When you think of McDonald’s, chances are that you have fond memories. Whether it be the old commercials with Ronald, Grimace and all their friends, or immersing yourself in childhood whimsy at the small themed playgrounds outside your local McDonald’s, many associate McDonald’s with fun.

Yeah, that’s what I originally thought too.

The year was 2005. I had just come back from working my shift at the police station. Nothing overly eventful had happened, save for the occasional cat stuck in a tree or whatever. Nothing much really even happened in my town at all. Apart from one random missing children incident years before. I say children, but that’s relative. They were in their early adulthood and I was in my mid 40s. But that ended up being a cold case. Although, we would talk about it from time to time at the precinct

Back when I was starting out, I had received a case that five children in different neighborhoods had gone missing without any sign of leaving or a struggle. The thing they had in common was that all of them had a VHS playing in the TV at the time. However, unfortunately, the tapes were mysteriously blank when submitted into evidence. So all we could do was just chalk it up to coincidence. I remember that day, I had a small bit of time to kill acter. And that’s when I remembered it was a yearly yard sale nearby. There was a family on the next block over from me that did this on the exact same day every year. After a few minutes of perusing and checking out what was available, my eyes landed on one particular VHS tape. In thick, squiggly letters I read: “THE WACKY ADVENTURES OF RONALD MCDONALD: WEEKEND AT RONALD’S!”.

I hadn’t heard of this VHS tape before. I thought it was rare. So naturally, I was practically ecstatic about the find. I was grabbing at my wallet to snap it up within seconds.

From what I could understand, there had been seven of these tapes in total. All centred around the titular Ronald McDonald and all his friends in McDonaldland. The group consisted of Ronald, Birdie the Early Bird, Grimace, Sundae the dog, the hamburglar, and two kids called Tika and Franklin.

“Take it. It’s free”

I jolted back as an old woman appeared from seemingly nowhere behind the other side of the table.The video seemed like it might be a fun, lighthearted watch while drunk. Why not spend 40 or so minutes watching whimsical, brainless content?

“Sure, I’ll take it.” I responded.

I reach out to take it and she quickly grabs my wrist. Near bone breaking for an old woman.

“Oh, but, when you see it, it sees you...”

I looked at her and felt like there was nothing behind her eyes. Maybe alzheimers or something. Honestly, this strange encounter made me want to watch the tape even more. ———————————— Once I reached home, I got out the VCR, which, I’ll admit, hadn’t been touched in some time.

The tape began with nothing really interesting happening in the live action segments. Just regular, kids show stuff. Ronald McDonald goofing off and the like. However, the animated segment is where things got just a little more interesting.

Ronald and the gang had been invited to a Halloween party in a mansion and just had to get there. But the thing was, the mansion was so big they didn’t know which room the party was being held in. Poor Birdie had become so terrified they wouldn’t make it that she popped out three eggs, all of which came out with screaming, pulsating baby birds.

It was just the kind of weird stuff I was looking for . I was having a bit of fun with the musical numbers, even.

That all changed about 10 minutes in though. Members of the gang had started going missing one by one, and only Ronald was left standing. As Ronald creaked his way down the crumbling stairs, with his eyes being the only indicator of him moving, he flicked on the light, and let out a scream which sounded like it came from wild animal. Then the scream turned into laughter. Maniacal laughter.

It was the missing kids who disappeared all those years before. But at the same time, everything was different about them. To this day I can remember the grotesque detail on how they looked.

The kids were dressed as the McDonaldland gang.

Hamburgular’s mouth looked as if every tooth, save for one, had been forcefully torn out of his head, blood, cascading down his pinstripe suit.

Grimace was nowhere to be seen, but I didn’t dare question where he was.

The children, Tika and Franklin, were also nowhere to be found. But then again, they hadn’t been seen much the whole episode.

Sundae the dog was a raspy, heavy-breathing monster, his face covered by his fur. I wouldn’t have even known it was him if not for his brick-red hair.

And Birdie had what I hoped to god to be ketchup on her bib, her wings looking like mangled limbs, what sounded like a dozen pops and cracks emanating each time she moved. What looked to be a beak was crudely stitched on to her face, threatening to break off easily.

Meanwhile the McNugget buddies barely looked like their cartoon counterparts. Where there would be crispy, flaky batter, they were just covered from head to toe in blisters.

I felt nauseous. What had they done to these kids?

Theaudio and video started breaking up, but one thing was crystal clear. The gang. Theyjust stood there, smiling at the viewer. Somehow seeming to smile at me.

And then Ronald began edging closer and closer until I could see his seemingly mascara ridden eyes boring into mine. A distorted voice said:

“There’s always room for one more in Mcdonaldland.”

The TV cut to black, and without warning, a pale white hand attached to a red and white striped sleeve shot out of the television along with the top of Ronald’s head peering out. Along with pieces of broken glass stuck into it.

He moved faster than I expected and grabbed my ankle.

He started dragging me in. Behind him I could see the typical McDonald’s mascots holding the kids by the shoulders, all of them laughing with a gigantic grin. However, in all the kids’ eyes all I could see was pain and fear.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!!” I screamed, kicking the clown hard in the face.

“ “Youre going to join us all in here eventually”” Ronald laughed, bleeding from his face

And then, with several clicks from his irregularly contorted bones, he crawled backward into the TV.

It was over. Or so I thought.

For months after, I was constantly plauged nightmares. These nightmares would have me stuck in a hellish version of Ronald McDonald’s house. There would be a distorted, deafening version of the show’s theme song, as if it was being played on a broken tape or vinyl.

During these dreams I would be chased by one of the nightmarish mascots of the Mcdonaldland gang. Each time one would find me, they would stop dead in their tracks, grin and hold up a different number. Each counting down to something. Ten, then nine, then eight, and so on.

Each character had their own creative way of disposing of me. Ronald would maniacally bash my brains in, Sundae would maul and mangle me. Or, the McNugget buddies would all jump onto my stomach and begin piercing my flesh with their little beaks. Until it all ended one day and I woke up in a hospital.

As it would turn out, Ronald McDonald had knocked me unconscious and the “nightmares” had put me in a coma. A concerned colleague stopped by my house, after not hearing from me for a while and had found me unconsioousnext to the coffee table. Needless to say, I was in very bad condition.

Im on my journey toward healing now and have not been plagued with any nightmares since. However, there’s still one thing that worries me. What were they counting down to? Was it a countdown until the end of my coma? Or was it a reminder that one day I would eventually cross over into their world? I guess only time will tell.

Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiqJka4fcBs

If you are alone, on a long, dark road, you should think twice before heading down it as there could be someone watching you from the shadows. Don’t believe me? Well, this story will make you…

I’m a taxi driver you see - always giving people lifts to where they need to go. After a long day it was now 3AM in the morning. And I know what you’re thinking; ‘3AM? That’s the devil’s hour! Creepy things happen at that time!’ And yes, I have heard of those rumors but I personally didn’t believe them. Anyway’s I was about to drive home when this strange man approached my car. He was wearing a grey hoodie that covered his face, concealing it in darkness. He was also wearing pants that looked old and torn like he got them years ago. He looked at me, (at least I think he did) for a good, long second and eventually said, ‘Could I have a lift please?’. I was a bit creeped out by the way he said it but I agreed. I mean, what could go wrong?

I opened my car door and let him in. I asked him, ‘Well then sir, where do you want to go at this ungodly hour?’ Half-joking. He replied with an area I hadn’t heared of since 1986! Pripyat! I was stunned and chuckled nervously to myself. ‘You do know that place has been abandoned since 1986, right?’ I said to the stranger. He didn’t reply. Instead, he just chuckled to himself and then silently nodded. It was quite creepy to be honest. I then started driving to Pripyat but before long, I started to feel a bit scared. It felt like hours before we even left the city of Slavutych.

As we were on our way, I felt like he was staring at me, even though every time I look through my rear-view mirror, he was glancing out the window at the nearby passing buildings and cars. It was very uneasing. When we were just about to enter Pripyat, I all of a sudden felt a great pain in my chest - more pain than I have ever experienced in my entire life! However, when I look down to see my chest, there was nothing there. Before I knew it, i had fainted from the sheer pain. Everything after that was blurry until I awoke in the nearby hospital. However, I could’ve sworn I heard the man whisper ever so faintly in my ear, ‘You should’ve just went home.’ And right as those words hit my ears, I saw the image of his face; grey and covered with scars and eyes that looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets! And then, plastered on the lower half of his face, was an incredibly toothy grin that no human could ever make without their face being altered forever. It was a sight you could never unsee.

Apparently, my car crashed into a nearby abandoned shop and I had a piece of metal in my arm. I asked if the man in the passenger’s seat was ok, but the nurses‘ faces said otherwise. Their faces turned pale and their eyes grew wide. Eventually, one of them mustered up the courage to say something that sent shivers down my spine, ‘Sir, there was no one there.’ They then handed me a note covered in what appears to be blood. ‘The police found in one of the seats in the car. They say they weren’t able to identify whose blood that is.’ One side had a drawing of the man and the other side had an eerie message; ‘Thank you for the ride, Haller.’ That sentence made my face go as pale as their’s. I never told him my name…

A young man troubled by concerns about home security comes face to face with a force he cannot understand

https://youtu.be/_TFUaFNmAkY?si=GQKcO4KeDt76QDqQ

Today’s my daughters birthday, she’s 5 and the eldest of 3 girls, i’m so excited to see her face when she opens her gift, i saved up for so long to get her the doll she’s been asking for for months. The Chatty Cathy, it has been so hard to find one of these dolls but i have my connections and i managed to get a hold of one. It was a 2 hour drive to collect it and alot of money but it’s worth it.

I’m just lying in bed at the moment, my wife isn’t here, i assume she’s probably making the birthday breakfast and preparing the room with banners and balloons. It sounds like there’s some voices in the other room, i wonder who’s here? i’ll go have a look. The door is locked, when did we get a lock on our door? And where’s the key?

It’s my youngest daughter’s first day of school today! She’s just had breakfast. Got her uniform on, she seems more excited than we do. That’s a nice change from the other 2 girls, they were a nightmare on their first day.

I’ll be taking the girls today as my wife has to go to work, so they’ll be in my car, i got one of the nice cars with a radio! The girls love listening to songs on the radio.

The kids are ready, but i can’t find the car keys. I usually put them on the hook but they’re not there. Oh wait, i found them. They look different than i remember.

My wife is angry. She’s trying to grab my keys off me! Get off me! I need to take the girls to school! Get off!!!

Big day today! My eldest is getting married! I am so emotional but so proud. I get to walk her down the aisle. And her fiancé is a true Gentleman, he’s got my blessing.

I’ve got my brand new suit on and i’m expected to meet the rest of the family at my sister in laws house. That’s where the ladies are getting ready. I just need to have some food and take my pills.

I’m losing it, this game of dominos. I used t be so good at dominos Wait! What time is it?! I need to go! I can’t be late for my daughter’s wedding! And who are these people in my house?! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!! GET OFF ME! What is that? What are you injecting me with?!

I don’t know what’s happening, i’m in a strange room and there are people around me, i need to get out of here. They won’t let go of me! I don’t know what they’re saying! Please let me go! Unhand me! Where’s my family?! I hit one off me, but the doors locked! HELP!! No not again! Get that out of my neck!

Where am i? It’s just a small room. There’s a lady wearing a blue uniform. “You have visitors”

There’s some people sat down smiling at me, i don’t recognise them but they seem to know me.

“Hello Granddad”

searching for a video that i watched about 7 years ago that i believe was somewhat bigfoot themed about a group in the woods of what i think was south America the only thing i can distinctly remember is in the end some of the people from the area told the survivors it was friendly and some said to never go near it. sorry for poor description i watched this one years ago

Tales from Gory Point [Part 2] The Hanging Tree

Now we have to talk about the tree. The tree is officially known as the Founder’s Tree in the town’s records. The old story goes that in 1666 when Glory Point was founded, the puritan colonist Buford Spry planted a tree. This would become the center of town and the main tourist attraction in the town’s square.

The tree itself does not look like much at first glance. It’s an old half dead willow tree about three stories high. It’s never had leaves, it’s never looked healthy and somehow it’s never died. Just by looking at it you can see why kids might make stories from it. It looks like something from a scary old ghost story. However it’s much more than that. The tree is known by the inhabitants of town as the Hanging Tree, and the fruit of the Hanging Tree is nightmares.

