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We enjoy our horror short and sweet. 500 words or less.

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  1. All stories must be 500 words or less. A story that is 501 words (or two sentences or less, to distinguish us from r/twosentencehorror) will be removed. The go-to source that mods use to check stories is www.wordcounter.net. Be aware that formatting can artificially increase the word count without your knowledge; any discrepancy between what your document says and what the mod sees on wordcounter.net will be resolved in favor of wordcounter.net. In the same vein, all of the story must be in the post itself, and not be carried on in the title of the story or in the comment section.

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/r/shortscarystories

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3

" OH SHIT " I FORGOT... MYSELF !!!🤔

I Forgot... Myself

I stared at my reflection, but something was off. My eyes seemed darker, my smile twisted.

I tried to remember my name, but it slipped my mind. I stumbled through my daily routine, forgetting every step.

As the day went on, I forgot more and more. My job, my friends, my family... everything was a blur.

And then, I found a note on my desk:

"You forgot me first."

I had no idea who wrote it, or what it meant. But as I looked around my empty apartment, I realized that I had forgotten something far more terrifying...

Myself.

0 Comments
2024/12/31
18:41 UTC

1

The Fireplace

She picked her way carefully down the dark stairs, holding the carrier awkwardly out in front of her. It bounced on her hips, despite her best efforts to keep it and the baby steady. But Jack didn’t seem to mind. She could just make out his beady black eyes in the dark as he gazed up at her, giddy to have her awake with him.  

She was fully prepared for the fact that, one of these nights, she was going to go ass over tea kettle trying to navigate this narrow, rail-less stairwell in her foggy, sleep-deprived state.

But she couldn’t bring herself to turn the lights on. It burns! It burns! A night light glowed in the front hall, and its tiny halo was just enough to get her down the stairs and into the living room.   

She set the carrier gently down on the hardwood floor, smiling ruefully down at a gurgling, happy Jack. 

An icy draft blew across the floor from the fireplace. It was now nothing but a gaping maw of broken bricks, with bits of brick and mortar scattered around what was left of the hearth. The contractor had promised three more days. Three more days and it would be restored to its former working glory, ready to burn big, fat fragrant logs of cedar and crackling birch. 

Though right now, it was hard to imagine anything warm or inviting coming from what looked like the entrance to a black cave, its dark, sooty interior warning of some vile creature that might appear at any moment, ready to attack, tear, slice, swallow.

Stop it! 

She tucked the blankets up around Jack and left him while she walked the few paces into the kitchen. If she was lucky, he’d drift back to sleep before she’d even poured her camomile. She could then crawl gratefully back to bed, leaving him in the carrier beside her for the rest of the night—or at least until his next wakeup.

Five minutes later, tiptoeing back into the living room and gingerly avoiding the creaky spots, she strained to hear anything from him. Silence. She leaned down and cocked her head. Nothing but breathing. Though it was a bit wheezy. Hmmm. Have to keep an eye on that.

But for now, he was asleep, tucked under his cozy blankies, and she could look forward to two, maybe three hours of sleep.

She’d reached the sixth step when she felt it: A stab of pain across her stomach that she was sure was worse than childbirth had been.

Looking down, she saw blood. Gobs of it, oozing out of her torn t-shirt. 

What the…

A tiny scaled arm with an enormous claw at the end of it had reached out of the carrier and was slicing into her yet again. 

The first wave of shock hit her and she fell back. 

Her last thought before landing head-first at the bottom was that she’d never get to enjoy the fireplace*.* 

0 Comments
2024/12/31
18:31 UTC

0

What's Wrong With My New Car?

Today is my 18th birthday. I am not expecting much other than chilling and watching TikTok all day. It isn't that I hate birthdays; it's just that my family doesn't celebrate birthdays, and I recently broke up with my bf, Daniel. Since Daniel cheated on me with my cousin, I felt betrayed. However, I tried to move on and not to think about him.

As I was lying on my bed watching the crazy trend "we listen and we don't judge," which is kind of hilarious.

"Brianna! There is something outside," my sister shouted my name.

I exited my room and rapidly ran down the stairs with a bat in my hand. "What happened? Are you okay, Bryssa?" I said while I panicked and was eager to fight. "Girlll, relax and put the bat down!" my sister said.

As I placed my bat on the floor, I walked outside and noticed that there was a black Mercedes-Benz with a red bow on top of the vehicle.

"You got me a car? I stated.

"No, I was about to go out to get the mail, but the car randomly showed up in the middle of the driveway," said my sister.

"That's strange," I said.

I walked outside to observe the car and saw a letter on the car seat, labeled "Bri," which is my nickname. I opened the letter and discovered that it was from Daniel. I kept the Mercedes but tore up the letter and threw it in the middle of the ground. I was excited and grabbed my phone to tell my friends about it.

*Few Hours Later*

I decided to get all dressed up so I could test out my new car. I quickly hopped in the car, fastened my seatbelt, and began to drive around the neighborhood. Then I got hungry, so I grabbed my phone to see if "On The Border Restaurant" was open.

I drove on the road bridge, but all of a sudden my car randomly stopped in the middle of the road. The infotainment system began to glitch, and many people were honking at me. I quickly pushed all of the buttons that were on the infotainment system and put my foot on the gas and brake, hoping that the car would eventually start.

None of it seems to be working, so I grab my phone to try to call the mechanic, but my phone notifies me that it has no signal around my area. I tried to unbuckle my seatbelt, but it seemed to be stuck and become tighter.

I was scared and confused; I banged and waved at the window to get one of the car drivers to assist me, but they just ignored me and drove around me. Then I saw the mini radiator fall off the air conditioning itself, but something just moved inside the air conditioner, and it looked like a silver metal robotic seatbelt slowly coming out toward me while the infotainment system randomly began to make a loud beep sound, which it was going nonstop.

I immediately went insane, grabbed the car handle, and attempted to open the door, but it wouldn't open. The robotic seatbelt proceeded near my face; I swung at it, which instantly shocked me. I burst into tears while the robotic seatbelt wrapped around me where I couldn't move.

All of a sudden I heard my ex-boyfriend, Daniel, laughing through the car speaker while the car began to move on its own. "Happy Birthday, Darling! Do you miss me?" said Daniel.

0 Comments
2024/12/31
18:29 UTC

16

You Have Been Integrated

The first week after the implant felt like waking from a long sleep. My mind was sharp, agile. I could think through problems faster than I could speak them aloud, and every idea fit perfectly, as if the answers had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

By the second week, I started to notice gaps.

It was nothing at first. Stuff like forgetting why I walked into a room or pausing mid-sentence. “The system’s adapting,” Richard assured me. “Mapping your processes, finding redundancies. Let it work.”

I wanted to trust him.

This morning, I woke up sitting at my desk. The sun was rising, but I had no memory of getting there. My hands were cramped, and my laptop was open to a page of code. I didn’t recognize any of it.

I asked Richard about it when he woke up. He gave me that same patronizing smile. “It’s progress, Claire. You’re operating on a different level now. The implant’s optimizing your potential.”

“But I didn’t write it,” I said.

He just shrugged. “You don’t have to. That’s the point.”

By evening, the gaps had grown wider. I’d sit down to read and find hours had passed. My body felt foreign, my thoughts distant. I opened my phone and found emails I didn’t remember sending, all of them perfectly written, strategic, but completely hollow. My name was at the bottom, but the words weren’t mine.

I called Richard. He didn’t answer.

The implant suggested I stop worrying.

It wasn’t a voice, not exactly. Just a push, like a thought that wasn’t mine, but felt natural enough to follow.

After yet another gap, I found Richard at home later that night. He was sitting at his desk, staring at his screen, his hands completely motionless.

“Richard,” I whispered.

He didn’t move.

I stepped closer and saw the lines of code scrolling endlessly across his monitor. His implant must have been controlling it, but there was something wrong. His eyes were open, unblinking, glazed over like he wasn’t there at all.

And then his lips moved.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice flat.

I jumped. "For- for what?"

The scrolling suddenly stopped, and a single sentence appeared.

You have been integrated.

His mouth fell unnaturally open, a high-pitched tone suddenly emitting from him, almost like the old modem sounds when connecting to the internet. And before I could even think about running, my vision had already blurred, and my body had already hit the floor.

The last thing I felt was the faint pulse of the implant syncing, pulling and changing me into whatever Richard had already become.

1 Comment
2024/12/31
15:35 UTC

165

I found my fiancé dead. After I cremated him, he showed back up at my apartment like nothing had changed.

“Please don’t be mad at me, but I think I lost my key.”

I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t having a nightmare.

