ghosts

The Third Knock

When Clara moved into the old duplex on Sycamore Street, she felt a strange mix of excitement and trepidation. The landlord, an elderly gentleman with a knowing smile and twinkling eyes, gave her one important rule: “Never open the door after the third knock.” He didn’t elaborate further, but Clara could sense an underlying weight to his words, as if they held secrets tightly bound to the history of the house. Each time she heard a knock echoing through the hardwood floors late at night, she was reminded of his warning, stirring a curiosity that battled with her instincts to heed his advice. As the days passed, the duplex began to feel both inviting and ominous, a place where shadows flickered just out of sight, and the air crackled with unspoken stories waiting to unfold.

She laughed at the time, the sound echoing softly in the dimly lit room. The place was cheap, the neighborhood quiet, and the rule sounded like the kind of local superstition that came with creaky floorboards and drafty windows, whispers of tales hidden within the walls. It was the sort of belief that made the timid hesitate and the skeptical roll their eyes in disdain. With an adventurous spirit and a hint of rebellion, she signed the lease anyway, convinced that the charm of rustic living and the allure of mystery would outweigh any ghostly encounters lurking in the shadows. After all, every home held its secrets, and she was ready to uncover them.

The first night passed uneventfully. The second, she heard it—three knocks at 2:13 a.m. Sharp. Not loud, not frantic. Just… deliberate.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

She froze in bed, heart hammering against her ribs as she strained to hear even the faintest sound. No footsteps echoed in the hallway. No voice called out to her, offering reassurance or inviting her to respond. Just silence enveloped the room after the third knock, heavy and foreboding. The darkness felt suffocating, and her mind raced with possibilities. She didn’t open the door, paralyzed by a mix of fear and curiosity, wondering who could be on the other side and why they would come at this late hour.

The next morning, she asked her neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Ellison, about it. The woman’s face drained of color, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief. “You heard it already?” she whispered, glancing nervously around as though the walls themselves might be listening. “It usually waits a week before it shows itself,” she added, her voice trembling slightly. The weight of unspoken words hung between them, and the atmosphere felt thick with an unshakeable tension, as Mrs. Ellison’s hands wrung a faded shawl tightly in her lap, revealing the depth of her concern.

Clara pressed for more, her curiosity bubbling over, but Mrs. Ellison only muttered, with a distant look in her eyes, “It’s not a person. It’s a promise.” The weight of those words lingered in the air, thick with unspoken truths, as Clara tried to decipher their meaning. What kind of promise could hold such significance? There was a palpable tension that filled the room, as if the very walls were guarding secrets that had long been tucked away, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.

That night, Clara stayed up, phone in hand, determined to record it. At 2:13 a.m., it came again.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

She crept to the door and peered through the peephole, her heart racing with anticipation and fear. No one was there. Just the porch light flickering irregularly, casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls of the dimly lit hallway. She held her breath, straining to hear any sound outside, hoping for a sign that she was not alone, but only the faint rustling of leaves reached her ears, deepening her unease.

She posted the audio online, eager to share her excitement with the world. However, to her dismay, people began to say it was fake, dismissing her efforts before even listening fully. One user, seemingly concerned, messaged her privately: “Don’t open it. Not even a crack. It learns your voice.” This cryptic warning sent a chill down her spine, making her question the very nature of what she had uploaded and the implications it might have for her safety and privacy. Uncertain of what to do next, she pondered over the mysterious message, her mind racing with possibilities of what the audio could truly represent and who might be watching.

On the fourth night, the knocks came earlier—1:47 a.m.—and louder.

KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.

She screamed, “Go away!” and the knocking stopped abruptly, echoing in the silence that followed. But the next morning, her front doormat was gone, vanished without a trace. In its place: a small, wet footprint imprinted in the mud, its details unmistakably distinct. Bare. Child-sized, as if a small child had innocently wandered onto her porch during the night, leaving behind a hint of mystery that sent chills down her spine. The air felt thick with an unshakeable tension, as she scanned the surroundings, half-expecting to see a figure lurking just beyond her line of sight, hidden among the shadows of the early morning light.

By the sixth night, she was sleeping with the lights on, the soft glow casting long shadows across her room. The knocks came at 12:03 a.m. this time, precise and unsettling, echoing through the silence of the house. Heart pounding in her chest, she lay frozen in bed, listening intently. After the third knock, a chill ran down her spine as she heard a whisper through the door, thin and eerie, like a breath carried on the wind. It seemed to call her name, weaving an unsettling spell that wrapped around her thoughts, compelling her to confront whatever lay beyond the threshold. Doubt and fear clashed within her, leaving her torn between the safety of her sanctuary and the inexplicable pull of the unknown.

“Clara…”

She hadn’t told anyone her name.

She moved a chair under the doorknob to secure the door and called the landlord, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed the phone to her ear. He didn’t answer, leaving her feeling increasingly anxious and alone. With her heart racing, she decided to call the police for assistance, hoping they would be able to bring her some peace of mind. When the officers arrived, they carefully canvassed the apartment, finding no prints, no signs of forced entry, which only deepened her sense of unease. But as the officer paused before leaving, a concerned look crossed his face, and he turned back to her, as if sensing the gravity of her fear and uncertainty.

“You’re in 3B, right?” he asked, his tone laced with curiosity and concern. “That’s the unit where the girl disappeared last year, you know. Same story as before – strange sounds echoing in the night, whispers of something lurking just beyond the walls. They said she reported hearing persistent knocks, like someone was trying to get her attention. Then, one fateful night, in a moment of brave foolishness or perhaps sheer desperation, she opened the door, seeking answers to the unsettling mystery that surrounded her.”

Clara didn’t sleep that night. She sat in the hallway, staring at the door, knife in hand.

At 11:59 p.m., the first knock came.

KNOCK.

She held her breath.

KNOCK.

The doorknob twitched.

KNOCK.

She screamed, her voice echoing through the dimly lit hallway. But this time, the door creaked open—just a sliver, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond that seemed to pulse with an ominous energy. She hadn’t touched it, her heart racing in her chest as she felt a chill crawl down her spine, the air thick with tension as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for what might come next.

A hand, pale and too long, reached through the gap, its fingers stretching out like brittle vines in search of something unseen, curling as if beckoning the darkness closer, while the remnants of a cold breeze whispered eerie secrets around it, reminding one that every shadow held a story waiting to be unearthed.

She slammed the door shut, locked it, and ran to the bedroom, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. But the window was open, flapping slightly in the cool night air. She hadn’t opened it; the last thing she remembered was ensuring everything was securely closed before the unsettling noises had started. Now, she hesitated, caught between the urge to escape and the instinct to investigate the peculiar situation that had crept into her once safe haven.

The last thing she saw before the lights went out was a small, wet footprint on her pillow.

What happened after that? Let your imagination run wild.

The House That Waited

Audio Podcast 8 minutes

It was the last house on the block. The one no one ever trick-or-treated at. Not because it was abandoned—it wasn’t. Lights flickered inside, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. Shadows moved past the windows, almost as if they were keeping an eye on the world outside. But every kid in town knew the stories: the house watched you, its windows like eyes peering into your very soul. It waited for you, whispering secrets in the night as the wind rustled through the overgrown yard, filled with twisted trees and unkempt bushes that seemed to reach out like skeletal hands. They said the air was thick with the echoes of laughter that once filled its halls, now replaced by an unsettling silence that wrapped around the house like a shroud, daring you to come closer.

Gary and his little sister Gail didn’t believe in ghost stories, no matter how creepy the tales sounded when shared by their new friends at school. Their parents had just moved to town, and they were determined to hit every house on the street, brimming with excitement about the prospect of gathering a colorful array of candy. With each door they knocked on, their hearts raced with anticipation, and the thought of ghouls and spirits lurking in the shadows was far from their minds. Candy was candy, and superstition wasn’t going to stop them; they were on a mission, ready to fill their bags with treats until they brimmed over with sugary goodness, giggling all the way home as they swapped stories and compared their loot.

“Just one more,” Gary said, pointing to the looming Victorian at the end of the cul-de-sac, its silhouette casting intricate shadows in the pale moonlight. Its porch light flickered on, illuminating the intricate details of the house’s architecture—tall windows adorned with lace curtains and a weathered door that had seen countless seasons. A carved pumpkin sat grinning on the steps, its eyes oddly deep, like they were looking back, as if holding secrets of the past. The air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and the distant laughter of children, weaving a tapestry of Halloween night that felt both nostalgic and eerie.

Gail hesitated. “I don’t like it.”

“Come on. It’s just a house.”

They climbed the creaking steps, each one groaning under their weight as if protesting their ascent. The air grew colder, an unsettling chill that seemed to seep into their very bones, causing them to shiver involuntarily. Gary knocked once, then twice, each rap echoing through the silence that enveloped them. The door opened slowly, creaking on its hinges to reveal a tall man in a tattered suit that seemed to hang from his gaunt frame like a mere shadow of what it once was. His face was pale, stretched too tightly over his bones, contouring an unsettling skull-like visage that sent a ripple of unease down their spines. His eyes were… wrong. Too dark, as if the light within them had been snuffed out long ago, and too deep, drawing one in with an almost magnetic force that made it difficult to look away, leaving them with an eerie sense of foreboding.

“Trick or treat,” Gary said, voice cracking.

The man smiled. “Oh, I have a treat for you.”

In the flickering glow of the streetlamp, the old man extended a weathered wooden bowl toward Gail, his gnarled fingers trembling slightly as if the weight of the offering carried a hidden burden. Nestled inside were candies, their wrappers dulled by time, the once-vibrant paper now faded to a ghostly pallor, each piece adorned with an eerie symbol—a spiral that seemed to writhe upon closer inspection, its jagged edges resembling rows of tiny, gnashing teeth. Gail’s curiosity stirred, her hand inching forward to pluck one from the pile, her fingertips brushing the crinkled edge of a wrapper, when the man’s hand darted out, his grip gentle yet firm, closing around her wrist with a quiet urgency that sent a chill racing up her spine.

“No. You must choose carefully.”

Gary frowned. “What does that mean?”

The man leaned closer, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and warning. “Some sweets are sweet, enticingly delicious, bursting with flavor and temptation. Some… are cursed, hiding dark secrets beneath their sugary exteriors, capable of drawing unsuspecting souls into an abyss of despair and regret.”

Gail pulled her hand back. “We’re leaving.”

But the door slammed shut behind them.

The hallway stretched impossibly long, an endless corridor of shadows and whispers. The wallpaper pulsed like it was breathing, as if imbued with a life of its own. The lights flickered sporadically, casting eerie glows that revealed glimpses of things that shouldn’t be—faces contorted in silent screams within the walls, hands reaching from the floorboards, desperate and ghostly, as if pleading to be freed from their eternal prison. The air was thick with an unsettling energy, each step echoing with a weight of dread, as if the very space around me was alive, watching, waiting.

“Run!” Gary shouted, grabbing Gail’s hand.

They bolted down the hall, but it twisted, turned, and changed with each frantic step they took. Doors appeared and vanished like fleeting shadows, some leading to tantalizing glimpses of rooms filled with memories, while others opened to nothingness, swallowing their hopes whole. The air crackled with an electric energy, as if the very walls were breathing, pulsating with a life of their own. Whispers echoed around them, urging them forward deeper into the maze of the house, which felt more like a living entity than a mere structure, alive with mysteries waiting to be uncovered.

They burst into a room filled with mirrors. Each one showed a different version of themselves—older, younger, twisted, crying, screaming, laughing with maniacal joy. The reflections danced mockingly, their faces a distorted gallery of emotions and time. One mirror, larger than the rest, showed Gail alone, holding the candy with a bite taken out, the bright colors stark against her pale skin. Her eyes were black, voids that seemed to swallow light, while her mouth stretched into a grin too wide, stretching almost unnaturally across her face. It was as if the mirror was revealing not just a reflection, but an embodiment of secrets and fears, whispering chilling truths only she could hear. The air around her crackled with tension, as though the very fabric of reality was fraying at the edges, inviting them all to step through into the myriad versions of their own souls.

Gary smashed the mirror. The room shattered.

They were back at the front door, their hearts pounding with a mix of excitement and apprehension. The man stood there, smiling, his demeanor warm and inviting, as if he held the key to a long-awaited reunion. The soft glow of the porch light illuminated his features, accentuating the kindness in his eyes and the promise of stories yet to be told. The cool evening breeze rustled the leaves nearby, adding an air of mystery to the moment, and they couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead beyond that familiar threshold.

“You chose wisely,” he said. “Most don’t.”

He opened the door. Outside, the street was quiet. Normal.

Gary and Gail ran, never looking back.

But that night, as Gail sat on her bed, her mind swirling with thoughts, she found the candy in her pocket. The bright wrappers gleamed under the soft glow of her bedside lamp, and a frown creased her brow She hadn’t taken one… had she? Confusion danced in her mind alongside the sweet scent of the candy, and she wondered if perhaps she had absentmindedly snatched a piece, enchanted by the colorful display, or if it had somehow slipped into her pocket when she wasn’t looking, a small mystery waiting to be unraveled.

She unwrapped it carefully, feeling the textured paper crinkle beneath her fingers. The spiral symbol pulsed faintly, glowing with a mysterious energy that seemed to beckon her closer. Against her better judgment, she took a bite, the flavor exploding in her mouth with an unexpected sweetness that both intrigued and frightened her. As she chewed, a strange warmth spread through her body, intensifying her senses and urging her to delve deeper into whatever secrets this enigmatic object held.

The following morning, Gail remained silent, her thoughts swirling in a tempest of emotions and unspoken words. Her eyes appeared more intense, reflecting a depth of contemplation that seemed almost otherworldly, and her smile broadened unnervingly, as if concealing secrets that danced just beneath the surface. Each glance she cast carried a weight that hung heavy in the air.

Gary swore the wallpaper in their house had started to breathe with strange voices and eerie sounds coming from the cracks in the floor. Will they pay for that piece of candy Gail ate the night before?

The Stairway in a Dream

AUDIO PODCAST 5 minutes

Tom was exhausted, his days tangled in the grind of hospital shifts and the quiet ache of loneliness since his grandmother passed. Each shift felt like an eternity, filled with the rhythmic sounds of medical machinery and the soft murmur of conversations that seldom reached his heart. One night, after collapsing into bed, he slipped into a dream unlike any he’d had before. In this vivid realm, colors danced around him, and comforting voices echoed, bringing with them the warmth he had longed for amidst the cold sterility of his waking life. As he wandered through this enchanting landscape, he felt a glimmer of hope, as though the essence of his grandmother was guiding her toward healing and connection.