There is no easy place to start so I’ll just share the information I got from the library first. In those days it was still kinda fun. Even without my brother I felt like I was paying tribute to him and keeping his stories alive. Here are some headlines and context that for some reason, never seemed to make the news.

December 14th 2002: Three Hispanic Men later linked with sex trafficking and coyote work were hung from a tree at the Center of Glory Point. Signs of a struggle as they clawed at their necks and had unknown skin and blood samples under their fingernails. What did not make the news was that starting

January of 2003 Glory Point High had several reports of men with bulging red eyes and dark red rope burns on their necks were spotted in the showers after a cheer team tryout.

From August onward that shower became the center of many new ghost stories. My brother received out of school suspension for spreading the rumor that it was Principal Spry, Mayor Spry and then Chief Baxter astral projecting to spy on new sacrifices. It was one of his least popular stories but I always got a kick out of it.

June 8th 1993: Julia and Oscar Louder- an older couple at Spry Retirement Home- are found hung at the tree while also having purposely ingested several morphine pills. The coroner reported that they did not suffer and most likely died instantly when their necks snapped.

The Glory Point Gazette (The GPG for short) did not report that during that same Summer the Spry Retirement Home Inhabitants and staff all gossiped about seeing the same couple dancing together in the Bingo Hall with the grace they had in their 30s.

June 8th 1995: The GPG make an inspirational post about a local troubled teen resident being saved from suicide by hanging on the tree by local police. What the GPG did not report was that that same kid talked for decades that an older couple with bright smiling faces and rope burns around their neck had taken him down.

October 31st 1971: The GPG report the first Halloween Massacre. 31 non-residents were found hanging from the tree. All of the corpses were reported to have been skinned alive as there were signs of struggle and thrashing on the exposed raw skin below as they hung. Each flayed person was wrapped in archetypal Halloween costumes such as witches, vampires, werewolves, mummies etc.

It was reported in various small newspapers throughout the US as well as a small article in the Washington Post that 12 of those corpses were found connected to various disappearances across the nation. Evidence found on the corpses opened several cold cases tying them bodies to serial killers that were never caught. 5 more had their homes investigated and there were several buried bodies, under each home. 1 of the 5 had a living victim still alive in their basement who had been severely tortured. The chief torture among them being flaying of the skin of the hands and feet. The others had nothing connected to them.

My brother had a field day with this one. The Halloween Massacre was a common horror story amongst Glory Point inhabitants. Each of the 31 is meant to haunt a certain day of the month of October. Each has their own ritual and superstition attached them such as The Mummy. In that case unless someone dresses up in a mummy costume stays next to the tree from 6pm to 12am on October 1st The Mummy will kill one child in town. The story comes from him being a known child killer after his death who gets one chance a year to have his fun again.

October 31st 1976 the GPG had a report that 2 teenagers were arrested for disturbing the peace while high on acid during a a Halloween concert near the center of town. What did not make the Gazette but only traveled through tall tales and ghost stories is that what they saw that night was 31 corpses, dripping with blood. They were clawing at their nooses and making choking gasps while hanging from the tree.

February 19th 1896 3 black men were found castrated, covered in tar and flour and hung from the tree. A group of 7 members of the Ku Klux Klan were charged with the crime and subsequently acquitted by the jury. On April of the same year The GPG reported that the infamous defendants of that case were all found castrated, covered in boiling tar with their hoods covering their heads.

My mother had a story about this case. She was a storyteller too, just quieter than my brother. When she had a story to tell there was a quiet dignity to her that made everyone listen in. My brother was a showman while her stories felt more like an intimate confession. Hers was only one of a few black families that lived in Glory Point in 1974.

The people there were nice and inviting but she would sometimes feel out of place. As she got older she struggled with depression (another trait she shared with my brother). Towards her senior year the stress of staying or leaving made her try self harm on many occasions. (My mother never shied away from dark topics or her own struggles. She wanted us to have the tools and language to deal with our own demons).

She’d gone to the hanging tree then and she’d almost done what couldn’t be taken back. As she was about to kick the ladder from under her she saw below her the Klansmen. Their blood shot eyes bulged from their white hoods. The shimmery tar covering their skin glistened white in the moonlight. The eyes looked so hungry. In her panic she slipped from the ladder and began thrashing. She’d kicked the ladder by accident then. She always had to pause at this part. I remember her clenching her mug of coffee so hard that her knuckles turned white.

But she preserved. She said then she felt so much regret that the feeling felt more suffocating than the noose she’d tied around her neck. Worse than that was them. She felt their hands all over her body then. As her vision grew darker and darker she could feel their touch go from a caress to feeling like they were trying to pull the skin from her.

She understood then that she’d made a mistake. She’d sent herself for her and had no way out. It all grew black then until she opened her eyes. Then she looked up for the first time at my father. He had been crying and was in shock when she saw she was up. The tree was what got my parents together in the first place. The tree is what starts every story in Glory Point.

The hanging tree is the center of every ghost story in this town. Every legend, tall tale and nightmare was carved from the wood of that tree. But what is the tree really? Why did the heart of my hometown curse it this way?

The answers are there. But we have to take this slowly, one step at a time. It’s the only way you’ll believe it. It’s the only reason I can. Next, we have to discuss what really happened during the Halloween Massacre, and The Man Who Stole Vengeance from God.

In 2010 the nickelodeon series victorious aired and was very popular But one day I was at home my two sisters loved the show and I didn't mind it but one day traumatized my sisters for life.

It was 2012 and the show had some new episodes for season 3 and my sisters were hyped for it but that day they recorded the new episode and they looked sick I thought what the fuck did they watch so I went into their room and I restarted the episode and the intro was distorted and choppy tori the main character said help me in the opening like she was being held hostage. I thought that was weird but then the episode name came on it was jades revenge. Cat comes onto the screen and jade looked pissed she said: get your ass here bitch!" Since when did nickelodeon allow swearing but anyway the next shows Trina who is the sister of tori she looked depressed she came and said fuck my life and then walked to class. Jade then killed cat my shooting her in the gut then the credits rolled the episode ended I was shocked what did my sisters see.

I live in an old but quite famous city in the UK, with old buildings, narrow streets, and outdated facilities, but it is still attracting more and more tourists. People always complain about the behavior of these people - for example, they sometimes standing in the middle of the road, blocking traffic, simply because they want to take photos with a street that doesn’t looks unique at all for locals; they may also queuing for a small restaurants, which serves nothing more than fast food. They will use everything we dislike as a reason to like this city: describing those old and outdated structures as ‘quaint and romantic’, describing unregulated street scammers and thieves as a representation of the city’s ‘freedom’, describing poor signal coverage as an escape from fast-paced life. But there is still one thing they are right about: the winter here is quite festive.

Christmas is celebrated very early here, which seems to be a tradition that has been going on for a long time - although the construction and maintenance work in this city are not efficient, this situation is completely different when they are preparing for the holiday. Every year at the end of October, every street in the city starts hanging various types of lights - from snowflakes to shooting stars, each street has a different theme. All of this is in preparation for the lights-on ceremony on November 7th - after which these colorful lights will stay on for two months until they are removed in January of the following year. Most streets change their themes every year - except for the Reigant neighborhood. Since I can remember, a type of angel shaped lamps hanged there every year.

Those lamps are located among the continuous Georgian style buildings on both sides, directly above the driveway, with interlocking metal strips outlining the shape of life sized angels, accompanied by exquisite iron frame wings and yellow light strings embellishing them. At night, the lights shine brightly with a sparkling effect, as if angels are truly soaring above the streets. All the other colorful lights throughout the city pale in comparison, and with the rise of social media, this place has gradually become viral. During nights when the angels light up, there’s always countless tourists from all over the world taking photos below.

the lamps

 The center of the Reigant neighborhood is a roundabout with a Cupid statue. The base of the statue is very high, and for some reason, every year after the angel lamp is in place, the base is always covered by wooden barriers. ‘Perhaps it's to prevent excessive tourists climbing and causing damage to the statue’, I thought. Each roads around the roundabout is adorned with similar angel lamps, with the largest and most on Reigant Street. I am always amazed by their work efficiency - sometimes you passed by here the day before and there was nothing, all the lights were already in place the next morning. I have always hoped to catch a glimpse of these behind the scenes stories - such as how they hung these heavy metal structures, how they were dismantled, and why the theme of the lights in this block is never changed. Till today, I finally have a chance.

“You don't have anything important to do during the day, do you?”

“No, Mr. Gibson.” I have resigned from my previous job, and now I am quite bored during the day.

“Our job requires staying up late. You need to stay on site from the lights on to the next morning, to protect the safety of tourists and lights themselves."he said, pushed up his glasses." Come to work tomorrow night, and remember to read these regulation carefully. Do as the regulation suggested or there will be consequences.

In order to adapt the time arrangement of my job, I stayed up all night and carefully read the rules:

In summary, our work is divided into two stages: the first stage starts between 6:30pm and 9pm, where we need to work together with the police officers, stand guard at our designated location on the street. Pay close attention to motorcycles, e-bikes, and any suspicious individuals. If any suspected theft or fraud occurs, stop it immediately - everyone's paying attention on the ‘angels’ above, and many thieves will take advantage of it and steal their belongings. The second stage begins after 9 pm to prevent theft or damage to the angel lamps themselves. We will be assigned to different buildings on the street, sitting in a designated position and monitoring the corresponding angel lamp. We are required to not leave the building, and it is said that we should not let the angel lamp out of our sight. Each window is guarded by two guardians, and the window cannot be vacant. At least one person must be on duty.

 The alarm rings at the bedside - it's time to start my work. As in previous years, those angel lamps were already there. Everyone works in pairs as we are assigned to different areas of the street. As usual, the street was crowded with tourists from all over the world. The lights were turned on at 6:30 pm, and they all raised their phones together to record this dreamlike moment. I know, the annual 'theft competition' has also begun. After standing in the cold wind for two and a half hours, we caught more suspicious people than I expected - we successfully stopped 10 guys from quietly approaching tourists and trying to empty their pockets, caught 6 robbers who tried to use the speed of motorcycles to snatch tourists' phones, pointed out the direction to 20 tourists who get lost, and drove away a group of scammers that attempted to use the magic trick of "three cups in rotation, guess where the ball is" to swindle tourists' money. Of course, by taking action and chatting with Asmalov -- my colleague who work with me, we get to know each other and became friends.

“Alright, it's the easy part now”. We walked into the designated building together, as the hot air from the heating system hit us. The building is not far from where we stand guard. Passing by the fast food restaurant on the ground floor that were about to close down, we went upstairs - the room upstairs was somewhat different from what we had imagined. I had passed by here countless times, but I never thought that the second floors of these buildings were all vacant, like bare houses or empty warehouses. We quickly found a job position - the room was so clear at a glance. There are two small chairs by the window, facing a dazzling angel lamp outside.

 The angel lamp outside the window went out, and the room fell into darkness. Without the outline of the lights, those "angels" were just dark frames formed by complex steel structures, and the black figures instantly merged with the darkness. “Not bad... Where were we just talking about?... Conspiracy theories about the city? ", He took off his coat and pulled out two glass bottles, “Cheers, and it’s the right time to warm up your body.”

"Is this.....really okay? "I asked cautiously.

"Come on, this is the dumbest job I've ever seen - who would steal something this huge? Besides, Mr. Gibson must have gone to bed early, he still has work during the day. It’s so foggy and dark that even if someone passed below, they can't see us at all.”

I looked out the window, and indeed, I don't think anyone would try to steal this ten meter long guy. Even if some malicious guy wants to cause destruction, it would cause huge noise. "I think the job at this stage is just to give us a break, and not really expecting us to deal with extremely rare emergencies that may not happen once in a few years”.

 We toasted with beer for our new job, and talked about various topics for most of the night. Of course, we never let the lamp outside the window out of sight - to prevent someone who really had a wild idea. After drinking a lot of alcohol, we decided to go downstairs together. We had such a great conversation just now that we forgot about to go to the restroom. We step down the employee staircase into the fast food restaurant downstairs. After using the restroom, he was one step ahead of me and should have been waiting for me at the window by now - at least theoretically.

“Asmalov, Asmalov? "There was no one on the second floor.