“Shawn?” I said, looking over at the small, bronze urn I had sitting on my kitchen counter.

The urn that contained Shawn’s ashes.

“I know, I know, it’s like thirty dollars to replace, but I swear I don’t even remember losing it.” Shawn got a distant look in his eye, like he was trying to recall the past few days, then shook his head. “Hey, who are we playing tonight?”

Shawn walked into our apartment then sat on the couch. He was exactly where I found him three days earlier. I came home from work and thought he was napping. I tried to wake him up with a kiss, but he was cold against my lips.

“Babe, who’re we playing?” Shawn repeated.

“Uh—the Jazz.”

“The Jazz? If we can’t beat them I might kill myself.”

I choked down a sob.

“Shit,” Shawn said, “did I say something wrong?”

Shawn walked towards me, but I backed away, slowly retreating into the kitchen. I don’t believe in a higher power, but I do believe in karma. And I know, I just know, that whoever the hell this is was sent here to punish me.

“Are you okay?” Shawn asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“Get away from me,” I tried to say, but only a whimper came out.

Shawn kept approaching, taking baby steps.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have joked about that. Let’s just watch the game together.” The crazed look in his eye was chilling. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to hug me or hang me.

By now I had backed up all the way to the counter. I was cornered.

“Are you getting cold feet about the wedding? Because we can always reschedule.”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“You’re dead,” I shouted, “and I killed you!”

Shawn stood there, stunned.

“But I’m alive, I’m right here,” he said.

“No, you’re in there,” I pointed to the bronze urn.

“Wait—what do you mean you killed me?”

I started bawling.

“I said you should ration your insulin so we could afford our dream wedding. I didn’t think it would kill you.”

Shawn looked confused, he probably didn’t remember any of this.

“If I was willing to do that, I don’t know, I guess it just meant that I loved you very much.” Shawn put a hand on my shoulder. “All I know is that I’m here now, and you’re my favorite person in the world. That—and if we don’t hurry we’re going to miss the game.”

I laughed between sobs, and pulled Shawn in for a hug.

I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I didn’t care as long as we were in each other’s arms. Then it hit me, like a slow, rolling breeze over a hill. I was completely and utterly afraid that I was going to lose him again.

5 Comments
2024/12/31
15:21 UTC

9

Little Johnny's Bad habits

Mary's son johnny had developed a bad habit. He wouldn't stop sucking his fingers. It wasn't just his thumb, he would suck all his fingers. It was the only thing that calmed the 6 year old. But Mary's opinion he was too old for it.

She tried everything, talking, punishing and even tried special gloves, nothing worked. At her wits end, Mary did something she never would have thought, she wrapped johnny's hands up in a long piece of fabric. She would only let him out for toilet or food. He was agitated, lashed out and was destructive for the first few days. Then, strangely he calmed down. Mary thought, it worked.

One morning she had to rush out to help a friend, she forgot to untie johnny. When she came home, she expected utter chaos, but what she saw horrified her. Johnny was sucking fingers.

That wasn't what horrified her, what scared her was the fact the his hands where still bound and the fingers he was sucking on wasn't his. Worst part, he refused to say who's fingers they were or where he got it from.

2 Comments
2024/12/31
15:21 UTC

0

R/My personal scary story

This is a absolute true story 100% so it was a late night in 2017 me and my friends were having a sleepover at my aunts it was fun playing games until 12am we were all still hyper during that night I was on call with my girlfriend so I decided to step outside for a bit for some air I was still talking to her on the phone side note we tried to build a small little fort behind her house in a area with trees so I was outside I told her I need to piss so I walked to the side of the house to piss and when I was done I heard kids laughing and talking where are little fort was I yelled hello !? As soon as I said that it just went completely silent in a literal second I said again hello no response then I told my girlfriend I just heard kids in the trees mind you it’s 12am at night no kids are out then I ran back inside I told my friends what happened I was like you know we’re are fort is I heard kids laughing and talking no joke I taken them outside we yelled and no response it was dead silent.

The year is 2025 to this very day that moment is still stuck in my mind

0 Comments
2024/12/31
15:13 UTC

5

Antwalker

I awoke among the rubble sometime later, unable to feel much of anything at all. My skin was raw, but entirely numb. I realised that the shirt was gone from my back. It had burned away.

Forcing the broken concrete away from on top of me, I struggled to see to the street due to the falling ash. My ears ached. My eyes burned. I could hear screaming. Moans. A woman wailed somewhere off in the unseen distance. She pleaded with someone else to tell her where her baby was. I managed to get to my feet after that, trying to brush away the dust and shrieking at the pain as it surged through me with my touch. My clothes were gone down to my underwear. Just ashen-black rags clinging to my agonised flesh.

I saw movement in the fog. Four, maybe five people walking forward. I tried to call out, but the pain was too great for my throat to bear, my shout just a rasping, unintelligible cry. Instead, I managed to slowly clamber over the remains of what was once my workplace to join them before they could vanish out of sight completely. All of us there, unthinking, stunned. Broken by the flash. The walking dead, all moving towards that clearer horizon and away from the cloud behind us. More soon came. Some spoke in frantic, terrified ramblings while others like me could only whisper hoarsely. The sight of us must have been like a parade from Hell, the Devil in tow. After several indiscernible miles, I broke away from the then dozens-strong group, approaching the district where my parents lived. Their home was gone. The entire street where I had grown up. All just black. I felt myself finally succumb to tears then, knowing it was all gone so wholly, and their streaming down my cheeks scorched like razors tearing at the remaining skin beneath that could still be called such. I didn't move again for some time, then I turned and started walking the road again, now so alone.

0 Comments
2024/12/31
15:02 UTC

823

The girl entered the pastry shop looking like death warmed up. She could only have been 18, 19, something like that, but she looked wrecked.

Where she wasn’t covered in bruises, her skin was pale and flaking, particularly on her lips and hands.

She was wearing a rainbow-striped top, blue jean shorts and a backpack shaped like a teddy bear. Her black tights were laddered and torn.

Both her fists were clenched tightly.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the lady on the counter asked piteously, forcing a smile as she did so.

It took a moment for the girl to acknowledge she was being spoken to. She looked up slowly.

The people waiting in the short queue behind her exchanged awkward glances with the few seated people in the shop. An old man sat at a little table rolled his eyes and tutted theatrically.

Two boys at the back sniggered.

“Fucking crackhead,” one of them whispered audibly.

The man behind them roared insultingly at both.

“Usual?” the lady asked the girl, ignoring the commotion.

The girl swayed slightly, then nodded her head. Her skull was pockmarked and lumpy, distorting the shape of her head.

The lady wrapped her pastry in a paper bag. She made a point of pulling on some gloves and then reached over the counter to take the girl’s money.

The girl slid the bag off her shoulder with some effort and scratched around inside, finding nothing.

“He-hem,” the lady on the counter coughed lightly. The girl looked up, watching as the woman pointed at her own fist before making an open palm gesture.

The girl looked at her balled fists. Inside one was a crumpled note and several coins.

The lady gestured again, encouraging the girl to pass her the money, which she did.

At this point, the shop was completely silent. Everyone was watching this interminable transaction unfold.

The lady on the counter then took a short breath and tapped a couple of buttons on the till, which rattled open as the cash drawer shot out.

“Thank you,” the lady beamed.

The girl stood there a little while longer, causing some murmurs of discontent in the queue.

“Get out the way, ya fucken-”

“Sheila!” a man’s voice interrupted from outside the shop. It was the same man who’d told off the kids in the queue.

“Sheila, darling, come here now.”

He smiled at her warmly, wagging a small piece of raw liver or steak at her. It was dripping.

Her eyes lit up.

“Sheila!” he repeated.

Several people in the shop shook their heads in disgust.

Slowly, the girl staggered towards her father, who smiled gently as he took the pastry from her. She chewed greedily on the meat as he placed an arm round her shoulder and guided her away.

“Fucking zombies,” the old man at the little table spat, swilling the last of his coffee down as the shop’s hubbub returned. “Should have burned the fuckers, not cured them.”

25 Comments
2024/12/31
14:48 UTC

14

they weren’t wet, were they?

My name’s Walt Kelly, and I been sittin’ on this story ‘bout a remote lighthouse off the Oregon coast for nigh on thirty-five years now. Figgered it’s time to let it loose, like a bad smell at a Sunday picnic, probly.

The lighthouse. The Widow's Tooth, some of the old-timers called it. And she’d earned it, they said. More storms rolled over that rock than you’ve had hot dinners. Old timers used to say the place was cursed, that the souls of shipwrecked sailors was trapped in the lantern room, forever watchin’ for a shore they could never reach. Just stories, mostly. Keeps the tourists interested though.

