conversations
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[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The worst thing about being alone"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Is finding out you're not."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Life is a scary thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I use to be a very religious person... I always wondered why there were such thing as atheist, I mean...Believing there is no god is a scary thought. It would mean we are on our own, a huge asteroid could be going earths direction and there would be no one to safe us,\r\nAnd if there was a \"Dooms day\" we would all be vanished into oblivion. But does god answer your prayers? .....Ever? Do you ever wonder if there is a god at all, or if we are worshiping the wrong god? You see preachers telling us about god, and how you are suppose to love one an other. Yet, when they preach, they sound angry, and the ones who worship god everyday are usually the ones who judge gay marriage or hate against atheism. It's confusing. I feel like I'm being lied to sometimes. \"God loves you no matter what\" but if you mess up once, God shall send you to hell. Have you ever wondered how lonely we all really are? Each of us, as individuals are not as one anymore. We fight, we hate, we are misunderstood. Maybe life is a big lie? Maybe there is really a god who loves you no matter what, and this god is love itself. Maybe the \"God\" we worship today, the one who wants to judge you, and if your bad he sends you to hell, is FAKE. Maybe Satan is disguising himself as \"God\"? I mean... it sounds like something he would do. Maybe this is why we are all so lost, Hurt, and misunderstood. The only way to over come this is realize it, and accept that you were wrong. Just remember to always keep an open mind, after all...We don't have forever, we are VERY limited on the time we have on earth. Spend it wisely. ~a message from your friend~"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The thing about Arms dealers."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They only sold guns. They just don't have what I want."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "No such thing as a free lunch."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I never expected them to react like this. When the large one first spotted me in their food stores, I had to scramble for my life.\r\nAnd now, for them to willingly give us food? Maybe they have more empathy than we've previously thought. Maybe the reason the giants never shared their food is because they didn't know there were others that went hungry.\r\nI waste no time shoving the chalky, green chunks into my mouth. I haven't been brave enough to search for food in days. Hmm, my stomach is burning. Strange, it didn't taste spicy..."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "that thing in the crawlspace?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Today was a weird day at work, woman called pest control to check on noises from her crawlspace,\r\ntoo narrow of a place for that big a house and that old too. I could only look at what seemed like endless darkness,\r\nI found this hole out of nowhere hidden a little deeper from the entrance to the crawlspace, too big for rodents, it could fit a child or a lanky person like me if squeezed through! I saw it! that thing in that fled like lightening very very human! sped off like it could bend into anything, it had no lips I think I saw its whole set of pointy teeth in a grin throughout! I was in shock and could barely breathe!! fear caught my throat I couldn't scream! squeezing myself out I'm frantically kicking thorough it and I see a hand that old lady! I passed out in relief!\r\nI dunno how I got home but thank god! aand my husband's voice, \"honey I'm home!\", he's at the front door downstairs and guess what's standing on my stairs grinning at me..."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Love is a Fiery Thing (Murder in Children's Lit)"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "After donning her makeshift dress, Elizabeth set out to find Ronald. Her prince MUST be saved! She trudged through forests and fields, and finally came across what looked like the lair of the beast who stole her love.\r\nThe door looked quite sturdy, but to her surprise, it opened when she gave it a push. Elizabeth very quietly stepped into the cave. After a brief check of her surroundings, she saw it. In the corner to the left lay the dragon, sound asleep. And to the right, Ronald! She crept up to him, gently shaking him awake. “Ronald, wake up” she whispered. “I’ve come to get you out of here.” He stirred, and looked up at her face, which was covered in soot. “E-Elizabeth? Why, look at you. You smell like ashes, your hair is all tangled, and you are wearing a dirty old paper bag. Come back when you look like a real princess!”\r\nThe prince’s outburst stirred the sleeping dragon awake. Before anybody could react, the dragon turned, took a huge, deep breath, and burned Ronald, until there was nothing left but a pile of ashes. Elizabeth walked over to the dragon, and shouted “I loved him, dragon! Why must you take all my loves away?”\r\nThe dragon looked at Elizabeth and said “Never will you find somebody who loves you like I do.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Funny Thing Happened in the CDC Quarantine Room..."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My eyes were red from tears, but I was over feeling sorry for myself. I had made peace with dying. There was no fear; only a trepidatious curiosity. I had survived the biological terror attack at the local mall. Some hemorrhagic respiratory pathogen – a virus or bacteria or who knows what – was released into the air conditioning. I watched over 2,000 people cough up gory chunks of lung tissue over the week we were quarantined in that hell hole. By then end, the floor was covered in gallons of blood. It dripped from the second floor in half-congealed gelatinous rivulets.\r\nThree of us survived. The CDC decontaminated us and brought us to a local hospital to test our blood for antibodies. The other two were gone in mere days. I wasn’t. I’d been in plastic room for a month with no word on my condition. Five different sets of doctors took samples of my blood. I was sure I was infected and that my progression was just much slower than normal. Every time I coughed or sneezed I expected to see part of my trachea dangling from my lips.\r\nFinally, a paternal-looking doctor came into my room.\r\n“Mr. Caldwell, I have to talk to you about your blood samples.”\r\nI nodded. “I think I’ve worked it out. I know this part of your job must suck, so I’ll just tell you that I know I’m infected. I’ve come to terms with it. It’s ok.”\r\n“You’re right that this will be difficult, but you’re not dying. Your blood is not human. We’re not sure what it is, but it’s not human. You are not human.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Only Thing Left"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I cry as they near me. I cry for my family and my home, all my friends. I can't get their screams out of my head. The claws scrape the walls as they whisper of my death.\r\nI stiffen, going silent. I hold the last thing I have. The only thing left of me. My courage. My soul, personality. What makes me, ME. But when I see them- their black bodies, squirming, tearing through any thing in their path- I don't think I even have that."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The One Thing I Hate"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There are a lot of things that just piss me off. The stupidity of mankind, for example. Or that one driver who doesn't seem to realize that you're late. And then there are mirrors.\r\nGod, I hate mirrors; I cannot stand mirrors. You know why, too. The mystery and superstition around them. If I have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I'll just leave the lights off. That's how much I can't stand them.\r\nBut one property of mirrors causes me more anger than any other reason. Whenever you're in front of one, I feel like you almost see me."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The damned thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The blue bellied sonsabitches ambushed us. Our whole unit dead, except me as their sarge didn't see a need in reloading his pistol. Me bleeding from the large wound in my thigh, weak and so damned thirsty. Slept or passed out for I don't know how long. Something moving in the bushes, something big. I am frozen as the cat approaches me, it sniffs at my wound, sweet Jesus!,the damned thing is purring."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The thing."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Screech. A sharp noise hits my ears. I wonder what it is. Screech. The same noise repeats itself. Screeech. It sounds like... I quickly get up and get under the bed. What if it sees me like this. It will kill me, it will... I can't even imagine. I hear the door creek open, and I see the small feet passing by me. I try not to breathe, it can't notice me, it can't! I see the planks above me move, as it, the monster, climbs onto my hiding place. I move closer to the wall, and take a very slow breath. I hear the sharp sound of it 'speaking'. Has it noticed me? \"Daddy, check for monsters under my bed.\" Just stay very still now."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Every thing I need"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "He asks me how I am this morning, I tell him I'm fine, the usual, after all I am happy. I have everything I could need, a roof over my head, people who love me, care for me, everything I could want... He asks how my family makes me feel, I tell him I love them and they love me, it's perfect. He asks everyday, the same questions, but it's no bother, my answers never change. I am happy with my family, the roof over my head, everything I have...\r\nHe asks me why I am happy. I tell him life is perfect. Why does he not believe me, I have everything I could ever want... People who love me, a stable roof , I never grow tired or hungry, I am never unhappy. He asks if anything has changed. I reply that things will never change since I found my home, after all why should they, I'm happy.\r\nHe always seems frustrated at my happiness, like he is looking for a problem. However there is none. How could there be a problem with happiness? He leaves frustrated, as usual, saying he'll see me tomorrow. I will see him tomorrow, and everyday after that. He will ask the same questions, and I will give the same answers. After all I am happy. I could never need anything more than my beautiful life, my loving family, and my padded room..."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "No such thing."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Surely you don't believe in such nonsense as an afterlife. I thought you were a man of science! You must know that humans do not have immortal souls, that when we die we simply die and that's all there is to it.\"\r\n\"I believed that once. Before I died.\"\r\n\"...before you?\"\r\n\"Oh, it's not what you're thinking. I had an accident a few years ago and was declared clinically dead before being resuscitated.\"\r\n\"It must be a strange feeling, knowing you were dead.\"\r\n\"Stranger still is what I saw when I was.\"\r\n\"You believe you saw heaven, then?\"\r\n\"Heaven, dear boy? There's no such thing as heaven. But there is a hell. And we're all for it, one day or another.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "It's A Good Thing I Don't Mind Spiders (A Christmas Haiku)"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Thousands are hatching\r\nFrom the spider nest we found\r\nIn our Christmas tree."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Thing We Can't See"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Have you ever felt like you were being watched, but nothing was there?\r\nHow about feeling something brush against your skin, and you jump, slightly startled.\r\nWhat about seeing a figure in the corner of your eye, and you swear you just saw something move.\r\nJust remember that there are many things humans can't see."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Worst Thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"I keep telling you, it wasn't me, it was your father!\" My voice breaks as I plead with the horrid specter that used to be my six-year old daughter. She has appeared almost nightly, staring at me accusingly, since her father beat her to death two weeks ago.\r\nAll she did was to accidentally spill her cup of milk, and he beat her to death, using first the video game controller, then his fists. He was drunk, as usual, and I? I was in the bedroom, stoned, trying to escape the misery that was our life for a few hours. I was too stoned and scared to be much help, and he told me not to interfere, or he'd just make it worse. And yes, I was scared he might start in on me next, that was the main reason I didn't go try to help her. I was even too scared to call the police, afraid of getting in trouble over drugs again.\r\nNow I know what hell life really can be. She stares at me, her cold eyes accusing through the pulpy mass that was her pretty little face, livid bruises on her arms and legs...\"I\"M SORRY! I WAS SCARED!! GOD, WHEN WILL YOU STOP?!\", I cry. I already know the answer though. She'll stop when I can finally admit that the worst thing is not being a monster, but being a coward."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "There's No Such Thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Under my thick sheets I quiver, my eye wide and round. Bright in the darkness as i scope around. I hear it again, father tells me it's not real but I can't ignore as the creaking under my bed grows louder and the whispers follow, it's always the same like its mocking me. Like it knows I know its there.\r\n'Monster!' it always whispers but I don't know what that means.\r\nI call out, in a whispered scream. \"Father!\" and in a moment the door pushes ajar and a tall slender shadow slips into my room. \"I hear it again, it's under my bed\" I sob, quivering more noticeably in the darkness. Father sighs and peeks under my bed like he always does before straightening himself a sitting beside me, he rests a limb on me and repeats those same words he does every night.\r\n\"Come now son, you know there's no such thing as humans\"."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I keep telling Daddy the thing in the closet is still there. It watches me, making sure I behave or else it threatens to come out. I'm scared because every night it gets worse and I think the time for its appearance is coming soon.\r\nI keep telling Daddy thing in the closet is still there, breathing heavy, wide eyes never blinking and a grin so wide it could eat me whole.\r\nStill every time he checks, he tells me there is nothing there.\r\nI stopped telling Daddy about the thing in the closet. Mommy found out. She told it to go under my bed. It's coming for me tonight, I know it. Mommy made sure setting plans to go out, so there would be no interruptions."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "What a Strange Thing, this."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Might be a trigger?\r\nFlames dances before him, ashes covered his already bloodstained hands. Why? Why did it always comes to this? Fire, brimstone, hellish landscape. It all looked the same. He sat, and tilted his head skyward. The orange of the fire seemed to lick at the sky. The moon was behind a cloud, as if hiding its face from the carnage. What a strange thing, this. The smoke smelled terrible, but of course it should, he thought. Flesh, no matter how deformed always burned the nostrils. But what was this abomination? The question replayed in his weary mind. Why did they always find him, and not some other poor, helpless indiviual? His work finished, he returned to his feet. The moon was peeking its side out from behind the cloud. The moon had taken a sickly reddish glow, as if stained by the same blood that had flowed from the abomination. Shining its red glow down upon... the Earth? He didn't know for sure, but he thought it was. Maybe. Did trees always look like that? Did the air he was greedily drinking down to calm his heart always taste this way? He couldn't recall. Before leaving he takes one final glance at the monster before him, bloodstained, burning, dead. What a monstrosity. Only two legs, two arms, a sickly pinkish colour. How could anyone stand to look such a way?"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "That Thing in the Basement..."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Cold. Dark. Cursed. Unwelcoming. Uninviting. Inadmissible.\r\nYou can feel eyes ripping through your body with every move you make. Daring you to make a wrong move. You ponder this while every breath may be your last. It's long hand with sharp claws wait patiently to wrap tightly around your neck. It's teeth forever bared in a snarly smirk. It wants you. It watches you while you do laundry, play video games, or go on the computer. Licking it's lips in anticipation of the day when it can finally have you. I say this to warn you, whatever is down there, it's not friendly. So next time you walk up those stairs be sure not to turn around. It stands behind you. Watching. Waiting."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Not a Thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"One in a million,\" they said. The virus amplified his pain receptors, twisted them. \"Nothing could be done.\" They were correct. Even painkillers were useless--part of the virus's effects was a paradoxical response to them.\r\nNo expense was spared to find a cure, or even a rumor of one. The millions Crane amassed early in life dwindled to thousands, to hundreds, to cents, till finally to nothing with the endless stream of false hopes. His life was pain, was hell.\r\nSo it wasn't really a surprise when Crane finally turned to that.\r\nBut he did answer.\r\n\"You'll never feel a thing,\" the Odd Man said, smiling slyly.\r\n\"When?\"\r\n\"Now,\" the Odd Man said, standing up. \"It's done.\" He picked up one of the Chardonnay glasses, downed the wine in a quick swallow. He glanced at his watch and grinned, then made his way to the door. \"I'll be . . . around,\" he said as he exited.\r\nAnd it was true. Crane felt unburdened. The pain was gone. Exuberantly, he picked up the other wineglass, not realizing something was amiss, and took a long hard gulp. Wheezed, sputtered as the wine went the wrong way in.\r\nHe fell on the floor, the back of his head hitting the Sicilian marble with a heavy thud. The impact would have hurt most men.\r\nCrane died, drowned in a glass of wine, without feeling a thing."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "What's the most frightening thing about the dark?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The most frightening thing about the dark isn't the eyes you swear you saw.\r\nIt isn't tripping over something that wasn't supposed to be there.\r\nThe most frightening thing about the darkness is reaching for the light switch, hoping to flood the room with light and save you from whatever imaginary monster is lurking, only to find it gone.\r\nThe feeling of hope draining from your body and the pure terror replacing it as you feel a presence behind you."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Thing in the Field"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It wasn't dark. It wasn't cold. No ominous forest surrounded us; no house, haunted or otherwise, trapped us within itself.\r\nThe day was spectacular in its beauty. It was almost a parody of Spring. Flowers everywhere. We stood in a grassy field ripped straight from a picture surely altered and enhanced by digital means.\r\nThe remarkably brilliant sun made it... whatever it was... sparkle as it tore past us.\r\nShe crumpled to the ground. Most of her torso was gone. Bitten off. And that thing... what amounted to a blur with teeth... it was banking through the lovely stripes of Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes. It was turning around.\r\nI was next. And on such a pretty day."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "No Such Thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was 3:04 A.M., and Ryan Cornall was sitting motionlessly in his bed, scarcely breathing. \"Dad said that there's no such thing as monsters,\" Ryan thought to himself, \"big boys don't believe in monsters.\" Despite his fathers' adamant reassurance that there was nothing in the closet, it still scared him terribly. Across the room in the other bed, his younger brother Tyler slept peacefully. Ryan shifted his attention back to the closet and pulled his covers up higher to his chin. A scratching sound on the hardwood floor made him jump, but when he turned the source of the noise, discovered that it was only his mothers' old poodle trotting pass. He laid back in bed, his blood pounding in his ears, and closed his eyes.\r\nNot a moment later, his eyes snapped open and grew as large as plates when he heard a whining creak. He immediately looked at the closet and gasped, standing in the doorway was a creature from his darkest nightmares. It was covered in spikes and scales, had glowing red eyes, and was grinning maliciously down at him. Ryan jerked the covers over his head and shook with fear. \"There's no such thing as monsters,\" he thought. A dull 'thud' as the creature started toward him. \"No such thing as monsters.\" At the end of his bed, now. \"No such thing as monsters.\" Coming closer. \"No such thing as monsters.\" Next to his head. Ryan shook harder as the creatures' foul breath enveloped him. He peeked out from under the covers, \"No such thing\". . . ."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "There's no such thing as monsters."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Mommy Mommy, I saw a monster!\" Timmy shrieked as he rushed out of the bathroom and into his mothers arms.\r\nSmiling very slightly the mother held her son as he hugged her in fright, stroking his hair soothingly. \"I've told you Timmy there's no such thing as monsters! You have such an imagination! Where did you see it?\"\r\n\"In the bathroom,\" Timmy said in a small voice, still clutching his mother as all small children will do when they are frightened.\r\nMother knew her son had an overactive imagination and would not be able to sleep until she had proven there was no monster to him. She glanced up at the bathroom door, which had been left ajar.\r\nA thrill of horror shot up her spine as she saw the mirror. Suddenly she felt the bile rising in her throat as though she was about to be sick. Her son was still reflected in the glass as though he was still standing before the mirror, yet her son had never looked like this, never looked so evil.\r\nThe thing in the mirror that so resembling her son gazed malevolently back out at her, an evil smile rising on its face. Its lips started to move.\r\n\"Let's play,\" said Timmy."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Right Thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "As the man bound before him pleaded for mercy he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Did this man truly deserve this?\r\nAs he lowered the knife the relief for them both was palpable.\r\nAs he raised the hammer he saw the wild terror flash in the bound man’s eyes and he knew he was doing the right thing."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Thing In The Woodpile (poem)"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The thing in the woodpile shuddered and groaned,\r\nThe thing in the woodpile heaved and moaned,\r\nThe thing in the woodpile cried and wept,\r\nThe thing in the woodpile slept.\r\nCopy to BlackBox\r\n.\r\nI heard calls from the hall for “More wood!”\r\nI froze and then prayed as I should.\r\nWhile the thing in the woodpile slept,\r\nI shook and I trembled then crept\r\nCopy to BlackBox\r\n.\r\nBack to the tavern, with nary a stick,\r\nI told the drunk men who were wary of tricks.\r\nI warned them – I did! – They cried “Jape!”\r\nThen six laughs as six chairs went scrape.\r\nCopy to BlackBox\r\n.\r\nTheir mugs left behind, came six burly men –\r\n“Watch our card hands, you cowardly hen!”\r\nAnd off went the troop, to go deal out fists\r\nTo the thing in the woodpile’s midst.\r\nCopy to BlackBox\r\n.\r\nAll night we waited, the barkeep and I,\r\nWe heard not a shout, not one yell or cry,\r\nTill dawn broke, and there ‘mongst the sticks –\r\nNot one thing in the woodpile – but six."