Hey! Hope this is allowed! I make creepy story narratives. My wife had a nightmare the other day about a tall lady!

So I made her this creepy story to match!

Check it out here:

https://youtu.be/VSTgRsawM3s

It’s Hiroshi Nakamura again. My last post was two days ago, but it feels like an eternity. I’ve lost count of the days since the soldiers came. Time has folded in on itself, a meaningless cycle of darkness and desperation. Writing has become harder; my thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, fleeting and incoherent. But I keep writing, because I need to hold on to something anything even if it’s just my own voice.

The food is almost gone. Two cans left, both dented and rusting. The rain hasn’t come in over a week, and the water in my pots is nearly empty. I’ve been rationing what little I have, but it’s not enough. My stomach aches constantly, gnawing at me like a second, quieter presence. It’s not the hunger that scares me most, though. It’s the thirst. My throat feels like sandpaper, and every breath is a reminder of how fragile I’ve become.

The thought of leaving terrifies me. The world outside is no longer a place I recognize. It’s silent during the day, unnaturally so. At night, though, the sounds return dragging, scratching, the occasional distant scream. Once, I thought I heard my wife’s voice calling my name from the hallway. It wasn’t her. I know it wasn’t, but I’ve been alone long enough that I almost opened the door anyway.

I miss her. God, I miss her so much. I miss the way she used to smile when she caught me watching her, the way her laughter could fill a room and make me forget everything else. I miss the small things the way she’d hum while making tea, the way her fingers would brush against mine when we walked side by side. I even miss the sound of her scolding me when I left my shoes in the wrong place.

She’s gone, and I don’t know how to exist without her. It’s like someone reached inside me and tore out a piece of my soul, leaving this gaping, hollow wound that nothing can fill. Every corner of this apartment is a reminder of her. The empty chair by the window, the tea cups she loved but never got to use again, the faint smell of her perfume that still lingers in the bedroom. It’s unbearable. And yet, I’m terrified to leave because it’s all I have left of her.

Two weeks ago, I watched her die. Or maybe she was already gone by then. The soldiers didn’t see her the way I did. To them, she was just another infected. But to me… to me, she was my world. And when they dragged her body away, I didn’t just lose her. I lost everything.

I’ve been thinking about ending it. I don’t want to admit that, even to myself, but the thought is there, whispering to me in the quiet hours of the night. What’s the point of going on? What am I fighting for? The world is falling apart, and I’m just a single thread in a tapestry that’s unraveling faster than I can hold it together. Sometimes, I wonder if it would be easier to let go. To step into the water and let it take me like it took her.

But then I think about her. Not the thing she became, but the woman she was. Her strength, her kindness, her determination. She fought so hard, even when she knew the odds were against her. I can’t let her down. I can’t let her memory fade. I owe it to her to keep going, even if it’s just for one more day.

The internet is still working, though barely. I’ve been clinging to it like a lifeline, refreshing forums and searching for anything that might help me understand what’s happening or what I should do next. I found a forum post yesterday, someone claiming to have seen a military convoy near Chiba. They said the soldiers were rounding up survivors, taking them somewhere. A quarantine zone, maybe? Or something worse? I don’t know if I believe it, but it’s enough to plant a seed of doubt. Enough to make me consider leaving.

I’ve started preparing. What little food and water I have, a flashlight, some batteries. I found a rusted kitchen knife in the drawer not much, but it’s better than nothing. I don’t even know where I would go. Chiba is too far, and I’m too weak. But I can’t stay here. Not anymore. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the air is heavier, and the sounds outside are getting closer. Last night, I heard something scratching at the door. It wasn’t human.

I don’t know what to do. The last two days have been unbearable. Should I stay here and let the walls become my grave, or should I leave and risk facing something worse out there? I’ve read so many desperate posts from others, and no one seems to have answers. Everyone is lost. Just like me. I’m so tired, so scared. But I can’t let this be the end. Not like this. Please, if anyone is out there, tell me what to do. Tell me there’s still hope. Tell me I’m not alone.

The longest night is almost over. Tomorrow, I’ll make my decision. Stay or leave. Fight or surrender. Live or die.

I stay there, watching as the doctor and Miguel walk away. My mind is far too awake to rest, though my body is exhausted. I see them talking, though I can't hear what they're saying. I can see the concern on their faces, especially on the doctor's. She moves her hands quickly, as if she's explaining something that worries her deeply. Miguel nods, seeming to give her his full attention, but then he suddenly stops, looks at me through the window in the door. I feel caught by his gaze, as if he's caught me in the act of spying, though I really can't stop watching them.

Miguel makes a gesture with his hand, something subtle but enough for the doctor to pause, look toward the door, and then, without saying anything more, they walk away. The door closes behind them with a soft sound that seems to break the silence that's taken over the room. I'm left completely alone.