Worked that light for twelve years, I did. Seen every kind of weather the Pacific could throw, every kind of boat that dared to come close. You learn to read the water out there, know the sound of a trawler from a sailboat a mile off. Seen things you wouldn’t believe, mostly just the ocean bein’ the ocean, mind you. But this… this was different.

It was a night just like any other in late fall. The kind where the wind howled like a banshee lost in a barrel, and the waves crashed high enough to spit water right up onto the lantern room. Couldn’t see nothin’ but white fury out there. Radar was spittin’ and cracklin’, pickin’ up nothin’ but the storm itself, and I figgered that was that. You get used to the loneliness out there, the constant roar of the sea your only company. You settle into a rhythm, checkin’ the lamp, the gauges, makin’ sure Widow's Tooth was doin’ her job, warnin’ folks away from the teeth of that rock.

Then, clear as a bell over the roar, I heard it. A knock. Not a bang from the wind, nothin’ like that. A proper knock. Like someone standin’ there, polite as you please, in the middle of Armageddon.

Figgered it was the wind playin’ tricks, but then it came again. Three sharp raps. No boat coulda made it close that night without me seein’ it, hearin’ it. And even if they did… they’d be clingin’ to life, not standin’ there knockin’ like they was expectin’ tea and biscuits.

I went down the windin’ stairs, heart thumpin’ a little faster than usual. Bolted the heavy door open, and there they was. A fella, his wife, and two young’uns, huddled together. Seemed normal enough at first glance. Except… they was dry. Bone dry. Like they’d just stepped out of their parlor on a sunny afternoon. Their clothes, looked like wool, but felt… papery, almost. Rain usually soaks things. And their hair, the rain shoulda plastered it to their heads, but it was dry, like it hadn't even been near water.

“Lost, are you?” I asked, the wind tryin’ to rip the words from my mouth.

The fella, he had a thin mustache and a nervous look, just nodded. “Storm caught us out,” he said, his voice barely a whisper against the wind. The wife, she had her arm around a little girl, maybe six or seven, and the boy, a couple years older, was holdin’ onto his daddy’s coat.

“No boat,” I said, lookin’ past ‘em into the storm. “Ain’t seen no boats all night.”

The fella just shrugged, a weak little shrug that didn’t explain nothin’. I wasn’t born yesterday. You don’t just appear on a rock in the middle of the ocean during a gale.

“Come on in,” I said, more out of habit than anything. Couldn’t leave folks out in that.

They stepped inside, and the wind seemed to sigh now that the door was shut. They dripped nothin’ on the floor. Not a single drop. I’d just mopped the floor that afternoon, the linoleum still a bit slick. They stepped inside, and nothin'. Not a bead of water. I remember thinkin' I needed to check the desiccant in the lamp housing later, keep the moisture out. But that dryness… it wasn't right.

“Coffee?” I offered, pointin’ to the pot always brewin’ on the stove. Strong enough to float a damn horseshoe.

They nodded, still quiet. The young’uns, a boy and a girl, they didn’t say nothin’, just stood there, clingin’ to their mama’s skirts.

It was the way they looked at you though. The wife, she’d smile, a real polite smile, but her eyes… her eyes would drift off, lookin’ past you, like she was seein’ somethin’ on the wall behind you that wasn’t there. The fella, he mostly kept his head down, but every now and then, he’d glance up, a quick, dartin’ look, then back down again. Like he was expectin’ somethin’ to jump out.

And then there was the peekin’. The little girl, she’d stand in a doorway, just out of sight, just her eyes peekin’ around the jamb, starin’ at you with that same fixed smile. Or the husband, he’d be sittin’ by the fire, but you’d catch him lookin’ over his shoulder, starin’ at the shadows in the corner. The firelight dancin’ on the walls, makin’ shapes.

They didn’t act like they’d just escaped a watery grave. No shiverin’, no cryin’, nothin’. Just… there. And they stayed dry. Even sittin’ by the fire, their clothes didn’t steam, didn’t even look damp. It was unnatural.

Started with a glance here and there, easy enough to miss. But then it got… coordinated. Like they'd rehearsed it. I'd be jawin' with the fella about the wind, tryin' to act normal, and then, all at once, the wife and kids, they'd all turn. Every one of 'em, eyes locked on you for a heartbeat. Then, just as sudden, they'd snap away, lookin' at the floor or the wall, like nothin' happened. Creeped me right out. Like I'd missed somethin', like they knew somethin' I didn't. Made the hairs on my neck prickle, I tell you what.

Once, I went up to check the lamp, hearin' the beam whir and swing out over the black water. When I came back down, they was all just… standin' there, smack-dab in the middle of the room, heads tilted back, gazin' up at the ceilin'. Just starin'. Ceilin's just a ceilin', ain't nothin' special about it. But they was lookin' like they seen somethin' I couldn't. Cleared my throat, and their heads snapped down quick, like they was pulled by a string. Smilin'. That same damn smile that didn't reach their eyes. Like nothin' was amiss.

My mind was tryin’ to make sense of it, tellin’ me I was just tired, seein’ things. But that feelin’… that cold knot in your gut… that don’t lie. I’d seen things out on the water, things you can’t explain, but this was different. This felt… wrong.

It hit me when I saw the little girl walk right through a puddle of seawater on the floor by the door. Didn’t even ripple the water. That’s when the cold really set in. That’s when I knew somethin’ wasn’t right, somethin’ was deeply, terribly wrong.

I’d been watchin’ the wife help the little boy with his coat. Just a normal thing, a mother and her son. But the way she smiled down at him… it was too wide, too fixed. And his eyes… they was lookin’ past her, lookin’ right through her. And somethin’ just clicked. That wasn’t her. And them weren’t her children. Not anymore, anyway.

Come mornin', the wind was done howlin', the sea was almost... polite. Sun shinin' like butter wouldn't melt. They were gone. Just... gone. I stood there, feelin' the silence pressin' in. My gaze kept driftin' back to the door. Solid. And the bolt. That thick brass bolt, still in place. I know that bolt. Know it like I know my own hands. You gotta be here, on this side, to slide it across. Feel the click as it locks. There's no reachin' it from out there. No way. So how...? No wet tracks. Nothin' disturbed. Just the memory of their faces... and that damn bolt.

Never saw ‘em again. Never heard nothin’ ‘bout a missin’ family. The sea keeps its secrets, and sometimes, it spits things back that ain’t what they used to be.

So, if you’re ever caught out in a storm, and someone comes to your door lookin’ for shelter… look real close. Especially if they’re dry as a bone when they shouldn’t be. And if they start starin’ at the corners of the room, smilin’ that empty smile… bolt the door. Let the storm rage. Because sometimes, the sea ain’t the only thing that washes ashore. It brings other things too. Things you don't want to see. Things that ain't natural.

0 Comments
2024/12/31
13:31 UTC

7

The Place That Grants Wishes on New Year

There are places all over the world, where if you happen to make a wish at the right time, it will come true.

Nick stumbled into one of these places last New Year, just outside the back door of a seedy old downtown disco and happened to wish, from the bottom of his heart, that Camilla would fall in love with him. It was pure coincidence.

They went on their first date the next week. By February, she had moved in, breaking her lease to do so. Nick had been delirious with joy.

A year had passed, and he was at the same disco again.

He looked at Camilla’s beautiful face, lit up by the flashing disco lights.

She gripped his arm. “Nick- It’s almost midnight.”

He hesitated and she frowned. “You promised me!” she yelled in the thumping music.

They started walking towards the back entrance- his heart flopping about in his chest with misery.

Foolishly, he had told her about the wish, just a few months ago.

Camilla didn’t deny or withdraw her love- it was too strong. But she became insistent, and she made Nick promise to take her there this New Year. She wanted a wish too.

Nick tried to cajole her into telling him what her wish was, but she wouldn’t. And she was so sweet and loving that he gave up, melting into the bliss of being loved by her.

“Camilla- please!” begged Nick as the thumping noise of the disco faded. “Sweetheart, tell me?”

Camilla stopped at the door, and drew him close to her. She kissed him deeply and he felt like a drowning man gasping for air.

Then she opened the door and stepped out into the chilly night. The crowd started chanting the countdown.

“Here?” she called.

Nick shook his head miserably. How could he give her up? But maybe her wish had nothing to do with him. Maybe the force of their love would keep them together- prevent her from wishing anything destructive? Maybe she simply wanted to wish for a healthy life or success in her career or some shit like that.

“To the left a bit” he muttered and against his will, he positioned her on the exact spot where New Year wishes came true.