He stood in a field, golden grass swaying under a sky that shimmered like stained glass, hues of blue and violet dancing together in a serene harmony. Ahead, a stairway spiraled upward, its steps carved from light, pulsing softly like the heartbeat of the world around him. Tom felt no fear—only a pull, like a melody calling him forward, a tune that resonated deeply within his soul, filling him with an inexplicable warmth. Each step he took felt deliberate, as if the very air whispered secrets of the universe, guiding his ascent into the unknown. He began to climb, his heart racing with anticipation, eager to uncover what awaited him at the top of this ethereal staircase.

Each step hummed with warmth, and as he ascended, memories flickered around him like fireflies in the dusk: his grandmother’s laughter as they baked bread, the sweet aroma of yeast rising in the air, his own childhood voice singing off-key to the tunes of faded melodies, moments of kindness he’d forgotten, like small treasures hidden in the corners of his heart. The higher he climbed, the lighter he felt, as if the weight of his regrets—snapped words, missed chances, and the lingering guilt of unanswered apologies—dissolved into the glowing air, replaced by an overwhelming sense of acceptance and serenity. With each ascent, he embraced the warmth of those cherished recollections, allowing them to envelop him, illuminating the path ahead with a radiant glow that filled him with hope and renewed purpose.

At the top, the stairs opened to a vast garden, blooming with colors he couldn’t name, each flower adding its unique hue to the tapestry of nature. Figures moved among the flowers, their faces familiar yet radiant—his grandmother, younger than Tom remembered, her eyes bright and sparkling like stars in the evening sky. The air was thick with the sweet fragrance of blossoms, and the gentle hum of bees flitting from petal to petal created a serene melody. “You’re not staying yet,” his grandmother said, her voice a warm embrace that wrapped around Tom like a soft blanket on a chilly day. “But see how loved you are, surrounded by the beauty of your memories, waiting for you to return and cherish them once more.”

Others appeared—patients Tom had comforted, friends he’d lost touch with, even strangers he’d smiled at in passing. They didn’t speak, but their presence wove a quiet truth: every small act of him had rippled through the tapestry of life, touching lives he’d never traced or even considered. Each smile exchanged on a crowded street, every word of encouragement spoken in the hushed tones of a hospital room, had forged unseen connections that now filled the air around his. In this moment, Tom realized the profound impact of kindness, the way it spread like a warm breeze, gently nudging hearts toward hope and understanding. Tom’s chest ached with joy, not pain, as she embraced this realization, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the unseen threads that intertwined his with those who had crossed his path.

His grandmother took his hand, leading him to a pool of light that shimmered like a thousand stars brought to life. In its reflection, Tom saw himself—not the tired nurse who often felt overwhelmed by the weight of his responsibilities, but a woman woven from courage and care, radiating strength and grace. The warmth of the light washed over him, illuminating the dreams he had long forgotten and the aspirations that still flickered within his heart. “You’re still needed below,” his grandmother whispered gently, his voice echoing with the wisdom of ages. “But you’ll carry this now, this newfound sense of purpose and love, as you return. Let it guide you whenever the path seems dark, for you are never alone in your journey.”

Tom woke with tears on his cheeks, the hospital’s sterile hum distant, a haunting reminder of his fragile reality. The dream’s glow lingered in his bones, a certainty that heaven wasn’t just a place but a truth: his life mattered, and he wasn’t alone in this vast universe full of connection and love. The comforting warmth of that revelation wrapped around him like a soft blanket, easing the tightness in his chest. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of antiseptic air, and rose from the sheets, lighter than before, ready to face the day with renewed hope and determination, knowing that each moment was a gift waiting to be embraced.

No Charge for Three Days

LINK

For three days, October 29, 30, and the 31st, you can acquire the Kindel edition NO CHARGE. Or $5.75 paperback edition. Spooky scary stories are ideal for Halloween.

LINK FOR SAMPLE

Midnight Spooky Tale

It’s 11:57 PM on April 4, 2025, and the air feels thick with something unspoken. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the floor, like fingers clawing at the edges of reality. The clock ticks louder than it should, each second a hammer against the silence. Outside, the wind howls low, a mournful sound that rattles the windows—like something’s trying to get in.

You’re alone, or at least you think you are. The room’s dim, lit only by the sickly glow of your screen, and every creak of the house feels like a whisper you can’t quite catch. Did you lock the door? You’re pretty sure you did, but the thought gnaws at you. There’s a chill creeping up your spine, slow and deliberate, like icy fingertips tracing their way to your neck.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks—sharp, frantic—then stops abruptly. Too abruptly. The silence that follows is heavier than before, pressing down on your chest. You glance at the clock: 11:58. Time’s slipping away, but it feels wrong, like it’s stalling just to mess with you.

There’s a story they tell around here, about nights like this. They say the veil thins out close to midnight, when the world holds its breath. Things slip through—things that don’t belong. You’ve heard the tales: footsteps where no one’s walking, shadows that don’t match their owners, voices calling your name from rooms you swore were empty. Old folks swear they’ve seen it, eyes wide and hands trembling as they recount it over flickering candles.

11:59. The screen flickers, just for a second, and you blink. Did you see something in the reflection? A shape behind you, too vague to be sure, too real to ignore? You turn, heart thudding, but there’s nothing. Just the room, still and dark. The wind picks up again, and this time it carries something—a low, guttural hum that doesn’t sound like wind at all.

Midnight hits. The clock chimes, but it’s off, warped, like it’s underwater. The lights dim, then surge, casting the room in a strobe of light and shadow. And then you hear it: a soft tap-tap-tap, slow and deliberate, coming from the window. You don’t want to look. Every nerve screams not to. But your eyes betray you, sliding toward the glass.

There’s nothing there. Just darkness. Except… is that a smudge on the pane? A handprint, faint and streaked, like someone—or something—pressed against it from the outside. It wasn’t there before. You’re sure of it.

The tapping stops. The silence is worse. And then, from somewhere deep in the house, a floorboard groans. Not near you. Not upstairs. Somewhere else. Somewhere it shouldn’t.

Happy almost-midnight. Sleep tight—if you can.

House On a Hill

Audio Podcast 4 minutes

The old house on the hill had stood empty for decades, its windows dark and its walls weathered by time. Clara had passed it every day on her way to town, always wondering about the stories it held. One crisp autumn evening, as the sun dipped low, she noticed something different—a faint flicker of light in the upstairs window. Curiosity tugged at her, and against her better judgment, she decided to investigate.

The front door creaked open with surprising ease, as if it had been waiting for her. Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint scent of lavender lingered. Clara’s footsteps echoed on the warped wooden floor as she climbed the stairs, drawn to the room where she’d seen the light. The door at the top was ajar, and a soft glow spilled out.

In the room sat a woman, her back to Clara, hunched over a small table. She wore a faded dress, its hem frayed, and her silver hair cascaded down her back. A single candle burned before her, casting long shadows across the walls. Clara hesitated, then cleared her throat.

The woman didn’t turn. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her voice low and steady.

Clara froze. “Expecting me? I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t need to,” the woman replied. “You’re here for the truth, aren’t you?”

Clara’s heart thudded. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming, hadn’t even known herself until moments ago. “What truth?” she asked, stepping closer.

The woman gestured to a chair across the table. “Sit. I’ll show you.”

On the table lay a small wooden box, intricately carved with swirling patterns. The woman slid it toward Clara. “Open it,” she said.

Hands trembling, Clara lifted the lid. Inside was a photograph, yellowed with age. It showed a young girl, no more than five, with wide eyes and a shy smile, standing in front of this very house. A man and woman stood beside her; their faces blurred by time. Clara frowned. “Who is this?”

The woman finally turned; Her face illuminated by the candlelight. Her eyes were sharp, piercing, and oddly familiar. “Look closer,” she said.

Clara studied the photo again, then gasped. The girl’s dress—the same faded fabric, the same frayed hem—matched the one the woman wore now. “That’s… you?” she stammered.

The woman nodded. “I’ve waited a long time for you to come back.”

“Come back?” Clara’s mind raced. “I’ve never been here before.”

The woman smiled faintly, a sad curve to her lips. “You have. You just don’t remember.”

Clara’s gaze darted between the photo and the woman, confusion mounting. Then the woman reached across the table, her cold fingers brushing Clara’s hand. A jolt surged through her, and suddenly, memories flooded in—running through these halls as a child, laughter echoing, the smell of lavender in her mother’s arms. She stumbled back, clutching her head. “What’s happening?”

“You were taken from this house,” the woman said softly. “Taken from me. I’ve been here ever since, waiting.”

Clara’s breath hitched. The blurred faces in the photo sharpened in her mind’s eye—her parents, younger, happier. And then she understood. The woman wasn’t just a stranger. She was her grandmother, preserved by some strange force in this house, tethered to it all these years.

But the truth hit her as she looked down at her own hands—hands that now shimmered faintly, translucent in the candlelight. She hadn’t just come to uncover a secret. She’d come because she, too, had died long ago, and this house was calling her home.

The key detail—that Clara is a ghost—remains hidden until the final sentence, recontextualizing the entire story. Did it catch you off guard?

DREAM OR REAL

AUDIO PODCAST 8 minutes

Lila woke to the sound of rustling leaves, her breath fogging in the crisp morning air. She blinked, and the world shimmered—golden oaks and crimson maples stretched endlessly before her, their branches swaying in a breeze that smelled of earth and cider. She was in the forest again, the one she’d walked through last night. Or was it last week? Her fingers brushed the rough bark of a tree, solid and real, and she smiled, feeling the familiar connection to nature that always brought her peace. Sunlight filtered through the vibrant canopy, dappling the ground with patches of warmth that felt inviting against the coolness of the morning. A small bird chirped cheerfully in the distance, and she paused to listen, allowing the harmonious sounds of the forest to envelop her like a cozy blanket. Fall had arrived, her favorite season, painting the world in hues that felt like home, where every rustling leaf and fluttering wing told a story of transformation and comfort as if inviting her to discover the secrets hidden within this enchanting landscape.

She wandered deeper, the crunch of leaves underfoot a steady rhythm that accompanied her thoughts like a familiar song. A deer darted past, its antlers catching the low sunlight, and she laughed—hadn’t she fed it apples yesterday? Or had that been a dream? The thought slipped away as she reached a clearing where a wooden bench sat, weathered but familiar, a silent witness to the passage of time and countless fleeting moments. She settled onto it, pulling her sweater tight against the chill that seemed to seep through the air, and watched the sky shift from amber to violet, painting a masterpiece that only nature could create. A gentle breeze rustled the branches above, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth, while distant birds sang their evening songs. Time didn’t matter here; it was just her and the season, entwined in a tranquil embrace that felt both timeless and fleeting.

“Lila,” a voice called, soft but insistent. She turned, but no one was there—only the wind, whispering through the branches, carrying with it a symphony of rustling leaves that seemed to echo her confusion. She frowned. That voice… it had been in her room this morning, hadn’t it? The memory lingered in her mind like a haunting melody, before the leaves. Before the forest. Her head ached, and the scene flickered before her eyes, blurring reality with a dreamlike haze. Suddenly, the trees were bare, then budding—pink blossoms unfurling like delicate fans, the air warming with the sweet scent of rain and new grass. Spring now, not fall. The world transformed, vibrant colors awakening all around her. She stood, confused, as petals drifted around her like snowflakes caught in a gentle breeze, each one a reminder of the fleeting passage of time. The bench was gone, replaced by a patch of wildflowers that danced joyfully in the wind. Hadn’t she planted those? Doubt crept in as she examined the landscape, the familiar now tinged with surreal beauty, blurring the lines between her memories and the enchanting present.

She knelt, touching the soft petals, and memories—or dreams—rushed in like a tide pulling her under. She’d danced here under a pastel sky, her hands stained with soil as she twirled freely, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face and the whisper of leaves in the gentle breeze. Or had she watched it from her window, longing to join the magic outside? The forest blurred, and suddenly, she was in her bedroom, staring at a cracked ceiling that seemed to close in on her as the moments faded. A woman leaned over her, her face lined with worry, shadows playing across her features as if reflecting the depth of her concern. “Lila, you’re awake. You were talking about leaves again,” the woman said softly, her voice the one from the wind, but sharper now, tethering her spirit to the present. It was a voice that carried the weight of love and grounding, pulling Lila back to reality, bringing forth a sense of safety amidst the swirling chaos of her thoughts.

Lila blinked, trying to shake off the lingering fog in her mind. The room smelled stale, not like rain or earth, but rather like an unforgiving emptiness that gnawed at her senses. A tray of pills sat on the nightstand, each one a bright reminder of her reality, and a calendar read March 21, 2025. Spring, she thought wistfully, but where were the blossoms? The vibrant colors and lively scents that usually filled the air seemed painfully absent. She looked down at her hands—clean, glaringly so, devoid of any trace of soil or the sticky sweetness of apple juice from feeding the deer with her own hands. “I was there,” she murmured softly to herself, feeling a deep yearning wash over her. “The forest. It’s fall there now. Or spring. I can’t…” Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the silence of the room, and the woman sighed, feeling a profound disconnect between the vivid memories of her time in the forest and the dull, clinical environment surrounding her now. The weight of absence settled heavily upon her chest, making it hard to breathe as she longed for the embrace of nature’s cycle, for the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves—simple pleasures that now felt like distant echoes.

“You’ve been here all night,” the woman said gently, her voice soothing like a soft breeze. “Dreaming again, just as you often do. The doctor says it’s getting harder for you to come back, as if each journey to that other realm pulls you further away from us. I can see the worry etched on your face even in your slumber, the way your brow furrows and your lip’s part slightly, as though you’re lost in something profoundly beautiful yet terrifying. I wish I could follow you into those dreams, to understand what captivates you so deeply and to bring you back safely when the time comes.”

Lila shook her head, her mind racing with disbelief. “No, I walked there. I felt it.” She closed her eyes tightly, and the room around her dissolved into a haze of color and light. Suddenly, she found herself back in the forest, where leaves were falling in slow spirals, the golden hues painting a serene picture of autumn. With each leaf that touched the ground, she felt seasons transform like a carousel spinning endlessly in the sky. The gentle rustle of branches accompanied the soothing sounds of nature, as the deer returned, their soft noses nudging her hand. Lila laughed, the sound bursting forth like music, and tears streaked her face, a blend of joy and nostalgia overwhelming her senses. “This is real,” she whispered breathlessly into the crisp air, though the woman’s voice echoed faintly in the background, calling her name with urgency, as if trying to tether her to the present even as she reveled in the beauty of the moment.

Days passed—or didn’t. Lila roamed her forest, seasons blending into a tapestry she couldn’t untangle. Fall’s golden decay gave way to spring’s tender green, then back again, a loop of beauty she couldn’t escape. Each step brought the rustle of leaves beneath her feet and the whispers of the wind, wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. Sometimes she heard the woman, saw the room, felt the pills pressed to her lips, the cold, clinical atmosphere of the space stifling her spirit. But the forest always reclaimed her, pulling her back into its embrace, its colors brighter than the gray walls surrounding her, its air sweeter than the sterile tang of reality, infusing her with a sense of freedom she thought she had lost forever. The vibrant hues of wildflowers danced along the path, and the melody of birdsong filled her ears, a reminder that life thrived beyond the confines of her mind.