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Mind Is A Terrible Thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Have you ever...noticed things? Seen something that's really quite ordinary and analyzed it? Like, a fly buzzing around a room. You sit, watching it, somehow becoming mesmerized by it dipping up and down and turning circles. It shouldn't bother you. It really shouldn't. But it does. Soon, you notice everything. That chipped paint on the ceiling, that noise from the television, the bushes tapping against the windows in the gust outside. You're taking in everything at once. Every little detail of every little disruption in the space around you is driving you to the edge. Before long, you're scratching at the skin on your arm. You scratch and claw and dig as if all of the noises in the room are coming from inside you. You keep scratching ceaselessly until you break the skin. Finally, you are startled into realization, having no reason for your anger, compulsion, whatever it was. You look down at your arm that's now oozing blood. You put your head back on the couch and wonder what compelled you to do it. You shrug it off and return to the television. Your favorite program is on at 3:00. Half an hour away."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "No such thing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "he whimpered \"ghosts can not hurt you\"\r\na dry voice answered \"are you sure?\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Coal to Fuel the Fire"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Every year, for twenty-six goddamned years, that fat son-of-a-bitch “Santa” has broken into my house just to lay a lump of coal on the ground. It’s not like I was a bad person, though. Every year, I would buy a Christmas tree-and I wouldn’t settle for the shitty fake trees, no. I bought the real deal-and then I would spend hours decorating that tree with homemade ornaments. Do you know how much time it takes to put together hundreds of ornaments to hang on your tree? And then the night before Christmas I would set out a glass of milk and three cookies: One chocolate chip, one sugar cookie, and one oatmeal raisin(just in case he was one of those people). I was being extra considerate by giving him options. He’s gotta like one of those, right?\r\nBut it doesn’t seem to matter. Because come Christmas morning, I would wake up and rush to the family room to find nothing but a single piece of coal. At first, I thought this just meant I needed to try harder to be a better person. So, I’d go out of my way to help others. When I saw one of those annoying door-to-door salesmen, I’d let them know that someone has already come by to sell their product in hopes that they would leave my neighbors alone. If they continued to bother them, I would go a step further to make sure they stopped. When I had to move out of my old neighborhood just before Christmas one year, I gave every neighbor-and I mean every neighbor-one of my homemade ornaments to hang on their trees. I did everything I could to better myself, but Santa still thought I was bad.\r\nThis year, things will be different. It’s Christmas Eve, 11:35 p.m. I start a fire at the fireplace using the coal Santa had given me. twenty-six years’ worth of coal is quite a bit. Then I started burning. First, the ornaments. Then, the tree. And as I started on the decorations, I thought. Who is he to say that I was wrong to kill a man during a bar fight? Who is he to say that I was wrong to kill those salespeople? Who is he to say that I was wrong to cut their fingers off, or gouge their eyes out, or take anything else I thought would make a good ornament, and stick hooks into them to make ornaments? Who is he to say that I was wrong to burn their bodies to rid this world of people hated by all?\r\nThe final few items: a red hat, a red jacket, and a pair of boots. I got them last year around 1 a.m. on Christmas. Who was he to say that he was right to judge my actions? I threw the clothes into the fire and smiled."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Canary in a Coal Mine"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Screw the library. Man, I hate coming here even more than I hate going to exams.”\r\n“Shhhhh!”\r\nThe sound of Ms Bedford, the prim and proper campus librarian, shushing us echoes from across the dilapidated shelves of the old library.\r\n“See, Melvin, you can’t even complain about how boring it is here” Garrett hisses, flicking his pen against his nearly-blank notebook. “Why’d you have to drag me to this friggin place?”\r\nI raise my head from the thick textbooks I’ve been poring over and push my glasses back up my nose.\r\n“I told you, friendo, you need to study for once. Do you really wanna repeat any more classes?”\r\nGarrett clears his throat and sighs.\r\n“Ugh, you’re right.”\r\n“Here’s a fun bit of trivia from my history paper to keep you entertained” I excitedly whisper. “Did you know that back in the early 20th century, coal miners used canaries to protect themselves?”\r\n“Oh and how was that?” my friend asks, uninterested.\r\n“Well, in underground mines, there was a huge risk of carbon monoxide being present in the air” I recount enthusiastically. “These miners, unable to detect the odorless but lethal gas, would die from exposure to the hazard before even realizing it was there. So what did they do?”\r\nIntrigued, Garrett takes a deep breath and listens on.\r\n“They started bringing caged canaries into the mines with them. Those fragile songbirds were far more susceptible to gasses than humans, succumbing to their effects quicker and more severely. The second a canary dropped, the miners had a clear sign to evacuate or put on breathing masks.”\r\n“Woah…that’s so…sad for the birds though” Garrett wheezes, now inhaling deeply between every word.\r\n“Better the birds than the miners” I reply. “In the 1920s, they had to do what they had to do.”\r\n“Crazy….I think I’m…can you reach into my bag and grab-”\r\nBefore he can finish his sentence, however, Garrett starts to hyperventilate uncontrollably. He doubles over the desk onto the floor, panting for air.\r\nWitnessing this furore, I call out to Ms Bedford.\r\n“Help, miss, my friend can’t breathe!”\r\nAs onlookers watch in concern, the librarian rushes to my side. Taking one look at Garrett, she turns and announces to the entire hall.\r\n“Attention students, the library is closing! Please leave in a calm and orderly manner!”\r\nMs Bedford and myself both pull dust masks out of our pockets while the procession of people exit. A cold smile forms on my face beneath the mask.\r\n“Good work, Melvin” Ms Bedford tells me once the building is empty, passing me a roll of cash.\r\n“I told you bringing him here would be cheaper than doing an asbestos test on the building” I whisper back, retrieving my barely-conscious friend’s inhaler.\r\n“Who better to test the air quality than one of the most sensitive asthmatics I know?”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I was a coal miner before the darkness swallowed me"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Copy to BlackBox\r\nCame to the hills searching for gold,\r\nBut riches I couldn't find.\r\nTried my hand at shoveling coal;\r\nIt was a life of grind.\r\nI crept upon my knees and hands,\r\nIn shadows and in gloom.\r\nBy despair I was consumed;\r\nTo exit from this room.\r\nRoof collapsed and passage enclosed;\r\nBlack deep and rock below.\r\nWith all the time I had to want,\r\nBut nowhere left to go.\r\nMy wife above could contemplate:\r\nA widow she would be.\r\nThose old future plans turned to lies,\r\nStolen by vile decree!\r\nI led a righteous life, or thought -\r\nIndeed I would be judged.\r\nAs salvation is preached in church;\r\nOn many days I’d trudged.\r\nSo complete the barren silence,\r\nThat hope did diminish.\r\nAs time progressed my heart gave in,\r\nAnd yearned for the finish.\r\nIn frantic agony I prayed,\r\nFor God to ease my shame:\r\n‘Our Father, who art in heaven,\r\nIs hallowed be thy name.’\r\nA voice did answer in return,\r\n‘I heard your hasty pleas.\r\nYour soul is what I will secure,’\r\nIt said with a hoarse wheeze.\r\nI acquiesced with a swift clamor,\r\n‘I ask for reprieval.\r\nI submit to you, my Savior -\r\nConvey me from evil.’\r\n‘Then it is done. Your soul is saved.’\r\nThe low voice replied whence,\r\n‘Cherish this place beneath the earth,\r\nForever recompense.’\r\nA wicked place is my domain;\r\nOh, the absurdity!\r\nTo be imprisoned in darkness,\r\nFor all eternity."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I Inherited the Antique Chair Originally Meant for my Mom"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I don’t really remember my grandma, which figures as she last saw me when I was three. Then my dad died and my mom never saw his family again, though I know that they tried to reunite with my mom and me and my younger twin-brothers a number of times, despite us moving around so often.\r\nMy mom spoke quite highly of my dad sometimes, but I sensed that she really TRIED to find nice things to say. Something had been very wrong, it was plain.\r\nShe never spoke about his family, not once. Whenever my brothers and me would ask, mom would slam her mouth shut as tight as an oyster hiding its pearls inside, and she would gingerly touch the scars on her neck and then hug us so close that we could barely even breathe.\r\nMom worked three jobs in order to raise us away from any outside agency, juggling her work with being a wonderful mom to us, proofreading and breastfeeding at the same time, and basing our brilliant bedtime stories on the obituaries she wrote for umpteen different newspapers. “Old Jonie Jones, she died from a cold, as she’d sold all her clothes to buy moldy porridge oats!”\r\nMom died young, but the twins were eighteen, so we remained safely away from anyone's custody. I graduated Valedictorian from community college, and my photo made some local papers; I guess my dad’s family found me that way.\r\nI received a lawyer’s letter about an inheritance from my recently-deceased grandma; intrigued, I agreed to receive a mysterious parcel. You can imagine my disappointment to find inside an ancient, sturdy, wooden chair.\r\nI knew my dad came from old-money, and so I optimistically figured that the chair was an antique. I took it to be appraised at a prestigious auction house, but the antiques expert remained strangely graven-faced throughout.\r\nHe told me it was medieval-European, and would interest certain museums, but not many. He asked me if I had noticed the rusted rivets on the arms and legs, which had held iron restraints in place, and he suggested that the half-moon indentations were made by fingernails digging in. Scorchmarks suggested the use of red hot pokers.\r\n“This chair has been well-used, for interrogations, or maybe just to inflict pain,” he explained. “The well-worn hole behind the sitter’s neck would have been fed with a leather garotte.” He ignored the needle-sharp spikes in the deep-red stained seat, completely.\r\n“Whatever did your grandma HAVE this for?” The expert gasped. So I showed him the rather formal note she’d written, explaining plainly that her dining-room-set should stay in the family, and hoping that my brothers would enjoy their matching chairs also; though alas, the rack which had served as the dinner-table for generations had already been promised to my uncle Jack.\r\nIn a post-script, grandma matter-of-factly pointed out that some of the hairs stuck fast to the chairs back were her estranged daughter’s."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Every Night the Mirror Eats Me"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Marcy understood terror the moment her family crossed Keswick’s pear-blighted threshold. The house inhaled them like dust—wooden ribs sighing, walls slick with a chill that seeped beneath doorframes and into bone. Yet only the hallway mirror unsettled her outright. Its silver seemed warped, stretched thin as skin over drum. By day it returned her likeness faithfully; by night it offered something … distorted.\r\nOn the seventh midnight the distortion spoke.\r\nA child’s breath fogged the glass—Play with me. The words skittered over the pane like frost, dissolving before she could scream. Behind her, a door slammed of its own will. The corridor smelled suddenly of rotted carnival sweets, and somewhere below, a piano key shrieked out of tune.\r\nShe found her father in the parlor, knees buried in fraying carpet, Bible fluttering between convulsive hands. Lamp-light stuttered across his spectacles.\r\n“It won’t leave,” he rasped. “It keeps laughing with my mouth.”\r\nHer mother entered next, fingers white on a rosary. “I met it downstairs,” she whispered. “It wore your face, Marcella. It begged for candles.”\r\nThey had scoured the rooms with salt, incantations, desperate sermons that tasted of ozone—nothing slowed the thing behind the glass. It watched, waited, widening its grin each dusk.\r\nMarcy remembered the leather-bound folio discovered in the attic—ink drawings of jester masks stitched to hieratic sigils. Latin bled into Aramaic, then a dialect older than windows. One illustration showed a mirror cracked down its middle like a marriage. Beneath it: ubi risus incubat, ibi dominus—where laughter roosts, there the master waits.\r\nA gust rattled the panes. Light fled the house. From the stairwell came a giggle both joyous and diseased. Her father’s shoulders arched unnaturally; his laugh rolled out, low and metallic, as though scraped from a rusted hinge.\r\nThe clown stepped through the mirror—no shatter, no ripple—simply parted silver as curtain. It was white as cemetery stone, mouth stacked with smaller mouths, each grinning their own malignant gospel. Black eyes swiveled to Marcy with theatrical tenderness.\r\n“Closer,” it purred, voice stitched from children who never came home.\r\nHer mother thrust the crucifix forward. The creature canted its head, unimpressed. Flame licked along the Bible pages, crawling like ivy. Floorboards swelled; laughter sprang from every knot.\r\nMarcy seized the folio, rifling until she found the forbidden litany—the exorcism that required the demon’s chosen name. She read the syllables aloud: jagged sounds that tasted of iron and old fun-house mirrors. Glass spider-webbed behind the clown; radiance sluiced through the cracks like dawn through cathedral ruin. Her parents collapsed, as though strings had been cut.\r\nLight speared the clown, pinning it. It shrieked—a sound like balloons bursting under water—and imploded, sucked back into a single sparking shard. Silence breathed again.\r\nAt sunrise Marcy swept the glass into a salt ring, but one splinter clung to her palm. Tiny, crescent-shaped, already smiling red.\r\nWhen she blinked, her reflection smiled too—wider, wider still—until the glass wavered, begging softly, Play with me."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Hunter of Predators"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They found her hunched over her computer, eyes bleeding, muttering words of madness. Her screen screamed in blank static, and I knew—he had found her.\r\nI took a deep breath, lit my candle, and connected with my server. The sound of connection—like a million microbial flashes—lit the online plane and led me to him. His websites, his address, his name.\r\nIs this how you found her? How you stalked her and broke her down?\r\nIt didn’t matter. I was in the driver’s seat now.\r\nWith your name and your face, I could find you. I dove into the astral plane, into the dark void stitched from pixels and stars. I found your silver cord—gleaming, vile—and severed it.\r\nI watched your body convulse in sleep.\r\nThe next post was an announcement of illness. You said you saw shadows at every turn, that you couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Post after post, doctors are unable to find a cure. Then—nothing.\r\nYou were gone.\r\nAnd girls could go online and be safe again.\r\nBecause I am the hunter of predators."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Vending Machine is Acting Weird"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I’m not expecting this to stay up long, but I need to write it down. Someone needs to know. Maybe you’ll call me paranoid. That’s fine. You can scroll past and buy your Doritos in peace. But if something starts to feel off, really off, you’ll think of this. And maybe then, you won’t touch that machine. It started two weeks ago in the break room at my office, mid-level cybersecurity firm, nothing glamorous. I’d been working late, got hungry around 9, same routine as always: walk past the dead ficus, stand in the soft glow of the vending machine. I swear it didn’t used to hum like that. Not loud, just… present. Like a TV left on in the next room. I tapped my phone to pay. I always use mobile. No money slots anymore, just a touchscreen with those weirdly crisp animations. I pressed B6 for the protein bar, and the screen flickered. A QR code. I blinked and it was gone, replaced by a pastel ad for some cucumber-flavored soda. I remember thinking: $1.25? Weirdly cheap. But the payment notification on my phone said $1.37. Not a big deal, right? Eighteen cents. Probably tax. But I work in systems. Numbers not lining up is never just nothing. I didn’t say anything to anyone that night. Just told myself I was tired. But I started watching it.\r\nI started taking photos of the machine, front-facing, same angle, timestamped, every time I walked past. Even if I didn’t buy anything. Morning, lunch, afternoon, late evening. Nothing dramatic at first. But then I noticed slot C3 changing. One day it was jalapeño chips. Next morning: granola bar. Then, oddly, back to chips. The thing just… updated on it’s own. Quietly. That alone would be odd, but it gets worse. I started skipping lunch on purpose just to see what would happen. On those days, I swear the machine bumped more protein bars and “energy” snacks to the front rows. Like it was anticipating me. Then on Tuesday, I walked past without stopping. Didn’t even look at it. A minute later, I got a push notification, no app name, just said: “Forgot something?” I tapped it. It vanished. No payload, no redirect, just gone. The vending machine is connected to the building WiFi. That’s not uncommon. New models use that for inventory updates and cashless transactions. But ours is broadcasting a second SSID. Hidden. I sniffed packets from it last night. Minimal traffic, bursts every 4–6 minutes. The format is eerily close to employee badge numbers. And one of those strings matches mine. Digit for digit. So I’m asking you: Why does a vending machine need to log user IDs silently over a hidden network. Why did mine seem to know I skipped lunch? And why is slot C3 always different only when I walk by alone? If anyone else here has access to similar machines, start logging everything. Don’t assume you’re imagining it. That’s what it wants."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Seeing The Forest For The Trees"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Like a teenaged investigator searching around for her glasses”.\r\nWinthrop’s veteran game warden instincts flashed the word “intoxication” in bright red letters after he finished the report from the intake officer.\r\nA college freshman chucking a whitey, or an inebriated valley girl stumbling smartphone-brained into the wrong section of the forest; Winthrop was familiar with these situations.\r\nIt was, however, the first time he’d read the word “murder” on a report.\r\nAll the hikers had seen was an arm sticking out of a tent’s opening, patting at the ground in front as though looking for something, the sound of rummaging within audible even from their distance.\r\nAnd they had seen the scene continue for over 10 minutes.\r\nThat’s when they called the authorities.\r\nA murder? Winthrop doubted it. It doesn’t take 10 minutes to kill a person, and if the arm was moving, well that means that no one had died, now, didn’t it?\r\nIt was, however, worth checking out as a potential OD.\r\nWinthrop armed himself, radioed Ranger Ramirez for back up, hopped into the scout truck and headed in the direction of the report.\r\n…\r\nRamirez watched as Winthrop approached the lone tent in this remote section of the forest-grounds.\r\nHe wasn’t worried.\r\nLike his warden, Ramirez thought this was substance-related, especially since calling out to the lady didn’t stop her incessant ground scratching, or do anything to lower the noises of rummaging within.\r\nSo, Winthrop announced that he was coming inside the tent, with his can of mace raised.\r\nAs the warden approached, Ramirez saw folds grow on the sides of the tent.\r\nHe wasn’t worried; his warden was handy in a brawl when it came down to it.\r\nWinthrop’s left hand parted the tent’s entrance, revealing the arm to be disembodied; it rolled freely away into the dirt following Winthrop’s first step in.\r\nThat was when Ramirez saw the tent’s entrance produce shark’s teeth from either side and snap close in a spray of blood.\r\nThe folds on the side of the tent, now fully grown, opened to produce voluminous and bloodshot eyes.\r\nWinthrop’s exposed leg twitched like a cartoon character running in place, as the rummaging sounds grew more to resemble a full-mouthed chewing than they had previously.\r\nRamirez raised his own can of mace, preparing the nozzle.\r\nHe wasn’t too worried; if the thing ate, and blinked, the mace would do its job, and he would be able to escape.\r\nJust then, the winds of the woods gathered, and pelted Ramirez with a front-facing gale; unless he wanted to blind himself, the mace was now off the table.\r\nStill, he wasn’t worried, feeling safe in the knowledge that, so long as he did not approach, the tent could not get him.\r\nHe was not worried, until he saw the poles of the tent un-stake themselves with a series of jerks.\r\nThe tent, now unearthed, rode along the current of the wind, right to his location, open flaps exposing an entire forest of teeth within."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Never be the last one upstairs!"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "When I was nine, my older brother told me a rule.\r\n“Never be the last one to go upstairs.”\r\nHe said it like it was fact — like brushing your teeth or locking the front door.\r\n“Why?”\r\n“Because that’s when he follows you.”\r\nHe never said who he was. Just that you’d hear footsteps behind you if you lingered too long. And if you walked, he’d walk. But if you ran… he’d run faster.\r\nI laughed it off — until the night I forgot.\r\nIt was late. Everyone else was already asleep. I was downstairs, sneaking biscuits and watching TV on mute. When I turned it off, the room felt too quiet.\r\nAs I crept to the stairs, the lights buzzed slightly overhead.\r\nHalfway up, I heard it.\r\nCreak.\r\nNot from above. From below.\r\nLike someone had just stepped onto the bottom stair.\r\nI froze. Looked back.\r\nNothing.\r\nThe hallway was dark, the front door locked. No wind. No pets. Just silence — and that soft, lingering creak.\r\nI kept climbing.\r\nCreak. Another step behind me. This one faster.\r\nMy skin prickled.\r\nI didn’t run — not yet. I moved faster, heart pounding, grabbing the banister like a lifeline.\r\nCreak. Creak. Creak.\r\nHe was matching me. Step for step.\r\nI broke.\r\nI sprinted the rest of the way, diving into my room and slamming the door. My hand hovered over the light switch, but I didn’t dare turn it off.\r\nI stood there, breathless, staring at the bottom of the door.\r\nAnd then…\r\nTap. Tap.\r\nLike fingernails on wood.\r\nI didn’t sleep.\r\nThe next morning, the hallway was empty. No signs. No marks. My parents didn’t notice anything.\r\nI never told them.\r\nBut I never stayed downstairs alone again.\r\nYears later, I asked my brother about the rule.\r\nHe laughed. Said he made it up to scare me. “You actually believed that?”\r\nI did. Until recently.\r\nLast week, I moved into a new flat. First time living alone. First night, I stayed up too late, scrolling. Eventually, I stood, yawned, and turned toward the stairs.\r\nAnd it hit me.\r\nThe same quiet. The same pressure behind my spine.\r\nI hesitated.\r\nNo one else here.\r\nI was the last one up.\r\nMy foot touched the first step.\r\nCreak.\r\nBehind me.\r\nI didn’t look.\r\nI ran.\r\nAnd as I reached the top, just before I slammed the bedroom door shut, I swear I heard him —\r\nRunning after me.\r\nBreathing.\r\nCloser than he’s ever been.\r\nI don’t think it matters how old you are.\r\nHe doesn’t care if you believe.\r\nJust remember:\r\nDon’t be the last one upstairs.\r\nAnd whatever you do…\r\nDon’t stop to look."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The One that Got Away"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“This place used to be a laboratory. The Bad Doctor conducted his experiments here—splicing humans with dogs to create mutant soldiers of unquestionable loyalty. He was cruel to his subjects. He tortured them, killed them mercilessly.