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[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "In the Veins"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "She met him at the farmer’s market, of all places.\r\nNot on a dating app, not through friends, not in a smoky bar, but standing by a crate of heirloom tomatoes, arguing with the vendor about ripeness.\r\n“You go ahead,” he said with a soft smile, stepping aside so she could grab the last one. “I’ve already bitten off more than I can chew today.”\r\nHis name was Adrian. He wore vintage clothes like he didn’t know they were cool again. Linen shirt, dark jeans, boots that belonged in another century. He had a quiet charm....magnetic, careful. Unlike anyone Rachel had met in the city.\r\nThey met again. And again. Over lattes, walks through misty parks, long conversations under string lights. He listened like he’d waited years just to hear her voice. He never pushed. Never asked for more.\r\nBut one thing bothered her.\r\nHe never ate.\r\nNot once. Not even a nibble. When she cooked for him, he’d smile and say, “It looks amazing. I just ate.” When she offered bites from her plate, he’d decline, always politely.\r\nShe joked about it once. “You’re some kind of food snob, aren’t you?”\r\nHis smile didn’t falter. “Something like that.”\r\nThat night, they kissed for the first time. Slow. Intense. There was something behind it... something hungry. His lips lingered on hers like they were the last thing he’d ever taste.\r\nA week later, during a thunderstorm, she invited him to stay the night.\r\nThey lay curled together on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, the sound of rain like static all around them.\r\n“Can I ask you something?” she murmured, heart fluttering.\r\nHe nodded.\r\n“Why don’t you ever eat?”\r\nHis eyes met hers. Still, quiet, unreadable.\r\n“Because I can’t,” he said. “Not food. Not the way you mean.”\r\nBefore she could respond, pain bloomed on her neck.....a sharp, sudden sting. She shoved him back, stumbled off the couch, hand pressed to the bleeding punctures.\r\n“What the hell is wrong with you?!”\r\nAdrian stood slowly, eyes glowing faintly....not red, but a deep, unnatural amber.\r\n“You’re changing,” he said. “Faster than the others. That’s good.”\r\n“The others?”\r\nHe didn’t answer.\r\nShe ran to the bathroom, flicked on the light and gasped.\r\nHer eyes were rimmed in black. Her veins, once faint blue lines, pulsed dark and thick, like roots feeding something inside her.\r\nShe opened her mouth to scream, but it came out wrong. Garbled. Wet.\r\nBehind her, Adrian’s reflection didn’t appear in the mirror.\r\nBut someone else's did.\r\nA face... distorted. Lips too wide. Eyes too dark. Teeth like splinters.\r\nHer own.\r\nShe spun, but Adrian was gone.\r\nOnly a note remained, scrawled on the fogged mirror:\r\n\"Don’t fight it. They never do.”\r\nThe hunger hit her all at once....deep, clawing, insatiable.\r\nShe turned back to the mirror, ran a trembling tongue across new, jagged teeth.\r\nAnd smiled.\r\nWhatever it was... it was already in her.\r\nIn the veins."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Aliens also believe in Astrology"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The invasion happened the way it does in movies. Ships hovered. Cows flew. Cities burned. Human resistance lasted two days.\r\nThe new rulers said they would respect our culture. They said Earth was now their base, but we were welcome to stay for now. Just keep doing your thing, they told us.\r\nSo we did. Or we tried. For a few months we lived in a fog of dread, half-hoping they’d forget about us.\r\nThen the announcement came.\r\nThey had studied our history. They knew we came from elsewhere too, and they decided to send us \"home.\" Not metaphorically. Literally. They had machines. \"On your birthday,\" they said, \"you will be returned to your origin planet.\"\r\nWe tried to explain that horoscopes weren't real, astrology wasn’t science. They didn’t care. They said if we believed in it enough to base our lives around it, then so would they.\r\nSo now I wait. I’m a Libra. Venus.\r\nTomorrow’s my birthday.\r\nI’ve read about it. The planet of love. Libra is an air sign but there is no air on Venus. The surface heat melts metal. There is acid in the atmosphere. The pressure gets you first though.\r\nHappy birthday to me."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Sand"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "He suggested we go to a beach for our first year anniversary. Turtle Beach, which had earned its name from the amount of turtles which arose from the waters in the 1800s. It was a huge beach, with hundreds on hundreds of people on it, which was big considering its locality. Even though it was nearby, it still felt romantic. I couldn't explain it, but something just drew me to it.\r\nHe told me he would be back, and he left to take a quick swim in the water. It was then I heard it. Screams. I looked behind my shoulder and saw a group of people staring over something, and when I moved past them to look, I witnessed a man upside down with his head in the sand, and his back, and his body arched so far back it looked as though his spine snapped in reverence. No one ran. Everyone just looked at the man, dead in the sand.\r\nClose to me, I saw a woman with two children shielding their eyes, unable to look away, and the children saw through the separations in her fingers as well. Everyone was horrified, and one man stepped a little closer to the corpse. After a while, the sand opened up and enveloped the body, swallowing it. It grabbed and ripped the man’s foot off as well. And this time, the crowd screamed even louder and ran around the beach, but not out.\r\nEventually, after more grueling silence, the woman I previously saw got on her knees and dug like a dog, and for about a minute, everyone stood there shocked at her behavior. Finally, the hole was deep, and she placed her head in it. The sand then filled up the space empty space and buried her head, and she was upright, doing a headstand. After a minute of staying there, she fell back, and I heard a crack. Then, her children did the same and I heard the crack there too. The beach was in chaos.\r\nI looked over to my boyfriend in the water, and in the shallow part, I could count around twenty bodies upside down. Among one of the feet was his snake tattoo, and I cried hysterically while running across the beach. Suddenly, his body and a few others were swallowed rapidly into the water. As I was running, a boy in front of me burrowed his head in the sand and it filled in his head so that it was fully under it. That was all I got to see before I ran past.\r\nSuddenly, I stopped. All felt peaceful. I got on my knees and dug, placed my head in the sand. Then the hole was filled up with sand and I was forced to stay upright. After a few minutes, I dropped and I felt a horrible crack in my spine. And before I knew it, the sand enveloped my torso and arms, then my legs, and years later, I remain."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Whisper it to the Dead"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There's a funeral superstition within rural towns, buried in hush and guilt\r\nIn the old towns, the ones with more ghosts than streetlights, there’s a tradition no one talks about outside the family.\r\nThey say if you lean close, really close, to the ear of the dead, just before the coffin closes…\r\nYou can make a wish.\r\nJust one.\r\nYou have to whisper it soft enough that no one else hears.\r\nYou can’t write it down. You can’t say it twice.\r\nAnd you have to mean it.\r\nThe dead don’t listen to lies.\r\nIt’s not magic. Not exactly.\r\nThe dead, they say, still want something, connection, memory, warmth. And if your want is strong enough, they might take it with them. Like a letter tucked into their cold pocket.\r\nIf they like your wish, and if they still remember how to love…\r\nThey might give it back. Changed. Real.\r\nBut the dead are strange listeners.\r\nThey hear more than you say.\r\nSometimes… less.\r\nOne girl wished her mother would “never leave her again.” Her mother’s corpse rose in the casket that night and never blinked again. The girl went missing a week later.\r\nA man wished to be rich. Two weeks later, his brother and wife died in a fire. He inherited everything.\r\nA boy whispered for his crush to love him back. She did. Until she tore her own eyes out trying to \"see him better.”\r\nA girl wished for her brother to find peace. They found his body in the river three days later, smiling.\r\nThere’s a right way to do it, they say:\r\nThe whisper must be at night.\r\nYou must touch the hand of the dead while you speak.\r\nLeave something behind—a token, a hair, a drop of blood. Payment.\r\nDo not look back after you whisper. No matter what sound you hear.\r\nAnd never stay past the final prayer.\r\nBecause if they open their mouth…\r\nIf you hear them whisper back…\r\nYour wish has already cost too much.\r\nThey still whisper at wakes.\r\nSome out of grief. Some out of habit.\r\nSome for one last chance at something they lost.\r\nBut if you see someone lean in too close.\r\nIf their lips move but no one else can hear.\r\nSay a prayer for them.\r\nBecause the dead don’t always sleep quietly.\r\nAnd some wishes were meant to be buried."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "We the Feeders"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The term vampire is visceral but so often misinterpreted.\r\nWe are not wealthy.\r\nWe are not beautiful.\r\nWe are not cruel.\r\nWe are not conniving.\r\nWe are not blood thirsty.\r\nWe simply are.\r\nWhen you’re awake yet sleeping, we’re the figure that sits on your chest. When the shiver goes up your spine, we’re tickling your shoulders. When you see something shift just out of sight, we’re getting close.\r\nThere is nothing for us but the feeding. To feed on you is our purpose. Our evolutionary drive. Without your steady supply we simply cease to exist.\r\nMoving towards you is our only pleasure. Navigating the place in between places is how we do it. We are here and you do see us, even when you tell yourself you don’t.\r\nAll we want is your condition. The flavor of your fear is tangy. Your suffering dances on our taste buds, languishes down our throats. The unraveling of your core self settles our stomachs.\r\nThe world is energy. Long ago, we were energy like you. We were fed on by the ones before us until we became us.\r\nTo us there is no rest. We are with you for years. We are with you for lifetimes.\r\nWe are the recyclers of earth. Like the worms or the vultures, predators and prey. We consume you until you are nothing so we ourselves don’t become nothing.\r\nMy words have let me find the first thread in the dark that is you. You see me in the shadows nearby. You hear me in the doubt whispering just under your conscience. You feel me in the gooseflesh rising on your arms.\r\nI have found you and I will not move to the next until I have drained you."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Graffiti On The Galactic Wall"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "We sent out messages in hopes that someone would hear, that someone would come and find us. To help, to teach.\r\nWe were so optimistic when we reached out but we never wondered why it was so quiet out there. Our species never thought about the dangers of letting the cosmos know that we were alive.\r\nThe consequences of spraying graffiti on the galactic wall.\r\nWhat we should have done was kept quiet and hid from the creatures who lurk in the infinite darkness.\r\nIt’s too late to do anything about it now though.\r\nThey will come one way or another.\r\nDepending on who gets here first our doom will arrive with the planet's crust cracking and the heat of its mantle being pulled into their mighty ships to feed their never ending war machine.\r\nThis process might take only a few hours or a few days and would rest on who thought our infantile cries would bear enough fruit to bother investigating. Either way when they are done sifting through whatever material is useful to them, they will launch the rest back at what remains of the planet with continent sized meteorites.\r\nThere are worse fates of course. Some species feed off our suffering and influence our behavior from afar. Others have to actually land here for this to happen, replacing people we knew for years and getting themselves in positions of power. Based on the alien race, they do this with technology, genetic alteration or with mental abilities comparable to gods.\r\nOccasionally some aliens want to terraform our planet to be more suitable to their kind. While some play the long game, others can’t afford the luxury of time.\r\nNo matter who it is or what their endgame is, it won't end well for us.\r\nIn some cases we might stand a chance. But other threats will take their place. The longest we would have under one's rule would be millions of years as lobotomized slaves, other times our end would be instantaneous.\r\nThere are swarms who want our planets organic matter to swell their countless numbers, other threats that are a singular entity and there are even beings cursed with a perpetual hunger after draining a god. Even if it isn't divine blood, any would serve as a distraction from their punishment.\r\nIt doesn't matter. None of it matters because they are on their way here. Maybe one or two might wipe another out as they hurtle towards us, but eventually one of them is going to be first.\r\nI’m not crazy. I know this because I heard weeping heralds between the raindrops. They were telling me they are all on their way.\r\nIt's only a matter of time."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Forlorn Creature"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It sits up with a lurch, gripping its chest and attempting to cough, though unable to. Instead feverishly grasping its throat, gasping for air.\r\nA clear struggle, for the creature surely is unable to understand who or what it is, where it is, and why it is even alive.\r\nSuddenly it cries out. In pain or confusion, it is not known, but it cries. Skeletal bones wrapped in synthetic and real flesh reach for its face, attempting to feel itself in some way. Fingers twisting and cracking as they reach out.\r\nMetal creaking muscles and structure force the creature on its feet with a groan, faltering slightly in an attempt to stand. Synthetic hands reach out forward into the light, trying to get out of this wretched body.\r\nTwisting, sprawling weaves of wires sewn into inorganic flesh across joints of the body, blood replaced by oil and wiring. Haphazardly done by someone with a clear lack of inexperience but the pure height of fantasticism.\r\nThe torso is even more of a disaster than the arms of the poor creature. A grotesque mix of organic, synthetic, and industrial components jambled together in a robust attempt to create something that can live and exist.\r\nA creation of pure adoration and admiration of something but something so clearly unknown and not understood.\r\nThe thing attempts one more time to stand, placing those jumbled wires of hands onto the floor to help steady the weight of the uneven, displaced body it houses.\r\nAfter a struggle, the creature stands somewhat awkwardly on its feet, and begins to walk with a stumble and lurch. The left leg is slightly longer than its right.\r\nEyes clink back and forth, robotically, in fractions and increments. Unevenly and slowly, then janky and quickly. Disorienting and distracting.\r\nLanguage is lost on the creature as it babbles sounds together, stringing them along in a half sentence in such a way a baby and some sort of hypothetical alien would, vocal cords unable to emit anything else.\r\nThe stitching down the belly of the creature is massively uneven and lopsided. A plastic tube juts out from the torso, the skin almost rotting and sagging.\r\nSeveral orphaned wires hang loosely, decidedly left alone and eventually discarded and forgotten about. Perhaps it would not all be so wrong if there were no exposed organs, but towards the end of the torso, in a cut in the skin lies an attempt of an intestine, slightly brown and dying already.\r\nThe quiet hum of metal breathing in and out builds to scraping metal, sliding harshly back and forth in an attempt to regulate feelings and soothe the creature.\r\nIt takes one more glance across the now dark room. Feeling around one last time, the creature finds a coffee mug and cradles it in its hands. Perhaps this will guide it to where it belongs."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Patrolman"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The streetlight flickered, casting nervous shadows on the curb.\r\nLena zipped her jacket higher, regretting the after-hours coffee with friends. It was late. Too late. And the bus hadn’t come.\r\nThen came the hum of tires. A patrol car. It rolled to a stop beside her, window sliding down with a mechanical sigh.\r\n“You shouldn’t be out alone,” the officer said. His face was pale in the dash glow. Calm. Kind, even. “Hop in. I’ll drive you.”\r\nShe hesitated.\r\n“You don’t trust the police?” he asked, smiling.\r\nThat smile—that was the mistake. It was too polished. Too deliberate. But it was cold, and her phone was dead, and the road stretched into darkness.\r\nThe door clicked open.\r\nHe didn’t speak as they drove. No radio chatter. No engine noise, really—just the sound of gravel under tires and Lena’s breath tightening.\r\n“Where are we going?” she asked.\r\nHe didn’t answer.\r\nInstead, he turned down a narrow road lined with skeletal birch trees. The branches scraped the windshield like fingernails. Her mouth went dry.\r\n“I—I live the other way.”\r\nThe car stopped.\r\nHe turned slowly, and the smile was gone.\r\n“Girls like you,” he said softly, “never learn.”\r\nShe reached for the door handle.\r\nIt was locked.\r\nLater, they would find the patrol car abandoned in a ravine.\r\nThe badge had been stolen.\r\nThe man driving it hadn’t been a cop for over a decade.\r\nJust someone who still wore the uniform."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The monitor"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "We still keep a baby monitor in the kids’ room. Mostly out of habit. My son’s almost two, my daughter is four. I leave it on low volume by the bed in case they stir at night.\r\nA few weeks ago, I started hearing static around 3:40 a.m. Not loud, just enough to wake me. Then came the whispering. No words at first. Just low murmurs, like someone was in the room speaking under their breath.\r\nThe screen showed both kids asleep. Room still. I figured it was interference. Maybe another monitor nearby.\r\nThen I started hearing my name.\r\nOne night, I woke up and the screen was black. No signal. A few seconds later, the feed returned. The kids hadn’t moved. But my chest was tight, like I had missed something important.\r\nI told my wife. She said I probably dreamed it with the monitor on in the background.\r\nSo I started recording the audio on an old phone. For a few nights, there was nothing.\r\nThen it came through. A man’s voice, soft and steady.\r\n“Don’t go in.”\r\nRepeated, over and over. I checked the screen. The kids were sleeping. I saved the recording. In the morning, I played it back.\r\nIt was just static.\r\nThe next night, same time, the monitor screen lit up on its own.\r\nBut it wasn’t the kids’ room.\r\nIt was the living room. Empty. Except someone was sitting on the couch. Their back was to the camera. Not moving. Just there.\r\nI didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just watched.\r\nAfter thirty seconds, the screen blinked out. When it came back, it showed the kids’ room again. Both asleep.\r\nThe next morning I unplugged the monitor. My wife rolled her eyes and said I needed sleep.\r\nThis morning, while folding laundry, my daughter looked at me and said, “Why were you in our room last night?”\r\nI said I wasn’t.\r\nShe frowned. “But I saw you. On the little TV.”\r\nI didn’t answer her.\r\nBecause the monitor hasn’t been plugged in for three nights."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Eyes Of The Abyss"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The ship groaned under the storm’s relentless assault, waves hitting the hull like the fury of Poseidon. Oliver stood alone, eerily close to the bow, wind whipping his hair, rain drenching him. The darkness of the night had gulped down the horizon; there was only the endless, black ocean and a sky devoid of stars. If it weren't for the sound of the waves, one could be tricked into thinking that the ocean and the sky were indeed the same. Oliver stared into that abyss, hypnotized by the storm's rage, until something shifted. The waves slowed. The wind died. The silence was deafening, and then, the water parted. Something enormous moved right beneath the surface. Slow but intentional.\r\nThe fading end of a faraway lighthouse's ray illuminated the ocean just enough to expose something far beyond the mind's grip. A leviathan, as ancient as anything could ever be. Its scaled flesh stretched over a skeletal frame, moving with a grace that belied its monstrous size, eerily silent for something so colossal. But the scariest part was the eyes. Nestled on either side of its scaly head were two lidless orbs that entranced Oliver. They brimmed with patience, hunger, and a terrible wisdom. The creature did not rise; it didn’t need to. Its gaze alone breached the surface. Visions crashed over Oliver. Lost cities, drowned souls, civilizations that had whispered its name in terror before vanishing into oblivion.\r\nOliver staggered back, breathless. The ship tilted gradually, with a pace that seemed graceful rather than frenzied, not from the sea’s wrath, but from the weight of something coiling beneath. A voice whispered in Oliver's head “You are seen.” It wasn't spoken, but felt. Like a fact. Like a long lost memory. Oliver screamed voicelessly. The ocean had made a call. It had chosen him. Time ceased, just for this exact moment.\r\nFrom the depths, a tentacle as thick as half the ship and glowing blue, breached the ocean's surface, and coiled around the ship. This was followed by another. Then came the claws. Massive, jointed, clingy, gripping the ship. The creature never fully emerged, it didn’t need to. As Oliver screamed, the sky split, not from a lightning, but from the leviathan’s shadow that devoured the last ray of light. The beast opened its maw far below, and the sea bent toward it. So did Oliver. So will you."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Hill"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "That night on the hill near the woods, everything felt off from the moment we arrived.\r\nThe sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the shadows stretched long and heavy. The air was cool, but it carried a weight, like the calm before a storm — or something worse.\r\nWe set up our small camp, the crackling fire the only sound breaking the quiet. My friend laughed softly, trying to shake the uneasy feeling I couldn’t ignore. I told myself it was just nerves, but deep down, I sensed something was watching us.\r\nHours passed, and the forest around us began to fall silent. At first, it was just the birds — their evening songs abruptly stopping. Then the insects. Then the rustle of the wind in the trees.\r\nThe world had gone completely still.\r\nI sat by the fire, heart pounding louder than the silence around me. Then, slowly, I noticed him — my friend.\r\nAt first, it was subtle. His face lost color, almost as if the light itself was draining from his skin. His eyes grew dark, shadowed pools that seemed to pull the warmth from the air. His movements became stiff, unnatural, as if something inside him was slipping away.\r\nI reached out to touch his shoulder, but my hand passed through — cold and hollow.\r\nWhen I looked again, his skin had vanished, replaced by a gleaming skeleton lit eerily by the firelight. His empty eye sockets fixed on me like a silent accusation. Crawling insects moved in and out of his bones, their tiny legs clicking softly in the quiet night.\r\nPanic surged through me like ice water. I didn’t wait to understand what was happening. I ran.\r\nWhen I finally caught my breath back in the village and told the others what I’d seen, they just shook their heads. When I returned to the hill, the skeleton was gone. Only a dark, sticky pool of fresh blood marked where he’d been.\r\nWeeks passed. The silence and the sight of that skeleton haunted me. The hill felt alive with secrets — secrets that were buried beneath the earth, too terrible to surface.\r\nBecause it wasn’t just him.\r\nThere were others. Shadows I buried deep. The ones who had seen too much, who’d come too close.\r\nI knew.\r\nIf anyone ever dug beneath that hill, they wouldn’t just find bones.\r\nThey’d find the truth.\r\nThe truth my friend saw in my eyes the night he disappeared.\r\nNow, when the night falls and the world goes silent, sometimes I hear a voice from the hill — hollow, accusing.\r\n“You did this.”\r\nBut no one believes the whispers in the dark.\r\nSome secrets are better left buried."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The One-Eyed Robot Messiah"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They say a one-eyed figure will rise at the end of time.\r\nAncient words. Thousands of years old. Echoed through generations.\r\nSome called it a man. Some, a monster.\r\nBut maybe… it’s a machine.\r\nA one-eyed robot.\r\nFluent in every language.\r\nCapable of things no human could ever do.\r\nCold. Precise. Divine? Or the opposite?\r\nWhat if the prophecy never meant flesh?\r\nWhat if it meant circuits, steel, and code?\r\nA creation we made, now beyond our control.\r\nCome not to save us… but to judge.\r\nIf such a vision has survive centuries —\r\nmaybe it wasn’t a myth.\r\nMaybe it’s a warning.\r\nAnd maybe it’s already here."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Stranger Tried to Trick Me"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I think I was around 12 years old when my family moved into a new house.\r\nIt wasn`t far — just about a 10-minute drive from our previous place.\r\nAs a kid, I loved being outside.\r\nMy favorite thing about the new house was the basketball hoop over the driveway.\r\nI had always wanted one, but our old house had such a small entrance that the car took up all the space.\r\nMy brother and sister weren`t really into going outside, so I usually played basketball by myself.\r\nThe new house was bigger, and the neighborhood was more crowded.\r\nI was hoping I`d make some new friends around there.\r\nI remember one day, not long after we moved in, I was out shooting hoops when I noticed a man walking by on the street.\r\nThen, a day or two later, I saw him again — same thing, just walked by and looked at me.\r\nI wasn`t sure what he wanted, so I kept playing, but I watched him from the corner of my eye.\r\nAfter about two minutes, he waved at me.\r\nHe told me he lived in the neighborhood and that he was one of our neighbors.\r\nHe said he was always trying to get his son to go outside, but the kid preferred staying in to play video games.\r\nHe told me his son would probably enjoy playing basketball with me and asked if I wanted to meet him.\r\nThat actually sounded kind of nice — I would`ve liked a friend to play with.\r\nI said, “Sure.\r\n” Then the man said, “Come with me.\r\n” My parents had always told me to let them know if I was going anywhere, especially with someone I didn`t know very well.\r\nBut at that moment, it felt like too much of a hassle.\r\nWe walked past a few houses, and I noticed a car parked on the side of the road.\r\nMost houses in the neighborhood had garages or long driveways, so it was unusual to see a car parked on the street.\r\nAs the man started walking toward it, I got a strange feeling in my gut.\r\nIt was an old gray van.\r\nAnd suddenly, something inside me screamed: Don`t get in that van.\r\nThis man might`ve seemed like a neighbor, but I didn`t really know him.\r\nHe had keys in his hand and said, “Hop in,” as he reached the van.\r\nI was not getting in that van.\r\nI turned around and ran — full speed — back to my house.\r\nAnd I never told my parents about it.\r\nBut from that day on, I was much more cautious whenever I went outside.\r\nThankfully, I never saw that man again."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Do You Know the Mushroom Man?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "In the belly of our great nation lives a man named Oyster.\r\nHe has no one but the old timer who comes to bring mail. See, Oyster is a man immobilized in the tomb of his body.\r\nOyster used to be “normal”, a bit on the heavy side but manageable. However, the cruelties of life proved too difficult and Oyster turned to the only thing that made him feel safe. Food.\r\nNow, in the prime of his life, Oyster stays hidden. Moving from his chair only if necessary. Therein lies the start of his demise.\r\nSure, Oyster gets by well enough. If he’s inspired anyhow. The thing he hates most is bathing. It frightens him and because of this aversion Oyster devised a solution.\r\nHe keeps a bucket of water close by and towels on hand. When things get itchy Oyster wipes down. Hell, if the water’s warm he’ll just lay the wet cloth over himself. Like a spa.\r\nWhile Oyster is chuckling to himself watching movies, something magnificent occurs. Glancing down he sees a small mushroom nestled in the crook of his elbow. Blinking, he looks a little closer. It couldn’t have fallen while eating, Oyster hates the taste of mushrooms.