“Asmalov, where are you? "The heater turned off at some point, and the cool breeze mixed with rust made me wake up a lot. A huge noise echoed inside the house, like the clanging sound of a heating pipe being struck.“Damn it, what happened?” I ran downstairs at the same speed as when I was chasing the motorcycle thief just now, vowing to catch the madman who trying to destroy the angel lamp.

There was no one on street, and the drive lane was also empty. It was surprisingly quiet, no tourists, no madmen causing destruction, and no trace of Asmolov.

“Okay,”, I turned back, “did that guy just gone home early, right.”. I wanted to return to work, but found myself standing in front of another building at some point - the red light box sign of the fast food restaurant had disappeared, replaced by an empty shop with a securely locked iron gate. It seems that alcohol has already had an impact on my memory, I thought, and continued running forward, hoping to return to my post soon. The buildings on Reigant Street are all similar, with countless similar buildings connected in two rows without any gaps, sandwiching the road in the middle. The entire road curves like a crescent moon, connecting Cupid Circus and Orff Street. Looking towards the end of the road,  can only see those similar buildings and another angel lamp faintly visible in the sky.

 There were strange rustling sounds coming from behind, like the exaggerated sound of seedlings emerging from the ground in cartoons and advertisements. There’s no one on the street, no matter what direction I turn, this sound will only come from behind. I heard the sound of metal tiles rubbing and moving, as well as popping sounds similar to marbles hitting the ground. I knew it was just my illusion, but I couldn't ignore the realistic sense of oppression and quickened my pace.

I have never felt that those angels are so creepy. After turning off the lights, they are like ghosts peeping in the dark, floating over the streets and blending into the night. As you approach, their huge bodies are instantly revealed, along with their rough faces made of steel bars without facial features. No wonder it is referred to as "Winter Spirits" instead of names like "Angel Lamp" or "Christmas Angel" in documents of the unit I worked for. The further you move forward, the lower the hanging position of the angel lamp ahead, which undoubtedly exacerbates this feeling.

 The curved road gradually unfolded in the field of vision, with another angel lamp appeared above my head. Its hands reached forward, as if rushing towards the sky. The rustling sound echoed behind me again, becoming louder and louder, mixed with the clanging sound of steel collision - as I ran, I stared closely at the shop signs - more than half of them were empty shops. I realized that something seemed wrong, that fast food restaurant shouldn't be so far away. No, it's better to say that Reigant Street shouldn't be so long. At this speed, I should have arrived at Cupid Circus or the other side of Orff Street earlier", I thought, quickly turning around and running in the opposite direction.

 What I seen was completely different from when I just passed by: a crooked streetlight pole emerged from somewhere, with a strange wrought iron oil lamp hanging on it. The roadside trees seemed to be leaning closer to the wall, and the angel lamp hanging from the top of my head seemed lower than I remembered - it was almost parallel to the roof of the ground floor.

 “I really need to wake up ,"I thought.

“Hey! Asmalov, is that you? ”A figure appeared in the center of the lane ahead, “What are you doing there?”

I ran all the way, found out that it was just an exaggerated and comical hollow angel sculpture. He looked up at the sky, his mouth opened widely, as if he was shouting something loudly. He was holding a locally famous clock tower model in hand, it was a best-selling item in a roadside souvenir shop sever years ago. He turned the tip of the "Clock Tower" outward, as if trying to use it as hammer and knock something off with it. Its style is exactly the same as those suspended angel lamps - the steel bars outline the shape, the details are not particularly detailed, but quite vivid.“

“That’s something new, I haven't seen it in previous years,” I thought, continuing to run forward until I saw the sign of one of the few named shops - an antique luggage store - reappear in my sight. I leaned against the cold roadside tree blown by the cold wind -- the tree was as cold as ice. This is so weird, it's like the beginning and the end of the Reigant Street is connected into a circle, and I'm constantly returning to where I was. No, this is not the same place - there was no statue at the entrance of this store before.

 Without time to think, the sound behind me moved closer and closer. I felt some hard objects pressing against my back, and for some reason, I instinctively remembered the sharp wings of those metal angel lamps. They began to extend under my ribs, making it impossible for me to turn around. I swung my fists backwards, but my hands shook painfully. They were about to slowly lift me up, and before I left the ground, my instinct for survival drove me crazy to sprint forward, crossing the road, passing through the angel lamp that almost suspended at the ground level, and running towards the opposite sidewalk. I lifted my head - the fast food restaurant was right in front of me right now, with a red sign made of dyed metal bars that stood out in the darkness.

I made a deep breath, opened the iron door of the fast food restaurant, and stepped up the stairs. The cement stairs made a heavy, thumping sound, and a chill from somewhere made my spine feel cold. Subconsciously looking back, the stairs that had just been walked disappeared - no, not just the stairs, but also the entrance hall and the signs of the fast food restaurant. At this moment, I am standing high above Reigant Street - stepping on a thick iron bar. I recognize this thing - it's the steel cable used to hang the angel lamp between buildings.

A sharp pain came from behind, and I could feel the cold iron bars surrounding me from behind. They tightly locked my neck and body, repeatedly interlocking and changing shape, but with it came a wave of warmth - I felt my memories gradually being pulled away, and noisy voices ringing in my ears - while shouting for help, I closed my eyes, hoping that everything in front of me was just an illusion. I could feel those iron bars continuing to grow forward, tightly pressing against my skin, until my throat was also blocked by something, and suddenly all the noises faded away, except for a faint Christmas music coming from afar.

 The music began closer and closer, and those things stopped growing before climbing onto my face. A burst of colors flashed before my eyes, and the dazzling lights shattered the darkness I had just adapted to. After a moment of weightlessness, I saw something that I will never forget in my life. A pedicab -- a pedicab adorned with colorful lights - glides across the sky, like the legendary sled of Santa Claus, and then the entire street wraps around each other like interlaced cables, fading backwards.

The trace of the pedicab just now turned into the ground, and I am now half of my body stuck in an angel lamp that has fallen to the ground - the side of the angel lamp has been sawed open, while a string of Christmas lights are draped over it.

 “I hope we're not late... do you still remember us? ” Asulov reached out his hand to me and pulled me into the carriage. His face was marked with red stripes, while my boss, Mr. Gibson, was sitting in the driver's seat, controlling the direction.

“Asmolov and Mr. Gibson... what the hell is going on? ”The pedicab drove forwards in a cheerful Christmas music, but there were countless doubts waiting to be answered in my mind.

But I couldn't wait for an answer in the end. The soft sofa chair and warm toned lights relaxed my tense nerves a lot, and then I fell asleep in the back seat. I only remember that in the end, Asmolov woke me up, as the pedicab parked in the warehouse of an American candy store on Orff Street. Mr. Gibson used some medical equipment that I had never seen before to help us check our bodies, gave us each over £ 2000, and then announced that we were fired for violating work regulations. Of course, neither I nor Asmalov want to return to this job anymore.

 In this city, there are countless conspiracy theories surrounding American candy stores - they had several shops near Orff Street and Cupid Circus, where every snack is priced twice as much as other stores. Even in the city center, there are usually not many customers in the shop, and people are curious about how they survive. Therefore, various conspiracy theories have emerged - some say they are money laundering fronts, some say they are drug dealers' secret stores, and some suspect that they are just trying to rip-off the growing tourist population. And now, I think we finally know what they are really doing.

 Theoretically, I shouldn't have told anyone about these things - at least Mr. Gibson might caused me trouble. But in recent years, I have found on social media that these angel lamps have begun to appear in different regions around the world, and they are everywhere. So, remember, when you are walking alone on the street under angel lights at night, you must be careful - because what above your head may not be as simple as ordinary Christmas lights.

My parents never explained why we had to play the Game of Silence. All I knew was that, every night at exactly 10 PM, we would sit in the living room, completely still, our lips sealed tight. Dad would set the kitchen timer, and that’s when the game would officially begin. We weren't allowed to make a single sound until the timer rang again. The rules were strict, and breaking them? Well, I’d rather not think about what happened when we did.

I made a mistake once when I was younger. It was just a cough. One small, innocent cough. But the moment the sound escaped my lips, I felt it. A sudden, icy brush against my skin, like something sharp and cold dragging across my shoulder. My skin split open, thin and precise, like a paper cut made by something unseen.

Even as a child, I knew. I knew that if I screamed, if I made even the slightest noise, I wouldn’t survive the night. My parents didn’t need to yell or scold me. The terror in their eyes, the pale horror etched into their faces, told me everything. That night, after the timer finally rang, my dad took me aside. “You can’t ever break the rules again,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “They don’t like it.”

After that night, I learned to hold my breath, no matter what.

The rules were simple: no talking, no moving, no noise. I never understood why. There was never any explanation, just the same old ritual.

Now, years later, I still don’t know who they are, but I do know one thing: when you break the rules, they can touch you.

Tonight, the house feels wrong. Something in the air is different. Mom has been nervous all day, pacing the kitchen, wringing her hands. Dad hasn’t said a word, but the tightness in his jaw tells me he’s just as worried. My little sister, Emma, clings to her stuffed rabbit, her eyes darting around the room like she can see something the rest of us can’t.

The timer ticks down. The silence is suffocating. My heart beats in my chest, loud enough that I wonder if it counts as noise. I keep my eyes focused on the floor, trying to block out the rising tension. But then there’s a noise: a soft thump from upstairs. It’s faint, but unmistakable. Something fell. My pulse quickens. Dad’s grip tightens on the armrest. We all know what happens now.

Nothing happens at first. We sit frozen, waiting. Then, the footsteps start, slow and deliberate. They come from upstairs, moving toward us. Mom’s breath hitches. Emma squeezes the rabbit tighter. We’re all on edge, waiting for what’s coming next. The sound grows louder, closer. My chest tightens, fear curling around my spine like an icy hand.

The door to the living room creaks open. But there’s no one there. Just an open doorway, leading into the dark hallway.

The coldness in the room intensifies. The air feels thick, like something is trying to push its way inside.

We sit there, staring at the open doorway, waiting for something to move in the dark. The footsteps have stopped, but the tension hasn’t. The room is freezing now, and I can see my breath in front of me. Emma is shaking, her fingers digging into the worn fabric of her rabbit.

I glance at Dad, his eyes fixed on the doorway, his jaw clenched so tight that I’m afraid he might snap. Mom hasn’t moved an inch. I want to ask her what’s happening, why things feel different tonight, but I know better. The rules don’t allow for questions.

Then, a sound breaks the silence. It’s faint, like a whisper carried on the wind. I can’t make out the words, but I know it isn’t good. The voices, whatever they are, are back. I know from experience that you don’t want to hear what they have to say.

Mom tenses, her eyes wide. She’s heard it too. Dad slowly shakes his head, as if telling us to ignore it, to stay quiet. We’ve been through this before. We know the drill.

But something feels wrong tonight. The air is heavier than usual, the shadows in the hallway darker. It’s like the house itself is changing, warping. I feel a knot of fear twist in my stomach.

The timer on the kitchen counter ticks loudly, counting down the seconds until we’re free. But it feels like an eternity away. I can barely stand the tension anymore, and I’m not sure how much longer Emma can hold out.

Suddenly, there’s another noise. This time, it’s a low scraping sound, like something being dragged across the floor. It’s coming from upstairs again. My heart skips a beat. I don’t dare look at Emma. I know she’s barely holding it together.

The scraping sound stops, replaced by a soft knock on the wall. Three taps, slow and rhythmic. Then another three taps, a little louder this time. It’s coming closer, moving down the stairs.

Mom’s breathing grows rapid, her eyes darting toward Dad. But Dad doesn’t move. His hands grip the armrest of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He’s afraid too, but he’s trying to hide it. It isn’t working.

Then, without warning, Emma stands up. My heart leaps into my throat. She drops the rabbit on the floor, her small body trembling as she takes a step toward the hallway. “Emma!” I want to shout, but I can’t. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

She’s sleepwalking. She does this sometimes, but not like this, not during the game.

Mom moves to stop her, but Dad holds up his hand, stopping her in her tracks. His eyes are wide, and there’s something in his expression that sends a chill down my spine. He’s not stopping Emma. He’s letting her go.

I don’t understand. Why isn’t he stopping her?