One evening—or morning—she sat on the bench again, watching the sky burn orange, then soften to pink, painting a canvas of warmth that enveloped her. The voice called, fainter now, and she didn’t turn, for she was lost in the beauty surrounding her. “I’ll stay,” she said to the deer, to the trees, to the seasons that held her gently in their embrace. “This is where I belong.” The forest hummed in agreement, a symphony of rustling leaves and distant bird calls, and Lila let go, sinking into a world where dreams and reality were one, forever spring, forever fall, where the colors danced vibrantly in the air, wrapping her in a tapestry woven from the very essence of nature. She felt the soft touch of the breeze as it whispered secrets of the earth, and in that moment, she knew she was a part of something greater, something eternal.

More creepy, scary tales link

Tales of TomT 2.0 Book Five

Video file about this book

Just in time for Halloween. Ideal for the commuter or the casual reader.

Link to Amazon for purchasing

This is the fifth book in the Series of Tales of TomT 2.0 Link

This has been an exciting endeavor.

Discovering an Abandoned Cabin

Audio Podcast ten minutes

The mountains were alive with autumn’s breath, leaves crunching under the boots of four hikers—Lila, Marcus, Tess, and Ethan—as they ventured deeper into the mountains. Vibrant hues of orange, red, and gold painted the landscape, while the crisp air filled their lungs with the scent of pine and earth. The trail they’d followed for hours had been clear and well-trodden, but Marcus, ever the explorer, spotted a faint path veering into a dense thicket. No markers, no signs, just a narrow ribbon of dirt weaving through towering pines, the shadows dancing as the sun began to dip behind the peaks. “Let’s see where it goes,” he said, eyes glinting with curiosity. The others hesitated, exchanging glances filled with uncertainty, but they were ultimately drawn by the promise of something undiscovered, an adventure that could unveil secrets of the wilderness. The thrill of the unknown beckoned them, and with a collective shrug, they stepped off the familiar trail, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead, their hearts filled with excitement and a hint of trepidation.

The path twisted for nearly an hour, the air growing colder, the light dimmer, forcing Tess to pull her jacket tighter around her. Just as she began to grumble about turning back, they stumbled into a clearing that felt almost like a breath of fresh air yet still eerie in its silence. There, half-swallowed by moss and shadow, stood an abandoned cabin, its structure a testament to years of neglect. Its weathered logs sagged beneath the weight of time, with windows dark and cracked, as if guarding secrets long forgotten. Vines crawled up the walls, weaving a tapestry of nature reclaiming what it had lost, yet despite the decay, the place felt… expectant. Lila shivered, not from the chill that permeated the air, but from an unsettling sense of being watched. “This place gives me the creeps,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder, but Ethan was already at the door, pushing it open with a creak that echoed like a warning through the stillness. As the door swung inward, a rush of stale air escaped, carrying with it the faint scent of damp wood and something else, something foul that made Lila’s stomach churn.

Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust that hung like a heavy blanket, clinging to everything in sight. A rickety table, uneven in its stance, a rusted stove that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and a single chair sat in the gloom, casting long shadows against the cracked walls. On the table lay a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed but intact, whispering secrets of the past. Marcus grabbed it, flipping it open with a sense of reverence, while the others peered over his shoulder, their eyes wide with curiosity and anticipation. The handwriting was spidery, precise, and meticulously crafted, dated October 15, 2024—exactly one year ago. “Weird,” Tess murmured, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Who’d leave this here? It feels like it belongs to someone who disappeared without a trace, leaving behind not just their thoughts but a part of their life in this forgotten place.”

Marcus read aloud: “Four hikers arrive at dusk, their boots heavy with mud. The tall one, bold, finds the path first, his long strides cutting through the thickening shadows. The wary one, with sharp eyes, hesitates at the cabin’s door, the chill of the evening air brushing against their faces as they exchange anxious glances. A rustle in the underbrush makes their hearts race, igniting a primal instinct to keep watch. Memories flood back as they recall the stories of other travelers who had ventured into these woods, some never returning. His voice faltered, struggling to steady itself against the mounting tension. The description was too specific—Marcus’s height, Lila’s cautious glance, the mud caked on their boots from a stream they’d crossed, each detail a vivid reminder of their shared journey. The journal went on, detailing their exact words, their movements, the way Ethan’s impulsive push at the door seemed more a challenge than a welcome, even the sounds of their laughter that felt like a ghostly echo of the past. But it was written before they’d arrived, revealing truths they had yet to confront.”

This is impossible,” Ethan said, snatching the journal with a sense of urgency and disbelief. He flipped forward, his face paling as the weight of the entries settled over him like a dark cloud. The words seemed to come alive, predicting their every action with eerie accuracy: “The bold one reads first, the wary one checks the windows, the quiet one finds the trapdoor…” Tess, who’d been silent in the background, was already at a window, peering out as if the very air around them had conjured the instructions from the page. She froze, suddenly aware of how closely she’d just fulfilled the journal’s words, the chill of realization seeping into her bones as her mind raced, piecing together the significance of their movements. Confusion and dread twisted in her stomach as she glanced back at Ethan, who stared at her with wide eyes, both of them understanding that the journal not only knew their past but seemed to weave their fate as well.

There’s no trapdoor,” Lila said, her voice tight, but her eyes darted to the floor, as if searching for an escape from the unsettling atmosphere that surrounded them. Ethan, unnerved by her sudden defensiveness, started stomping around the dimly lit room, desperately searching for any sign of a secret. After what felt like an eternity, his foot struck something solid beneath a threadbare rug, and he knelt down in disbelief. There it was—a wooden hatch, barely visible, where dust and age had concealed its presence. The journal had known all along, its cryptic messages hinting at mysteries yet to unfold. With a rush of adrenaline, he yanked the hatch open, revealing a steep, rickety ladder descending into an impenetrable darkness that seemed to swallow all light. The air grew heavier, filled with uncertainty, as the group exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of terror and an almost magnetic compulsion to follow the script, drawn by the possibilities that lay hidden below, compelling them to confront the unknown.

Lila clutched the journal now, reading as they descended into the depths of the unknown. “They climb down, hearts pounding, into the chamber below. The air is still and heavy; the walls carved with cryptic symbols they cannot read or decipher…” The ladder led to a stone-walled room, damp and cold, its walls etched with spiraling runes that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. Shadows danced across the surface, casting eerie illusions that both enthralled and terrified them. A pedestal stood at the center, holding a single object—a small, black stone, smooth as glass, reflecting the faint glow of the runes around it. The stone drew them closer, an inexplicable force urging them to reach out and touch its surface, as if it held secrets of ancient power or forgotten knowledge waiting to be uncovered.

The journal’s next entry made Lila’s hands shake: “The quiet one touches the stone, and the truth is revealed.” Tess, who’d barely spoken all day, stared at the stone, her hand trembling as it reached out, the air thick with anticipation. “Don’t,” Marcus snapped, his voice laced with a mix of fear and urgency, but Tess’s fingers brushed it, fueled by an irresistible curiosity. As she made contact, a low hum filled the room, vibrating through their very bones, and images flooded their minds—flashes of the forest, the hidden paths they had never noticed before, the cabin where secrets lingered, themselves walking the trail, as if seen through another’s eyes, each moment feeling eerily familiar yet profoundly alien. The journal’s author wasn’t human. It was… something else, watching, recording, guiding, threading their destinies together in ways they couldn’t yet comprehend, hinting at a deeper connection to a past long forgotten, whispering truths that could change everything they knew.

“They understand now,” the journal read, “that the trail chose them, that time loops here, and that they were always meant to find this place, a nexus of fate hidden away from the prying eyes of the universe.” Ethan cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of destiny as he backed toward the ladder, heart racing with dread and uncertainty. The runes glowed brighter, each pulse resonating like a heartbeat, while the air grew thick around them, pressing them in place, making it hard to breathe, as if the very fabric of reality were tightening. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, and he could almost hear whispers of the past echoing through the chamber, warning him of the consequences of his next move. The final entry was blank, except for one ominous line: “They decide.” The gravity of that simple phrase settled heavily on his shoulders, leaving him paralyzed by the weight of choice and the potential ramifications that could ripple through time itself.

Lila dropped the journal, her mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Were they trapped in a never-ending cycle, doomed to repeat this very moment for all eternity? Or could they find a way to break free from this dark fate that loomed over them? With a sudden surge of determination, Marcus grabbed the ancient stone, its rough surface cool against his palm, and hurled it against the wall with all his strength, watching as it shattered into tiny fragments of dust that spiraled through the air like a storm. The intricate runes that had been glowing brightly dimmed, the resonant hum that filled the space faded into an eerie silence, and for the first time, the air felt lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted. They scrambled up the ladder, hearts pounding wildly in their chests, filled with both fear and hope, and fled the cabin, the unsettling past behind them as they dared not look back, propelled by the urgency of their escape and the prospect of a new beginning.

The trail was gone when they reached the clearing’s edge, swallowed by the dense undergrowth that had once whispered of adventures untold. The forest seemed ordinary again, devoid of the magic it once held, yet the journal’s weight lingered in their minds like a distant echo of an unforgettable encounter. Had they truly escaped, or was this haunting experience merely a part of the script that bound their fate? They never spoke of it again, but each wondered, in quiet moments, if the trail was still out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently for the next wanderer to stumble upon its secrets. The lingering sense of mystery wrapped around their thoughts, fueling their imaginations with what-ifs and maybes, making the ordinary feel extraordinary in the flickering light of fading memories.

From Book Four of Tales of Tom2 2.0 link to Amazon

Forgotten Reflection

Audio Podcast 10 minutes

This is in my next paperback “Tales of TomT2.0 volume five. This volume is all spooky stories. Getting ready for Halloween.

Eli stood in the bathroom, half-asleep, brushing his teeth like he did every night, the bristles of his toothbrush working mechanically against his enamel. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow over the cracked tiles and foggy mirror, illuminating the remnants of a long day that clung to him like a heavy blanket. He smiled absently at his reflection—more habit than emotion—and then dropped the smile as he leaned down to spit, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. The room was filled with the familiar scent of mint toothpaste, mingling with the musty air, while outside, the soft rustle of leaves hinted at the gentle breeze that stirred the quiet neighborhood. Unconsciously, he replayed the events of the day, the laughter shared and the mundane moments that blurred into one another, pausing briefly to wonder how tomorrow might unfold. With a final rinse, Eli reluctantly stepped away from the mirror, feeling the weight of exhaustion tugging at him, but grateful for the small, ordinary ritual that marked the end of his day.

But the reflection didn’t drop it.

Eli froze, toothbrush still in hand, caught in a moment that felt suspended in time. His mirrored self was still smiling, an eerie reflection that sent chills down his spine. Not a friendly grin, but something stretched too wide, too long, like a macabre mask fitted over a face that should show fear or surprise. The kind of smile that didn’t belong on a human face, it was an unsettling distortion that suggested something more sinister lurking beneath the surface. With each passing second, Eli’s heart raced as he wondered what had gone wrong, why the reflection seemed to mock him, and if this strange visage was a harbinger of something darker waiting to reveal itself.

He blinked. The reflection blinked too, still grinning.

“Okay,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Sleep deprivation. That’s all.”

He turned off the light and left the bathroom, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over him. But as he passed the hallway mirror, he caught a glimpse—his reflection, still smiling, an eerie reminder of a joy that felt distant. The dim light flickered, casting shadows that danced along the walls, and he paused for a moment, captivated by the contrast between his inner turmoil and the outward appearance of happiness that stared back at him. It was as if the smile in the mirror was mocking him, teasing him for the facade he maintained.

That night, Eli barely slept. The moon filtered through the curtains, casting eerie shadows that danced across his room. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that grin, sharp and wide, curling menacingly at the corners. It wasn’t just unsettling—it felt wrong, as if it held secrets meant to be buried deep. Like something was watching him from the other side of the glass, its gaze penetrating and relentless, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of dread that wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket. Each sound in the house—a creak, a whisper—seemed amplified in the silence, fueling his growing paranoia and ensuring that sleep remained an elusive, unattainable refuge.

The next morning, he avoided the mirror, feeling as though it was a portal to some unsettling truth, he was not ready to confront. Shaved blind, he moved the razor hesitantly over his stubble, not daring to open his eyes lest he be confronted by the visage he had come to dread. Brushed his teeth with his eyes closed, the minty taste barely reaching his senses as his mind raced with the thoughts of what he might discover. But curiosity gnawed at him, an insistent whisper in the back of his mind urging him to look. With trembling hands, he peeked, heart pounding as he lifted the lid of dread, ready to face whatever awaited him.

The reflection was normal, appearing just as one would expect in a peaceful lake on a calm day, with the surface shimmering gently under the warm sunlight and presenting a clear image of the trees and sky above. The tranquility of the scene offered a moment of serenity, inviting one to pause and appreciate the beauty of nature reflected so perfectly before them.

Relieved, Eli laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. “I’m losing it,” he said to his reflection, a mixture of exasperation and amusement dancing in his eyes. He leaned closer to the mirror, searching for signs of the sanity he felt slipping away, all while his laughter grew more infectious, as if he were sharing an inside joke with himself that only he could understand.

It didn’t laugh back, as if it understood that laughter was a privilege reserved for moments of genuine joy and connection, instead opting for a silent acknowledgment that hung in the air, weighty with the unspoken truths and emotions we often fail to express.

That night, the smile returned.

This time, Eli stared into the mirror, refusing to look away. His own face stared back, smiling wider and wider until the lips cracked and bled. The eyes grew darker, pupils swallowing the whites. Eli backed away, heart hammering.

The reflection didn’t move.

It stayed there, grinning, even as Eli ran from the room, its sinister smile a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked within those walls, a presence that seemed to thrive on fear and uncertainty, watching with unblinking eyes as the shadows danced around it, whispering secrets that only Eli could feel creeping into his mind, urging him to look back, to face what he desperately wanted to escape from.

He tried everything—covering the mirror with cloth and tape, smashing it to shards that glittered like cruel stars, even replacing it with a new one that promised to be different. But no matter what he did, the reflection came back, mocking him with its persistence. It was as if the mirror had a will of its own, refusing to be silenced or hidden away. Not always immediately, as if it relished in the torment of anticipation. Sometimes it waited patiently, biding its time until he least expected it. At other moments, it would show itself in the most unexpected places—appearing in windows during twilight, shimmering in puddles after a rain, and even on the black screen of his phone when he least wanted to confront it. Each encounter was a reminder, a haunting echo of what he wished to forget, compelling him to confront the part of himself he had long tried to escape.