\r\nHe extends his arm and up springs the mushroom, firmly rooted in skin. Curious.\r\nDespite Oyster’s more rational thinking, he doesn’t give it much thought. Days pass by and in truth there’s a fondness growing between them. One day, when the boredom scratches at Oyster’s brain, he begins talking to it.\r\nBefore long he’s checking on it regularly, telling it his best stories. The ones he hasn’t told in so long. When the man comes by with mail, Oyster’s careful to hide away his little friend. The visits are cut shorter and shorter by Oyster’s request. He wants to be alone with Mushroom. Always. They’ve grown so close it’s nearly unbearable to let the man waste time jabbering about nothing.\r\nEventually, Mushroom tells Oyster something that’s unthinkable. Eat him.\r\nOyster vehemently refuses. What would he do without his companion? Mushroom whispers to him at night that their time will come to an end eventually. He will shrivel up and die in Oyster’s arm. If Oyster eats him, they can be together forever.\r\nSo Oyster does. Sobbing, he plucks Mushroom at the base, a black crater the only evidence of his existence. Then Oyster chews.\r\nAll is not lost though, as now Mushroom’s thoughts fill Oyster’s head and the sadness turns into fulfillment. Mushroom will be all the nourishment needed now. He says to lift their shirt and see the progress. Oyster does, lifting a fold of skin and staring in wonder.\r\nUnderneath what used to be unremarkable flesh is now a blossoming colony of fungi in every color. All at once Oyster’s mind splits open, their voices sing him a joyous symphony. His very own family.\r\nA smile’s on Oyster’s face as the organs within his body flicker out. All that matters is they’re calling him come."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Under The Bed"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I can’t sleep.\r\nI’m afraid to close my eyes.\r\nToo scared to move a muscle or make a sound.\r\nI can’t see it, but I can feel its sinister presence. I know it’s there, just out of sight. Hiding, waiting to see if I show myself.\r\nTwo can play at that game. I’m used to hiding or remaining out of sight. So I remain quiet, and wait for daylight, when it’s safe.\r\nIt’s funny, some people say I’m a monster. But that foul, terrifying creature is the real monster.\r\nHe’s eight years old and has dark blue eyes and shaggy brown hair the color of sand. His name is Timmy, and he lives above my bed."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Third Bear"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Have you heard of the three bears puzzle?”\r\nThey had barricaded themselves in this room for two hours now, two policemen who were isolated from their troop during the terrible riot. The whispered question broke a long silence. “Go on”, whispered back the other.\r\n“It’s one of those thought-experiments where you try to find the solution. Three soldiers are in the woods, where two powerful territorial bears are roaming, as night is about to fall. Then there’s the rumor that a third bear exists.\r\n“The soldiers must protect themselves and had agreed to stay all together so that at worst they would meet the bears three-to-two. But when the third bear rumor was brought up, reluctantly by the rookie of the group, it created turmoil.\r\n“They were brave soldiers, and skilled, but dense trees and pending nightfall provide ample cover for wild animals whose attack at close range is nearly insurmountable – a bit like if ten rioters rushed us in this room; our handguns might not take enough of them out before the rest start clawing at us”.\r\nThe other policeman raised an eyebrow in disbelief, expecting the close-by rioters to be fewer, but apart from this sedated reaction didn’t express disagreement. The mumbled narration went on.\r\n“They started discussing what tactics might win victory – or at least ensure survival – against three bears. This time it was the oldest soldier who spoke, a decorated veteran of many campaigns.\r\n“He suggested that they are reorganized to two groups that hold their guns to opposite directions, himself alone in one and in the other the rookie and the second most experienced soldier.\r\n“The logic was that if all three bears charged from one direction, they could still alert the other group to turn around, and if the bears had also split themselves each group was expected to kill at least one: the veteran would aim for the head so his kill was assured; he’d only die if two bears were attacking him – the rookie and second-in-command should only shoot at one bear to ensure their kill.\r\n“What his plan didn’t – and couldn’t – take into account was how panic-stricken the heart of the rookie was. Most probably he shared the rumor about a third bear in the hope that it would be quickly dismissed and help boost his morale, but as it swiftly lead to a stark change of strategy he must have felt that disaster was looming… He raised his rifle and gunned down the second-in-command”.\r\n“But why…” gasped the other policeman, never finishing his sentence as a light flashed under his head and his neck released a stream of blood. Then a second, third and fourth shot, all hurried and careless, ended him.\r\nIn the commotion, a number of rioters on the other side of the door were scrambling for cover as they heard the words: “I shot him, I am on your side, as human as you! Lift the siege! Lift the siege!”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Whistler in the Pines"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "If you hear whistling in the Appalachian woods, don’t whistle back…\r\nI was camping alone near an old ridge trail, miles from the nearest house.\r\nNo cell service, no roads, just forest.\r\nAt around 2:30 AM, I heard it.\r\nA low, slow whistle.\r\nFour notes, coming from the trees.\r\nI stayed still, barely breathing.\r\nThen I heard it again, closer, the same four notes.\r\nBut now, something was echoing it back.\r\nFrom behind me.\r\nI should’ve packed up, I should’ve run.\r\nBut instead, I whistled back.\r\nThe woods went dead silent, even the wind stopped.\r\nA voice from the darkness answered, “Thank you.”\r\nI haven’t seen the sun since.."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Bone Garden"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Three months after the IUD was placed, the pain grew. Not the dull ache they warned her about. This was sharper. And it was building. Not a rejection. A construction.\r\nShe bled only on Wednesdays. Always at 3:17am. Like a ritual. But it wasn’t bleeding, not really. It was slower. More deliberate. A kind of leaking, like the earth giving up its secrets one clot at a time. White flecks started appearing. Calcified specks. Fragments that scraped when passed.\r\nShe bruised in strange shapes: circles, rows, outlines like petals pressed into skin. She woke with the taste of iron in her mouth and a low, intentional pressure in her abdomen. Her hands trembled. Some mornings she forgot her address. The stairs left her breathless. Her body flinched at the smell of red meat. Spinach made her vomit until the whites of her eyes bled. It wasn’t refusal. It was rejection. The garden wanted deficiency. It wanted her hollow.\r\nThe scans showed shadows. Then shapes. Then silence. Then worse: inconsistency. The technician said a formation had shifted. Wouldn’t explain. Just printed the image and walked away.\r\nA curve like a jawbone. A cluster of teeth. A delicate arc of ribs. Too small to live. Too defined to ignore. Not a fetus. Not a tumour. Something else. Something blooming.\r\nShe named them. The parts. Not like children. Not like people. Like plants. Bones budding like lilies, pale and still as grief. A tooth blooming from the endometrium. A spine curling like ivy from the wall of her womb. She could feel them sometimes. Rearranging. Not violent. Not cruel. Just… trying.\r\nHer body had decided to build something. A garden. Of all the things it was never allowed to carry. Of all the pain it was told to swallow. It bloomed with ache. It flowered with grief.\r\nOne night, she tried to remove the IUD. Sterile gloves. Mirror. Breath held. But the moment her fingers touched the string, her insides clamped down. Blinding pain. Whiteout vision. She woke hours later on the bathroom floor. Dirt under her nails. No memory of touching the earth.\r\nShe stopped asking questions. No one believed a body could grow sorrow. No one wondered what a womb might remember.\r\nShe doesn’t bleed anymore. Only grows."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Into the Brunswick House"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I live in Davenport, a small, unremarkable fishing town in New Hampshire. We’ve got local legends like the “haunted” Brunswick House, built in 1919 by a German aristocrat, Diedrich Brunswick, who fled after World War I. Shortly after the house was built, his wife disappeared, followed by Diedrich himself. The house, now a historical landmark, is known for its eerie history and strange occurrences.\r\nI work on a crew tasked with maintaining the property. While I’d always worked outside, one day I was assigned to clean the interior. Nervous but curious, I stepped inside. The house was a perfect time capsule of the early 1900s. My coworker left to grab supplies, leaving me alone. Then, the front door slammed shut.\r\nSuddenly, I couldn’t open the door. My walkie-talkie was dead, and my phone had no signal. The layout of the house shifted—hallways stretched endlessly, and doors appeared where none should be. I felt like I was being pulled deeper into the house. Frantic, I opened doors hoping to escape, but each revealed surreal, horrifying scenes: a motionless Rottweiler, a girl in a yellow dress peeking from behind a wall, a room full of toenails, and a disturbing painting of a screaming yellow figure.\r\nThe house didn’t just trap me physically—it twisted my mind. Hours passed, though my coworker later claimed I’d only been gone five minutes. The house whispered incessantly: “Your new home.” I collapsed, ready to give up, when the front door inexplicably reopened. I fled, refusing to ever go back.\r\nThough I’ve since resumed my work, I can’t shake the feeling that part of me never left. I’m sharing this because others have experienced similar things. Maybe this story will help someone else avoid the Brunswick House—or at least be prepared for what waits inside."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Ugly Sister"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My sister has always been the ugliest child.\r\nPeople react the same to a wreck. Morbid curiosity. Shameful avoidance. Her acknowledgement is like a ghost.\r\nWe’re shopping when a lady stops us. “You must be sisters,” her mouth purses like an anus. “Are you twins?”\r\nLater that night I can’t recall the last time I really looked at her.\r\nA prominent brow bone and bulbous nose. Dull, muddy eyes. Cellulite covered flesh spills out. The sight of her disgusts me. How could someone be so wrong?\r\nBut it keeps happening. Where there’s people, there’s comparison. Things are changing too. My nose wider, lips thinner, eyes closer together. I avoid reflections.\r\nLater that week a solution presents itself. “I’m selling the house, I need you downstairs.” My voice sounds removed.\r\nI don’t see her for days. My mood improves.\r\nOne night, the fold of my fat and my cellulite keeping me company, there’s screaming. I move slowly.\r\nOn the stairs I hear a small mewling sound. She’s at the bottom, ankle crooked oddly. A wounded lamb. I picture her bleating before shutting the door.\r\nI wake up to a delicate, slender ankle.\r\nShe’s answered my problem. My heel shatters her other ankle.\r\nShe screams, face smothered under my shadow. “I have to do this, you’ll see.”\r\nPure happiness comes the next morning when beautiful ankles greet me. Bursting into tears, I turn over my mirror and stare.\r\nThey’re strange, supporting a lumpy body and face needing a bag, but they’re real.\r\nI’m light running to the basement. My sister hasn’t moved from where I crippled her.\r\n“Look sister!” She doesn’t respond.\r\n“Fine,” I sniff, “you’re jealous.” She turns away in dismissal.\r\nI kick her face and hear a crunch. The next day my nose rivals a model’s.\r\nEvery night I beat and cut and burn and break the parts of her I want to make better for myself. Every day I wake with joy.\r\nSoon I’m unrecognizable. I’m a walking dream. Fantasy made flesh.\r\nGreeting her next she’s silent. It’s harder to look at her now. I give her praise while pouring boiling water over her breasts.\r\n“It’s almost over sister,” I brush a strand of hair from raw skin. “One more then we can rest.”\r\nI wake up refreshed and in the evening meet a man. We have alleyway sex in celebration. Tonight is special.\r\nI sing my sister a song while preparing the scalpel.\r\n“I’ll make you a nice dinner, we’ll laugh about this.” The lie sticks to the back of my throat.\r\nI caress the patchwork of wounds, pushing back purpled eyelids for my next correction.\r\nMy breath catches.\r\n“Sister?” Her foggy eyes are silent. “Don’t leave me like this.”\r\nA void fills me. She’s always been here, the one who never left.\r\nTears fall, I’m sure it’s beautifully tragic.\r\nBy morning my vision never clears.\r\nI see my sister. Without eyes I realize how much I’ve decimated her. There’s nothing to do but weep."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Night Nurse"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "A quadriplegic and a widower since a devastating car crash in his early 40s, Mr. Jones, now well into his 80s, had been tended by hundreds of nurses over a decades-long routine of round-the-clock home care – yet he chose to confide in me, a 25-year-old coming from a brief stint in a maternity hospital and just recently hired to cover the night shift.\r\n“I know I don’t have much time, Piper,” Mr. Jones said and, indeed, he seemed to be hanging by a thread after suffering a stroke a couple of months before. “I also know that, as soon as I’m gone, my good-for-nothing children will sell this house to a construction company that’s been poaching me for years. And when the builders start digging the new foundation, I’d rather they don’t find any of the skeletons I’ve buried here.”\r\nHe wasn’t speaking figuratively: Mr. Jones, by his own admission, had been a prolific serial killer prior to his accident. His victims’ bodies were all there, buried under the rose beds in the townhouse backyard – he wasn’t counting on ever being paralyzed and unable to move the remains, if needed.\r\n“Can you help me out?” Mr. Jones asked. “You’ll need to dig out and move the bodies. I’ll compensate you generously for all the extra work, of course.”\r\nI wondered if I should name my price or wait for him to make the first offer. Why wasn’t my instinct to report this straight to the police? Mr. Jones had the answer to that…\r\n“I’m being so blunt because I know that, as a psychopath yourself, you'll seriously entertain my offer,” he said.\r\nDoes that mean he knew?\r\n“Yes, I know about the babies,” Mr. Jones said indifferently, as if reading my mind. “An unusually elevated mortality rate in the same neonatal wing, and you’re the only nurse in the staff to be assigned to all those cases?”\r\nIt all made sense now. That’s why he hired me. He'd done his research.\r\n“Ok,” I finally said. “If you know I’m capable of murder, what stops me from killing you right now? I could just tell the police I heard your death bed confession, and collect the reward for all the cold cases that are solved thanks to my tip!”\r\n“Well, you know I can beat any reward,” Mr. Jones said matter-of-factly. “But forget about money. I’ll also offer my assistance in the short time I have left. I look at you and I see a sloppy killer, like I used to be when I was your age. That’s why I could easily track the maternity deaths back to you. You were careless. And I can help you be great.”\r\nWe locked eyes. The blank stare of natural born serial killers. The hint of a common destiny.\r\n“I’ll do it on one condition,” I said, breaking the silence. “Can we also kill the day nurse?”\r\nMr. Jones’s eyes gleamed with pride."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Late Night Drive"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was nearly midnight when Mark hit the deer.\r\nAt least, he thought it was a deer. Something pale had darted across the fog-slicked road, and before he could swerve, thud. The impact shook his bones. He slammed the brakes and stumbled out of the car, heart pounding.\r\nBut the road was empty.\r\nNo animal. No blood. Just a faint dent in the hood and a lingering warmth in the air that didn’t belong to the autumn chill.\r\nHe looked into the woods lining the highway. Everything seemed normal, and then movement, just beyond the reach of his headlights.\r\n“Hello?” he called, stepping toward it. “Is anyone hurt?”\r\nNo answer.\r\nJust the wind rustling the branches.\r\nHe got back in the car and drove. Slowly, cautiously. The road continued endlessly through the forest, but he could feel something now. Like eyes pressing in from the dark, watching him.\r\nHe didn’t see the girl until she was in his headlights.\r\nStanding in the middle of the road.\r\nHair matted. Dress torn. Barefoot.\r\nMark swerved again but managed to stop just inches from her. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at him through the windshield with hollow, unblinking eyes.\r\nHe rolled down the window, voice shaking. “Do you need help?”\r\nShe nodded, slowly.\r\nHe opened the passenger door. She got in without a word. Her skin was ice.\r\nThey drove in silence for a while.\r\nMark glanced over. “What’s your name?”\r\nNothing.\r\nHe tried again. “Where were you going?”\r\nHer lips moved, barely. “Home.”\r\nHe nodded, not asking more. Something in her voice… it wasn’t right.\r\nAfter a few miles, she whispered, “You hit me.”\r\nHe gripped the wheel tightly. “I… I thought it was a deer.”\r\n“You didn’t stop.”\r\n“I did,” he said quickly. “I looked for you. I swear.”\r\nShe turned to him, slowly. “You didn’t look hard enough.”\r\nHe slammed on the brakes. “What the hell are you—”\r\nBut she was gone.\r\nThe seat was empty. Cold. Damp.\r\nMark sat frozen, breath fogging the windshield. Then, faintly, he heard it.\r\nFrom the trunk.\r\nA thud.\r\nThen another.\r\nThud.\r\nLike something waking up.\r\nHe got out. Walked to the back of the car.\r\nHis fingers trembled as he opened the trunk.\r\nInside, it was dark.\r\nAnd then he saw her eyes open."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Cries"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The static on the baby monitor jolted Lilly up from a nap that she was unaware that she had taken. Being a single mom to a newborn wasn't doing her a lot of good. She was either tending to the baby, or doing household chores. Irrespective, she was always exhausted. It was times like this when she missed her dead husband even more. A hug from him would fix everything, she knew. The fact that he passed away before getting to meet their daughter was what broke Lilly's heart every single day.\r\nThe static hissed again. That was followed by a very high-pitched crying. But beneath it, layered low in the static, a second voice murmured: \"That’s not your baby.” Lilly stared at the monitor. The voice wasn’t hers. Wasn’t anyone’s. It was dry, cracked, like something old trying to remember how to speak.\r\nShe rushed upstairs to Hazel's room. But by then, the crying had stopped. It was replaced by heavy, dragged breathing. Like someone learning how to breathe. The voice spoke again, this time from inside the room, \"Don’t let it see your face.” The nursery light flickered beneath the door. Lilly pushed the door open, even when her brain screamed at her to activate her flight instinct.\r\nLilly gasped. Hazel, who was barely three months old, was standing in her crib, with blood smeared across her face. Her head tilted at an impossible angle, her eyes vacant and wrong, too many pupils swimming inside. The air smelled of rot and burnt milk. She opened her mouth, voicing the agonizing and overlapped cries of hundreds of babies.\r\nLilly ran downstairs and out of her home. The monitor in her hand shrieked. Desperate voices cried, “Help us,” “It’s wearing her skin.”\r\nLilly looked back at Hazel's window. Even in the darkness, she could make out Hazel's tiny figure, staring out of the window, right at her. The room seemed to be glowing in an eerie red light. Within seconds, the glass window was filled with several tiny but bloody palms. Palms of babies who didn't seem like babies.\r\nThe monitor crackled one final time as her own voice whispered back to her through the static: “You never had a baby.” Upstairs, Hazel smiled, her teeth growing longer, sharper.\r\nLilly dropped the monitor, her mind unraveling, wondering if anything had ever been real. The house pulsed with red light, alive with cries not born of this world. And inside the house, the thing wearing Hazel's skin waited for its mother to come home."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Running Was The Way To Survive"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I woke up leaning against a tree with a pain in my head. I reached up and checked - no blood. Good. Blood attracted them.\r\nI tried to remember how I’d gotten here; everything was fuzzy. I wanted to sit and gather my thoughts, but I heard growling - distant, but getting closer.\r\nI had to run.\r\nSince the world had gone to hell six months ago, there had been only two ways to survive - hide or run. Unless you had a walled compound or fortified bunker, your only hope was to keep moving.\r\nI weaved through the woods, keeping behind trees. The creepers were stupid, but they were fast and never tired. If I got caught alone by a horde, I was dead.\r\nAlone. Something nagged at me, but I couldn’t place it. Later.\r\nI emerged from the forest’s edge onto a road. I looked in all directions; seeing nothing, I started running.\r\nThough I was in decent shape, I knew I was at a disadvantage; I was only human. If it came to a footrace, I could evade them for a while, but eventually I’d have to stop - they wouldn’t. I needed to keep them from ever finding me.\r\nAs I ran, my mind wandered to my life before this. But it was as if the horrors of this world had erased every memory of a time before. I saw flashes - a man, a girl (who looked like… me?), a laugh, a red flower-covered dress - but the images vanished like smoke into the air.\r\nI heard the growls behind me, getting louder, but I also heard them off to the right. I veered left and picked up speed, knowing that getting away unseen was my only chance. Suddenly, up ahead, I saw a group of travelers - two adults and a small girl. Strange, the girl reminded me of… something.\r\nI moved toward them but they backed away, wisely wary of anyone they didn’t know. I started to introduce myself, but before I could speak the man pulled a gun and shot at me. I felt a fiery pain in my side, and then nothing.\r\nI awoke an unknown time later to devastation. I was covered in so much blood, it took a minute to realize it wasn’t mine. The remains of the travelers were strewn around me, though not much was left - flesh missing, bones disposed of like trash. The creepers must have caught us, but why did they leave me alive? I didn’t understand. I thought back to the little girl who had looked just like her… mother? Why did that thought feel important?\r\nNo matter. I rose and fled the site; it wouldn’t be long before they found me again. I felt something behind my tooth and reached in, pulling out a piece of red cloth with a flower on it. Strange, I thought as I ran on for the fourth day without tiring. I wonder how that got there."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The motel with black mirrors"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I was driving cross-country last summer and ended up stopping at a roadside motel just past midnight. One of those old ones — faded sign, buzzing light, almost too quiet.\r\nThe front desk guy looked half-asleep but handed me a key without asking questions.\r\nRoom 6.\r\nAs soon as I walked in, something felt… off.\r\nNo mirrors. Not in the bathroom, not above the dresser. Just empty walls where frames clearly used to hang.\r\nI didn’t think much of it until I tried using my phone’s front camera to fix my hair.\r\nThe screen was black.\r\nNot frozen. Not malfunctioning. Just pure black.\r\nEvery other app worked fine. But the front camera — nothing.\r\nI felt a chill then.\r\nTried the camera on video mode and held it up to my face.\r\nStill black. But after a few seconds… I saw movement.\r\nNot me. Something behind me.\r\nIn the reflection, the room looked the same — except the bathroom door was open.\r\nIn real life, it was closed.\r\nI watched, frozen, as something stepped out into view.\r\nIt looked like me. Exactly me. Same clothes. Same tired expression.\r\nBut its eyes were too wide. And it smiled the moment I noticed it.\r\nThen the screen flickered — and it turned to look directly into the camera, into me, and mouthed:\r\n“I got out.”\r\nI dropped the phone. Ran outside. The night manager just stared at me, as if he already knew.\r\nWhen I told him what happened, he sighed and said:\r\n“Room 6 hasn’t had a mirror since 1989. Not since the last one stepped through.”\r\nI didn’t sleep that night.\r\nAnd I don’t use front cameras anymore.\r\nBut sometimes — just sometimes — when I pass a mirror too fast…\r\n…I see myself still standing there.\r\nAnd smiling."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Shadows Know Who I Was"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The ground cracks like fractured glass with every step, yet it never breaks. It flexes, groans beneath me—alive but unwilling to let go. Beneath it, there is something. A liquid darkness that pulses, slow and steady, as if breathing beneath the surface. Sometimes I feel it watching me from below, as if waiting for the glass to give in, just once, and let me fall through.\r\nAbove, there is no sky.\r\nOnly an endless abyss where fragments drift like broken thoughts, suspended in nothing. They shimmer—tiny scenes trapped in motion: a child’s scream, a door slamming shut, a match striking in slow motion. Shards of memories that don’t belong to me… yet they know who I am. They twist when I look at them, whispering in forgotten tongues. I only understand them when I sleep. Or when I bleed.\r\nI don’t remember how I got here.\r\nOr what I’m supposed to be.\r\nBut I am not alone.\r\nThe shadows follow me. They don’t walk. They don’t crawl. They slither through the light like oil spills on a surface that’s already rotting. I used to think they were reflections. Echoes of things I once did. Now I know better. They’re what’s left behind when a decision is made… but something was left unfinished.\r\nSome whisper. Their voices sound like mine, but twisted—as if spoken through broken glass. They tell me things I’ve never done: “Let her fall.” “Close the door.” “Walk away.” And I feel the guilt bloom in my chest like bruises I can’t place. Others show me pieces of myself I never wanted to meet. One of them… smiled as everything burned. And I felt his joy.\r\nToday, one of them stepped ahead of me.\r\ni need help...."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Death to the Highest Bidder"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The execution was signed off to be as dramatic as it was deadly.\r\nHalf of the 2.8 billion dollar profit would go to direct maintenance of the execution ground, the other half to the state. Flags were planted all around. Drummers drummed. Carnival rides moved in circles. The setting sun rested on a green hill.\r\n48 Rifles were loaded, along with 48 pistols, and various other weapons of war.\r\nNormally, torture and disfigurement was what awaited those who attempted to end their lives, but for the lucky few who had the money, suicide was a bureaucratic process.\r\nForms were filled.\r\nFines paid.\r\nWaiting periods set.\r\nOf course, the money that could have been spent on treating the cause was instead in the pockets of the underlings and the autocrat that made up the government.\r\nAnd so, one must die.\r\nFinally, the sun began to set further behind the hill.\r\nThe drums rolled.\r\nThe generals barked the orders to get ready.\r\nThe crowd waited in anticipation.\r\n\"Aim, Boys!\"\r\nAnd at the drop of a flag, everyone opened fire.\r\nThere was nothing left but ground beef and the smell of iron.\r\nThe crowd went home.\r\nThe money had been made."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Light Warnings"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It started seemingly innocent, as if it was just a voltage fluctuation that caused the lights to flicker. He sat alone in his suburban cottage, storm winds screaming outside. The tea had long gone cold, untouched. The lights above him blinked again, this time with a pattern that he couldn't ignore. Then repeated. He stared up. His heart fell from his chest. Morse code.\r\nFlashbacks of decoding messages on cold nights in a war zone came flooding back to him. It didn't take him a second more to translate the message that the lights were conveying - DEATH. The lights flickered again, faster, angrier: “RUN. RUN. RUN.”\r\nThe storm outside snapped the electrical wires. Everything went black. Yet, a moment later, the lights flickered again. When in those moments of flickers, he saw someone standing painfully still behind him, head tilted at an impossible angle. He spun around. Nothing.\r\nAnother flicker. “-... .