Emma takes another step toward the dark hallway, her eyes half-closed. She’s not awake. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. The shadows in the hallway seem to shift, reaching out for her. My heart is pounding in my ears, and I want to scream, but I can’t.

Just as Emma reaches the threshold of the door, something happens. The scraping sound returns, but this time it’s fast and frantic. It rushes toward us, and Emma freezes, her tiny frame standing at the edge of the darkness.

The whispers grow louder, more insistent. They seem to wrap around her, calling her name.

Mom can’t take it anymore. She jumps up, rushing toward Emma, but Dad grabs her arm, pulling her back with a strength I didn’t know he had. “No,” he whispers, his voice strained. “Let her go.”

Let her go? The words don’t make sense. What is he doing? Why is he letting her walk into the dark?

Emma takes one more step, and suddenly, the door to the hallway slams shut. The whole house shakes, and the lights flicker. The cold air vanishes in an instant, replaced by a suffocating stillness.

The timer rings, breaking the silence. The game is over.

But Emma, Emma’s gone.

The timer rang, signaling the end of the game, but my sister had vanished, taken into the darkness beyond the door. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

I turned to my parents, expecting them to react, to rush toward the door, to find Emma. But they sat there, frozen, their faces pale, eyes wide with that same deep-rooted terror I’d seen before. It was as if they were waiting for something.

"Where is she?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "Why aren’t you doing anything?"

Mom finally moved, slowly shaking her head. “We can’t,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “The game is over.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Emma was gone, and they were just sitting there. I stood up, my body shaking with fear and anger. “We have to find her!” I shouted, louder than I should have, but I didn’t care anymore. “My little sister is out there!”

Dad’s voice was firm when he spoke, though his eyes betrayed his fear. “It’s too late,” he said. “The game has its rules.”

“Rules?” I repeated, incredulous. “What about Emma? We can’t just leave her!”

“We can’t go after her,” Mom said, her eyes filling with tears. “Not now.”

The fear in their eyes, the trembling in their voices … it wasn’t just fear of losing Emma. It was something else, something much worse. They knew something I didn’t, something they weren’t telling me.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I ran toward the door, throwing it open and stepping into the hallway. The air was colder, denser, as if the house itself had changed. The shadows seemed darker, thicker. I called out for Emma, but there was no answer.

As I crept through the hallway, my footsteps echoed unnervingly. The house felt larger, more expansive than before, the walls stretching out into places that hadn’t existed before. It was like the game had taken over completely, twisting the space around me.

Then I heard it, a faint sound, almost like a sob. It was coming from upstairs.

Without thinking, I rushed toward the stairs, my heart racing. I had to find her. I had to bring her back. Each step creaked under my weight, the air growing colder with every breath I took. I reached the top of the stairs and paused, listening. The sound was closer now. It was Emma. I was sure of it.

I followed the sound down the hallway toward her bedroom door. It was cracked open, just a sliver of light spilling out. I pushed it open slowly, stepping inside.

And then I saw her.

Emma stood in the center of the room, her back to me. Her rabbit lay discarded on the floor, and she was whispering something, too low for me to make out. Relief flooded through me. She was here. She was safe.

“Emma?” I called softly, stepping closer.

She didn’t respond. She just kept whispering, her voice steady and calm. I moved closer, but something felt wrong. The air in the room was thick with tension, and the shadows along the walls seemed to pulse as if alive.

“Emma?” I said again, louder this time.

She stopped whispering. Slowly, she turned to face me.

What I saw made my blood run cold.

It was Emma, but something was different. Her eyes were vacant, distant, like she was somewhere far away. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim light. Then I saw it, a faint line across her neck, as if something had gently traced the same cold cut I had felt years ago.

“Emma?” I took a step back, my heart pounding in my chest.

She smiled, a small, eerie smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You should’ve stayed quiet,” she said softly.

Before I could react, the door behind me slammed shut, trapping us in the room. The temperature dropped instantly, and the whispers I had heard earlier began again, surrounding me. They were louder now, coming from everywhere at once.

I turned to the door, trying to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. I was stuck, and the shadows on the walls began to move, creeping toward me. Emma stood still, watching me with that unnerving smile on her face.

“They’re here,” she whispered. “They want to play.”

The shadows inched closer, their forms shifting, becoming more solid. They moved toward me slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the moment.

I pressed myself against the door, panic surging through me. “Emma, please,” I begged. “We have to get out of here.”

But Emma just shook her head, that same empty smile on her face. “It’s too late,” she said. “The game is never really over.”

The shadows were almost upon me, their cold presence wrapping around me like a vice. My skin prickled, the same sensation I had felt years ago, the invisible fingers tracing across my neck. I was trapped, and I knew that if I made a sound, it would all be over.

Then, I heard a loud crash from downstairs. My parents had finally moved.

“Emma!” Mom screamed from the bottom of the stairs. Her voice broke through the eerie silence in the room. I took the opportunity to shove past Emma, running toward the door. I slammed my shoulder against it, and it finally gave way.

I rushed down the stairs, my legs trembling as I reached the bottom. My parents were standing there, wide-eyed and terrified. Behind them, the shadows continued to grow, spilling down the stairs like a dark fog, creeping toward us.

“We have to leave!” I shouted, grabbing my mom’s hand. But she didn’t move.

“We can’t leave the house,” Dad said, his voice hollow. “If we leave, they’ll follow us.”

“We don’t have a choice!” I shot back, glancing up at the stairs. The shadows were almost upon us, and I could hear Emma’s footsteps echoing from the hallway above.

Dad shook his head slowly. “This is our fault. We broke the rules.”

“What?” I stared at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Mom’s face was pale, her eyes filled with tears. “It’s true,” she whispered. “We broke the rules years ago. Before you were born. We didn’t know what we were doing, and ever since, the game has been watching us.”

The room felt like it was closing in around me. “So, what? We’re supposed to stay here and let them take us?”

Dad didn’t answer. He just stared at the shadows creeping down the stairs. “Go,” he said quietly. “You and Emma. Get out of here. Don’t come back.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I nodded. There was no time to argue. I ran back upstairs, finding Emma standing at the top, her face pale, her eyes blank.

“Come on!” I shouted, grabbing her hand. For a moment, she didn’t move, but then something in her eyes shifted. She blinked, as if waking from a dream, and nodded.

We ran down the stairs together, the shadows chasing us as we sprinted toward the front door. I could hear Mom crying behind us, and I forced myself not to look back.

The moment we stepped outside, the cold air hit us like a wave. The house groaned behind us, the door slamming shut. I grabbed Emma, pulling her away from the house as fast as I could.

We ran down the street, not stopping until we reached the edge of the yard. I turned back, my heart pounding in my chest.

The house was dark and silent, its windows empty and lifeless. But I knew better. I knew that inside, the game was still playing.

My parents had stayed behind, victims of a game they had accidentally started long ago. And now, the game would never end for them.

I looked down at Emma, who was trembling beside me. “We made it,” I whispered, trying to reassure her. But I knew the truth. We hadn’t really escaped. The game would follow us, always waiting for the next time we made a mistake.

As we walked away from the house, I could still hear it in the back of my mind, the soft ticking of the timer, counting down once again.

The found photo he took

November 13, 2018.

It started like any other day with my friends. We were just hanging out, happy to be together. That night, we decided to film one of those ridiculous 3 A.M. videos—easy views, right? We ended up in this creepy old hotel, filming ourselves yelling and making noise, just having fun with it.

But before we knew it, we were kicked out and fined for causing a disturbance. That was annoying but felt like part of the adventure. Little did we know, though, that it was only the beginning—the beginning of something I’d soon wish was nothing more than a bad dream.

Then, I must have got to a corner of a wall near the entrance and just gone through it. I immediately fell into some sort of underground basement or something. The light’s hum-buzz was screeching loud, and the ground I laid down on had the gnarly feeling of moist carpet that just buzzes your sense of smell.

As I stood up, I noticed that the whole place was a large area, full of yellow walls, with each one being separate wallpaper.  It was completely devoid of furniture. I yelled a hello back, with no reply. I looked behind one of the walls, only to find even more yellow rooms. If these are the backrooms of the basement, they sure are big, I thought. If this is the basement.

I walked down only to find there were no stairs, nor an elevator. Who in their right mind would build this place, and why? I thought. It had no signs of use, aside from it being a storage? If so, would it already be full of items anyway?

It sure would for a sure pretty make a good 3 A.M. video, I suddenly think. Maybe when I get out, I will call my friends over if I can. Do they even know where I am? Because I'm sure they know I'm somewhere.

I however realised that I had my phone with me this whole time, so I took it out, and took a photo of this creepy place. I tried hooking up the internet to talk to my friends, but there seemed to be no wifi. I couldn't even talk to them, stuck in a creepy smelly basement.

I continued exploring only to see it was the same as before, Yellow walls, yet carpet, the same. The same old thing. Soon, a rush of anxiety flowed through me. If I see my friends, and will forever stay here, I'm doomed. There's no water or food, and I'm certain that the wet carpet isn't a good way to rehydrate myself. 

Soon, I began to hear things. Whenever I Would hear footsteps, I would always turn my head, only to see nothing was there. I swore I have been here for days, or a week, or who knows what. It's been the same thing since I entered this place. It ain't normal. There's no way this is a basement, it's a whole other world beyond ours out of touch. A world where you are truly never going to see your friends again. I will probably die soon, and that's good. I would rather be dead than forever be alone in some stupid world full of creepy rooms.

This is The Backrooms of the world.

The found photo he took

November 13, 2018.

It started like any other day with my friends. We were just hanging out, happy to be together. That night, we decided to film one of those ridiculous 3 A.M. videos—easy views, right? We ended up in this creepy old hotel, filming ourselves yelling and making noise, just having fun with it.

But before we knew it, we were kicked out and fined for causing a disturbance. That was annoying but felt like part of the adventure. Little did we know, though, that it was only the beginning—the beginning of something I’d soon wish was nothing more than a bad dream.

Then, I must have got to a corner of a wall near the entrance and just gone through it. I immediately fell into some sort of underground basement or something. The light’s hum-buzz was screeching loud, and the ground I laid down on had the gnarly feeling of moist carpet that just buzzes your sense of smell.

As I stood up, I noticed that the whole place was a large area, full of yellow walls, with each one being separate wallpaper.  It was completely devoid of furniture. I yelled a hello back, with no reply. I looked behind one of the walls, only to find even more yellow rooms. If these are the backrooms of the basement, they sure are big, I thought. If this is the basement.

I walked down only to find there were no stairs, nor an elevator. Who in their right mind would build this place, and why? I thought. It had no signs of use, aside from it being a storage? If so, would it already be full of items anyway?

It sure would make for a pretty good 3 A.M. video, I suddenly think. Maybe when I get out, I will call my friends over if I can. Do they even know where I am? Because I'm sure they know I'm somewhere.

I however realized that I had my phone with me this whole time, so I took it out, and took a photo of this creepy place. I tried connecting to the internet to talk to my friends, but there seemed to be no wifi. I couldn't even talk to them, stuck in a creepy smelly basement.

I continued exploring only to see it was the same as before, Yellow walls, yet carpet, the same. The same old thing. Soon, a rush of anxiety flowed through me. If I see my friends, and will forever stay here, I'm doomed. There's no water or food, and I'm certain that the wet carpet isn't a good way to rehydrate myself. 

Soon, I began to hear things. Whenever I Would hear footsteps, I would always turn my head, only to see nothing was there. I swore I have been here for days, or a week, or who knows what. It's been the same thing since I entered this place. It ain't normal. There's no way this is a basement, it's a whole other world beyond ours out of touch. A world where you are truly never going to see your friends again. I will probably die soon, and that's good. I would rather be dead than forever be alone in some stupid world full of creepy rooms.

This is The Backrooms of the world.

- ChuRuBley

All i remember is about when a boy, when ever swallowed a creature, climbs his stairs. And it is trying to get in his room.

So from what I’ve heard the creator of Ticci Toby allows for Toby to still be used, just as long as 1. You don’t claim Toby as your own. And 2. As long as you don’t directly bother the creator (Kastoway) about it. But what I want to know is the usage status for a few other characters. Those said characters being the following, Clockwork, Masky, Hoodie, Kate the Chaser, Rouge, X-Virus, Killing Kate.