The loneliness hits me immediately. I feel empty, and at the same time, full of a fear I can't understand. My head spins, my thoughts race back and forth, and all I feel is confusion. I want to rest, I want to sleep, but it's as if my mind is completely awake, as if I can't escape what just happened. The images of what I did earlier—the food, the disgust, the anguish—are still there, floating before my eyes, and I can't stop thinking about everything I shared with them.

I turn over in the bed, trying to make those thoughts disappear, but every time I close my eyes, the same images come back. My throat is dry, my mouth tastes strange, as if there's still something there that shouldn't be. My body feels heavy, as if I'll never get out of this bed. I try, I try not to think, I try to let sleep come, but I can't. Every time I try to sleep, it feels like everything is consuming me, like I can't stop thinking about what's happening.

.

.

Miguel and the doctor stepped away from the bustle of the hospital and walked to the terrace, where the cool afternoon air provided a brief respite from the tension surrounding them. They sat across from each other, each with a steaming cup of coffee, the distant hum of hospital machines faintly audible in the background. The doctor took a sip, gazing at the city in the distance, and was the first to break the silence.

- "What do you think?" she asked gravely, her eyes still fixed on the horizon.

Miguel adjusted his position in his chair, lightly touching the edge of his cup as if weighing his thoughts. Finally, he leaned forward slightly, as though preparing to share a concern that had been turning over in his mind.

- "I think Violeta has an eating disorder, specifically orthorexia," he said, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of uncertainty as he named the diagnosis.

The doctor looked at him, searching his face for any sign that he might be mistaken. However, Miguel appeared confident in what he was saying.

- "Orthorexia," she repeated slowly. "But... why?"

Miguel let out a sigh, setting his cup down on the table and crossing his arms. He began to speak calmly, as though reconstructing the information he had gathered.

- "It's a pathological obsession with healthy eating. The issue is that the obsession is with being healthy," Miguel explained, still reflecting. "People with orthorexia often severely restrict their diets, not just for health reasons but because of a need for absolute control over what they eat. In Violeta's case, it's clear her relationship with food is distorted. She exhibits extremely rigid behavior... It's likely that any deviation from her strict diet triggers an emotional response as intense as the disgust and despair she experiences when she feels out of control."

The doctor frowned, but Miguel continued, undeterred.

- "What makes me lean toward orthorexia is the intensity of her reaction. The episodes of hunger, followed by such profound disgust... they're not typical of other disorders. The aggression she showed toward the nurse, however, is less common in pure cases of orthorexia. But it might be a defensive response, a manifestation of her frustration and desperation at losing control."

The doctor couldn't help but interrupt, surprised by the connection Miguel was drawing between Violeta's symptoms and the diagnosis he had proposed.

- "But what about the aggression? That bite... I don't think it's just atypical behavior for someone with orthorexia. It makes me think it could be something else... maybe an impulsive behavior disorder or something related to emotional regulation. These outbursts aren't just impulsive; they seem driven by a sense of danger, as though her body and mind are completely overwhelmed. What she did to the nurse... doesn't resemble anything I'd expect from someone with orthorexia."

Miguel thought about what the doctor said. He took a sip of his coffee, then set it back on the table, gazing ahead as he reflected.

- "It's possible..." he said at last. "It's very difficult to diagnose someone when their reactions don't follow typical patterns. I've never seen a patient with orthorexia react so violently. That bite... it was an act of real aggression, almost as if she had completely lost control of herself."

The doctor watched him more closely, recognizing the conflict in his words. She knew Miguel was experienced, but this case was particularly complex.

- "So... what do you propose we do now?"

Miguel remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the coffee cup as he pondered.

- "I need more information... I need to speak with Violeta again, but this time with more time and no pressure. I need her to talk more openly about how she feels, about her relationship with food and these episodes. But I also need to speak with her mother. She might offer an important perspective on the family context and any factors that could have influenced her behavior. Sometimes... eating disorders have deep roots in childhood or the family environment."

The doctor nodded slowly, understanding the need for more time and a broader context. She knew Violeta's case wouldn't be easy to resolve.

- "Alright. I'll speak with Violeta's mother and see how we can arrange an interview. But I also want to be present at the next sessions with her. I'm not sure I can leave her alone with the information you've given her... I don't think she's ready for everything that such a complicated diagnosis entails."

Miguel nodded, empathy evident in his expression, but also a firm resolve.

- "I completely understand. My goal isn't to rush a diagnosis but to help her find a way to deal with all this. We need to be cautious and avoid putting unnecessary pressure on her."

The doctor sighed deeply, still worried but feeling a slight sense of relief knowing that Miguel was so committed to Violeta's well-being.