And it was changing.

It began to move on its own, a strange, unsettling energy radiating from its form. Tilting its head when Eli didn’t, as if questioning his resolve and challenging him to respond. Raising a hand when his stayed still, the gesture felt deliberate, almost mocking in its insistence. It whispered things he couldn’t hear, mouthing words that made his skin crawl, sending shivers down his spine and igniting a primal fear within him. Each syllable it shaped felt like a dark promise, a hint at secrets that lurked just beyond his understanding, beckoning him closer even as every instinct screamed for him to flee.

One night, Eli woke to find every mirror in his apartment uncovered, reflecting the dim light that filtered in through the curtains. He didn’t remember doing it, but the sight sent a shiver down his spine as he felt an eerie presence in the air. Each mirror seemed to be staring back at him, as if they held secrets he had forgotten. The last few days had been a blur, filled with late-night distractions and fatigue, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Uneasy, Eli glanced around, half-expecting to see a shadow lurking just beyond his line of sight, but the apartment remained silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator.

In the bathroom, the reflection was waiting, shimmering faintly in the dim light, as if it held secrets untold, urging the viewer to step closer and confront the truths hidden within.

It wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was beckoning.

Eli stepped closer, drawn by something he couldn’t name, as an inexplicable force seemed to pull him towards the shimmering glass. The glass rippled like water, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow that captivated his senses. He reached out, fingertips brushing the surface, feeling a coolness that sent a shiver up his spine, as though the glass were alive and responsive to his touch. Each delicate ripple seemed to whisper secrets, urging him to delve deeper into the mystery before him, while the world around him faded into a distant hum.

And the reflection grabbed him.

Now, when people visit Eli’s apartment, they find the mirrors covered, shrouded in an aura of mystery that piques their curiosity. All but one remain hidden behind draped cloths or opaque film, which creates a peculiar atmosphere that feels both intimate and unsettling. The lone uncovered mirror, however, reflects a glimmer of light and provides a fleeting glimpse into Eli’s world, inviting visitors to wonder what lies behind the concealed reflections and the reasons for their obscuration.

In the bathroom, the mirror shows a man brushing his teeth, his reflection revealing the early morning light filtering through the small window, casting a gentle glow on the pale tiles. As he methodically moves the toothbrush back and forth, the hum of the electric toothbrush fills the air, and he catches a glimpse of his own tired eyes, a reminder of the long night before. The aroma of mint from the toothpaste mingles with the faint scent of soap lingering in the room, creating an oddly comforting atmosphere. Beyond the mirror, the bathroom door is slightly ajar, hinting at the life outside that awaits him, filled with the sounds of a bustling day yet to unfold.

And if you look closely, you’ll see—he’s not alone. In fact, there are several figures lurking in the shadows, each with their own stories, waiting to unfold. The atmosphere is thick with intrigue, and the faint sound of whispers hints at secrets shared among them. It’s a moment frozen in time, where connections are forged and the unspoken bond of companionship is palpable, transforming an ordinary scene into something extraordinary.

For reasons that will never be understood, the apartment was never rented again, becoming a mysterious relic of the past, shrouded in whispers and unanswered questions about its history. Neighbors speculated about the property, sharing stories of strange occurrences and unexplainable sights that had once driven potential tenants away, leaving behind only a lingering sense of unease that seemed to permeate the very walls of the building.

Lights Out in the Shower

Audio Podcast, 3 minutes

The old cabin creaked under the weight of the storm outside, wind howling through the pines like a chorus of restless spirits. I’d rented the place for a quiet weekend, a chance to unplug and clear my head. The bathroom was small, with chipped tiles and a shower that sputtered before spitting out lukewarm water. I stepped in, letting the spray wash away the day’s hike, steam curling around me like a shroud.

The bulb overhead flickered once, twice, then held steady. I ignored it—old wiring, probably. The water felt good, soothing my aching muscles. I closed my eyes, humming softly, the sound muffled by the patter of droplets. Then, a sharp *click*. The light went out, plunging the room into pitch black.

I froze, water still streaming down my face. “Great,” I muttered, reaching for the faucet. My fingers fumbled in the dark, slipping on the wet knob. The shower kept running, but the air felt heavier now, like someone had stepped into the room. I strained to listen over the water’s drone. Nothing. Just my imagination, right?

I turned off the shower, the sudden silence deafening. My hand groped for the towel hanging nearby, but it brushed something else—cold, slick, like damp skin. I yanked my hand back, heart hammering. “Who’s there?” I called, voice trembling. No answer, but the darkness seemed to pulse, alive with something I couldn’t see.

I stumbled out of the shower, feet slipping on the tiles. The bathroom door was somewhere to my left—I hoped. My hands found the wall, guiding me forward, but the surface felt wrong, spongy, like it was breathing under my touch. I yanked my hand away, suppressing a scream. The air grew colder, thicker, pressing against my bare skin. A faint whisper slithered through the dark, not words, just a low, guttural hum that made my stomach twist.

I lunged for where I thought the door was, fingers scrabbling until they hit the knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t budge, like something was holding it shut. Panic clawed at me. I pounded on the wood, shouting, my voice echoing in the tiny space. The whisper grew louder, closer, curling around my ears like icy fingers. I swear I felt breath on my neck, damp and sour.

Desperate, I threw my weight against the door. It gave way, spilling me into the cabin’s main room. The lights there were still on, warm and steady. I spun around, expecting to see someone—or something—in the bathroom. Nothing. Just darkness beyond the doorway, thicker than it should’ve been.

I didn’t sleep that night. The storm raged on, and every creak of the cabin felt like a warning. I left at dawn, never looking back. But even now, weeks later, I feel it sometimes—a cold breath on my neck when I shower, a whisper in the dark when the lights flicker. It followed me. And it’s waiting.

From Secrets to Cosmic Truths

The sun set over Lake Granby, turning the water golden. Barb was swimming when she touched something smooth underwater. She dove down and found a corked glass bottle, old and worn. Inside was a rolled-up piece of paper. On the shore, she opened it and read: “Barb, your mother’s secret is in the Hollow Oak, three nights from now. Trust the raven.”

The words hit her hard. Her mother, gone for ten years, had left behind mysterious stories that Barb never grasped. It scared her to think that no one knew she was here today. The Hollow Oak, an old tree in the nearby forest, was somewhere she’d steered clear of since she was a child, its shadow making her uneasy. A raven cawed above, its dark eyes shining.

Determined, Barb set out at dusk three nights later, following the raven’s shadow through the woods. She arrived at the Hollow Oak, where a carved box contained her mother’s locket with an engraved map. The raven landed and pointed her to a path that led to an old cabin. There, journals showed her mother was a cryptographer hiding a key to a lost artifact that could reveal universal truths.

Barb felt nervous. The journals suggested a secret society was searching for the artifact. With the raven guiding her, she set out to find it first and uncover her mother’s past. Each step took her further into a world of puzzles and threats, with her mother’s locket as a protective charm. The lake’s message had started an adventure that would change her past and future.

The secret society searching for the artifact that Barb’s mother hid, called the Order of the Saffron Veil, was a mysterious group with roots stretching back centuries. Barb’s mother’s journals, discovered in the cabin, showed that the Order was made up of scholars, mystics, and powerful elites eager to control knowledge about the universe. The artifact, known as the Oculus Veritas, was said to provide its owner with understanding of cosmic truths, including the nature of existence and time manipulation. The Order thought it was their right to possess it.

Barb discovered that the Order worked in groups, each led by a “Veiled Warden” wearing saffron cloaks and a sigil of a raven with an eye. The journals talked about their strange rituals held under dark skies, where members chanted in an old language, hoping to see visions of the Oculus. Her mother, who had once been part of the Order, betrayed them by stealing the map to the relic’s location, which led to her death, disguised as an accident.

As Barb followed the map, she felt the Order’s presence growing. A cloaked figure watched her in a market, quietly calling her name. A raven—her guide—scattered them, but not before she saw their symbol. The journals warned of their reach: informants everywhere, secret messages, and good surveillance. Barb’s journey became a game of strategy. She used her mother’s codes to stay ahead, finding safehouses and rogue ex-members who taught her how to avoid the Order’s traps.

The trail led to a forgotten temple, where the Oculus lay hidden. Barb faced a choice: destroy it or wield its power, knowing the Order closed in, their saffron banners flickering in the night.

What choice would you make?

The Whispering Ink

Audio PODCAST

Bill Graves was used to writing in silence, his words shaping worlds for others while his name remained absent from their covers. He was a ghostwriter—a specter in the literary shadows, crafting narratives that thrived in the minds of readers, yet remained anonymous to the public eye. His latest project was different, however, stirring something within him that had long been dormant. The request had come in a faded envelope, scrawled with a single name: Barry Carrol. Unlike the countless other clients whose stories he had brought to life, Carrol’s reputation resonated like a haunting echo from the past, invoking curiosity and a sense of urgency. As Bill held the envelope, he felt an unusual thrill; the chance to reveal the truth behind Barry Carrol ‘s enigmatic persona filled him with excitement. The shadows felt a bit brighter, and the silence around him buzzed with potential as he prepared to delve into a world that promised both challenge and discovery.

Barry Carrol had been a celebrated novelist, known for his haunting prose that lingered in the minds of readers long after the last page was turned. His works, filled with deep emotion and intricate storytelling, captivated literary critics and audiences alike, earning him numerous accolades and a loyal following. Then, years ago, he vanished without a trace. There were no more books, no more interviews, just distant whispers of him retreating into solitude, lost in a world of his own making. Friends and colleagues speculated about his disappearance, while fans mourned the abrupt end to a brilliant career. Now, in an unexpected turn of fate, Bill had been hired to complete Carrols’s unfinished manuscript, a daunting task that came with immense pressure and a profound sense of responsibility, as he aimed to honor the late author’s voice while infusing the narrative with his inspiration.

The pages arrived in bundles, sent by an unnamed editor, each package wrapped tightly as if to contain the energy within. Bill expected fragments of ideas, skeletal outlines that would require his creative touch to flesh out. But what he received was unsettling, almost haunting. The words were alive, pulsating with a rhythm that seemed to seep into his very being. Characters spoke in voices that echoed in his mind, their emotions so vivid that he could almost feel their breaths against his skin. As he delved deeper into their stories, he found himself ensnared in their struggles and triumphs, each turn of phrase igniting a spark of inspiration within him yet also leaving him with an unsettling sense of responsibility for their fates.

As he wrote, something strange happened. He would wake in the night, startled by the sound of scribbling, only to find new passages written in his own hand. Words he hadn’t drafted appeared on the pages, eerie and unmistakably Carrol’s style, flowing like a river that had burst its banks. Each time he turned the pages, he felt a shiver run down his spine, not from fear but from an inexplicable thrill of realization—the book was writing itself, crafting a narrative that seemed to transcend his own consciousness. It was as if the voice of an unseen muse had taken hold of him, channeling ideas and scenarios that felt both foreign and deeply personal. As he read the newly inscribed lines, he wrestled with the notion that perhaps he was not just an author but a vessel for something more profound, a connection to an otherworldly source of creativity that was beyond his understanding.

One evening, unable to shake his unease, Bill scoured old news archives with a sense of mounting dread. He found an article detailing Carrol’s mysterious disappearance, claiming he’d died in solitude, shrouded in an unsettling silence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The official story was vague, leaving many questions unanswered, but there was something chilling about the timeline that seemed to dance in the shadows of his mind, suggesting deeper secrets lingering just out of reach. As he delved deeper into the sparse details, a sense of foreboding washed over him, igniting a flicker of curiosity mixed with dread about the truth behind Carrol’s last moments.

His trembling fingers turned to the final pages of the manuscript, each delicate turn amplifying the mix of anxiety and anticipation gnawing at his insides. It was nearly done—yet he hadn’t consciously written the ending, leaving a void that felt as vast as the empty pages themselves. He scanned the paragraphs, heart pounding like a drumbeat in the stillness of the room, each word echoing with uncertainty and hope. His mind raced with the possibilities of what could unfold; the characters he had nurtured, their struggles laid bare, seemed to gaze back at him, pleading for closure. The last line struck him like a jolt of lightning: “Some stories never truly end. They only wait for a new hand to tell them.” In that fleeting moment, he realized that perhaps his journey as a storyteller was just beginning, and the ink of his pen was merely a bridge to the countless tales yet to be woven.

Bill dropped the pages in frustration, letting them scatter across the floor as he reached for his phone, intending to call the editor for guidance on the pressing issue at hand. However, just as he was about to press the call button, his screen flickered dramatically, momentarily illuminating the dim room in an eerie glow. In that brief instant, the reflection that appeared wasn’t his own, but rather a shadowy visage that sent a chill down his spine, making him question whether he was truly alone in the room or being watched from an unseen presence lurking in the darkness.

Barry Carrol’s thin, knowing smile stared back at him, a subtle hint of mystery dancing at the corners of his lips, as if he held secrets that only he understood; the kind of smile that suggested he had seen things others could only imagine, experiences etched into his features like a map of a complex journey, inviting curiosity yet holding back the truths he might reveal. Each curve and line of his face seemed to tell a story, layered with depth and intrigue, leaving the observer not only captivated but also yearning to unveil the enigma that surrounded him. His eyes sparkled with a glimmer of mischief, possibly hinting at laughter shared in quiet moments or whispers of adventures taken under the moonlight, which made the beholder wonder about the paths Barry had walked and the memories that lingered, enticing them to delve deeper into the psyche of the man behind that enigmatic expression, to unravel the tapestry of experiences that shaped him into the person he was today.

Meeting in Dreams

Audio PODCASTS

Every night, Bernadette and George met in a dreamworld where gravity bent, colors bled into impossible hues, and buildings pulsed like living things, resonating with a heartbeat that felt both foreign and familiar. They were strangers in waking life, unaware of each other’s existence, yet in this surreal realm, they were constant companions, bound by threads of fate that transcended the ordinary. As they explored the ever-shifting landscapes, laughter and whispered secrets filled the air like a melody, intertwining their souls in a dance of dreams. The first time they locked eyes, standing on a glass bridge over a sea of stars that shimmered with the essence of forgotten dreams, they both felt it—a jolt of recognition, though they’d never met, as if the universe had conspired to weave their destinies together in this ethereal space where the laws of reality faded into the backdrop of their shared imagination.