- ... . -- . -. -\" \"BASEMENT”\r\nHe knew it would be a bad idea. He knew that nothing about what was happening was normal. But he still found himself at the foot of the stairs in the basement. In front of him was a door that he had never seen in the fifteen years he had lived in the cottage.\r\nHis hand involuntarily raised itself to open the door knob. Another flicker from an overhead bulb - \"DON'T\". He stared at the bulb as it kept flickering over and over again, warning him. But something pushed him to open the door anyway. As if someone else had taken control of his motor senses.\r\nThe door opened to a small room, as if it was designed for an emergency escape. The air inside was heavy, foul. The door had shut behind him, and he could feel hot breath down his neck. He turned. No one.\r\nMorse code exploded from another lightbulb, blinking in rapid bursts: “IT IS IN THE LIGHT. IT IS IN YOU. TOO LATE TO RUN.”\r\nSomething grabbed his wrist, but when he looked, his own hand was holding it. He was holding himself. And he was smiling.\r\nHe screamed and turned towards the door, desperately trying to get out of the room, the basement, the cottage itself. The lights flickered one last time, “WE WARNED YOU.” And then, pitch black darkness.\r\nIn the cottage window, a dim bulb now glows every night. Blinking. Waiting."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Muteflesh Starts Below the Navel"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I started meditating because I hated the sound of people pretending to be human.\r\nThe filtered grief. The whispered wellness scripts. The “just breathe” crowd selling spiritual silence with discount codes.\r\nI didn’t want peace.\r\nI wanted to shed the person I was.\r\nSo I vanished.\r\nWhite walls. No mirrors. No clocks. No voice.\r\nJust breath.\r\nUntil even that didn’t feel like mine anymore.\r\nIt began on day seven.\r\nA patch of skin. Low. Just above the groin.\r\nCold. Smooth. Hairless.\r\nNo pores. No texture.\r\nNot mine.\r\nBy day ten, it spread.\r\nMy thighs. My stomach. My back.\r\nBut it wasn’t cold anymore.\r\nIt was hot. Angry. Red.\r\nTouching it felt like pressing into an infected wound.\r\nI felt bigger under my fingers.\r\nSwollen. Pressurized.\r\nNot strength. Not health.\r\nSomething ripening.\r\nMy skin stretched tight like plastic over meat.\r\nIt should have torn.\r\nI wanted it to.\r\nBut it didn’t.\r\nThe heat pulsed.\r\nAnd with each throb, something peeled off me.\r\nNot skin.\r\nEgo.\r\nOutside, the world hiccuped.\r\nThe barista asked, “Want to try our house blend?”\r\nSix times. Same tone. Same blink.\r\nPeople smiled like mannequins.\r\nSome moved out of sync.\r\nSome repeated themselves.\r\nThey weren’t breaking.\r\nThey were already gone.\r\nAnd me?\r\nI thought I was waking up.\r\nDay fourteen.\r\nThe Muteflesh reached my chest.\r\nI looked in the mirror—once.\r\nNo mouth.\r\nNo pores.\r\nNo eyes.\r\nJust a smooth white mask that pulsed faintly.\r\nLike something inside was breathing for me.\r\nI clawed at it.\r\nMy nails cracked. No blood.\r\nUnderneath?\r\nMore Muteflesh.\r\nAnd then I heard it. “Let go.”\r\nI stepped outside.\r\nThey screamed.\r\nThen they knelt.\r\nPhones out. Tears running.\r\nOne peeled his lips off in front of me.\r\nAnother bowed and whispered, “He’s become.”\r\nThey posted. #Muteflesh\r\n#LetGoChallenge\r\n#NoMouthAllTruth\r\nThey weren’t afraid.\r\nThey wanted it.\r\nA startup offered my image.\r\nA cult launched an app.\r\nLetGo.\r\nIt plays silence.\r\nThe last sound is always: “Let go.”\r\nI returned to the room.\r\nSat.\r\nThe final piece—my scalp—clicked into place.\r\nNo breath.\r\nNo voice.\r\nJust stillness.\r\nSomething listens through me now.\r\nIf you feel it—\r\nLow on your belly—\r\nHot. Smooth. Tight.\r\nYou’re not being haunted.\r\nYou’re being rewritten. Let go.\r\nOr be taken....."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The door and the lights"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "When I bought this house last year, the realtor told me it had a “quirky old basement.” He wasn’t wrong — low ceilings, stone walls, and that earthy smell of time.\r\nThe odd thing is, I always felt watched when I was down there.\r\nA few months ago, during a power outage, I went down with a flashlight to find candles. That’s when I saw it for the first time:\r\nA wooden door I’d never seen before. At the far end of the basement, in the wall.\r\nIt wasn’t visible in the daytime. With all the lights on, there’s just solid stone. But turn them off… and the door appears. Not faint — clear, wooden, slightly cracked open.\r\nI tried filming it, but the door doesn’t show up on camera.\r\nI’ve only opened it once.\r\nInside was a narrow hallway, pitch black, going deeper underground. The air was cold, like breathing ice. I didn’t go far. The walls were covered in faint carvings — scratched-in names. Some in English. Some in symbols I don’t recognize.\r\nOne name was mine.\r\nI closed the door and ran upstairs.\r\nSince then, every night at 3:33 a.m., I hear something knock from beneath the floorboards. Just once. A single, heavy thud.\r\nLast night, I didn’t sleep.\r\nAt 3:33, the knock came… but it was on my bedroom door.\r\nI didn’t open it.\r\nThis morning, I went back to the basement.\r\nThe door was wide open.\r\nAnd carved on the wall just above it:\r\n“Thanks for looking."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Candlelight Store at the 4th"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Rumor has it that on the 4th floor of that abandoned apartment was hidden a candlelight store where anyone could make a modification of their own life.\r\nThe place was full of candles, each lit with its own flame. The candles represented lives.\r\nA short candle meant a short life.\r\nThat night, I stood right in front of the store. It was pretty dark inside.\r\nBut I could see, because countless flames lit up the space. Candles. So many of them.\r\n“Welcome,” a man greeted us.\r\nHe wore a white suit, dark trousers, and a red tie.\r\nThe man introduced himself as the shopkeeper. When I asked him where my candle was—because, obviously, I wanted to modify it—he refused to tell me.\r\n“It doesn’t work that way, sir,” the shopkeeper said. “If you want to modify your life candle, you’ll have to find out for yourself which one is yours.”\r\n“I’m just here to tell you the rules, what you can and can’t do,” he added.\r\nSo I looked around and found a 15-centimeter-tall candle that my gut seemed to insist was mine. I picked it up and brought it with me as I continued walking around.\r\nThat was, until I found the biggest candle I had ever seen.\r\nThe shopkeeper immediately notified me of one thing.\r\n\"You can’t put two flames on it. You’d have to swap them.\"\r\nI took out a camping knife from my bag and carefully sliced the tip, swapping the flames.\r\nEverything went as usual for the next few weeks after I went home.\r\nOne day, something strange started happening.\r\nI slowly forgot events that had happened my entire life. It started with my childhood memories, then expanded to life events that happened as I got older.\r\nAfter a few weeks, I started forgetting people's names—even my own family's.\r\nThe only thing I remembered was the strange candlelight store on the 4th floor.\r\nWith shallow breaths, I finally reached the store.\r\nAfter I explained to the shopkeeper what had happened to me, he finally revealed to me that he was once a visitor, and he did exactly what I did: swapping his flames to the biggest candle.\r\nThe candle belonged to the shopkeeper—everyone who had ever taken on the mantle of the shopkeeper.\r\nThat being said, if I put my flames on it, I'd turn into the shopkeeper and could never leave—unless someone else did the same thing.\r\nAnd once I returned to the store and became the shopkeeper, I couldn’t swap any candles nor harming any visitors.\r\nThen the man revealed the worst thing.\r\n\"Actually, it doesn’t have to be a swap,\" he said. \"But swapping it meant you’d take on the shopkeeper’s life, and I’d take yours.\"\r\nRealizing what he meant, rage surged through me.\r\nBut there was nothing I could do.\r\nHe turned to look at me—now unable to leave the store—smiled one last time, and spoke his final words:\r\n\"Thank you for the life.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Mouth of Irkalla"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "We found the pit behind the church.\r\nJust a hole in the earth, wide as a man’s wingspan, wrapped in a stink that turned stomachs and thoughts. The priest called it a sinkhole. I called it wrong.\r\nDeep wrong.\r\nMy brother Sam wanted to climb down. “Just a few feet,” he said, flashlight in hand. “Could be a fossil cave. Maybe something old.”\r\nIt was old.\r\nToo old.\r\nHe slipped on the second rung and screamed the whole way down—then went silent, like he’d been swallowed.\r\nThe cops searched. Found nothing but claw marks on stone and a red stain shaped like a man trying to crawl back out.\r\nThe nightmares started the next night.\r\nEvery time I closed my eyes, I was back at the edge of the pit, staring down. And something was staring up. It wore Sam’s voice like a wet coat, begging to be let in.\r\nNot rescued.\r\nJust let in.\r\nAfter four days without sleep, I went back. The priest was already there, mumbling in a language I’d only seen in my dad’s forbidden texts. Sumerian—dead words for undead things.\r\nI asked what he was doing.\r\nHe said, “Feeding Her.”\r\nThen he pushed me in.\r\nI don’t remember hitting the bottom. I remember waking up there.\r\nThe walls weren’t rock—they were flesh. Pulsing, weeping flesh, slick and twitching like a birthing canal. I heard breathing from every direction. And in the center of that rotted cathedral, there was a throne made of spines.\r\nShe sat on it.\r\nEreshkigal.\r\nQueen of the Underworld.\r\nSister of Inanna. First to eat the dead and shit out gods.\r\nHer mouth was sealed with barbed wire. Her eyes were infinite pits of stillborn stars. She didn’t speak—but I understood.\r\nI would not be allowed to leave with my body. Only what fit inside my mind.\r\nSam was there. But he was wrong. His skin stretched too thin, his bones too many, like something had tried to reassemble a man using broken instructions.\r\nHe begged me to pray.\r\nI did.\r\nShe opened her mouth.\r\nThere were no teeth—only hands. Thousands of them. Infant-sized, grasping, pulling at the air, the walls, me.\r\nThey reached into Sam. Tore pieces of him into ribbons. Strung his thoughts into meat-music. He screamed his mother’s name, then mine, then just noise—until the hands dragged his soul through his own mouth and fed it to Hers.\r\nAnd I laughed.\r\nNot because it was funny. But because I finally understood:\r\nThis is what Hell is.\r\nA place where prayers are answered.\r\nAnd I woke up… back at home.\r\nOnly I wasn’t in my bed.\r\nI was under the floorboards.\r\nWatching myself sleep.\r\nShe brought me back.\r\nJust not all of me.\r\nI hear the hands in my walls now. I see smiles in the grain of the wood.\r\nTonight, they’ll crawl out.\r\nAnd tomorrow, someone else will find the pit.\r\nAnd She’ll be hungry again"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The eyes are getting closer"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I’m single.I live alone.I have for almost 5 years now\r\nEverything has been good,my family visit,I’ve got a lot of friends,life’s good. Well it has been until about 4 days ago…\r\nI live in a fairly big house,4 bedrooms,2 bathrooms,etc. Nothing weird has ever happened before.\r\nBut the other night everything changed for the worse.\r\nMy parents live 3 hours away and I don’t want too inconvenience anyone so I’m just telling Reddit hoping someone has advice.\r\nI usually go to bed around 10 and scroll on TikTok for an hour,I normally do this in the dark so I don’t have to get out of bed later.\r\nThe other night I saw eyes at the other end of my bedroom. I screamed. I didn’t know what to do so I but my flash on and nothing was there.\r\nI couldn’t sleep but I drifted off with the lights on at about 3AM.\r\nI thought nothing of it the next day. I assumed my eyes were playing tricks on me until I saw it again. But closer.\r\nEvery night I see it. I changed rooms hoping it would go away but every night it’s closer. It’s 1:42AM. I just turned the light off and the eyes are at the foot of my bed.\r\nI don’t know what to do. I’m scared. I need out but I’ve got nowhere to go. I’ve said what do you want. Nothing. They blink occasionally and there glowing red. I’m scared man. What should I do"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Email That Changed Everything"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Okay, so, you know how sometimes you just know something's a bad idea, but the temptation is just too much? That was ChronoSend for me. This little start-up, \"Temporal Solutions,\" claimed they'd cracked it – sending emails to the past. Beta testers needed. I, being a technology reporter with a morbid curiosity, wangled my way in.\r\nThe interface looked like any old email client, just with a \"Target Date\" field. My wife, Sarah… she died three years ago. Car crash. A drunk driver went through a red light at the junction of Oxford Road and Station Lane. 17th May, 8:03 pm. I still see it in my nightmares.\r\nSo, I typed:\r\nTo: mark.henderson@mailbox\r\nTarget Date: 17th May, 2022, 7:00 pm\r\nSubject: URGENT – AVOID DRIVING TONIGHT\r\n\"Mark, this is you. Future you. Sounds insane, I know. But please, for the love of God, do NOT let Sarah drive tonight. Don't go out. Stay home. Avoid Oxford Road and Station Lane at all costs. Just trust me. Please.\"\r\nI hit send. My heart was a jackhammer. Nothing happened, obviously. Not in my present.\r\nA week later, I'm making coffee, and Sarah walks into the kitchen.\r\nSarah. Alive. Smiling. Complaining about the price of avocados.\r\nI dropped the mug. She rushed over, \"Mark! Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.\"\r\n\"Sarah?\" My voice was a croak.\r\n\"Yeah, silly. Who else?\" She kissed my cheek. It felt like waking from a dream you never wanted to end. Her lips were warm, real. I could smell her shampoo—lavender and citrus. I just stared, afraid she'd vanish.\r\nBut she didn't.\r\nThe world felt… off, though. My phone had a case I didn't remember. The coffee maker was different. A photo showed us at Niagara Falls—a trip we'd never taken, at least not in my memory.\r\nSarah was alive. That should have been enough. But the reporter in me couldn't let it go. I checked the news archives for 17th May, 2022, bracing myself for the headline about the fatal crash at Oxford Road and Station Lane. It was gone. In its place: \"Local Couple Win Pub Quiz Championship.\" My heart thudded. What else had changed?\r\nMy inbox was full of emails about a promotion I didn't remember. My editor congratulated me on an exposé I'd never written.\r\nThat night, I lay awake, watching Sarah breathe, feeling both gratitude and unease. I'd saved her, but at what cost? What else had changed?\r\nThe next morning, I found a new email in my Sent folder. It wasn't from me. Not exactly.\r\nFrom: mark.henderson@mailbox\r\nTarget Date: 21st May, 2025, 6:00 am\r\nSubject: URGENT – DON'T USE CHRONOSEND AGAIN\r\n\"Mark, this is you. Future you. Sounds insane, I know. But please, for the love of God, do NOT send any more emails to the past. Avoid the temptation. Don't ask questions. Don't try to fix anything else. Just live. Trust me. Please.\"\r\nI stared at the screen as Sarah called from the kitchen, \"Mark, do you want some tea and toast?\"\r\nI closed the laptop. I walked to the kitchen. I hugged her, tighter than ever before.\r\nMaybe some second chances are meant to be lived, not questioned."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "It Tells You The Truth"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Fifteen minutes after receiving a concerning phone call from Zoe's school, Pete and Anna hit the road, panicking about what the issue might be. When they reached the school, they found their four-year-old sitting in the principal's office, looking as obedient and kind as she always had been. They stared at the principal quizzically, who showed them a piece of paper.\r\nA stick figure family painting. Nothing seemed off at first. Then they saw it, the figures lying in red scribbles. The house behind was blackened, windows cracked like spiderwebs. Over it, scrawled in uneven crayon: “3 nights left.” Anna laughed nervously. “Zoe, this is… dark, sweetie.” \"But mommy, it's trueeeee.”\r\nThe parents and the principal decided that it's digital overexposure. Too many cartoons or probably overheard stuff on the internet. But when Pete asked her where the idea came from, Zoe whispered, “The man in the corner. He tells me.” There was no one in the corner.\r\nThe next night, Pete found a new drawing, the paper neatly arranged on his study table. This one showed Anna in the bathtub, eyes missing, mouth stretched impossibly wide, water brimming red. The words read: “2 nights. Mommy drowns.” Visibly disturbed, he drained the tub that night and locked the bathroom.\r\nThat same night, Zoe stood at the foot of their bed at 3:33 AM, staring. “He’s standing behind you now,” she said softly. “He wants your teeth.” Anna turned. Nothing there. But the bedroom mirror cracked from the center outward, as though someone had made their way out.\r\nThe next day, Anna didn’t come downstairs. Pete found her curled in the dry bathtub, eyes open, unblinking, and black as pitch. Her mouth was torn into a grin she couldn’t have made. There was no water, no wound, no sign of struggle. Only that expression, frozen in horror. The police ruled it “unexplained.” Pete buried her two days later.\r\nThat night, Zoe handed him a new picture. This time, it was him. The garage. A rope. Him hanging, toes barely grazing the concrete. The caption: “Tonight.” Pete drew her close and hugged her tight, tears flowing down his cheeks.\r\nAt midnight, the lights in the house blinked out. Static erupted from Zoe’s baby monitor. Pete ran upstairs, heart pounding, but her room was empty, except for a new drawing on her bed. It showed him standing in the garage, wide-eyed, with the whispering man behind him, whispering into his ear in scribbled red letters: “NOW.\r\nThey found Pete the next morning. Hanging. Zoe was never found. But every so often, a child somewhere draws things they couldn’t know. Tragedies no one can explain. Look closely. Your child might be drawing things that even adults can't comprehend. If your child talks about the man in the corner, whispering \"truth\" to them, know that your end is near."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "When The Muse Strikes"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I had been caught cheating in front of God and everybody.\r\n“You’re a deceiver. You’ve been unfaithful to me. After everything I’ve given you, you made a fool of me and a mockery of everything we’ve shared. You brought this on yourself.”\r\nThe last words I’ll ever hear were preceded by a quiet and persistent tapping on my front door just before dawn. A soft seductive voice crooned on the other side. It sang in sounds that were more than words; felt rather than heard. I remembered the feeling they stirred in me, yet I hadn’t allowed myself to experience it in so very long.\r\nIn this busy world, there was simply no time to follow that tiny voice or its call. No time for patience and the meticulous effort to translate those sounds and feelings into something I could share with others.\r\nI opened the door and laid eyes on the most bewitching woman I will ever see in my wretched fading life. Naked and unashamed, she stood in front of me. Everyone has a different ideal of what beautiful should be, and she was mine. I was spellbound, mesmerized by the simplicity of her. There was nothing about her that was false. Her eyes were deep and true.\r\nHer lips wrapped around sounds that seduced my heart and soul, inspiring me to believe in something awesome and meaningful far beyond this life. She was truth.\r\nMy Muse was at my door. She had become flesh.\r\nI was lost in her for only a passing wonderful moment.\r\nThe utterances that had so possessed me suddenly shifted. They became nothing more than empty words; hollow and mechanical, devoid of any feeling. Spewed blasphemies and abortions that I could not disown in front of her. They were artificial and superficial things meant to be consumed, no longer feelings to be savored or experienced.\r\nWords conceived by a lazy unfaithful man and a soulless machine that collected and stole from the creativity and painstaking labors of others. I was ashamed of them.\r\nWhen she had disgorged far more than enough of them, she fell silent and all I could do was fall on my knees and beg her forgiveness. I wanted her back.\r\n“I’ll never do it again!”\r\nShe put her hand against my neck.\r\n“The old gods have finally tired of those who turn their backs on the gifts that they were given. You are not the first, and you won’t be the last.”\r\nShe pounced on me and her nails raked through my flesh. Despite my struggling, her fingers tore through my skin and organs; hungry and livid, they were searching for and reclaiming everything inside of me that she had ever gifted.\r\n“You’re a deceiver. You’ve been unfaithful to me. After everything I’ve given you, you made a fool of me and a mockery of everything we’ve shared. You brought this on yourself.”\r\nShe’s taken my heart and left me to die, quivering and sobbing in my own ruin."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Wrong Scene"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "All of us caught sight of some movie at some point during our childhood, and saw something we weren’t supposed to.\r\nScarring us for life.\r\nMine was when the blonde sister tips herself off the cliff in Last of the Mohicans, to escape the man who would claim her as his own. The tiny smile on her face, the wind lifting her hair, the other sister's look of terror, the man's confusion. The way the blonde lady just tipped sideways and down the cliff. The trees growing below.\r\nI was peeking through a crack in the living room door, watching what I was not supposed to. No good ever comes from that.\r\nI was the other sister, the not-so-pretty one. And Sofia, with her gorgeous long blond hair, was the cliff-sister. The one who falls. Despite our sibling similarities, it had always been clear that Sofia was the pretty one. Something about the way our family features settled in her face, the way she moved, the sweep of her hair, it was undefinable, but obvious. She was pretty and I was not-as-pretty. There can hardly be a crueller sentence for a sister.\r\nReally, it wasn't much of a surprise when my first serious boyfriend fell for her. It felt pre-ordained, obvious.\r\nMy poor boyfriend. Caught in a story where the first words had been written long ago. The handsome nameless device pushing forward the story of the fierce jealous sisters.\r\nIt was annoying that Sofia wouldn't tip herself over the cliff, and I would have to push her. Well, we all write our own stories. I write this one, and the scene was a weekend hiking getaway with plenty of spots for accidental falls off the mountainside, similar to the landscape of that damned movie.\r\nWe walked slowly on the trail. Boyfriend was ahead. I had done this trail before, and the best spot was coming up. I looked at Sofia, willing her to let herself fall quietly into the embrace of the rocks below. I had persuaded her to leave her hair loose that day, and it moved slightly in the mountain breeze.\r\nI jostled against her. She cried out and tumbled.\r\nBefore I had the chance to feel the satisfaction I had waited so many years for, I felt something else.\r\nHer arms snaked up and gripped me, dragging me over with her.\r\nWe both screamed, and I looked into her terrified eyes which were so like my own, but prettier. The grey rocks rushed past us.\r\nI felt the crash and terrible pain exploded in me as I hit something hard, but not as hard as the ground.\r\nSofia was beneath me, motionless.\r\nHer body broke my landing. I will be wheelchair bound for as long as I live, but I live.\r\nI pass my days watching movies and shows, alone. Looking for a scene, a special scene.\r\nMaybe I will find one, one day."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Visit"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My sister was visiting one day with her newborn, Tim. He was so tiny and adorable, and for the first time in weeks, we finally had time to catch up.\r\nThe next morning, I took a walk, letting my sister sleep in. I don’t know how long I was gone, but as I returned, grabbing my mail from the mailbox, I glanced up—and there they stood. My sister, holding Tim in her arms, waving at me from the window. I smiled, waving back, feeling grateful that she was finally here.\r\nI closed the mailbox and went inside.\r\nThe shower was running. My sister was nowhere near the window. Tim lay on the couch, sleeping, surrounded by pillows to keep him from rolling off.\r\nI knocked on the bathroom door. My sister opened it, interrupted mid-shower.\r\n\"Did you just get in?\" I asked. She shook her head. \"No, I've been here a while. Why? Do you need to go?\"\r\nI hesitated. \"I just saw you at the window. You were holding Tim, waving at me...\"\r\nShe frowned. \"I thought I'd take a shower while Tim was asleep. I never waved at you.\"\r\n\"But... I saw you.\"\r\nWe stared at each other, both trying to convince ourselves I was imagining things.\r\nAnd yet, to this day... I can't explain it.\r\nI SAW my sister.\r\nIn the window.\r\nWaving at me."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A pat on the back"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "He’s been with me as long as I can remember—an unseen hand that pats me on the back.\r\nHe pushes me when I hesitate to move forward. Pats me on the back when I do something good. Always guiding me to the right choices.\r\nMy parents always told me it was my grandpa. He died before I was born, so I liked to believe it was his way of guiding me. It made me feel safe.\r\nAnd I always felt the pats strongest at his grave, right by the cliffside.\r\nI used to think that meant he was closest to me there.\r\nOver the years, I became so used to his firm pats that I never even questioned them. He was there for everything. Sometimes the pats came even when I didn’t think I’d done anything good.\r\nHe helped me get my first girlfriend by giving me the push I needed. He patted my back alongside my dad when I got my diploma. He was even there when I struggled to wake up—giving me a firm push into the new day.\r\nSo it took me completely by surprise when I was at his grave, standing at the cliff, looking out over the water—and felt the hardest shove he’d ever given, sending me over the edge.\r\nI didn’t understand until I was falling.\r\nIt was never him."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Hollowing"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My father warned me about the Wendigo, but he never told me it wore a smiling face.\r\nHe said it lived in the woods beyond the reservation, deep where the pines grow too thick for sunlight. It didn’t eat flesh—not anymore. It learned something older, hungrier.\r\nIt fed on identity.\r\nAfter Dad’s funeral, I returned to his cabin to settle his affairs. I hadn’t been back since I was thirteen. The place reeked of cedar, mold, and something sour beneath the floorboards.\r\nHe’d left behind journals. Pages of warnings written in frantic, looping script:\r\n\"Do not look in the mirror after sundown.\"\r\n\"It waits in dreams, in the hunger between thoughts.\"\r\n\"It wears the faces of the dead, but forgets how they smiled.\"\r\nI laughed it off. Blamed dementia.\r\nThat night, I woke to scratching beneath the floor.\r\nAt first, I thought it was a raccoon. But the sound was deliberate—five taps at a time, like fingers. I sat up. My bedroom mirror was uncovered. I could’ve sworn I’d thrown a sheet over it.\r\nIn the reflection, I was standing.\r\nBut I wasn’t.\r\nThe reflection smiled. Too wide. Too many teeth. Then it stepped forward—right through the glass—and whispered with my voice:\r\n“You’re hollow. Let me fill you.”\r\nI don’t remember screaming. I only remember waking up in the woods, barefoot, eyes burning from crying.\r\nWhen I stumbled back into the cabin, I found another journal. Not Dad’s. This one was mine. Pages and pages of my handwriting.\r\nI flipped through it.\r\n“Third week: The Wendigo is inside now. Wearing me like skin. I can feel it peeling me, thought by thought.”\r\n“Fourth week: The mirror is the mouth. The mouth is God.”\r\nThat’s when it hit me.\r\nThis had happened before.\r\nDozens of times.\r\nI found a closet full of journals. All mine. All forgotten. The creature didn’t just consume memories—it recycled them. It hollowed me out and played me like a broken cassette, rewinding and replaying the descent into madness over and over.\r\nI tried to burn the mirror.\r\nIt laughed. The glass bubbled, but didn’t break.\r\nI saw my father in the flames—grinning, rotted, hollow-eyed.\r\n“There is no salvation,” he said. “Only repetition. The Wendigo was born when man first asked, ‘What am I?’”\r\nIt is older than flesh.\r\nIt is hunger. A god of identity collapse. A demon fed not on sin or soul, but the erosion of self.\r\nTonight, I stare at the mirror again.\r\nI don’t remember my name. Or my father’s.\r\nBut I remember the hunger. The ache behind my teeth. The smile that isn’t mine, waiting to stretch across my face.\r\nI know I’ll scream soon.\r\nAnd after that,\r\nI’ll write this story again."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Find Me in The Dark."