(Note: I know that Masky and Hoodie come from the Marble Hornets series. So the usage for them might be different. The same might also apply for Kate the Chaser because she comes from the Slender Man games.)

It's remembrance day today and usually it's held outside a memorial grave to remember the soldiers who fought in world war 1 and 2. It's the sacrifice they gave which shaped the world that we live in today. It's great that we still remember the two big wars because lest we forget, and we make the same mistakes again. It's usually held outside as well and for 2 minutes we are in silence to show respect to the soldiers that fought in the world wars. Their bravery has no limits to how far it stretches. I attended a remembrance day service.

It was held outside a statue memorial grave and people were gathering in the numbers. It was a cold day but sunny and it's nice that people can still gather round. Before the 2 minutes starts, a man stood on the statue and through a speaker he told us all "today we are going to do a 2 minute scream instead of silence" and I had never heard of a 2 minute scream before. It's always supposed to be a 2 minute silence. Then again I guess things change sometimes and screaming can have more meaning and represent the horrors of the world wars.

When the 2 minute started to remember the fallen heroes, nearly everyone was screaming. They screamed so loudly and the 2 minutes was a slow 2 minutes. Some started dropping to the ground because of all that screaming and they had lost their breaths. I was hesitant of doing a 2 minute scream and I saw another person who was also hesitant to do a 2 minute scream. The 2 minutes was truly a long one. Then the other guy who wasn't screaming, some people started to stab him a little and hit, to get him to scream a little and he did scream a little.

More people started to faint due to the constant screaming and never stopping. This was the weirdest way to show respect to the fallen soldiers of both world wars. Then someone kept tazing me and it was making me scream. Then one of the fainter, their spirit possessed me and I started to scream non stop. It was long and exhausting and I wanted it to stop. Then more people started to faint and because of all the non stop screaming, even my ears felt like they were going to bleed.

I wanted to stop screaming but the spirit of one of the fainters kept making me scream. Then finally the 2 minute scream ended.

Mr. O’ Bear

If you see him, he sees you.

If you hear him, he hears you.

If your sneaking away from him, so he is sneaking up on you.

Mr. O’ Bear. He’s been on the streets longer before I have lived here in Canada. Don’t go out at night, as he will use your organs to repair himself.
Nobody knows his origans neither his real name. We call him Mr. O’ Bear, because what other name is there?

Since a past few days i added an horror story about my new phone is dead by an update, can someone please reacting and commenting my Stories? pls let me know...

SCI-FI Creepypasta

Check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHwAZBF4Czg

So I’m trying to figure out what Clockwork’s height is since there is no clear canon answer. (Please no head canons.) My guess is that shes 5,4 based on the fanart ship arts of her and Toby. And Toby’s canon height is from 5’4 1/2 to 5’6. So I crossed referencing that, and that’s what led to my guesstimate that she’s 5’4. If you guys have anything please let me know. Also, at the end of the day this is just a speculated guess on my end. So just take this lighter then a grain of salt.

For the last seven years, Akshai Sthalekar, who is part of the Indian Paranormal Team, has been exploring strange and mysterious things. He spends his time studying and writing about things that can’t be easily explained.

Akshai and his team often take people on special tours called “ghost walks” in places like Pune and Lonavla. A ghost walk is like a regular tour, but it has a spooky theme ! During these walks, they take groups to places that people say are haunted.

Akshai and his team show them around dark streets and quiet spots, hoping to see something amazing !

Lonavla is a beautiful place near Mumbai where many people like to visit, especially when it rains or during the winter. But it’s not just people who like Lonavla ; there are also strange things happening there that are hard to understand.

A man named Sthalekar, who studies these mysterious happenings, went on a ghost walk in the hills of Lonavla. While he was there, he saw something that was so weird he couldn’t explain it, even though he knows a lot about these things.

What Made the Team So Uneasy After the Beer Can Moved ?

It was late at night and very windy when something strange happened. Sthalekar and four of his friends were driving in a small car through a place called Lonavla. They were stopping at different spots that people said were haunted.

The area was messy, with trash like empty drink bottles and snack wrappers all over the ground. The team decided to get out of the car to take a break and have a smoke, not knowing that something really spooky was about to happen.

While they were outside, the wind was blowing hard from one side to the other, making the trees shake and pushing leaves around. Then, Sthalekar noticed an empty beer can on the road. Suddenly, the can zoomed away really fast towards the south, going the opposite way of the wind.

This strange movement didn’t make sense, and it made everyone feel a bit scared. They felt that something strange was happening, so they hurried back to their car. But there were still more surprises waiting for them.

When they looked at the front window of the car, they saw that it was all foggy on the inside. Sthalekar remembered that this had never happened before when it was like this outside, and it made him really worried.

Why Did the Car Shake Like That ?...

Read full –> What Happened on the Ghost Walk in Lonavla ? A Strange Encounter You Won’t Believe

A bit unusual but I am trying to find a story I heard many years ago. It was about a guy who would blackout for one week a year. He didn't know why but it turns out he became a monster or something. Can anyone help me?

What kind of articles or posts do you want on a website like verdaily.com ?? Personal real-life stories or incidents or something else???? Please tell me, I'm almost desperate!

"Oh yeah? You really don't know the stories about this place?" "No, why? Should I be worried?" Jessica (Jess, to her friends) said to Kylar. "You were the one who invited me out here," she said with an accusing tone. Kylar glanced back with a smile to put her at ease. "Don't worry, it's not anything too horrifying, just a curious fact that has led to its more ominous, unofficial name." Jess was no fan of being scared. She had her reasons. Reasons which Kylar and everyone in Jess's life were unaware of, and she didn't plan on changing this status quo any time soon. It's not the kind of thing you can just tell people, even those close to you, without changing how they look at you. Whether it's pity, shock, or even fear. Jess learned that at far too young an age, that you just don't talk about this kind of thing with anyone you want to keep in your life. So, instead, she would always just steer clear of scary things with the excuse that she "just can't handle spooky stuff."

"The undead forest," said James. James purposefully said it in a tone that made it clear it was just a silly name. He was always more thoughtful than most when it came to Jess. It had been this way since the day they met, the summer before freshman year of high school. James was the first friend Jess had made after the "incident," when she was finally allowed to return to public school. He was awkward and kind, and exactly what she needed to acclimate back to normalcy after a horrible tragedy. "Yes, the undead forest!" Kylar said with a flourish of his hands and a sideways glance at James."Thank you for stepping on my delivery, James. Helpful as always." He said sarcastically. This was peak James and Kylar. They had been friends since the 4th grade. Kylar was the poor kid in their class, but somehow, he always managed to make the other cooler, more popular kids seem inferior with his wit and quick responses to all the bullying. James never went along with any of the bullying, and the two quickly became the audience for one another's inside jokes. This gave them a real "us vs. the world" type of attitude and friendship. Jess was the first person to be accepted into the tight fold of friendship that the two had carved out over a rough couple of years in grade school. "I never thought the name was all that great to begin with," said MacKenzie. "Z" is what she preferred, but the trio always called her "Mac" as an inside joke. It was a spontaneous nickname that came from an incident with a Big Mac at 1am. Needles to say, only the three of them could get away with it, and that's how she liked it, even though she would never admit it. "McKinnley Valley isn't up to your standards, babe? I mean, it's practically named after you!" Kylar joked while dropping back a bit to be closer to her. The 'will they, won't they' between Kylar and Mac had gone on for exactly two weeks when Jess had first introduced her to the group. Coincidentally, their six month anniversary was tomorrow. Mac was not subtle about it, and Kylar was doing what he always did. Talk about anything else besides the thing that he was really focused on. And to keep up with that tradition, Kylar continued on with his rambling. "McKinnley, MacKenzie? Come on, you hear it, right Jess?" McKinnley Valley is the official name of the park they are hiking into. But it's not the first name that this place has ever had. The people that have lived here since before man had the ability to write have had many names for it, most of them now lost along with the people and tribes who gave them, none of them good. "I always liked the name McKinnley," Jessica turned her attention from the trail, "but, I'd prefer anything other than 'Undead Forest', literally anything. You know I don't do scary well, Ky." James shot him a look, and without saying a word, Kylar knew to not drill down on the scary factor anymore with Jess. "Why do you think I'm not mentioning the scary stuff? I can assure you, it's not for Mac's benefit." James quickly jumped in, "it's not like there's anything to actually be scared of. It's just a quirk of the terrain, the weather, and a normal number of people that were unprepared to go deep into the back country and got lost. Just because no one was ever found, that doesn't mean anything supernatural happened. There's always a rational explanation for these things. Ky knows this, and so do the search and rescue teams that have been out here." James finished while leaning back to flick Kylar in the arm. Kylar only shrugged innocently in response, a sly smile hardly repressed on his face. Jess appreciated the attempt by James to keep her from feeling on edge despite Kylar's best efforts. The trail was well worn and spacious. It was easy to see why this place was so popular, despite the seeming danger and mystery surrounding it. Beautiful trees of every variety marked their path. This forest was old. The Appalachian forest is one of the oldest landscapes on the planet. You can literally connect it on a map to Scotland it's so old. Its age is simultaneously the reason for its strange lack of any real mountains and its abundance of unique and confusing features. The fog that is seemingly responsible for so many disappearances here, in the northern end of the Appalachia, is only one of the many oddities this forest lays claim to. It was nearly 1:00 pm, and Mac wasn't too keen on continuing any further without at least a short rest. "Ky, seriously! You told me it wasn't going to be some crazy hike. We've been walking for over three hours, my heel has a blister, and I'm starving. Please tell me we can stop? At least for a little bit?". Jess and James's hands both shot up while jinxing each other to grumble a drawn-out "yyeesss!". Kylar seemed to ignore them for a few more minutes of walking. Despite the sweat, the bug bites, and the roaring of the cicadas drowning out any quality small talk, Kylar spun around with a giddiness that was unnatural for the moment, catching everyone of guard. "We're here!" He said with a toothy grin. The others were still catching their breath and swating mosquitoes while fumbling for water as quickly as possible. Kylar eventually dropped the grand pose he'd struck. No one seemed to notice. With a huff, he loudly repeated himself. "WE ARE HERE," he dragged out with lackluster jazz hands. The odd movement made James perk up, and Jess smirked at Kylar's ridiculousness. "Oh good, y'all ain't dead after all. Now, as I said, we're here." There was confusion on everyone's face. Kylar continued, undaunted. "The first stop on our tour!" He said, with arms outstretched over what was admittedly beautiful scenery. But with no other clue besides the incredible vista of the rolling, ancient hills, the trio were just hot and confused. Jess broke the silence with, "What tour, Kylar? I thought we were just hiking and camping for 2 nights." This is when Kylar finally admitted the real reason for planning this trip. "We are doing those things, Jess... just incidentally... while we check out the last known camp sites of some of the missing people in these articles." James groaned as Kylar stuck out his hand. A stack of papers, ready for inspection. It was clear that they were news clippings, copied for research purposes. MacKenzie clapped happily while Jess slowly took the pages from his hand.