- "Thank you, Miguel. I really appreciate it. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come."

Both remained silent for a moment, each lost in thought.

I wanna tell about one things that happen with me when i was 7 years old. --------------------prehistory-------------------- When my grandfather died, for about 1 months was something happen in my house. Every time when i remember this story, i just want to cry.My grandfather died so strangely. There are no reasons, he literally died for no reason. When my dad was entering in the room he saw that his father sitting on the floor.Then he call me, and i came and sat next to my grandfather. Before he died, he told me "Take care of yourself" after 10 minutes he died.

After 2 weeks everything was change for me.i saw a dark figures passing by the doors every night.I didn't pay attention, bcs I thought that it seemed to me.But i didn’t see any terrible dreams.It lasted about 40 days. YEAH, 40 DAYS. I think you know, every soul leaves the house after 40 days of its death.I didn't really believe it, but now I know it's true. In the last day, it was 39 days.I usually sleep in my room, but that night I decided to sleep next to my mother. I was slowly falling asleep, but the sounds woke me up. Or rather, rumblings. I still remember those sounds clearly. There is a window on the side of the bed that covers the entire wall. I slept on my side. When I opened my eyes, I immediately saw a window. Our window is a mirror in the evenings. So, the window reflected room. And through the window I saw a Clown who was in the room. I was paralyzed, and I tried to be aware of what I was seeing. He stood motionless, and through that same window(mirror) , looked at me.He began to approach. I turned in his direction and looked at his scary eyes. And I immediately closed my eyes and started screaming and waking up my mother. As soon as he left, my mother woke up. She reassured me. And only now I told her about that day. What she told me was simply terrifying. She said that she also saw the figures but didn’t tell anyone because she didn’t want to scare her. She believed me and said that maybe it was the genie who wanted to scare you. I think otherwise, it was my grandfather. Since then I have had a phobia of clowns.

In "The Revenant's Requiem," Elias Kane, also known by his code name Reaver, finds himself entangled in a dark web of government secrecy and advanced technology. Set in a future where surveillance has penetrated every aspect of life, Reaver must navigate through layers of manipulation and control to unearth the truth behind the powers that shape their dystopian world. As he delves deeper, the lines between ally and enemy blur, forcing him to confront not only the external threats but also the shadows within himself.

Dropping 1/11/25: Youtube Premiere Here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2BJUxYgusc&ab_channel=TwistedTranquilityProductions

RSS Feeds: https://open.spotify.com/show/4AdSNGW3BWQZdMqfi6Ce9f

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/twisted-tranquility-podcast/id1644730068

Also launching in podcast format on the same day and time as the premiere! If you haven’t already, subscribe to The Twisted Tranquility Production channel on youtube, and on Spotify or Apple Podcasts [Twisted Tranquility Prodcast]. We have some long-form series in the works, and we’re keeping the production going strong as we bring them to life!

https://preview.redd.it/g3mh7iykdgbe1.png?width=5000&format=png&auto=webp&s=890a74d6613ecf13083c564713b163b5ebd34ee7

One night, many years ago, I was 15 years old and I was with my boyfriend, my parents and some uncles at the entrance to the village where we lived. It was a quiet evening, and everyone was talking and laughing, enjoying each other's company. Back then, people still liked to get together to chat and laugh about the day's issues. The conversation was lighthearted, until someone mentioned a piece of news that had shocked the country: a famous singer of the time had died in a tragic fire. The news of his death had shaken everyone, because he was well-liked and known for his songs and irreverent way.

However, the tone of the conversation changed. Some of my uncles, with their irreverent and playful ways, began to make jokes about the tragedy. They laughed, saying that, with the fame the singer had, they would certainly have to pay an entrance fee even to the cemetery to see him “perform”. The comments were made in a mocking tone, and with each joke, more laughter echoed through the entrance to the village. I felt uncomfortable about it, but I was too young to say anything. I just watched, a little uneasily, as they continued their joke.

It was then that something strange happened. We all stopped laughing at the same time and turned our gaze to the village gate, as if an invisible presence had caught our attention. And there, standing at the gate, was he. Or rather, a figure that looked exactly like the late singer. He was covered in white bandages, like someone who had just come out of an accident, and he was holding a cigarette in his mouth. Suddenly, he began to dance back and forth, with that same charm and characteristic way that everyone knew him for. The room, which had previously been filled with laughter, was filled with a terrifying silence.

This sight left us in a panic. No one had the courage to say a word, but everyone looked at each other with expressions of pure astonishment. Then, as if driven by a survival instinct, each of us started running toward the house. There was no time to think or discuss; The fear was so great that we went in as quickly as we could, closing doors and windows. Deep down, each of us knew that what had just happened was not a simple trick of the mind.

