I live in the middle of nowhere. I don’t mean that in the way that I have other people living near me. No, I don’t live in a small town. I mean it in a real, isolating way. My house is about an hour’s drive to even the nearest small town, surrounded by miles of thick and tall trees, even the grass was a bit too tall, where roads seemed to stretch forever before fading into nothing. There are no neighbors for miles.

March 21, 2003 (I think).

I would like to start this story by saying that Ray was great. A perfect gentleman and consummate professional. He didn't send a single untoward word or glance in my direction the entire time we were together. Even when things got scary, he put my safety first. And in spite of everything that happened to us, we're already talking about working together again.

The steady droning of fluorescent lights buzzed through the perpetually cold morgue. A sound that, after three years, had woven its way into my sense of peace as comforting and familiar as my own breathing. Carl muttered under his breath as he wrestled with the finicky coffee machine before it spurted out the coveted drink. It wasn’t just the vending machine that put him in such a grumpy mood. We had gotten another new intern. Some emo kid with a gauge piercing and nose ring, obsessed with…

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…

In the flickering light of the torch, the old gold shimmered with a mesmerizing allure, a testament to the treasures of a bygone era. At long last, the avaricious seekers had found their prize, their hearts consumed by an insatiable hunger for wealth. "We shall be rich beyond measure," declared Sir Hampton with a triumphant laugh, his fingers greedily digging into the mounds of golden coins.