Chapter 2

"Really Ky? C'mon man, not cool!" While James started to berate Kylar, Jess was slowly perusing the well organized newspaper clippings and photo copied maps of the area. Despite her enjoyment of the surprise from Kylar, MacKenzie was reading over one shoulder, poised to comfort her should the need arise. Before James could really lay into Kylar, Jess interrupted them. "I think it's cool." James and Kylar stopped and turned to look at her, James, still mid accusatory finger, pointing stance. "Yeah, I actually think it's kind of cool." No one said anything, and Jess knew why. "Look, I still don't like scary stuff, okay? You're not going to be seeing me at the haunted corn maze or watching 'The Shinning' anytime soon or anything," she said a bit defensively. "But, I'm supposed to be pushing my boundaries with these kinds of things, according to my therapist anyway." Kylar didn't hesitate to spin this into a positive after his big surprise had landed so flat.
"See? We wouldn't want to leave those boundaries un pushed now, would we?" For the thousandth time, Kylar's quick wit and ridiculous grin broke the tension and made everyone laugh. Even the overprotective James eventually had to break and smile at his friend. Despite the fact that James was an imposing 6'2, (a full 3 inches taller than Kylar) and the better looking of the two, (although Kylar was handsome in his own right) James always seemed to take his social ques from Kylar. Jessica always assumed that James didn't trust himself to know what was funny or clever, and Kylar certainly knew his way around clever. "So, nobody wants to punch me still?" Kylar said in his 'closest to an apology' tone. Mac pretended to hug him from behind so she could pinch a niple, un obstructed. "Oohhh no!" Kylar tried to climb out of Mac's bear hug before she could leave a mark. Everyone except Kylar laughed. "It's the least you deserve," said MacKenzie while maintaining her grip. Kylar spun to hug her for real. The laughter died down, and he quietly acknowledged the now serious look on her face. "I am sorry for not telling you. It's just that I've been so excited about this, and you know the amount of time I've spent researching this stuff." She did know. Kylar had spent every Saturday morning at the library since before Mac became the fourth member of their exclusive group. He said he'd started in the summer of '97 (it was now 1999) after something had reminded him of a former teacher that had gone missing. Every time she asked him what he was doing there, he'd always brush it off with a non answer or a joke, but last week was different. This time, when she asked him what he was doing, he stopped dead in his tracks. She was so caught off guard that she'd kept walking a few feet before his distant question startled her, and she almost tripped while trying to spin to face him. "Do you really want to know?" He said with a strange excitement in his eyes. "I don't know now! Should I be worried? Like, are you going to drop some crazy stuff on me? That you're actually like a serial killer or something?" Kylar laughed while dismissing her semi joking tone with a hand wave while pulling a piece of paper out of his backpack. "How familiar are you with our little towns history?" His left eyebrow couldn't raise any further without leaving his forehead behind. At first, she thought he was crazy. At first. But, the more he showed her, the more she began to understand his interest in this macabre little tidbit of their towns history. "You still should've told me in advance, and you know it." Now she was just playing for pity. He didn't mind. She knew how to get under Kylar's skin in the best possible way. "I know, babe. But we both know you can't keep a secret from Jess to save your life." She smiled knowingly, but without argument. "Fair, but you still owe me a back rub later. No getting out of it." Kylar smiled in acquiescence. "If you two are finished with your lovers quarrel, I'd appreciate some help with this." Jess was struggling with her never before used tent, bought especially for this trip. James immediately rushed over, leaving his own 'one man bivy' half finished. Jess knew that James would always help without question, and she tried not to take advantage of it. "You don't hav -" James cut her off with a knowing smile and a shoulder shrug. "You know I don't mind. Helping is kind of my thing." It was. So much so when it came to Jess, that everyone, including Jess at this point, was wondering when he would make his move. James had literally had his pick of girls in high school, and yet he never seemed to take advantage of the endless offers and shameless propositions that were offered. Every guy was jealous and thought he was crazy. Every girl thought he was probably just gay. But Jess knew better. She just couldn't figure out why he would never make the move. Frankly, she was tired of waiting. High school was over, and the cuteness of his boyish nervousness was starting to wear off a bit. She would never admit it, but if he didn't make a move on this trip, then she was gonna have to take matters into her own hands. She's been dropping hints for 2 months that it was time to move beyond just friends. This weekend was his last chance, whether he knew it or not. Jess's lamenting was interrupted by MacKenzie's knowing smile as she approached them. "What yah thinking about, babe? Something pleasant and long overdue, I hope!" Jess snapped out of it to shoot Mac a silent 'shut up' with her eyes. Mac grabbed her hand and started to tug her away. "We're going to get some kindling while you finish setting up that spacious, brand new, 2-person tent for Jess and just Jess, all by her lonesome, ok?" James hardly registered her words, and Jess knew better than to even try to stop the endless desire from Mac to stir the pot at every opportunity. Kylar poked his head up from his book. "Don't go far! We need to get set up soon so we have plenty of light left to... 'See the sights', so to speak." With that, the girls walked and whispered light heartedly into the tree line, while Ky and James finished setting up the gear in the clearing. Kylar could hardly hide the excited smile creeping onto his face. If he only knew what he'd gotten the three most important people in his life into... if only.

I will post chapters 3 and 4 soon

For context this was a project I was doing while bored and wanting to rewrite the Classic Creepypasta Jeff the Killer in a style inspired and similar to that of Stephen King while also explicitly copy pasting the original JTK story in chapter 13 hope you all enjoy! This project was nothing serious and I don't plan on really doing anything with it aside from showing it off https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ozIcir7j8e0ywW1-2RsTOa1eVj8O8L6ff0vvietHYP0/edit?usp=drivesdk

Baile con una Muerta

La música golpeaba el aire como un pulso. Yo me dejaba arrastrar por la multitud, perdido en las luces parpadeantes y en el ritmo que nos envolvía a todos. Fue entonces cuando la vi. Era la chica más hermosa que había visto en mi vida: joven, de piel pálida y ojos grandes que brillaban en la penumbra. Estaba rodeada de un grupo de amigos, todos riendo y bebiendo, y cada tanto me lanzaba una mirada enigmática, entre curiosa y retadora. Me acerqué, y ella me recibió con una sonrisa ligera, como si me hubiera estado esperando.

El baile fue algo sublime, como si nos moviéramos fuera del tiempo. No sé cómo describirlo, pero su presencia tenía algo que me envolvía, como un perfume dulce y oscuro. Había algo peculiar en sus movimientos, una gracia etérea, un ritmo que no encajaba del todo con la música… y aun así, no pude apartarme de ella.

Pasaron los días, y aquel encuentro seguía flotando en mi mente, como una película que se repite una y otra vez en el fondo de mis pensamientos. No me sorprendía verla en cada fiesta, siempre rodeada de sus amigos, risueña y magnética. Pero una mañana todo cambió. Al abrir el Facebook, sentí que algo se quebraba dentro de mí. La vi en una publicación compartida por docenas de personas, acompañada de comentarios llenos de dolor y tristeza. Todos lloraban su partida. Ella… estaba muerta.

Murió sola en su habitación, intoxicada por una sobredosis de medicamentos. La chica que había bailado conmigo, esa presencia cálida y magnética, estaba enterrada en un cementerio, sola, mientras su cuerpo se descomponía bajo la tierra fría.

No podía entenderlo, no quería entenderlo. Esa noche en la disco… ella estaba viva, lo juro. Lo recordaba todo. Su risa, el brillo en sus ojos, cómo me rozaba el hombro al moverse, esa chispa en su mirada que me invitaba a perderme en ella. Pero ahora, en cada reunión, en cada fiesta, solo había un vacío palpable, una oscuridad pesada que se cernía sobre el lugar. Nadie más parecía notarlo, pero yo sí… y en mi pecho crecía una sensación helada, una certeza horrible de que algo andaba terriblemente mal.

A veces, por impulso, reviso las redes sociales y veo cómo sus amigos la recuerdan, publicando fotos de noches pasadas, de momentos felices. Ellos no lo saben, pero yo veo algo en esas fotos, una sombra, un detalle extraño, como si su rostro se hubiera vuelto más… espectral. Empecé a notar cómo en las imágenes de sus últimos días, había una tristeza oscura en sus ojos, una especie de vacío, algo muerto en su mirada.

El tiempo pasaba, pero su presencia no se iba. Las noches de fiesta eran diferentes. A veces, en medio de la pista, cuando las luces me cegaban, veía una silueta, una figura que me observaba entre la multitud, inmóvil, sin expresión. Sabía que era ella. Y en esos momentos, el aire se tornaba pesado, frío, casi irrespirable. Podía sentir su mirada fija, una mirada hueca, desprovista de vida.

Comencé a evitar las fiestas, pero ella estaba ahí, en mi cabeza, en cada recuerdo y en cada maldito comentario que leían en Facebook. Todos decían cuánto la extrañaban, cuánto les dolía su partida. Pero yo no podía sentir lástima, solo un terror helado, porque cada vez que cerraba los ojos la veía danzando, la veía esperándome… como si todavía quisiera bailar.

Cada vez que veo sus fotos, siento un frío indescriptible. Cada sonrisa en su rostro es una mueca que me persigue en mis sueños. Esa noche, en esa pista, no fue un simple baile… fue un último llamado, una despedida desesperada. Y ahora, estoy condenado a recordar que esa noche, cuando la tomé de la mano, ya estaba muerta por dentro, y ahora está sola, en un cementerio vacío, descomponiéndose bajo tierra, esperando… esperando.

I want to write something on wattpad but no ideas, please share some of the creepiest incidents happened to you.

Discover the eerie tales from the haunted halls of Boston’s library. Can you handle the chills? #BostonHistory #HauntedLibrary #Paranormal #GhostStories

https://www.tiktok.com/@grafts80/video/7435244219217825066?is_from_webapp=1&sender_device=pc&web_id=7397566127821604382

Dive into the chilling depths of psychological horror with The Watcher in the Basement | A Horror Story.

In this original horror tale, a young, abused boy ventures into his dark, creepy basement, searching for something hidden away.

As he sifts through the shadows, he feels the presence of something lurking, watching him—a malevolent force with unknown intentions that will haunt him for years to come.

This atmospheric story explores themes of fear, trauma, and the disturbing reality of being pursued by an unseen entity. https://youtu.be/89pShn-EHls?si=EOQKqCA3mEq3VpS7

It's a strange afternoon ritual, sure. And a work in progress. But fifty-six days into “dealing” with my daily visitor, I was at least getting more efficient. The human mind can really adapt to anything, I thought while resting my bolt-action hunting rifle against the coat rack. I took a seat in the folding chair positioned to face the inside of my front door, glancing at my watch in the process. I used to be a lot less desensitized to this process. 

5:30PM. I tried and failed to suppress a yawn. Anytime now, though. I let my right index finger slide gently up and down the trigger - a manifestation of rising impatience. This ritual had become so redundant that it was almost boring. I put my feet up on a half-packed moving box and attempted to relax while I waited. 

My favorite time-saving measure, without question, has been the bullseye. I hid it from Holly behind a magnetic to-do list that hangs on the door. Probably an unnecessary precaution - it's just a red dot about the size of my rifle’s barrel. Could be a smudge for all she knows. At the same time, I don't want her cleaning it to have it only reappear. She would want to know why it’s important enough for me to replace it. That's a question I don’t want her to have the answer to, I mused, pulling the barrel of the rifle up to meet the red dot. That target has saved me a lot of migraines, though. In the past, I’ve missed that first shot. Then there is either a fight or they run - exhausting no matter how you slice it. Now, when they twist the lock and open the door, the red dot guides me to that perfect space right between their eyes. 

Sparks of pain started to crackle where the butt of the rifle met my chest. I sighed loudly for no one’s benefit and swung the firearm a little to the left so I could see the watch on my right, feeling impatience transition to concern. 

5:41PM. A little late, but not unheard of. I shifted my shoulders to release tension built up from holding the rifle up and ready to fire. The deviation from the norm had spilled some adrenaline into my veins. I felt my eyes dilate and my focus sharpen - my body modulating to once again adapt to potential new circumstances. When I heard a loud mechanical click with a subsequent scream from the opposite side of the house, my predatory instincts withered back to baseline in the blink of an eye. 

They had been doing this more and more recently, I lamented, now trudging down the hallway, using the continued sounds that tend to accompany intense and surprising pain to guide me. A higher percentage still came through the front door, though, based on my counts. The bear trap was a nice backup, though. 

I take a left turn at the end of the hall and lumber down the two rickety wooden steps that connect my home to my garage floor. I look up, and there he is for the fifty-seventh time. The steel maw caught his left leg and clearly interrupted some previous forward motion as he hit the concrete face-first and hard, evidenced by the newly broken nose. 

At first, he’s confused and pleading for his life. He’s telling me what he can give me if I show him mercy. And if I can’t show him mercy, he asks me to spare Holly. His monologue is interrupted when he sees me standing over him. Sees who I am, I mean. Like always, the revelation leads him to shortcircuit from frenetic negotiation to raw existential panic mixed, for some reason, with blind rage. The type of frenzied anger that your brainstem fires off because none of the higher functioning parts of your nervous system have enough of a hold on what is transpiring to activate a less primordial emotion. 

Same old dog and pony show. Wordlessly, I empty a round into his forehead. Then, I send my boot slamming into the foot that’s still caught in the bear trap, causing it to snap and separate at the ankle from the rest of the body, releasing small fireworks of black dust into the air. 

No blood, thankfully. Clean-up would be a nightmare. Other than the cadavers themselves, I have little to clean up. Only tiny bone shards and obsidian sand, both of which are easily vacuumed. 