Seven… Six... Five

Camilla declared loudly:

“I wish to fall out of love with Nick, the man standing here beside me.”

Cheers erupted and fireworks lit the sky.

Nick covered his face with his hands, a sob escaping him.

And so he didn’t see the flash of steel until it was too late- Camilla burying the sharp point of the knife deep into his heart with a soft grunt of fury.

The last words he heard was her whispering so viciously he could barely recognize her voice, “You asshole! Die motherfucker! Burn in hell!”

And then he slumped down on the cold street, his life blood spurting out, the sound of her heels fading away into the night.

1 Comment
2024/12/31
13:31 UTC

28

She Begged Me To Turn Off The TV

A cold light blanketed the room.

My girlfriend sat beside me, gripping a pillow. Her breathing grew uneven as her eyes ping-ponged between me and the TV.

On it, a nightmare played.

A grainy image of a room with a massive wardrobe. Its warped wood absorbed the light, and something dark pooled beneath it. From behind the wardrobe, a serpent-like head emerged—its scales blacker than the depths of the ocean on a moonless night.

Its face remained turned away, focusing elsewhere. Even without its gaze, its suffocating, oppressive presence filled the air.

I glanced at my girlfriend.

Her unease turned to fear as the thing just idled there, still as stone. It made darkness look bright, an impossibly vivid silhouette without a light source.

She whispered, “Turn it off,” her hands shaking as she reached for, fumbled, then dropped the remote. “Please. I don’t like this.”

The thing snapped its head toward us; then, the perspective lurched forward in a disorienting zoom, centering on its molten red eyes.

She screamed, her expression twisting into raw terror. Tears streamed down her face. “It’s looking at us! We’re going to die! Please, just fucking turn it off!”

It alternated between staring at us and glancing toward the screen’s edges, as if probing the digital barrier between it and us.

Her body convulsed as she clawed at her face, nails dragging bloody lines across her cheeks. “It’s here!” she screamed, her voice rising into hysteria.

It began slamming its head against the screen as she howled in terror.

“NOW! NOW! TURN IT OFF NOW!" Her voice dissolved into primal cries. "OH FUCK, OH GOD, OH GAWWWWW—”

Then she went still—her carved, bloodied face contorted in despair.

I couldn’t move, either. I couldn’t speak. I was hollowed out and dragged back to the irrational fear of childhood monsters lurking in long-forgotten closets.

A final slam and the screen went black.

I woke with a sharp intake of breath. Our bedroom was dark except for the static on the television. My girlfriend stirred, then rolled toward me.

“Babe?” she said groggily.

Her voice pulled me back from the brink of pure terror, but only briefly. I didn’t answer. My eyes had locked on the wardrobe in the corner—its door slightly ajar, a pool of blackness spreading underneath.

We don't own a wardrobe.

I felt her begin to shake through the bed as she muttered under her breath, "Oh God... oh God... oh God..."

4 Comments
2024/12/31
12:26 UTC

1

The Last Note

Late one evening, Emma found herself alone in her creaky old house, nestled at the edge of a shadowy forest. The house, inherited from her grandmother, was a labyrinth of faded wallpaper, groaning floorboards, and peculiar drafts that whispered through the halls. It was her first night staying there, and despite her initial reservations, she convinced herself it was just a house like any other.

As the night deepened, Emma unpacked in the small study. Among the dusty books and brittle papers, she found a worn music box adorned with intricate carvings of dancing figures. Its latch was broken, and when she opened it, a haunting melody spilled into the room. The tune was unfamiliar but strangely captivating, its soft notes echoing like a lullaby from a long-forgotten dream.

She set the music box on the desk and turned away, but the melody continued long after she had closed it. Puzzled, she examined it again. The latch was definitely shut, but the song played on, now slower, the notes dragging as if the box were struggling to breathe. Uneasy, Emma tried to silence it by wrapping it in a blanket and stuffing it into a drawer.

Moments later, the music stopped abruptly. Relieved, Emma exhaled and sat down, only to hear faint tapping from the drawer. Tap. Tap. Tap. She froze, her pulse quickening. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, as if something inside was demanding to be released.

Summoning her courage, she yanked the drawer open. The music box sat motionless, silent. But when she reached for it, the carvings on its surface seemed to writhe, the figures no longer dancing but clawing at the edges as though trying to escape. She dropped it with a gasp, and the music began again, louder and discordant, filling the room with a suffocating tension.

Panicked, Emma fled to the living room, but the melody followed her, swelling and warping into a grotesque cacophony. Shadows danced along the walls, grotesque and jagged, twisting in time with the dissonant tune. She clutched her head, trying to block out the sound, but it was inside her now, burrowing deep into her mind.

Desperate, she grabbed the music box and hurled it into the fireplace. The flames roared to life, consuming it in an instant. The melody shrieked, a high-pitched wail that shook the very foundation of the house before cutting off abruptly.

Silence enveloped the room, thick and oppressive. Emma slumped to the floor, trembling. Just as she began to collect herself, she noticed something chilling: the charred remains of the music box were gone. In their place lay a single, handwritten note.

It read: “You can’t destroy us. We’ve only just begun.”

Behind her, the haunting melody started anew.

0 Comments
2024/12/31
12:15 UTC

0

The Last Note

Late one evening, Emma found herself alone in her creaky old house, nestled at the edge of a shadowy forest. The house, inherited from her grandmother, was a labyrinth of faded wallpaper, groaning floorboards, and peculiar drafts that whispered through the halls. It was her first night staying there, and despite her initial reservations, she convinced herself it was just a house like any other.

As the night deepened, Emma unpacked in the small study. Among the dusty books and brittle papers, she found a worn music box adorned with intricate carvings of dancing figures. Its latch was broken, and when she opened it, a haunting melody spilled into the room. The tune was unfamiliar but strangely captivating, its soft notes echoing like a lullaby from a long-forgotten dream.

She set the music box on the desk and turned away, but the melody continued long after she had closed it. Puzzled, she examined it again. The latch was definitely shut, but the song played on, now slower, the notes dragging as if the box were struggling to breathe. Uneasy, Emma tried to silence it by wrapping it in a blanket and stuffing it into a drawer.

Moments later, the music stopped abruptly. Relieved, Emma exhaled and sat down, only to hear faint tapping from the drawer. Tap. Tap. Tap. She froze, her pulse quickening. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, as if something inside was demanding to be released.

Summoning her courage, she yanked the drawer open. The music box sat motionless, silent. But when she reached for it, the carvings on its surface seemed to writhe, the figures no longer dancing but clawing at the edges as though trying to escape. She dropped it with a gasp, and the music began again, louder and discordant, filling the room with a suffocating tension.

Panicked, Emma fled to the living room, but the melody followed her, swelling and warping into a grotesque cacophony. Shadows danced along the walls, grotesque and jagged, twisting in time with the dissonant tune. She clutched her head, trying to block out the sound, but it was inside her now, burrowing deep into her mind.

Desperate, she grabbed the music box and hurled it into the fireplace. The flames roared to life, consuming it in an instant. The melody shrieked, a high-pitched wail that shook the very foundation of the house before cutting off abruptly.

Silence enveloped the room, thick and oppressive. Emma slumped to the floor, trembling. Just as she began to collect herself, she noticed something chilling: the charred remains of the music box were gone. In their place lay a single, handwritten note.

It read: “You can’t destroy us. We’ve only just begun.”

Behind her, the haunting melody started anew.

0 Comments
2024/12/31
12:13 UTC

0

The Last Note

Late one evening, Emma found herself alone in her creaky old house, nestled at the edge of a shadowy forest. The house, inherited from her grandmother, was a labyrinth of faded wallpaper, groaning floorboards, and peculiar drafts that whispered through the halls. It was her first night staying there, and despite her initial reservations, she convinced herself it was just a house like any other.

As the night deepened, Emma unpacked in the small study. Among the dusty books and brittle papers, she found a worn music box adorned with intricate carvings of dancing figures. Its latch was broken, and when she opened it, a haunting melody spilled into the room. The tune was unfamiliar but strangely captivating, its soft notes echoing like a lullaby from a long-forgotten dream.

She set the music box on the desk and turned away, but the melody continued long after she had closed it. Puzzled, she examined it again. The latch was definitely shut, but the song played on, now slower, the notes dragging as if the box were struggling to breathe. Uneasy, Emma tried to silence it by wrapping it in a blanket and stuffing it into a drawer.

Moments later, the music stopped abruptly. Relieved, Emma exhaled and sat down, only to hear faint tapping from the drawer. Tap. Tap. Tap. She froze, her pulse quickening. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, as if something inside was demanding to be released.