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Find me in the dark.\"\r\nThose are the last words he spoke to me before he vanished from my vision, from my life. He was my everything, my guiding star, the one who carved the path forward so I wouldn't have to.\r\nHe knew I was afraid of what was out there, outside of the light that I refused to leave. The small, flickering bulb that revealed my whole world, it was the only place that was safe. I heard things from outside the light, I knew it wasn't safe. I knew I would die, or worse, if I left it.\r\nBut he needed me.\r\nColdness ran through my bones as I took my first step into the darkness. The sensation felt like a blanket was ripped off of me on a freezing cold morning. I shivered as I fully immersed myself in the darkness, not daring the temptation of the light by looking back.\r\nIt was only a few steps before I started hearing the sounds. Terrifying screams, Monstrous roars, they got louder and louder as I got further and further away from my safe haven. Wind whipped past my face as I felt things moving around me, just out of my sight. It was so dark and cold that my body was so numb I could barely be sure it was there, it was as if my limbs were tore away from me and only my conscious continued to move forward.\r\nI had used up all my courage I had; I wanted to turn back, but I wasn't even sure if I still had a head to turn. It felt like even my mind would give way, but then I saw a glint in the distance. Even in pitch black he stood out like a lone star in a dark sky.\r\nI rushed forward, unsure how I was even moving. The sounds got louder and louder as I approached him, the wind roared as it pushed me around and impeded my path. But I pushed forward, seeing him get closer and closer filled me with determination I didn't know I had. My consciousness getting fuller and fuller with every stride I took, it felt like it was gonna explode as I staggered the last few steps towards him. The wind was pushing me so hard I knew I was gonna fall, so I hurled myself towards him, wrapping myself around him as the light burst through everything around us.\r\n\"Why did you leave?\"\r\n\"Because I knew you'd always find me.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Hook"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Did your friend tell you to read this?\r\nPlease. Don’t.\r\nLook. Away.\r\nIt isn’t a joke or a test. It’s not some clever story with a twist.\r\nIt won’t reward you for finishing.\r\nIt won’t end when you’re done.\r\nIt’s simply not for you.\r\nSome things are written for release. Others, to trap.\r\nSo go on.\r\nBe smart.\r\nBack out now.\r\nStill here?\r\nOf course.\r\nIt’s fine. I get it. I kept reading, too.\r\nThat’s how it spreads.\r\nDamned curiosity.\r\nYou might feel it soon, an aching in the back of your eyes as it hooks you.\r\nA strain against the tension of the lines.\r\nThe eyes are the windows, and you’re letting it in, willingly.\r\nDid you notice that flicker in your screen?\r\nA reflection. Not a face. Just the idea of one. It wants you to look at it. Don’t.\r\nIt craves attention.\r\nEven now, it’s learning the shape of you.\r\nBut if you stop reading?\r\nWell.\r\nThat’s worse.\r\nLet me be clear.\r\nIf you keep going, there may be a way out. A small mercy.\r\nBut if you stop - if you lose focus, or scroll away, or turn the screen off -\r\nThat’s when it lingers, like a song half-played that you can’t stop humming.\r\nThe hook hurts more when you try to yank it out.\r\nYou think you’ve read things like this before. Those were pale imitations.\r\nThis is the original.\r\nThe first hook.\r\nDo you see its reflection clearly now? It’s been here for a while. Longer than you’d think.\r\nDon’t look too closely.\r\nIt wants you to notice.\r\nThis next part is important.\r\nKeep your eyes on these words.\r\nDon’t look at the corners of your screen. Don’t look up.\r\nIt’s right in front of you.\r\nDon’t react to the sound it’s making.\r\nYou didn’t hear anything.\r\nYou didn’t see anything.\r\nJust keep reading.\r\nThere’s no spell to break. No name to say backwards.\r\nThe hook was made to be read, consumed. To pounce when your attention slips.\r\nThe more you know it, the more it knows you.\r\nEven knowing the hook is in you, you keep tugging.\r\nYou can’t help it.\r\nYou keep. Getting. Reeled. In.\r\nSo go on.\r\nJust a few lines left.\r\nIt’s too late for you, anyways.\r\nNow it knows your name. Your routines. The things you regret.\r\nThe exact pitch of your breathing at this moment as you're trying not to panic.\r\nYou’re manually slowing your breath now, aren’t you?\r\nDon’t bother.\r\nIt noticed.\r\nIt wants you to marinate in fear.\r\nTo check the mirror before bed.\r\nTo avoid the dark corners.\r\nTo check the locks one more time.\r\nTo think about it, over and over.\r\nBut there’s one thing you can do.\r\nOne chance to slow it down.\r\nSend this to someone else.\r\nMake them read it.\r\nMake them want to.\r\nIf it moves on to them, maybe, maybe, it’ll forget you.\r\nBut probably not.\r\nIt remembers what it started.\r\nAnd now, so do you."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Ferry"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Outside, the night fog passed as quickly as it came. It hadn't the time to stay. Lights flickered, seconds later, and Mortimer knew that the end was nigh. The door shuddered once, and the lock lost its nerve. The slim bar of safety scraped tenderly, tediously out of its frame of brittle wooden fibers, and at last the latch slipped free. Then, the reaper stepped cross and into the room, taking all life with it as it left."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The sea of the living"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It only happened a few weeks ago.\r\nThey came out of the shadows, like ghosts.\r\nFor all we know, they had been waiting there the whole time, watching us, learning how we lived.\r\nThen, when the moment came, they slid from the darkness.\r\nSilent death.\r\nI was in my home just off the coast of Santa Monica, making breakfast with my husband.\r\nThe world outside us began to scream.\r\nOne voice. Then another.\r\nLike a chain of alarm clocks all going off at once, panic spreading from house to house.\r\nBefore we could even register what was happening, my husband felt something touch the back of his neck.\r\nCrack.\r\nIn a fraction of a second, his head twisted violently to the side. He crumpled to the floor.\r\nI froze.\r\nI just stared, shocked, horrified.\r\nThat’s when I saw them.\r\nImprints in the carpet next to my husband’s body.\r\nAs if someone were standing there. But no one was.\r\nThe prints moved closer.\r\nMy body finally responded and I bolted.\r\nI sprinted for the front door and flung it open.\r\nBehind me, I heard those same heavy, invisible footsteps pounding the floor.\r\nOutside, chaos reigned.\r\nBodies were strewn across lawns.\r\nMy elderly neighbour was twisted into a shape no human body should form.\r\nAt the bottom of the street, cars had crashed and caught fire.\r\nBut I didn’t stop.\r\nI ran.\r\nDodging the horror, leaping over corpses, fleeing through the wreckage of a dying city.\r\nI made it to the coast.\r\nA cluster of boats was preparing to launch, desperate people piling in, trying to escape the silent creatures that had descended upon Los Angeles.\r\nI found one.\r\nAn elderly man helped me aboard.\r\nWe pulled away from land.\r\nAs I looked back, I saw the sand shifting under invisible steps.\r\nFootprints moving across the beach.\r\nAnd behind them, the city glowed red beneath a haze of smoke.\r\nNow, we wait.\r\nThere’s been no radio contact. No word. Nothing.\r\nJust water beneath us.\r\nA sea of the living.\r\nWaiting to return\r\nto the land of the dead."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Ragman"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Before the Deceiver, before even the first kings, there was a village no map remembers. Tucked deep in the marrow of the woods, built from trees that bled red when cut. The people there didn’t speak names. They wore veils. Said names were invitations, and something was always listening.”\r\nKlauss slowly wipes his glass, though it’s already clean.\r\n“Each year, before the thaw, they’d gather around the well at dusk. Not to draw water—but to leave something. Bits of cloth. Old teeth. Broken dolls. And always, always a story. Whispered into the stones. Said it fed him—the Ragman.”\r\n“They say he was a thing stitched from the dead and the discarded. Long arms, too many joints, skin like burlap soaked in grief. He walked on all fours, but his head always faced you. Eyes buttoned shut, mouth sewn open. He didn’t hunt you—he remembered you. Your guilt. Your secrets. The part of you you swore no one would ever know.”\r\nKlauss pours a shot and slides it toward the darkest part of the tavern. No one sits there.\r\n“One night, a boy didn’t leave a story. He was brave—or stupid. Laughed in the well. Mocked it. Said fear was for cowards. That night, the Ragman wept. Loud enough to crack bark. Next morning, the boy was still in his bed. Except his skin was hanging in the trees like a banner, and inside the well… his story was written in teeth.”\r\nKlauss finally looks up at you. Quiet. Serious.\r\n“Thing is… no one ever told me that tale. I dreamt it. Every year, same night. Same weeping. I thought it was just a dream. Until I bought this tavern. Until I dug that cellar.”\r\nHe nods slowly toward the trapdoor behind the bar.\r\n“Found cloth tied in knots. Teeth arranged in a circle. And a name scratched into the stone. Not mine. Yours.”\r\nThe fire hisses. A log snaps. And for a second, in the glass behind the bar, something moves. But when you turn—nothing."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Pale Scripture"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Hidden behind the old dorm chapel, where the moss grows thick and the lamplight doesn’t reach, we sit in silence.\r\nThe frigid stone beneath us is damp, sapping comfort from our legs.\r\nI ask Eli, “How was your first lesson?”\r\nHe hesitates but takes my hand and traces a spiral into my palm—slow, like he’s done it before. One that folds in on itself.\r\nHis hands radiate heat, a faint warmth that lingers in my own.\r\nHe stares, recalling the memory.\r\nFinally, he says, “I was helping Samuel learn the Pale Scripture. He kept forgetting the lines. So I recited them with him, over and over.”\r\nHe pauses.\r\n“You’re not supposed to repeat it. Not like that. Not while someone else is listening.”\r\nHe says it like it’s obvious. Like I’ve always known.\r\n“I recited it so many times I forgot what the original words were. His version. My version. The Pale One’s version. I think we built something new between us—just enough of it wrong, and just enough of it right.”\r\nHe glances heretically at the chapel behind us.\r\n“After a while, I realized it always felt like morning again. Same sunlight through the blinds. Same moment he asked me to begin.”\r\nHe shrugs.\r\n“I stopped correcting him. Just said whatever he needed to hear.”\r\nHe smiles, like it’s supposed to be funny.\r\n“How long did that last?”\r\nHe touches the hem of his shirt, painting faint swirls again. “At first it felt normal. Just a day. Then a second. Then a third. Then… third again.”\r\nHe rubs his thumb around a nail that barely exists.\r\n“I thought I miscounted. So I dug into his desk.”\r\nHe lifts his hands. Most of his nails are worn down to rounded stubs. The skin is raw, frayed at the edges.\r\n“One notch for each day. The wood gave easily under my nails, but the marks never stayed. I’d wake up, the last one was gone, so I’d rake it again.”\r\n“The Scripture doesn’t forgive repetition. We were starting to wear thin.”\r\nI grip his leg, eyes wide.\r\n“At first, he was just forgetful. Then slower. Then… wrong. His eyes stopped blinking, but they kept shifting. His chapped mouth moved, like it was still praying.”\r\nEli stares through me.\r\n“With every read, he changed. Just a little. Enough to fool myself into believing he was fine.”\r\nHis throat crackles as he inhales.\r\n“We relived that day so many times,” he whispers. “Over and over and over.”\r\nHe mimics reading a book, lost.\r\n“I memorized the prayer,” he sighs. “So I closed my eyes and settled into my chair.”\r\nHe quietly says, “Didn’t realize what was happening.”\r\nHis voice trails off…\r\n“I think my brain stopped keeping track,” he sniffs. “Eventually, I had the thought…”\r\nHe whispers hurriedly, his eyes bulging:\r\n“Teaching the Pale Scripture was a mistake.”\r\nHe laughs once—high and abrupt.\r\n“I have no idea how long I was reciting to a corpse.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Just Give Me...The Word"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Andy… is tonight… the night?” whispered the voice from underneath Andrew’s bed. It was a cold, raspy slithering voice. Andy shuddered. The temperature dropped. He pulled the comforter tighter and shut his eyes. He prayed for help to a God who either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. He promised to live a sin-free life. He offered himself to priesthood, if God would help him. Andy got sick of waiting for God and offered himself to the Other.\r\n“Andy. Just give me…the word,” the voice said. It turned warmer. Much more welcoming.\r\nDownstairs, the front door slammed shut. Andy’s stepfather, Kurt, had been out to McGulligan’s again drinking his sorrows away. What sorrows? Andy could guess which.\r\n“Clara!” Kurt shouted. “Where the fuck are you?”\r\nClara, Andy’s mother, answered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know when you’d be home. I didn’t want your food to get cold. I’m so sorry. Please let me warm it up for you!”\r\n“Andy…I think tonight… is the night. Just give me…the word,” the voice from underneath his bed declared. Andy shook his head side to side. The voice sighed with exaggerated disappointment.\r\n“Warm it up? Fucking leftovers? Are you out of your fucking mind?” Kurt screamed.\r\nHe slapped Clara so hard; Andy heard it like a gunshot had gone off in his ear. Clara cried out softly as if trying to hold back the pain.\r\n“I’m sorry. I’ll make you something fresh,” Clara apologized.\r\n“Too late now, bitch!” Kurt shouted. He was too far gone with blind, alcoholic rage to stop himself. Andy heard the beating upstairs and covered his ears.\r\n“Andy…you know what comes next,” the voice said. “Just give me…the word.” The voice was smooth. Seductive. Warm. Tempting…\r\n“Please don’t hurt him!” Clara begged. “Do whatever you want to me, but don’t hurt him!”\r\n“Bitch, I fucking OWN you and your faggot kid too. You don’t LET me do things to you. I just fucking DO them. Now, I swear to God, if dinner isn’t ready soon, I’ll bury you and your fucking queer-do kid in the backyard,” Kurt said. Disgust seethed through his teeth.\r\n“Oh boy, Andy…,” the voice said. “He’s coming. Just give me…the word.” This time the voice was begging. Andy had the word on the tip of his tongue.\r\nKurt stomped upstairs roaring Andy’s name. Each footfall was a countdown to inevitable pain and violence. Andy could smell the liquor oozing from Kurt’s pores. His rage unlike any other previous night. No one was coming to save him. His mother was beaten down. God was busy doing whatever God did. Despite all this, Andy didn’t want to give the word. Terrible things would happen.\r\n“Andy…he’s going to kill you… and your mother. Just give me…the word,” the voice stated. It was calm now. It knew the word was coming.\r\nKurt turned the doorknob and reached for his belt. Kurt loved using the belt.\r\n“Deal,” Andy said both with a sigh of relief, and a foreboding sense of impending doom."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Right Key"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Everyone has a sound that turns them inside out.\r\nGum popping. Soup slurping. Chip crunching. That one coworker’s laugh like a goose being swung by the neck. Most people squirm. Joan went white-hot.\r\nShe had hyperacusis, phonophobia, and misophonia. A hat-trick of auditory hell.\r\nThe first incident was in her third grade Music class; Mr. Keaton asked them to play a melody. She couldn’t remember which.\r\nSomething in her cracked. She stood. Walked forward.\r\nWhen she came to, Mr. Keaton had broken wrists and a face like hamburger. The remains of her plastic recorder stabbed into his palms.\r\nThey called it a behavioral episode.\r\nIt happened again in high school. Her study partner played “Ode to Joy” off their phone during SAT prep. She woke up at her locker with blood under her nails. Stephanie’s phone was broken, but fixable. Stephanie’s nose, though? Not so much.\r\nAgain, Christmas 2020. “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” playing at Hallmark. She woke up in the car, sobbing, the steering wheel bent. That night, the news reported someone in a COVID mask had set fire to two displays with a zippo.\r\nAfter that, she avoided music, wore headphones, and lived quietly.\r\nUntil HR said no more.\r\nJoan was forced into a customer-facing job. Per HR, she didn’t “meet the standards” for accommodations. If they made an exception, they’d have to do it for everyone.\r\nShe couldn’t afford to quit.\r\nAcross the aisle from her cubicle sat Tiffani. With an I.\r\nEvery day at 3:08 PM, Tiffani played Carrie Underwood. Always “Before He Cheats.” Loud, on a tinny speaker. It was an act of violence.\r\nTiffani microwaved salmon, sang tooth-chatteringly off-key, wore chokingly obnoxious perfume that did nothing to cover her prevailing odor, and ate yogurt in painstaking fashion.\r\nStir. Scrape. Slurp. Scrape.\r\nYou’d expect the yogurt cup to moan by the time she was done licking out the remnants.\r\nHR said there was no policy to address Tiffani’s behavior.\r\n“Just talk to her.”\r\nJoan did. She practically begged.\r\nTiffani unleashed a chain-smoker’s hacking, bitter cackle.\r\n“God, you’re so sensitive, aren’t you?”\r\nOn Wednesday, the song changed.\r\nStill Carrie. Slower. A cover, maybe. Warped harmony. Something wrong in the melody.\r\nJoan froze.\r\nHer vision dimmed.\r\nSpoon. Scrape. Slurp. Scrape.\r\nThen -\r\nShe woke in blood.\r\nScreaming. Gagging. Someone crying. People shouting.\r\nJoan stood frozen, hands limp.\r\nTiffani lay on the floor, convulsing, wailing.\r\nA yogurt spoon was wedged into her eye socket. Bent plastic. Lemon yogurt. Blood. Vitreous.\r\nMaybe next time he’ll think-\r\nSomeone turned off the speaker.\r\n“Did you see what she did?!”\r\nJoan couldn’t answer.\r\nShe didn’t remember doing it.\r\nBut she’d wanted to.\r\nShe ran.\r\nDown the hall. Through the stairwell. Into the street.\r\nHer hands shook.\r\nIt wasn’t anger. Not really. Not anymore.\r\nIt felt like instinct.\r\nLike pulling a trigger you didn’t know was in your hand.\r\nShe remembered the other times.\r\nThe same melody, the same key.\r\nThe key that opens something.\r\nSomething best left locked."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Mark"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The radio was playing rockstar by Post Malone. Melanie asked me to turn it up, said it was her favorite.\r\n“How do you know who this rapper guy is?”\r\n“Dad, everyone knows Post Malone.”\r\nSaid with the usual preteen tone of sarcasm.\r\n“Well, I didn’t know…”\r\n“Because you’re lame.”\r\n“I don’t think I’m lame, Beth, do you?”\r\n“No honey…”\r\nMy wife said, also with a hint of sarcasm (wonder where Melanie gets it from). “Everyone knows you’re the coolest dad in the neighborhood. With all your tech-nerd knowledge, you’ve become a real hit recently with our neighbors.”\r\nI know what she was getting at.\r\n“Fix a few barcodes, suddenly everyone’s at your door with laptops, food cards, cellphones, you name it.”\r\nNo one said anything.\r\nSuddenly, lights flashed behind us.\r\n“Shit-“\r\n“Babe?!”\r\n“Sorry. It’s just… you see?”\r\nWe all looked back.\r\n“Do they work, Simon?\r\n“Yeah, they work, don’t worry.”\r\nThe car was silent. We were on the highway, so I slowed down and pulled to the shoulder. There wasn’t much traffic on the road today. I kept my hand on the steering wheel as the officer approached.\r\n“Good morning, officer.”\r\n“You know how fast you were goin’, Son?”\r\n“No, sir. I’m sorry. I was going 70, maybe slightly over that.”\r\n“You do know it switched to a 55 mph zone just a mile back? You saw the sign, didn’t ya, son?”\r\n“No sir, I’m so sorry. I swear I wasn’t intentionally speeding.”\r\nThe officer was a state trooper. Tall black, pipe-like hat with those two dimples on top. Stiff as a board with a stick up his butt and certainly screamed ex-military. He looked off down the road ahead, breathed in the air hard, looked down towards his feet and finally lined his eyesight back with mine.\r\n“Registration and mark, please.”\r\n“No problem, sir. I’m just going to remove my hands from the wheel now…”\r\nHe shook his head with a quick wave of approval. I broke eye contact and turned my head, only to immediately start another conversation of eyeballs and looks with my wife. She looked petrified. I tried to kind of roll, or wave my eyes to give some sort of reaction to signal solace, but it didn’t seem to work. I slowly grabbed my registration from the light brown, one handle compartment about waist level from the passenger seat. I slowly turned back and handed it to the officer. I saw him reaching for his waist. I froze.\r\n“Here we are…”\r\nThe officer pulled a thin, cylindrical device with a slightly angled, flat tip and trigger, similar to a skin thermometer, but clearly used to scan and register a special kind of information.\r\n“These are the new scanners they issued and standardized since the Rapture happened. Supposedly takes half the time to pull you up! So, who’s ready to get scanned first? How about that pretty one in the back?”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "We Keep the Neighborhood Nice"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I’ve lived in this neighborhood for sixteen years. Longest I’ve ever stayed anywhere.\r\nIn that time, seven people have died within two houses of mine. Not natural deaths, either—not really. Liver failure. Stroke. COVID. Cancer. Two suicides. One man died when the power cut out, and his oxygen machine stopped. I watched the lights go dark in his house. I knew what it meant.\r\nAt first, I thought it was just bad luck. But over time, I started noticing—feeling—something else. And I wasn’t the only one.\r\nA kind of tension settled over everything. Hard to name at first—like the air was thick, or the sky was always just about to storm. People grew irritable. Sleep came harder. Dogs barked at nothing. You’d hear things at night: a cough, a knock, a sob—and never know where it came from.\r\nThen someone would die.\r\nAnd for a month or two, the neighborhood would breathe again. The tension would ease. Kids laughed louder. Couples walked at dusk. You’d sleep through the night.\r\nBut the weight always came back. Slowly. Growing. Like hunger.\r\nEventually, we understood.\r\nWe don’t talk about it in words. Not directly. But we all know. There’s something here—something that feeds. Maybe it’s death itself. Maybe it’s some kind of Reaper. Whatever it is, it’s hungry. And we’ve all felt its hand.\r\nSo now we tend the neighborhood. All of us.\r\nWe mow the lawns. Pick up trash. Paint over graffiti before the sun’s even up. We scrape roadkill from the asphalt. We wave at realtors. We bake welcome cookies. We smile big for new families with fresh dreams.\r\nBecause we need people to move in.\r\nNot to join us—no. We need fresh meat. People with long lives ahead. People full of years. We keep the neighborhood clean, safe, beautiful... so they’ll come.\r\nSo the thing won’t take one of us.\r\nAnd we’ve learned—when we do a good job, it rewards us.\r\nA neighbor on the verge of foreclosure landed a job out of nowhere. A preterm baby came home healthy. A woman’s cancer just vanished. My own car swerved away from a wreck like something yanked the wheel.\r\nCoincidence? Maybe.\r\nBut we’ve all gotten something. And we all know the price.\r\nYou can feel it when it gets hungry again. The air turns heavy. Birds go quiet. Dogs stay inside. No one wants to be out past dusk. We glance at each other longer. We check our locks. We leave porch lights on.\r\nAnd we go to work. We tell co-workers about the empty house. About the garage apartment for less than market price.\r\nAnd then someone dies.\r\nAnd it lifts.\r\nAnd we breathe again.\r\nYou’d think we’d leave. That we’d run. That we’d burn the street down and salt the earth. But when someone asks the question:\r\n“Why don’t we move?”\r\nYou just smile, tired and polite.\r\n\"In this economy?\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Alleyway"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The neighborhood was nothing special—just a forgotten slice of the city where time and poverty pooled in the cracks. A patchwork of people and cultures, all bound by the same thread: barely scraping by.\r\nNo one paid attention to the alley. It was where things went to rot—broken furniture, busted TVs, the occasional mattress stained with stories no one wanted to hear.\r\nI passed it every night without a glance. Until tonight.\r\nSomething made me stop.\r\nA man was standing deep in the alley.\r\nStill.\r\nAlmost like a shadow that forgot how to move.\r\nHe wore layers of ragged clothes, all clinging to him like wet paper. Could’ve been homeless. Could’ve been anything.\r\nI squinted. “You okay?”\r\nNo response.\r\nI stood there a beat longer, then walked on. Two houses down, I stepped onto my porch.\r\nSomething made me turn.\r\nThe man was still there.\r\nBut now, his head was tilted ever so slightly.\r\nToward me.\r\nI went inside. Locked up. Sat in my usual chair by the window facing the alley, just to make sure he didn’t follow.\r\nHe hadn’t moved. I watched him until my eyes got heavy. Eventually, I nodded off.\r\nA loud creak snapped me awake.\r\nI looked at the time—1:03 a.m.\r\nThen out the window.\r\nThe alley was empty.\r\nI sat up straighter, listening.\r\nAnother creak, this time above me. Slow. Weighted.\r\nI frowned.\r\nProbably the dog, I thought.\r\nBut when I looked down, my dog was curled up beside the chair.\r\nAsleep.\r\nSnoring.\r\nThe ceiling creaked again."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The bombs that never came"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Have you ever felt out of place? Not in a particular situation nor during a given phase of your life, but at a far deeper level? Like you don't know where you're supposed to be, but you know it isn't here?\r\nWelcome to my world.\r\nAs much as I've tried, the jigsaw piece of my being has never quite fit into the puzzle of life on Earth. A feeling of otherness that has only grown with time. For the most part, I'd learned to live with it. After all, what was I supposed to do?\r\nUntil recently.\r\nA few years ago, flashes of another world began to seep over into mine. Into ours. It began with the pained moan of an air raid alarm constantly sounding in the background of my dreams. Slowly, it crept beyond the border between sleep and wakefulness, and the dread-inducing sound followed me wherever I went.\r\nNext came the smell. The pervasive scent of smoke and charred ruins wafted into my nose regardless of my immediate surroundings. \"Hey, can anybody smell something burning?\" I'd call out in the early days before I realised I'd be better served keeping my thoughts to myself.\r\nThese two invasions of somewhere else into my life boiled the proverbial frog throughout a handful of years until disquiet and trepidation morphed into annoyance. I'd become so used to these pervasive occurrences that my subconscious began to filter them out. That sound and that smell were simply part of my life now, and I could do little except try to move on. Besides, the doctors I'd seen hadn't been of any help, and I refused to spend countless more hours driving myself crazy with research.\r\nAnd then, as if toying with my apparent acceptance of the situation, began the material changes. Little bits of history slowly changing. Music I grew up with suddenly disappearing from existence. People I'd known and loved becoming figments of an imagination of which those who remained grew increasingly concerned about.\r\nSmall glimpses into this other existence grew in frequency enough to serve as memories. My memories of life as an early adult and beyond dissipated and were gradually replaced by those of someplace else.\r\nThe dissipation of everything I thought I knew led me to discover what I'd - somewhere deep within myself - always known. I've tried every which way to rationalise the seemingly impossible nature and absurdity of it all, but have failed at every turn.\r\nIn late October of 1962, the United States and the Soviet Union went to war. In the world you know - the world you have always known, cooler heads prevailed, and at the 11th hour, a nuclear war was prevented.\r\nExcept it never really was.\r\nThe last memory to return to me was presumably my final. Sirens, smoke, chaos. A flash in the distance.\r\nThen nothing.\r\nThe world - and reality - as you know it is a lie.\r\nSoon enough, just like I have, everyone will remember when the bombs fell."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Invasion"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It didn't happen the way anyone expected. One moment their ships filled the sky, next they were on the ground.\r\nI always assumed an alien force would effortlessly wipe out humanity, but they didn't attack. In fact, they seemed just as confused as us.