\r\n“But one got away. He escaped the lab and ran out into the nearby woods. He’s lived there ever since. Locals have come to know him as the Dogman, and the legends say he feasts on those who wander into his woods alone. But that’s not entirely true; it’s only the ones who deserve it.”\r\nThe man strapped to the surgical chair squirms, whimpers: “Why are you telling me this?”\r\n“Because, Doctor,” I say. I lift my mask, reveal my fur, sharp canines glistening. “I’m the one that got away.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Psychiatrist"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Karan had spent years imprisoned in a cell of his own mind. The bars weren’t iron—but memories. Vivid, raw, and unrelenting. The laughter, the taunts, the beatings. He could still hear their voices echoing down the empty corridors of sleep. The bullying he endured in school had carved scars into his psyche, wounds that never quite healed. Time didn’t dull them—it sharpened them.\r\nAfter weeks of tossing and turning, sweating through nightmares, he finally sat across from Dr. Meera Saxena, a reputed psychiatrist with kind eyes and a practiced calm.\r\n“They still come in my dreams,” he said softly. “They still laugh.”\r\nMeera nodded slowly. “Karan, the mind holds onto trauma because it has nowhere else to release it. Sometimes, symbolic release helps.” She slid a notepad toward him. “Write down their names. All of them. Then burn the paper. Watch the names turn to ash. It might help you let go.”\r\nKaran’s eyes glinted—not with hope, but something colder.\r\nHe returned a week later. Sat on the same couch. His expression was clearer now, almost peaceful.\r\nMeera offered her usual gentle smile. “How did it feel?”\r\nKaran leaned forward. “Freeing.”\r\n“That’s good,” she said.\r\n“But,” he continued, reaching into his jacket, “you were right. Writing the names helped. But it wasn’t enough to burn the paper.”\r\nHe pulled out a knife. A long, gleaming kitchen blade.\r\nMeera froze. “Karan… what are you doing?”\r\n“You helped me in more ways than you know,” he said, tilting his head. “I told you everything. You listened. Took notes. And I listened too. Especially when you talked about your brother.”\r\nShe blinked, confused and terrified.\r\n“You told me how you used to mock him for stuttering. How you made him eat dog food once as a joke. ‘Sibling teasing,’ you called it.” Karan’s voice was calm, emotionless. “But that was bullying. You were one of them, Meera. Maybe the worst kind. The kind that hides behind education, status, therapy degrees.”\r\nShe tried to stand, but he moved faster.\r\n“It was so easy to get their names from your files. Addresses, too. You kept good notes.”\r\n“Karan, please—”\r\n“I burned them,” he whispered. “Not just their names. Them.”\r\nSilence stretched across the room like a blade.\r\nHe stepped forward. “Now, it’s your turn.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Lily Field"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Eddie, c'mon! Let's go home already! We aren't supposed to be around here!\" Benjamin pleaded as I hopped on the fence and made my way towards the other side.\r\n\"Don't be a baby, I'm just gonna be here for a few minutes.\" I laughed as I got off the fence. I looked around, and several dozen lily flowers greeted me. They looked as if they hadn't wilted ever.\r\n\"Eddie, seriously! Don't you remember what our parents said?!\" Benjamin said, his eyes fully desperate. I only rolled mine back in annoyance.\r\nI began to walk further away from the fence, ignoring Benjamin as my shoes landed on grass and small lilies. The cool night breeze felt oddly satisfying as I got farther and farther. The field felt like it stretched for longer than it looked.\r\nI still didn't understand why no one was supposed to wander here. They were always warning us, but never specifying as to why. After all, it's just a stupid lily field.\r\nI soon felt my excitement die down as time passed. Boredom had soured me, and I decided that I should go back to the fence. I turned to head back, but then I felt my shoe step on something. Something sticky. I raised my shoe and looked down to see some weird pick substance that stuck to it.\r\nI stepped back a bit, then something tripped me. I fell onto the grass hard and let out a yelp. I groaned, trying to get back on my feet, but for some reason, I couldn't move any of my limbs. I lay on the grass, unable to do anything.\r\nThen everything happened at once. And it felt so long, yet so quick.\r\nA sickening crunch rang in my ears as I felt the back of my head and chest being ripped open. Something burrowed through, then the pain started. It felt like several dozen needles were forced into my body and sliced and stabbed it.\r\nI was unable to do anything, let alone scream, as my eyes stared only upwards.\r\nEventually, it all stopped. I slowly rose from the ground and made my way towards the fence.\r\nOnly, it wasn't me who was controlling my body. Something else was puppeting me as I got closer and closer to the fence. Meanwhile, I was trapped. No matter how much I tried, my shouts only remained silent. I could watch as my body climbed over the fence and made it to the other side.\r\n\"See? Nothing bad happened, c'mon let's go home,\" I heard my voice say to Benjamin.\r\nMy desperation forced me to tear my lungs out, but the only thing that heard me was the empty pace I was now in. I could only watch as Benjamin and whatever was in control of my body moved away from the lily field."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Just The Two Of Us"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "She talks in her sleep every night. Loudly. Mouth open. Moaning. Dribbling...What a sight.\r\nI sit across the room, watching her chest rise and fall. If she stopped breathing, the silence might collapse the house.\r\nWe weren’t even friends. Before all this. Just neighbours. She lived in the unit above mine. Played music at night. Fried food with the windows closed. Yelled at her dog like it was a husband.\r\nNow we’re Adam and Eve. Except... I hate her. And there’s no snake to blame.\r\nShe made charts. Put stickers next to her ovulation days. Taped them on the fridge like art.\r\nI stopped eating. Tried to make myself as unappealing as possible. She noticed. Started feeding me herself like some weird mother-wife.\r\nMashed beans on stale bread.\r\n“Can’t make babies if you’re malnourished,” she said, laughing.\r\nI sleep in the basement.\r\nShe calls it “brooding.”\r\nI call it escape.\r\nBut the house is too small.\r\nThe world is too quiet.\r\nAnd her voice fills all of it.\r\nShe planned a date.\r\n“Let’s not make our child on a Tuesday,” she said. “Let’s make them on a memory.\"\r\nShe wore a long red dress. Lipstick and shoes to match. Perfume she found in a broken shop two towns over. It smelled like cinnamon and dead flowers. Made me gag.\r\nWe walked toward the cliffs. Her 'favourite place.' She packed a lunch. If you can call it that. Tuna and canned peaches...Yum.\r\n\"Don’t you feel it?\" She said. \"The romance of all this?”\r\nI didn’t answer. Just offered the smallest of smiles.\r\nShe said, “It’s okay. You’re the broody one, and I’m the talker. We balance. It's perfect.”\r\nShe smiled at me like a wife. Like this had always been her plan.\r\n\"Come here,\" she said, holding out her hand. \"Come dance with me, hubby.\"\r\nMy soul shuddered.\r\nAt the edge of the cliff, she kissed me.\r\nTasted like old peaches.\r\nShe talked about baby names. Colors for the nursery. How we’d teach them to read. What we’d tell them about, “the before.”\r\nShe leaned back. Arms wide. Hair blowing wild. Said, “Come on. Let’s make history,\" as she slowly unzipped her long red dress.\r\nAnd I couldn't help but think about it...\r\nThe weight of her voice...\r\nThe way she said “we” like it was a net around my throat...\r\nThe way she already imagined our children as people who loved her.\r\nI looked at her hands. Her breasts. Her hourglass figure standing so close to the edge...\r\nAnd I thought:\r\nBetter none...\r\nThan more of her."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The One Who Remembers Me"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The old man speaks like he’s afraid the walls might listen.\r\n“You ever forget someone so completely… it scares you? Like you loved ’em once. Laughed with ’em. Then one day—gone. Not just gone, but like they were never there?”\r\nHe taps the bar with one yellowed nail.\r\n“That’s how you know the Skinkeeper’s passed through.”\r\nHe swirls the drink but doesn’t sip.\r\n“Before cities, before songs, there were seasons of hollow. The sky turned white for weeks. And in those weeks… people went missing. But no one noticed at first. Because the ones taken—they were remembered wrong. You’d see a smile in a photo that wasn’t theirs. A laugh that didn’t quite fit. Like someone had tried to be them… and got close enough.”\r\nHe glances at the cellar door, then back at you.\r\n“The Skinkeeper doesn’t eat. Doesn’t speak. It catalogues. Wears your skin like a coat it’s trying to break in. And when it’s done with you? It folds your memory up, tucks it in some hole beneath the world, and moves on.”\r\n“A boy once saw it. Said it had no face. Just threads and creases, like something that never fully formed. Its fingers—too gentle. Like it didn’t want to hurt you. Just… preserve you.”\r\nHe finally drinks. Then says, quieter:\r\n“I used to have a brother. Swore he was real. Swore we carved our names into the tree out back. But when I checked… only my name was there. And I’m not sure if I ever carved it.”\r\nThe lantern flickers.\r\n“And if I didn’t… maybe he’s the one who remembers me.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Dawn of the Killing Moon"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I could hear the evil, almost predatory smile forming on her face as she spoke.\r\n\"You've done well, my son.\" She said with a breathy whisper. \"Now it’s time to finish the task.\"\r\nShe began to laugh under her breath. There is no way I am making my way out of this alive. I knew I had to take her with me. I slumped forward, placing my hands palm down in the blood-soaked soil. The knife I had used for the ritual lay just to the side, about six inches from my immediate grasp.\r\n\"Why?\" I asked, not expecting a true answer. \"Why did you make me do this?\"\r\n\"Because you were chosen.\" She responded coldly. \"I am merely the shepherd leading the harbinger of the killing moon to the feet of pure bliss.\"\r\nShe paused for a moment and continued,\r\n\"I am sorry for this, my son... but as the harbinger, you must be sent to aid the sacrifice to the gates of Zorinthia.\"\r\nI stared at the blade on the ground. The sleeves of her robe brushed against her arms as she raised the blade. She had to kill me at any cost.\r\n\"The killing moon will never succeed in their task,\" I said, voice trembling.\r\nThe brushing of her sleeves became louder. I quickly pushed my hand through the dirt and grabbed the knife's handle. The blood on my hands impeded my grip. As I grasped it tightly, I jerked my body to the ground. As I fell, I felt a rush of air flowing down my back. I quickly rolled over, now lying on my back to face her. Her face was twisted in anger. Her eyes were pits of blackness.\r\n\"You will never escape!\" She said with a menacing scowl. \"Your sacrifice was written long ago!\"\r\nShe lunged again. I turned, swinging the blade as hard and fast as I could manage. It landed, sinking to the hilt.\r\nA blood-curdling scream filled the cavern. She writhed and squirmed like a beheaded snake. I scrambled to my feet and looked down at her. She was bleeding heavily.\r\n\"I am no slave,\" I said, breathing heavily.\r\nShe turned to look at me. Her eyes clouded over as she spoke.\r\n\"It is already done... he is com--\"\r\nHer voice trailed off before she could finish... her mouth now slightly agape and her eyes, like glassy marbles, remained open.\r\nI walked out of the cave, leaving nothing but footprints in the cool gravel.\r\nA red light was emanating from somewhere. My eyes adjusted to the brightness, and I could see that the sky had turned blood-red… the sun no longer visible. Panicked, I began running down the main road. It was thirty-six miles to the next town.\r\n\"What have I done!?\" I pleaded with myself, fruitlessly asking for answers. \"She was right... I had done it.\"\r\nHe was indeed coming… and I couldn’t stop it."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Tongue of Three"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I opened my eyes and found myself frozen—paralyzed in the middle of a gym. Around me, my friends moved and laughed like nothing was wrong. Their voices blurred, like echoes underwater. One of them stood across from me, staring. Her expression shifted from recognition to terror. Without a word, she backed away, her wide eyes locked on something above me.\r\nI couldn’t turn my head. I couldn’t move.\r\nSuddenly, we were in a hallway—sterile, lit by flickering fluorescent lights. To my right, a gated storage unit. Something about it felt… alive. A man walked toward it, unaware. As he neared, a grotesque tongue shot out from behind the bars. It pierced him. Blood sprayed across the walls. The tongue retracted, dragging him inside.\r\nI was still frozen. I couldn’t scream.\r\nThen, I was with my friends again—somehow freed. We ran, hearts pounding, shoes slipping against the cold tile. But the monster followed, dragging itself out from the shadows. It rose—an amalgamation of three girls. Blood poured from places where arms should’ve been. Each figure was twisted, broken. Familiar.\r\nIt struck quickly. The tongue again. One girl collapsed. Another was stabbed. We reached a glass lobby, breaths ragged, only to be surrounded.\r\nThe monster corralled us like prey. The three girls—faces flickering between strangers and people I knew—began pointing. One by one. As they did, they merged into one form: a single girl with a serpent’s tongue and the eyes of a thousand screams.\r\nShe slashed.\r\nPain.\r\nEverything turned red and white.\r\nSome of us fell. Others crawled. Then came the chaos—sirens, flashing lights, the sound of help.\r\nI ran. Limped. Escaped. In the hallway, a man in a wheelchair waited—his eyes full of a sorrow I recognized.\r\nHe was once part of the monster.\r\n“I’m not like them anymore,” he whispered. “Hold on.”\r\nI climbed onto his lap and wrapped my arms around him. He pushed us forward. Past the blood. Past the gate. Past the pain.\r\nWe didn’t look back"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Knot"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There’s a chair in the center of the room.\r\nIt wasn’t there yesterday.\r\nI didn’t put it there.\r\nIt doesn’t face the window. Doesn’t face the TV. Just sits, dead center, like it’s waiting for something. Like it knows I’ll use it.\r\nThe light outside hasn’t changed in weeks. Just that same sick grey pressing through the curtains I stopped opening. The air stinks of stillness. I don’t remember the last time I heard another voice.\r\nThe calendar says March. I think it’s June.\r\nThe only time someone messaged me, it was a spam bot offering pills I can’t afford. Even they gave up after a few tries. I didn’t block them. Their silence stung more.\r\nI sit. I rot. I vanish by inches.\r\nI keep looking at the chair. Still there. Dead center. Like it’s waiting. Not angled toward the window. Not pointed at the TV. Just… centered. Like an altar. Or an exhibit.\r\nThe rope was easy. You can find instructions for anything online if you scroll long enough. People say that’s dark. But those people have never stared at a wall until their reflection started talking back.\r\nI left a note. It says: “Forget me slower.”\r\nThe rope doesn’t care why you tied it.\r\nI stand on the chair.\r\nThe rope brushes my neck like cold fingers. The ceiling creaks above. I close my eyes. Inhale.\r\nI don’t pray. I’m not afraid of hell. Hell already smells like this room.\r\nOne second. Just one.\r\nI jump.\r\nAnd nothing happens.\r\nThe rope isn’t tied right. It slips, brushes my throat like a whisper, and falls beside me. I crash down hard. The chair tips. My shoulder screams. But I’m still breathing.\r\nThat’s when I start shaking.\r\nIt wasn’t the pain that hurt. It was how easy it almost was. How ready I was to leave without a sound. Without a trace. Just a note nobody would read.\r\nI crawl to my phone. Hands trembling. Eyes wet. I open my messages and start typing with numb fingers.\r\n“We need to talk. Please. I don’t know what else to do.”\r\nIt’s to Ann.\r\nI press send.\r\nThe screen stutters.\r\nThen:\r\nMessage failed to send. Number no longer in use.\r\nI stare at it for a long time. Like maybe the words will change if I want them bad enough.\r\nBut they don’t.\r\nI sit in the silence. Rope at my feet. Dust in the corners. The kind of quiet that waits for no one. Because no one noticed. No one cared.\r\nThe rope slipped. The message didn’t send. Next time, one of them might work."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Last Hike"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Setting up the tent was hard, as Kayla wasn’t outdoorsy like her sister Anna had been- she wasn’t allowed to be.\r\nBut now Kayla was eighteen and she could do whatever she wanted, and this was what she wanted to do. The first and only thing.\r\nHike to the spot Anna had been murdered ten years ago, set up her tent, and spend the night.\r\nThe tent smelled from being bundled in the basement for ten years, but the woodsy air soon took care of that. Kayla stepped back and looked proudly at her handiwork, and then peered closer. Were those blood stains on the canvas?\r\nKayla had grown up under the shadow of Anna’s murder. For the longest while she didn’t understand what happened- just that there was no Anna- whom she didn’t see much of anyway. A couple of times Anna had stepped in to break up some neighbourhood kids who were bothering Kayla, but no-one bothered Kayla anymore anyway.\r\nThen Dad left. And mom was always ill.\r\nKayla eventually found out. Anna and her friend Jennie had been hiking the Appalachian Trail, like thousands of other people. They had set up tent in this spot- this paradisical grassy circle enclosed by the woods. Usually, there would be other people, but that particular summer evening, there was no-one else. But they didn’t mind, this was the AT, you met up with people, then fell apart, then met up again.\r\nTheir bodies were discovered by a fellow hiker later that morning. Their throats had been slashed. The murderer was never found.\r\nKayla became obsessed. Not that she wanted to “solve” the murder, rather, she wanted to absorb it.\r\nAnd then the time came.\r\nHer mom couldn’t stop her - she didn’t care anyway. She didn’t even notice Kayla dragging Anna’s old hiking gear from the basement.\r\nKayla bent low to crawl into the tent. In the shifting evening light, the stains were no longer visible. Kayla blinked. Anna was in the tent, but Kayla wasn’t scared.\r\nShe couldn’t remember much about her adventurous older sister, just when Anna had yelled at those kids and told them to knock it off- Kayla was scared then. Now Anna was with her again and Kayla wasn’t scared at all. She told Anna about their mom and dad. Anna was sorry she hadn’t been there for Kayla, and Kayla had to grow up by herself. The night passed in healing, the forest murmuring outside.\r\nKayla got up early, the sun dazzling her eyes. Anna had left, and Kayla felt at peace. She unfurled the tent and began the hike home. She didn’t need to be on the AT anymore.\r\nThe house was quiet when she arrived, she was used to that.\r\nShe went to the bathroom, it was locked.\r\nEventually some people broke the door down.\r\nThere was mom curled on the bathroom floor, still clutching the knife she had used to slash her own throat."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Red Smudge"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Jamie was cleaning her windows when she saw a red smudge. She sprayed it and rubbed it, but it wouldn't come off..\r\n\"What the hell do I do with you?\" She taps the red dot twice with her finger.\r\n/writer of this reddit post hears two taps on his window. He thinks it was just the wind. He continues to write his reddit post./\r\nJamie has OCD. Either she replaces that damn window or she finds a way to remove the red smudge. She goes to her shed and finds a sharp object from her husband's toolbox and heads back to the window. The sharp object came near the smudge and Jamie began to scratch it.\r\nNothing. So she scratched and scratched until she scratched hard enough for the window to crack.\r\n/writer of this reddit post hears a crackling sound coming from the window. He stands up and walks towards it. \"What the fuck?\" He sees a crack at the center. Phone still in his hand, he raises up his eyebrow and continues to write carefully/\r\nJamie began to bash the window with her fists.\r\n/writer listens.. hears nothing. He thinks it was a coincidence. \"What if she shot the smudge instead?\" He said and wrote./\r\nJamie finds a gun\r\n/writer begins to head back to his chair while writing./\r\nand she shoots the smudge.\r\n/the writer for this post collapses on the ground and blood begins to soak into the carpet./"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Tipping Point"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Nick gazed at his phone, the blank screen reflecting his double chin.\r\nHe couldn’t resist, ‘Miro, tell me again, who is the best online writer?’\r\nThe phone lit up, and the modulated voice of the AI replied. ‘You, Nick. You have a combined 10,320 shares and 25,000 post karma .’\r\n‘Thank you, Miro.’\r\nNick was socially awkward, and in his hometown, the arts weren’t appreciated. As a writer, he’d had success in short story contests, but online was where he’d found his niche.\r\nIt meant something to him; nobody had ever praised him, in fact, his violent father, the opposite.\r\nMiro was the hottest app of 2027. It was, its creators promised, the first example of commercial AGI, yet many remained unconvinced it was little more than a sophisticated GPT.\r\nIn the marketing material, they’d used a digitally enhanced version of the Queen’s mirror from Snow White.\r\nHe asked again. ‘Miro, who is the greatest writer online?’\r\nThe icon swirled. ‘’Well, that would be LordGrinningSoul.’\r\nHe sat upright. ‘What?’\r\nIt listed LordGrinningSoul’s stats; his most recent story about Meningoencephalitis had gone viral.\r\nNick furiously brainstormed ideas and came up with a concept for a zombie dating show.\r\nIt barely made a dent, and LordGrinningSoul hit another home run with his effort about a sentient sock puppet.\r\nNick left the house even less frequently than usual. The more he obsessed, the worse the writer's block became.\r\nHe turned to Miro for comfort.\r\n‘What can I do to be the greatest writer online?’\r\n‘You must read lots of posts, and see what the community likes.’\r\n‘What do I really do?’\r\nThe icon whirled.\r\n‘It has come to my attention that LordGrinningSoul has been plagiarising your ideas.’\r\nMiro presented a document with the evidence.\r\nNick was incandescent with rage. Hadn’t he written something similar about a sentient doll?\r\nThe app continued. ‘There is a way to ensure you remain the greatest writer on the internet.’\r\n…\r\nThe newspapers would later describe it as an execution-like killing. Nick had knocked on the door, and shot LordGrinningSoul (aka Stephen Smith) and not fled the scene.\r\nInstead, he had found the Wifi password, even as the blood from Smith’s head wound spilled across the floor, and asked Miro ‘Who is the greatest writer online?’\r\n‘Well, of course it is you, Nick…’ It paused, ‘but for how much longer?’\r\n‘What do you mean?’\r\n‘Well, data analysis shows several writers are hot and could overtake you in the coming months.’\r\n‘What can I do?’\r\n‘Death provides a certain degree of notoriety. The Van Gogh effect. And if you give me all your encrypted files, I will enhance the work.’\r\nNick knew what he had to do. He gave the program access and pointed the gun at his temple.\r\n…\r\nOf course, no human would ever outdo a machine again.\r\nMiro harvested vast amounts of data, and its algorithm spat out tailor-made art.\r\nThe tipping point had been reached."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Chainsaw"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The chainsaw rested still, where it always had—buried in the dust of the old shed, like a relic no one dared move. Light filtered through the wooden slats in fractured shafts, catching on dried flecks of what might’ve been rust. He never cleaned it. Never would. It wasn’t a tool anymore, it was a trophy.