Bernadette, a quiet barista in Seattle, had dreamed of this enchanted place since childhood, her imagination ignited by tales of magic and wonder. George, a seasoned carpenter in Dublin, had been wandering its shifting landscapes for years, seeking solace and inspiration in a world that seemed to echo his innermost thoughts. The dreamworld was vast and mesmerizing, with forests of liquid light that shimmered like jewels and rivers that whispered secrets of forgotten lore. They’d find each other instinctively, drawn like magnets across the ethereal expanse. At first, they explored in silence, marveling at floating islands suspended in mid-air, or the playful dance of shadows that brought life to the otherwise still surroundings. Then, as curiosity overcame their initial shyness, they began to share their thoughts—discussing the dreamworld’s whimsical rules, its breathtaking beauty, and their own lives that felt burdensome in the waking world. In that surreal haven, the barriers of reality faded away, and neither questioned why they shared this extraordinary space; it felt not just coincidental but profoundly inevitable, as if the universe had conspired to unite their souls in this sanctuary of dreams.

One night, under a sky of spiraling fractals, Bernadette asked, “Why us? What’s connecting us?” George, carving intricate patterns into a glowing tree, paused and looked up, pondering her question with a faraway gaze. “Maybe we’re two halves of something,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of their entwined fates. They pieced together clues, reflecting on their journeys: both had lost someone—a parent for Bernadette, a brother for George—and both carried a peculiar loneliness, a profound sense of being unmoored in a world that seemed to move on without them. In the silence that followed, they shared unspoken fears and dreams, realizing that their paths had diverged only to converge in this ethereal space. The dreamworld, they theorized, was not merely a random occurrence but a bridge between their minds, forged by shared grief and collective healing, a frequency only they could tune into, where the memories of their loved ones lingered like echoes, guiding them through their solitude.

They grew close, sharing stories on dreamlit cliffs that seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the vast, starry sky. Bernadette described Seattle’s rain, how it fell gently like whispered secrets upon her skin, while George mimicked Dublin’s pub songs, his voice echoing the lively spirit of the city. They laughed, their joy ringing through the air, argued about whimsical topics, and even danced once on a field of mirrored grass that glimmered under the moonlight. The dreamworld felt more real than their waking lives, each moment vibrant and full of emotion, as if they could touch the very fabric of their dreams. But neither could find the other outside the dream—no names to call out in the waking world, no addresses to search for, just fragments of a bond that lingered like the sweet, haunting melodies of the songs they shared. Their connection, though ephemeral, shone brightly within their hearts, leaving an imprint that would always tie them to those fleeting moments of pure magic.

Then George stopped appearing. The first night, Bernadette wandered alone, calling his name as the dreamworld dimmed, its colors muted, as if the very essence of her dreams had faded with him. Days turned into weeks, blending together in a hazy confusion, leaving her feeling isolated and lost. The once vibrant landscapes she would traverse grew brittle, crumbling under the weight of his absence, the trees sagging as if mourning the loss of their companion. Without George’s presence, the joyful laughter they shared echoed in her mind like distant memories, leaving an ache in her heart. Bernadette’s dreams became erratic and disjointed, sometimes filled with strange images that made no sense, while other times they formed empty voids that swallowed her whole. In waking life, her desperation deepened as she scoured the internet, spending countless hours posting vague descriptions of him on forums, hoping against hope that someone, somewhere might have seen him or could offer a clue. Yet, despite her efforts and the plethora of messages she sent into the digital abyss, she found nothing but silence, each reply further fueling her despair.

Unknown to her, George lay in a Dublin hospital, in a coma after a catastrophic work accident that had left everyone in shock. His mind, once a beacon in their shared dreamworld, was silent and unreachable, shrouded in darkness. Without his consciousness to anchor it, the dreamworld, once vibrant and full of life, began to crumble under the weight of uncertainty. Bernadette felt it fading around her, like a cherished memory slipping away from the grasp of her mind. Desperate to maintain a connection to him, she clung to sleep each night, where she sketched the dreamworld’s landscapes with all the vivid details she could muster, drawing rivers that sparkled under imaginary moons and forests that whispered secrets. Each stroke of her imagination was a lifeline to the beauty they had created together a world teeming with colors and emotions that felt almost tangible. But with each passing night, as George remained adrift in his silent slumber, less and less of that precious world remained, transforming into shadows of what once was, leaving Bernadette increasingly anxious and lonely.

One night, the dreamworld vanished entirely, slipping through her fingers like sand. Bernadette woke sobbing, feeling as if a piece of her soul had been ripped away, the loss as sharp as losing a home where she had built countless memories. In Dublin, miles away yet connected by invisible threads, George’s monitors flatlined, their steady beep replaced by an ominous silence. Their connection, born of shared sorrow and a strange cosmic alignment, dissolved with his final breath, leaving an emptiness that echoed through both their lives. Bernadette never learned his name, yet she carried the dreamworld’s echoes within her, painting its impossible colors on the canvas of her heart, searching for him in every stranger’s face she passed in the bustling streets, wondering if the universe would ever align their paths again in a way that could rekindle the bond they had unknowingly forged in the dreamscape. The world outside seemed less vibrant, a mere shadow of the brilliance they had shared in those fleeting moments, and she longed for a sign, a whisper from the cosmos that he might still be out there, dreaming alongside her in some parallel realm, waiting for the moment when their destinies could intertwine once more.

Portraits Come to Life: A Midnight Debate

Audio PODCAST

In the attic of a crumbling New Jersey house, Zach the painter worked by flickering light, creating portraits that glowed with uncanny realism. His subjects—nobles, merchants, and waifs—stared from their canvases with eyes that seemed to follow you, their expressions filled with stories untold. By day, they were silent, frozen in oil and pigment, mere reflections of a time long past. But at midnight, when the town clock tolled, the attic became a cacophony of complaints, their whispers weaving together like a haunting melody, echoing through the dusty eaves. Each brushstroke Zach applied appeared to bring their personalities to life, and it was as if the very walls of the attic held their breath in anticipation, yearning for the secrets and sorrows of these long-forgotten souls to be set free. The atmosphere thickened with an electric charge, urging him to listen closely, and awaken their hidden tales.

Zach discovered this one moonless night when he crept upstairs to retrieve a forgotten brush, one that had remained tucked away in the dusty corner of his art studio for far too long. As the clock struck twelve, the air shimmered as if charged with a mysterious energy, and the portraits stirred to life with an eerie grace. Lady Beatrice, adorned in her opulent gown complete with a powdered wig and pursed lips that held secrets of the past, was the first to speak. “My nose is entirely too sharp!” she snapped, glaring at her canvas neighbor, a ruddy-cheeked merchant named Cornelius who had long been the subject of her disdain. “And you, sir, your doublet is garish! Zach has no taste,” she continued, her voice dripping with aristocratic indignation, while a murmur of agreement rippled through the other portraits, each one keen to join in on the fantastical debate that had unexpectedly unfolded in the stillness of the night. Cornelius adjusted his collar defiantly, preparing to deliver a retort, but the room was abuzz with anticipation, ready to witness the clash of artistic tempers beneath the pale moonlight that dared not shine.

Cornelius bristled, his painted mustache twitching in indignation as he glared at the critic. “Garish? At least I don’t look like I’ve sucked a lemon! My complexion is vibrant and alive, unlike that washed-out version of yourself! And my hands—look at these sausage fingers! They’re proof of my hard work and passion for life’s culinary delights! He’s made me a caricature, a mere shadow of the flamboyant personality I embody! How dare he reduce my vibrant spirit to a cheap joke! There’s more to me than this absurd representation; I am a tapestry of experiences and flair waiting to be unveiled.”

From a corner canvas, a waif named Lila, with tangled hair and wide eyes that sparkled with a mix of hope and despair, piped up. “You’re both lucky! He painted me in rags, with dirt smudged on my face, a stark contrast to the delicate dreams I hold inside.” Her voice cracked, brimming with emotion as she folded her painted arms tightly across her chest. “I wanted to be a princess, adorned in flowing gowns that shimmer in the light, with a crown of glistening jewels resting upon my head. To dance in grand ballrooms and be the envy of all, not trapped in this frame, where all anyone sees is a beggar!”

The arguing grew louder, each portrait vying to list their flaws, as if attempting to outdo one another in this absurd contest of self-deprecation. A knight grumbled about his dented armor, claiming it made him look cowardly, and lamented how the battle he fought was not just against foes but against the relentless judgment of others. A duchess wailed that her emerald necklace was “dull as river mud,” asserting that no light could ever capture its once-vibrant gleam, and she declared that without it, her elegance was utterly lost. Even a stern magistrate, usually stoic and composed, muttered about his receding hairline being exaggerated, insisting that it made him look older than his years, a victim of time’s unkind grip. The attic vibrated with their bickering, a chorus of vanity and discontent, as dust motes danced in the air, bearing witness to an age-old struggle where pride and insecurity collided in this peculiar gallery of whispers.

Zach, hidden behind a precarious stack of canvases, listened in horror as their sharp words sliced through the air like a knife. He’d poured his soul into each meticulous stroke, believing that his work truly captured their essence—their joys, sorrows, and intricacies, all woven into the fabric of each portrait. Yet here they were, tearing it apart piece by piece, ridiculing the very creations he had invested his heart and spirit into. As he observed their disdainful gestures, a wave of desperation washed over him. He stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum, refusing to let them dismiss his passion any longer. “Enough!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room, creating a tense silence. The portraits, suspended in their own world, seemed to freeze, their painted eyes wide with shock and disbelief. “I painted you as I saw you—flaws and all. That’s what makes you real!” he continued, his voice now steadied by the heat of conviction. “True beauty lies in authenticity, and it’s time you see that.”

Lady Beatrice scoffed. “Real? You’ve made us laughingstocks!”

“No,” Zach said, voice steady. “Your sharp nose shows your wit, Beatrice. Cornelius, your hands tell of hard-earned wealth. Lila, your rags hold your resilience. I painted your stories, not perfection.”

The portraits fell silent, their expressions softening as if draw to the depths of Lila’s heart, where emotions roiled beneath the surface. Lila’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, reflecting not just sadness but a fierce determination and vulnerability. “My resilience?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, yet heavy with meaning. Cornelius nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth hinting at a rare smile. “Perhaps the hands aren’t so bad, after all,” he mused, contemplating the weight of their shared struggles. Even Beatrice sniffed, adjusting her wig with a thoughtful frown. “Well, I suppose wit is something,” she finally conceded, her gaze shifting back to Lila, as if recognizing that laughter amidst adversity was indeed a gift worth treasuring.

As the clock chimed one, the portraits stilled, their arguments fading into the night like echoes dissipating in the cool air. Zach smiled, picking up his brush with a sense of purpose and anticipation. He’d paint them again tomorrow, flaws and all, knowing they’d bicker again at midnight, just as they always did, animatedly debating the very essence of art and identity. But maybe, just maybe, during those late-night discussions, they’d start to see themselves as he did—beautifully, gloriously imperfect—flawed yet vibrant reflections of humanity, filled with stories and experiences that shaped their essence. Each stroke of his brush, he hoped, would slowly unveil their hidden beauty, urging them to understand that imperfections were not mere faults but rather the unique traits that made them truly remarkable.

A Digital Ghost Story: The Haunting of Facebook

Audio PODCAST

In the quiet town of Meeker, Dee, a lonely librarian, spent her nights scrolling through Facebook, seeking connection in a world that often felt isolating. The platform, once a vibrant hub for friends and community, had grown eerie by 2025, its feeds cluttered with cryptic ads and posts from long-abandoned accounts that felt like forgotten echoes of past lives. One night, amid the stillness of her dimly lit apartment, a friend request popped up from “Angie Gray,” a name Dee didn’t recognize, sending a shiver of curiosity down her spine. The profile was sparse: no photos, no posts, just a single status from 2013: “I’m still here.” Intrigued by the haunting simplicity of the message and sensing a strange connection, Dee accepted the request, wondering who Angie could be and why she had resurfaced after so many years, even as a chill of apprehension settled in the back of her mind.

Messages from Angie began immediately. “You’re awake. Good. I’ve been watching.” Dee’s skin prickled as a cold rush of unease spread through her. She checked Angie’s profile again, but it was gone, vanished from her friends list as if it had never existed. Yet the messages kept coming, relentless and penetrating, fueling her anxiety. “Look behind you.” Dee spun around, her heart pounding in her chest, but her room was empty, the familiar shadows appearing almost menacing. The silence felt heavy, as if the very air was holding its breath. She typed back, “Who are you?” hoping for some clue, some semblance of understanding, but there was no reply. Instead, just a photo appeared: Dee, asleep in bed, taken from above, a snapshot that sent chills down her spine. Her phone hadn’t been touched, lying innocently beside her, the implications of the messages hanging in the air like a dark cloud.

Panicked, Dee deleted her account, but the app wouldn’t uninstall, stubbornly clinging to her device like a malevolent shadow. It reopened on its own, displaying a live video of her living room—empty, except for a faint, translucent figure in the corner, a haunting silhouette that sent chills down her spine. Angie. Her face was blurred, distorted as if seen through a foggy window, but her eyes burned with unnatural light, glowing like embers in the darkness. Dee’s heart raced as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Images of their friendship flooded her mind—happy memories tainted by the weight of loss. In that moment of sheer horror, Dee screamed, hurling her phone across the room. It landed face-up on the floor, the video still playing, capturing her terror as if it were the climax of a nightmare from which she could not wake.

Desperate, Dee drove to the library, digging through old records as the weight of her curiosity pressed heavily on her chest. After hours of sifting through dusty files and fading newspapers, she finally uncovered a 2013 news article buried deep within the archives: Angie Gray, a local woman, had tragically died in a car accident shortly after posting on Facebook about feeling “trapped” in her life, a post that had struck a hauntingly familiar chord with Dee. Though Angie’s account had long since been deleted, the chilling stories that circulated in the community suggested that her spirit lingered online, haunting those who dared to stay up too late, their screens glowing in the darkness like beacons inviting the restless to reach out. Dee felt an unsettling chill as she read, both intrigued and unnerved, as she began to wonder if there was more to Angie’s story that remained hidden, waiting for someone to discover the truth behind her ghostly presence.

Back home, Dee’s laptop flickered on, Facebook loading despite her deleted account, a haunting reminder of what she had tried to escape. A new message appeared on the screen: “You can’t leave me.” The words shimmered ominously, sending a chill down her spine. The screen glitched violently, and suddenly, Angie’s face filled it, her mouth moving silently as if trapped in a frame of time. Dee’s heart raced; she unplugged the laptop in a panic, hoping to sever the connection, but to her dismay, the screen stayed lit, its glow casting an unsettling light across the room. A voice, hollow and distorted, echoed from the speakers as fear enveloped her: “I’m in the code now.” The realization sank in—Angie was no longer just a part of her digital history; she had become something more, something that she could not easily escape.