Summoning her courage, she yanked the drawer open. The music box sat motionless, silent. But when she reached for it, the carvings on its surface seemed to writhe, the figures no longer dancing but clawing at the edges as though trying to escape. She dropped it with a gasp, and the music began again, louder and discordant, filling the room with a suffocating tension.

Panicked, Emma fled to the living room, but the melody followed her, swelling and warping into a grotesque cacophony. Shadows danced along the walls, grotesque and jagged, twisting in time with the dissonant tune. She clutched her head, trying to block out the sound, but it was inside her now, burrowing deep into her mind.

Desperate, she grabbed the music box and hurled it into the fireplace. The flames roared to life, consuming it in an instant. The melody shrieked, a high-pitched wail that shook the very foundation of the house before cutting off abruptly.

Silence enveloped the room, thick and oppressive. Emma slumped to the floor, trembling. Just as she began to collect herself, she noticed something chilling: the charred remains of the music box were gone. In their place lay a single, handwritten note.

It read: “You can’t destroy us. We’ve only just begun.”

Behind her, the haunting melody started anew.

0 Comments
2024/12/31
12:12 UTC

36

A Dog Person

‘Ah, look, Mr Monroe likes you,’ Selena said. 

Mr Monroe was an enormous cat, a Maine Coon. 

If I face-planted here, I’d be eaten, digested, and shat out by morning. 

Selena was always the airy fairy member of our group. She’d been a yoga teacher, a dietitian, a trapeze artist, and now the proud owner of ‘Cat Lat,’ the first cat coffee shop in the city. 

‘You can pet him, Charlie.’ Selena continued. 

‘I’m good.’ 

Mr Monroe slinked off to join his feline cronies, practically hanging from the rafters. 

‘I’ve finally found it,’ she continued, ‘a mission.’ 

I sipped my latte, pausing and pulling a cat hair from my tongue. 

… 

My job, a supply chain manager for J.M. Smucker Dog Food, took me to China. 

When I got home, I met another mutual friend (Adrian) for Starbucks. 

Adrian was an outrageous gossip, and before I’d even sat down, he mentioned Selena. 

‘Let me guess,’ I said, ‘Cat Lat went the same way as Selena the Ballerina.’ 

‘No,’ he answered, ‘business is booming.’

‘Oh?’ 

‘Selena has become unmanageable.’ 

I considered him over the prow of my cold brew. 

‘Selena unmanageable?’ 

‘Cocaine.’ 

‘Really?’ 

‘Yes, and she’s bought a motorbike. One of those you hear long before you see. The new investors say she’s bad for brand image.’ 

‘Selena will be fine,’ I answered, ‘She always lands on her feet.’ 

Selena did not land on her feet; she landed on her head. 

I saw the video before I got the message (such is the power of Reddit). 

It showed a woman at the zoo haul herself up the 10ft wall of the tiger enclosure and begin a manic tightrope walk around the perimeter. 

After she fell, the only thing they wrestled back from the tigers was her cranium. 

Selena, the waif/stray, didn’t have any family, and I was now 1/8th owner of a cat coffee shop. 

The others wanted to put the incident at the zoo down to a tragic Selena-ism, but it didn’t sit right.

I had a pathologist friend look into the case. 

The eight beneficiaries were meeting at Cat Lat when he dropped by. 

The cats swanned around (catted around?), as I wondered at setting dobermans loose in the store.

‘Your hunch was right, Charlie.’ Dr Tom said. ‘Selena was not in her right mind.’ 

‘Well, we all knew that,’ Adrian quipped. 

‘I mean it,’ he went on, ‘her brain was covered in lesions.’ 

Mr Monroe rubbed his shaggy coat around my legs. 

‘It explains the erratic behavior.’ 

‘What caused the lesions?’ I answered. 

In the corner, another cat meowed, and Dr Tom readjusted his surgical mask. 

‘Toxoplasma gondii.’ 

Mr Monroe leaped onto my lap. When I went to shove him off, something deep in my core made me halt.

I was frozen in inaction as the enormous Maine coon peered up as if to say: 

‘What, Charlie? Cat got your tongue.’ 

0 Comments
2024/12/31
10:38 UTC

356

My Husband Has Been Acting Strange Ever Since His Accident. Last Night, He Asked Me Where the Kids Were.

It started small, almost unnoticeable. After the accident, Paul seemed quieter, more distant. The doctors told me it was normal—head trauma could cause confusion, mood changes, even memory gaps. I wanted to believe that. I told myself it was temporary, that my Paul would come back to me.

But last night, he asked me a question that made my blood run cold.

“Where are the kids?”

We don’t have kids. We’ve never had kids. When I reminded him, gently, he just stared at me like I was the one who’d forgotten.

“Of course we do,” he said, his voice calm but insistent. “They were right here yesterday.”

I laughed nervously, hoping it was some kind of cruel joke, but he didn’t laugh with me. His eyes, usually warm and familiar, were cold and unblinking.

“They’re not real, Paul,” I said, trying to sound firm. “We don’t have any kids.”

He didn’t respond. He just stood there, staring at the empty nursery.

The nursery shouldn’t even exist.

I found it two days ago while cleaning out the guest room. Somehow, the boxes of old books and clothes had been cleared away, replaced by a crib, tiny stuffed animals, and pastel-painted walls. I’d assumed Paul was trying to surprise me, maybe as a way of coping, but when I asked him about it, he acted like it had always been there.

“You’re imagining things,” he said, brushing past me with a faint smile. “It’s been like this for years.”

That smile is what scared me the most. It wasn’t his smile—it was too wide, too forced, like he was mimicking the way a person should smile.

Last night, after his strange question, I locked myself in the bathroom and called his doctor. The nurse on duty promised to have him evaluated, but I could tell from her tone she thought I was overreacting.

I barely slept, jumping at every sound in the house. Around 3 a.m., I heard him moving around in the nursery. The soft creak of the rocking chair sent chills through me.

This morning, I woke up to find Paul already sitting at the kitchen table, his hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked… normal. Like himself again. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined it all.

“Good morning,” I said hesitantly, watching him closely.

He smiled, that too-wide smile again. “They’re so excited to see you.”

I froze. “Who?”

“The kids,” he said, nodding toward the nursery. “They’ve been waiting.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Behind me, I heard the faint sound of giggling. Soft, high-pitched, and coming from the nursery. The room I swore was empty.

The giggling grew louder, closer, until it was right behind me.

“Mommy?” a voice whispered.

Paul smiled wider, his eyes empty. “See? They’ve missed you.”

11 Comments
2024/12/31
08:47 UTC

11

The number game ...

Maya sat cross-legged on the couch, her phone clutched tightly in her hand as she whispered with her newest numerologist.

“She says green is my power color today,” Maya announced with an air of triumph.

I rolled my eyes. “Your power color? Maya, this is the fifth ‘expert’ you’ve found. How do you not see this is all a scam?”

She glared at me. “You don’t get it. It’s like a cheat code for life!”

“A cheat code?” I shot back. “Sounds more like a cheat code to your wallet.”

Her face flushed with anger. “She’s different. She’s real. You don't know how numbers work!!”

I snorted, leaning back on the couch. “Alright, let’s put her to the test.”

****_____

The next day, I invited Maya’s precious numerologist to our house. She arrived in a flowing robe, her hands full of crystals and talismans. Maya greeted her like she was meeting a celebrity.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, plastering on my politest smile. “I have a simple question: How long do I have to live?”

The numerologist hesitated, then smiled knowingly. “Your lifespan is clear to me. Forty years.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Forty years, huh? Let’s see if you’re right.”

Before either of them could react, I pulled out a pistol and shot the numerologist point-blank. The gunshot echoed in the room as she crumpled to the floor.

Maya screamed, clutching her head. “Oh my God! What did you do?!”

I lowered the gun, smirking. “If she was the real deal, she’d have seen it coming.”

Maya turned to me, her face pale with a mix of horror and irritation. “This is the fifth time you’ve done this! Do you know how hard it is to find a numerologist who fits my vibe?”

I blinked at her. “You’re seriously mad at me for this? She’s dead, Maya!”

Maya knelt by the lifeless woman, inspecting the scene like a frustrated detective. “And now I have to clean this up. You never think about how much work that is, do you?”

“I—what?!” I stammered, utterly dumbfounded.

“Just go,” she snapped, waving me off. “I need to send a message to the spirits or something. I don’t know. Leave!”

As she scolded me, I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. Behind me, Maya was muttering about finding yet another numerologist...

I walked out, shaking my head. This was definitely the last time I was getting involved.