Later that night, safely inside the house, my mother sat next to me and, with a serious look, said something I've never forgotten: "You don't play with the dead." She firmly believed that my uncles' mockery had drawn the singer's spirit to that disturbing apparition. For her, that was a lesson, a warning that the dead deserve respect. And since that day, none of us have dared to talk about it.

Source: My girlfriend's grandmother.

All my reports are actually real. I document these real stories on video and edit them. For those who are curious and prefer something visual, feel free to check out the content: https://youtu.be/1zFSHVad3kc

Similar real stories: https://www.youtube.com/@PesadelosOcultos-h7s?sub_confirmation=1

Ich kann nicht glauben was meiner Schwester sahra gestern Nacht passiert ist!!?

The morgue, a lonely outpost in the desolate woods, was my sanctuary and my prison. Christmas lights twinkled in distant houses, a cruel reminder of the joy I could no longer share. My wife and daughter, lost in a tragic car accident, haunted every corner of my existence. Their graves, a cold comfort, lay in the cemetery behind the morgue. I lived alone in a small apartment, the darkness a constant companion, a refuge from the pain. I worked the night shift, the silence broken only by the occasional drip of water and the distant howl of a wolf. On this Christmas Eve, the morgue was eerily quiet. All the nurses, doctors, and other staff had left, leaving me alone with the dead. I pulled out a book, seeking solace in fiction, but soon drifted off to sleep. The phone call, a jarring intrusion, woke me. It was Sam, my cousin, wishing me a Merry Christmas and inviting me over for dinner. I declined, the thought of forced merriment unbearable. Then, the camera. A figure, gaunt and grotesque, with a chilling grin, stared intently at the main gate. Two hours he lingered, a silent predator in the night. Finally, I confronted him. He shuffled towards me, offering a hundred dollars. "Let me spend some time with the dead," he rasped. I recoiled, my blood running cold. He turned away, a chilling chuckle echoing through the trees. Then, the crash. A body tumbled from a stretcher in the basement. My breath hitched. It was her. My wife. Warm. Freshly dead. Panic seized me. I raced to the cemetery, only to find her grave gaping open. The body was gone. I spun around, the grotesque figure standing behind me. He shoved me into the yawning hole, the icy earth burying me alive. The darkness consumed me. The silence, absolute.

The marks on gilbrands underpants are terrifying. Whenever I buy clean white underpants for gilbrand, I always find shit marks on them after he wears them, now i get given money to buy stuff for him. Now I clean them as I look after gilbrand because he is incapable of cleaning up after himself due to his disabilities. Now I use to find it disgusting when I would find marks on them but now I am use to it. I am now accustomed to looking after gilbrand and I have gotten to know his neighbours as well. He lives in a nice neighbourhood and I could only dream of living in a nice area like this.

Then one day when I found more marks on his white under pants, I carefully looked at it. I found away to get past the disgusting feeling of finding shit marks on white underpants, and instead I saw a picture on his white underpants. The shit stains on Mr gilbrand underpants had showed a picture. It showed Mrs Kaye being stabbed by Mr kaye and yes there was a lot of shit stains on his underpants today. I was weirded out by it buy then I just put it in the laundry.

There are certain foods that I give a pass to feed Mr gilbrand, because it would add more stains to his white underpants. Then the next day police was all over Mrs kayes house and it was found that she had been stabbed by her husband. I couldn't believe it and I had seen it before it happened to her on Mr gillbrands white underpants, in the form of shit stains. I even saw her putting out her laundry and I never thought that it would be the last time I ever see her.

Then when I was cleaning Mr gilbrands white under pants again, I saw in the form of shit stains, another picture. It showed an aggressive dog attacking its owner Mr Dickson. I put in the back of my head until I heard Mr Dickson screaming out on the street, 6 hours later after I had seen mr gilbrands white underpants stains. His own dog had attacked him for some odd reason and he had died in hospital. So now there were two incidents that came true which Mr gilbrands shit stains had shown on his white underpants.

Then when I was cleaning his clothes on another day, his shit stains showed Mr gilbrand killing me. I'm going to quit my job.

The desert wind howled, a mournful sound against the broken windshield. Dust devils danced in the distance, mocking my fear. My car, a helpless machine, lay on the ground, its tires flat. 24 kilometers behind me, 34 miles of empty road stretched ahead, a lonely ribbon.

Panic choked me. My phone, my only hope in this empty place, was dead. The wedding, the laughter, the joy – all fading into a distant memory.

My legs, heavy with fear, carried me along the road. The sun beat down, each step a torture. Sweat stung my eyes, my throat burned with thirst. Then, a building, tall and scary against the empty sky. A mental hospital.

