Tuesday, March 16, 2021 My name is Todd Marston, I’m a collector of sorts, collecting old bullet casings from each country I visit and showcase them in my museum. I found some strange trinkets over the years but that was nothing compared to what I found in the Czech Republic. […]
If like me you identify as an introvert and consider yourself as something of a misanthropist, you’ve probably dreamt at one point or another of escaping to a deserted island somewhere and living in peace and solitude, free from the stresses of the modern world. The fantasy of running off
‘I am an Irish Ghost Hunter. My last investigation almost cost me everything.’ Read More »
I have never enjoyed alcohol mind you, I never had the tongue for it. I don’t drink it for the taste, nor the feeling it gives some men. I’ve found that alcohol numbs my urges, dulls my senses. It continues to make me feel somewhat human. I try my best
“I’ll see you at Kevin’s.” Those were words that used to be followed by a wide grin at school or a gleeful affirmative over the phone. There were either old memories to rediscover or new adventures to be had. The four of them had spent so many days exploring the
Everybody loves the woods, until they follow you home. When my father came back from the military, we bought our first house—a boxy, two-story affair on the woodsy outskirts part of town. I was twelve, going on thirteen then. Our neighborhood was a little off the beaten path, nestled somewhere
Forever and Always Read More »
Beware the Waters, says the sign that blocks the dirt road. The road, winding down to a lake, overgrown and under-kept, lay abandoned for many years. Hollowed lake houses stand withered, their owners vanishing from reality. Nobody can say the exact reason why, but everybody knows to steer clear of
“What a frickin’ mess this is.” Detective Mike Barrow stood atop a muddy ridge on a humid Monday morning, looking down at a small crew of police personnel in a heavily wooded ravine. In the middle of the action was a dead body that had apparently washed up onto the
I had first heard about the Heavy Man during an unpleasant encounter with a deranged lunatic. Of all nights to visit Sal’s pub, I happened to go while HE was there. That madman probably would have painted a clearer picture of what was to come, had I actually taken him
September 3rd, 1692 Northridge village stood as it always had, apart from most of the civilized world. It was a simple self contained community consisting mostly of farmers and the simple village folk. On this late afternoon bathed with the orange light of the setting sun the village looked like
The Village In The Shadows Read More »
The first time I caught the night bus was pure chance. I’d heard the legends of course, we all had. Urban legends are a big thing where I live. I suspect its partly because I hail from an unremarkable and frankly dull provincial city that has little else going for
Nothing was working. Garlic, one of the hokier vampire myths, was completely useless. He was prepared for that. It had bounced ineffectually off the tumbling wave of raking claws and gnashing teeth, crushed fragrantly under their mass. “No big deal.” he thought to himself, as he ran down the musty
Mann Tracht, Un Gott Lach Read More »
Lightning flashed across the sky. Jack wished it hadn’t. The revelation that it bestowed was terrifying. Large, fat rain drops spilled from above drenching the mighty creature standing under the hole it had created upon entry. It stood at an astounding eight and a half feet, skin a bright lush
Said to be christened Apa Moarta, or ‘Dead Water’, by a passing Romanian caravan in their native tongue, and tucked away in a far-flung, scarcely populated, staunchly isolationist region of untouched Russian countryside…beyond the grotesque, fantastical stories shared by the more ignorant and morbid of the younger generations, there’s not
The Dark Waters of Apa Moarta Read More »
I was discussing Creepypasta’s with my grandfather. He had never heard the term before, and kind of snickered at it. After I explained to him what they were, he said, “We used to just call them urban legends.” He wanted some examples, and I gave him a few of the
Jess steadied her breath as she saw the buck. She was behind a fallen log dug deep into the blanket of snow that lay across the ground. She brought her rifle up to her shoulder and rested it on her cover, moving ever so slowly as to not startle the
What Waits in the Cold Read More »
Amanda awoke with a painful feeling of dread deep within her gut. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, her fear was justified. Nothing has changed. Her coffee table was overfilled with beer bottles and pizza boxes, while the ashtray was over pilling with cigarettes. She awoke on the leather
The Escape of Amanda Waylan Read More »
Have you ever heard the legend of Stingy Jack? No? Well, no matter. I’d never heard of him either, not until I had the misfortune of meeting the shifty bastard face-to-face. I encountered Jack, not realising who or what he was, and my ignorance almost cost me my life…Not just
The night I drank with Stingy Jack Read More »
The terrible thing happened at night—as most terrible things do. While I click-clicked away at my home job as a transcriptionist, I’d often watch the boys playing in the backyard. They’d be at it for hours, acting out some scene with foam swords and plastic guns, only stopping when the
Those Deep, Dark Wells Read More »
Since last year, I’ve become a huge fan of those YouTube channels that talk about small mysteries recorded inside the United States. You know, those channels, with their dark backgrounds, white cursive letters, spooky thumbnails and soothing but ominous voices, which sometimes narrate horror stories as well? From the west
The Weird Horror at Westwood Avenue Read More »
It’s cold. It’s always cold in January. Isn’t it? This January is not so unusual after all, it would seem. It’s still cold. The snow still hangs low in the branches of the evergreens. The snow fox can still be glimpsed occasionally darting in and out of the treeline. No,
Ikuutayuq: An Inuit Folktale Read More »
I fell in love with his music. I didn’t care if it was for the rats. I’d always loved to dance, and he played the finest flute our small town had ever heard. We had folk songs mostly, and Jim Parsons playing the whistle at the dances we held in
They walked the path because they had always walked the path. This year there were nine children, swallowed in coats of gray, slogging through drifts of soft, powdered snow as the bald trees stood sentinel. They had come a long way, almost halfway up the mountain, yet still the path
The Settlement of SaultonSometime in the 1800s “Keep walking, boy.” The deep, mysterious voice kept replaying over and over in his head. He did as it told him though, not once questioning any motive. He wasn’t sure where he was, or who the voice belonged to, but he did know
The Milk Boy: A Prelude the The Whool Read More »
