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Journals and Diaries

mr gangly walks the halls

Mr. Gangly Walks the Halls

Dearest Margaret, I hope that this letter finds you well. I’ve missed you greatly during the entire time away from you, but these past weeks have been especially difficult. While we were busy pushing from Normandy it was easier to keep my mind occupied on other things. Now that the …

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The Dark Waters of Apa Moarta

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 …

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Crawley’s Gate

The ocean wind clutches at my upturned collar as I write this on the deck of the ferry, bearing up at the rising silhouette of the approaching island through the frosted glass of the grey morning. The little outcropping looks to all the world like it’s considering succumbing to the …

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a winter stayover

A Winter Stayover

October 9th I invited my old friends over for the first time in what seems like forever. We’d get together like this often throughout high school, when we comparatively didn’t have much to worry about other than the typical naiveties we all wore on our sleeves. It’s not like today. …

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Journal of a Psychopath: University

I am a retired Private Investigator turned Real Crime Blogger. I have been receiving anonymous manuscripts in the mail detailing heinous acts of appalling psychopathy. For reasons concerning my work and this situation, I don’t want to give you my true identity.  You can refer to me as Mr. S.  …

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Confessions of a Belfast Cop

My mother died suddenly and unexpectantly sometime in the early hours of Sunday morning. The coroner said she suffered a massive stroke and her death would have been instantaneous. This brought me some small comfort, knowing that she hadn’t suffered in the end. I was the one who found her. …

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Journal of a Psychopath: High School

I am a retired Private Investigator turned Real Crime Blogger. I have been receiving anonymous manuscripts in the mail detailing heinous acts of appalling psychopathy. For reasons concerning my work and this situation, I don’t want to give you my true identity.  You can refer to me as Mr S.  …

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I Must Have Gone Mad During Quarantine

…I give up.…This is my eighth day in quarantine. More like solitary confinement, because I have lost track of time and I live alone in a bachelor apartment. I am stuck ordering groceries online, getting food delivery—even succumbed to having my brother deliver some wine for me to get me …

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Tonight’s Entertainment

In the dark of the night, little children often feel as if they see demons in their closet, and as if someone is watching them. The inky blackness of the night changes their familiar bedrooms once the watchful sun sets below the horizon. For most children, a blanket over the …

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Krampus

Each year on December 5th, a person in my hometown is brutally murdered. The police are at a loss. With each victim, a poetic story is left behind. Below are the stories from the past three years. * * * * * * Fredrik loved to smile, for he was …

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I Followed An Angel of Death and Read Her Diary

A couple of months ago, I found a diary written by a young girl, Florence Blackwell, who was a patient at the Kings Park Psychiatric Hospital on Long Island. Without telling the entirety of the story over again, there was one person who was instrumental in Florence’s survival of inhumane treatment at the hospital; a nurse named Mary.

I Found a Diary Tucked in a Brick at an Abandoned Psych Hospital

I grew up on Long Island, right outside of the Kings Park Psychiatric Center, home of the legend of Cropsey. I was always a good kid, never broke any rules, never really pushed the limits of what was and wasn’t “allowed”. But recently, I moved home after graduating from college, …

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I Don’t Experience Thursdays

I’ve had this problem for as long as I can remember. In preschool, I remember being confused when they told us there were seven days in a week, because I could only ever count six. I’ve never told anyone this, not even my wife, so I’ve never really been able …

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Red Room

Henry had gone missing in Mexico weeks ago, and Lois kept getting these bizarre letters in the mail. She had assumed the first four envelopes she’d received in the first four days of the month afterward were to the wrong address or a mistake. However, the fifth envelope contained a …

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The Whistlers: Bill’s Account

I’ve got calluses on my hands from burying my brother. If we’re rescued today, I’ll have to explain that to someone. Some search-and-rescue trooper, some forest ranger, will hold my palm to the light of a chopper window and want to know how I managed to rub the heel of my hand raw. I practice, sometimes. I practice what I’ll say to people when we get back home. Dr. Harmon, the department head, will need to know how I got Geoff and Lillian killed doing what was supposed to be straightforward field research. They were both his students, hand-picked for great things, led astray by the man who wrote his dissertation on the Russian Yeti, who taught a cryptozoology class disguised as a folklore survey. I got bumped off the tenure track for that. Harmon talked over me in meetings. Like I wasn’t there.

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