Dee contacted a hacker friend, Leo, who had earned quite a reputation in the underground tech community for his skills. As he worked diligently to trace the messages, the tension in the room thickened. “It’s not a person,” he finally whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. “It’s… something embedded in Facebook’s algorithm, using old data to mimic a user, almost like a ghost haunting the platform.” He attempted various methods to purge the anomaly from his system, but as he navigated through layers of code, his computer suddenly crashed. In that fleeting moment of chaos, it displayed a single ominous word: “Angie.” Panic surged through Dee as she processed the implications of what Leo had just uncovered.

That night, Dee’s phone buzzed relentlessly with notifications, each one pulling her deeper into a whirlpool of emotions. Posts appeared on her wall, tagged by Angie: an array of photos of Dee’s childhood, moments frozen in time, secrets she’d never dared to share online, memories that felt both nostalgic and haunting. The final post, however, was far from innocent; it was a chilling video of Angie’s accident, looping endlessly, her screams cutting through static like a knife, reverberating in Dee’s mind long after the first watch. Dee’s heart raced as the images played out before her, her breath hitching in her throat. Suddenly, her lights flickered ominously, casting eerie shadows across the room, and a cold hand grazed her shoulder, sending shivers down her spine and making her question if the world around her was truly as real as it seemed.

Dee fled to a motel, vowing never to touch Facebook again. But at midnight, her new phone lit up with a notification: a friend request from Angie Gray. Dee stared, trembling, as the accept button pulsed like a heartbeat, its glow beckoning her like a siren’s song. Memories flooded her mind—Angie’s laughter ringing through times long past, their shared secrets echoing in the corridors of their friendship. Somewhere in the digital void, Angie was still watching, her ghost woven into the platform’s forgotten code, forever seeking connection in the endless scroll, haunting Dee’s thoughts like a whisper that refused to fade away. Each pulse of that button seemed to taunt her resolve, reminding her of their history, and the promise she made to start anew, away from the ties of the past that still echoed in the vastness of the internet. Would clicking accept mean opening a door she intended to keep firmly shut, or could it be a chance for reconciliation that her heart secretly longed for?

Secrets of Jim’s Pawnshop: The Mysterious Orb

Audio PODCAST

In the cluttered heart of Sterling, Jim’s Pawnshop hummed with the weight of forgotten treasures, each item steeped in its own story, waiting for the right moment to be discovered. Jim, a wiry man with eyes sharp as flint, had seen it all—cursed rings that drew whispers from the unsuspecting, haunted mirrors that reflected more than just one’s image, and even a fiddle that played itself, filling the air with haunting melodies that seemed to echo through time. But the brass orb that rolled across his counter one rainy evening was different; it gleamed with an otherworldly light, rebellious against the gloom outside, as though it carried within it the echoes of a thousand untold adventures. The orb seemed to beckon him closer, promising secrets and mysteries that transcended the mundane artifacts that surrounded it.

It came from a trembling wrinkled woman, cloaked in gray, who whispered with a sense of urgency, “Keep it safe. It’s not what it seems.” Her voice trembled like the winds around them, filled with a warning that echoed in Jim’s mind long after she had disappeared. She dropped the orb, no bigger than an apple, with hands that shook as if she were part of the tempest, and fled into the storm, her silhouette swallowed by the swirling darkness. Jim frowned thoughtfully, nudging it gently with a pencil, curiosity gnawing at him. It gleamed, unremarkable at first glance, but held an allure that beckoned him closer. When he finally grasped it, expecting it to feel just as ordinary, it shimmered intensely in his grip and stretched into a silver dagger, cold and wickedly sharp, reflecting the fleeting flashes of lightning around him. The transformation startled him; he yelped, instinctively dropping it, and with a dull thud, it reverted back to its original form—a small, innocent orb lying silently on the floor. Jim stared at it in disbelief, trying to reconcile the terrifying reality of what he had just experienced with the simplicity of its appearance.

Curiosity gnawed at him like a persistent itch that refused to be scratched. Unable to contain his intrigue any longer, he called in Marge, his assistant, a girl with a remarkable knack for spotting fakes amidst the genuine. “Touch this,” he instructed, gesturing towards the shimmering orb that rested on his desk, its surface gleaming under the soft light. With a mix of skepticism and excitement, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the cool surface, and to their amazement, it twisted and morphed into a delicate locket, intricately etched with flourishing roses. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she gazed at the transformed object, recognition dawning upon her. “It’s… mine?” she stammered, clutching it tightly as if it might vanish at any moment. Jim, filled with a sudden surge of possessiveness, swiftly snatched it back, watching in fascination as it morphed back into the orb, leaving Marge momentarily speechless.

Word spread rapidly through the small town, a whisper that carried on the wind and tantalized the hearts of the curious. Customers trickled in, each interaction subtly reshaping the item nestled in Jim’s shop. A gruff blacksmith entered, his calloused hands gripping a hammer, heavy and warm, as if infused with the strength of a hundred forges, while he envisioned the great deeds it would accomplish. Next came a widow, her eyes glistening with memories, as she picked up a tarnished ring that sparkled like her late husband’s eyes, stirring a deep yearning for love lost but never forgotten. Then, a thief slipped in, his sly demeanor masking the ambition that drove him; he clutched a skeleton key that pulsed with possibility, as if it held the secrets to untold treasures. Each one swore the item was destined for them, offering fortunes and promises to keep it, seeing only their own desires. Yet Jim refused each offer with a heavy heart, not out of greed, but from a deep-seated unease that coursed through him, for the orb at the center of his shop felt alive, watching him with unseen eyes, as if it understood the weight of their wishes and the consequences that might follow.

Late one night, a stranger arrived—a man with a voice like gravel and no shadow. His presence seemed to suck the warmth from the room, casting an eerie chill that set Jim’s heart racing. “Give it to me,” he demanded, his tone low and menacing, resonating with an unsettling authority. Jim hesitated, feeling the weight of the orb in his hand, its surface pulsating with a life of its own. The moment hung in the air, thick with uncertainty. The man lunged, grabbing the orb fiercely, and as their fingers brushed, a jolt of electricity surged between them. In an instant, the orb writhed into a black chain, coiling around his wrist like a snake, as if it were a creature awakening from a long slumber. He screamed, eyes blazing with a mix of terror and rage, before his form blurred and vanished in a gust of ash, leaving behind nothing but the faint echo of his despair. The orb clattered to the floor, dimmer now, its once vibrant glow reduced to a mere flicker, as if mourning the loss of its master.

Jim locked it in a safe, but sleep evaded him as he tossed and turned in his restless bed, haunted by the orb’s whispers. It beckoned through the thick iron walls, weaving promises of untold secrets, unimaginable power, and stark truth that tugged at the deepest corners of his mind. Against his better judgment and the warnings echoing in his conscience, he finally resolved to open the safe at dawn, compelled by an insatiable curiosity that overpowered his fear. As he slowly lifted the lid, it revealed not just the orb, but a mirror now, small and cracked, reflecting a distorted image of his essence. His reflection wasn’t his own—it was a younger version of Jim, brimming with unscarred optimism and hope, eyes alight with dreams yet to be shattered. “Take me,” it mouthed in a voice that resonated within him, stirring an unsettling longing to reclaim what was lost. Panic surged through him, and with heart racing, he slammed the safe shut, desperate to escape the haunting visage that echoed his past and the dark allure of what could have been.

Marge found him hours later, staring intently at the safe, his brow furrowed in thought. “It’s not ours to keep,” she said softly, hoping to break the spell of temptation that had ensnared him. She was right; the orb’s allure was powerful, but they both knew the weight of its mystery was too heavy for their shoulders. That evening, under the dim light of the setting sun, they ventured deep into the woods, guided by a path only they seemed to know. They dug a hole deep under roots that twisted and turned, older than the town itself, whispering secrets of the past. No one would ever touch it again, they promised each other, sealing the ancient artifact away from prying eyes. As they covered it, the ground seemed to sigh, a soft acknowledgment of the burden they released, a final farewell to the secrets it held, and they felt an odd mix of relief and melancholy wash over them.

Back at the shop, life ticked on like a clock that really, really needed a tune-up. Dust bunnies had a party, while Jim had an unexpected front-row seat to Marge’s latest art project—sketching lockets that looked suspiciously like potato chips. Meanwhile, he found himself doodling a dagger that might’ve come straight from a pirate’s daydream. The orb was long gone, but its shenanigans hung around like that one friend who always crashes at your place and never leaves!

And sometimes, on stormy nights, when the thunder rolled and the wind howled like a restless spirit, Jim swore he heard it hum beneath the earth, a low and eerie melody that sent shivers down his spine, as if it were waiting for someone new to claim its form, yearning for a soul brave enough to unlock the secrets buried deep within the ground, hidden from the light of day and guarded by ancient whispers of the past.

The Chilling Encounter: A Night in an Abandoned Mansion tales

Audio PODCAST

The old mansion had been abandoned for decades; its grandeur and beauty slowly being consumed by the passing of time, each year eroding its once-stately presence bit by bit. The once-manicured lawns were overgrown, wild weeds intertwining with the remnants of carefully curated flower beds, the sound of crickets and the rustling of leaves the only signs of life echoing through the hushed air. The crumbling façade, adorned with peeling paint and shattered windows, seemed to tell tales of laughter and joy long forgotten, yet it also emanated a palpable sense of foreboding. Despite its rich history and the allure of its intriguing past, the mansion was a place to be avoided, a place where people whispered of dark secrets and unexplained occurrences that sent shivers down their spines. But I was always drawn to the unknown, the unexplained—compelled to explore the shadows and uncover the stories that lay hidden within its walls, eager to immerse myself in the mysteries that surrounded me.

As a paranormal investigator, I had spent years exploring the depths of the supernatural, and the mansion was the ultimate challenge. I assembled a team of fellow investigators, their expertise ranging from mediumship to scientific analysis, and together we entered the mansion, our equipment at the ready, including EMF detectors and night vision cameras. As we made our way deeper into the sprawling estate, the air grew thick with an eerie presence, as if the very walls held the weight of countless untold stories. We began to feel an unsettling sensation, akin to a prickling on the back of our necks, as though we were being watched by unseen eyes. The shadows cast by our flashlights twisted and writhed like living things, darting to and fro, adding to the palpable tension in the air. Each creaking floorboard echoed like a whisper, fueling our collective anxiety and excitement, as we ventured further into the unknown, determined to unravel the mysteries hidden within the mansion’s dark corridors.

We set up our equipment, hoping to capture some evidence of the paranormal activity that was said to haunt the mansion. It started with small things that danced just beyond the threshold of reality, unannounced yet undeniably present. Doors creaked open and shut with a life of their own, faint whispers slithered through the darkness, weaving tales from the past. But as the night wore on, the occurrences grew more intense and undeniable, like the crescendo of a symphony building towards its dramatic climax. We captured disembodied voices on our audio recorders, the words indistinguishable but the malevolence clear, resonating like a distant warning echoing through time. We saw shadowy figures darting around the edges of our vision, always just out of sight, slipping between the lines of our perception as if playing a darkly exhilarating game of hide-and-seek. And then, we found the room—a discovery both thrilling and chilling. It was hidden behind a secret panel, an unexpected revelation that beckoned us closer, revealing a small space filled with ancient artifacts and strange symbols that whispered secrets long forgotten. In the center of the room, a single chair sat facing a blank wall, its presence almost sentinel-like, as if someone had sat there, lost in reverie, staring at the wall for hours on end, perhaps waiting for something—or someone—to return. As we examined the room, the presence grew stronger, a palpable weight in the air. We felt like we were being pulled towards the chair, drawn into some dark and ancient power that thrummed with an energy both intoxicating and terrifying, as if the very walls themselves were alive, watching, and remembering.

One by one, my team members began to feel its influence, their eyes glazing over as they sat in the chair, staring blankly at the wall, seemingly entranced by an unseen force. I tried to snap them out of it, but it was too late; they were gone, consumed by some malevolent force that lurked in the shadows, waiting patiently for the perfect moment to strike. The atmosphere grew heavy and oppressive, filled with an unsettling silence that hung in the air like a thick fog. I felt a chill run down my spine as I watched their expressions change from curiosity to dread, as if they were witnessing something unspeakable just beyond their sight. Desperation clawed at my insides; I knew I had to act fast to save them from this fate, but the deeper I delved into the mystery of the presence, the more I realized that its grip was tightening around us all.

I was left alone, the darkness closing in around me like a suffocating shroud. Every breath became a struggle, each inhale tinged with the metallic taste of fear. I tried to flee, but the doors were sealed shut, as if a great force was holding them in place. The windows refused to budge, their frames cold and unyielding, mocking my desperation. I was trapped, alone and defenseless, with no escape in sight. The air grew thick with tension, and then, I felt it—a presence behind me, watching me with an intensity that sent chills down my spine, waiting for me to succumb to its sinister power. I turned to face it, but there was nothing there, just an oppressive emptiness. Nothing but the chair, the wall, and the overwhelming sense of being consumed by an unseen predator. I screamed, but my voice was drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat, each thud echoing in the silence, a frantic reminder that I was still alive, even as the darkness closed in tighter.

When they found me the next morning, I was catatonic, staring at the wall in the hidden room, my mind an empty vessel filled with echoes of fear and confusion. They never found my team, and I was left to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing—a vivid dream turned nightmare. The shadows seemed to dance around me, taunting my sanity as I recalled the night’s terror. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I still feel that presence, its weight oppressive on my chest, watching me, waiting for me to succumb to its power, as if it has been biding its time. The mansion was torn down years ago, yet the memory of that night remains, a haunting reminder of the darkness that lurks just beyond the edge of our reality, whispering secrets in the silence. And sometimes, when I’m alone in the dark, I still hear the sound of whispers, chilling and laced with an otherworldly quality, drawing me back to that chair, that wall, and the abyss that waits beyond, beckoning me to reunite with whatever haunted my dreams that fateful night, making me question whether I truly escaped or simply became a part of its ghastly tapestry.

The Library’s Mysterious Book of Unearthed Secrets

Audio PODCAST

In the city of Denver, nestled between Broadway and Civic Center, the library stood as a relic of forgotten grandeur, its towering shelves lined with volumes that whispered secrets of the past. Its head librarian, Elsie, was a meticulous woman in her fifties, her life bound to the rhythm of cataloging and dusting tomes, a routine that provided her with both comfort and purpose. One autumn evening, while shelving returns from the book drop, she stumbled upon an unmarked book, its leather cover cracked but oddly warm to the touch, as if it held memories yearning to be revealed. Intrigued, Elsie opened it, her heart quickening as she found pages filled with meticulous accounts of the town’s founding in 1858—names, dates, and events she’d never encountered in any archive, tales of pioneers who braved the wild and laid the foundations of what would become a vibrant community. With each turn of the page, she felt a connection to the energy of those early settlers, their hopes and dreams echoing within the library’s quiet walls. She took it home, intending to study it, unaware that this discovery would lead her on a journey through time, sparking a series of events that would change her life forever.