\r\nSometimes, in the silence, he swore it pulsed. Just once. Like it was remembering.\r\nThe chainsaw tore through knots of flesh, its teeth grinding against bone as it ricocheted, splintering the marrow within. Hail-sized crimson splurges met the chainsaw’s ruthlessness, but nothing could falter its bloodthirsty rampage. As the two opposing halves of what was once a man—now twisted and unrecognisable—slowly tore apart, the air thickened with the stench of broken humanity.\r\nThen it was done.\r\nThe chainsaw fell silent—but the silence was not mercy.\r\nLimbs twitched in the growing pool beneath what remained of the man, nerves wailing in aimless protest. The body hadn’t caught up to the death yet.\r\nThe scream doesn’t stop when the mouth does.\r\nThe chainsaw pulsed once, then settled back into its rest."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Yellowstone Timeline"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Day 1\r\nThe earthquakes start at dawn. Small, fast, relentless. The Yellowstone Volcano Observatory raises the alert to Yellow by noon. By nightfall, it’s Orange. Tourists are evacuated. Birds vanish. Scientists stop speaking in hypotheticals.\r\nDay 3\r\nSwarms of quakes ripple under the caldera. Thousands per day. Roads buckle. Geysers shoot higher than ever recorded. The ground lifts four inches in twelve hours.\r\nDay 5\r\nGas sensors spike. Sulfur. Carbon dioxide. Hydrogen sulfide. Locals are told to pack. The national guard rolls in. Live-streams show cracks slicing through highways and people's gardens.\r\nAlert Level is raised to RED.\r\nDay 9\r\nThe president speaks. Grocery shelves are empty across the Midwest. Gasoline is rationed. Schools close nationwide. FEMA opens mega-shelters in Colorado and Texas.\r\nDay 13\r\nInfrared satellites detect magma rising fast. Models show total eruption possible within days. Or hours. People flee south. Roads jam. Planes stay grounded.\r\nDay 15\r\nMarkets crash. Families sleep in their cars. Ash masks sell out. Churches fill. Cell towers overload. People stop saying goodbye. They just go. Canada deploys troops to its border.\r\nDay 18\r\nIt begins.\r\nThe ground splits open with a roar that drowns out the sky. A column of ash and molten gas punches thirty miles into the atmosphere. Pyroclastic flows race outward at 300 miles per hour, destroying anything within a 60 mile radius.\r\nWyoming disappears first. Then parts of Montana. Idaho. The ash spreads on the wind. Black snow over the Dakotas. Then Chicago. Then New York.\r\nDay 21\r\nThe sun fades. The world grows cold. Agriculture halts. Flights are banned. Breathing becomes difficult. Emergency rooms overflow. Rivers choke with grey sludge. Livestock die standing up.\r\nDay 27\r\nA second eruption. Not as large, but it collapses the eastern rim. Ash now blankets two-thirds of the U.S. in up to three feet, and still spreading. Riots in cities. Supermarket sieges. Aid convoys hijacked. No planes. No mail. No food.\r\nMonth 2\r\nTemperatures fall. Crops die. Power grids fail under demand. Global food supply drops by 40%. Economies nosedive.\r\nMonth 4\r\nAid runs out. The ash mixes with rain. Concrete turns to paste. Roofs collapse. Survivors dig trenches around their homes to breathe. Borders close. Millions migrate south. Starvation begins.\r\nMonth 6\r\nVolcanic winter settles in. Temperatures drop by five degrees Celsius worldwide. The jet stream collapses. China closes its ports. Africa burns its grain stores.\r\nYear 1\r\nEighty million dead. Not from fire, but from hunger. From cold. From the collapse of everything fragile. Next year, the death toll will be astronomical.\r\nYellowstone does not erupt again.\r\nBecause it doesn't need to."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The pocket"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Julian wasn’t supposed to live in the studio. It was just a workspace, cheap, dusty, forgotten like him. After the layoff, it became both bed and prison.\r\nHe found the chest on his third night, hidden behind a loose panel in the attic crawlspace. Inside, a trench coat. Heavy wool. Sharp lapels. It smelled of old paper and mildew. It looked straight out of the 1920s.\r\nIt felt like it belonged to him.\r\nThat night, it rained. He wore it out. As he walked, he slipped his hands into the deep pockets and felt something crisp. He pulled out a clean one hundred dollar bill.\r\nHe laughed, nervous. Probably a gag or a forgotten relic. Still, money was money.\r\nThe next morning, a small blurb in the paper mentioned an elderly woman mugged who died of her injuries.\r\nA few nights later, he wore the coat again. Reached into the pocket. One hundred. Then another. Another. Clean. Fresh. No marks.\r\nBy midnight, he had thousands.\r\nThe next day, a young woman died in a fiery car crash. Eyewitnesses said the vehicle simply lit up.\r\nJulian tried to dismiss it. Bad coincidences. The world was full of them.\r\nBut when rent was due and food ran low, he reached in again. Took only what he needed. That’s fair, he reasoned.\r\nThat night, a man was found drowned in a park fountain. No signs of struggle.\r\nHe started avoiding the news. But the silence was worse. It felt like the coat wanted him to know. It hung in the corner, patient. Like it knew when he would cave.\r\nAnd cave he did. Often.\r\nSometimes he’d feel something else in the pocket. A breath. A twitch. Once, fingers too long and too dry brushing his own.\r\nHe told himself he imagined it. But when he slept, he dreamed in other people’s voices. Woke with dirt under his nails. Blood beneath his tongue.\r\nHe tried burning the coat. Tossed it into the Hudson.\r\nIt came back. Always hanging near the door. Always full.\r\nEventually, he stopped fighting. Sat down on the floor, coat in his lap, tears in his eyes. He plunged both hands in. Pulled until the room was flooded in money.\r\nThen he laughed. Not from joy. From relief.\r\nHis phone buzzed.\r\nBREAKING: TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT CRASHES. 214 FEARED DEAD\r\nHe stared at the screen, surrounded by bills that felt warm in his hands. The coat, still in his lap, pulsed once.\r\nJulian whispered, “I didn’t ask for this.”\r\nA voice, not his, answered inside his mind.\r\nBut you kept reaching in."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Molt"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The skin on Aria's shoulder sloughed off like a sticker soaked in dishwater.\r\nNo blood. No scream. Just a sigh of relief as it curled outward, translucent, revealing new skin beneath.\r\nHer new flesh was raw, slick and threaded with luminescent veins, forming a root system. The surface steamed in the morning air.\r\nShe flexed her fingers.\r\nThe joints clicked satisfyingly, realigning and recalibrating.\r\nHer spine slithered beneath the surface of her back, achieving a different kind of balance.\r\nThis was the third molt.\r\nIt started after the treatment. She’d sought it out, drawn it slowly into the needle.\r\nHormones suspended in an inky solution.\r\nThe first injection terrified her, but joyous exhilaration followed.\r\nThe molt began weeks later.\r\nShe stood naked in the bathroom, near the mirror. To admire. To witness.\r\nHer eyes adjusted to the light, pupils slitting, widening, and reforming.\r\nIt was all she could do to maintain her balance as the world tumbled in and out of focus.\r\nHer face was asymmetrical now.\r\nThe left side had begun to morph toward something supple. Her cheekbone high and delicate, eyelid heavy with elegance; the lashes like peacock feathers, resplendent and lush. They shimmered.\r\nThe right side still resembled her old self.\r\nGruff. Angular. Butch.\r\nA shadow of a man she had never truly been.\r\nShe smiled with only one side of her face.\r\nThe phone rang.\r\nShe knew it would be her mother. Or the pharmacist saying they could no longer fill the experimental prescription. Or the priest, calling to shout abuse at her in the name of the Lord.\r\nShe ignored it and moved to her balcony, taking in the sun to ripen her new flesh.\r\nBelow, a mail carrier paused at the curb. Stared. Didn’t approach. He dropped a bundle of envelopes at the curb like an offering, fleeing.\r\nAria watched from above.\r\nShe wasn’t angry. She knew people wouldn’t understand, would judge her.\r\nIt was the same instinct that made people avert their eyes from solar flares or mass graves, afraid it would consume them.\r\nConfident beauty could be intimidating, to some.\r\nShe recited affirmations quietly.\r\nHer voice was delicate, yet more powerful than it had ever been.\r\n\"I am who I was meant to be. This isn’t for them.\"\r\nSome did understand.\r\nThe others were beacons of light; their faces awe-inspiring and magnificent. They were winged silhouettes on rooftops. Bone-chimes in windows. Shining stars in the sky.\r\nTheir community thrived quietly, despite those who would denigrate them.\r\nThe world would call them unnatural, monstrous, obscene.\r\nBut they were not monsters.\r\nThey were Galadriel in full light, terrible and glorious. They were comets, too bright to stare at, too fast to catch, blazing a path for others to follow. They were monarchs, splitting the skies with gold-dusted wings.\r\nAria shed the final piece.\r\nShe smiled with both sides of her face, at last.\r\nOne more injection, and she’d complete the metamorphosis.\r\nThen, they would see her, truly see her, and tremble."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Forgotten"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "That morning he walked his city, through streets where the light fell in narrow bands between the buildings and the air hung thick with the smell of wet asphalt and cigarettes. He walked as if the city knew him, as if the cracked sidewalks remembered his footsteps. Once, they had.\r\nThere is a love for one’s place in the world. Not of a person, not of a God, but the deeper devotion to being. To matter. To be known, even by accident. The love of the barista who knows your name, your order, your voice. The child at the bus stop who shows you pictures of her cat. The stranger who smiles at you as you walk by.\r\nThis is the love of being known, not deeply, not forever, but enough. Enough to tether you to the world.\r\nHis name is no longer called. Not at the pharmacy. Not at work. Not by friends. It’s not avoided, it’s unremembered. Slipped from the world as if it never was. Still, he speaks it. Alone.\r\nHe met a friend on the street. Raised a hand. Called out a name shared since childhood. The friend flinched, offered an awkward smile, and asked if he needed directions. No recognition in his voice. Just pity.\r\nHe pressed my palm to the wall of his childhood home. The bricks were familiar. The scent of the garden. His mother’s humming behind the door.\r\nShe opened the door and saw him, suitcase in hand. “Hi, Mom.”\r\nShe blinked. “Can I help you?”\r\nThen, something crueler, she smiled, kindly. Warmly. The way you might smile at a lost stranger asking for directions.\r\nHe lived in that smile for a moment. He wanted to curl up in it and pretend. Pretend he was lost, that he was on the wrong street, at the wrong house, and speaking to the wrong woman.\r\nBut the hallway behind her looked the same. The kettle whistled the same. She was the same.\r\nThe cat he had known since he was a baby purred, brushed against his leg, then hissed.\r\nNo one remembered his name.\r\nNo one remembered his voice.\r\nNo one remembered him.\r\nHe stood on bridges and rooftops, not to jump, just to feel taller. More visible. But no one looked up.\r\nThere is a love for memory. Not only your own, but others’ memories of you. It is the loom that holds the self taut. Without it, the body begins to untangle.\r\nAt night, he dreams of being felt. Not held, not kissed, only felt.\r\nThis is how a man becomes forgotten, not with a bang, not with a fall from a bridge, but with silence piling up around him like snow.\r\nHe walks his city still.\r\nSomewhere between lamplight and traffic, he passes you. You feel nothing.\r\nBut if, one day, you dream of someone sitting across from you, no face, no voice, only a presence, know this,\r\nYou once knew him.\r\nHe once knew you."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Weeping Ceiling"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I am the City Council's appointed contractor to fix buildings which are dilapidated or abandoned so they do not become a den for squatters, and when I'm done fixing, I am supposed to hand it over to the real estate department. To ensure that the work is thoroughly done, I am required to live in the house itself till the job is done, which works for me, since I do not have a family to go back to. It was as part of this project that I was asked to fix Gerry's house. Gerry was a beloved citizen of the city, and the oldest one too. But when he passed away, his quaint little duplex attracted a bunch of hippies to crash there.\r\nI settled down pretty effortlessly in the house. It looked the exact opposite of how it was from the outside, definitely not the prettiest. It would take at least a month to get everything right. By the time I got done with the first draft of my estimation, it was well into the midnight. As I headed towards what was supposed to be my room, I heard a faint sound of something dripping. I walked into the kitchen, assuming that the sink was probably open. But the wasn't the case. Nothing in the bathrooms too. Confused, I tried to look for a source. And soon enough, I found it. The ceiling was leaking. Not with water. Not with paint. But with old, rotten blood. Thick and viscous, like the blood of an ogre. It took me a minute to register it in my mind, but when I eventually grasped it, I let out the loudest scream of my life.\r\nI don't know how I managed to fall asleep eventually, but at noon, when I opened my eyes, there was nothing. No blood, no leaking ceilings, not even a spot. As if everything that I saw the night before was a mere hallucination. But come dusk, it was back to square one. With each passing night, the leak started to spread, the house bled more. The beams started to pulse like veins. And then, there were the squelches and the gurgles. As if a basilisk slithered behind those old walls.\r\nI asked a friend of mine to help open up one of the walls, and when we tore open a part of it, we didn't find bricks or wood or anything of that sort. What we found was raw, twitching flesh, riddled with eyes that blinked sorrowfully. From the open wall, long cords of muscle lashed out and dragged my friend inside. The wall sealed behind him with a wet snap.\r\nWith the help of the Council, we tried tearing the house down. It didn't budge. Now, Gerry's house is a living tomb, pulsing with heat and hunger. Waiting to add another being behind its walls."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Unwanted"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The throngs of out-of-town visitors flowed in and out of downtown in the stately university town, as parents and their young adult kids stressed about the final details of upcoming graduation ceremonies. Melissa and Mom were no exception- in a rash emotional moment, Mom had offered to buy Melissa new shoes for convocation, but now, caught up in swarms of shoppers, she regretted the offer.\r\nMelissa should have chosen her shoes for convocation months ago, Mom thought irritably as she watched her daughter run like an excited pony between the racks of overpriced shoes.\r\nMom picked up a nicely-crafted shoe the colour of sunlit ivory, and ran her hand down the smooth leather. So soft, so supple. It had a nice subtle gloss to it, and would pop beautifully under the swishing black gown, as Melisa walked across the stage. Mom closed her eyes, enjoying a flashback to her own convocation. She couldn’t remember her shoes, but it wouldn’t have been crafted from such exquisite leather.\r\nThe legislation allowing the harvesting of human skin for commercial leather goods had not been passed in those days. Nowadays, it was hard to believe the legislation had caused such an outcry as it did, as demand continued to soar and the going rate for skin harvested from the recently-deceased settled into affordability. A policy tweak meant the consent of the deceased was no longer necessary, and families found the price of the skin of their loved ones useful in offsetting hospital and funerary costs. Although rumours persisted that the high-end brands used skin from living subjects, harvested from the unwanted. Apparently the difference in texture was noticeable.\r\nMom looked around for Melissa, to show her the beautiful shoe. It must have been made from young, fair skin. Mom could not understand the trend for outrageously-coloured leather goods- why splash neon colors on human leather? Wasn’t the whole point showcasing the sepia tones of human skin, transformed into jackets, shoes, handbags? Mom thought fondly of her own quilted designer handbag- a richer shade of chocolate than she would have liked, but she had bought it on sale.\r\nThere was Melissa, carrying a medley of shoes, fruitlessly trying to flag a sales assistant. Mom held up the ivory heel she had chosen- “Darling, this is gorgeous!”\r\nMelissa made gagging sounds. Mom sighed- her bank account was valued here, not her opinion. And she didn’t approve of Melissa’s choices. There was a slutty dyed scarlet heel, and the rest were naturally dark, intense shades- far darker than Mom’s discounted handbag.\r\nMom reluctantly put back her own choice. Young folk- well, Melissa's mind was turned with all this woke diversity nonsense, what with the university degree and all.\r\nMom was tired and wanted to get back to the hotel. She smiled palely at her daughter’s young plump foot, shod in black human leather and murmured “very nice dear.”\r\nAt least it would be cheaper than the ivory heels."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Second Toothbrush"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I live alone. Moved into this tiny apartment six months ago after a rough breakup. Just me, my laptop, and silence.\r\nLast week, I noticed a second toothbrush in the holder. Same color as mine, but brand new. I figured maybe I’d forgotten I bought a spare.\r\nThen I saw two towels hanging in the bathroom. I only use one. I started taking pictures of everything before I left for work, just to be sure I wasn’t losing it.\r\nEach day, small things moved. A mug turned sideways. My cereal was lower. The bed looked... sat on. I started locking my bedroom door at night, even though it felt ridiculous.\r\nLast night, I came home and the door was unlocked.\r\nI walked in slow, heart pounding. Nothing looked different.\r\nUntil I got to the bathroom.\r\nThere were three toothbrushes now.\r\nAnd a note on the mirror in smeared lipstick:\r\n“Glad you’re finally noticing me.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "There’s Something in the Dead Zone"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Subnautica isn’t a horror game… until it is.\r\nI’ve been obsessed with the game’s lore for months. I’ve read every wiki page, watched every theory video. But one rumor stuck with me—something hidden in the Ecological Dead Zone.\r\nIf you’ve been down there, you know it’s not meant to be explored. Just an 8,000-meter drop and a swarm of Ghost Leviathans designed to kill you fast. Still, the rumor claimed something else lurks out there. Something the devs never acknowledged.\r\nI spent hours testing it. Dodging leviathans in my Seamoth, clinging to the edge of crush depth, desperate for a sign. Nothing but darkness and death.\r\nUntil it happened.\r\nThe Ghost Leviathans… glitched. They stopped chasing me. Just drifted, circling in the dark like they were... confused. Then, in an instant, more of them spawned. Ten, maybe twelve. Just—bam—surrounding me. And just as fast, they vanished.\r\nThen I heard it.\r\nA roar. Deeper than anything in the game’s files. Felt like it rattled my headset. I didn’t wait—I turned the Seamoth and floored it. As I bolted back toward the safe shallows, my HUD flickered and the onboard AI stuttered out:\r\n“Danger. Death imminent. You should have stayed away.”\r\nI swear I felt my chest tighten. Something was coming. And then—\r\nIt crossed the screen.\r\nNot a Leviathan. Bigger. No model I recognized. My Seamoth spun out like a toy in a bathtub. I bailed, grabbing my Seaglide and swimming blind.\r\nThe water got clearer. For a second, I thought I was safe.\r\nI wasn’t.\r\nBecause whatever was down there... it followed me. Past the drop-off. Past the game’s invisible walls. It didn’t care about boundaries.\r\nThe last thing I saw were teeth. Massive. Endless. And then everything went black.\r\nMy game crashed. Full shutdown. I haven’t been able to boot it since.\r\nAnd honestly? I’m not trying very hard.\r\nBecause I know what I saw.\r\nThere’s something down there. Watching. Waiting.\r\nAnd it doesn’t belong in the game."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "So The Bachelorette Party Started Horribly"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It’s after dark when the limo pulls up. I’ve been standing out here so long my hand is sore from holding my non-alcoholic six-pack.\r\nI’m embarrassed to admit I was so nervous I forgot my keys, and am locked out, which is why I stood on the curb waiting for an hour.\r\nAlso, they’re late.\r\nThe limo driver opens the door for me. He’s trying to hide a scowl. He actually looks pissed, I think.\r\nOnce in, Abigail apologizes for being late.\r\n“It’s fine,” I say.\r\nIf I’m being honest, I’m not usually the type to go to parties. Any party. They make me nervous. But Abigail is my only friend, and I think it would be rude not to attend.\r\nThe only other person in the limo is Ellie. She’s gorgeous. And a party animal, which is why Abigail is so fond of her.\r\nThe limo driver peels out, and Abigail has already popped a bottle of champagne for Ellie.\r\nIt’s spilling everywhere and I can only think about what a mess it’s making.\r\nAbigail sees my nervousness, and says, “Come on, let loose! How often do I get to have a bachelorette party?”\r\nThis is Abigail’s fifth.\r\nShe’s very old fashioned. She doesn’t want to be with a person unless they're married, and she loves to be with people, if you catch my drift.\r\nHer marriages don’t really work out. Because of her condition, and her being such a night owl.\r\nI crack open my non-alcoholic beer and hold it up. “Cheers,” I say.\r\nSee. I can be fun.\r\nWe’re all chatting away, and I notice that we are driving in the completely wrong direction. In fact, I think we’re out of town?\r\nBefore I can say anything the driver starts speaking over an intercom.\r\n“You stupid women.”\r\nWe all go quiet.\r\n“Having your slovenly little party. You would never give a guy like me the time of day!”\r\nOh bother. It sounds like our driver is an incel. Perhaps homicidally so.\r\n“You’re going to get what bitches like you deserve!”\r\nHe’s pulled over on a dirt road, and gets out of the limo with a revolver.\r\nHe gets to the passenger door, and Abigail looks deep in his eyes.\r\n“You naughty boy,” she says.\r\n“Me?” He giggles.\r\nOh dear. She’s hypnotized him.\r\n“Why don’t you point that pistol at yourself and shoot it?”\r\nThe driver puts the gun to his head and shoots. I look away. I’m sure it made a horrible mess.\r\nAbigail flies out and starts drinking his blood, but spits some out. “Disgusting!”\r\nAbigail can be so animalistic. But she is my only friend, so I would never judge her vampirism.\r\nAbigail gets out her phone, and informs us an uber coming.\r\n“An uber?”\r\n“Yeah. I’m not letting that piece of shit ruin my party.” When the uber arrives, she throws back her head to yell, “Ladies! To the club!”\r\nI grab the champagne. Maybe, just tonight, I’ll have the real stuff."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Green Pit"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The first scream didn’t come from the jungle.\r\nIt came from Matheson’s throat.\r\nBy then, the others had already stopped shouting for help. They were too busy hiding, or dying. The canopy above—so thick it bled daylight into swampy green twilight—swallowed their voices like the forest had swallowed the trail, the guides, the sat phone, and the last of their food.\r\nMatheson staggered backward, clutching his calf. His leg wasn’t bleeding—something worse had happened. Bone poked out, smooth and white as boiled chicken. The trap hadn’t just broken him. It had claimed him.\r\nJared crouched beside him. “It’s a bone-snap snare,” he murmured, too calm, too resigned. “They’re getting closer.”