I will say, having them come through the garage is convenient from a storage perspective. Less distance to move the bodies. I drag the corpse to a metal storage closet that used to hold things like my snowblower. My key clicks satisfyingly into the heavy-duty lock, and I pull the door open. Inside are intruders fifty-five and fifty-six. 

At this point, fifty-six is only a skeleton, leaning lonesomely against the back of the storage closet, making it appear like some kind of underutilized “Anatomy 101”-style learning mannequin. Fifty-five has been completely reduced to a pile of thin rubble coating the floor. 

I cram fifty-seven in hastily, trying my best to lift from my core and not aggravate the herniated discs in my lower back any more than required. The cycle of decay for whatever these things are is, on the whole, pretty tolerable. No organic tissue? No smell of rot or swarm of death flies. The clothes and jewelry disintegrate into the unknown material too. My wife’s cheap vacuum is getting a lot of mileage, consolidating the black detritus for further disposal, but that's about it. 

All of them manageable, except the one. But I do my best to ignore that exception. The implications make me doubt myself, and I despise that sensation. 

Holly never gets home before 7PM on weekdays - plenty of time to clean up the mess. We live alone at the end of an earthy country road in the Midwest. Our nearest neighbors are half a mile away. Even if they hear it,  no one around here is ever alarmed by a single rifle shot. Weekends are trickier. In the beginning, I’d send her on errands or walks between 5PM and 7PM, but that was eventually raising suspicion. Now I catch the automatons down the road with a bowie knife through the neck. The rifle is better for my joints during the week. 

Automatons may not be the right word, though. They can react to information with forethought and intelligence. They just always arrive at the same time for the same reason. That part, at the very least, is automated. 

They’re predictable for the same reason the “red dot” hack works. It helps that they are all an identical height. Same reason they’re concerned about Holly’s safety, too. 

They think they’re me returning from work. 

I was walking home from a nearby water treatment plant, my previous employment, the first day I encountered one of the copies. I think I was about half a mile from home when I stepped on what felt like a shard of glass beneath my feet. I’m not sure exactly what it was; my head was up watching light filter through tree branches when it happened. I felt that tiny snap and then began to see double.

Instantaneously it was like I was stepping off a wooden rollercoaster - all nausea, disorientation, and vertigo. Next was the splitting. I was in my body, but I felt myself growing out of it, too. The stretching sensation was agony - pure and simple. Imagine the tearing pain of ripping off a hangnail. Now imagine it but it's covering your entire body and doesn’t seem like it's ever going to stop, no matter how hard you pull and wrench at the rogue skin. 

When the pain finally did subside, I had only a moment to catch my breath before the copy was on top of me. Paradoxically shouting at me to explain myself with its hands tight around my neck. I didn’t have an explanation, but I gladly reciprocated the violence. Knocking my forehead into his, I dazed him, allowing me to spin my hips and reverse our positions. 

All I knew was he needed to die, so I buried my thumbs into his eyes and pushed until he stopped moving. Through tears, I pulled his body by the leg off the dirt road and into the woods, hands wet and shaking from the shock and the savagery. 

I took the next day off of work. I didn’t explain anything to Holly - I mean, what is there to tell that won’t land me in an asylum or jail? Initially, I thought I had some kind of episode or fugue state that resulted in me killing another man in cold blood because I had mistaken him for some sort of doppelganger. 

I’d reaffirmed my sanity that afternoon when the sound of a male whistling woke me from a nap on the couch. I crept into the kitchen, and there I was - tie loosened and hands sudsy, just getting to work on some dirty dishes from the previous night. Thankfully, Holly wouldn’t be home for another twenty minutes when I drove a kitchen knife through his back. Quit my job the following day and blamed my worsening back pain. The best kind of lies, the most effective ones anyway, are designed from truths. 

I’ve never gone out of my way to prove this, but my guess is the copies materialize where that split happened at the same time it happened every day, and they just pick up where I left off - walking home after a day of work. The rest is history. Well, excluding the aforementioned exception. 

When I noticed that my wedding ring had a plastic texture, immobile and fused to my skin, I didn’t want to believe it. But it kept gnawing at me. One day, I ventured into the woods. When I found that the original’s corpse was seething with maggots, fungus, and sulfur, I realized what I was. 

I love Holly just like he did, and I’m all she’s got now. She doesn’t need to go through this pain if I can prevent it. We’re in the process of moving to Vermont for retirement, where she’ll be safe from this knowledge and from the infinite them. 

I'm not sure what will happen when the copies arrive at an empty house, but they aren’t my problem. 

All that matters to me is maintaining the illusion. Holly can never know.

More stories: https://linktr.ee/unalloyedsainttrina

The call came late, an attorney speaking in that detached, matter-of-fact tone they’re trained for. My father’s death had been expected, and yet, hearing it—a finality, a hollow quiet on the other end of the line—stirred something deep in me. I was all that was left now, the last of the Harts. No siblings, no family to share this burden, just an empty ache and the house. He’d left it to me, along with everything else I’d tried to escape. I wanted to walk away, leave it to crumble into the ground, but the will was clear: I had to come back, to settle things, to claim the inheritance in person.

I spent the drive dreading it, every mile closer to that old Victorian weighing on me. My father had always been stern, distant; our rare visits to the house had been joyless. I knew I hadn’t turned out the way he’d wanted, and maybe it was that unspoken shame that fueled my need for the bottle—a drink to numb the noise, to erase the feeling that I’d disappointed him, that I’d never live up to anything worthwhile. The house loomed ahead, and with it, everything I’d been running from.

When I entered, the air was dense, suffocating. It smelled of decay, damp wood, and something else, something that made the hairs on my neck rise. The silence was absolute, as if the house had been waiting. As I wandered its dusty corridors, my father’s office caught my eye. Books lined the walls, worn and forgotten. Among them, I found journals—not just my father’s but those of the men before him. They were scattered, some barely legible, others covered in erratic scrawls. I began to read, and each page pulled me deeper.

The journals were warnings, each entry a testament to the madness that consumed them. My great-grandfather Elias had been the first, setting this curse into motion with a discovery that should have remained buried. My father’s entries, near the end, were fragmented and desperate, his handwriting trembling. His final words trailed off, unfinished, as though something had stopped him mid-thought.

As I read, I began to understand that my father hadn’t died from madness alone. Something far darker had followed him, something ancient and hungry.

The journal of Elias Hart, my great-grandfather, was bound in worn leather, its pages brittle and stained with age. As I opened it, I felt a strange shiver—an unsettling sense that this wasn’t just a record but a door, pulling me into a nightmare that had haunted my family for generations. Elias’s writing started confidently, each entry filled with ambition, but as I read on, a creeping terror took hold. I could almost feel the descent into madness that consumed him.

Journal of Elias Hart, 1901

April 9, 1901 “The expedition begins today. I have assembled a crew of trusted men, and we march at first light toward the hills the locals avoid. They whisper of curses, dark forces that watch from the shadows, but such stories mean little to me. I am a man of reason, of vision. If there is treasure, I will find it. The men are loyal, but there is an unease among them, as if something lingers in the air. I told them these fears are nonsense, but the hills are silent, and even I feel an itch at the back of my neck.”

April 15, 1901 “We found the cave today. It wasn’t marked on any map. In fact, it seemed almost hidden, as though nature herself wanted it concealed. The entrance was narrow, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Once inside, it was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like teeth, and the floor was damp, almost breathing. The walls were covered in markings—etchings that seemed to move when you looked away. I felt watched, as though something waited in the shadows. I laughed it off, but the men were uneasy, whispering that we’d disturbed something better left undisturbed.”

April 18, 1901 “We’ve ventured deeper, and today we uncovered a hidden chamber. It was silent, empty save for a stone altar in the center. At first glance, it seemed like any other rock—jagged, ancient. But as I approached, my lantern flickered, casting shadows that danced and twisted around it. When the light steadied, I swear I saw faces in the stone, hollow eyes staring back at me, mouths open in silent screams. The men claim they heard whispers, soft and almost… pleading. I brushed it off as nerves, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the stone was alive, that it was aware of us.”

April 20, 1901 “The stone has become an obsession. I tried to sleep, but my dreams are filled with visions of it. Every time I close my eyes, I find myself back in that chamber, standing before the altar as faces emerge from the stone, twisted and contorted. Last night, I dreamt that the walls bled, seeping thick, black liquid that crawled across the floor toward me. I awoke drenched in sweat, my heart racing. I fear these are no mere dreams.”

As I read, the horror Elias experienced began to seep into me. His journal entries became frantic, the handwriting erratic, almost as if his mind unraveled with each passing day.

April 25, 1901 “The men want to leave. They say they’ve heard voices in the night, that shadows move when there is no light. I tried to assure them it was nothing, that their minds were playing tricks, but I, too, have heard it—a low hum, like the distant roar of a storm. And when I stare at the stone, it stares back, shifting, breathing. I am certain now that it holds something—something ancient and unfathomable. The faces etched into its surface seem to shift, becoming clearer each time I look. They are not dreams. I know this now. They are warnings.”

April 29, 1901 “Last night, the nightmares grew worse. I found myself alone in the chamber, the stone pulsing with a sickly, unnatural light. Faces emerged one by one, each one twisted in agony, eyes hollow and lifeless. But then I saw my own face, my own eyes, wide and terrified, mouth open in a silent scream. When I awoke, I could still feel their eyes on me, like an imprint burned into my soul.”

Each entry grew darker, Elias’s words a descent into fear and madness. He had stumbled upon something forbidden, and it was clear now that the stone was no mere artifact. It was a trap, a lure, and Elias had been caught in its grasp.

May 2, 1901 “I hear it now, even when I am awake—a soft whisper, curling into my ears like smoke. It speaks no words, only murmurs, and yet I feel its meaning. It is calling me, urging me to return to the chamber, to stand before the stone and offer myself. I tried to ignore it, but every time I turn away, I feel its pull, a hunger that gnaws at the edge of my mind. The men are gone; they fled in the night, leaving me alone. I am alone, and yet I feel… watched.”

May 5, 1901 “The markings have changed. They are no longer the crude etchings I saw before. They seem alive, pulsating with a dark light. When I place my hand on the stone, I feel it—an energy, a pulse like the beat of a heart, ancient and powerful. It feels… hungry. I should leave, but I cannot. Something holds me here, something I cannot explain.”

Elias’s fear was tangible. He was no longer the confident man who had begun this journey. The stone had taken root in his mind, twisting his thoughts, feeding off his dread.

May 10, 1901 “Every night, it returns. I stand before the stone, watching as faces emerge, each one a fragment of suffering. But tonight, I saw the faces of my family, my father, my brothers, each one contorted in agony. Their eyes were empty, their mouths open in a soundless scream. I wanted to reach out, to touch them, but the stone’s light grew brighter, blinding me. And then… I felt it. A presence, a hand on my shoulder, cold and heavy. I dared not turn, but I knew it was there, waiting.”

By May 15, Elias’s entries became almost unintelligible, the words scrawled hastily, as though he’d written them in a frenzy of fear. His last coherent entry left a chill in my bones.

May 15, 1901 “The stone is alive. It is not just a relic; it is a prison, a vessel for something dark, something ancient. It does not need words to communicate. It speaks through silence, through dread, through the very walls that close in around me. I feel it now, within me, watching through my eyes, feeding on my fear. I cannot leave, for it is a part of me now. And when I look in the mirror, I see my own face twisting, as though I am already gone. Tomorrow I will return to the chamber.”

Elias’s journal ended there, but as I closed the book, I felt the weight of his words pressing down on me. He hadn’t merely found a cursed stone; he’d found something that fed on fear, on despair, something that had burrowed into his mind and claimed him. It was not a curse of vengeance, as I’d once thought. It was a predator, ancient and patient. The journal was one of the only things left to give back to his wife after his disappearance.

As I turned to my grandfather’s journal, I was struck by the shift in tone. Unlike Elias’s obsessive entries, my grandfather, James Hart, wrote sparingly, as if he feared that acknowledging the curse would give it strength. He’d inherited his father’s house—and, unknowingly, his father’s burden. James didn’t seek out the darkness; it came to him.