A shiver, cold and unnatural, ran down my spine. Why here? In this lonely place? But thirst and hunger were stronger than my fear.

The receptionist, a woman with eyes like cold stones, greeted me with a strange cheerfulness. "Welcome," she said, her voice like a smooth snake. "Rest."

The hospital was a maze of dark hallways, the air thick with the smell of decay and something else, something old and evil. Shadows lurked in every corner, whispering secrets I didn't want to hear. The guard, a huge man with eyes like a hungry wolf, watched me with a disturbing intensity. A flickering light at the end of a hallway beckoned. A phone booth, my escape. But as I walked towards it, the world spun. A dizzying feeling washed over me, and then… darkness.

I woke up tied up, my mouth covered, in a room where the light never changed. The air was thick with the smell of mold and something… sweeter, something sickly sweet. A figure stepped out of the shadows, a nurse, her face a twisted mask of wrinkles and evil.

"Years," she rasped, her voice like a frog, "years you've been here. Still haven't learned your lesson?"

Years? I had just arrived! Terror, cold and paralyzing, gripped me. I struggled against the ropes, my heart pounding in my chest. The nurse disappeared, leaving me alone with the growing fear of the unknown. I reached into my pocket, my fingers finding the cold metal of my pocketknife. Two long hours later, I was free.

I ran down the hallways, the echoing sound of my own frantic breaths my only company. I burst through the heavy doors, the guard chasing me, his angry shouts echoing through the desert.

As i was running towards the gate i saw.... A police car....i jumped over the small wall of hospital and ran towards the officer and told the officer everything, my voice trembling with fear and disbelief. He took me inside the hospital and a nurse stepped forward and police officer and nurse started talking....." officer's face, at first doubtful, twisted in horror as he looked at the file the nurse gave him."

"Six years," he whispered, his voice barely a sound. "Six years you've been here."

The world shattered around me. I was a ghost, trapped in my own mind. The officer, his face full of pity, took me back to the hospital. The doors slammed shut, locking me away with the other… patients. And then, I heard them. Whispering voices, getting louder, closer, their words a chilling song of madness. "Welcome home," they chanted, their voices a chorus of despair. "Welcome home." I screamed, a sound lost in the abyss of the asylum.

The air in the abandoned apartment building was thick with the smell of dust and decay. Three friends, Alex, Ben, and Chloe, ventured deeper, their flashlights beams cutting through the gloom. Red emergency lights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to whisper and writhe.

Alex, always the cautious one, shivered. "We should really turn back," he mumbled, his voice barely audible above the echoing silence.

Ben scoffed, "Come on, Alex, it's not that scary. Besides, what if we find something cool?"

Chloe, usually the voice of reason, found herself strangely drawn to the eerie atmosphere. The old building seemed to hold secrets, whispering them on the wind.

As they explored a dimly lit hallway, Alex suddenly vanished. One moment he was beside them, arguing with Ben, the next, he was gone.

"Alex!" Chloe called out, her voice echoing through the empty corridors.

Ben shrugged, "He's probably just playing a prank."

But Chloe's heart pounded. The air grew heavy with a sense of dread. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind, sent shivers down her spine.

They searched frantically, their flashlights beams cutting through the gloom, but found no trace of Alex. A cold fear gripped Chloe. Where did he go?

As they continued their search, strange things started to happen. The flickering lights seemed to mock them, their shadows contorting into grotesque shapes. They heard whispers, soft at first, then growing louder, as if the walls themselves were whispering secrets.

Ben, who had initially scoffed at Alex's fear, began to act strangely. His eyes, usually bright and full of mischief, were now wide and glassy. He laughed at nothing, his laughter echoing through the empty halls, a chilling, hollow sound.

Chloe tried to pull him back, but he resisted, his grip surprisingly strong. "Don't worry," he muttered, his voice a low growl, "it's just a game."

Then, he lunged at her, his eyes suddenly black and empty. Chloe screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the darkness.

She woke up with a gasp, her heart pounding. It was just a dream, she thought, trying to calm her racing breath. But then she saw it - a single, crimson drop of blood staining the faded carpet.

Fear, cold and suffocating, gripped her. Where was Ben? And what had happened to Alex?

She tried to get up, but her legs felt weak. The room seemed to tilt, the shadows swirling and dancing around her.

Then, she saw them. Eyes. Glowing red eyes in the darkness, watching her from the corners of the room. They seemed to shimmer and pulse, growing larger, closer.

Chloe screamed, a sound that was swallowed by the darkness. The eyes were getting closer, their cold gaze boring into her, promising a fate worse than death.