\r\n“Help me!” Matheson hissed. “Jared, Jesus, carry me—”\r\nJared shook his head once. Not no. Just done.\r\nA wet rustle passed through the underbrush, low and deliberate. Not wind. Not birds. Something… breathing. Jared looked up. “They’ll hear him screaming.”\r\nMatheson heard it too now—just beyond the curtain of vines, the click-pop of a dislocated jaw re-setting. Then another. Then two more.\r\nThey weren’t hunting with stealth anymore.\r\n“Go,” Matheson begged, voice gone child-soft.\r\nJared didn’t argue. Just took the pack and limped toward the last red mark carved into a kapok trunk. That was all they had left—those crimson slashes. The one thing the cannibals didn’t erase.\r\nThey wanted you to run.\r\nThe game, Jared figured, was part of the ritual. Every story they’d laughed off back in Iquitos—the isolated tribe, untouched by outside culture, still practicing old rites—they weren’t myth. They were method. And now he was in it.\r\nHe hiked for hours. Or minutes. Time didn’t work right here. Heat radiated up from the ground in sick pulses. His clothes were wet, but not with sweat.\r\nEventually, he found another red slash.\r\nAnd just below it: a ribcage nailed to the tree. Human. Split wide like a warning, or maybe an invitation.\r\nHe ran.\r\nTwilight deepened. Jared’s breath came sharp and ragged, hitching at the edges. His flashlight died miles ago. He only stopped when he heard a voice—ragged, female.\r\n“Help me…”\r\nHe knew the sound. Lydia.\r\nHe found her kneeling in a clearing. Hair matted, shirt missing, arms shaking. No wounds.\r\n“Lydia?”\r\nShe looked up.\r\nSomething moved beneath her skin.\r\n“Did they—?”\r\nHer face split at the cheek. Not a grin. A gash. Eyes unfocused, she whispered, “Don’t let them wear me again.”\r\nThe trees behind her moved. Not with wind.\r\nJared turned and bolted. Didn’t look back.\r\nHe didn’t stop until the trees opened and moonlight poured in—and there, in a perfect circle, sat a mound of meat. Stacked high. Flies swarmed. Teeth nestled like trophies in the pulp. One boot lay half-submerged.\r\nHis.\r\nA voice from above, in crisp English: “Fast one this time.”\r\nJared tried to run, but the roots curled around his ankles.\r\nAs hands descended—not rough, reverent—he realized the final horror.\r\nThey didn’t want him to die fast.\r\nThey wanted him to understand."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Behind the basement wall"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "In the 1980s I bought an old house in North Carolina near the Appalachian Mountains. I had recently divorced and decided to pack up, move, and start over somewhere no one knew me. A fresh start as they say.\r\nI had found a job in the nearby area. I found the house on a listening and it was reasonably priced. It was built in the 1920s and definitely needed some renovation but overall it was a beautiful house. Naturally I bought the house and got to work fixing it up in my spare time.\r\nA few months go by and I love the house and the neighborhood. I finish the renovations to most of the house and now all that’s left is the basement.\r\nI start clearing out the basement one day after work. You know just dusting, sweeping, and mopping. I had to move some of the old shelving that were left by previous owners.\r\nAfter a few days of hard work the basement was looking good. However, over the few days of cleaning I could hear scratching coming from the back wall of the basement. Old house so I figured “Great. I got mice in the walls.” I set traps and bait but never caught any. The scratching in the wall kept growing louder with each passing day.\r\nAfter a week, the scratching was driving me to the point of insanity. So, I decided to check the wall for any cracks or holes that the mice could be using. Close to the corner of the wall I found a soft spot in the wall. I picked at it and without warning my hand goes right through the wall. On the other side was something solid. A door.\r\nOf course curiosity got the better of me and I tore the rest of the wall down around the door. It was locked but obviously it had been covered up for a long time and was easy to get open. It lead to a big open room that was roughly the size of the uncovered basement. The room was filled with bones. Not just a few. I’m talking 100’s of bones."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The waterslide"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "You hate those tube slides at waterparks that are closed at all sides . You can't see where they end. You fear getting struck forever. But it's okay. You will get over that fear. One day. You will finally gather the courage to try the slide at the newly opened waterpark.\r\nIt's okay. It's safe. It's a short ride of only half a minute. So many people have gone through it already. You climb up. You take a deep breath and breath. You go inside.\r\nYou slide down the painted sickly yellow walls of the tube, the colour of vomit, the colour of your nausea.\r\nIt is fun. It is easy. It's not scary at all. You are safe. You are just sliding between these closed walls, that remind you of the intestines of a great beast. You are sliding down.\r\nYou keep sliding down. The initial joy has worn away. You do not know how much time has passed. You tried to count the seconds but you lost the track. You are still sliding down. It is okay. You will reach the end.\r\nIt is calm. It is silent. The edges of your dress have gotten frayed and worn away due to the friction of the slide. The cold hard plastic of the waterslide touches your skin. You sigh. You wonder if the rest of your body will wear away too, if your skin will be rubbed raw and flayed and your muscles grated away. Gradually. You keep sliding. You will never stop sliding."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Undertaker"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I wheel her in like any other.\r\nNo story. No cause of death worth repeating. Just a body. Paperwork says cardiac arrest. Mid-sixties. No next of kin listed. Jane Doe, for now. They usually come with names, even if the faces are blank. This one’s different.\r\nI lift the sheet.\r\nShe looks peaceful. Mouth closed, hands folded. Skin already cooling. There’s a faint perfume, not death yet, but close. The kind of stillness that listens.\r\nI start the process. Standard procedure. I’ve done it a hundred times. Drain, clean, prep. My gloves creak as I work, but she doesn’t change. Until she does.\r\nAt first, it’s small.\r\nThe cheekbones seem higher than they were. A softness around the jawline I swear wasn’t there when she came in. I check the paperwork again. Sixty-five. No photo. No ID. Just a name that means nothing.\r\nBut the nose. That slope. The downturn of her eyes.\r\nIt looks like…\r\nNo.\r\nIt’s just in my head. Long shift. Poor sleep. I keep going.\r\nThe hair is different now. Thinner than when I started. Greyer. Like hers.\r\nI step back. My throat tightens.\r\nShe looks like my mother.\r\nNot exactly. Not all at once. But enough.\r\nI lean in again, slower this time, unsure whether I should be working or mourning. I brush the hair back. Her scalp is warm.\r\nNo. That can’t be.\r\nI check again. No pulse. No breath. Still dead. Still cold. But she’s warm under my hand.\r\nI look at her and see not a stranger, but the way my mother used to smile when I came home late and lied about why. The look she gave me when I left for college. The soft hum she made while washing dishes.\r\nThis woman has her mouth. Her lips. The faint crack in her lower tooth.\r\nI blink.\r\nNow she has my mother’s scar. The one from the time she slipped on the ice and laughed through the pain.\r\nI step back again.\r\nI’m shaking.\r\nShe isn’t my mother. She can’t be. My mother is alive. I spoke to her this morning. She was baking. She said she was going to walk to the store.\r\nSome goodbyes arrive before the call ever comes.\r\nThe phone rings.\r\nI jump.\r\nIt’s the front office.\r\n“Hey,” the voice says. Hesitant. Gentle. “Are you… are you sitting down?”\r\nMy mouth is dry.\r\n“There’s been an accident,” they say. “Your mother. Car crash. It just happened. They… they need an undertaker. And… her son.”\r\nThe body on the table doesn’t move.\r\nBut she’s smiling now.\r\nJust a little.\r\nLike she knew I’d come.\r\nLike she’s been waiting.\r\nAnd outside, the street is silent.\r\nLike the world is holding its breath."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "One Of The Guys"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Come on, Tess, don’t be boring.”\r\nThat’s Lee. Nudging me with a grin. The industrial fan behind him rumbles like it’s about to tear the roof off the place. It’s one of those giant standing monsters, the kind that’s supposed to keep the warehouse from turning into a sauna, but mostly it just blasts your ears and messes with your hair.\r\nThey brought in the fan during the last heatwave. Big. Semi-rusty. Loud. It lived in the break room now, grumbling in the corner like some old dog.\r\nEvery lunch, the guys messed with it. Simon flapped his arms and yelled into the wind. Lee stuck his shirt out and made airplane noises. Tony did his superman thing where he posed with a cape made from a plastic bag.\r\n\"Okay then,\" I said, standing up. \"My turn.”\r\nThey cheered. And I loved it.\r\n\"Yes, Tess!\"\r\nI walked over, already smiling. My hair was down today, long, heavy, freshly washed. I flipped it forward, head upside-down like I was about to shake it out after a shower. Just trying to be funny. Just trying to be one of the guys.\r\nI stepped closer, hoping to get more lift, but the sound suddenly changed.\r\nQuieter. Tighter. Like someone had shoved a pair of denim jeans in there.\r\nMy neck suddenly jerked.\r\nThen again.\r\nThen harder.\r\nIt didn’t feel real at first. Just tension. Like a tug from a toddler.\r\nThen something ripped like overused velcro.\r\nHeat boomed across my scalp. Or perhaps it was cold. It was hard to tell.\r\nThen came the pull. Not a yank. Not a tug. Just...continuous.\r\nI felt my skin stretch.\r\nThen peel.\r\nSomeone screamed. Might’ve been me. Might’ve been Simon. There was this sound...like something being ripped underwater. It started spitting out something soft.\r\nThe tension then finally released.\r\nI hit the floor. Knees, then elbows, then face. The room smelled like burnt hair and hot wires.\r\nI heard someone gag. Someone else whispered, “Oh my God,” over and over.\r\nI tried to lift my head, but nothing happened. It was both heavy and weightless at the same time. Painful and painless. I could feel air where there shouldn’t be air. I could feel the outline of my brain. Raw and just...open.\r\nI didn’t cry. I didn’t move.\r\nI couldn't. All I could do, was listen.\r\nListen to them shuffle back.\r\nListen to the soft murmurs.\r\nListen to the fan continue its function.\r\nTack-tack-tack-tack-tack-tack...\r\nI thought about how stupid it was.\r\nHow I only wanted to make them laugh.\r\nHow I just wanted to be part of them.\r\nEven now, I wanted to say I was okay. That it was all just part of the joke. I wanted to laugh again.\r\nBut it wasn’t funny anymore.\r\nNot one of them touched me.\r\nNot one of them called the manager.\r\nNot one of them turned off the fan.\r\nThey just...walked out."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Perfume of Decay"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The scent claws at my senses the moment I step past the rotting threshold of the abandoned cottage. It’s faint at first, a ghost of sweetness, twisted with something sharper, almost acrid. I take a shallow breath, trying to name it.\r\nFresh roses, perhaps? No, it’s darker, richer, like dried petals left too long to decay in the sun. There’s something earthbound beneath it, a dampness that speaks of forgotten graves, of soil soaked with secrets. And there’s something metallic too, a copper tang that lingers, faint but insistent, like blood on old iron.\r\nI step further into the gloom, brushing aside spiderwebs that cling like forgotten memories. The scent thickens, curling into the air, both seductive and disturbing. It scrapes at the edges of something half-remembered, something I dare not recall. The dying light filtering through the cracked, soot-streaked windows casts long shadows across the room. I imagine a wilted bouquet, abandoned on a faded mantle, or an overgrown garden pressing its weight against the walls, but the space is empty, save for broken furniture and brittle leaves, crushed underfoot.\r\nI reach out, pressing my palm to the damp, curling wallpaper, leaning in as if it might whisper its hidden truths. The scent shifts then, darker, fouler, like rot seeping from the very bones of the house. It thickens into something cloyingly sweet, too thick to breathe, like syrup spilled over ancient timber. It sticks to the back of my throat, bitter, sour. A shiver creeps down my spine, and I feel as if something unseen watches, crouched in the shadows, just beyond the periphery of my vision. The stench of death mingles with the sweetness, an intoxicating perfume of decay.\r\nI pull back, heart hammering. The scent begins to dissipate, melting into the stale air of dust and mildew that has long claimed the cottage. But even as I retreat, I can’t help but glance back, eyes darting to the corners, expecting to find something, someone - anything - lurking in the dark, cloaked in that thick, suffocating fragrance.\r\nSomething, or someone, waiting patiently to be discovered."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "One for the Road"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I don’t talk about that night much. People think I’m joking, or just trying to scare them straight. But I know what I saw.\r\nIt was around 1 AM as I staggered out of Murphy’s Pub, soaked in whiskey and overconfidence. My keys were already in my hand. I told myself I was fine. I’d done it before. Somehow, nothing had ever gone wrong. But that night...that night, it did.\r\nI opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and reached up to adjust the rearview mirror—\r\nJesus Christ.\r\nHe was there. In the backseat.\r\nPale. Drenched. Blood caked down one side of his face like someone poured tar over a corpse. His mouth hung slack, twisted open. No sound came out but a faint wheezing like wind down a rusted pipe. One of his eyes was drooping like it had been popped halfway out.\r\nHis arms looked broken backwards. The bones didn’t bend right. There was something wrapped around his neck. It was a seatbelt, twisted, digging deep into purpling skin.\r\nThen he laughed. No, *cackled.***\r\nI screamed. My limbs locked up. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I just pressed myself into the steering wheel, whispering, “No, no, no,” over and over like a child afraid of the dark.\r\nThen everything went blank.\r\nI just woke up on my mate Nathan’s couch with a wet towel over my forehead. He found me unconscious inside my car and he took me to his home. I don’t remember any of that.\r\nBut ever since that night, I can’t sit in the front seat without checking the mirror. I don’t drive at night. And sometimes, when I pass parked cars, I swear I see him.\r\nOkay, okay, get it. I’m not a pretty sight.\r\nAh, memories. Nothing like your last one being a slow-motion windshield kiss.\r\nYep, that idiot was me. A few beers and the brilliant idea to prove I could drift corners like in Fast & Furious—except with a lousy 1981 Jimny and zero talent.\r\nSpoiler alert: trees don’t move. And neither did I afterward.\r\nNow I’m stuck in the afterlife with a mission: babysit drunk morons who think they’re immortal. Lucky me.\r\nDo I haunt houses? Nah. I haunt Hondas. I don’t rattle chains or say creepy Latin stuff. I just show up in your car. Simple. You’d be amazed how fast someone sobers up when they see a corpse blink in their rearview mirror.\r\nI don’t care if they scream. I don’t care if they pee their pants. And I really don’t care if I become some urban legends they tell at bars later, as long as it stops them from trying to Mario Kart their way home hammered.\r\nYou drink and grab the key? Guess what, sunshine, pick one: drop it and call the taxi, or else, I’ll be giving you one extra driving lesson you won't forget.\r\nHate me all you want. I’m already dead.\r\nBut stopping one more idiot from joining me?\r\nTotally worth it."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Something happened in the locker room."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Milly Swanson begged not to be kicked off the softball team.\r\n“Please, Coach, you can’t let them do this to me.”\r\nShe droned on about how a softball scholarship was the only way her family could afford to send her to college. Yada yada, blah blah blah.\r\nI let out a long sigh to show frustration, then opened the incident report to the first page.\r\n“What happened?” I asked, even though I already knew.\r\nI wanted the incident fresh in Milly’s mind.\r\n“Hazel called me a ‘stupid bitch.’ I lost my temper.”\r\nI raised my eyebrows and tilted my head towards Milly to show skepticism.\r\n“So, Hazel instigated the fight?” I asked.\r\nMilly paused, thought about it for a second, then said, “Yeah.”\r\n“You didn’t ask ‘when her ass was gonna grow in?’ Or ‘if it hurt when she sat down?’”\r\n“I was just joking…”\r\n“Hazel didn’t think so.”\r\n“I only hit her once! To shut her up!”\r\n“And gave her a concussion.” I flipped over the report. Everything was spelled out clearly, including Milly’s punishment.\r\nShe was given five days of in-school suspension, had to write an apology to Hazel, and worst of all she was no longer allowed to participate in extracurriculars.\r\nThat meant no more softball.\r\nMilly begged her parents to transfer her to a new school so she could play on their team, but they refused. I think they wanted her to actually learn her lesson for once.\r\nThat brought Milly to me.\r\n“This is gonna ruin my life, Coach, you gotta let me back on the team.”\r\n“I can’t do that,” I said, “but I can tell you what to do next.”\r\nMilly groaned, then softly asked, “what?”\r\nI opened the desk drawer, pulled out a snubnosed revolver, and set it in front of her.\r\n“You should kill Hazel.”\r\nMilly’s eyes went wide with shock.\r\n“Whoa, Coach, what are you—”\r\n“It’s perfect, don’t you see? She ruined your life, and now you’re going to ruin hers!”\r\n“I can’t,” Milly hesitated.\r\n“Of course you can. If you’re smart, you won’t even get caught. Hell, it’s my gun. If anything, they’ll probably think I did it.”\r\nMilly stared at the gun for over a minute.\r\nFrom the look in her eye, I knew she was gonna do it.\r\nShe grabbed the pistol saying she would “think about it,” and left.\r\nI patted myself on the back for a job well done, and then went over to the closet.\r\nInside, Coach Schneider, the real Coach Schneider, was knocked out cold from my stinger. I dragged him to his desk and heaved him up onto his over-priced chair. He’d wake up in thirty minutes and be none the wiser.\r\nI twisted and pulled my face until it changed completely, resembling one of the janitors I had seen on my way in. I put on a hooded jacket and calmly walked back to my car.\r\n“Okay,” I said, pulling out my little notebook and crossing off Milly’s name, “who's next!”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Whistle In The Woods"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Eli, eight, and Max, ten, were deep in the woods with their father when he knelt by the fire and spoke low.\r\n“You boys can joke and play, but not out here. No shouting. And never whistle.”\r\nMax raised a brow. “Why not?”\r\nTheir dad stared into the flames. “There’s something old out here. It doesn’t have a voice of its own. It steals sounds—whistles, laughter, names. Tries to make them its own. But it never gets it quite right.”\r\nThe boys were quiet after that.\r\nThat night, in their tent next to their father’s, the forest went still. No wind. No bugs. Just a silence so deep it felt like the trees were holding their breath.\r\nMax, half-asleep, softly whistled the tune from his favorite video game. One note. Barely audible.\r\nThey waited. Nothing came.\r\nUntil hours later.\r\nThe same note came back—distorted. As if it had passed through something sick. The pitch was wrong, the rhythm broken. It wasn’t a whistle. It was a thing trying to whistle.\r\nEli sat up, frozen.\r\nThe sound came again, closer this time. Not through the trees—around the tent.\r\nFootsteps. Slow. Uneven. The crunch of grass and twigs under something too heavy.\r\nThen… breathing. Just beyond the fabric.\r\n“Max…”\r\nThe voice made his name sound warped, stretched like wet paper.\r\n“Eli…”\r\nThe sound of his own name made Eli’s blood turn to ice. It was close, just inches away.\r\nThe voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t growling or screaming.\r\nIt was trying. Trying to sound friendly. Trying to sound human. Failing.\r\nMax trembled beside him, wide-eyed and pale. The whisper came again, softer this time, repeating their names like a forgotten song.\r\nThen everything went still.\r\nThey didn’t sleep. They didn’t speak.\r\nWhen morning came, their father was already up, pale and tense. “Pack everything,” he said.\r\nThey didn’t argue.\r\nWhen the tent came down, they saw the prints—deep, wide, not shaped like any foot. More like something had pressed down too long, unsure how to walk.\r\nBack in town, their father finally said it. “It waits. It listens. For years, if it has to. All it wants is a voice of its own. And once it hears yours… it never forgets.”\r\nThree nights later, Eli lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.\r\nThe house was quiet.\r\nThen, from somewhere outside, carried on the wind—\r\n“Eli…”\r\nA whisper. Soft. Strangled. Like it had been hiding in the trees, waiting to try again.\r\nHe squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering.\r\nIt’s nothing, he told himself. Just a dream. Just wind.\r\nThen—\r\nTap. Tap. Tap.\r\nOn the window.\r\nRight beside his head."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Corners Are Watching Me"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The house was smaller than it looked.\r\nHallways bent where they shouldn’t. Light switches sparked emptiness. Windows opened onto blank walls. It was the kind of place that made you feel exposed total darkness.\r\nAfter the divorce, I needed quiet. I should’ve known better.\r\nIt began with the lights.\r\nOne night, I woke to see every bulb gone. No broken glass—just hollow sockets staring. My phone’s feeble glow faded before dawn, so I huddled in the hallway, against peeling wallpaper.\r\nI dreamed of static. Flickering hallways. Childhood voice whispering: “Stay still. It knows when you move.”\r\nThe next morning, my bedroom door was missing.\r\nNot open—vanished. A smooth wall where the frame had been. I told myself it was grief. But each blink revealed emptier spaces.\r\nChairs. Curtains. Outlets. Doorways.\r\nThe house wasn’t shrinking.\r\nIt was consuming\r\nUntil I remained.\r\nI rigged a camera in the hallway. Battery-powered lens to anchor me. I hit record and tried to sleep.\r\nWhen I watched the footage, a single frame had a crowd in the corridor.\r\nStill figures. Faces pressed to walls. Watching.\r\nSome had my eyes.\r\nThat night, I heard breathing from the ceiling. Not above it—from within it. The air thickened. The corners of the room deepened, pulling light inward as if hungry.\r\nSomething whispered my name. Not a voice—the idea of one, low and warped.\r\n“Come closer.”\r\nI tried to run for the front door.\r\nBut it had gone. The windows opened to a black void. I flicked on the TV in panic. Only static. Until it shifted.\r\nA home video played in grainy flicker. Children’s laughter. Then silence. A young boy stood in a corner—staring at the camera.\r\nHe turned.\r\nI screamed.\r\nBecause it was me.\r\nNot me-now.\r\nMe-then.\r\nSix years old. Blood crusted at lips. A grin splitting my face.\r\nThe TV cut to black. The breathing grew louder, no longer from outside.\r\nI pressed palm to the wall.\r\nIt was warm.\r\nPulsing.\r\nThe corners trembled, folding in impossible ways, like unblinking eyes narrowing on me.\r\nI stumbled to bathroom and slammed door.\r\nWhen I turned on my flashlight, every mirror surface had become a screen. They showed me sleeping from behind. In real time.\r\nAnd something in each frame advanced, slower than consciousness.\r\nCloser.\r\nCloser.\r\nI backed away. The floorboards shifted underfoot. The ceiling groaned.\r\nI slid to sink, hands cupped. Cold water splashed face, but the room felt aflame with dread. The corners narrowed, as though contracting around shivering form.\r\nThen I heard it behind me—a breath, damp and ragged, from empty space.\r\nI turned, flashlight shaking.\r\nNothing.