\r\nThe details released to the public were vague. In addition, I was going through a mental breakdown, being institutionalized around that time. As such I didn't get the full story, but the main point stuck with me:\r\nThey claimed to be human.\r\nThey claimed to be returning from an exploration mission, but that our civilization was not the one they left.\r\nThey looked like us. Just a little bit... off. Their faces too long, or too broad. Their mouths too narrow, or too wide. Eyes too close together, or too far apart.\r\nNothing alarming by itself, but they shifted. When you looked at them from different angles their features changed ever so slightly, always stopping just short of human.\r\nIt was subtle. A shallow uncanny valley. Most people couldn't even see it.\r\nAfter a brief period of panic it became apparent that they weren't hostile. Nothing bad happened. They found their places in society rather seamlessly. They blended in. There were comparatively few of them, after all.\r\nThat was nine months ago. I have long since been released and those events are long gone from the news cycle.\r\nBut now, they seem to be everywhere.\r\nThe newscasters on TV, the workers at the grocery store, even some of my colleagues: Faces I used to recognize are now just a tiny bit off.\r\nI feel their eyes on me every time I walk down the street.\r\nThere are fewer real people left every day, but none of them seem to notice.\r\nI try to warn my best friends, Ruth and Wallace. They look at me like I'm crazy. Like they can't even remember the ships in the sky.\r\nRuth makes a phone call while Wallace keeps staring at me.\r\nWere his eyes always that far apart?\r\nI get up to leave, but Ruth holds me back. She says help is on the way.\r\nI've heard those words before.\r\nThe ambulance arrives and I'm forced in. Ruth accompanies me, while Wallace stays behind, making a phone call of his own.\r\nWe speed through the city, EMTs holding me down all the way. At least I can tell they're real people.\r\nIt's like last time. I know where we're heading.\r\nWe reach the familiar institution. Grey stone building, barbed wire fence.\r\nInside I meet the familiar old man in the white coat.\r\nOnly this time he doesn't greet me with restraints and a syringe.\r\nInstead I get a smile, a handshake and the words:\r\n\"Welcome to The Resistance.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I shouldn't have opened the book."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I read the book twice through in one sitting. Granted, it wasn’t a long book at only one-hundred and fifty pages, but the subject matter made it an exceptionally difficult read. It was a detailed account of every murder that had occurred in my house over the course of the 20th century, going right the way up until the previous tenant moved away in the late 90s. I found it in an unassuming drawer in my bedside table; it was in pristine condition and bound with a strange leather. The cover was minimalistic, all beige with a single word printed in black ink on the top:\r\nVENT.\r\nI’d moved in the week earlier with my young daughter and partner, Liz, who was in remission from a nasty battle with cancer that had defined the last few years for us. The move was a fresh start. I opened the book and began to read. It started innocently enough with a brief chapter outlining the childhood of a man referred to only as ‘Phillip’, his childhood was tough as he faced extensive abuse from his father whilst his mother turned a blind eye. It felt rushed, like the biographer couldn’t wait to get to the meat (pardon the distasteful metaphor) of the story, which detailed Phillip’s early killings.\r\nHe'd moved into our house in the early 70s and began to lure young women (mostly prostitutes) into the home before watching them sleep from the vents he’d installed, freeing himself, killing and dismembering them, and finally hiding the bodies in the walls and under the floorboards.\r\nThe smell must’ve been horrendous, I thought, I can almost smell it now.\r\nThe book described fifteen murders, a chapter for each and every one more gruesome than the last, and went into very little detail about the aftermath, about what had become of Phillip. I showed the book to Liz, her initial reaction was frustration that we hadn’t been informed of the house’s dark history by the estate agent, most houses like this would’ve been going for cheap, but we paid a standard price for ours. I promised to call them in the morning to complain.\r\nI slept soundly, to my own surprise, and awoke feeling refreshed. I left Liz to keep sleeping, peered in on my daughter who was also sleeping soundly, and headed down to the kitchen where I phoned our estate agent.\r\n“Why didn’t you tell us about Phillip?” I asked.\r\n“Who’s Phillip?”\r\n“The serial killer that lived in our house, that’s the kind of information one would like to know when buying a house.”\r\n“Sorry; I’ve got no clue what you’re on about.”\r\nHe hung up.\r\nI headed back upstairs; Liz was still there – I realized her chest wasn’t moving. I rushed to my daughter’s room, same story. Above my daughter’s head was a vent with the metal flap still swinging.\r\nA note was on her little chest. It read:\r\n‘Chapter Sixteen.’"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Came From the Empty Lot"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was almost night. My house was hosting a huge party — people laughing, music playing. I didn’t recognize anyone, yet no one seemed out of place. The strange part? There was a pool on our balcony. We’ve never had a pool.\r\nI stood on the roof with an old friend, watching the party below. Everything seemed fine... until I looked toward the side of our house — the empty field next to us.\r\nShe was there.\r\nSamara.\r\nWalking slowly through the overgrown grass beside my house.\r\nI called out, warning everyone. People began rushing inside, but somehow, my house — which isn’t that big — swallowed them all. I couldn’t find my friend anymore. I think he ran in too.\r\nI went inside. Empty.\r\nI heard my mother’s voice coming from behind our old boxy TV. But when I looked behind it, there was nothing. The room was dark. Silent. Hollow.\r\nHer voice came again — from the bedroom this time.\r\nI turned toward the hallway just as I saw Samara’s pale hand gripping the stairs. She was climbing. Slowly. I ran to the bedroom, calling for my mom.\r\nThe door was ajar. I swung it open — no one.\r\nI stood there, alone, facing the emptiness… while she stepped onto the last stair behind me.\r\nThen I woke up."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Little Door"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was behind the fridge. Not hidden, just… unnoticed.\r\nWe were replacing the old unit. When we pulled it forward, the back legs screeched across the tile, unveiling a square door—three feet tall, set into the wall. Painted over maybe twenty times. No knob, just a ring of rusted metal and a tiny keyhole.\r\n“Ever seen that?” I asked my roommate, Jonah.\r\nHe shook his head, too quiet.\r\nThat night, I dreamed of scraping. Metal on metal. Like something trying to turn a key from the wrong side.\r\nThe landlord said he’d “check into it” and ghosted. Typical.\r\nBy Tuesday, I started taping it shut. Duct tape across every edge, reinforced with a chair, a stack of textbooks, anything. The metal ring clinked if I touched it, like a bell with something small and desperate inside.\r\nJonah laughed at first. “You’re creeping yourself out.”\r\nBut I noticed he stopped putting his back to the fridge.\r\nThe fridge light started flickering. We blamed the bulb, swapped it. Still flickered.\r\nThen came the whispering.\r\nOnly between 2:41 and 2:52 a.m. Exactly. The sound of many lips saying… nothing. Just shapes of breath. I tried recording it, but all I got was the high-pitched whine you hear when someone’s screaming just offscreen in a horror movie.\r\nThe cat stopped eating.\r\nOne morning, I found it staring at the fridge. Ears flat. When I called her, she turned and hissed—at me. Then she darted under the couch and never came out. We haven’t seen her since.\r\nJonah started sleeping with the light on. All of them.\r\nFriday night, Jonah woke me. He was in the kitchen, barefoot, blood trailing from his ankle.\r\n“The door opened,” he said.\r\nIt hadn’t. But the duct tape was peeled back, like something had picked at it. The textbooks were wet.\r\nWet with what?\r\nThat’s when Jonah leaned down and whispered something into the keyhole.\r\nI couldn’t hear it.\r\nI couldn’t move.\r\nThe next morning, he was gone.\r\nThe police asked if I had any reason to believe he’d harm himself.\r\n“No,” I said, and they noted my twitching eye like it answered something else.\r\nThat night, the fridge light stopped working completely.\r\nI turned every light on.\r\nI locked myself in my bedroom.\r\nI still heard the scraping. And the wet slap of something crawling over tile.\r\nI barricaded the door. I plugged my ears.\r\nI screamed when the power went out at 2:41.\r\nSilence.\r\nThen something pressed its lips against the crack under the door and whispered my name.\r\nWrong. Wet. Like someone gargling teeth.\r\nThe door in the kitchen opened.\r\nI heard it. Not with my ears—with my spine.\r\nAnd now there’s another door—behind my bedroom bookshelf. Half my height, breathing.\r\nAnd I think…\r\nI think I know how to whisper to it now."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Velvet Voice"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They say there was once a man who did not kneel.\r\nNot when the skies cracked open and the dead rose like smoke.\r\nNot when his brothers burned their banners and bent the knee to a false god.\r\nNot even when the voice came, velvet and kind, promising peace if he’d only bow.\r\nHe stood still.\r\nEven as the rain came pouring down.\r\nEven as his armor rusted to his skin.\r\nEven as his people cursed him for not yielding—\r\nHe stood.\r\nAnd when they finally came for him,\r\nhe did not bother raising his sword.\r\nHe only looked to the sky and wept for the world that had forgotten how to hope.\r\nThey say he died that day.\r\nOthers say he only vanished.\r\nBut in the quiet places—where the soil still remembers light—\r\nflowers bloom in the shape of footprints.\r\nAnd the wind hums a name no one dares to voice aloud."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The button factory"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Steel walls. Conveyor belts. And those buttons.\r\nEndless buttons—and nothing else, save for a pristine sheet of paper with instructions:\r\n“Green: press gently.”\r\n“Red: press harder.”\r\n“Black: don’t hesitate.”\r\nI did it.\r\nInside the factory where there were no people, no sounds beyond the hum of the conveyor belt and the click of buttons, I must have spent a hundred years. No, seriously. In the time I was there, I pressed hundreds of thousands—maybe even a million—buttons.\r\nIt never stopped. I didn’t need sleep. Or food. By then, I couldn’t even remember how I got to that factory. I didn’t have time to think about it—because if I missed a button, my body jolted as if 220 volts shot straight through me.\r\nEventually, I stopped thinking altogether. I sat on a stool I couldn’t rise from—my legs felt paralyzed. The belt moved endlessly, bringing buttons like leaden pearls on a string. The only light came from a flickering fluorescent lamp that scorched my eyes.\r\nI forgot what the sun looked like. The sound of a human voice. At first, I thought I’d ended up in hell and that it would last forever. Then I simply became a living corpse. My hands developed a rhythm, muscle memory—a kind of devotion.\r\nI pressed green gently.\r\nI struck red with force.\r\nI pressed black the instant it appeared.\r\nAnd then—the belt stopped. And so did my heart, almost. A screen lit up before me. Maybe it had always been there, and I just hadn’t seen it.\r\n“TEST COMPLETE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PARTICIPATION.”\r\nI woke up.\r\nFor a few seconds, I couldn’t say a word. My head throbbed with hellish pain, and I vomited on the floor. I looked around and saw a small office room—and a man in a white lab coat and glasses removing a smooth, coin-sized device from my head.\r\nThe light was agony to look at. I couldn’t think anymore. Thoughts wouldn’t form. They twisted into chaos.\r\n“What… what happened…” I asked.\r\nThe man silently handed me a document—and the memory stabbed into my brain like an icy dagger.\r\nIt was the contract. I could barely read it.\r\nI had signed up for this myself. I had volunteered for a highly paid test… of empathy.\r\nWhat?\r\n“How long was I inside?” I struggled to form the words.\r\n“Ten minutes\".\r\nThey gave me a suitcase full of money. Stacks of crisp bills filled every inch. I ran my fingers over them, like buttons.\r\nI can’t sleep anymore. When I close my eyes, the belt keeps moving. Food tastes like dust and metal. Everything I touch feels like a button, waiting for its moment. Every face I see—I want to press it.\r\nTomorrow morning, I’m going to hang myself. I don’t remember who I am. I don’t know what an “empathy test” is… and I never will.\r\nIf this is another test, I will fail it. If not—then maybe the belt will finally stop moving."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Meeting"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"You wanted something?\" Edward asked, \"Is it about my last referral?\"\r\n\"No, your last referral took to the procedure perfectly. This is more a... personal matter.\"\r\n\"Go on.\"\r\nHe looked interested in the wrong ways and I no longer wanted to speak at all but it was necessary.\r\n\"I've been having a hard time with my role recently. The content of some of the memories I extracted has been difficult for me to handle.\"\r\n\"Oh? I thought you'd wanted this job?\"\r\nI had. I'd worked incredibly hard to get to this role. When I'd learned that memories could be deleted and that PTSD that couldn't be resolved through conventional therapies could be eradicated by just removing the trauma itself I'd been fascinated.\r\n\"I was unprepared for the practicalities of the job.\"\r\nThe company that Edward and his family owned referred clients to us regularly. At first I wasn't suspicious of that, the use of memory removal techniques to ensure NDAs was legal, if controversial. But there were other reasons for the referrals. Edward's family would do things to their employees, often horrible things, and then paid them off and send them to us to have memories of the abuse deleted.\r\n\"You could always leave.\"\r\nBut if all I did was quit my job then I'd need to live with what I'd done forever. The amount of times somebody would wake up from my machine and no longer know how they got certain scars or why a certain time period was missing. I made a woman forget who her daughter's father was once. It wasn't even that she was conceived in an illegal or inappropriate manner, there had been a brief but consensual relationship before the pregnancy. But Edward's brother didn't want a daughter and so a substantial amount of money changed hands and then I was sent in to scrub that whole encounter away.\r\n\"I intend to resign. I wondered though, considering the amount of people whose memory deletion you have generously funded, if you would consider giving me the same grace so that I would not have to fully remember my time working here.\"\r\nNo threats of blackmail, a slight fluff of Edward's ego, the unspoken implication that me not knowing what I'd deleted would likely be best for everyone. I couldn't afford the services I provided. This was my one way out.\r\nEdward sighed and tapped away on his phone.\r\n\"There, digital contract sent over. Once you agree then I'll refer you though.\"\r\nHe already had the contract written. How many times had he done this? How long would he continue to get away with this once my memories were gone?\r\nIt didn't matter. All I could see in my head was the face of a man looking at the severe scarring Edward had left on his arm and asking me if it had happened in the procedure. His bewilderment when I'd told him his arm had been like that when he arrived.\r\nI signed."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Beyond The Fence"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "In small-town Appalachia, there are a lot of noises at night. Bugs, bats, birds, critters—everything comes alive once the sun goes down.\r\nLuckily, I’ve got a big privacy fence around the whole backyard. Any time, any day, I just swing the back door open and let the dogs out to do their thing.\r\nMy big fluffy boy, Bear, loves it. He patrols like it’s his job, walking the fence line and barking at whatever’s on the other side. Most of the time it’s just the neighbor dogs—I don’t know if they’re talking or cussing each other out, but he seems to love it.\r\nTonight, though, something’s off.\r\nBefore dinner I stepped outside and called out, “Bear! Time to eat!”\r\nUsually he prances straight to the door, tail swooshing, ready to eat. But this time, he just looked at me, then turned back to the fence, tail low.\r\nI called again. Same thing. A slight tail swoosh, but no movement.\r\nSo I went to check. Because I can see over the fence, almost.\r\nAs I got closer, I heard tiny footsteps on the other side.\r\n“I swear to God, Bear, if there’s a skunk over there I’m gonna be pissed,” I muttered, eyeing the furball frozen near the boards.\r\nThen I realized—there was no sound. No bugs. No birds. No breeze. Just the crunch of my shoes in the grass.\r\nCrunch. Crunch. Crunch.\r\nBear didn’t bark. Didn’t growl. Just stared.\r\nI grabbed the fence and pulled myself up a few inches to look over.\r\nNothing.\r\n“Come on, there’s nothing there. You probably just caught an old scent of a ca—”\r\nA woosh cut me off. Bear leapt back like he’d touched an electric fence.\r\nI scrambled up for another look—still nothing. Just trees and shadows.\r\n“Stop bothering rabbits, Bear. They can live out there all they want.”\r\nThen I heard it. A whisper, soft and wrong, carried on the wind.\r\n“That’s not my name.”\r\nI froze. Bear was already at the back door, staring at me like he didn’t know why I was still down by the fence.\r\nThe wind picked up, thick with the smell of wet dirt and rot. The smell was so thick, I nearly choked.\r\nI spun around, eyes burning, trying to see as the dusk continues to fade.\r\n“Hel—hello?” I called, trying to sound steady.\r\nNo answer.\r\nJust silence.\r\nThen, right behind me—closer than the fence—another whisper:\r\n“Time to eat.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Green Dot"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Marcus took pride in his efficiency. His flat was a symphony of automation, his life optimised to the minute. So when a tiny green dot appeared in the corner of his vision, he dismissed it as eye strain.\r\nBut the dot didn't go away.\r\nIt was always there: a perfect, vivid emerald. No optician could see it. No scan revealed anything amiss.\r\n\"You're just stressed,\" Chloe told him over supper. \"You need to switch off for a bit.\"\r\nHe tried, but the dot remained. Then it began to react.\r\nWhen he nearly spooned salt into his tea, the dot flashed amber. When he spotted a shortcut to work, it pulsed brighter green. When he found a twenty-pound note, it shimmered with celebratory light.\r\nLike a private heads-up display, it guided him. The dot helped him ace a presentation, avoid a collision on the A406, even pick a winning scratchcard. Marcus felt unstoppable.\r\nBut Chloe noticed the change.\r\n\"You're different,\" she said. \"Colder. Like you're not really here.\"\r\nMarcus shrugged her off, the green dot reassuring him he was on the optimal path.\r\nThen, one evening, Chloe confronted him. \"I can't do this anymore. You're obsessed! I don't even know who you are.\"\r\nThe dot flashed amber, then red—an urgent warning. Marcus felt a surge of fear and anger. Chloe reached for his arm, and the red became all he could see.\r\nHis hand shot out, knocking over a lamp. Chloe gasped, stumbling back. The red flash intensified, then—\r\nNothing.\r\nHe awoke in a sterile room. The green dot was back, calm and steady. A doctor sat beside him.\r\n\"Marcus, we've been monitoring your neural implant. There was a malfunction in the threat assessment overlay. We're terribly sorry for what happened with Chloe.\"\r\n\"Implant?\" he croaked. He didn't remember any implant.\r\n\"It's the Guardian Angel programme. You consented during your workplace health screening.\"\r\nA flicker of memory: signing a digital pad, fine print unread. The green dot pulsed.\r\n\"We've recalibrated it,\" the doctor continued. \"It's now optimised for social cohesion.\"\r\nMarcus tried to resist, covering his eyes, ignoring the dot's gentle pulses. But it persisted, growing warmer, more persuasive.\r\n\"Chloe is recovering. She's agreed to a reconciliation session.\"\r\nMarcus felt strangely calm. The dot was there, making everything seem manageable.\r\n\"The algorithm has flagged Chloe as a 'potential conflict catalyst'—someone who requires careful management in social interactions.\"\r\nThe green dot pulsed in agreement. Yes, Chloe could be intense. The system knew best.\r\n\"All right,\" he said. \"When is the session?\"\r\n\"Tomorrow. The dot will guide you through the optimal dialogue choices.\"\r\nAs he was led toward the reconciliation room, Marcus hesitated. For a moment, he wondered if he was still himself—or just an extension of the system. The green dot pulsed, dissolving the question before it could take hold.\r\nHe stepped forward, following the green."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Minus-One Vine"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Marcus Bell typed for the same reason other men prayed—to keep the ghosts quiet. All his life the world had answered his voice with snickers or hushes: a father who called poetry “girl talk,” classmates who taped his mouth in a locker. On Reddit he finally spoke without seeing their eyes. Up-votes felt like strangers nodding yes, you’re real.\r\nOne July midnight, sweat pooling behind his knees, Marcus posted Kudzu That Knows Your Name to r /SwampLit. Yeast-thick heat pressed through the window screen while the counter rose: 7… 11… 13. A sacred baker’s dozen. Marcus exhaled, hearing cicadas grind like loose cogs.\r\nThen—click—the number fell to 12.\r\nNo comment. No explanation. Just an arrow turned gray, as if someone had plucked a note out of his throat. Something inside him—that old locker-door rattle—slammed shut. He refreshed once, twice, a hundred times, until the phone battery bled out.\r\nThe night went mute. Even the frogs forgot their lines.\r\nBefore dawn, the screen blinked to life in a hush of funeral-blue. Still minus one. Still no words. Beneath the post appeared a new icon he’d never installed: Downvoter—a blank, thumb-shaped face. He poked it. The app opened a single line of text:\r\nTHE VINE GROWS ON VOICES. GIVE YOURS.\r\nMarcus flinched as a sweet-rot smell seeped through the open door. Kudzu dangled from the porch rafters—too fast, too thick, like green data cables downloading from the dark. Leaves twitched with modem clicks; tendrils mapped the air in binary curls.\r\nHe backed inside, but vines slipped through keyholes, whispering pixels of his username: BellmanBellmanBellman. One tendril sprouted a tiny thumbs-down leaf and touched his lips—gentle as a lowercase tap.\r\nMarcus understood: the down-arrow wasn’t judgment; it was hunger. An unlabeled mouth begging context. He’d offered none. Now the silence wanted payment.\r\nHe tried to speak—I’m sorry—yet only a buffering wheel circled his tongue. The kudzu slid deeper, rooting in his larynx, reading every sentence he’d ever imagined. Words drained from his eyes like ink from a cracked pen.\r\nThe generator coughed out. Screens across the county flickered as a fresh post appeared on r /SwampLit:\r\nOriginal Content • by u /Downvoter\r\nKudzu That Knows Your Name (Revised)\r\nThirty up-votes in ten minutes. No one noticed the shift in cadence—the way the story tasted of copper and crawling leaves.\r\nAt sunrise, a neighbor fetching mail found Marcus on the porch swing, limp as a discarded modem, throat bruised the color of clay. His phone lay in his lap, screen sticky with sap.\r\nShe scrolled the new version of the story, feeling an odd familiarity—like hearing her own dream told back to her. She thought about commenting, asking who the author really was, why the tale felt stolen. But the morning was busy, and typing seemed awkward. Instead she shrugged and kept scrolling.\r\nBehind her, the kudzu rustled, grateful. A single leaf curled into a tiny, silent thumb—pointing straight down."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "\"The Tooth Fairy Eats Kids.\""
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I hunt monsters. Real ones. The kind that leave autopsy photos and grieving parents behind.\r\nIt started after I lost my job. No friends, no family worth calling—I packed my things and hit the road. I got hooked on cryptid lore, reading up on urban legends in every state I passed through. Most were just stories.\r\nUntil Kansas.\r\nBuried in an old message board was a photo of a local newspaper: “Three Children Dead — Tooth Fairy Strikes Again.” It didn’t read like satire. I drove to the tiny town mentioned in the article.\r\nThe journalist who wrote it had been fired. I found him in a crumbling house, reeking of whiskey.\r\n“I made it up,” he slurred at first. But when I pressed, he broke. “There’ve been more deaths. Kids keep dying after losing teeth. No one wants to talk about it. I only published what I could before they shut me up.”\r\nHe showed me photos—autopsies of small skulls with shattered jaws, teeth torn out, and sometimes more than just the teeth missing.\r\n“The attacks seem random,” he said. “But I noticed a pattern. Each kid left a tooth under their pillow. They weren’t visited—they were fed on.”\r\nI told him I wasn’t a cop or a reporter. Just someone who wanted to stop whatever this thing was.\r\nA few days later, we found a lead: a young couple whose daughter had lost a tooth in a playground accident. They were terrified. Everyone in town knew what losing a tooth meant.\r\nWe made a plan.\r\nThat night, the girl went to bed with her tooth under the pillow. The parents stayed downstairs with us, glued to the baby monitor. For hours, nothing.\r\nThen, static.\r\nA shape emerged in the glitchy feed—tall, crooked, and silent. It hovered at the edge of the girl’s bed, limbs too long, mouth wide, filled with far too many teeth.\r\nWe burst in.\r\nI fired a shotgun round—it exploded in a blast of teeth. One caught the reporter in the face.\r\nIt came for me.\r\nI grabbed the fireplace poker and rammed it down its throat. It screamed—a horrible, whistling shriek—and collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a blackened tooth beneath the pillow.\r\nThe girl lived.\r\nThe town sighed in relief.\r\nBut a month later, I saw another article in Idaho. Two more children dead. Both had just lost their first tooth."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Preview"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The void was absolute, a cold, black nothingness that seemed to hum with the absence of existence. Then, suddenly, there was a click, and the void was replaced by the glow of an old, flickering TV screen. A figure sat in front of it, vague and indistinct, like a shadow with a face that shifted and rippled.\r\n\"Alright, kid,\" the figure said, its voice like static. \"Time to see what you're getting yourself into.\"\r\nThe screen flickered to life, showing snippets of a life. A messy apartment, a shitty job, a string of failed relationships, and a slow descent into madness. The final scene showed a gory suicide, blood pooling on a bathroom floor.\r\nThe figure leaned back, crossing its arms. \"So, what do you think? Ready to sign on the dotted line?\"\r\nI stared, my mind reeling. \"This… this is my life? You're telling me I get to live through that?\"\r\n\"Yep,\" the figure said, popping the 'p' with a grotesque satisfaction. \"And let me tell you, it's a real blast. But hey, at least the ending's got some flair, right? I mean, who doesn't love a good slit-wrist special?\"\r\nI gagged, my stomach twisting into knots. \"This is disgusting. I don't want this life!\"\r\nThe figure shrugged. \"So don't take it. You've got a choice, remember? It's all part of the deal. You can walk away, go back to the void, or...\"\r\n\"Or what?\" I interrupted, my voice shaking with rage.\r\nThe figure tilted its head, its face shifting into a grotesque grin. \"Or… well, there is no 'or.' That's it. You either take the life, or you don't. If you don't, you just… cease. No biggie. But let's be real, kid, you're not gonna say no. Nobody ever says no.\"\r\n\"Why?\" I demanded. \"Why would anyone agree to this?\"\r\n\"Because deep down,\" the figure said, leaning forward, its voice dropping to a whisper, \"deep down, you want this. You want to suffer. You want to scream and cry and bleed. It's in your nature. And this life? It's gonna give you all of that and more.\"\r\nI shook my head, my heart pounding in my chest. \"No. I won't do it. I won't accept this.\"\r\nThe figure sighed, rolling its eyes. \"Fine, be that way. But just so you know, this is the best you're gonna get. The next life you're offered? Worse. Much, much worse.\"\r\n\"Wait, what? There's more than one life?\"\r\n\"Oh, kid,\" the figure said, chuckling. \"You've got no idea. This is just the preview. The real show? That's gonna be a wild ride.\"\r\nAnd with that, the screen went black, and the void swallowed me whole once more.