Ravenswood Manor stood hidden at the edge of a dense forest, its cracked windows and rotting wood giving it an eerie, lifeless appearance. Everyone in the nearby town said it was haunted, but that only made it more exciting for four friends—Ethan, Lila, Mason, and Tara—who decided to spend the night there for an adventure. Ethan, always the brave one, convinced the others to join, while Lila, an artistic dreamer, thought the place might inspire her next big drawing. Mason was skeptical, calling the whole idea stupid, but he came along to look out for the group. Tara, quiet but curious, brought along a notebook filled with spooky stories about the house she’d read online.

The group arrived as the sun dipped below the horizon. The house seemed to watch them as they approached, its creaky front door opening almost on its own. Inside, they found broken furniture, cobwebs, and strange old paintings of people who looked like they were staring back at them. One painting in particular caught Lila’s eye: a beautiful woman with hollow, dark eyes holding a black raven. Lila felt drawn to her and began sketching the portrait, even though something about it gave her chills.

As the night went on, weird things started happening. They heard doors slamming in rooms no one had entered, footsteps echoing in the halls, and faint whispers calling their names. Lila began to feel like someone was watching her. Tara noticed her notebook had been messed with, the pages rearranged to form creepy sentences like, “Don’t trust the shadows.” Meanwhile, Mason found a locked room hidden behind an old bookshelf. Inside, he and Tara discovered a journal that told the story of Eleanor Ravenswood, the woman from the painting. She had once lived in the mansion and practiced dark magic, using rituals to keep herself alive by taking the energy of others.

While Mason and Tara pieced together the house’s story, Ethan and Lila wandered into the attic. The house began messing with their minds, showing them visions of their biggest fears. Ethan saw his dad, who had abandoned him as a child, calling him weak and worthless. Lila felt Eleanor’s presence, whispering promises of inspiration and greatness if she stayed. The two started acting differently, more emotional and distant from the others.

When Mason and Tara tried to warn them about Eleanor’s dark plans, it was already too late. Eleanor’s ghost appeared, looking beautiful but terrifying, her hollow eyes glowing. She said she needed one of them to stay in the house forever so she could come back to life. She promised each of them what they wanted most, trying to turn them against each other. Ethan, desperate to feel accepted, agreed to her deal, despite his friends begging him to stop.

As Eleanor began the ritual to take Ethan’s body, Mason and Tara used the journal’s instructions to fight back. In a desperate move, they reversed the ritual, trapping Eleanor—and Ethan’s soul—inside the house forever. Lila, Mason, and Tara escaped as the sun rose, their friendship broken and their hearts heavy with guilt.

Weeks later, Lila painted Ravenswood Manor, unable to forget what happened. In the shadows of her painting, Eleanor’s eyes and Ethan’s haunted face could just barely be seen, a reminder that the house would never truly let them go.

Ok I have a grate story idea that I love its forever in Ashes it’s about a group of survivors who cling on with their supplies though things get rough backs are turned against the wall. It’s supposed to be tragic heartbreaking and have a a little horrifying I have so much planned and thought of tho if anyone would like to see a story of any thing I named please interact with this it’s still in its easy stages, but it’s a good start in my opinion.

I hide in the closet, trying to conceal my breathes. Glass shatters outside, yelling. Momma tries her best, but in the end, she never wins. It's always daddy. I try not to cry as I here momma cry. Daddy must have hit her. I've gotten used to this kind of stuff, so only one or two tears come out. But I can hear Daddy approaching my room. And he's angry. I would usually try and block the door, but I've found that only makes the whipping last longer in the end. So instead, I hide today. Daddy would find me. He always did. I was merely delaying the inevitable. I here my door slam open. Daddy always slams the door when he's angry. I here him looking around my room, rummaging my stuff. I hold back a sob as he crumbles a drawing I made more mommy. Oh well. I can make more. I listen for mommy. Usually she falls asleep after she argues with daddy, although I find it always a little weird that she sleeps on the floor instead of in bed. The closet door flings open. Daddy grabs me and pushes me against the wall. I hold back yelps of excruciating pain as the belt hits my skin like a blade. After a while, though, he stops yelling, and leaves the room. This is when I cry. When daddy leaves, it's okay to cry. You don't cry around daddy.

The next morning, I eat breakfast like I usually do. But I can't find mommy anywhere. I look around everywhere, but there's no sign of her. She must be at work. Daddy is on the couch watching TV, his drink sitting on a side-table. I build up the courage to ask him where mommy is. He doesn't answer. Maybe he can't hear me. I walk towards him and ask again. The moment I do this, he bolts up and screams at me so loud it makes me shiver. "STOP CALLING ME DADDY LITTLE CRAP! GO TO YOUR ROOM UNLESS YOU WANT A WHIPPING! ASK ME AGAIN AND I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU! GET OUT OF MY FACE, YOU DUMB STUPID MIDGET!", and daddy just kept yelling these mean things at me over and over. I sucked it up, though. Daddy gets angry when he drinks his coffee. I run to my room and sit in my bed. I hear daddy going to his room. He's grabbing the belt. No, no. Not again. I run to my room and hide under my bed. He won't find me this time, I think. But daddy would find me. He always did.