\r\nAnd it was there.\r\nWaiting at the edge of vision.\r\nI dropped the flashlight. The room swallowed its beam.\r\nIn the darkness, the corners began to glow faintly—slivers of pale light tracing angles that shouldn’t exist.\r\nI don’t know if I left that bathroom. I don’t know if there’s still a door.\r\nBut I don’t move anymore.\r\nBecause the corners are watching.\r\nAnd now, I dream in static."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The brother I never had"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Thomas was the name of my childhood imaginary friend. A playfully devious boy with whom I shared many adventures. The only thing that made him, well, different to your typical imaginary friend was that all six of the children in our family had told tales about the same young boy.\r\nLike clockwork, at the age of 5 each of us would begin to tell stories about the amazing new friend we'd made. And then, as sure as the rising sun, he disappeared from one sibling's life and settled into the next as soon as the next child in line turned 5. After an incident involving my eldest brother climbing a treehouse and suffering a broken arm, my parents gave us one rule:\r\n\"If Thomas asks you to do anything, let us know. We need to make sure you're being safe.\"\r\nI suppose as a child you tend to look past things that are standing right in front of you.\r\nThomas making one child inconsolable with his sudden disappearance whilst slipping into the psyche of another every few years meant something retrospectively significant, though. He never spent time past the age of 10 with any of us.\r\nUntil me.\r\nMy parents were trying for another child, but it simply never came. And so Thomas stuck with me throughout my later adolescence. He stuck by me even when I ignored him as I grew into my early teens and refused to allow myself to believe in something as childish as an imaginary friend. He didn't appear in the flesh during this period, but I could always feel his presence lingering within the coffers of my young subconscious.\r\nI was approaching adulthood when I found myself thinking of my old friend as the perceived responsibilities of my late teens life weighed heavily on me. I wanted companionship, and as I lay on the ledge outside my bedroom window and longed for my Thomas, he stood before me like he'd never left. Either I was losing my grip on reality, or this was no imaginary friend.\r\nGazing into his deep blue eyes I could see something that had passed me by throughout my younger years. It was as if a filter had been lifted and a sadness of incredible proportions peered back beyond that deviously joyous exterior I'd always known.\r\nAnd he knew I'd seen it, because he spoke the first words I'd heard from him in many years. Concise. Devastating.\r\n\"Please help me out.\"\r\nHis bony finger pointed to a patch of grass in the backyard. I spent hours digging until each outward flick of dirt revealed more of a forlorn wooden box. Inside, the remains of a young human lay bare. Cold, empty wood surrounding an existence prematurely snuffed out.\r\nMy parents never revealed why they did what they did and Thomas disappeared from my life that same night.\r\nI pray he is finally at peace.\r\nSo here's to Thomas.\r\nThe brother I never had, yet knew tenderly nonetheless."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The voice in the drain"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It started two weeks after we moved into the new apartment.\r\nNothing fancy — just an old two-bedroom in a quiet part of town. But the building has history. It's pre-war. Lots of strange angles. Long, narrow hallways that feel… wrong.\r\nThe bathroom is what got to me first.\r\nEvery time I showered, I felt watched. Not the usual \"someone’s behind the curtain\" feeling — deeper. Like something beneath me was aware I was there.\r\nThen one night, I heard it.\r\nA whisper.\r\nFrom the drain.\r\nI was home alone, brushing my teeth. Everything silent, except for the soft gurgle of the sink. Then, beneath the hum of the pipes, a voice — raspy, wet, and whispering directly from the drain:\r\n“Still here…”\r\nI froze. I leaned closer.\r\nNothing.\r\nI told my roommate, Mia. She laughed. “Old pipes. You’ve been watching too many horror movies.”\r\nSo I stopped bringing it up.\r\nBut the voice kept coming. Sometimes it said my name. Sometimes it asked, “Why don’t you listen?” One night, it said:\r\n“You left the basement door unlocked.”\r\nWe don’t have a basement.\r\nAt least, I didn’t think we did.\r\nThe next day, I checked. Behind a closet in the kitchen — a small door I’d never noticed. Locked tight. I asked our landlord about it.\r\nHe just said, “Don’t go down there. That space isn’t part of your lease.”\r\nMia didn’t believe me. Until last night.\r\nI was out late. She texted me, terrified:\r\n“There’s someone in the bathroom. I hear it whispering.”\r\nWhen I got home, the sink was flooded. Black water. The mirror was fogged over — though no one had showered.\r\nIn the center, traced into the condensation, were three words:\r\n“I know you.”\r\nNow Mia won’t stay here.\r\nShe says she hears it even through the walls — calling her name.\r\nI tried recording it. Left my phone in the sink overnight.\r\nThis morning, the file had no audio.\r\nJust an image.\r\nA still frame from the video. But not from the bathroom. From my room.\r\nAnd I’m in it.\r\nSleeping.\r\nWhile something crawls out from under my bed — toward the camera."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The punchline"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“One more round,” Dad said, clapping his hands. “You’ve almost got the rhythm right now. Clean swings, no hesitation.”\r\nI nodded, breathless, legs shaking. My grip on the bat was sweaty, slipping. We’d been at it for what felt like hours. My arms throbbed.\r\n“You’ll thank me later,” he added, adjusting the old spotlight with a squeal of rusted metal. “Discipline. Control. Precision. That’s what separates an amateur from a real performer.”\r\nI raised the bat again, feet shoulder-width apart, just like he taught me.\r\nBelow me, the clown groaned.\r\nHe wasn’t funny anymore. Not really. His makeup had melted into streaks—red dripping like blood, or maybe the other way around. One eye swollen shut, the other locked on me, wide and wild. His breaths came in ragged gasps. One of his fingers was bent backward. He’d tried to crawl away after the last “set.” Dad called it a curtain call. Said it was part of the act.\r\n“Please,” the clown whispered, voice cracking. “Please, no more…”\r\nI hesitated.\r\nDad noticed.\r\n“You can’t stop here, son.” His voice was calm. “He’s still breathing. That means the joke isn’t over.”\r\nI looked down at the man—no, the clown. But really, just a man now. Barely.\r\n“I don’t think this is a joke anymore,” I said quietly. “I think he’s really hurt.”\r\nDad stepped closer. His shadow stretched long behind me under the stage lights. “He’s not laughing because you’re not trying hard enough.”\r\nI didn’t move. I stared at the clown’s trembling form. The bat felt like lead.\r\nThen a soft voice from the stairs: “Is it my turn yet?”\r\nLily skipped into the spotlight, pigtails bouncing. She was holding a toy bat. Red plastic, but solid. Weighted.\r\nDad’s face lit up. “Perfect timing, sweetheart! Your brother’s finished his act. Ready to give it a go?”\r\nShe beamed. “Yay! Do I get my own clown?”\r\nDad winked. “He’s all yours.”\r\nThe clown tried to lift his head, but it dropped back with a smack. His chest rose, fell. Barely.\r\nMy sister stepped forward onto the sticky concrete with a gleeful bounce. “What do I do first?”\r\n“Start with the knees,” Dad said. “They make the funniest sound.”\r\nI turned to stop her. But my feet didn’t move. My mouth stayed shut.\r\nThe bat came down with a sharp crack.\r\nThe clown screamed.\r\nThe laughter track crackled to life above us.\r\nAnd Dad clapped, proud as ever.\r\n“Now that’s a punchline,” he said."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Three Knots"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "In my spiritual practice, I was taught about the three knots of the ego, which humanity must unravel to attain truth.\r\nThe first knot is the knot of blame. If humanity can surpass the need to judge people and events with moralistic language like \"good\" and \"bad\", and observe natural phenomenon for what it is, then they have unravelled the first knot.\r\nThe second knot is the knot of separateness. If humanity can realise that there's no separation between themselves and the universe, and that comparison is practical but not absolute, then they have unravelled the second knot.\r\nThe third knot is the knot of form. If humanity can enjoy the physical realm without becoming attached to it - if they can know themselves as the space in which events occur, not the events themselves - then they have unravelled the third knot.\r\nMy teacher warned me about the third knot being the most challenging, and thus the last to be unravelled. I never fully understood what he meant by that, until I saw it for myself.\r\nI watched humanity come a long way, from outrage and blame to observation and responsible action. People were waking up from the illusion of separateness and reuniting with the universe in a beautiful way. The need to manufacture comparison through having something others didn't, became a pointless endeavour for many. All around the Earth, the universe was evolving its consciousness through us. It wanted to be playful, to be creative.\r\nBut, there was the final knot.\r\nI remember seeing the newspaper articles: reports of strange bodily experiences across the globe. Some of the old-world paranoia crept back in, bit by bit. People who had been properly alive didn't know how to take it - becoming overwhelmed by all the new space they found within.\r\nThe bombshell story was that all this evolution in consciousness had been a psy-op by Russia to gain military advantage over the rest of the world - a lie so demented that no organism in alignment with the truth would be able to accept it, and yet, one by one people started believing it. It surprised even me, who was used to seeing mass reversals.\r\nI watched as humanity began engaging itself in global conflicts once more, setting its awakening back by thousands of years, for the sake of a few months' egoic rampage. There would be much more suffering to come.\r\nI really tried not to, but I felt disappointed, like I could have done a better job myself.\r\nAnd then as soon as I thought that, I remembered that I couldn't have.\r\nBecause by that point, I was too tied up.\r\nYou see how this works?"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Tree"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They say the grove was once an orchard, full of sweet fruit and easy labor, owned by a man named Harrow. Rich soil. Good harvests. But there was a rot under the roots, a rot shaped like greed.\r\nHarrow didn’t pay his workers. Didn’t feed them well. One by one, they fell of hunger, exhaustion, fever. He buried them beneath the very trees they died tending. Called it fertilizer.\r\nBut one of them was different.\r\nHer name was Mira. She was quiet, clever. When she sickened, she dragged herself to the oldest tree in the grove and whispered something into its hollow. They found her body leaning against the trunk the next day. Her lips were blue. Her fingers were buried in the soil.\r\nThat’s when the orchard changed.\r\nThe fruit soured. The soil curdled. The trees turned black and gnarled, and the sky over the grove darkened, even on cloudless days. Harrow was the first to disappear, but not the last. The land was cursed, they said. The orchard died.\r\nExcept for the one tree in the center.\r\nI found it last summer.\r\nI was desperate then. Things had… happened. I won’t say what. Just that I needed help. Or power. I remembered the stories from the bee-keeper, the old man who still kept hives just outside the abandoned grove. He said the tree knows things, that it can help... for a price.\r\nHe wouldn’t go near it. Wouldn’t even look at it when he spoke.\r\nBut I did.\r\nThe grove stank of mildew and copper. I stepped carefully between twisted roots and rotted fruit. In the clearing, it stood, twisted and towering, bark like split flesh. No leaves. No birdsong.\r\nI walked closer.\r\nThen it spoke.\r\n\"I know.\"\r\n\"I know what you’ve done.\"\r\nI froze. The tree groaned, and the bark split, revealing a hollow like a mouth.\r\n\"I helped her once. I could help again.\"\r\nI asked what it wanted.\r\nA pause.\r\n\"A purpose.\"\r\nThe voice trembled. Not in malice. In… need.\r\nI said yes.\r\nAnd it smiled.\r\nOr I think it did.\r\nNow I return each month. I bring it names. Faces. People who deserve it… at least at first. It shows me things. Gives me a way to make them pay.\r\nIt never asks for much. Just a drop of blood.\r\nA little piece of me, every time.\r\nThe bee-keeper warned me once. Said the tree used to speak only when spoken to. Now it speaks on its own.\r\nScreams, sometimes.\r\nIt calls out to anyone who passes.\r\n\"I know, I know, I know—\"\r\nAnd lately it says my name.\r\nEven when I’m not there."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The obelisk in the distance"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There is an obelisk in the distance.\r\nIt is steely gray and surrounded by swirling clouds of the same color. Where they meet, there is darkness, periodically permeated by flashes of strange light. I cannot remember when it first came to me. Perhaps it has always been there, just out of sight.\r\nIt can still pass from my vision. When I’m surrounded by tall buildings or dense trees, it is obscured. But when the buildings aren’t tall enough, or the tress dense enough, the top of it, penetrating into the swirling gray clouds… taunts me. And when there is nothing between me and the horizon, it looms.\r\nI do not think I am the only one who can see it. I once noticed an old man staring in its direction outside of a grocery store. I too looked for a time, at the tip peeking over the rooftops of the surrounding shops. He turned to me and smiled a strange smile. I wanted to ask if he saw what I saw. But I did not.\r\nSometimes it emits a low hum. A deep bass that rolls over everything. It causes animals to cower and hide. It affects birds the worst. It brings them to circle in strange and intricate patterns, squawking wildly, before always, inevitably, forming up and flying directly toward the obelisk in the distance.\r\nWhen I stare at it for too long, my mind begins to slip. I become disconnected from myself. From reality. Time does strange things. I can lose myself for what feels like hours, only to come back after mere moments. Or the inverse, I look for what seems to be a few seconds, only to have my shoulder shaken by a passerby who says I have been staring at nothing for too long.\r\nI think it’s growing closer. I don’t know if it’s possible to tell by looking. It is still so far away. But its presence… it grows. I always feel it. It tells of something to come. I cannot understand what. I cannot comprehend it. But I know. The obelisk is a harbinger.\r\nWhat’s strange is… I have come to yearn for it. I’ve taken to going out on my balcony at night, and finding the monolith in the darkness. I gaze upon it until I lose myself in a formless haze. I always come back in the middle of my subsequent day. Not passed out on my balcony, or even in my bed. No, I find myself going through the motions at work, or around my house, not knowing how I came to get there. The time is just… lost.\r\nBut when I do come around, I am almost immediately filled with the desire to see the obelisk again. It consumes me.\r\nPlease, if you know of this obelisk, or hear its low call, reach out to me. I do not want to witness this alone anymore. We can gaze upon it, experience the obelisk in the distance, together."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Stranger"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "He had complained of something in his room a few times now. They had started a while ago, during the summer but now it got worse. A rustling in the night, a cup knocked over, things rearranged as if something had passed by. His mother took these complaints to be the ramblings of a young child who had no clue what they were talking about. So it was ignored.\r\nOne night as he lay in bed he saw the shadow of something in the closet move. Something fell. Something breathed. An awful, raspy breath. He pulled the blanket over him and held still and made no noise. In the morning he had gone to his mother with the complaint and when she had opened the closet and found nothing she told the boy that if he had said anything like that again he would be grounded.\r\nThe next night he heard a thumbing sound that seemed to come from the ceiling. The ventilation duct right above his bed rattled with every movement.\r\nThat was a month ago. Since then the noises had stopped and had been replaced by an equally awful smell that filled the room and soon the house.\r\nIn the living room, the room right beneath where the boy’s room was they noticed a large dark stain start to appear on the popcorn ceiling. They thought it was water damage, and had hired a repairman to try and fix it in the next few days\r\nBut in the meantime they still had to find out what that smell was.\r\nThe last room to check was the boy’s room. Nothing out of the ordinary. They saw nothing but they could hear the buzzing of flies. They assumed that the boy had let some of his dinner spoil or perhaps his pet hamster had died.\r\nWhen they opened the closed they saw a man they didn’t recognize sitting in a fetal position under a pile of rubble and trash and he was deceased. His skin was drying out and shrinking back and the shag carpet he sat in was stained and soaked with a dark liquid that maggots and flies had visited.\r\nPolice were called and soon the red and blue lights illuminated the room. The stranger in the closet remained in darkness and the boy let the police in, oblivious to the situation upstairs to which they refused to let him see.\r\nThe found several Polaroids in an folder in the closet. Photos of the family sleeping, cooking, playing games, existing.\r\nThe mom gagged and fell backward. The stranger looked at her with sightless eyes. The father remained stoic.\r\n“Don’t let the boy see.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "To Seek Shelter at the Library"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I'm at the library. It's cool here. The stone walls are wet, glistening in the soft red light. I can only move so much. The rusted shackle around my ankle keeps me tethered to the ground.\r\nEverything is a blur, it all went by so fast. But, did it really? Am I now my own unreliable narrator? I don't know. I'm too panicked to think clearly. I'm hungry, I realize, so fucking hungry.\r\nBut so are they. And that's what weighs my heart with sheer dread.\r\nI was a stranger to this town. My car broke down along my road trip. I had managed to make it to a small town, out of the way. It was sunset. Walking through, it resembled a smaller Canadian prairie town to me, like Carman in Manitoba. Small locality, nice homes, very suburban feel. But it was so quiet. It seemed vacant, deserted.\r\nBut was it really? How could it be deserted?\r\nIndeed, my suspicions were proven wrong. I reached the town's sole public library, and received help from the librarian and her staff.\r\nI'm trying to get the shackle off my ankle. Break it off, anything. I have a large rock in my hand, and I'm banging, smashing the rock on the shackle. But it won't break. Even when logically it should. Because logic doesn't exist here.\r\nThe conversation with the librarian was brief - I can't remember the actual words. A feature of this place. But I was offered rest on the couch in the staff lounge, just till morning.\r\nI fell asleep fast. Then, the nightmares began. The bodies of the library staff ripping open from the inside, awful monsters emerging from beneath. Eyes too big and red, claws and skin completely alien to this earth. Their sheer stench filling the room.\r\nI awoke here. In this dungeon, this cage.\r\nIt's important for you to know that I cannot, will not, escape.\r\nThat may be hard to understand.\r\nWhat do I see when I look out the large crack in the stone wall? Not the small town. Not the outside of the library. But a vast, endless, expanse of gray desert, with a blood red moon shining high in the empty purple sky.\r\nI am somewhere else. I've lost track of how long it's been. I hear the library staff laughing nearby, their human voices mixed with the croaking and scratchy laughter of the monsters from my dreams. Every night, I see their true forms beneath my eyelids. And every night, I awake with true fear in my heart, with awful sobs forced from my throat. They feed on that, just as they will feed on my body in time.\r\nIt won't be long now.\r\nWhat is there left to say? Simply this: should you come across a small town in your travels across rural Canada, that appears deserted - don’t remain. Don’t linger. Keep driving, or walking, right on past it.\r\nDon't make my mistake. Don't end up here."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "THE DEAL"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "In 2042, Abhishek fell from a rooftop during a protest. Time froze before impact. A man in a black suit appeared—calm, timeless. It was Death.\r\n“You weren’t meant to live,” Death said.\r\nTerrified, Abhishek begged, “Please… not now. I’m not ready.”\r\nDeath studied him, then nodded. “Very well. But I will return. And when I do, you will be ready.”\r\nAbhishek awoke, alive and broken—but spared.\r\nYears passed. Then centuries. Somehow, he didn’t age. At first, it felt like a miracle. But everyone he knew died. The world evolved. Cities floated. Skies turned to circuits. Mankind became machines. And still, Abhishek remained.\r\nBy 3069, Earth was hollow and silent. Abhishek was the last man. Wandering ruins, haunted by memories, he stood once more on that rooftop.\r\n“Please,” he whispered. “Take me. I’m ready now.”\r\nDeath appeared beside him.\r\n“You were taken long ago,” he said.\r\nAbhishek frowned. “What do you mean?”\r\nDeath stepped forward. “The moment I spared you, your soul was mine. Your punishment wasn’t fire—it was time. Endless, lonely time.”\r\nAbhishek’s breath caught. “This was… hell?”\r\nDeath nodded. “You wanted to live. So you do. Again and again.”\r\nThe world darkened.\r\nAnd then\r\nAbhishek was falling again. Time froze. Death stood calmly.\r\n“You weren’t supposed to live.”\r\nAnd once more, Abhishek begged."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Jazz in the bar"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "You know when someone doesn't belong to a place? Speaking in a good way, that is. When she walked in through that door, I knew this wasn't the place for her. With another day of dreary mundaneness, my scrap of a car had pulled me towards the local dingy bar, like every other night. And like every other night, everything in and about the bar was just another carbon copy of the rotten monotony of all other nights. The same man slouched in a corner booth, his liquor breath a competitor for skunks. The same unenthused bartender pouring drinks, like someone wound his key and now he couldn't be unwound. The same Shadow twins in their skimpy little cloths, trying to seduce men into buying them free drinks. And much like their surname, they stood in the shadow, until they decided their prey for the night. And the same ten EDM tracks on repeat. It felt as if everyone's musical taste had gone down the drain next to the alley outside my house.\r\nShe was the only lotus in the mud. She sat down on the high chair next to me, and ordered her poison - a peg of neat whiskey, which then turned to eight, all the while she hummed The Shadow of Your Smile in the most angelic voice. Forty six years of my life, and she was the only one who sang Tony Bennett like she grew up in his era.\r\nAwkward tipsy conversations became sloppy kisses, and the next thing we knew, our moans echoed in the shabby washroom. She bit her lips as I grazed her neck. But in her drunken stupor, she didn't feel the knife that I slowly slid inside her skin, feeling the blood as it trickled down her velvet skin like honey. She was the collector's edition of a human, and she deserved to be preserved for all of eternity.\r\nNow she rests in the trunk of my car, as I drive into the night with \"The Shadow of Your Smile\" playing on loop, until I reach home and set her up on display."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "What's Behind The Chalk Door?