The first entries were mostly mundane, notes about house repairs and everyday life. But slowly, insidiously, a dread crept in, spreading through his words like a dark stain. It began, as all curses do, quietly, almost unnoticeably—small sounds, glimpses, shadows at the edges of his vision. I could feel James’s growing paranoia, his slow unraveling, and the weight of a presence that lingered in every corner of his life.

Journal of James Hart, 1935

January 3, 1935 “I found my father’s journal today, tucked away in the attic in a leather case. I never knew him well; he left before I was old enough to remember much. My mother forbade me from reading it, but now that she’s gone, curiosity has gotten the better of me. As I turn the pages, I feel his fear clawing out from the past, reaching toward me. There is something here… something lurking within these words.”

February 10, 1935 “I haven’t slept well since reading his journal. The words are like a poison in my mind, making the nights unbearable. Last night, I heard whispers in the hallway—soft, breathy, as if someone were just outside my door. When I opened it, there was nothing but the stillness of the house, yet the air felt charged, thick with something I couldn’t see. I told myself it was just my mind playing tricks, but the feeling has stayed with me, as if I am being watched, as if something is waiting for me in the dark.”

March 5, 1935 “I tried to move on, but every night, it seems to draw closer. The house feels different, like it’s somehow alive. Sometimes, I catch movement from the corner of my eye—a shadow flitting across the room, a glimpse of something that shouldn’t be there. And the whispers… they are louder now. I can almost make out words, though they seem twisted, like a language I cannot understand. I wake up with the words ringing in my ears, yet I cannot remember them. It feels like they’re speaking directly to my soul.”

March 12, 1935 “Tonight, I found scratches on my bedroom door—deep, jagged marks gouged into the wood. They weren’t there before. I ran my fingers over them, and I swear I felt a chill seep into my bones. The markings were strange, almost like symbols, reminding me of the ones my father described in the cave. Could it be the same? But how could that be possible? I told myself it was nothing, that maybe I’d never noticed them before, but deep down, I know it’s a lie. Something is here, something that followed him, and now it wants me.”

The next few entries became more sporadic, his sentences shorter, his handwriting more frantic. I could sense his isolation, the way he seemed to withdraw from the world as the terror sank its claws into him.

March 28, 1935 “I saw it tonight. I was in the study, reading by the fire when I felt it—an intense pressure, like something was standing behind me. I froze, my breath shallow, my heart pounding, too afraid to turn around. And then I saw it—a reflection in the window, a shadowy figure watching me. It had no face, only empty, hollow eyes, black as the void. I turned, but the room was empty. Yet I know what I saw. It was real, a thing of darkness and hunger. It’s watching me… it’s always watching me.”

April 3, 1935 “The whispers are in my head now, not just outside my door. They linger, even in the light of day, murmuring things I cannot understand. I’ve tried to leave the house, but every time I reach the door, something holds me back, a force that wraps around me like a cold hand. And the shadows… they are moving now, crawling along the walls, twisting into shapes I don’t recognize. I tried to ignore them, but they are everywhere, a part of the house, a part of me. I feel myself slipping, as if my own mind is unraveling.”

April 10, 1935 “I dreamt of my father last night. He stood at the foot of my bed, his face pale, his eyes empty sockets. His mouth opened, yet no words came out, only a low, guttural sound, like something trying to claw its way out of his throat. I woke up screaming, but even in the darkness, I could still see him there, a shadow in the corner of my room. I closed my eyes, praying it was just a nightmare, but when I opened them again, he was gone… and yet, I can still feel him watching me.”

April 20, 1935 “The curse is real. I know it now. My father wasn’t mad—he was haunted, possessed by something he could never escape. And now, it has me. I see faces in the mirrors, twisted and contorted, their mouths open in silent screams. They are trying to tell me something, but the words are lost, warped into a language I cannot comprehend. I tried to cover the mirrors, but it doesn’t matter. I see them everywhere—reflections in the windows, in the water, in my own shadow. They are a part of me now.”

April 25, 1935 “I am no longer alone. It moves through the house, a dark, shifting presence, like smoke seeping through cracks. Last night, I heard it whisper my name, soft and mocking, as though it were right beside me. I tried to shut it out, to ignore the sound, but it grew louder, filling my head, echoing through my mind. I cannot escape it. It is inside me, digging deeper each night. I am its prisoner, just as my father was. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”

May 1, 1935 “I can barely recognize myself anymore. My face in the mirror is not my own. I am afraid to sleep, afraid of what I will see, of who I will become. The house has taken me, claimed me, as it did my father. I am a part of it now, bound to the shadows that lurk within these walls. I can feel it feeding on my fear, growing stronger with each passing day.”

May 7, 1935 “This is my last entry. I know now that there is no escape. It will consume me and it will consume those who come after me. The curse cannot be broken; it can only be endured, suffered. I will leave this journal for my son, though I pray he will never find it. I can hear it now, in the walls, in the very fabric of this house. It calls to me, beckoning, and I am too tired to resist. I am ready. I am ready.”

As I closed my grandfather’s journal, a sickening dread settled over me. James had fought, resisted, but in the end, he too had been claimed. His final words were a warning—a desperate attempt to shield those who would come after him. But the curse was relentless, a dark shadow that stretched across generations, and I knew that I was next.

In that moment, I felt it—a cold, creeping sensation, as though someone had run their hand down my spine. The house was silent, but the silence was too deep, too oppressive. I heard a faint whisper curling through the air, and I realized that the curse was not just in the past. It was here, with me, waiting,watching.

My father’s journal was where he’d left it, buried beneath layers of dust in his study. I almost didn’t want to open it, as if by reading his final words, I’d be inviting his suffering into my own life. But the curiosity, the need to understand, was too strong. As I read, I could almost feel his presence around me, his terror alive in each word.

Journal of Robert Hart, 1969

March 12, 1969 “I swore I’d never touch this journal, but something has changed. My whole life, I thought my father’s warnings were nothing more than the fantasies of a broken man, remnants of a mind ravaged by grief. But now… I can no longer deny it. I see them too—the shadows that slink through the house at night, the whispers that echo through the walls. I feel them watching. It’s as though the darkness itself is alive, lurking just beyond the edges of sight.”

April 5, 1969 “Last night, I woke to the sound of footsteps outside my door. Slow, deliberate, as if someone were pacing just beyond the threshold. I held my breath, straining to listen, but they stopped the moment I moved. When I opened the door, there was nothing, only the cold emptiness of the hallway. But the feeling stayed with me—a presence, pressing in from all sides, a darkness that seemed to watch from every shadow.”

April 15, 1969 “It’s growing bolder now, making itself known in ways that leave no doubt. I found scratches on the floorboards this morning, deep marks like the claws of some great beast. They formed a pattern, something almost like letters or symbols, twisted and ancient. I tried to scrub them away, but they remained, as though etched into the very wood. The house is no longer just a place—it’s a living thing, and it’s hungry.”

As I read his words, a sickening dread curled in my stomach. The feeling in the house was changing—more intense, as if the entity knew I was uncovering its secrets, as if it were watching over my shoulder.

May 1, 1969 “Whatever this is, it’s powerful. It’s unlike anything I can describe, an evil older than memory, an intelligence that feels vast and empty. I see it now, even in daylight—a shadow in the corner of my eye, a figure that dissolves the moment I turn. But it’s real. I know it is. And it knows me, knows my fears, my thoughts. I feel it prying into my mind, digging into places I cannot hide. At night, I can hear it whispering, its voice like broken glass, scraping against my skull.”

May 10, 1969 “I dream of faces—faces that look like mine, in agony. They are my ancestors, each bearing the mark of this curse, each trapped within this house, bound by something far beyond human understanding. I feel myself slipping, my will eroding, as though the house is leeching the very life from me. I am becoming them, part of the line of Hart men bound to this darkness. I fear I am already lost.”

By the time I reached his final entry, my hands were shaking. I’d never seen my father as a fearful man; he’d been strong, unshakable. But his last words were frantic, scrawled with the tremor of a man teetering on the edge of madness.

May 15, 1969 “It spoke to me. For the first time, it spoke in words I could understand. It called my name, soft, almost kind, as if inviting me closer. I tried to resist, but it was like the sound was inside my own head, as though my very thoughts were no longer my own. It told me things—things I cannot bear to write, truths that twist and writhe like snakes in my mind. I am not alone here. I never was. And neither are you.”

The words felt like a warning, a direct message from the past to me. In that moment, I understood that the curse was more than a lingering evil—it was a parasite, a darkness that fed on each generation, growing stronger with every soul it claimed.

Those I assume were the last words before my father took his own life that spring. Now it wanted me.

Sitting in the shadows of the house, I felt the oppressive weight of everything I’d read, every word of every journal that had marked my family’s descent. The air was thick, heavy, as if the walls themselves pressed in, eager to suffocate. I took a final, defiant gulp of whiskey, feeling its burn fight briefly against the creeping cold that seemed to settle deep within my bones. The drink dulled the edges of fear, but not enough—never enough.

I knew it was here. The thing that had clawed its way into the minds of my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather. Now, it had come for me, and there was no escaping it. I saw my father’s last words scrawled on the page, a fractured message left in a shaking hand:

“Do not let it know you.”

But it was too late.

The room began to shift, stretching outward, as if the walls were unraveling into a dark void. Shadows deepened around me, and the silence thickened, stretching into an unnatural stillness. I was held in place, frozen as I watched darkness ripple and move—its very presence pressing in on me, filling every inch of the room.

The figure was there, standing in the shadows, and though I could see no features, I felt its presence. It was a force, vast and incomprehensible, ancient beyond understanding. The air grew frigid, and every breath I took felt like inhaling shards of ice.

My father’s voice whispered, “It takes everything you are.”

The shadows shifted, and I was no longer alone. Before me stood my father, his eyes piercing and despairing, lips moving in silence. Behind him, my grandfather, his expression contorted in agony, a look of terror etched into his features. Elias, with his face empty, joined them—a lineup of broken, defeated men. They weren’t merely apparitions; I could feel their suffering radiate like heat, lingering in the air, filling the room with a cacophony of anguish.

They mouthed silent warnings, their words flowing into my mind.

“Turn back…”

“You’ll be nothing…”

“It will never let you go.”

My body shook as the figure moved closer, filling the space, bending the walls, consuming every shadow, until its form was all I could see—a towering, writhing thing. Faces formed within its dark mass, mouths opening and closing, screaming. They were my family. Every Hart who had come before me. Trapped within this thing, forced to relive their worst fears, their deepest regrets, their unspoken terrors. All of it reflected back at me.

Then it began to show me what it wanted.

The room transformed, twisting, warping into scenes from my own life. I saw myself as a boy, terrified and alone. I watched scenes of loneliness, shame, fear, my most bitter regrets—flashes of every single failure, every person I’d hurt, all of them amplified, impossibly exaggerated in this nightmare. The figure loomed over me, a writhing mass of shadows, feeding off the darkness in my mind, growing larger, stronger.

I tried to close my eyes, to block it out, but it was inside me now. I felt it dig deeper, scraping through my memories like a knife carving through flesh, tearing open wounds I’d long buried. The images twisted, spiraling faster, each one more horrifying than the last. I saw the faces of everyone I’d loved, broken and bloodied, accusing, blaming, begging me to stop.

My heart pounded, but I couldn’t look away. I felt its cold grip reach deeper, pulling me down into a pit of darkness, where every echo, every memory was sharpened into raw, unbearable pain.

In that moment, I knew what it wanted. It didn’t want me to die. It wanted me to suffer—forever.

The shadows wrapped around me like chains, constricting tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. My vision blurred, fading in and out, as my mind fractured under the weight of it all. I could hear the whispers of my family, their voices merging with my own, trapped in an endless loop of horror.

And then, there was nothing but darkness.

When they found me, I was alone in the house, staring into the void, my eyes wide and unseeing. The doctors said it was a stroke, perhaps brought on by the years of drinking, the burden of grief. But I knew the truth.

I am still here, trapped within the darkness. In this place, there is no escape, no release. Every heartbeat drags me deeper into the nightmare, replaying my worst memories, my deepest fears, over and over. I am caught in an endless loop of horror, reliving the same moments, watching the faces of my family in agony.

They are with me, their voices echoing in the darkness, and I know I am not alone. I am part of it now. The entity feeds on my fear, my despair, and it will keep feeding until there is nothing left.

This is my eternity.