I lie in bed, thinking about all the angry things daddy said to me yesterday. I try not to think too hard about it. Daddy get's angry when he has his coffee. I still haven't seen mommy. Usually she'd be back by now, but maybe she has to work an extra shift or something. It's early morning, and as I sit in bed, I hear footsteps coming to my room. Maybe mommy's back! I think. I run to the door just as daddy comes in. He's carrying a doggy cage in one of his hands. Are we getting a doggy?! I think excitedly. But when he opens the cage door, no doggy comes out. "Get in", daddy says. I'm confused. I'm no doggy. Is he maybe talking about a doggy behind me? I check, but it's just me and him in the room. "GET IN THE CAGE YOU STUPID CHILD!", he yells, the walls rattling. He's angry. I would usually try and hide, but this time, he's in my room. He would know exactly where I am. I hardly have any time to react before he shoves me in the kennel, locking the cage door. "Daddy, let me out! I don't like this joke!", I say. "This is no joke", He said. I try and calm down, thinking happy thoughts. This must be part of the joke. He puts me down in the living room. The doggy cage is so small. It's hard to breathe. "Now you can't cause trouble, you little pest. Now you can't do stupid things!". Daddy sounds so angry. I squirm. I keep telling him I think the joke is funny, if he can let me out now. He doesn't flinch.

It's been a week in the doggy cage, and daddy still hasn't let me out. I haven't seen mommy. He only let's me have a little water at a time. I haven't eaten anything yet. My stomach grumbles. I stopped crying the first day after daddy yelled at me for doing so. This was my life now. I've gotten used to it. If I think real hard, I can be wherever I want. Free. Happy. I smile from time to time. Cry sometimes, too. But only when daddy is not around. Because you don't cry when daddy is around.

The front door bursts open as tons of big guys with guns charge into my house. Daddy is in his room. One of the men comes up, and sort of gasps when they see me. I must look pretty ugly, I think. Mommy bathes me, and since I've been in here and she's been gone, I haven't been washed off. "It's okay, kid. Where going to get you out of here", he says. He unlocks the kennel door and pulls me out, carrying me on his shoulders. I take in a big gasp of air. It feels so much more open out of the cage! I see daddy being pushed out of the room, chains on his hand. He looks angry. I want to ask what's going on, but I know daddy will get angry. The man carrying me answers the question for me, though. "We've gotten a call from some neighbors that there's been some major abuse in this household. We're getting you out of here and to safety, little girl. Don't you worry". I'm not sure what "abuse" means, but it sounds like a naughty word. As I'm carried out of the apartment, I see daddy being pushed into a black car, two armed men getting in alongside him. I'm carried in a car too, but get to ride up front. I giggle as I think about how jealous daddy might be that I get the front seat instead of him, but then frown as I think about the round of yelling and whipping I'd get for making a remark like that. "Do you know where my mommy is, mister?", I ask the man driving. He looks over at me, an odd expression on his face. He looks sort of... sad. "She's left to live with the angels", he says. I think about that. These angels sound nice. "Can I meet the angels too?", I ask. He glances over at me. "Not yet, sweetie. Not yet...".

My parents were always paranoid, always issuing strange, cryptic warnings that I’d grown used to brushing off as nonsense.

“Don’t stare at your reflection too long,” Mom would say, her eyes darting nervously toward the mirror in the hallway. “And if you hear someone call your name when you’re alone,” Dad added more than once, his tone grim, “don’t answer. Just leave.”

At the time, it felt ridiculous. What could a reflection possibly do to me? And why would I ever leave my house because I heard my name? It was their way of keeping me scared, I’d thought—a quirky family superstition to keep a kid obedient.

I didn’t think about their warnings again until I moved into my first apartment. It was nothing special—just a small, dimly lit place in the city. The bathroom had an old mirror above the sink, its edges tarnished, but it was functional.

That first night, while brushing my teeth, I noticed something strange. Out of the corner of my eye, my reflection seemed… off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it felt like it moved a split second after I did. I stopped and stared at the mirror, waiting for something to happen. My reflection stared back, perfectly in sync. I laughed it off, blaming exhaustion.

But things only got stranger.

Over the next few weeks, I started feeling like I was being watched—not just watched, but studied. It was subtle at first. I’d catch glimpses of movement in the mirrors, even when I was completely still. Sometimes, it felt like my reflection’s eyes lingered on me for a beat too long, like it was memorizing me.