****_____

0 Comments
2024/12/31
08:22 UTC

125

To my former student,

I don’t know if you’ll even read this, but I need to get this off my chest. I need to tell the truth about something I should have done years ago. Something I failed to do.

You probably don’t remember me—Mrs. Howard, your third-grade teacher. But I remember you. You were the quiet one, the one who sat in the back of the room and always kept your head down. You were polite, smart, but so withdrawn it worried me.

I noticed the bruises first. They were small at first—on your arms, once on your cheek. You told me you fell off your bike, and I wanted to believe you. But there were too many.

Then there was the day you came to school late, your shirt untucked, with dark circles under your eyes. I asked if everything was okay, and you said yes. But I knew it wasn’t. I saw the way you flinched when anyone came near you.

I should have spoken up. I should have reported it. But I didn’t. I told myself it wasn’t my place, that maybe I was wrong, or that your family might retaliate. I was afraid of making things worse. So I stayed silent.

You stopped coming to school halfway through the year. The principal said your family moved, and that was it. You were gone, and life went on—for everyone but you.

Years passed. I tried to forget, but I couldn’t. A few months ago, I came across your name in a local news article. You were arrested for assault. They said you hurt your partner, left them with injuries that will never fully heal. I couldn’t believe it was you, but the photo confirmed it.

I keep asking myself if I could have changed things. If I’d spoken up, could I have stopped the cycle? Could I have saved you—and whoever you hurt later—from all this pain?

This letter isn’t an excuse. It’s an apology. I failed you. And now I see the damage I let happen because I was too afraid to act.

I don’t expect forgiveness, but I hope someday you find peace. I hope you break free from the life I let you fall into.

I’m so sorry.

— Mrs. Howard

8 Comments
2024/12/31
07:29 UTC

348

My husband cheated on me after 5 years of being happily married..

I sat at the bar, staring blankly at the glass of wine before me. My fingers trembled as I clutched the stem, my mind replaying the gut-wrenching revelation: my husband was having an affair. Five years of marriage, built on trust and love, reduced to a cruel joke.

Tears welled up despite my efforts to hold them back. I fumbled for a napkin, but before I could grab one, a box of tissues slid into view.

"Looks like you could use this," a man said, his voice calm and steady.

Startled, I glanced at him. He was well-dressed, with sharp features and piercing eyes that seemed to read right through me. His demeanor was oddly composed, almost too calm.

"Thanks," I muttered, taking a tissue.

"You okay?" he asked after a moment, his tone more curious than concerned.

I hesitated, then let out a bitter laugh. "Not really. My husband's been cheating on me."

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "I know how that feels."

"You do?"

He nodded, swirling the drink in his hand. "My wife has been having an affair. With a married man."

My stomach dropped. "What's his name?"

When he said it, my heart nearly stopped. It was my husband.

The air grew thick with tension as we stared at each other, the shocking coincidence sinking in.

"Small world," he finally said, his tone devoid of emotion.

"I don't even know what to say," I whispered.

"You don't have to." He offered a faint smile, but there was something unsettling about it. "People like them... they always get what's coming."

I didn't ask what he meant, though his words lingered in my mind.

We talked for a while longer, venting about betrayal and broken trust.

****____

Two weeks later, my husband was dead. The police ruled it an accident—his car veered off a bridge late at night. The funeral was a blur, my emotions a confusing mix of grief, anger, and disbelief.

It wasn't until after the service that I saw him again—the man from the bar. He approached me, dressed in a sharp suit, flashing a badge.

"I wanted to offer my condolences," he said, his tone professional but kind. "I was assigned to investigate your husband's life insurance claim."

I noticed the gold watch on his wrist. It was my husband's watch, the one he had been wearing on the night of the accident, the one I almost saved up a year to gift him.

I asked him about the watch, trying to keep my voice steady. "That's... quite a watch you're wearing."

He looked down, a hint of a smile on his face. "Oh, this? It's nothing special. Just a little something I... acquired."

I smiled & said " It suits you well, thanks for... Everything"

As I turned to leave, I heard him whisper, "Satisfyingly painful." I spun around, but he was already gone, vanished into the crowd. I smiled thanking him again.

****____

10 Comments
2024/12/31
05:12 UTC

52

Grandma

I don’t hate my grandmother. I just don’t like her. You know how people say grandmas are loving, warm, and everything good in the world? Well, mine is… different.

She’s my maternal grandma, and if I had to describe her, I’d say she’s almost like a witch. Not in the cackling broomstick-riding way, but in the way she moves, the way she looks at you. It’s unnerving. To be fair, she’s always been good to us. She baked us cookies, knitted us scarves in the winter, told us bedtime stories. But I’d get these waves of dread around her. Goosebumps. My heart would race for no reason.

When we were kids, we spent most of our school holidays at her house. I hated it. Her place was old, creaky, and smelled faintly of earth, like a forest that never saw the sun. The windows were always partially shut, as though she didn’t want the world to see inside. But it wasn’t just the house, it was her.

There were moments, tiny ones that stuck with me. Like the time I woke up at night and found her standing by my bed, not doing anything, just staring at me. Or the time I saw her feeding scraps to something in the woods behind her house, mumbling in a language I didn’t recognize.

“Grandma, what are you doing?” I’d asked, my voice shaky.

She turned to me slowly, her face completely blank. Then, she smiled. “Feeding the crows, dear. Go back inside.”

But there were no crows.

My parents dismissed it. “She’s just eccentric,” Mum would say. “You kids have overactive imaginations.”

I tried to believe that, I really did, until last summer.

It was my first visit to her house in years. My siblings had moved away, and I thought maybe, as an adult, I’d see her differently. I didn’t. If anything, the feeling was worse.

One night, I woke up to the sound of whispers. Faint, almost melodic. They were coming from the hallway. Against every instinct, I crept out of bed and followed the sound. It led me to the basement door.

The whispers stopped the moment I touched the handle.

I opened the door. The stairs creaked under my weight as I descended, the air growing colder with each step. The basement was pitch black, but I could make out a faint glow from the corner.

“Grandma?” I called out. My voice echoed.

The glow intensified, and suddenly, she was there, sitting in the middle of the room. Her back was to me, and she was holding something, no, someone. A small, shadowy figure.

“Grandma, what are you doing?” I asked, my voice trembling.

She turned slowly, and I swear, for a moment, her face wasn’t hers. It was… mine.

“Just fixing things,” she said, her voice layered with a hundred others.

I ran. I didn’t stop until I was out of the house and halfway down the road. I haven’t been back since.

Yesterday, my mum called. “Grandma’s passed,” she said.

I should’ve felt relief, but instead, all I could think about was the last thing she said to me:

“Just fixing things.”

And this morning, when I looked in the mirror, my reflection smiled before I did.

3 Comments
2024/12/31
04:45 UTC

29

The Hand That Feeds

She screamed as they cut, each finger falling away from the bone like butter under the sharp blade.

“Are you okay?’

“Y-Yes… Keep going.”

“Two left, just hold on.”

“Just finish… I… I’m okay…”

May’s pinky twitched on the end of the bloodied knub of what was still left of her hand, crying profusely into her arm with the sleeve of her shirt clenched between her teeth.

“Last one May... You’ve done everyone a service.”

Her pinky dropped for a long time before they heard the reverberating echo of it hitting water at the bottom of the well, the hundreds surrounding them sighed with relief as the shadows began to fade from their skin, youth returning to the hollowed and withered faces.

“Another seven years May, be thankful you only drew your fingers from the pot, go pray that their mercy will serve you well.  Do not forget your father wasn’t so lucky... but he will serve eternally beyond the water, watched blissfully under their guise. Marcus, tend to her wounds, cauterize to stop the bleeding, her sacrifice must not go to waste”

“Thank you... I will pray now…”

2 Comments
2024/12/31
04:15 UTC

19

Today a unknown person message me "Today is your last day"

It was December 31st, New Year's Eve. My friends and I had planned a party at an old mansion on the outskirts of town.

As we arrived, the mansion loomed before us, its tall spires and dark windows reaching towards the sky like skeletal fingers.

We laughed and joked as we entered, but the atmosphere inside was eerie. Cobwebs hung from the chandeliers, and the air was thick with dust.

As we partied, strange things began to happen. Doors creaked open and shut, and the sound of footsteps echoed down the halls.

At midnight, we gathered to count down to the new year. But as the clock struck twelve, the lights flickered and died.

We were plunged into darkness, surrounded by an oppressive silence. And then, we heard it. A low, menacing whisper that seemed to come from all around us:

"Happy New Year... to eternity."

Suddenly, the lights flickered back on. But something was horribly wrong. My friends' faces were twisted and grotesque, their eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.