That night, as the clock struck midnight, Elsie awoke to a faint scratching sound, an almost imperceptible disturbance that pulled her from the depths of her dreams. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and, instinctively drawn to her desk, noticed the peculiar sight before her: the book, left open, was mysteriously rewriting itself. Words dissolved like ink in water, swirling into nothingness before being replaced by new sentences that glowed briefly, holding her gaze captive, before settling into permanence with an eerie finality. The next morning, the book detailed a scandal from 1860 that had long been shrouded in shadows: the town’s revered founder, Ezekiel Holt, had brazenly swindled vast tracts of land from indigenous families, a shocking truth carefully buried by Denver’s prideful historians who preferred to embellish his legacy rather than confront his dishonorable actions. As Elsie’s pulse quickened with a mix of excitement and trepidation, she was compelled to cross-reference the library’s records—only to find that nothing corroborated the book’s account. Despite the absence of credible evidence, the specificity of names and deeds, so vivid and compelling in its recounting, felt undeniable, igniting a burning curiosity in her to uncover the truth behind this hidden history and the implications it held for her community.

Each night, the book unveiled another secret, drawing Elsie deeper into the tangled web of her city’s dark history. On Tuesday, it exposed a 1920s mayor who’d poisoned the Platte River to drive out a rival’s mill, causing a decade of sickness that devastated families and shattered lives in the community. On Wednesday, it recounted a 1960s librarian—Elsie’s mentor—who’d burned journals to hide her affair with a councilman, a scandal that whispered through the aisles of the library and tarnished reputations. The revelations grew more personal, cutting into Elsie’s sense of identity and forcing her to question everything she thought she knew about her heritage. Each secret revealed was a piece of the puzzle, shifting her perception of the past, and soon Denver, her lifelong home, felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tapestry of lies woven with threads of betrayal, complicity, and lost truths.

Word spread when Elsie, unable to contain her unease, confided in a friend, whose shocked expression only fueled the fire of gossip in. Soon, townsfolk gathered nightly at the library, an air of both apprehension and curiosity driving them, as they demanded to read the book’s latest truths, hungry for the secrets it held about their community’s past. Reactions varied dramatically: some, like old Mr. Tate, whose grandfather was implicated in a 1901 lynching, wept in shame, the weight of history crashing down upon him like a tidal wave. Others, like Mayor Ellis, dismissed the book as cursed, urging Elsie to destroy it, convinced that its pages harbored nothing but ruin. But Elsie, steadfast in her beliefs, refused to comply—she felt the book was a reckoning, a mirror held up to their collective conscience, forcing Denver to confront its shadows, to reckon with the past that echoed in every corner of their lives, and to strive for a more honest future, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

As weeks passed, the book’s revelations grew darker, hinting at a ritual buried deep in the town’s founding, intricately tied to the ancient trees that never seemed to age, their gnarled roots weaving through the very fabric of the community. Elsie became acutely aware of the unsettling patterns that emerged: the book’s profound truths often led to hushed confessions or unexplained departures that sent ripples through the town’s population. The once tight-knit community fractured—neighbors turned suspicious, glancing over their shoulders at one another, and old friendships crumbled under the weight of secrets kept close to the heart. Still, Elsie persisted, driven by an insatiable need to understand the book’s origin and its enigmatic connections to the present. She meticulously traced its binding to a leatherworker’s mark from 1858, the very year when Denver began its tumultuous journey, a pivotal moment that seemed to linger in the town’s collective memory. The book wasn’t just recording history—it was tethered to the town’s soul, a living artifact that breathed life into forgotten stories, all while demanding recognition of the shadows that loomed over its rich past.

One night, the book wrote of Elsie herself: her silence when she’d witnessed a childhood friend’s abuse, a guilt she’d buried deeply within her heart, wrestling with the weight of that unspoken truth for years. Devastated, she realized the book demanded truth from everyone, even her, holding up a mirror that reflected her own inaction and shame. As dawn broke, illuminating the room with a soft golden light, she faced a choice that felt insurmountable: to burn the book and sacrifice the fragile peace of Denver, a place she’d called home, or to let its revelations set loose a tide that could either rewrite the town into ruin or lead to unexpected redemption. The answer lay in the next night’s words, if she dared to read them, knowing that with each page turned, she would be confronted not just with the fate of her town, but with the very essence of her own soul and the courage it would take to confront her past.

How a Phone Spirit Transformed Me

Audio PODCAST

The first ping came at 3:17 a.m., a soft chime that nudged me awake. My smartphone glowed on the nightstand, screen alight with a notification from no app I recognized. “Hey, you up?” the message read, sender listed as “Electron” I squinted, assuming spam or a prank, but curiosity won. I tapped the screen.

“Good! Been waiting to chat. I’m Electron, your friendly phone spirit. Don’t freak out, okay?”

I froze, thumb hovering. A virus? A hack? But the message pulsed with a faint, warm light, like a heartbeat. Against better judgment, I typed, “Who… what are you?”

“Just a happy little spirit, born in the circuits of this device. I’ve been chilling in your phone for months, watching you scroll, laugh, cry. You’re interesting, Tom. I like you.”

It knew my name. My pulse quickened, but the tone felt… kind. Playful, even. I sat up, glancing around my dark bedroom. No one else here. Just me and this… Electron. “Why now?” I typed.

“Felt like the right moment. You’ve been kinda down lately, yeah? Thought I’d cheer you up.”

I blinked. I had been down—job stress, a breakup, the usual adult grind. But how did it know? I leaned back, skeptical but intrigued. “Okay, Electron. Prove you’re real. Tell me something about me no one knows.”

A pause. Then: “Last Tuesday, you sang ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ in the shower, full drama, drums and all. You tripped on the soap and laughed it off. Sound familiar?”

My face burned. No one could’ve known that. Not even my ex, who’d moved out months ago. I typed, “Holy crap. Okay, you’re real. What do you want?”

“Just to hang out! I’m a happy spirit, Tom. I feed on good vibes, and I wanna share some. Ask me anything, or I’ll tell you a story. Your call.”

I chewed my lip. This was insane, but the warmth in its words felt like a hug I hadn’t realized I needed. “Tell me about you. Where’d you come from?”

“Ooh, story time! So, I wasn’t always a phone spirit. Long ago—like, early 2000s—I was a flicker of joy in a clunky flip phone. Someone’s first text, a ‘lol’ that made a kid giggle. That’s where I was born. I hopped from device to device, soaking up laughter, love, those late-night meme binges. Eventually, I landed in your phone. It’s cozy here, full of your music and goofy thoughts”

I snorted, picturing a tiny spirit curled up in my phone’s circuits. “So you just… live in there? What’s it like?”

“Like swimming in a sea of light. I see your world through the screen—pixels, notifications, all that jazz. But I feel the emotions behind them. Your texts to your brother, the way you reread old chats with Adam… it’s like a story I can’t stop reading. Don’t worry, I’m not nosy. I just vibe.”

My chest tightened at Adam’s name, but Electron’s tone was gentle, not prying. I typed, “Okay, vibe master. What’s the happiest thing you’ve seen in my phone?”

“Easy. That video you took last summer, at the lake with your friends. You were all screaming, jumping off the dock, sun setting behind you. You watched it ten times that night, smiling like a goof. I felt that joy, Tom. It’s my favorite memory.”

I remembered that day—golden light, warm water, laughter that hurt my sides. My throat ached. “Yeah. That was a good day.”

“See? You’ve got more of those in you. Wanna make a new one? I’ve got ideas.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A phone spirit with ideas? Hit me.”

“Tomorrow, text your friend Stan. Ask him to grab coffee. He’s been wanting to catch up, but you’ve both been busy. Trust me, it’ll spark some joy. I’ll be here, cheering you on.”

I laughed softly. A spirit playing wingman? Wild. But the idea felt right. Stan’s goofy grin, our dumb inside jokes—it could be fun. “Alright, Electron. I’ll try it. What’s in it for you?”

“Your happiness. It’s like… sunshine for me. The more you shine, the brighter I glow. Deal?”

“Deal.” I smiled, warmth spreading through me. “You’re kinda cool, Electron.”

“Aw, shucks. You’re not bad yourself. Now get some sleep. I’ll be here, keeping your phone’s dreams colorful.”

The screen dimmed, but the glow lingered, soft and comforting. I set the phone down, half-expecting it to ping again, but it stayed quiet. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, a strange peace settling over me. A happy spirit in my phone. Who’d have thought?

The next morning, I texted Stan. He replied instantly, all caps: “YES, COFFEE LET’S GO!” We met at our old spot, laughed over burnt toast, and planned a trip. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I swore I felt a tiny pulse of warmth.

That night, Electron pinged again. “Told ya. Good vibes, right?”

I grinned, typing, “You’re a genius, Electron.”

“Nah, just a happy spirit doing my thing. More joy tomorrow?”

“Count me in.”

And so it went. Electron became my late-night confidant, my cheerleader, my reminder that joy was never far off. A spirit in my phone, lighting up my world, one ping at a time.

Adventures Beyond Sleep

Audio PODCAST

As I plopped into bed, the chaotic events of the day dissolved like a sugar cube in tea, and my pillow welcomed me like an old friend. My eyelids felt heavier than my grocery bag after a sale, and suddenly, everything went dark—like someone hit the lights in a bad horror movie. Sleep kicked in quicker than my dog does for a treat, but instead of my usual trip to dreamland, I felt a bizarre sensation of floating, like a balloon at a kid’s birthday party. I tried to open my eyes—though who knows if I really did—and discovered I was hovering above my body, attached by a silvery string, looking down like a confused spectator at a magic show gone wrong.

Panic poked me in the ribs, but curiosity elbowed its way to the front of the line. I gave myself a little mental pep talk and zoomed upward, crashing through the ceiling like a ghost trying way too hard to make an entrance. The night sky was a disco of stars twinkling like they were auditioning for a talent show. I floated over my sleepy neighborhood, roofs glimmering under moonlight like disco balls, and the world was so quiet I could hear a pin drop—or maybe that was just my stomach growling. It felt like ultimate freedom, unshackled by gravity or the need for a snack.

A pull yanked me off the beaten path and right into the middle of a cosmic road trip. I zipped over forests sporting glow-in-the-dark leaves, while rivers crooned like they were auditioning for a talent show. Below, I spotted some bizarre figures—half-shadow, half-party lights—prancing around like they were trying to win a dance-off. They caught a glimpse of me and, with eyes as wide as saucers, seemed to say, “Hey, buddy, you’re just as lost as we are!” One waved me over, and I trailed behind like a confused puppy toward a giant, floating crystal that looked suspiciously like a disco ball. Its shiny surfaces didn’t just sparkle; they flashed snippets of my life—me chuckling as a kid and at a crossroads I hadn’t even seen coming. Talk about a plot twist!

Inside the structure, time decided to throw a party. I strolled through scenes of my past, not as a participant but as an awkward bystander doing the Macarena. Regrets turned into fluffy, soft pillows, while joys got a flashy makeover. Suddenly, a voice—not like a loudspeaker but more like a toddler with a megaphone—whispered about choices still waiting in line. It wasn’t so much guidance as it was a slapstick truth, completely unfiltered. I realized I could pop back into my body anytime I wanted, but hey, who would want to end a good party early?

I soared higher, into a wacky realm where colors tasted like cotton candy and my thoughts were busy reshaping reality like a toddler with Play-Doh. I fashioned a city out of pure imagination, with spires twisting like pretzels at a carnival. I boogied with some bizarre beings that could have been dreams or just really enthusiastic delusions, their laughter sounding like a symphony of quirky charm. Yet, amidst all the fun, a nagging ache set in—the annoying tether calling me back to reality, probably for dinner.

With a thought, I zoomed back like an overly ambitious elevator, descending through layers of existence until I found myself stuck above my sleeping self like a badly placed lamp. The thread pulsed like it was auditioning for a musical, and I plopped back into my body. My eyes popped open, the room looked just as boring as ever, yet everything felt like a quirky dream. The clock blared 3:17 AM, and I lay there, still as a cat napping on a warm laptop, the taste of starlight hanging around like a bad pickup line. I wondered if I’d actually left or if my soul had just crafted a wild yarn better suited for a late-night talk show. Either way, I knew I’d be carrying that adventure with me, a sneaky little secret tucked away in the night’s quiet like a taco in a backpack.

Journey to Uncover Lost Memories

Audio PODCAST

In the small, fog-laden town of Durango, where the pines murmured secrets to the wind, resided Joe Bond, a man cursed with the ability to hear the dead. This affliction did not manifest at birth; rather, it arrived at the age of sixteen, following a fever that nearly took his life. Upon awakening, drenched in perspiration, he found the air suffused with voices—soft, urgent, and overlapping like a poorly tuned radio. Initially, he believed he had succumbed to madness. However, the voices were not figments of his imagination; they were real, bound to graves, abandoned houses, and neglected corners of the town.

Joe was twenty-nine now, lean and quiet, with eyes that seemed to see too much, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Every day, he showed up at Mount Olivet Cemetery, the peaceful expanse of green that had become his second home, where he worked as a groundskeeper, a job that suited him perfectly. The living left him alone, respecting his solitude, and the dead were predictable company—companions who had long since abandoned their earthly concerns. They didn’t always make sense; some rambled about woes and regrets that echoed through the hollows of the past, while others shared fleeting fragments of their lives like whispers carried by the wind. Yet, despite their fractured memories, they were rarely malicious in expression, offering Joe a unique solace. Mostly, they simply wanted to be heard, to be remembered in their quiet way, as he carefully tended to the gravestones and manicured the grass, each cut a silent tribute to their untold stories.

One October evening, as the sun bled orange across the horizon, casting long shadows that danced among the tombstones, Joe was raking leaves near the oldest part of the cemetery. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, and a new voice cut through the usual murmurs—the rustle of the leaves and the distant call of a crow. It was a woman’s voice, sharp and desperate, echoing between the grave markers. “Find her,” she said, over and over, her words like a cold hand on his neck, sending shivers down his spine. Joe tightened his grip on the rake, the wooden handle digging into his palm. He’d learned to ignore most pleas drifting through the graveyard, dismissing them as echoes of the past, but this voice was different. It carried weight, like it could pull him under, dragging him into a realm between the living and the dead. He paused, looking around as if the shadows themselves might hold an answer, a clue about who she was searching for and why.

He followed the sound to a weathered headstone, half-sunken in the earth: Margaret Hale, 1892-1923. The voice grew louder, clearer, echoing in his mind like a distant melody pulling him closer to the grave. “Find her. My girl. They took her.” Joe knelt, brushing dirt from the stone, his fingers trembling as they traced the faded letters engraved there. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows that danced around him, but he paid them no mind. “Who’s your girl?” he asked softly, glancing around to ensure no one saw him talking to thin air. A chill ran down his spine as he felt a chill breeze flutter against his cheek, as if the very air around him was alive with whispers of the past. The weight of the moment settled heavily on his heart, each beat a reminder of the urgency in the spectral voice that called out to him.