Then there were the whispers.

They were faint at first, soft murmurs I couldn’t quite make out. I convinced myself it was just the neighbors through the walls, even though the sound was always inside my apartment. Always near a mirror.

One night, unable to sleep, I dug through an old box of family photos I’d brought from home. I found a picture of my parents from years ago, sitting on the couch in our old house. But something about the photo chilled me. Behind them, in the reflection of a window, I saw two shadowy figures. They looked just like my parents—but not quite. Their faces were distorted, their smiles twisted into something cruel.

The whispers started again.

“Jonah…”

My head snapped up, my heart pounding. The voice came from the hallway. My mom’s voice.

“Jonah,” it came again, louder this time.

It didn’t make sense. She was hundreds of miles away. Slowly, I stood and stepped into the hallway. That’s when I saw it. The mirror near the door was shimmering faintly, the glass rippling like water.

Then my reflection stepped forward.

Except I wasn’t moving.

It smiled at me, its lips stretching too wide, too sharp. My knees nearly buckled as I stumbled back.

“Why didn’t you listen?” it said, its voice hollow, distorted.

“What the hell is this?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

The reflection pressed its hands against the inside of the glass, its grin twisting into something feral.

“We warned them,” it hissed. “We warned you.”

I didn’t understand. My parents? Their warnings? None of this made sense.

Before I could move, the reflection began pushing through the surface of the mirror, its body bending and twisting unnaturally. Its eyes were empty voids, pulling the light from the room.

I turned and ran, but the air grew cold, heavy, like thick hands gripping my chest. I didn’t make it far before tendrils of shadow shot out from the mirror, wrapping around me and dragging me back.

I screamed, clawing at the floor, but it was no use. The last thing I saw before the shadows pulled me into the mirror was my reflection—standing in the hallway, perfectly still, perfectly composed. It smiled softly, tilting its head in mock sympathy.

“Now it’s your turn,” it whispered.

The next morning, my apartment was silent. The mirrors were pristine, their surfaces unbroken. If anyone looked, they’d see me standing there, my reflection staring back, smiling faintly.

But it wasn’t me. And now, I’m trapped on the other side, screaming into the void while my reflection wears my life like a mask.

It starts with a thought.

Sarah didn’t believe the story when she first heard it. A classmate had told her about it in passing, the kind of thing you’d dismiss as urban legend. “It only exists if you think about it. The more you think about it, the closer it gets. And when it’s close enough…” He drew a finger across his throat, smirking.

Sarah laughed, shaking her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

Later that night, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the thought crept in. What if it’s real? She could almost see it in her mind’s eye—a shadowy figure, watching her from the corner of the room. She shook her head, laughing nervously.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

As she looked at her phone, her stomach dropped. A single text. No sender. Just three words: Thinking of me?

Her chest tightened. The room felt colder. “It’s just a prank,” she whispered to herself. “It’s not real.”

But now, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She pictured the figure again, clearer this time. A silhouette, dark and faceless, standing just out of reach. The moment the image took shape in her mind, she saw it out of the corner of her eye – something moved on the other side of the room.

She bolted upright, scanning the room. Nothing. Just the shadows playing on the walls. She forced herself to breathe, to calm down. But the thought wouldn’t go away.

And the more she thought about it, the closer it seemed.

By the next morning, Sarah was a wreck. She barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined it again, and every time, she could swear she felt it moving closer. She called her best friend Liv, desperate for reassurance.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Liv said. “It’s not real, all right? You’re just scaring yourself.”

Sarah wanted to believe her. But when she hung up, the shadows in the room seemed darker, deeper.

That night, it got worse.

She tried to distract herself, but every time her thoughts wandered, she felt it. She saw it. The silhouette wasn’t just in her mind anymore. It was in her room, standing in the farthest corner.

She couldn’t see its face—if it even had one—but she knew it was staring at her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, muttering to herself, “Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.”

When she opened her eyes, it was closer.

Now it stood by the dresser, its form more distinct. She could see long, jagged fingers twitching at its sides, as if it was eager, hungry.

She backed against the wall, trembling. “Please,” she whimpered. “I didn’t mean to.”

It tilted its head, its featureless face somehow exuding malice.

And then she made the mistake of thinking about what would happen next.

The instant the thought crossed her mind, it moved. A blur of darkness, faster than her scream, faster than her breath.

The last thing she felt was cold, clawed hands wrapping around her throat.

That night, Liv woke from a terrible nightmare. She dreamt something happened to her friend, Sarah. 

She reached for her phone to see a single text. No sender. Just three words: Thinking of me?

Narrated video version on YouTube: https://youtu.be/ekOnn2Tcigc