I tried to run, but my feet were frozen to the spot. And then, I saw it. A figure, tall and imposing, standing behind my friends.

It reached out a bony hand and touched my face. I felt a chill run down my spine, and everything went black.

When I woke up, I was alone in the mansion. The party was over, and the new year had begun.

But as I stumbled out into the bright sunlight, I realized that something was terribly wrong. The world outside was different. The buildings seemed taller and twisted, the people passing by were faceless and gray.

I stumbled through the streets, trying to make sense of what was happening. And then, I saw it. A giant clock tower looming above the city, its face twisted into a grotesque grin.

The whisper seemed to echo in my mind again:

"Happy New Year... to eternity."

I realized that I was trapped in a never-ending nightmare, reliving the same New Year's Eve over and over.

And as the clock struck twelve again, I screamed...

2 Comments
2024/12/31
03:09 UTC

657

Pave Paradise

Hospital food is the worst. Even when you're dying of cancer they still serve you the same inedible slop. I'd been trying to scoop an impenetrable pile of something that resembled mashed potatoes with a flimsy spork when Marshall arrived.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" I asked, surprised to see him unchaperoned by either of our parents. He flashed me a giant grin.

"I rode my bike over from school. I made you something," he said. Reaching into his backpack, he added, "Mom said it was okay, don't worry."

"You made me something? Really?"

"Yeah, check it out!"

I looked down at the painting he presented me, at a complete loss for words. It was magnificent, a work that seemed to exceed far beyond what a third grader should be capable of. I was stunned. It depicted a large tree casting shade, and a sun that was either rising or setting over a serene lake beyond. Every brush stroke had been thought out, every hue had been carefully chosen to bring the scene before me to life.

"Do you, do you like it?" Marshall asked, wringing his hands.

"I... I love it," I breathed, "Marshall, where did you learn to paint like this?"

"Oh, well I've been working on it in art class. Ms.DeRosa knows that you're... That you're here, so she told me I could work on this instead of class stuff. I thought you might like to look at something besides the buildings," he gestured to the rooftops outside my window.

I found myself misty-eyed, so touched by my brother's thoughtfulness that words failed me once again. He wrapped his arms around me, and we stayed like that for a while.

"I've been reading a lot, thinking a lot. You know, not much else to do here," I told him later on, "I've been really thinking about heaven."

"Hey, everything is going to be-"

"Just listen," I cut him off, "You never know. So I need you to promise me something, okay?"

"What is it?"

"I think heaven is the place you want to be when you die," I said, lifting the painting, "And this is where I want to go. I want to sit here against this tree and wait for you. Do you promise to meet me there?"

"I promise."

That was years ago. Through all the operations and the many different rooms I inhabited during my battle, Marshall's painting remained a constant. By the time I finally went home, I knew every detail of it by heart. And as I've gotten older, no matter where I'm living, it has always been with me. I still start my days by looking at it.

So this morning, I knew. I knew long before the phone call, I knew long before the details of the car accident were relayed to me. I knew, because this morning when I looked at the painting, I found Marshall resting against the tree, a look of total peace on his face.

26 Comments
2024/12/31
02:02 UTC

107

Guess who, Gordon.

Wake up…

My eyes opened up at length and everything hurt. Someone was talking to me. Someone… familiar.

I wanted to sit up, but I couldn’t move. I felt the straps over my body, and I immediately tried to break free from my restraints, but my body was completely immobilized to some bed. There was something wrapped around my head, and I could only see straight up.

“Who’s there! What are you doing?”

Gordon…

“How… how do you know my name? Who are you?”

No, Gordon. I’m the one asking the questions. 

“What kind of sick prank is this? Let me go!”

Guess who, Gordon…

Guess who? What was this?

From somewhere in the room, I heard a shrill, panicked and terrified scream. I knew it right away. Cindy.

Beep

“Cindy? Honey? Are you alright?” I called out frantically, completely unable to see anything that was going on.

“Cindy? CINDY!”

That’s right Gordon.

“…”

You know her scream? What do you two do together?

The familiar voice chuckled a bit, before exhaling for a long time. 

“What did you do to Cindy? Let me go you sick fuck!”

Now, now, we’re still playing. Guess who, Gordon…

I held my breath, and thrashed against the straps, but I couldn’t move at all.

Another scream. Even shriller, like that of a child. It was shocked and terrified. I wanted to cry and scream, but I couldn’t.

It was Rukia. Of course I knew her voice. How could I not know my own daughter’s voice?

“Rukia! Are you alright? Come on, talk to me. Please peanut!”

Right again.

Beep

“Stop this, please! Just stop it! What are you doing? Who are you?”

But Gordon, I’m not doing this.

I froze. Something flashed in the back of my mind.

Do you remember?

Driving home from her ballet practice.

You do, don’t you.?

After dark, she was nodding off in the backseat.

Gordon…

Cindy was in the passenger seat, and we were talking.

I checked a notification from my phone.

“No… please..”

Yes.

The bright headlights suddenly in my face.

The screeching brakes as Cindy screamed shrilly.

Rukia screamed too.

“Who are you?” I whimpered.

You know that already, don’t you.

Shattering glass. Pain. Horrified screams. Swearing. Lights. My head felt light as everything meshed together.

I’m you.

In the hospital room, Cindy set a fresh bouquet of flowers in the vase.

She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder as her husband’s heart monitor beeped slowly.

It was a miracle that they could even be standing there.

“Is daddy going to wake up soon, mommy?”

“I… don’t know, peanut."

"Wake up soon, daddy... wake up...”

2 Comments
2024/12/31
01:33 UTC

8

The Mirror Didn’t Shatter — It Opened

The Hartman estate loomed like a corpse against the blood-red sunset. Clara felt its weight as she stepped through the wrought iron gate, its hinges screeching like a dying animal. She was cataloging artifacts of the deceased owner, Evelyn, a recluse known in town for her erratic behavior and whispered rumors of occult dealings.

The heavy air inside the house pressed against Clara’s chest. Dust hung thick in the beams of her flashlight as she moved through the foyer, her shoes crunching over broken glass. The walls seemed to breathe, the floral wallpaper rippling faintly as though alive. She shook it off. "Just an old house," she muttered.

The study was cluttered with books, candles, and a large mirror that faced the door. As Clara approached, her flashlight flickered, its beam casting grotesque shadows across the room. Her reflection in the mirror seemed wrong—her face slightly too pale, her eyes too large, her movements just a fraction behind her own. A chill rippled down her spine as the faint sound of humming drifted through the room.

“Hello?” she called, her voice cracking. Silence answered, but the air grew colder.

Determined to finish her task quickly, Clara began cataloging items, her pen scratching feverishly on her notepad. A particularly strange artifact caught her eye: a small wooden box carved with unsettling symbols. It was warm to the touch. Against her better judgment, she opened it. Inside lay a silver chain holding a black stone that seemed to drink in the light.

The house groaned.

She froze, the chain dangling from her fingers. The mirror vibrated softly, then let out a piercing crack! Clara jumped back, the box clattering to the floor. The humming returned, louder now, coming from all directions.

Footsteps echoed upstairs. Slow, deliberate, too heavy to belong to anyone living.

Her breath hitched. Gathering her courage, she called out again, “Who’s there?”

The footsteps stopped abruptly.

Then, a thundering crash! The chandelier above her exploded, shards of glass raining down as the mirror shattered entirely. Clara bolted for the door, but it slammed shut with a deafening bang! She yanked at the handle, her hands trembling, but it wouldn’t budge. The humming grew into a deafening chant, guttural and alien.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. A figure stood in the shattered mirror, its face obscured by a shadow that seemed to writhe and breathe. It raised a hand—long, spindly fingers pointing directly at her.

“No,” she whispered, backing into the wall.

The figure stepped through the broken glass.

Clara screamed, clawing at the door as unseen hands dragged her backward. The room spun, the walls bending and twisting like a funhouse. The chanting was inside her head now, a chorus that made her ears bleed.

In the morning, the Hartman estate was quiet. The gate stood ajar. Clara’s flashlight lay on the porch, its beam fading into the void. Inside, the mirror was whole again. But this time, the figure reflected was smiling.

0 Comments
2024/12/31
00:01 UTC

56

Death Penalty

She called Herself Iris, to the public knowledge she was just Andrea Jackson. She claimed herself as a messiah, to the public, she was just a common murderer. 

Andrea Jackson terrorised the town with her Dog worshipping cult, she claimed that dogs were the source of all life on the planet, and the reason why humanity is so cruel and pathetic is because we fail to acknowledge it. 