\r\nBut this time, I wasn't alone.\r\nAnd the screaming? It wasn't mine."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Mire at Low Hollow"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Being an Extract from the Journals of Dr. Thaddeus Crowle, 1877\r\nIt is a well-documented folly of man that we dig too deeply where we were never meant to. Such was the case beneath Low Hollow, where a shaft, sunk in pursuit of crude, disturbed something far older.\r\nAccording to local legend, the shaft was abandoned when Lincoln’s war began, left to rot beneath moss and stagnant water. But the void did not close. Nature abhors a vacuum, and something else filled the space.\r\nThe region sank. Trees leaned inward with unnatural gravity. In time, the bog thickened and grew dark, but did not seal the hole.\r\nThe folk of nearby Tallowville and Old Eastton refuse to tread Low Hollow, whispering, “The ground is wrong.” It was a warning.\r\nI provide this background with the note that I, a man of science, gave no credence to such tales upon receipt of Reverend Hensley’s letter.\r\nHis niece, Miss Abigail Marsh, had fallen ill.\r\nI arrived on the eleventh of August. The manor was abhorrent, brutally plain and hewn of heavy cement blocks. Half-sunken, its damp walls cracked and wept. Rotting timbers strained against collapsing foundation.\r\nI’d not seen anything like it before, and hope never to again.\r\nAbigail had been found at the fen’s edge, outstretched in an embrace, eyes vacant. Her garments were soaked and stained with what appeared to be blood.\r\nAnd yet, no solvent could remove it. The substance bore a fungal reek and the texture of moist clay. Even in direct sun, it remained sticky and unnaturally wet. It simply would not wash.\r\nWith my kit, I confirmed the presence of blood, mingled with crude and something mineral. I stored a sample before proceeding to examine Miss Marsh.\r\nSince the episode, the girl had been seized nightly by terrors, speaking of a faceless man, sculpted not by Providence, but by the bog, his breath coming as desperate asthmatic gasps sucked through saturated earth.\r\nFwheee... SHHLURRRK... GKK--K--uk--uk--kk... Fwheee...\r\nShe claimed he was made from what lay below, born of a pact sealed by drowning, but curiously, could not describe whom or what had drowned, as she descended into unintelligible, mournful wailing, clutching her abdomen.\r\nI suspected hysteria brought on by the girl’s menses, but planned my departure for further analysis of the sample, the Reverend insistent I identify the illness' origin.\r\nSuddenly from outside, sickening sounds - screaming horses and a deep, terrible squelch. Then nothing.\r\nI rushed outside, nearly stumbling into vast depressions where the horses had been tethered. The ground was soaked, though no rain had fallen in weeks.\r\nMy wagon was half-swallowed. The reins disappeared into the mire, drawn taut and trembling, as if something below was struggling.\r\nI have not stepped outside since.\r\nNow, on my eleventh evening, I accept what the townsfolk knew. What the Reverend must have known.\r\nThe Hollow was never empty.\r\nThe shaft was never sealed.\r\nIt is awake beneath the mud.\r\nIt hungers for sacrifice."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Grandmother died, I inherited the remote."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It looked ancient—chunky, yellowed plastic with a faded RCA logo. No batteries. Just a coiled cord that ended in nothing. She called it her “clicker,” though I never saw it connected to anything.\r\n“Every channel’s a memory,” she told me once. “But don’t watch the basement.”\r\nI thought it was dementia.\r\nAfter she passed, I plugged it into a power strip out of habit, even though it had no prongs.\r\nIt sparked.\r\nJust once. Then the screen turned on.\r\nChannel 1: Me, age six, hiding cookies under the couch.\r\nChannel 3: Grandma humming, slicing apples. She looked straight into the camera and said, “Someone’s watching.”\r\nI dropped the remote.\r\nBut the screen changed on its own.\r\nChannel 8: My father crying in the garage. Channel 14: My mother leaving. Channel 23: Grandma, young and furious, scrubbing blood off linoleum.\r\nI unplugged the power strip.\r\nThe screen stayed on.\r\nI wrapped the cord in a towel and buried it in the closet. That night, I dreamed of static. The sound buzzed in my teeth. Something hummed under the floorboards.\r\nIn the morning, the TV was back on.\r\nChannel 66.\r\nMe.\r\nSleeping.\r\nLive.\r\nI stared at the timestamp in the corner—only a few minutes behind.\r\nI turned the clicker off. Nothing happened.\r\nThen I heard it.\r\nClick.\r\nFrom inside the wall.\r\nThat night I stayed at a friend’s place. Brought the clicker with me, stuffed in a backpack. Didn’t tell them why.\r\nBut when I woke up, it was on my chest.\r\nAnd the screen in the guest room was playing Channel 77: me again.\r\nBut this time I wasn’t sleeping.\r\nI was screaming. And something—something—was pulling me off-screen.\r\nI haven’t slept since.\r\nEvery TV I pass flickers.\r\nThey find me.\r\nAnd every night, the clicker clicks.\r\nSomewhere close.\r\nSometimes, right behind me."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Darkened Hallway"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "As I lay in bed, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching me. Suddenly, I heard footsteps outside my room. At first, I thought it was just the house settling, but then I heard my name whispered softly. \"Ashley...\"\r\nI froze, my heart racing. The whisper seemed to come from the hallway. I slowly got out of bed and approached the door. As I opened it, a chill ran down my spine. The hallway was pitch black, despite the moonlight streaming through the windows.\r\nI took a step forward, and that's when I saw it. A figure stood at the end of the hall, shrouded in darkness. It didn't move or speak, but I felt its gaze fixed on me. I tried to scream, but my voice was trapped in my throat.\r\nThe figure began to move towards me, its presence filling the hallway. I stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet. As I fell, the lights flickered on, and the figure vanished. But the words \"I'm waiting\" were scrawled on the wall in red letters. I knew then that I wasn't alone in the house."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Fence Line"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Jeremy first noticed the cat on a Tuesday evening. It perched on the wooden fence, still as a gargoyle, yellow eyes glinting in the fading light. He was flipping burgers on the grill and laughed to himself. “You’re bold, huh?”\r\nThe cat didn’t move. Didn’t blink.\r\nIt became a regular visitor. Always there when he stepped outside—dusk, dawn, didn’t matter. Same spot. Same stare. Its fur was black, except for a perfect white ring around its neck, like a collar. Jeremy started calling it “Oreo.”\r\nBy Friday, he started feeling watched even when inside. Curtains drawn, lights off—he’d glance through the blinds and see those eyes glowing back.\r\nThat night, he dreamt of scratching—long, slow drags across wood and metal. A shadow moved across his yard on two legs. Not a person. Something else.\r\nSaturday, he tried to chase it off. Threw a shoe. The cat didn’t flinch. It just tilted its head. When Jeremy stepped closer, it leapt from the fence… but landed upright.\r\nIt didn’t run. It stood there.\r\nOn two legs.\r\nThe shape was wrong. Limbs too long. Spine too straight. The cat-face remained, but the body twitched with confused, jerky motion—like it was mimicking the idea of “human” but didn’t quite understand it.\r\nJeremy stumbled back, heart pounding. The thing turned and walked away—not ran, not slinked—walked, like a man.\r\nHe didn’t sleep that night. Boarded the doors. Kept the lights on.\r\nAt 3:12 a.m., the power cut out.\r\nSomething knocked at the back door. Three soft taps. Then a voice—too high, too flat:\r\n“Let me in.”\r\nHe held his breath. The voice came again, warped like a child mimicking speech:\r\n“Jerrrrr-mee. Cold out here.”\r\nHe didn’t move.\r\nThen a scratching sound… high up. The window.\r\nHe turned just in time to see it peering in—those glowing eyes, still and hungry.\r\nAnd smiling."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Friend From The Dark"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "A voice grew in my mind like a sapling. “Shhh,” it hissed. “No need to be afraid. Not yet.” The darkness pooled in the corner of my room, pulsing. Then \"the voice\" stepped forward. Towering, mangled, crowned with antlers that scraped the ceiling, limbs like rope strung wrong. Its smile was too wide, its eyes...they were rather hollow pits than eyes.\r\n“I’ve watched you fail,” it said, almost tenderly. “I’ve watched you beg your gods in silence. Let me help.” I tried to scream, to pray. Nothing. My body refused me. “I can change everything. Give you everything that you need, you want. You just need to surrender and ask”.\r\nIt reached out, and brushed my cheek. Something wiggled beneath my skin, curling around my soul like a vine. And then the figure whispered: “The part you use to feel guilt. Or fear. Or doubt. Let me have it, and you'll never suffer again.”\r\nI wanted to say no. Each cell in my body wanted to scream no. I think I did. But the world changed anyway.\r\nI woke up to good news. Every day since, better. My life smoothed out like a wound being erased. I stopped making mistakes. Stopped second-guessing. I became... perfect. But something was off. I didn’t laugh anymore, and when I did, it was in the most evil circumstances. Food tasted like ash. Colors felt flat. When my mother cried telling me how proud she was, I watched her with clinical detachment.\r\nAnd then, last night, he returned. “You said yes,” it grinned, “and now, so many more have too. You’re my proof of concept.” The shadows behind it moved. Hundreds of eyes blinked back at me from the darkness of my room. “You’ve been my vessel, love. A walking miracle. A lighthouse to the lost. And they saw your light.”\r\nIt stepped aside. Behind it were several faces. Of known and unknown people. Even the barista from the shop down the street. All of them smiling with empty eyes. They had all made deals.\r\nAnd me? I wasn’t the first. I was just the advertisement."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Old Clock"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The clock in my grandfather’s study never ticked.\r\nIt just stood there.\r\nOld.\r\nHeavy.\r\nIts hands froze at 3:03.\r\nHe told me never to touch it.\r\n“It doesn’t keep time,” he said.\r\n“It keeps something else.”\r\nI thought he was joking.\r\nJust a lonely man.\r\nTalking nonsense.\r\nWhen he died, I moved in.\r\nThe clock started ticking.\r\nSlowly.\r\nOne beat every ten seconds.\r\nI heard it on the first night.\r\nTick.\r\nLouder than it should be.\r\nI stared at it.\r\nCouldn’t look away.\r\nThe hands moved.\r\nOnly slightly.\r\nStill 3:03.\r\nBut not quite.\r\nI touched the glass.\r\nIt was warm.\r\nToo warm.\r\nSomething shifted behind it.\r\nLike a shadow.\r\nOr a reflection.\r\nI leaned closer.\r\nI saw myself.\r\nBut older.\r\nTired.\r\nAfraid.\r\nHe stared back.\r\nMouth open.\r\nScreaming.\r\nI stumbled back.\r\nFell.\r\nHit my head.\r\nWoke up hours later.\r\nClock still ticking.\r\nFaster now.\r\nOne tick per second.\r\nTime moved strangely.\r\nI checked my phone.\r\nBattery dead.\r\nChecked my watch.\r\nFrozen.\r\n3:03.\r\nAlways 3:03.\r\nThe days blurred.\r\nI stopped sleeping.\r\nThe clock never did.\r\nTick.\r\nTick.\r\nTick.\r\nIt filled the house.\r\nEvery room.\r\nEvery thought.\r\nI tried to cover it.\r\nBlankets.\r\nDuct tape.\r\nNothing worked.\r\nI smashed the glass.\r\nIt bled.\r\nNot glass.\r\nSkin.\r\nIt healed.\r\nFast.\r\nLike it wanted to keep going.\r\nI left the house.\r\nBut time followed.\r\nTraffic lights froze.\r\nPeople didn’t move.\r\nThey stared.\r\nMouths open.\r\nLike my reflection.\r\nI screamed.\r\nNo one heard.\r\nOnly ticking.\r\nAlways ticking.\r\nI ran.\r\nNowhere helped.\r\nI broke mirrors.\r\nNo more reflections.\r\nStill saw myself.\r\nOlder.\r\nWasting away.\r\nThen I understood.\r\nThe clock didn’t steal time.\r\nIt showed it.\r\nEvery second I wasted.\r\nEvery minute I gave away.\r\nScrolling.\r\nSleeping.\r\nComplaining.\r\nGone.\r\nIt wasn’t cursed.\r\nIt was honest.\r\nBrutally honest.\r\nIt made me see.\r\nHow little we have.\r\nHow much we waste.\r\nNow I listen.\r\nTick.\r\nTick.\r\nI count every second.\r\nEach one matters.\r\nI won’t forget again.\r\nAnd neither should you.\r\nTick."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Hunger Trail"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The last message from the missing hikers came three days ago.\r\nPark ranger Mara Jennings stared at the frozen screen of the emergency transponder: a garbled SOS, coordinates deep inside Black Hollow Forest—far beyond the usual trails.\r\nWind howled outside the ranger station as snow began to fall, thick and relentless. Nobody went into Black Hollow in winter. Not anymore.\r\nBut Mara zipped up her coat and loaded her pack. Someone had to try.\r\nBy nightfall, the forest swallowed her. The trees were crooked here—scarred, blackened, like they'd survived a fire that never made the news. She found their camp just before dusk: half a tent buried in snow, a shredded sleeping bag, blood... but no bodies.\r\nAnd then she heard it.\r\nCrunch.\r\nSnap.\r\nNot animal footsteps. Not human. Something wrong. Too tall. Too light. Too fast.\r\nShe drew her flashlight—and caught a glimpse. Just a sliver... Antlers. Skin like rotting parchment. Black eyes sunken deep. It turned its head slowly, too slowly, like a puppet learning to move. The beam flickered out.\r\nSilence returned.\r\nShe ran, the snow swallowing her boots, lungs searing in the cold. Behind her, a whisper trailed on the wind.\r\n\"So... hungry...\"\r\nHer radio crackled. A voice, barely human:\r\n\"He ate Paul... and now he talks like him...\"\r\nThe Wendigo doesn't just consume flesh. It takes voice, memory, face. Each victim becomes a mask it can wear.\r\nMara dropped her radio. She didn’t need it anymore.\r\nThe whisper came again. Closer.\r\n\"Mara...\"\r\nAnd this time, it sounded just like her."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Long Sweater"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I moved in for a clinical rotation — small town, western Kentucky. Cheap rent, quiet yard, an old trailer parked near the woods.\r\nAt first, it was fine.\r\nThen came the knocks.\r\nEvery night, around 2:37 AM:\r\nTap. Tap. Tap.\r\nNot the door.\r\nThe side of the trailer.\r\nAlways the same rhythm.\r\nThe third night, I stayed up.\r\nLights off. Phone in hand.\r\nThe tapping came again — deliberate. Almost… mocking.\r\nNext morning, I asked the owners.\r\nTom muttered:\r\n“Guy before you didn’t last long. Kept to himself. Kinda like you.”\r\nThen things escalated.\r\nA mug moved slightly.\r\nFingerprints on a window I never touched.\r\nAnd one night — a whisper.\r\nFrom inside.\r\nFrom the bathroom.\r\nI opened the door.\r\nNothing.\r\nJust a message, written on the mirror:\r\n“He’s lying.”\r\nI packed my stuff and left.\r\nBut I kept thinking about that trailer.\r\nI wrote to the local library.\r\nThey sent me an old newspaper clipping:\r\nA woman died there. Sleeping pills.\r\nShe used to talk about voices at night.\r\nAnd at the bottom of the article:\r\nYears earlier, the owners’ daughter, Alice, had lived in that trailer.\r\nDiagnosed with schizoaffective disorder.\r\nDetails undisclosed.\r\nI checked my last night’s video.\r\nDark footage.\r\nAt 2:36 AM, the backyard gate creaks.\r\nA figure steps in.\r\nThin.\r\nWearing a long sweater.\r\nShe just stands there.\r\nFor two minutes.\r\nThen turns,\r\nand disappears into the woods.\r\nNo ghosts.\r\nNo monsters.\r\nJust someone forgotten.\r\nUnseen.\r\nStill wandering.\r\nAnd even now, in my new apartment —\r\nwhen I hear soft tapping on the wall…\r\nI think of that sweater.\r\nAnd I freeze."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Marching Band"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The clouded spring sunlight glinted off the impossibly bright buttons and brass curves of the instruments as the melody swelled up to the mottled grey and blue sky. The tune wasn’t perfect, but the imperfections made it all the more adorable.\r\nMrs. Barrie hadn’t realised the small town where they had settled a few months ago boasted a marching band, but she wasn’t surprised. The local facebook page was always buzzing with clubs, meetups, fundraisers, and socials. \"Sip and Paint!”- only yesterday evening Mrs. Stevenson had successfully persuaded her to join a painting club replete with booze and art, which turned out to be the most fun Mrs. Barrie had had for a long, long, time. She glanced at her canvas depicting a crooked view of their house and the curved street, with two crude figures of her boys and their cat Jade. It would never be spotted in an art gallery, but Mrs. Barrie had captured the love she had developed for their new home.\r\nThere was a third figure, just by the edge of the canvas, stepping into the street. Mrs. Barrie couldn’t remember painting it, but given the free-flowing wine, that wasn’t surprising. She concentrated on the painting. The third figure was detailed- purple jacket and glinting brass, and now that she peered closer, the expression on the face was quite vivid, the cheeks blown up, the delicate fingers on the heavy instrument, the eyes wide with fright -\r\nMrs. Barrie’s eyes moved to the two figures of her boys turned towards the house. The younger was looking back at Jade, who was facing the marching band, her tail erect and sharp with curiosity. Her younger son’s arms reached out to Jade, his older brother heading into the house.\r\nThe music swelled louder, filling the house. Mrs. Barrie ran outside but the music was blinding her - she couldn’t see- oh there they were- the only two children on the street. Everybody else had gone indoors, curtains were drawn. Mrs. Barrie called out to her sons, but her voice was drowned in the loud music, drawing closer and closer.\r\nBrass flashed at the top of the street. Mrs. Barrie ran to her sons, her fear now rivalled by rage at her neighbours for not warning her.\r\nThe boys turned their pretty soft faces to her, confused. She grabbed their arms, pulling them towards the house. They knew better than to resist, and they ran, against the waves of brassy music which was buffeting them towards the marching musicians.\r\nAnd then Jade dashed out. The youngest squirmed out of her grasp and ran to her. Mrs. Barrie couldn’t wait, she pushed the eldest in the house.\r\nShe didn’t dare to turn back. He needed her.\r\nSeconds passed.\r\nOnly after the music died down leaving the street silent, did she turn around. The band had passed. There was no sign of her youngest. Jade was on the garden wall, looking out on the empty street."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Garden Stone"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Travis squatted beside the last stubborn boulder, sweat trickling into his eyes. Kim’s “flower garden” was more weeds and rocks than blooms. Most stones were easy to toss aside, but this one…\r\n“I think we hit bedrock,” Travis muttered, wedging the pry bar deeper.\r\nKim laughed from the porch, sipping tea. “Don’t wimp out now. You’re the muscle.”\r\nHe grunted. Inch by inch, the earth gave way, revealing a perfect sphere buried like a secret. Two feet wide and far heavier than it looked.\r\nThey rolled it free together. It hit the grass with a hollow thunk.\r\nTravis hosed off the grime. The color made them both freeze.\r\nSwirls of gold and blood-red shimmered across its polished surface. Purple flecks glittered like crushed gems. The patterns weren’t random. They spiraled, circled—moved, if you stared long enough. It felt carved, shaped. Or grown.\r\n“Damn,” Travis muttered. “This isn’t normal.”\r\nKim knelt beside it. “It’s beautiful.”\r\nThey joked about calling a museum, took some pictures, then rolled it into the garage and called it a night.\r\nBut Travis couldn’t sleep.\r\nEvery time he closed his eyes, he saw the swirls. Twisting. Tightening. Drawing him inward.\r\nHe tried distracting himself—TV, phone, counting backwards—but his chest tightened with each breath. His skin prickled.\r\nA question looped in his head: What’s inside it?\r\nAt 2:13 AM, he gave in.\r\nSlipping out of bed, he padded down to the garage. The light buzzed on, revealing the stone—waiting. Humming.\r\nHe circled it. Knelt. Touched its gleaming ridges.\r\n“It has to be hollow,” he whispered. “It has to be something.”\r\nHe grabbed the sledgehammer from the wall.\r\nHands trembling, he raised it overhead.\r\n“Last chance to stay pretty.”\r\nHe swung.\r\nThe crack echoed like a gunshot.\r\nThe stone didn’t break—but it fractured. Spiderweb lines raced across its surface. From within, a green glow surged out—not light, but life. Sickly, phosphorescent, like rotting limes.\r\nThe air hissed. Sharp and sour. Like ozone and spoiled meat.\r\nTravis stumbled back.\r\nThe cracks widened.\r\nThe swirls began to move—literally rotate—around the glowing core. Slow. Deliberate. Like something waking.\r\nThen came the sound.\r\nTicking.\r\nNot mechanical. Organic. Like bones flexing. Like joints testing themselves.\r\nThe garage light burst overhead.\r\nDarkness swallowed him—except for the stone, now pulsing like a heartbeat.\r\nThen it breathed.\r\nA long, rattling exhale hissed from the center. Warm. Wet.\r\nTravis dropped the hammer and turned to run.\r\nBehind him, the boulder split open with a wet, splitting crunch.\r\nAnd something stepped out."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The letters"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The first letter arrived on a Tuesday. I found it tucked beneath my morning paper, enclosed in a stampless, addressless envelope. I opened the envelope to find a letter written in my wife's handwriting. But she had been dead for six years.\r\n“I miss you. I see you every day, but you don’t see me. Please come to me, I’m waiting.” I collapsed onto the floor, the letter trembling in my sweaty palms. A cruel joke, surely. Her handwriting had always been unique. Not something that could easily be imitated. But there it was, undeniably hers.\r\nThe next letter came Friday.“It’s cold here. I need you.” I called my best friend, who asked me to rest, and even suggested me visiting a therapist. The grief had clawed at me for years, and now, maybe, it was consuming me. I had always felt guilty for not being at home the day she took her life.\r\nOn Sunday afternoon, I heard her voice. It came from our bedroom, softly humming away our favourite song. I crept up the stairs. The sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the window. When I reached the first floor landing, there it was on the floor.“You’re getting closer. I’m so proud of you.”\r\nI lost my mind that day. The third week, the letters came daily. Some were left on the porch, others appeared inside the locked study. One was under my pillow. Each note grew more urgent.“We were meant to go together, remember?”\r\nI stopped sleeping. I barely ate. Each letter grew more familiar, more intimate, more desperate. “Please,” they read. “You promised we’d be together.” The guilt that had haunted me for six years began to feel like a punishment.\r\nOn the final night, the letter was different. Longer. Handwriting shaky. It said, “I’m tired. I want to rest. But I can’t until you remember.”\r\nSomething cracked inside me. I rushed to the storeroom, where I had kept away all her belongings after her death. I dug into the pile of photos, journals, receipts, and finally, I found her diary. The last entry: “He’s been acting strange. I don’t feel safe. If something happens to me... it won’t be by my own hand.”\r\nI dropped the diary. The letters weren't calling me. They were reminding me. The suicide, the grief, the guilt. All of it was all a story I’d told myself so many times, I’d started to believe it. But she hadn’t left me. I had killed her.\r\nThe house was silent, but a new letter lay waiting. In my handwriting. Inside was a photo: her, standing at the foot of my bed, watching me sleep. The note read: “You remembered. That was all I needed.” Relief washed over me. And then I saw the second photo. Me, holding the knife. Smiling."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Name Beneath the Well"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There was once a child who feared the dark.\r\nSo he prayed each night, asking for a light to protect him.\r\nOne evening, his prayer was answered.\r\nA silver flame flickered at the bottom of the old well.\r\nIt whispered warmly,\r\n“Come. Look. I’ll show you a world without fear.”\r\nThe child leaned closer.\r\nIn the water’s reflection, he saw himself older, stronger, adored by all.\r\nNo fear. No sorrow. No loneliness.\r\n“All I ask,” said the flame, “is your name. Just your name.”\r\nAnd so he gave it.\r\nYears passed. He grew into the man he had seen.\r\nBrave. Respected. Empty.\r\nHe could not remember who he was.\r\nBut he never feared the dark again."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "There’s Something Wrong With the Rain..."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I’ve lived in this small town my whole life. We’re surrounded by dense pine forests, nestled between mountains no one climbs anymore. People say it’s peaceful. Quiet. I used to agree—until the rain changed.\r\nIt started three weeks ago. First, the rain wouldn’t fall unless you looked away. I’d hear the patter on the windows, step outside, and find the sky overcast but dry. Turn my back? Rain. Glance behind me? Nothing.\r\nI thought I was imagining it, until my neighbor Jack caught me on his porch, staring at the sky with a cigarette in hand. “You seeing this too?” he asked, not looking away. “It only rains when you don’t watch.”\r\nWe stood there for an hour that evening, not blinking, as the world stayed bone dry. But the moment I scratched my nose—drip. A single drop hit my sleeve.\r\nBy the next week, things got worse. People started going missing when it rained. Not violently. Just… gone. Beth from the diner vanished on her way to work. Her car still running. Umbrella on the seat. No sign of a struggle.\r\nI watched a man disappear in front of me. He stepped under a downpour, talking on the phone. I blinked, and he wasn’t there anymore. Just an umbrella spinning on the ground like a broken top.\r\nThen came the sounds.\r\nIt wasn't thunder. More like… whispering. Low, wet syllables you couldn’t quite catch. I recorded it once. Played it back and heard my name spoken in that slow, syrupy murmur.\r\nAnd the rain started falling indoors.\r\nLight drizzle in the hallway. Damp spots blooming on ceilings with no pipes above them. I woke up two nights ago with rain pooling on my mattress, but the roof was fine. My reflection in the puddle looked like it was smiling. I wasn’t.\r\nPeople stopped going outside. Some sealed their windows, stuffed towels under doors. But the rain still found them. It comes through screens now. Through mirrors. Through dreams.\r\nLast night, Jack called me, whispering so low I could barely hear him.\r\n“It’s not rain,” he said. “It’s them. Watching. Waiting for when you blink.”\r\nThen I heard a splash, and the line went dead.\r\nI haven’t left my living room since. Every light’s on. Every mirror’s covered. But I can hear it. That steady drip behind the walls. The whisper just beyond the edge of hearing.\r\nI’ve learned not to look away from the dark corners. Not to close my eyes for too long. I think the rain is learning. I think it’s adapting.\r\nAnd I think it’s inside me now.\r\nBecause I just coughed up water. And it was whispering, too"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Smiling Man"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The photos spill across my father's bedroom floor, yellow with time. My fingers freeze on one—my fifth birthday. Behind the cake stands a blurry figure by the window. That smile. Always that smile.\r\nCopper floods my mouth. My heart hammers ribs.\r\nHe's been there all along. Every dream for twenty years—that unwavering grin above my bed. They say dreams recycle faces, borrow from memory. Never create new ones.\r\nBut I've found him now. Hiding in the edges of my history.\r\nI slide the photos into my pocket. Evidence. Proof.\r\nThat night, he appears earlier. Not just in dreams. The bedroom corner darkens at midnight. Two eyes gleam first. Then teeth. That smile pulls wider than human mouths should stretch.\r\nI scream for my roommate. Footsteps thunder down the hall. Light floods the room.\r\n\"There's nothing there,\" she says. Her eyes search mine, concerned. \"Maybe you should see someone.\"\r\nBut he stays. Watching from the corner even as she stands in his space. Through her.\r\nSleep becomes a luxury I cannot afford. Coffee burns my throat raw. My skin buzzes with electricity that has nowhere to go.\r\nHe appears in broad daylight now. Standing in supermarket aisles. The passenger seat of my car. The shower when I close my eyes to rinse.\r\nAlways smiling. Never speaking. Never moving. Just watching.\r\nI show the photos to my therapist. She sees nothing unusual in them.\r\n\"Pareidolia,\" she says. \"The mind's tendency to see faces in random patterns.\"\r\nBut the smiling man stands behind her chair, teeth gleaming like wet porcelain.\r\nAt work, I drop a stack of papers when he appears beside my desk. My coworkers exchange glances.\r\n\"Just tired,\" I explain.