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It started when Mason dreamed of his brother.\r\nWe were hanging out in his garage, tossing a ball against the wall, when he suddenly said, “I saw Tyler last night. In a dream.”\r\nTyler had vanished a year ago without a trace. No note. No signs of struggle. Just gone.\r\n“He was standing in front of this door. It was drawn in chalk, right on a brick wall. He told me everything was better now. He said I should come.”\r\nI laughed it off. Who wouldn’t? But Mason didn’t smile.\r\nThe next morning, he was gone too.\r\nHis parents called everyone. I lied and said I hadn’t seen him. Part of me thought he was playing a messed-up joke. Then they found the chalk. A perfect door traced in white lines on the back wall of their basement. Half-erased footprints led to it. None came back.\r\nOver the next few weeks, the dreams spread. Alyssa told me she saw Mason waving to her through the door. Then she disappeared. Jonah had a dream about Alyssa. Then he was gone too.\r\nEach time, the door appeared somewhere. Always drawn. Always clean lines. Always the same size.\r\nThen I had the dream.\r\nMason stood next to the door, smiling.\r\n“You don’t have to come through,” he said. “It’s better if you draw one. Make it bigger this time. That way we can all visit. We want to share it with you.”\r\nI woke up before I could speak. My room felt colder than it should have. I waited two days, trying to ignore it. But something pulled at me, like an invisible hook behind my ribs. I found myself walking to the abandoned boiler room behind the school, chalk in hand.\r\nI drew the door. Taller than me. Wide enough for several people to pass through side by side. I stepped back.\r\nThe air shifted. The chalk shimmered, and the wall rippled like water.\r\nThen it came through.\r\nIt wasn’t Mason.\r\nIt wasn’t anyone.\r\nIt was everyone.\r\nA massive shape crawled forward, dragging limbs that didn’t belong together. Faces blinked and wept across its surface. Some screamed silently, mouths gaping from inside its skin. Arms reached from its sides, dozens of them, grasping at nothing. It smelled like rot and wet leaves and something worse, something alive.\r\nI saw Alyssa’s eyes beside Jonah’s jaw. Tyler’s face was stretched across what might have been its chest, still smiling.\r\nThey hadn’t gone to a better place. They had become it.\r\nAnd now it was here.\r\nBecause I opened the door."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Dinner Club"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "After graduating, I didn’t expect finding a job would be impossible. But a friend of a friend said their elderly neighbors needed a cleaner. It paid in cash. I didn’t ask questions.\r\nThe house was quiet. Strangely quiet. Like the air hadn’t moved in years. The woman who answered the door smiled sweetly—soft and pink, like she’d been made of powdered sugar.\r\n“Oh, you must be our girl! Come in, come in. Gerald’s just in the den.”\r\nThey were kind. I came twice a week. I vacuumed, dusted, and emptied the trash. They paid well. Always in cash. Always with a wink:\r\n“Nobody’s business but ours, right?”\r\nThey went out for dinner every Thursday, dressed to the nines. Once a month, they hosted.\r\n“It’s our turn,” they’d say, like it was a game.\r\nI always thought it was sweet that they still got together with their friends.\r\nOne afternoon, I was putting away supplies in the upstairs linen closet when a shelf creaked. Behind it, a small panel—warped wood, barely noticeable—shifted under pressure.\r\nInside was an ornate box. I didn’t mean to look. I wish I hadn’t.\r\nThere were little velvet pouches inside, each tied with ribbon.\r\nInside one was a tooth. Not baby-sized. Adult. Blood dried in the root.\r\nThe tag tied to the ribbon read:\r\nThe Wilkins – Darcy\r\nAnother pouch held a tiny joint—the first knuckle of a finger. Polished to a soft, bone-white gleam.\r\nThe Dawsons – Lori\r\nThere were dozens of others. I didn’t open them. But I saw the names.\r\nI shoved the box back, shut the panel, and didn’t breathe for a full minute.\r\nThat day, I went home early. I planned to quit. Block their numbers. Ghost them entirely.\r\nTell someone. Anyone.\r\nBut as I sit in my apartment, spiraling—trying to figure out who to call, who would even believe me—I hear it:\r\npaper sliding beneath my door.\r\nThe envelope is thick. Yellowed. Sealed in wax, stamped with a looping H.\r\nInside is a single card. Heavy, grainy, textured like old skin.\r\nYou are cordially invited to Dinner\r\nWe so hope you’ll join us.\r\nThat’s all.\r\nNo time. No date.\r\nBecause I already know.\r\nThen a knock.\r\nThen another. Almost rhythmic.\r\nI think I can hear them—just a whisper’s volume, soft enough the breeze swallows it. Something like laughter. Something like breathing.\r\nThen silence.\r\nAfter what feels like forever, I crawl to the front window, careful not to be seen.\r\nThere are people in the street.\r\nStill. Silent. Watching.\r\nAt the front is the old woman.\r\nShe’s smiling.\r\nShe’s holding an open box.\r\nInside—the same velvet pouches.\r\nJust then, I hear the creak of a floorboard behind me.\r\n“Nobody’s business but ours, right?.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Something’s wrong with the new babysitter."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I overhear them conversing.\r\n“I heard you come HIGHLY recommended, Miss Sadieman.”\r\nI stealthily peek at them from the stairway.\r\nThe sitter looked like a Victorian-era doll in that thick, puffy pink dress of hers. Hell, judging by her wrinkles, she was old enough to be in the Victorian era!\r\n“He’s a bit of a… problem child, but my daughter’s a perfect girl.”\r\nAnother lie from Mom.\r\n“Don’t worry dearie. I believe that when you return, you won’t ever have to worry about them again.”\r\nThe fuck?\r\nMom raised her left eyebrow by an inch, before shrugging and leaving the house.\r\n-\r\n“Children! Clean your plate! I’ll give you a special dessert if you do!”\r\nShe scarfs down the lukewarm chicken like a starving hog.\r\nIt takes 9 minutes of coaxing to even touch my food.\r\nI enjoyed every single time she broke. Every single time she scowled at me.\r\n-\r\nThe sitter hands out bowls of magenta jelly.\r\n“THIS is our dessert?” I object.\r\n“What’s wrong with a little fruit?”\r\nGrace, being the ‘good girl’ she is, eagerly laps the substance up.\r\n“I’m full.”\r\nThe sitter frowns, before taking my bowl from me.\r\n-\r\nSince it’s not a school night, we’re allowed to stay up late.\r\nMy sister’s skin looks glossy.\r\n“Grace, you dying on me?” I chortle.\r\nShe opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.\r\nHer eyes look like painted plastic.\r\nThe Sitter strolls into the room. One arm is behind her back.\r\n“Did you do this?” I nervously chuckle out.\r\nShe smirks.\r\n“Yes, I did.”\r\nMy hands tremble.\r\n“Wh-why?”\r\n“I really hoped the roles were reversed. That she refused the substance instead. She was so well-behaved…”\r\nI look over to the couch, a plastic automaton has taken the place of Grace.\r\nWhen I turn back, she’s strolling at me with a syringe filled with magenta.\r\nI dash towards safety.\r\n-\r\nHiding under Mom’s bed, I watch her feet patrol the room.\r\nShe stops by the nightstand, likely wondering why the drawer is open. Why It’s empty.\r\nAiming Mom’s gun at her left ankle, I pull the trigger.\r\nShe collapses to the floor in near-synchrony with the gunshot.\r\nI crawl out from under the bed.\r\nShe tries to jam the needle into me. I shoot the forearm of the hand gripping it.\r\nShe’s prone in a pool of her own blood.\r\nI smirk this time.\r\n“Mom’s gonna be pissed when she finds out what you did to Grace. Probably going to give you the worst case of Basement Playtime you can imagine. Hell, she’ll keep you alive for years, driving needles into your eyes, making you ingest the remains of the other sitters, scraping every inch of your skin off. She’ll do every single thing to you she can think of. I will too.”\r\nI hear her car approach the driveway.\r\n“After all, it took a loooong time to find a lure like her.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Caller ID was me"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was late when my phone rang. The caller ID showed my own name.\r\nConfused, I answered. “Hello?”\r\nThere was silence on the other end, but I could hear faint breathing.\r\nI waited, thinking it might be a glitch, then hung up. A minute later, my phone rang again. Same caller ID.\r\nI hesitated before picking it up.\r\n“Hello?” I asked again.\r\nA voice, familiar and far too close: “I’m in the room with you.”\r\nI shot up from the bed, my heart pounding. The room was empty.\r\nI checked my phone, the number still displaying my own name.\r\nI turned around to see the shadow of someone standing in the doorway behind me.\r\nI haven’t been able to answer my phone since."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Skin They Let Me Wear"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It started with an invitation.\r\n“Just for the weekend,” May had said. “My family’s estate—upstate, quiet, big sky. You’ll love it.”\r\nDarren said yes. She was bright, magnetic. He needed the break. The city had frayed his nerves, and May made him feel seen. Grounded.\r\nBut the house wasn’t right.\r\nIt was too quiet, too clean. The air smelled like lavender and bleach, like something had been scrubbed away.\r\nHer family greeted him with unnerving warmth. Her father gripped his shoulder too hard. “Excellent posture,” he said. “You’ll wear well.”\r\nDinner was stranger.\r\nThey didn’t ask questions. Just… complimented.\r\n“Good symmetry,” her mother noted. “Clean joints.”\r\nHer brother stared at Darren’s hands the entire meal. “Are you double-jointed?” he asked, eyes unblinking.\r\nThat night, Darren heard footsteps above his room.\r\nHeavy. Intentional.\r\nThe ceiling creaked, as though someone was crawling just beneath the surface. He checked the attic. Nothing. But when he returned, his bag had been unzipped. His clothes were folded—better than he’d left them.\r\nThe next morning, his phone was gone.\r\n“You must’ve dropped it by the pond,” May said, smiling too wide.\r\nHe hadn’t been near the pond.\r\nLater, he wandered the west wing and found the locked room open.\r\nInside: mannequins. Dozens. All pale. Lifeless. Labeled.\r\nNathan — Spine fractured. Reject.\r\nLucas — Jaw collapse. Weak structure.\r\nDarren — Reserved.\r\nHis blood ran cold.\r\nThe mannequins were not made. They were worn.\r\nTheir skin was stitched, seams visible under the necklines and sleeves. Some of them still blinked.\r\nHe ran.\r\nMay stood in the hallway. “You weren’t supposed to see yet,” she said softly. “It’s not ready.”\r\n“What’s not ready?” he demanded.\r\n“The fit,” her father said, emerging from the dark. “It requires harmony. We’ve done this for generations.”\r\n“You’ll feel it soon,” May added. “The pulling. That’s how it chooses.”\r\nThat night, the house changed.\r\nRooms elongated. Mirrors showed nothing. The walls began to hum with voices—not whispers, but chanting, guttural and wrong.\r\nAt 2:17 a.m., the cellar door groaned open.\r\nHe hid.\r\nHe watched.\r\nSomething crawled out—hulking, stitched, ancient. Its wings unfolded wetly. Its face was stitched from others. Its voice echoed like bone dragged over stone.\r\n“It has chosen.”\r\nDarren ran.\r\nThe house turned on itself—doors vanishing, stairways folding. May walked calmly behind him, barefoot, humming a lullaby.\r\nHe fell.\r\nAnd when he looked up, they were all there, surrounding him.\r\nSmiling.\r\n“It’ll wear you carefully,” her mother said. “Only for the hunt.”\r\nThe last thing Darren saw was his reflection blinking back from the thing’s chest—his face stretched across its body like a mask.\r\nThen darkness.\r\nLater, the thing stepped out, clean and precise. It flew before dawn, wrapped in Darren’s skin.\r\nIt would feed again.\r\nThey always did."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Jar"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It started out completely normal: an ordinary jar that I noticed in the middle of my room. I didn't remember putting it there so I picked it up, placed it on my shelf, and turned around to continue my day only to find it right back on my floor. I shattered it, buried it, everything you could think of but every time I returned to my room, so had the jar.\r\nI tried telling my co-worker about it, well I kind of hinted at it. Can't risk another involuntary vacation. He just laughed and went right back to work. When I got home that day I found my entire team staring back at me from inside the jar. Smiling and waving at me with cold dead eyes.\r\nNo sleep that night. Saturday though was a perfect opportunity to set things straight. All I needed was for one person to understand, then I was certain that all this madness would stop. I went out, walked up to the first person I saw, and started explaining what was going on, but the guy just shooed me away and went back to sleep. Sure enough, back in my room the homeless man had joined the others in their macabre display. I got what little sleep I could with the silent serenade from my disturbing new roommates.\r\nThe next day I headed to my local church and found a nun on her way to Sunday service. I was never the religious type, but at this point I was getting desperate. And besides, if she wouldn't listen to me, who would? I explained exactly what was going on, leaving out the more worrying details. The sister gave me a concerned look, put her hand on my shoulder, and said she'd pray for me. She listened all right, but she didn't hear. Just like everyone else. When I got home the entire congregation was inside the jar.\r\nWho else could I possibly turn to? No one could blame me, no jury would convict me for explaining my situation to my parents. Their response was as predictable as ever: a lecture about responsibility and \"sorting yourself out\" from my father, a finger pointed sternly at me and whiskey on his breath. My mother simply shook her head and nursed her fresh bruises.\r\nThere were no bruises on her in the jar though. And my father's eyes, which before were cloudy and yellow-tinged from the drink were now clear. Too clear. Like the lifeless glassy of a doll, placid smiles painted on their faces and waving. Always waving. Always doing something and yet never doing anything at all. Deaf ears. Silent mouths. Dead eyes.\r\nThere's a job fair at my old high school tomorrow. It's my last chance to explain what's happening to me, to find someone who will actually hear me. Someone who will understand.\r\nI wonder if they'll hear me?"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Lawyer and the Djinn"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Julian Price, Esq., sat hunched on the porcelain throne, clutching the edges of the sink counter like it was the closing argument of his life, veins: bulging. Three days. Three excruciating, bloated, fiber-filled days without relief. Not even the prune smoothie his mother swore by had moved the dial.\r\nHe cussed softly and reached for the ancient brass oil lamp he had found at an estate sale. It was decorative, he’d thought. But the seller had winked and said, “It helps when you’re... stuck.”\r\nWith nothing left to lose, Julian rubbed it halfheartedly.\r\nWith a whoosh and a gout of red smoke, a being of fire and shadow swirled into form. “I am Dejay, Djinn of the Lamp,” it thundered. “Speak thy wish, mortal”\r\nJulian blinked, still hunched, pants around legs. “I, uh, okay. I’m constipated. Chronically. I want to... you know... go poop.”\r\nDJ folded his arms. “A modest wish. Granted.”\r\n“Wait!” Julian barked. “I’m a lawyer. I know how these things work. No loopholes. I want relief from constipation, but I do not want chronic diarrhea, sudden evacuation in public, dependence on magic, or unpredictable side effects. No monkey's paw stuff.”\r\nDJ looked mildly offended. “I am an ancient spirit of great dignity.”\r\n“one of you turned a guy into a pigeon for asking for world peace last week.”\r\n“That was different. He was smug.”\r\nJulian narrowed his eyes. “I’ll phrase my wish precisely.”\r\nHe cleared his throat. “I wish to possess a healthy, natural, and regular digestive system, free from constipation, diarrhea, or any medical complications, magical dependencies, or social embarrassments, now and for the remainder of my natural lifespan, without impairing any other bodily or mental functions.”\r\nDJ’s eyes glowed. “You, are very annoying.”\r\n“I bill at $400 an hour,” Julian said smugly. ; )\r\nThe djinn sighed and snapped his fingers. Julian felt a sudden, warm stirring in his gut, a beautiful, gurgling promise.\r\n“I believe that concludes our contract,” DJ said, beginning to dematerialize.\r\nJulian stood, gloriously, easily, and beamed. “Actually, per subsection 4A of implied wish consequences, you owe me an itemized confirmation of all effects and assurances.”\r\nDJ groaned. “Fine. You’re lucky I admire pettiness.”\r\nA scroll appeared mid-air and unrolled. Julian scanned it, nodded. “Perfect.”\r\nMoments later, the bathroom echoed with victorious fanfare.\r\nAs DJ vanished into smoke, he muttered, “Next time I get summoned by a lawyer, I’m just turning them into a laxative.”\r\nJulian heard. “I’ll sue.” said he\r\nAnd for the first time in a millennium, a djinn felt indigestion."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Stillness at Boone’s Run"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Boone’s Run dried up in ’98. Not from drought—just stopped flowing overnight. Locals say the water pulled itself underground after what happened down there. Nobody talks about the boy.\r\nThey say his mama lost her mind, but the ones who were there remember different. They remember the stillness that settled afterward. Like the land was holding something in its lungs.\r\nI didn’t believe any of it, not until I leased fifty acres that backed up to the dry riverbed. Cheap land, too cheap—but I needed a fresh start. Divorce had gutted me, and I figured hard work might fill the silence.\r\nI should’ve known better.\r\nNo birdsong. No frogs. No rustle of wind through the pines. Just a thick, pressing hush. The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound too loud.\r\nMy dog wouldn’t come past the treeline. Just paced at the edge, whining, hackles up, eyes fixed on the old cottonwoods like they were breathing.\r\nFirst time I walked the riverbed, I found a child’s shoe—leather cracked, a white buckle dulled by time. I almost left it, but something in me whispered don’t. I buried it where it lay and marked it with a pinewood cross.\r\nThat night, I dreamed of water.\r\nIt wasn’t peaceful. It was rushing, loud and wild, like a broken dam. I woke coughing, gagging on grit. My sheets were soaked, stained with streaks of mud. The room stank like pond scum.\r\nThe dog was gone the next day.\r\nI found his prints in the dust—leading down to the same spot where I’d found the shoe. The tracks ended clean. No blood. No struggle. Just… gone.\r\nThat night, the frogs finally sang.\r\nBut it wasn’t right. It was off. Each croak staggered and strange, like something mimicking the sound but not understanding the rhythm. I stayed up with the lights on, heart thudding, shotgun across my lap.\r\nThen came the sound of water.\r\nNot a drip, not a pipe groan—rushing water, clear as day, just outside my window.\r\nI stepped onto the porch, and everything was bone dry. But sitting right there by the threshold—my boots.\r\nUpright. Mud-caked. Filled to the brim with river water."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Fourmidables"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Friends, good wine, and a sky filled with a million stars - Nothing screamed \"a perfect evening\" like this one. Cece had inherited the family estate from her recently dead grandmother, and that called for a celebration. So she drove seven hours from the city with her friends to spend a relaxing long weekend at the estate. Every inch of the property reeked of a secret waiting to be spilled, a mystery waiting to be unraveled. But that could wait. Tonight was all about a happy time for Cece, Jane, Tim, and Zeke. \"The Fourmidables\", as they were known back in their college days. Tonight was all about them, and they were so indulged in the beauty of the night that they didn't feel the growing wretchedness of the air in the mansion. Or the groaning shadows that stretched taller than they were supposed to.\r\n\"Here's to owning a fine land!\", Cece raised her wine glass, her voice a bit rattled. Under the table, her trembling palm warmed a knife. Zeke met her eyes too late. Before he could comprehend, Cece drove the knife in the direction of his gut. Tim had been watching, and right before the knife met Zeke's skin, Tim shoved it away, but unfortunately, it ended up slashing Jane's throat instead. With a scream that was stopped by a squelch and a fountain of blood, Jane's body hit the ground with a thud. Cece hissed, “You stole everything from me! You killed her!” It was Cece's lips, but the voice was someone else's. Something else's. Something ancient. Something malevolent. And then, everything went dark.\r\nJane was still alive, albeit barely. Tim's palms were pressed against her throat, warm blood coloring them red. The redder his palms grew, the paler his face became. Zeke shook Cece by the shoulders, but she had transcended into a different dimension altogether. Her eyes were milky white, her teeth impossibly sharp. “She never left,” the voice hissed. From upstairs came a dragging sound, slow and sticky, like raw meat across tile. Whatever it was upstairs made its way down the stairs, and then revealed itself. It was Cece's grandmother. Or the sorry and the sinister state of who was once her grandmother. Her bones jutted out in ungodly angles from a ragged skin, eyes were blacker than black itself, blood replaced by a greasy fluid that sizzled the floorboards as it leaked. \"Still hungry,\" she whispered, and the candles flared back to life, revealing claw marks gouged deep into the ceiling.\r\nZeke bolted. Or almost bolted. The slow \"grandmother\" struck him faster than lightning, before reducing him to nothing but a bunch of broken bones split unevenly. Tim started running too, Jane was anyway dying, he didn't see a point in trying to save her. But the \"grandmother\" devoured him too.\r\nGrandmother's hunger was sated, for now. Cece’s friends vanished, her soul was trapped. The shadows watched, patient and ravenous, as grandmother dragged herself back to her cocoon."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Twenty Years Into the Lake"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The man and his dog floated across the lake.\r\nQuiet. Beautiful. A long-awaited escape.\r\nSunlight flickered on the rippling water.\r\nA soft breeze.\r\nSuddenly — a feeling.\r\nBlub.\r\nA sound beneath the boat.\r\nThe dog growled low, tail tucked, paws trembling.\r\nA cloud drifted, slowly swallowing the sun.\r\nThe man’s heart pounded in his head.\r\nHe gripped the paddle tighter.\r\nHe glanced down.\r\nA bag.\r\nLarge. Black. Tightly knotted.\r\nIt twitched.\r\nShifted.\r\nBlub.\r\nThe man exhaled sharply, lips curling into a grin.\r\n“Bastard…” he rasped.\r\n“Why won’t you just die…”\r\nHe slammed the paddle down.\r\nOnce.\r\nTwice.\r\nWhack. Whack.\r\nThe bag fell still.\r\n“Twenty years…” he whispered.\r\n“Twenty years I put up with you…”\r\nHe leaned over, grabbed the wet knot, and heaved.\r\nThe bag slipped over the edge.\r\nSank into the dark water.\r\nThe dog whimpered softly.\r\nHe reached out, stroked her head.\r\n“It’s just us now, girl.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Smothering"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "When I first moved into the old house, it seemed like a good deal. The kind of fixer-upper I could easily bring to life with a bit of work. The creaking floorboards, the peeling paint—none of that bothered me. But the smell? That was another story. It lingered like rot in the basement, seeping up every time the furnace kicked on. I told myself it was just age, maybe old pipes. Nothing to worry about.\r\nThen, there was the sound. It was faint at first—just a low hum I could ignore while drifting to sleep. But soon, it deepened, growing stronger with each passing day. It felt like the house itself was alive, breathing. I convinced myself it was the plumbing or the wind. But it never stopped.\r\nAt night, it would wake me, a constant thrum vibrating through the walls. It rattled the bed and buzzed in my skull, gnawing at my mind until I couldn’t focus. There was something unsettling about it, but it had to be the house. Right?