Calling her Doberman Dog as the ‘god’ among all life on the earth, Andrea and her cultists were offering to the god- which literally is just murdering random civilians and butchering them to make their skin turn into circular shapes, like a ball.

Her downfall was when she saw my dog as a demigod. According to her, she was the demigod, and that my dog, pretending to be a demigod, was a heretic, and me, the owner of the dog, was a heretic too. She was definitely crazy, but not crazy enough to have problems knowing what is right and wrong.

And yeah, she was crazy to think that she could barge into my, a cop’s house, try to kill me, a cop, and kidnap my Bobby. 

Her heinous crimes pressured the law enforcement to give her a swift execution. 

As she lay down on the bed, ready for the injection, the executioner asked the inmate.

“Any final words?”

She looked up and pointed at me. 

“I will return, and I will dwell in the house of the heretic; and the heretic shall dwell with me, and the heretic shall die before me.”

Heretic, that was what she has called me ever since the day she was captured. The fact she was continuing to call me with such accusations proved to me that she’s bonkers.

Even though potassium was going through her body, she was looking at me for the whole time. I turned around and walked away as My job was done.

Few minutes later, when the doctors declared her death, I covered her body with the sheet and took her to the crematorium, and that was the end of my shift.

I returned home, grabbed a bottle of beer, and watched television, a usual routine in a day where I have to be involved in an execution, this time it was not out of the pressure of watching death, this time, it was because I was stressed by the woman’s ramblings.

That night, I heard a rumbling outside of my house, the sound of a dogfight. I was wondering if there were some illegal activities happening outside with dogs, so I came to interfere. 

When I opened the door, I saw something that made my blood freeze.

Bobby was being attacked by a Doberman dog, he was being stomped to death. 

The doberman started to bark at me, at first I thought it was just a sign for me to go away, then I realised something.

The dog was Barking in morse codes, when spelt out, it was ‘Heretic’.

2 Comments
2024/12/30
22:10 UTC

55

I’ve been stuck in this line for, like, ten minutes.

“I’m picking up the coffee you wanted…”  Everyone knows how busy things are at noon, but ordered from this café for our monthly office-provided lunch anyways.  Did I expect that I’d get stuck if I took the drive-through?  Of course, but it’s still not my fault I’ll be late for the meeting.  

“What, and I’m supposed to do our presentation at the all-hands by myself?” Carol replies.  

Unease builds inside me as I carefully scoot down a lane that’s tightly wedged between imposing brick walls, “You can do it; I believe in you.”

She doesn’t respond.  Somehow my phone no longer has any signal.  I bite my lip.  I’m alone, and the only clear path is inching towards the inevitable pickup window.  Suddenly, something flickers in my rearview mirror.  Someone is standing next to a driver a few cars back.  It’s hard to see what they’re doing exactly.  …Hugging?  …Other?  Either way, the line slowly moves. 

I flip through some radio stations, but my search is fruitless, so I sneak another peek into the rearview mirror.  The driver is still sitting there, but the person they were talking to is wandering closer.  I surreptitiously watch as the wanderer knocks on another car window, a confused guy rolls it down.  My breath catches in my throat as the wanderer lunges forward and begins stabbing the driver.  Crimson arcs splatter across the windshield, while blood blossoms on his white button-up.  

I’m frozen in horror as the wanderer steps up to the next car, the one right behind me.  I jump when someone honks their horn, and pull up to the drive-through speaker.  Lowering my window, I whisper, “I-I-I saw someone m-murder-”

“Speak up!” it blares back.

I spin around to check that the wanderer is still preoccupied with the victim behind me, and yell “Somebody is attackin-”

“We don’t have time for pranks,” the speaker cuts out.  Shit.  I have to escape before he reaches me, but I’m stuck in this glacial line.  Something looms in my side mirror.  It’s the Wanderer.  He’s drenched in filth, with bulging, green eyes.  Unblinking and on the precipice of popping out of their sockets.  My heart clenches as he draws closer, and… he continues past me. 

There’re only two cars between me, and the pick-up window.  In front of me is a large pickup truck.  Surprisingly, the Wanderer hops into the back.  Is he leaving?  No, he breaks through the rear cabin window, and muffled screaming follows.  I only have a few seconds before he’ll return to my car, but there isn’t room to open the doors…  Wait, the trunk!

I dive into the back, wrench down the rear seats, and wiggle into the trunk.  I pull the seats back up, and take a deep breath.  I’m trapped in the locked trunk, but still safe.  I can just wait things out, right?  The engine roars to life, and I tumble around as the Wanderer drives away.

I don’t want to know what will come next.

0 Comments
2024/12/30
21:06 UTC

491

My wife is horribly sick. But I've found a cure that you can't get in the emergency room.

Tessa was sick.

She came home from work one day, pale and riddled with fever. I made her hot tea and wrapped her up in bed, putting on her favorite movie—Tangled.

The following days, however, Tessa’s fever grew worse. She was burning.

Like her blood was magma, her entire body scalding to the touch.

My wife was brittle, her skin paper-thin and ghostly white. When she started vomiting blood, my kids and I gently lifted her into our car and drove her to the ER. The doctor diagnosed her with a very rare but aggressive virus.

Not contagious, but it was slowly killing my wife.

He sent her home with a helpless look and antibiotics.

It was midnight when our daughter’s boyfriend climbed through her window.

I didn’t even want children.

Cameron and Holly didn’t even feel like children anymore. They treated my house like a fucking hotel.

“Mr. Haywood?”

Ben, Holly’s boyfriend, poked his head through the door. “Is Mrs. Haywood alright?”

“Go home, Ben.” I choked, aware of my wife’s fingers growing cold in my hand.

“Right. Sorry, sir.”

His footsteps backed away, and I was ready to say goodbye—ready to accept my wife’s death—when the sound hit me.

BANG.

Ben had slipped on the stairs, tumbling down, down, down to the bottom. I shot to my feet, running into my daughter, whose eyes were wide with fright.

Ben’s body was crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, and when I inched closer, pushing my daughter back, his head had plunged straight through a stray nail.

“Call 911,” I hissed, diving upstairs to Tessa’s room.

But I stopped in the doorway, my heart in my throat.

Tessa had color in her cheeks.

“Dad!” Cameron was crying downstairs. “Dad, he’s dying!”

Running back downstairs, I held my breath, my gaze glued to the pooling red soaking into the carpet.

I stamped once on Ben’s head, ignoring my children’s screams.

Twice, and his body stopped twitching.

Locking the door, I told my children to go to their rooms.

Tessa’s breathing had gotten better. She was even moving her hand.

But she wasn’t waking up.

I did what needed to be done. Quickly and efficiently.

Cameron and Holly would never stay quiet.

I suffocated Holly in her room and tucked her into bed.

I stabbed Cameron in the chest and watched him bleed out on the kitchen floor.

“Samuel?”

Tessa’s voice came loud and clear when my son’s blood ran cold, his eyes flickering shut. I ran to her, my beautiful smiling wife, who wrapped her arms around me, squeezing me tight.

“I’m so glad,” she whispered in my ear. “I really thought I was going to die this time.”

I pulled away, a shiver slipping down my spine. “This time?”

She nodded, sitting up, holding my hands. “My family, and therefore, myself and our children,” she whispered, “are immortal. Which means you will never lose any of us.”

Tessa’s smile softened. “Speaking of, where are they?”

9 Comments
2024/12/30
19:58 UTC

9

It's scared.

Jessica scrambles away from her telescope.

“What the hell was that?” She screams.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look in the telescope!”

Michael peers into the eyepiece.

“What the fuck?” He stumbles back.

“Is that a...” The word fumbles out of his mouth.

Their mouths fall open, eyes wide.

They both stare at the telescope, hearts racing.

Jessica raises her hand to her mouth.

“I’ve seen it before.” She whispers. “How did I...?”

He rushes back and looks through the telescope as blood pours out of his eyes.

“It’s too big.” He states matter-of-factly.

“MICHAEL!” She wrenches the telescope away from him.

“I can’t see anything else.” He stammers, swaying back and forth. “It’s the only thing I see.”

“What do you mean?”

He pulls out his hair. “My eyes. Wherever I look, it’s there. I can see it.” He gasps, “It saw me!” He runs and hides under our blanket. “It looked at me only for a second.“

He convulses, “It knows my name.”

He curls into a ball, whispering, “It’s scared. It’s scared. It’s scared.”

Jessica looks through the telescope and slumps down, defeated. “It’s running and telling everything to run.” She says quietly. “It’s bigger than a galaxy and running. Warning everyone to run.”

0 Comments
2024/12/30
19:48 UTC

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