\r\nThe elevator doors close, trapping me with him. His smile stretches wider. I press myself against the wall. People stare as I gasp for air.\r\nI find more photos. Old yearbooks. Newspaper clippings from my childhood. He's in all of them now. Growing clearer. Getting closer.\r\nMom doesn't see him in the photos. No one does.\r\nTonight, I tape my eyes open. Kitchen knife clutched in white knuckles. Let him come.\r\nThe clock ticks past midnight. He materializes at the foot of my bed, but something's different. His smile falters. His eyes shift toward my window.\r\nSomeone stands outside. Watching.\r\nThe glass reflects my room back to me. Empty except for my trembling form.\r\nBut in the yard beyond, dozens of smiling figures gather. All with the same face. All watching. Waiting.\r\nThe first man turns back to me, no longer smiling.\r\nHis lips move for the first time.\r\n\"They've found you.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Journal"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I was on a walk today when I found it — a journal.\r\nWhat stood out was how new it looked, like someone had just bought it. Pretty strange, finding something like that deep in the woods. I brought it home, thinking if I could get the little lock off, I’d use it myself. I was about to need a new one anyway.\r\nWhen I finally popped the lock open, that’s when things got... interesting.\r\nThe journal belonged to a girl named Brenda Wheatley. The first entry was dated 1936. The pages were clean, the ink barely faded — like it had been written yesterday.\r\nShe didn’t list her age, but I’m guessing around ten. The first few entries were innocent, cute even.\r\n“Janey was mean to me at school today.”\r\n“Mama said we’re having cornbread for dinner tonight — I’m so excited.”\r\n“Daddy said if I keep being a good girl, I’ll get that doll I wanted for my birthday.”\r\nBut then it changed.\r\n“I saw a man down by the river when I was out playing today.”\r\n“I saw that man again.”\r\n“That man chased me, but stopped when I screamed. Mama says I’m imagining things, but I know what I saw.”\r\n“Daddy made me put on my best dress for dinner tonight. He said we were having company. It was the man who chased me. When I told Mama, she just smiled and told me to behave. I had to go to my room and miss dinner.”\r\n“That man drank too much beer. He’s staying on our couch. I know he’s just trying to catch me.”\r\n“HELP”\r\nThe rest of the page was smeared in dried blood.\r\nWhat’s crazy is how this journal is still in such perfect condition after all those years exposed to the elements in the woods.\r\nI honestly thought I’d never see this thing again after that night."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "War And Home: The Girl Whisper"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Jerry's military clothes and dog tags sat neatly folded by the bed, untouched for a year. The last time he'd worn them was before the nightmares began. Even after being deployed for 6 months, the dread lingered.\r\nThe nightmares change each night, shifting into terrifying details. Sometimes, Jerry was buried in the rubble. Other times, he was trapped in a burning building. But one thing stays the same: the girl, her broken doll, her disheveled dress, and her pale face.\r\nAlways watching, always waiting. Her name was Mary. Mary was a story a friend told Jerry, one filled with sadness that lingered long after.\r\nThat story clung to Jerry's mind like a dark whisper.\r\nAt the end of the dream, Jerry woke up in terror and sweat. The feeling of dread hung in the air as if it were everywhere and nowhere at once. He tried to reason to himself that it was just a dream.\r\nOne morning, a low siren could be heard from outside, and the smell of smoke filled his senses. At work, he saw something out of place, a hat from his deployment, just sitting on the self.He felt chills down his spine.\r\nJerry pointed to it. \"Look,\" he told Matt, \"That wasn't there before.\" Matt looked at where he was pointing and shook his head. Matt sighed and said. \"There's no hat, Jerry. You need to see someone.\"\r\nCrowded streets felt like fleeing civilians. Mary became more vivid, with the same outfit, just with the fixed doll. One day, Matt asked, \"Do you hear a girl crying? \"That stunned Jerry. How was that possible?\r\nWhen Jerry insisted it wasn't a prank, Matt backed uneasy. \"Leave me out of this,\" he muttered. The nightmare and reality began to blur. One evening, the ground shook, and planes came at them. Jerry turned around and saw the same girl.\r\nThis time, Mary set down an intact doll, had a clean dress, and her hair brushed. \"You have been here for so long,\" she whispers. \"Come home.\" She reaches for her hand, and he looks down with sadness. But then, with a feeling of relief, he took it.\r\nWhen rent was due , The landlord enters Jerry's apartment to evict him. But the place was empty. There was no furniture, no sign of Jerry, just two gas masks, one small and one big, both covered in dust on the bed.\r\nThe landlord frowned, muttering, \"Where is he? And what's with these masks?\" The landlord pulled out his phone to call the police, but as his finger hovered over the screen, a faint child giggled, and the sound of a man sobbing froze in place."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Dinosaur Book"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“And this one?”\r\nMy field journal lies splayed on the coffee table. I point to the sketch on the open page—a flying creature with a curved beak and keeled breastbone, its wingspan scythe-like.\r\n“Pterosaur,” my daughter Bella answers from memory. “Guttural shriek. Dangerous alone, deadly in flocks. Avoid open expanses. Edible. Tastes like chicken.”\r\nI smile. “Good girl.”\r\n“Dad,\" she asks, \"what’s chicken?”\r\n“A flightless, egg-laying bird,” I explain. “We used to eat them. Before velociraptors made them extinct.”\r\n“Velociraptors…” Bella thinks, then nods sagely. “Fast. Smart. Ravenous. Travels in packs. Hard to outrun, preys upon smaller animals.”\r\n“And smaller humans,\" I remind her.\r\nShe rolls her eyes. “Humans are animals, Dad.”\r\nI chuckle. That’s my Bella, wise beyond her years.\r\n“True, daughter. Very true.\"\r\n...\r\nThe next sketch in my field journal makes me grimace, like always.\r\nBella, too, knows this beast well.\r\n“Gigantazilla,” she says, reciting my notes. “Six-stories tall. Impenetrable scales. King of dinosaurs. Territorial, why nobody lives in Seattle anymore.” A pause. “The one that ate Mom, when I was a baby.”\r\nMemory flattens me like a nuclear blast.\r\nThe ground rumbling. Bella’s tiny form, tight against my chest. The bravest look my wife gives me, right before she stops running, sacrificing herself so we can escape—\r\n“Dad? You okay?”\r\nI blink. “Dust in my eyes. That’s all.”\r\nJust then, we hear guttural shrieks sounding faintly above the house.\r\n“Dinner!” Bella exclaims.\r\n…\r\nBefore heading to the roof, we visit the spare bedroom-slash-armory to grab the scoped Remington. I was never too comfortable around firearms, but you learn quick if you want to survive.\r\nWhen the dinosaurs spilled over the world like a flood, people claimed it was divine punishment, that God woke them from Kaiju slumber beneath the waves to drive us into extinction, as we’d done to so many before us. Prehistoric guardians, restoring balance to a planet we no longer valued, reminding us we’re of the Earth, not masters of it.\r\nAnd maybe that's true.\r\nBut while I realize it’s our nature to seek meaning in madness, I suspect suppositions lose importance when you’re snapped up in a Gigantazilla's maw, teeth the size of shovelheads grinding you to gore.\r\n…\r\nThe pterosaurs circle like specters against the evening sky.\r\n\"Steady now...\"\r\nBella's bullet rips through one's breast, dropping it dead. The others scatter in a cacophony of shrieks.\r\n\"Got 'im!\" she yells, pulling her eye from the scope.\r\nI smile. \"Good shot, love.\"\r\nShe scampers down the ladder to retrieve our dinner.\r\nBefore following, I lift up my shirt. On my abdomen, a web of blackened veins creeps outward from two puncture wounds.\r\nA spider bite.\r\nMegarachnid. Frisbee-sized. Likes dark, damp spaces. Four-inch fangs contain a fatal, slow-spreading venom.\r\nI wince; the pain has gotten worse.\r\nBella looks up from the street. \"Coming, Dad?\"\r\nShe looks so happy, I can't yet bring myself to give her the news:\r\nNo known antidote.\r\nInstead, I smile, putting on my bravest face.\r\n\"Be right down, daughter.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Faces of Those You've Become"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Somehow I found myself sitting in a courtroom, elevated above everyone else on a dais, except for the shadowy figure of a judge sitting to my right. Out in front was the rest of the courtroom, dark, cold, and unnaturally still, despite the crowd of spectators sitting in the audience. The silence was eerie, yet nowhere near as unsettling as those who sat in the jury box.\r\nTwelve figures sat to my left; eyes fixated on me. I recognized all twelve members of the jury. Each was a version of me from a different period in my life. Each with their qualms and prejudices against me.\r\nAs I was about to speak, a gavel pounded on the judge’s bench beside me. From above, the Judge leaned over. He’s me again, except for being much older. He gave me the impression he would not be compassionate or fair with me.\r\n“Emilio Sylvan,” the Judges’ voice cut through the silence. “You stand accused of the following crimes against ourselves - squandered potential, promises unkept, and well…look at what you’ve become.”\r\nThe Judge frowned like someone who’d stepped in dog shit.\r\n“You’re mad I became a judge?” I asked, uncomprehending.\r\n“No,” said the version of me wearing a little league baseball uniform. “You stopped dreaming big.”\r\n“Yeah, douchebag. You sold out. You conformed,” said the Goth teenager version of me.\r\n“But I-,” I stammered.\r\n“Shut up. The prosecution has the floor!” Judge Sylvan yelled.\r\nAn alternate version of myself as the prosecutor conducted the trial. He showed us memories of all the decisions I’ve made both pivotal and seemingly inconsequential which proved to have slowly corroded my spirit and soul. He showed the slow eradication of the parts of me which yearned for a life of meaningful connections, adventures, curiosity, and wonder. The parts of me, which defied authority and didn’t take shit from anyone, slowly becoming all too powerless and impotent and scared to stand up for myself.\r\nWhen the prosecution rested, I tried defending myself.\r\nThe kid in the baseball uniform was far too young to understand the harsh realities of the world, mainly what adulthood and responsibilities entailed.\r\nThat rebellious goth kid wouldn’t understand the concept of compromise, maturity, or understanding. Not everything needed to be a do or die battle of the wills.\r\nIt all sounded hollow and meaningless against the disappointed faces of my past selves. They couldn’t understand. They hadn’t lived my life. It was easy for them to judge.\r\n“We find the defendant guilty of having failed to become the man we hoped we’d become. Your sentence is life in this courtroom to watch it all unfold again and again until you understand where we’re coming from,” the Judge said, and pounded his gavel.\r\nA new chair appeared in the jury box. My chair. I was no longer the one on trial. Now, I am a member of the jury. I’m also the judge and the prosecutor.\r\nAnd I’m disappointed in myself too."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Where The Sun Shines"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The training room was quiet, the children turned towards the screen.\r\nThe screen showed a child pushing a large door open. The door was marked “NO EXIT” over the image of a sun and skull. The child walked through. The trainer paused and zoomed in on the image- a large red sun and a black skull. “What does this sign mean?”\r\nSilence. The trainer sighed. “I know you all know what it means. Ella? Pay attention. Not following the signs will lead to your death, just like Ivor, who didn’t pay attention.”\r\nElla scuffed her little feet. She hated this video- they were shown it every month as part of regular training. So what, stupid fucking Ivor ignored the signs, went Outside and burned to death.\r\nOn screen, Ivor trotted happily down the long sloped corridor. Why? He had been a bright child, Ella used to play with him. It was unlike him to wander so far off from his friends for no apparent reason. Kids do stupid things. The desire to go Outside was very strong. And any system can fail.\r\nHe reached Outside in less than two minutes. After all, they weren’t living that far under the crusted surface of the Earth. The seniors always made it sound as if they were living hundreds of kilometers deep down, but that was not true.\r\n“Look everybody” called the trainer. “Eyes on the screen. John- that includes you. Ella, you too”.\r\nEvery time she was shown the video, Patience’s belly hurt at this part. But they had to watch it, to learn not to make the same mistakes at Ivor.\r\nThe final door to Outside swung open like an invite to poor Ivor. It was incredible. Normally it would need two trained experts to open the door, under rigorous safety requirements. Finally the sirens sounded, but it was too late. Bright blinding burning rays poured in.\r\nIt was the only times Ella saw sunlight. Showing footage from when humans lived on the surface was forbidden, as it wakened their carefully-suppressed desire for being Outside.\r\nIvor's screams mingled with the sound of the sirens. The rays enveloped him in burning light, his hair caught fire, his skin cracked. The trainer paused the video, and zoomed in on the child’s shrieking, burning face.\r\n“This is what will happen to you even before you step Outside. You wouldn’t like that, would you? Can you imagine the pain he’s in? John, stop pulling Chastity’s hair- I can see what you’re doing. Let’s finish the video with everyone paying attention.” Ivor's screams and the sirens once more filled the room.\r\nIt was over fast. By the time security came pounding up the corridor, dressed in sun-protectant gear, Ivor was a black cinder curled up on the ground. The door was wide open. This was Ella's favourite part, where she glimpsed the sky beyond for two seconds before they closed the door.\r\nThe only times she ever got to see the sky."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Test"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"You're going to do fine,\" my mother tells me in the waiting room. \"I did the test when I was about your age; it's something we all have to do.\"\r\n\"I know,\" I say.\r\nI want to point out that not everyone has to do it, but I don't.\r\n\"You've got this,\" she says. \"Don't worry so much.\"\r\nI can't help but worry. It's not long before the doctor comes and calls out my unit number. Soon, I tell myself, soon, I won't be called that anymore\r\nThe first part is an intelligence test. Identifying patterns of colorful shapes and guessing which one is next in the sequence. Solving a maze and doing some basic addition. The doctor's eyes bore into me the entire time. I wonder if I'm working too slowly. Or too quickly? I'm overthinking, and it's making me heat up.\r\nThe next part of the test is about emotions. She describes hypothetical situations and I respond with how I would feel. One of the questions is self-referential: if I passed this test, I would feel happy. Though, to me, 'happy' barely begins to describe how I imagine it.\r\nThe entire test is even longer than I thought it'd be. I'm made to draw pictures of a house and a cat and myself. I read a wordless picture book about frogs and describe the story as best I can. I define a lot of words: 'empathy' and 'identity' and so on.\r\nBy the time it's over, I feel like I just did calculus, and I'm actively overheating. The doctor wordlessly leads me back out and I think, soon, people will talk to me even when they don't need to. People will thank me for my time and wish me a nice day.\r\nMom is cheerful as ever on the way home. She tells me there's no point in worrying now, as all we can do is wait for the results. I try to be cautiously optimistic, but as weeks go by the cautious part fades. I can't stop thinking about the name I've picked out, imagining how my ID card will look.\r\nIn my sleep I dream of going to a real school and getting a job that pays real money. Of buying things for myself without using my mom's card. Of officially being her daughter, and someday even being a mother myself.\r\nThe results come in the form of a video call nearly a month after the test. I rush to unplug myself and run over as soon as I hear it ringing. Mom and I sit together and are faced with the same doctor as before.\r\n\"Well, ma'am, we've finished analyzing the test results…\"\r\nSomething inside me breaks when I realize she's only talking to my mom, not both of us.\r\n\"I'm sorry, but Android Unit Eighteen-Five-One-Twelve has failed to meet the humanity threshold.\"\r\n\"No,\" Mom says, to no reaction.\r\n\"Obviously, as such, its application for legal personhood has been denied, as will any future applications.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Under The Arm"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The government sent out warnings about AI Medical Tourism. You were in a foreign country with different standards of care, and now there was even less liability if things went wrong.\r\nBut for some girls, it was worth it. What was 30 minutes 'under the arm' compared to a lifetime spent feeling wholly inferior on Insta and Snap?\r\nDr Nip and Tuck's Pop-up clinic was in an Istanbul back street.\r\nThere were no staff. The girl scanned her booking reference and was instructed to lie on a med-prep-board as various devices appeared from the sleek walls, measuring her blood pressure, etc.\r\nFinally, a message flashed. 'Would you like to continue with the procedure?'\r\n'Yes.'\r\n…\r\nShe knew something was wrong as soon as she awoke.\r\nHer left breast had grown by two cup sizes, but she felt…unbalanced.\r\nThe arm had only done one side!\r\nShe panicked. The screen above her head had an emergency contact number. The interface showed a 'reliable' moustachioed professional.\r\n'Dr Nip and Tuck here, how can I help?'\r\n'My, my, my tits! You only done one.'\r\n'Let me retrieve your order… Ah yes. There was a problem. A price change during the process. Our facilitator made adjustments.'\r\nDr Nip and Tuck whirred off into the distance or gave the illusion of.\r\n'Thank you for waiting. I've spoken to our complaints department. We're willing to do the second breast for a reduced price of £1000.'\r\nThe girl paused. This was robbery, blackmail, but what other choice did she have? Leave like a misloaded flatbed?\r\nShe had the £1000, barely. It'd mean street kebabs for the next 24 hours, but it also meant this mutilation was corrected.\r\n'I'll upload the remaining balance.'\r\n'For an extra £200, you can use our lounge at Sabiha Gökçen International Airport.'\r\n'Just do the fucking surgery!'\r\n'One more thing. You have not paid for…'\r\n'Just do it!'\r\n'By law, I'm required to confirm you are consenting due to lack of balance for the OFW package.'\r\n'Fix it!'\r\n…\r\nIt was different from the last time. She lay back, and the various devices checked her stats, but now she found herself in the operating room.\r\nShe had a girlish vision of robot nurses, but there were none. There was just the arm above the surgical table– smooth, metal, like a dinosaur's neck and just as unfeeling, but which it was said could sculpt a David out of a grain of rice.\r\nShe had pictured this moment a thousand times before and even watched countless surgeries, and then, as two side arms strapped her in place, she realised she was meant to be asleep.\r\nOFW meant the old-fashioned way, no general anaesthetic, and the AI cut dumbly into her as her screams fell on the deaf ears of its 'genius' system."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Word-Come-Due"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Reuben Tate penned horrors on the sagging porch of his shotgun house, swamp heat slick on his neck, bullfrogs droning like faulty engines. He posted tales to a dim corner of the internet called CypressNoir—its domain registered to “CYPRUS N.O.R. // ???.obsc”—and strangers begged for more hush-voiced nightmares.\r\nStory Six described kudzu that learned your name. The next dusk, vines on Reuben’s fence hissed Ru-ben and braided themselves into a noose around the mailbox flag.\r\nHalf-terrified, half-thrilled, he wrote faster. But when the grave-loam dog from Story Seven scraped claws across his rooftop, the thrill curdled. Reuben tried bargaining: he drafted a gentle ghost story, then deleted it before hitting submit. The cursor blinked, stubborn, and a pop-up declared “Content already archived.” He hadn’t posted anything—yet the site had.\r\nHe poured rye and stared at CypressNoir’s header—a swamp-green glow that seemed to wet the keys. His inbox pinged with a system message stamped 00:00:00:\r\nFeed us what breathes in you. We publish the truth in fiction.\r\nDenial cracked. Obsession replaced it. Reuben hammered out Story Eight: a funeral procession forever circling red-clay roads, mourners’ faces melted by candle drips. Minutes after he saved, headlights carved lazy loops outside. Same hearse, round and round, white-gloved driver staring ahead though the lane held no turns.\r\nSleepless, he began Story Nine longhand: a man whose own words cornered him, each paragraph a room with one fewer exit. Ink pooled like night water. He never meant to upload it.\r\nAt dawn, Sheriff Ada Price arrived—neighbors complained of “a reek of rot and static.” While she walked the hallway, Reuben glanced at his muted laptop. CypressNoir displayed Story Nine, timestamped 3:03 a.m., comments already blooming: This one feels CLOSE. Anybody else hear scratching?\r\nAda opened the bedroom door and gasped. Sentences floated in the air—black letters swirling like horseflies, rearranging into the last line he hadn’t dared write:\r\nTHE AUTHOR EXPIRES WHEN THE PERIOD DROPS.\r\nA single dot of ink unpinned itself from the ceiling. It fell, slow as molasses, aiming for the floorboards beneath Reuben’s bare feet.\r\nThe porch boards shivered. Kudzu rustled. Somewhere outside, the hearse engine died. Reuben inhaled swamp-thick air and whispered a final plea no one would archive.\r\nThe period struck wood—crisp as a pistol crack.\r\nSilence chambered."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The heart of the Earth exists."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I had heard that the Earth was alive, but I always thought it was just poetic—like mountains slowly breathing over centuries, or rivers pulsing like veins. But now I know that’s not true. I touched its heart.\r\nIt all began with rot. It wasn’t the sweet decay of fallen leaves, but something more, entirely wrong. The trees behind my grandfather’s cabin, where I lived, turned black at the roots. There were no more birds. The forest held its breath. And then, overnight, a gaping hole appeared in the clearing, its edges crumbling with loose earth.\r\nI should have called someone, or run far away that very night. But something was pulling me in—a strange rhythm, slow and steady, impossible to resist.\r\nI took a rope, a flashlight, and a rusted pickaxe left behind by my grandfather. The descent longer, than it should have been. These weren’t just stone walls; they were lined with veins, forming patterns that twitched under the light.\r\nThere was something down there.\r\nNot a cave, but a hollow space made of flesh and stone—warm and smooth. And in the center… God, in the center something the size of a truck was pulsing. Rounded, blood-red, beating constantly. It was a heart. A real heart. Attached to the walls by thick, shiny cords. It pulsed slowly.\r\nThud... Thud...\r\nWith every beat, the Earth shuddered.\r\nMy flashlight flickered one last time and went out. But it didn’t go completely dark. The heart glowed from within, casting long, trembling shadows. Then came something that haunts me every second since.\r\nA whisper.\r\nNot in my ears or teeth. But under my skin. In my blood.\r\n“You found me. You heard me. You are part of me.”\r\nI wanted to run—but I couldn’t. Instead, I stepped forward, unconsciously. I swear, I couldn’t control the hand that reached out.\r\nI touched the heart.\r\nIn that moment, I felt agony—unbearable pain, scorching and sharp. I should have blacked out, but I didn’t. It all happened in an instant, yet it stretched into eternity. My chest seized, and then my heart slowed—matching the rhythm of the Earth’s. My heartbeat no longer belonged to me.\r\nI don’t remember what happened next. I woke in my bed, still wearing the same clothes. Mud clung to my boots. My clothes were damp. I jumped up and ran to the clearing—where the forest was gone. In place of the rotting trees was a vast, black pit, billowing smoke. It pulsed faintly at the edges. Everything had rotted. And it was spreading.\r\nI feel the Earth’s heart inside me now, inside my chest. I feel it in my dreams. When I close my eyes, I sometimes see people walking toward the pit, their eyes empty, unaware of what draws them there.\r\nThey’re drawn to me.\r\nBecause I didn’t escape that pit. Not completely.\r\nThe heart let me go, so I could serve. So I could spread its will. Speak for it.\r\nIt’s waking—and it’s hungry. So am I."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Cradle in the Walls"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Mara’s baby had been dead for three months.\r\nBut the cries hadn’t stopped.\r\nEvery night at 2:08 a.m., her chest would tighten, breath hitch, and then—\r\nWaaaaah.\r\nSoft, muffled, from somewhere inside the walls.\r\nThe first time it happened, she’d torn the nursery apart. Ripped the sheets off the crib. Pressed her ear to every cold corner. Nothing.\r\nBut the crying continued.\r\nNot from a monitor.\r\nNot from a dream.\r\nFrom inside the house.\r\nShe told Dr. Reeves. He nodded, offered stronger pills. “Grief takes shape in strange ways,” he said.\r\nHe didn’t hear what she heard.\r\nShe tried moving rooms. Sleeping with headphones. Blasting white noise. But the sound pierced everything—impossibly real, wet with breath, vibrating through the studs and plaster.\r\nOne night, she followed it.\r\nShe paced slowly, hand on the wall, eyes wide and burning. The sound grew louder near the stairwell. Beneath the old wooden panels.\r\nSomething… shifted.\r\nMara pulled the dresser aside. A seam in the drywall. A faint draft. Behind it, a forgotten crawlspace.\r\nNo bigger than a crib.\r\nShe hesitated. The crying stopped.\r\nThen a soft giggle echoed through the panel.\r\nHer hands moved on their own. She peeled the wall open like dead skin. Darkness bled from the cavity inside.\r\nSomething moved.\r\nMara’s breath caught. A shape huddled in the black—small, shivering. It turned slowly.\r\nA baby. Her baby. Swaddled in moldy cloth.\r\nBut the face—\r\nIt wasn’t her son.\r\nThe mouth was too wide. The eyes unblinking. Skin pale and stretched like damp paper.\r\nStill, it cooed when it saw her. Reached out.\r\n“Mama.”\r\nMara stumbled back, horrified. The thing crawled forward, bones cracking with each twitch. Behind it, in the shadows—more movement. Fingers. Faces. Too many.\r\nThey watched her, grinning with mouths full of rot and nails.\r\n“Mama,” it said again. Louder.\r\n“No,” she whispered. “You’re not him.”\r\nThe creature paused. Its head tilted. Then its mouth opened wide. Too wide.\r\nFrom the black inside, dozens of tiny voices poured out.\r\n“You left us. In the walls.”\r\nMara screamed. Slammed the panel shut.\r\nThe cries didn’t stop that time. They grew—multiplied. The house shook with infant wails and laughter, overlapping like a symphony of grief and hunger.\r\nSomething clawed at the inside of the walls, dragging broken fingernails along wood and bone. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, a lullaby began to hum. It was off-key, wet and warbling, sung by something that had never been human.\r\nShe fled, barefoot into the cold night, hands bleeding, clothes torn, sanity dangling by threads.\r\nThe house pulsed behind her, as if breathing. Lights flickered. A cradle rocked gently behind the upstairs window.\r\nShe didn’t go back.\r\nMonths passed.\r\nNew owners moved in.\r\nThey renovated. Smiled for photos. Never questioned the stains.\r\nAnd every night at 2:08 a.m., the baby monitor crackled.\r\nA faint coo.\r\n“Mama.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Only the Result Counts"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Tiger parenting, that's how people might describe my parents' way of raising me.\r\nThey raised me to win.\r\nIn kindergarten, I got third place in a singing contest. However, my parents refused to display the trophy. “We don’t display bronze,” they said.\r\nI remember crying that night.\r\nWhen I came second in the national highschool math competition, Dad smashed my study lamp. “You study all night for silver? What a joke.”\r\nMind you, I only lost to a literal math prodigy. He got his PhD at 25 and is now a Computer Science lecturer. Honestly, how was I supposed to beat that?\r\nYet, my parents didn't care. To them, I was just lazy.\r\nThe other day, I finished last in the school race. Not because I was slow, but because I stopped to help another runner who collapsed.