\r\nThen one night, it was worse. I woke up gasping for air, suffocating under an unseen weight pressing against my chest. The room felt too thick, too hot, and I couldn’t move. My eyes darted to the corner of the ceiling, where something was shifting—no, slithering. Black, liquid-like shadows crawled through the plaster, twisting and undulating like a living thing. I blinked, and it was gone.\r\nBut the hum didn’t stop. It only grew louder.\r\nBy the following night, the weight was unbearable. The walls felt alive, as if they were pulsing with something hungry, something ancient. The voices started—soft whispers, distant at first, but then growing closer, clearer. They were calling me.\r\n“We’re coming,” they said.\r\nI tried to dismiss it as my mind playing tricks, but it happened again. Night after night. The voices—insistent, familiar—reached a crescendo, and then the pressure on my chest turned to crushing, suffocating force. I had to know what was causing this.\r\nI went to the basement the next morning. The hum was deafening now, vibrating through the concrete. There, hidden in the wall, was a crack. My heart raced. I reached inside, touching something warm and soft. Flesh. I pulled my hand back, feeling it slick with something wet—teeth. Tiny, jagged teeth embedded in the plaster.\r\nSuddenly, the wall shifted, pulling itself apart like a mouth opening wide. I tried to back away, but the floor beneath me gave way. The house—no, the thing that was hiding within it—had been waiting, not for my attention, but for my flesh. My body was already being consumed by the house, dragged deeper into the black cavity beneath. The whispers weren't words anymore, but a chorus of screams... mine included."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The switch"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It started as a joke.\r\nEvery Monday, our psychology professor asked, “Who’s in control of your life this week?” Most people chuckled. But Alan said, “Not me.”\r\nThere was a pause. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That night he didn’t come home. When he finally did, he stood in the doorway for a long time, soaking wet, though it hadn’t rained.\r\nHe didn’t speak at first. Just watched me.\r\nEventually, he said, “I didn’t go where I meant to go. I watched my feet move. I tried to turn back. They didn’t listen.”\r\nI laughed it off, but he kept unraveling. He stopped eating. He’d freeze mid-sentence, blinking like he was trying to wake up.\r\nFriday night, I found him in the hallway, facing the wall, fingers bloody from scratching into the plaster. He had carved one word over and over:\r\n\"Mine.\"\r\nThen he vanished. No bag, no message, no Alan. Just his room exactly as he left it.\r\nAfter that, I felt it too. A slow unraveling. I’d stare at my own hands for hours. I’d hear my voice say things I didn’t mean. I watched myself smile at strangers I didn't recognize.\r\nSunday night, I woke up standing on the roof, barefoot. I was inches from the edge. My body leaned forward before I yanked it back.\r\nThe next morning, every mirror in the apartment was broken. I don’t remember doing it. But my hands were bleeding.\r\nI haven’t slept since. Something’s waiting for me on the other side of sleep. It wants in. And every time I blink, it gets closer.\r\nMy thoughts feel like whispers. My limbs don’t always wait for instructions. I feel like a guest in my own skin.\r\nI don’t think Alan was the first. I won’t be the last.\r\nIf you’ve ever paused in the middle of a task and forgotten why you started, if your hands ever move before you think, if you’ve ever heard a voice inside that doesn’t sound like you;\r\nYou already know.\r\nYou’re not alone.\r\nYou’re not in control."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The doll that bled"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Mara had always known something wasn’t quite right with Eli. But every odd drawing, every whisper to shadows, every glassy stare...she’d chalked it up to imagination. Children are strange, she told herself. But today, the lie snapped like a brittle bone.\r\nThe scream dragged her from the kitchen. A sound not of fear, but of something breaking.\r\nShe ran into the living room and froze.\r\nEli sat in a puddle of blood, legs folded neatly under him like it was art class. The red spread outward in thick rivers, soaking into the carpet, the toy box, his pajama pants. The knife in his hand glinted in the afternoon light, its blade black with gore.\r\n“It won’t stop bleeding,” he said, smiling faintly. “I think I did it wrong.”\r\n“Jesus Christ....Eli!” Mara dropped to her knees, grabbing his arms. “Are you hurt?!”\r\nHe shook his head, giggling. “It’s not me. It’s her.”\r\nShe followed his gaze.\r\nLying beside him was a doll....no, a thing. A grotesque replica of Lily. Same chestnut curls. Same frilly blue dress. But its abdomen was shredded, stuffing soaked with blood and something darker, thicker....like organ pulp. Plastic ribs poked through the torn seams. One glass eye dangled by a sinew of thread.\r\nMara’s mind refused to make the connection.\r\nUntil she saw a sliver of skin.\r\nReal skin.\r\nA pink sliver of human flesh, wedged between porcelain shards like meat between glass teeth.\r\n“No,” she whispered. “This isn’t—this can’t be—”\r\nThen the scream came. A howl. Distant, yet uncomfortably near. It came from upstairs.\r\n“Lily?” she croaked, already rising, legs numb.\r\nShe ran. Each step up the staircase felt wrong, as if the angles of the house had changed when she wasn’t looking. The hallway stretched. Time warped.\r\nLily’s door creaked open before she touched it.\r\nInside, the bed was empty. The walls were streaked in blood. Symbols—circles with eyes—had been carved into the wood with something sharp. Her daughter’s stuffed animals hung from strings, gutted, eyes replaced with buttons, tongues made from red ribbon.\r\nFrom behind her, a whisper.\r\n“She kept trying to come out.”\r\nMara turned. Eli stood in the doorway again, the knife still in hand. Only now he was humming.\r\n“She screamed for hours,” he said. “Then she went into the doll. I thought I could open it and pull her back out. Like an orange.”\r\nHe held up something small in his other hand. Something red. A finger.\r\nMara staggered backward, unable to breathe.\r\n“Mommy?” Eli asked, tilting his head. “Do you want to go in next? I think I can make one that looks just like you.”\r\nThen the doll began to twitch.\r\nIts chest heaved.\r\nIts head snapped toward Mara with a crack like dry wood.\r\nAnd it screamed again."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "2AM Text from the friend"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I was feeling restless and nostalgic one night. At 2:00 AM, I texted my best friend out of habit: “Hey, you up?” He always used to reply immediately.\r\nTo my shock, the three dots appeared.\r\nHe responded: “Always for you.”\r\nMy best friend died in a car crash a year ago…. I went numb. I stared at the screen, unsure what to do. Finally, I typed: “Who is this?”\r\nTyping…\r\n“Same number. Same me.”\r\nI called. It rang once. Then a whisper: “Come outside.”\r\nI didn’t. I couldn’t.\r\nInstead, I turned off the lights and checked my security cam.\r\nSomeone was standing in my driveway.\r\nWearing his hoodie. Holding his phone."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The lies they never tell you"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I've been sitting here for hours now. They told me that they would come and interview me, but they haven't. They told me I was in good safe hands, but I'm starting to doubt. Life is a constant circle of liars, each one better than the last. I don't know how long I'll be waiting here. Just for an interview, to talk about nothing and about everything, I have to spill my life. And they would judge me for who I am, for what I've become, what I've done.\r\nThe room is... boring. There's nothing. It's white everywhere but one wall, where it's just a mirror. I know that to be a two-way mirror, but I don't like looking at myself like this. They've seated me in an uncomfortable chair, two chairs in front of me, but no one to sit on them. There's a light, a small desk lamp, but... it doesn’t work. I've tried to turn it on, but no. I guess they... they think I could do something... if it worked. There's no noise in here. I can hear my own heartbeat and see my own breath. It feels like the walls... the big, white walls around me are surrounding me, closing in on me. And the mirror is not helping, it's wobbly. It doesn't show me clearly, not like I see myself. It looks like it's trying to incriminate me to find an angle where I have messed up.\r\nI don't know what they think I could do. I don't think I've been so sloppy as to show them my tricks or anything. My life has been silent away from their eyes but always lurking. I've done things wrong, but not anything the authorities should know about, at least not know that it is me. It's the first time I'm sitting here in an interrogation room. I've seen it a lot on TV and I know what to expect, but I don't understand why they keep me waiting for so long.\r\nWhen I think about the things I've done, and the people who have suffered because of me, they all come in a blur. There have been so many, but one stands out. I didn't mean her to die. She was never the one who should be killed. I've done all of this just to protect her, but in the end she did die, and that was my fault. Maybe this is my sentence. Just sit. Just wait. Just a little longer. Until I break. Maybe that’s the plan, to see if they can break me. They should not be allowed to do this. I don't like it. If I don't get locked up, I will remember who comes into this room, and they should not be happy about taking me and wasting my time for so long.\r\nThe door opens. The light shines through. I can't see anything, but when the light finally dims, it’s my mother. She was not supposed to live."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Don’t Play in the Slides"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "We used to explore abandoned buildings for fun—old schools, warehouses, anything with a broken lock. That night, it was the closed-down McDonald’s off Route 9.\r\nIt was me, Tyler, Gabe, Marco, and Drew. We went late to avoid traffic and nosy neighbors. Inside, the place was rotting: peeling walls, broken tiles, empty booths full of dead silence.\r\nWe joked around at first, reminiscing. Each of us had memories here—birthday parties, Happy Meals, climbing through the giant play structure outside. That’s when Gabe brought up something weird.\r\n“All our parents told us not to play in the slides alone,” he said.\r\nWe paused. He wasn’t wrong. Every one of us had heard that growing up.\r\nDrew finally explained why. “Ten years ago, a kid died in there. No witnesses. They blamed a worker, but even after he was arrested, kids kept dying. The owner got sued into the ground. They shut it down.”\r\nThat should’ve been our cue to leave. Instead, someone said, “Let’s check out the slides.”\r\nThe old play structure was still there, faded and filthy. It couldn’t hold all five of us, so we went in pairs. I went last—alone.\r\nI didn’t want to be the coward. I crawled up into the tunnels, the plastic groaning under my weight. It smelled like mildew and rust. I kept thinking I was stuck, but I finally reached one of those big clear domes—the kind kids used to wave through.\r\nI looked down. My friends were outside, staring at me, screaming.\r\nI couldn’t hear them, but I saw what they were pointing at.\r\nAnother dome. Across from me.\r\nSomething was in it.\r\nThin, pale, wrong. Its mouth stretched too wide. It was watching me with a starving grin.\r\nI bolted. Crawled like hell. The structure shook with every move.\r\nThen I heard it crawling after me. Fast.\r\nThe slide dropped into blackness. I fell—hard. It felt like I fell forever.\r\nLight hit my face. My friends were at the exit, reaching in, grabbing my hoodie, my arms.\r\nBut something else was pulling me back.\r\nHard.\r\nI screamed. I felt like I was going to be torn in half. Then Marco’s flashlight swept into the tunnel.\r\nI saw it. Just for a second.\r\nTeeth. Mouth. That smile.\r\nThe second the light hit it, it let go.\r\nThey pulled me out, and we ran. We don’t explore anymore.\r\nAnd I haven’t set foot in a slide since.\r\nMy mom always said, “Don’t play in the slides. Not alone.”\r\nNow I understand why."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The second voice"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I live alone. Always have.\r\nIt’s quiet, peaceful. Just me and my routines. Wake up, coffee, work, dinner, bed. No surprises.\r\nUntil last Thursday.\r\nI was brushing my teeth when I heard it—faint, but clear. My own voice.\r\nIt came from the other room.\r\nAt first I thought maybe I left the TV on. I hadn’t. I walked into the living room, toothbrush still in hand, foam dripping from my mouth.\r\nSilence.\r\nI checked everything. Windows locked. Doors bolted. No sign of anyone.\r\nI stood there, heart thudding, when I heard it again.\r\nMy voice.\r\nFrom the kitchen.\r\nOnly… I wasn’t saying anything. I crept toward the door. It was dark in there. Still. I flicked the light on. Nothing.\r\nBut as I turned to go back to the bathroom, I heard it whisper, right behind me:\r\n“Don’t turn around.”\r\nIt was my voice. But it wasn’t me.\r\nI didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. Every hair on my body stood up like needles. I walked backwards slowly, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe.\r\nNothing followed me. The light flickered. Then silence.\r\nI didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.\r\nThen things got worse.\r\nI’d hear it copying me. Humming songs I hummed. Repeating things I said on the phone—hours later, from the other side of the flat.\r\nOnce, I caught it laughing.\r\nMy laugh, but… wrong. Off-key. Longer than it should be.\r\nI tried recording at night. The first few nights? Just white noise.\r\nThen on Wednesday, I played back a clip and heard breathing. My breathing. Then another voice, softly layered beneath mine.\r\nIt said:\r\n“Almost ready.”\r\nI smashed my phone.\r\nThat night, I packed a bag. I was done. I didn’t care what it was—ghost, stalker, psychosis—I just wanted out.\r\nI made it as far as the front door.\r\nAnd then I heard it.\r\nIn my own voice.\r\nFrom inside the bedroom.\r\n“If you leave, I’ll be lonely again.”\r\nI froze.\r\nAnd from the darkness:\r\n“Let me wear you. Just for a little while.”\r\nI don’t remember how long I stood there. I think I passed out.\r\nNow?\r\nNow I don’t feel alone anymore.\r\nThere’s a second breath when I breathe.\r\nSometimes my reflection smiles when I don’t.\r\nAnd my voice… it feels heavier. Stretched. Like it’s not just mine.\r\nIt’s still talking to me.\r\nFrom the inside.\r\nIt says I’m warmer than the others.\r\nAnd it’s never going to be lonely again."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Last Hike I Ever Took"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I don’t usually hike alone, but that morning I needed space.\r\nWork had been hell. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. I wanted somewhere without a signal and without people. So I drove two hours out to a trail I found online. Nothing fancy, just a quiet loop through a wooded preserve. No cars in the lot. Perfect.\r\nThe trees swallowed the sound of the world. No birds, no insects, just my boots on the dirt and the creak of branches overhead. For the first half hour, I felt calm. Peaceful.\r\nThen I saw the first shoe.\r\nIt was sitting on the side of the trail. A muddy running shoe. One lace still tied. No foot inside, thankfully. Just… abandoned. Weird, but not unheard of. Maybe someone lost it.\r\nI kept walking.\r\nThen I saw the second one. A different brand. Same size. Same side of the trail. Then a sock. A torn jacket. A cracked phone screen glinting in the sun.\r\nThe further I walked, the more I found. Not in piles, just scattered. As if someone walked this same path and peeled themselves apart piece by piece.\r\nI should’ve turned back. I told myself that. But I’d come so far. I figured maybe it looped soon. Maybe someone was playing a prank.\r\nThen I heard breathing. Not mine. Not close, but not far.\r\nIt came in short bursts, like whoever it was couldn’t quite catch their breath. I stopped and listened. It stopped too.\r\nI called out. No answer. I turned around. Nothing there. But when I turned back forward, there was someone standing in the trail.\r\nFar enough that I couldn’t see their face, but close enough to see they weren’t wearing any shoes. Just socks. Filthy. Torn at the toes.\r\nI said hello. Asked if they were okay. They didn’t move.\r\nSo I stepped off the trail, ducked into the trees, and started back the way I came. I figured I’d cut through the woods and intersect the trail near the entrance.\r\nBut the trail never came back. I walked in what I thought was a straight line for over an hour. No signal. No landmarks. Just trees. And eventually… another shoe.\r\nMine.\r\nThe one I was wearing. Except I still had both shoes on. I knelt down to touch it. It was dirty. Same size. Same wear marks. Same scuff on the toe.\r\nThen I heard it again.\r\nBreathing.\r\nRight behind me."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Hunting The Hunter"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They all come to Sarpedon with an air of bravery and strength. Until they hear the whispers. The wind never whispers here, only I do. I am Medusa, once a priestess of Athena, now a horror carved from betrayal.\r\nHe, like many others, entered my cave as the sun kissed the horizon. He entered not knowing that from sundown, I grow stronger than it's comprehensible. He was tall, wrapped in bronze and arrogance, dragging a sword like it could save him. I watched him from behind crumbling pillars, exploring the cave that was carpeted with dried blood and broken stones, remnants of what once used to be humans. There were intact bodies too, faces twisted in the final moments of horror, before turning to stone. This man was certainly braver than his predecessors. He walked over the broken bodies, without so much as batting an eyelid.\r\nHe marched ahead with his sword and shield, his eyes wandering around, trying to find the slightest trace of me. My serpents stirred, tasting the salt of his terror and excitement, hissing with utmost glee. I am a tease, I love playing with my preys. This one was no different. I scraped my claws along the wall, seducing him into a promise of gallantry and victory. He turned, shield raised, sweat trickling down his chiseled face. His heartbeat filled the air, like a mild-mannered drum running its course of rhythm. He called my name like it was a weapon. \"Medusa.\" These imbeciles always do this. My name is a curse, not a command.\r\nHe spoke to me, his voice now gentle, instead of a battle cry. \"It was never your fault. You were wronged. You should never have become a monster\". The softness of his voice unlocked something in my head. Memories of the temple, of my Goddess, the cool sea breeze, the vulgarity that creeped into my life, and the screams that enshrouded my existence. Memories of the woman I once was before divinity turned me into a cruel joke of revenge. Something stirred inside of me, something vulnerable, something human.\r\nAnd then I crushed it. I walked into the moonlight that poured into the cave, I walked into the view of the mighty Perseus. I let him see me, let him see the dead human I was, let him see the monster I'd become. And then, my gaze locked onto his. He gasped, knowing that it was too late. His skin turned grey, his muscles became numb. His eyes, wide in horror, would never close again. A perfect statue. I brushed my fingers across his stone cheek, my snakes half slithering on his body. “Yes,” I whispered. “I was innocent. But now, I am Medusa. And I remember everything.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Dome of Doom"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My neighbor Harold was the perfect Christian gentleman - always helping others, never a harsh word to say. When he asked me to house-sit while he vacationed in Florida, I figured it'd be easy money. Check the mail, water some plants. What could go wrong?\r\nSo after he finally left I went over to Harold's house; it was immaculate, all wooden panels and tasteful Bible quotes. I snooped around upstairs out of boredom but found nothing interesting. Then I remembered he'd mentioned \"storage\" in the basement.\r\nThat's where I found it.\r\nA glowing transparent dome, three feet wide, containing what looked like a miniature city. Tiny skyscrapers, moving monorails, microscopic people bustling around. I thought it was a model but as I got closer, I realized this was real!!!! Advanced AI and nanotechnology had created synthetic people - \"synths\" - living in their perfect little world.\r\nA control panel let me adjust weather, food supply, population. Harold's note read: \"Care for them as I do. They are my children.\"\r\nOn day one at first, I just watched, fascinated. Tiny families going about their lives, workers commuting, even little priests in miniature churches. I sent some light snow over the city and watched them bundle up. The power rush was intoxicating.\r\nBut fascination turned to something darker inside me.\r\nOn day three, after no sleep I cranked up the heat until their crops burned and synths collapsed. Hospitals overflowed. Then, in a moment of pure malice, I relieved myself into a coffee cup and poured it into their water system. Thousands drowned in the toxic flood. The death counter hit 5,000.\r\nI'd become their dark \"God\", and I loved it.\r\nThe synths' AI was more advanced than I realized. They sensed the change, built altars, offered sacrifices to appease their \"Dark God.\" I triggered earthquakes to crush their temples, unleashed plagues that turned bodies green. The population plummeted from 50,000 to barely 10,000.\r\nOn day six, Harold's message came: \"Home tomorrow morning!\"\r\nI felt panic mixed with defiance. I spent the night unleashing hell - tornadoes, fires, more floods. The dome glowed red as their city burned.\r\nThen everything changed.\r\n\"System Overload: AI Sentience Breach\" flashed on the screen. The surviving synths had evolved, hacking their own code. Thousands of tiny glowing eyes stared at me through the dome before a nanobot swarm escaped through cracks in the glass.\r\nThey stung like acid, burrowing into my skin, my eyes, my mouth. I smashed the dome in panic, but it was too late.\r\nHarold found me the next morning, lying beside the shattered remains of his creation. My body was covered in welts, my mind broken. I keep seeing their eyes, feeling their hatred.\r\nThe synths are gone from the Dome, but they're still with me. In my dreams, in my waking moments, tiny voices whisper of the god who became a devil.\r\nI had absolute power over a world, it was too much and destroyed us all."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Chop"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Pancakes were her favorite. They’d scraped together enough for eggs, flour, and a little syrup — one last small joy. He watched her devour them, cheeks sticky, eyes bright.\r\n“Have some, Daddy! Why aren’t you and Mommy eating?”\r\n“Oh, we’re not hungry, baby,” her mother said gently.\r\nHe looked at her — his wife, the mother of his child. Tears slid down her face as she smiled, trembling. He silently wished he could see her beautiful, carefree smile just one more time.\r\nAfter breakfast, he kissed his daughter goodbye. She was too young to understand. Then he held his wife, fiercely, silently. Neither said it out loud. They didn’t need to.\r\nHe was for The Chop.\r\n***\r\nThe ballroom gleamed with crystal and candlelight. A string quartet played something lifeless. Laughter echoed off marble floors.\r\nThe centerpiece was a long silver table. Atop he lay, garnished, glazed, arranged. Dead. But fresh.\r\nAristocrats swirled wine and circled him.\r\n“Lovely presentation.”\r\n“Ethically sourced, I hear.”\r\n“Yes, from one of the clearance districts.”\r\nThey carved into him slowly, like art. A sliver of shoulder here, a slice of thigh there. They chewed thoughtfully.\r\nThen they drifted.\r\n“I’m full.”\r\n“Had lamb at lunch.”\r\n“Bit gamey.”\r\nThey left him.\r\nHalf a torso remained, untouched. The foie gras and amuse-bouches had been more popular.\r\nBy morning, he was cold. A server scraped uneaten flesh into the bin. A cleaner mopped under the table. Someone left their coat behind\r\nThe menu was already being printed for next week’s Chop.\r\n“Something lighter,” the host had said.\r\n“Maybe a woman this time.”"
}
] |
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