Where do I start? Well, I was heading home after looking through some old Nintendo games at a yard sale, when- No, don’t leave. It’s not that kind of pasta, I swear. Anyhow, I was going through downtown to catch the bus I needed when I saw a sign on […]
Stories are often wrought in the darkness, the immeasurable sea of the unknown. Man becomes irreversibly convinced that here lies his demise, here lies his doom and his defeat. Such is his nature that he rarely pauses to consider the other, the light, the known world. It is not in
One time in my childhood, my family and I visited my father’s hometown. It was a very tiring trip to the north, lasting for almost half a day. We arrived at my grandmother’s place in the afternoon. All were tired and everyone started to rest. I was unable to take
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I am sitting on my bed, shaking with fear. They’re coming tonight, I know they are. They’re coming for me. I can’t stop them, there are too many of them. All I can do is stay here and pray they don’t find me. I could run, but that would only
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The thin ones, the Impervious, were watching. I would never be safe from them. They were there, they were always there. The warped, the dead, the undead, whatever the fuck they were. They had been there for as long as I could possibly remember. Before I get into detail about
Case Number 31 Name: Emily Coles Nationality: American Age: 32 Location: Elliot Gram’s Institute of Mental Illness ======================================================================= You want to know about the Indigo Village? Well, I’ve been there you know. No seriously, I have. I even stayed there for a couple of weeks. You know, just to get
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I noticed her walking home from school one day. Her long hair was as dark as a raven’s feathers, and flowed out behind her as she walked. She was about ten feet in front of me as I was making my way to my house. She seemed horribly bent, and
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Bedtime is supposed to be a happy event for a tired child; for me it was terrifying. While some children might complain about being put to bed before they have finished watching a film or playing their favourite video game, when I was a child, night time was something to truly fear. Somewhere in the back of my mind it still is.
I woke up. Sheets were stained with sweat, breath was no longer bated, and unconscious solace began to surcease. Depression kills. Not in a directly physical way, not in a way perceivable by anyone except the sufferer. It made me feel psychotic. It went past the brain tissue, into the
Dear Trusted Ally, If you receive this, you have a duty to fulfill. You know about our predicament by now, and you’re alone, with nothing to do but be scared, so forge ahead and read. Read the whole thing. The WHOLE thing. Please. I sat in one of the black
If you wait at any given train station on a certain date, a train will appear that isn’t on any schedule. If you board the train you will find that the interior, regardless of the battered exterior, will be very elegant and old fashioned. Have a seat and enjoy the
People always joked there was something unnatural about him, something inhuman. They joked about it often, referencing his otherworldly battling skills and silent demeanor. They didn’t know how right they were. The first thing anyone noticed about Red was his eyes—or, at least, the fact that it was so hard
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It may be hard to believe for those of us born in the digital age—when every embarrassing moment can potentially be uploaded to Youtube for posterity—but an estimated 70% of all films from the silent era are thought to be lost. Of the silent film directors whose works have largely
When you move into a new house, you always feel slightly uneasy, don’t you? It’s not really your house yet, a stranger’s house filled with your things. And during those first few weeks, you feel like you’re intruding into someone else’s personal space. Well, you are. You see, I moved
I do not know if it’s just always been there or something I only noticed as I grew up. As of late, it’s become more present. I just call him the shadow. The shadow is nothing more than it sounds: a deep black figure with no distinguishing features. For awhile,
May all natural or intention of assumptions die here and remain here for as long as I, Holden J., shall live; notwithstanding how short that may be…. I hope that makes it clear straight off that this isn’t going to be some cruddy tea party or some other stupid shit
Department of Parapsychology, London. Item no. 1282. 15/03/1996. Found in the sub-basement of Gallowsditch House, Highgate Village, London . Item is a box containing papers and broken shards of mirror. The box is made from oak, measures exactly 11 inches by 11 inches and is fitted with a brass lock
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I am 53 years old, and the memory of this experience, which occurred when I was 11, the sheer terror I felt, is still as fresh as the night it happened. Retelling the tale to my kids, and learning about this website, has prompted me to share. My parents own
The gloomy interior of an abandoned factory. The air is dank and fetid. Somewhere in this crumbling, dark space the sound of machinery can be heard. The creak of metal grinding on metal, the hissing of steam and the low groan of rolling gears. In the centre of this vast,
I never wanted to reveal my story, but it has to be done. It’s been so long, and nobody’s known. But now I confide in you, the reader, to read my story, and attempt to comprehend the horrors I experienced. My fingers stutter and shake and tears cascade down my
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The mind. A realm that is mysterious to me even to this day. Though I take refuge there during long, hot days to get away from the bright, burning sun, escape there in the afternoon, when the sky is gray with storm clouds and the sun has all but receded,
Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Bartholomew Jackson and I desperately need to get this story out by any means necessary. Your belief on the matter that follows is not required, but I would indeed appreciate it if you were to bear with me. I’m afraid I must
I was struggling to identify something, anything, within the icy presence swirling around me. For eight years I had anticipated and feared this day. My eyes were rushing from side to side blindly; I couldn’t focus enough to see. Faster and faster they went, bringing with them my head, my
“Slenderman isn’t real.” That’s how this story starts. That’s how this story will most likely end. I don’t lie. My name is Raksha, and this is my story. “Slenderman isn’t real.” Helen has said this a variety of times to me. I nod vaguely and she cries out in frustration.
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