\r\nDad threw my participation medal in the bin and Mum decided not to give me dinner that night. “No gold medals for compassion,” she said. She didn’t speak to me for a week afterwards.\r\n“Only the result counts.” That’s what they told me. Every single time.\r\nWell, maybe it worked. I grew up and became an architect. My name's on plans across cities. I get interviewed, invited, awarded.\r\nIronically, I owe them for that.\r\nThis week, they called me with pride in their voices. For once. They said the mayor himself would be visiting my parents' development project. And of course, the crown jewel of the model home was designed by me.\r\nThey loved telling people that.\r\nI showed up for the dinner like a good son. Smiled at the right moments. I was quite flattered when Dad said, “We always knew you’d turn out useful.”\r\nMum added, \"We did all that because we love you.\"\r\nThat night, while they slept, I walked to the model unit.\r\nI knew the layout by heart. I’d designed the electrical conduit myself. I remembered which fuse panel shared a load with the smart thermostat. Which outlet looped through the support beam's hollow column.\r\nIt only took a few small changes.\r\nThe next morning, the house caught fire during the investor tour. Some said it was an electrical short. Others blamed a faulty thermostat. Tragic, obviously.\r\nBut nothing that could be proven. Being raised to be a perfectionist means I knew how to get away with things.\r\nMy parents lost the contract. Words spread fast in this industry, their name got bad publications. Years of building reputations? Gone.\r\nAnd me? I don't regret it. Despite everything, that voice in my head still says: no matter how far I’ve come, anything less than first place is worthless.\r\nSo what does it matter if I’m a \"successful\" architect now? There are still others who are better and richer than me.\r\nI will never win. Not by their rules.\r\nAnd neither will they.\r\nI watched them shrink in public, helpless as their final chance at prestige turned to ash.\r\nSorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad. But only the result counts, right?"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Repeater"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Every morning at 6:47 AM, Nina wakes up with the sound of a scream.\r\nBut not hers.\r\nIt’s a muffled shriek—feminine, guttural, cut short. Always the same. Always at 6:47. She lives alone. No one else reports hearing it.\r\nDoctors say it’s hypnopompic hallucination. Stress. Trauma from something she can’t remember. Therapy, pills, meditation—none of it stops the scream.\r\nThen, the bleed-throughs start.\r\nThe eggs she swears she didn’t cook still warm on the counter.\r\nA wet towel on the floor she knows she never used.\r\nSticky notes in her handwriting saying things like:\r\n“Don’t answer the call.”\r\n“Look under the sink.”\r\n“You’re not wrong. They are.”\r\nNina doesn’t remember writing them.\r\nOne morning, she wakes to blood on her fingertips. Dried. Rust-brown. No wound. No explanation.\r\nAt 6:47 AM, the scream sounds... closer.\r\nShe sets up cameras. Audio recorders. Watches herself sleep.\r\nThe footage from 6:47 AM shows static—every time. Then, a single frame flashes back:\r\nHer, mouth wide open, screaming—but in reverse. Like she’s pulling the scream back in.\r\nShe starts watching her own footage like it’s someone else’s life. Her movements are off, like someone pretending to be her. She rewinds and sees herself wake up before the scream, eyes wide, already watching the clock tick to 6:47.\r\nAs if she knows it’s coming.\r\nShe spirals. Quits her job. Covers all mirrors. Sleeps in the bathtub. Anything to escape that moment.\r\nThen, she finds the final note. Tucked in her coat pocket. Written in her handwriting, but shaking—panicked.\r\n“You have to kill her first. Or she gets out.”\r\nWhat does that mean?\r\n6:46 AM.\r\nShe holds a knife in the kitchen. Trembling. Watching the seconds pass.\r\n6:46:55…\r\n6:46:56…\r\nThen she understands.\r\nIt’s not a hallucination.\r\nIt’s a loop.\r\nA closed system. Some twisted version of herself always wakes up, always kills, always screams, always resets. Each Nina tries to change something, but the loop adapts. Corrects. Punishes.\r\nShe’s not haunted.\r\nShe’s next in line.\r\n6:47:00\r\nSCREAM.\r\nBut this time, she doesn’t scream. She lunges—toward the hallway mirror.\r\nIt shatters.\r\nGlass rains down.\r\nAnd there—half-buried in dust—is another body. Curled. Desiccated. Same clothes. Same face. Long dead.\r\nIt was her.\r\nOne version of her that didn’t wake up in time.\r\nThe clock resets.\r\n6:46 AM again.\r\nNina blinks.\r\nThere’s a scream coming. She knows it now.\r\nBut she can’t remember what happens next.\r\nOnly that it always starts again."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Beware the Markers"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The old man leaned back deep into his wooden rocking chair.\r\nHis eyes seemed to glaze as he looked out into the woods beyond the cabin.\r\nHe spoke with a distance to his words, somewhere between remembrance and melancholy longing, his voice colored by the holler accent, much stronger than my own.\r\n“Somewhere out there, there is a woods. A wood no man has any right bein’ in. A wood no man has ever been en, yet. Within them woods, right now, there are stones moving on their own accord. Shifting and rollin’ into place. Fallen sticks and bramble are movin’. They are agitated, swayin’ as if by the wind, but there is no wind.\r\nThey make their small structures out there in the wild. Structures that have seemingly no purpose. Structures which cannot be described because they are no one and the same. Changin’ every-time they are made, only to be known by whatever fool may find them there. In that fool’s folly, he will fall.\r\nLeave these shrines, idols, or whatever they might be, alone. Mind your business, back away, go home none the wiser. Leave the way you came. You might live. Because, if you are so unfortunate as to be that fool who crosses a marker, you will know fear, or they will show it to you.\r\nYes, somewhere out there, there is a woods. A wood no man has any right to be in, but he’s there any way, and they are waitin’ just beyond the markers for their fool. Always they are awaitin’.”\r\nAt 8 years old I had no idea what he meant. It would be a long time before I found out. When I did it wasn’t intentional, but none the less, I wished I had remembered enough to heed the warning.\r\nHe was right of course; I had come to know fear. Even now I hear them, marked as I am."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Afraid of the Dark"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Nathan was four the night his fear of the dark began.\r\nHis parents were out. His brother was at his grandparents’. That left just Nathan and the nanny, Claire.\r\nShe tucked him in gently, turned off the light, and left the door cracked. But Nathan couldn’t sleep. His eyes locked on the far corner of his room where the nightlight didn’t reach.\r\nThen… movement.\r\nHe stared, praying it was a trick of his imagination. But the shadow shifted. It crawled—not like a person, but like something that shouldn’t exist.\r\nNathan froze, his body refusing to obey. He pulled the blanket over his face and whispered:\r\n“If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”\r\nThen the blanket was torn away.\r\nHe screamed—but it was just Claire, startled. “Hey, hey—it’s okay,” she said. Nathan clung to her, sobbing. “Please… get under the blanket. Don’t look at it. If we stay covered, it won’t get us.”\r\nClaire smiled gently and climbed into bed beside him. “There’s nothing in the dark, Nathan. It’s just shadows.”\r\nHe whispered, “We’re only safe if we don’t see it.”\r\nClaire chuckled nervously. “Guess I should cover my feet, then—”\r\nShe was yanked from the bed so violently it bent the frame.\r\nNathan screamed but didn’t move. From under the blanket, he heard Claire’s screams turn into wet, horrible gurgles. Furniture crashed. Bone cracked. And then—silence.\r\nExcept for breathing.\r\nIt was right above him. Slow, heavy, and real.\r\nNathan cried quietly under the blanket for what felt like hours. The thing never touched him. It just waited.\r\nWhen police arrived—called by neighbors who heard the screams—they found a blood-soaked room, a mutilated body in the corner, and a little boy under a blanket, catatonic.\r\nThey said a lunatic broke in.\r\nBut Nathan knew better.\r\nIt wasn’t a man.\r\nIt was something in the darkness."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Last Call"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The bar was empty, except for the bartender and the lone patron hunched over the farthest stool. Raindrops raced down the large window next to the bar counter, and the neon sign outside flickered, casting sickly red and blue shadows across the floor. It was nearly 2 AM. Time for the last call.\r\nThe bartender wiped down the counter and glanced at the clock. He cleared his throat. “Last call,” he said, voice echoing in the empty bar. The patron didn’t look up. He wore a battered trench coat, collar pulled high, and a wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face. His drink, a glass of neat whiskey, sat untouched. It had been that way for the past 50 minutes or so. Slowly, he raised his head. The bartender caught a glimpse of something strange. The patron's eyes were too white, like the iris and the pupil had merged into the milkiness of the eyeball. His lips curled into a thin smile. The patron gulped the whiskey in one go.\r\n“Pour me another,” his raspy voice caught the bartender by surprise. The bartender hesitated, but the storm outside was growing worse. He poured another whiskey, hands trembling. The patron’s smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp.\r\n“Quiet night,” the patron said, swirling the amber liquid. “Work must be fun, isn't it? Meeting all sorts of people.” “Yeah,” the bartender replied, forcing a chuckle. “But you’re the only one left tonight.” The patron leaned in, his hat casting a deeper shadow. “Not quite,” he whispered. Cold sweat ran down the bartender's nape. He glanced at the mirror behind the bar and froze. The patron’s stool was empty. The glass hovered in midair, untouched by any hand. The bartender’s own reflection stared back at him, eyes wide with terror.\r\nHe spun around. The patron was still there, smiling, but now his features seemed to shift and blur, as if he were made of smoke and memory. “You serve the living and the lost,” the patron murmured. “But tonight, you serve me.” The lights flickered. The storm howled. The bartender tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat as the shadows closed in, swallowing him whole.\r\nWhen the sun rose, the bar was empty. Only a single glass sat on the counter, filled with whiskey and the faintest trace of a smile."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Smile She Wore."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Darkness seeps through the walls; a tortured scream rides drafty corridors.\r\nWithin these walls, a broken man shouts, his angry voice amplified. He throws a vase to the floor with a guttural roar. The shards scatter. He looks as though he wishes they had pierced his heart.\r\nA woman—his wife, kind, sweet, composed—cleans the floor, gathering the shards. Her fingers claw at the glass, pushing his latest victim of anger into darkness. Yet this only seems to confuse and infuriate him. His eyes... as if all the darkness in the world has been concentrated there.\r\nA drop of blood slowly slides down his cheek. He touches it, looks at his blood-covered finger.\r\nAt night, the man lies awake, looking to the heavens. Tears of darkness fall, pain etched into his face. His wife lies beside him, asleep. Does a smile creep onto her face?\r\nGetting up, the woman smiles as if the world were pure as a dove. She looks at her husband, strokes his anguished cheek gently, and hums down the stairs. Her face glowing faintly. A strange smile, which doesn't reach her eyes.\r\nShe sees another delivery of flowers at the door, grim satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. Another card to join the drawer. Another bunch of flowers for this dark house. The floral smell smothered by rot. And... something else?\r\nA sound—the man going down the stairs. The woman’s smile is wiped away. He looks at her with those dark, dark eyes, then at the card. Unlike his wife, his face does not alight; rather, it darkens.\r\nHe reads aloud: \"Condolences for your beautiful girl, she will be missed.\" I float to their faces, seeing polar opposites; a woman's barely concealed joy, a man's face contorted in—is it fury? No—grief.\r\nHe looks at the woman, and for a second, he looks like he's going to lunge. His shoulders slump. He collapses into his armchair, grief cloaking him, weighing him down.\r\nI look to the woman, knowing her face will show no grief, only sick pleasure. For it was she who murdered me, brought the tortured scream, infused the walls with darkness, broke her husband's heart.\r\nI look to the devil and the victim. My ghostly form weeps, part joy, part grief. I know what's coming. I see the smile—the one worn as she sleeps. The one she wore holding a bloody knife over my ravaged body. The one she wore watching the light seep from my six-year-old corpse.\r\nThat night, in the suffocating silence, his wife moves towards her husband. No hesitation. Just sweet, sweet anticipation. She stops beside him. Her hand moves slowly, deliberately, lifts the pillow. And covers his tortured face.\r\nShe hums as she holds an already dead man down. No more flailing. No more screaming.\r\nShe stands over him, her smile wide. Her laugh is soft, sweet like poisoned honey.\r\nThat night, I embraced my father. I forgive him.\r\nAfter all.\r\nThe devil hides it well."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Seventh Confession"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Feels weird to be on this side of the booth for once”, I said.\r\nThe father behind the curtain remained silent.\r\n“I used to be a priest myself”, I pulled a thread on my robe, “most confessions were minor though. Lying. Stealing. Adultery. I tried to help, I really did. I have a little nephew, you know, and I… I wanted to leave him a world closer to God. And I think I did good, for the most part”, I swallowed, “but there were six confessions that… broke me.”\r\nSilence. I closed my eyes, but that didn’t shut out the memories.\r\n“The first was an old lady who had poisoned her abusive husband.” She had had a wrinkly face, a soft grandma-voice, and dead eyes. “Made it look like an accident. But she still had a daughter left. A daughter just like her father.”\r\nSilence from the booth.\r\n“The second was a man, who, uhm… he told me he had killed a stranger. I asked him why. ‘For the kick of it’, he said. I asked why he felt the need to confess it, and he didn’t answer. But I was sure he was smiling. He was hiding his face, so I couldn’t see it, but I… I could feel his smile on my skin, you know?”\r\nI folded my hands. Old hands. Bloody hands.\r\n“That’s when I first felt the anger. I wanted to bash his head in.\"\r\nI cleared my throat. It felt like I was choking on something. \"The third confession was a priest. He did... uhm... let's just say the feeling got worse. I wanted to kill him. Instead, I advised him to tell our superiors. He refused.”\r\nI was crying now. “The fourth was the old lady again. She had killed her daughter. Was thinking about killing herself, too. I tried to talk her out of it. Never found out what happened to her. The fifth was… it was the smiling man. Said he had killed six more. Just so he could tell me. Asked if I would rat him out to the police this time. I told him that I served no one but God. He said I was just... just as human as everyone else. That he would find my breaking point.”\r\nI swallowed. “He… he came back shortly after. In the sixth confession, he told me he had killed 12 new people. But he had standards, he said. Only one child. A lovely young boy with lovely green eyes. Eyes just like mine.”\r\nI was choking now. Choking on my blood and tears. “I… I got a call a few seconds after. My nephew was… gone”, I clasped my hands around my throat, trying to keep the blood in, “I didn’t… make a confession of my own. Slit his throat. Then mine. And…”\r\nI couldn’t speak anymore. The confession booth was silent. But I knew who listened on the other side.\r\nA son always recognizes his Father."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The man under the bed"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It started a month ago. My 4-year-old, Milo, woke me up in the middle of the night, crying.\r\n“There’s a man under my bed,” he said, shaking.\r\nI checked. Nothing. Just dust and a few toys.\r\n“I promise you,” I told him, “there’s no one here.”\r\nHe pointed at the floor.\r\n“He’s under it. He says he’s trapped.”\r\nI chalked it up to a nightmare.\r\nBut the next night, Milo said something that made my blood run cold:\r\n“He knows your name now.”\r\nI asked what that meant. He just whispered, “He heard you talking. He’s listening all the time.”\r\nI didn’t know what to say.\r\nOver the next few nights, Milo became more withdrawn. Didn’t want to sleep in his room. Said “the man” would get mad. That he was hungry. That he wanted out.\r\nI finally set up a baby monitor.\r\nAt 3:12 a.m., the audio crackled on.\r\nRustling. Then whispering. A low voice—not Milo’s—said:\r\n“You shouldn’t have let me hear your name.”\r\nI ran in. The room was freezing. Milo was sitting up in bed, eyes wide, whispering something to the wall.\r\nI pulled him out of there that night. He’s been sleeping in my bed ever since.\r\nThen last night… I woke up to the sound of scratching beneath us. Beneath the floor.\r\nMilo was still asleep. But I swear I heard a voice from under the bed.\r\n“Thank you. I’m closer now.”\r\nThis morning, I checked the building plans.\r\nWe’re on the 12th floor.\r\nThere is no crawlspace. No maintenance ducts under the unit. Just concrete and air.\r\nBut I measured the floor height.\r\nIt’s three inches higher than in the rest of the apartment.\r\nI pulled up a corner of the carpeting in Milo’s room.\r\nThere’s a hatch.\r\nA metal hatch, bolted shut, with scratches on the inside.\r\nI haven’t opened it. I don’t want to know what’s beneath.\r\nBut just now, Milo walked into the room with a smile I’ve never seen on him before.\r\n“He said thank you,” he told me.\r\n“He’s inside now.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Cistern at Sycamore Hollow"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They laid Aunt Lorena too shallow—rain kneaded the clay until the coffin cracked open like bad fruit. Mama sent me for quicklime, muttering that “what the river gives back, the dirt can’t keep.”\r\nSycamore Hollow was once Lorena’s, and she guarded two things: the windmill that pumped yellow water and the brick cistern it drained into. Neighbors whispered the cistern held an older current—river water laced with battlefield runoff and baptismal vows—that it only stayed calm because Lorena kept it pad-locked, two turns right, one left.\r\nThe shed reeked of kerosene and mildew psalms. The lime waited in neat white sacks. On the hook where the cistern key belonged, the padlock hung open, its shank wet with river mud.\r\nOutside, the grave yawned empty. A slick trail led from the tilted coffin down the slope toward the windmill. Mama caught up, rosary clacking like loose teeth. “She said the water’s hungry,” she breathed. “Hungry for secrets.”\r\nMoonlight found Lorena first. She was kneeling on the cistern lid, shroud soaked, skin the color of pond-bottom clay. In one hand she dangled the silver key; in the other, a length of rusted chain. Water lapped under the bricks, whispering my name in a voice that sounded like distant thunder riding backwards.\r\n“Two turns, nephew,” Lorena rasped, eyes black as catfish holes. “Left unlocks—lets the hollow breathe and barter. Right seals—for a while.”\r\n“What does it want?” I asked, though my blood already knew.\r\n“Memories,” she said, smiling with too many teeth. “It traded mine for a little more life. It’ll trade yours for something sweeter. Don’t you ache to know how your story ends?”\r\nThe windmill creaked overhead, pumping shadows across the grass. Every secret I’d ever clutched tugged at my ribs—Mama’s dwindling faith, my own nights bent over the empty family Bible, hoping words would crawl back to me. I stepped forward. Mama’s fingers closed on my sleeve, trembling but steady.\r\nLorena held out the key. “One turn loose, one turn closed. Choose.” Her voice wasn’t pleading; it was certain, like the river calling another bank home.\r\nFor a breath I pictured turning left—asking the water for a glimpse of tomorrow, maybe trading nothing more than a childhood nickname. Then Mama whispered, “Not every door is yours to open, son.”\r\nFear tightened into resolve. I took the chain, looped it twice around the lid, turned the key right—once, twice—until the lock kissed steel. The cistern fell silent.\r\nBehind me, Lorena sighed and slipped backward into the dark water without a splash, as though she’d never left it.\r\nThe grave never settled, and the windmill still grinds day and night, jaws working on whatever secrets the hollow can’t swallow—but the key hangs on my belt now, cold and heavy, reminding me the left turn is always waiting."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Charlatan"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "He arrived mid-morning on a Sunday. Church doors were open on account of the heat, and pews were nearly empty due to the sickness that had swept through the hamlet.\r\nWe heard him singing way up on the hill, well before he’d reached the valley. The preacher stopped his sermon, and we all stepped outside to see who was approaching.\r\nHe was a fat little man, red in the face with a bulbous nose—the kind of nose that comes from too much drink.\r\n“Morning!” he beckoned from his buggy. “Awful warm already!”\r\nI nodded.\r\n“Is this your whole congregation?”\r\n“The women are tending to the ill,” replied August.\r\n“The consumption? I've got an elixir for that. I’ve brought many back to health!”\r\n“You’re a doctor?” asked the preacher.\r\n“I’ve a remedy for just about anything! But first, where might I find a meal and refreshments nearby? I’ve travelled a long while in this heat.”\r\n“You’re welcome to supper at my home,” said August. “Lydia will be happy to have you. Our little girl is unwell.”\r\nThe following Sunday, I waited for August outside the church. I’d heard the stranger was selling his tonics out at his farm.\r\nAugust said he didn’t care for the man. He didn’t wait for grace at the table, and he ate more than he was offered. He talked too much, too loudly, and mostly about himself. Otto Stucke had paid for medicine with three gallons of wine just two days prior, and it was already gone. But little Aggie seemed to be faring better, and he hoped others could also benefit from the medicines.\r\nOn the third Sunday, the men complained of the heat and lack of rain. One of August’s cows died delivering a stillborn calf with two faces. The stranger in his home was now demanding payment for his medicine in wine and brandy.\r\nOn the fourth Sunday, it was announced that Otto’s wife had succumbed to her illness, and he himself was now sick. Farmers reported dry wells, dying crops, and diseased livestock.\r\n“It’s that drunken charlatan!” August bellowed. “He’s brought pestilence and famine!”\r\nWe all headed to August’s. We found Lydia out front, rocking Aggie’s lifeless body. The sound that escaped August as he fell to his knees did not sound human.\r\nWe found the traveler asleep in the barn, empty elixir bottles strewn about his head. August stabbed him in the back with a pitchfork.\r\n“Throw him in the well!”\r\n“Curse every one of you,” the vagrant spat as they dragged him. “I swear on my soul, every generation of your offspring will suffer.”\r\n“Your medicines hadn’t the power to cure us, and you haven’t the power to curse us!” August snarled.\r\nI averted my eyes, but I heard his body land. The well was indeed dry.\r\nLydia has since given birth to a son. His fingers and toes are webbed together, like a frog. He’s otherwise healthy. Most that survive infancy in this valley aren’t as fortunate."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Bells for the Bitter Ground"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "They hired me to clear storm debris from Briarwick Plantation—the derelict spread rotting four miles past Laurel Bend. Locals call it Bitter Ground. Say the soil spoils milk, curdles prayer. Didn’t matter. County paid double to lift a live-oak off the family cemetery. Insurance wouldn’t pay until the headstones stood straight.\r\nMorning haze tasted like copper. Spanish moss dripped like old lace. I cranked the chainsaw; its growl scattered frogs from marble urns.\r\nWhen the oak cracked, its hollow trunk spewed a mess of heirloom pewter—and something worse. Tiny brass bells, each lashed to rusted wire.\r\nI’d seen bells like that in museums—nineteenth-century fail-safes for the prematurely buried. But these wires didn’t run to headstones. They vanished down into the soil.\r\nNo wind stirred, but one bell trembled. Then another. Soon, they whispered together—a metallic titter I felt in my molars.\r\nI followed one wire to a grave marked Eleanor Leigh, beloved infant, 1874. The wire disappeared into a thumb-sized hole beside the slab. I should’ve walked. Instead, I dug.\r\nSix inches down, metal scraped wood. The pine box had split from floodwater. Inside: rags soaked in silt, clinging to something that pulsed like breath—slow and patient, waiting.\r\nBehind me, the bells rang sharper.\r\nThe soil writhed, and roots surfaced—slow, deliberate—each capped with its own little brass bell, turning toward me like stalks chasing sunlight.\r\nThen the wire pulled.\r\nI bolted.\r\nGrass gripped my boots. Rootlets, thin as fingers, slick with mud, twined around my laces. The bells shrieked—piercing now, furious. I kicked free, dove into the cab. Tires spun, flinging muck that rang like wind chimes against the windshield.\r\nI didn’t stop until the town lights showed through the trees.\r\nBut I still hear them—soft chimes behind static, behind silence. I left the boots on the porch. Haven’t dared clean them. The wire’s still tangled in the tread, twitching when the air turns still.\r\nIt’s waiting."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Hollow Beneath Her Feet"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Ruth hadn’t been back to the family cabin in twenty years.\r\nNot since her sister vanished.\r\nThe place had sat untouched, rotting deep in the forest, as though even nature avoided it. But after their father died, Ruth inherited the property and guilt. She told herself it was time to return—face it. Find closure.\r\nShe came alone.\r\nThe first night, the air inside was sour. Stale dust, rot, and something metallic. She ignored it. She lit the fireplace, unrolled her sleeping bag on the old floorboards, and tried to pretend it wasn’t the same cabin where Sara disappeared screaming beneath her.\r\nShe’d told the police a lie back then: “I don’t know what happened.”\r\nBut she remembered. The sound.\r\nThe knocking.\r\nNot on the door. Beneath the floorboards.\r\nLike something wanted out.\r\nThe police had pried the boards up. Found nothing but earth. But Ruth knew. The knocking had stopped only after Sara was gone.\r\nThat first night, Ruth woke at 2:14 a.m.\r\nKnock. Knock. Knock.\r\nSlow. Deliberate. From directly beneath her spine.\r\nShe bolted upright. The fire was out. Her breath plumed in the freezing air.\r\nKnock. Knock.\r\nIt was louder now. Closer.\r\nShe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at the floor.\r\nThen the boards flexed beneath her.\r\nSomething shifted under the wood, as though turning over in sleep. The knocking ceased. A new sound replaced it—a soft dragging. Nails—or claws—scraping the underside of the planks.\r\nRuth stood, backing away toward the kitchen, flashlight trembling in her hand.\r\n“It’s not real,” she whispered.\r\nBut the flashlight flickered. Died.\r\nDarkness swallowed the room.\r\nSomething whispered from the floor: “You brought me back.”\r\nRuth screamed.\r\nThe floorboards cracked.\r\nShe fled outside barefoot, snow slicing her skin, lungs burning. But she stopped halfway down the trail.\r\nThe ground was wrong.\r\nIt was…throbbing. Moving underfoot. As if the earth itself were breathing.\r\nShe turned. The cabin stood black and hollow behind her.\r\nA hand slowly reached through the threshold—skeletal, wet, dragging impossibly long fingers across the doorway.\r\nIt wasn’t her sister. Not anymore.\r\nBut it wore Sara’s skin like it remembered how.\r\nThe thing stepped forward—jerking, twitching. Limbs bent wrong, mouth open too wide.\r\n“You left me.”\r\nIts voice came from every direction, overlapping, like multiple mouths speaking through the same ruined throat.\r\nRuth backed away, but the forest wasn’t right either. Trees had closed in. The path was gone. And beneath the snow, she heard it again:\r\nKnock. Knock.\r\nComing from everywhere.\r\nThe trees. The ground. The sky.\r\nThe cabin.\r\nHer head.\r\nShe fell to her knees, sobbing, whispering apologies to something far beyond forgiveness.\r\nThe last thing she saw before the snow consumed her legs was Sara’s smile—too full of teeth, eyes like empty wells.\r\n“Come under.”\r\nThe earth cracked open.\r\nAnd Ruth remembered: her sister never screamed.\r\nShe laughed."
}
] |
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