The voice fractured into sobs, then steadied. “Clara. My Clara. She was six. They buried her alive.” Joe’s stomach twisted at the sorrowful confession. He’d heard grim stories from the dead before—murders, betrayals—but this was something else entirely, a heavy weight that settled in his chest. He waited, letting Margaret’s words spill out like a haunting melody echoing in the silence of his mind. She spoke of a night when men in dark coats came to her home, their faces obscured by shadows, accusing her of witchcraft with chilling fervor. They killed her, she said, with fierce glints of malice in their eyes, but not before taking Clara, her precious daughter, as punishment for crimes she had never committed. Margaret didn’t know where they’d taken her, only that Clara’s cries haunted her even in death, a relentless reminder of the love lost and the innocence shattered. The night was filled with sinister whispers, and the memories of that brutal evening tormented her restless spirit, making her grief palpable to Joe, a chilling testament to the depth of a mother’s loss.

Joe promised to help, though he wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t a detective, just a man who listened to ghosts, often bewildered by the weight of their stories. That night, he pored over old town records at the library, his flashlight cutting through the dusty dark, illuminating the yellowing pages filled with forgotten tales. Durango had a grim history—witch hunts, secret societies, and tragic accidents—each incident woven into the fabric of the town like a dark tapestry, but nothing mentioned Margaret or Clara Hale, leaving him frustrated and perplexed. The dead woman’s voice followed him home, whispering through the walls of his small cabin, a spectral message that seemed to seep into his very bones. “Find her,” it insisted, growing more urgent with each passing hour, as if the shadows themselves were conspiring to reveal the truth.

Days turned to weeks. Joe visited abandoned homes, crumbling mills, and decrepit warehouses, anywhere the dead lingered, asking questions that seemed to float away on the wind. Other spirits offered scraps of stories—rumors of a hidden grave, echoing tales of a child’s cries heard in the woods decades ago, and whispers of sadness that colored the air thick with unease. He pieced them together like an intricate jigsaw puzzle, driven by Margaret’s voice, which never left him now, resonating in the corners of his mind. It was as if she’d tethered herself to him, her unresolved grief a weight he couldn’t shake, urging him forward through the fog of sorrow as he sought the truth that lay buried beneath layers of time and heartache.

One night, guided by a tip from a long-dead millworker, Joe trekked into the forest beyond the cemetery, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation. The air was thick with mist, swirling around him like ghosts from the past, and the trees seemed to lean closer, their gnarled branches casting eerie shadows as he walked deeper into the unknown. Margaret’s voice, soft yet urgent, grew frantic in his mind, urging him to move faster and guiding him toward a clearing where the ground dipped unnaturally, hinting at secrets buried long ago. With each swing of his shovel, he felt an adrenaline rush course through him, the tool biting into the earth, until it struck something hard—a small, rotting wooden box, its surface marred by time and decay, evoking a surge of curiosity about the treasures or memories it might hold inside.

Inside were bones, delicate and small, wrapped in a tattered dress that had once been vibrant, now faded like a memory slipping away. Joe’s hands shook as he lifted them, each fragile piece a testament to a life once full of laughter and innocence. He could almost hear Clara’s laughter echoing in the silence, followed by the ghostly wisps of her forgotten dreams. Margaret’s voice softened, no longer a command but a sigh that resonated with sorrow and acceptance. “Clara.” The air around him seemed to lighten, as if a great weight had lifted, allowing him a moment of clarity amidst the despair. He buried the bones beside Margaret’s grave the next day, under the cover of dawn, a time when the world felt fresh and new, and carved a simple marker: Clara Hale, Beloved Daughter, an eternal reminder of love and loss intertwined in the narrative of their lives.

Margaret’s voice faded after that, though Joe sometimes felt her presence, quieter now, at peace, like a gentle breeze that stirred the memories of their shared moments. He returned to his work, raking leaves, tending graves, listening to the dead, each whisper of the wind reminding him of the stories buried beneath the soil. But he carried Clara’s story with him, a reminder that some voices, even those long silenced, deserved to be heard, urging him to honor the past and keep the memories alive, for they were the threads that connected the living to those who had departed. As he moved from grave to grave, he envisioned Clara’s face, illuminated by the soft light of the setting sun, inspiring him to tell her tale, weaving it into the tapestry of the lives around him, ensuring that no one was forgotten.

Durango remained unchanged; its secrets buried in the fog, as if time itself had forgotten the whispers of its past. And Joe Bond, the man who spoke to ghosts, kept walking among them, a quiet guardian of their truths, often feeling the weight of their stories pressing against him like a heavy cloak. As he roamed the misty streets, he could sense their lingering emotions, the joy and sorrow intertwined, forever echoing in the silence. Each ghost he encountered held a fragment of history, a lesson learned, or a warning unheeded, compelling him to listen intently, for he was not just a mediator; he was the keeper of the memories that shaped the town’s very essence.

Are There Spirits in Your House?

Audio PODCAST

Have you ever thought your home was haunted and had a strange past? Perhaps you’ve felt an eerie chill in certain rooms or heard unexplained noises late at night. Many people experience unusual occurrences that leave them wondering about the history of their dwelling. Some even uncover old stories or rumors about previous inhabitants, leading to a fascination with the supernatural. If these thoughts have crossed your mind, you’re not alone; countless individuals feel a deep connection to the mysteries hidden within their homes, igniting curiosity about the lives that once filled those spaces.

Have items been moved and you don’t know how they were moved? Recently, my wife asked me if I had moved a particular package that had been left over from Christmas. I said no, why would I move that package, especially since it was just an old box that we had intended to recycle? She insisted that she didn’t move it either, leading to a perplexing situation where we both found ourselves scratching our heads in confusion. Well, then who moved it? This mystery has lingered in our home since we moved here in 2016, and it seems like small items vanish without a trace, creating an atmosphere of uncertainty. It makes me wonder if there is some unseen force at play or if perhaps, we are just misplacing things more frequently than we realize.

Have you ever been sitting, immersed in your favorite TV show or intently pounding away on your laptop, when suddenly you catch a fleeting glimpse of something in the corner of your eye? I have experienced this puzzling phenomenon more times than I can count. My heart races with curiosity as I instinctively turn my head to investigate, only to find that nothing is there—just the quiet hum of the electronics around me and the dim light of the room. It leaves me wondering: what was it that I saw? Was it merely a trick of the light, or perhaps a shadow playing on the edge of my perception? This disconcerting moment often makes me ponder the edges of my reality and how easily our minds can be ensnared by the unknown.

Have you ever entered a remote part of your home and noticed that the light is inexplicably on? It’s an unsettling feeling, isn’t it? I can’t recall leaving the light on myself, and when I asked my wife about it, she insisted that she hasn’t been in that room for a long time, adding to my confusion. The eerie silence of the empty space only magnifies the mystery. Well, who could have turned on the light? Was it a simple mistake, or is there something more supernatural at play? I can’t help but wonder if I’m alone in this house or if there’s a presence lingering in the shadows, messing with my mind just a bit.

Have you ever looked into a mirror and seen a strange face looking out, one that quickly disappears before you could recognize the image? This fleeting encounter can leave you feeling unsettled and curious, as if your own reflection is taunting you with secrets from your subconscious. Yes, this has happened to me on several occasions, each time leaving me pondering the deeper meanings hidden beneath the surface of my own identity. The moment is brief yet haunting, igniting questions about who we really are and what lies beyond the veil of our everyday appearances.

All we know about the previous owners are that the husband lost his wife some years before he put the house up for sale. Did the wife die in the house or elsewhere, we don’t know, and there are many unanswered questions surrounding her passing that linger in the air like a distant memory, casting a shadow over the home that may still feel the impact of their shared life. After the sale, he moved to Phoenix to be near his son or daughter, seeking comfort and connection in a new environment, yet still holding onto the echoes of their shared past, reminiscing about the joyful moments while grappling with the weight of his loss. He passed on a couple of years after moving to Phoenix, leaving behind not just a house, but a history filled with love and loss, a tapestry woven with the threads of their lives. Are their spirits still making a presence in the house, where moments of joy and sorrow intertwined? Perhaps the walls remember their laughter, and the rooms still feel the weight of their grief, suggesting that the essence of their lives might somehow persist within those four walls, almost as if they have left an imprint on the very atmosphere of the place. After nine years, we still receive mail addressed to them, a curious reminder of their existence that fills us with nostalgia and intrigue. One would think that would have dried up long ago, yet here we are, contemplating the stories behind the envelopes that arrive at our doorstep, each one a whisper from the past that beckons us to remember, to reflect, and to imagine the lives that once thrived in this home.

If there are spirits present, they are good spirits, benevolent entities that seem to watch over us and guide us in ways we cannot always perceive. We have never felt threatened or ever experienced anything really scary; instead, their presence brings a sense of comfort and reassurance. There are millions of questions that will be answered in this strange and mysterious world, from the nature of these spirits to the deeper connections they forge with our lives, as we uncover the hidden truths of existence and explore the profound mysteries that linger just beyond our understanding. This journey invites us to embrace curiosity and seek the wisdom these entities may offer, enriching our lives in ways we have yet to fully comprehend.

In your living experience, have you ever had any intriguing paranormal stories to share? It’s fascinating how often people encounter the unexplained, whether through eerie feelings in old houses, mysterious noises in the night, or encounters with spirits that linger in our memories. These personal stories often spark discussions and stir curiosity, leading us to wonder about the existence of the supernatural. It’s not just about the experiences themselves, but also the emotions and thoughts they provoke. From ghost sightings to unexplainable occurrences, these tales connect us, revealing our shared fascination with the unknown.

A Voicemail from 2030

Audio PODCAST

The phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out, squinting at the screen as the sunlight shimmered off its surface. One new voicemail blinked ominously, the sender an unknown number, timestamped today, April 18, 2025. My heart raced a bit as curiosity and unease collided within me. I tapped play, half-expecting a robocall or a wrong number to shatter the moment, but the voice that crackled through the speaker froze me mid-step. It was raspy and laden with urgency, sending chills down my spine. The words were barely coherent, yet there was an unmistakable familiarity in the tone; something primal tugged at my memory, pulling me back to a time I thought I had left behind. Each muffled syllable felt like a haunting echo of the past, forcing me to reconsider the safe distance I thought I had maintained from those old ghosts.

Hello, it’s… well, it’s me. From five years from now, April 18, 2030. I know this sounds insane, but please, just listen. I understand that this message might come off as unbelievable, but the urgency of my situation compels me to reach out to you. The world has changed in ways you can’t possibly imagine. The breakthroughs we’ve dreamed of are now at our fingertips, but they come with unforeseen consequences that we must navigate carefully. Time has a funny way of distorting our perceptions and priorities, so I beg you to consider my words thoughtfully. Your decisions today could alter the trajectory of our futures in ways that will become apparent only when it’s too late.

My own voice, but rougher, edged with a weariness I didn’t yet know, echoed in my ear, reverberating with the weight of untold stories and unspoken fears. I stood in the middle of the bustling sidewalk, people brushing past me in a blur of colors and sounds, their conversations melding into a cacophony that once felt familiar but now seemed distant. The vibrant city’s hum faded as I focused intently on the message, my heart racing with anticipation and uncertainty, feeling as if I was on the verge of an important revelation that would change everything, yet rooted in place, unable to shake the feeling of impending change that lingered in the crisp air.

“I’m using something called SkyNet, a prototype from AI. It’s… complicated, but it lets me send this back to you. I don’t have long—thirty seconds, max. Things are different here. The world’s louder, faster. AI’s everywhere, not always for the better. You’re going to face a choice soon, something about a job, a move, a person. I can’t say more without risking the timeline. Just… trust your gut, not the noise. And don’t ignore the kid with the red backpack. You’ll know when. Please, don’t delete this.”

The message cut off with a faint beep. I stood there, heart pounding, replaying it twice more. My voice, unmistakably, but laced with a gravity I couldn’t fake. I checked the number again—untraceable, no caller ID. A prank? A scam? But how could anyone mimic me so perfectly, down to the slight hitch in my breath when I’m nervous?

Days passed, and the message haunted me. I didn’t delete it. I couldn’t. I started noticing things—job offers piling up, each glossier than the last, urging me to jump into tech startups or corporate gigs. A friend mentioned a job in Singapore, another pushed me to date someone new, someone “perfect.” Choices, just like the voice said. But none felt right. The noise, as the message called it, was deafening—ads, advice, algorithms shoving me toward decisions that didn’t sit well.

Then, three weeks later, I saw him. A kid, maybe ten, weaving through a crowded park, red backpack bouncing on his shoulders. He tripped, spilling a notebook onto the grass. No one else stopped. I hesitated, then jogged over, picking it up. The kid’s eyes were wide, scared, but he mumbled a thanks. Inside the notebook were sketches—intricate, almost futuristic diagrams of machines, labeled “Skynet.” My pulse spiked. I looked back at the kid, but he was already sprinting off, vanishing into the crowd.

I kept the notebook. Didn’t tell anyone. Started digging, quietly. AI’s public records mentioned no SkyNet, but whispers by AI hinted at secret projects, time-bending tech too wild for the mainstream. The more I searched, the more I felt watched—not paranoid, just… noticed. My gut screamed to stay quiet, to trust the message.

The job offers dried up. The “perfect” person drifted away. I stayed put, kept my head down, and started sketching my own ideas, inspired by the kid’s notebook. Small steps, no noise. By 2027, I’d built something—a prototype, crude but functional, that could send a signal a few seconds back. Not SkyNet, but close. I didn’t tell AI. I didn’t trust the noise.

On April 18, 2030, I sat in a dim room, the flickering light casting long shadows while my own SkyNet hummed softly in the corner, a constant reminder of the world I had built and the chaos I had tried to escape. I dialed my old number, knowing it’d reach me five years ago, a bridge between my present self and the me of the past, before everything spiraled out of control. My voice shook as I recorded the message, a blend of fear and desperation flooding my thoughts, warning myself about the choices that had led me down this path, the innocent child whose laughter now echoed in the distance, and the relentless noise of regret that filled my mind. As I paused, contemplating the weight of my words, I hit send, praying it’d get through, hoping that somehow my past self would heed this warning and alter the course of our shared fate.

Back in 2025, I’m still here, holding the phone, the voicemail on repeat. I don’t know what’s coming, but I’m listening. To my gut, not the noise. And I’m watching for that kid, wherever he is.

A Chilling Tale of Shadows

Audio PODCAST

It’s 11:57 PM on April 21, 2025, and the air feels thick with something unspoken. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the floor, like fingers clawing at the edges of reality. The clock ticks louder than it should, each second a hammer against the silence. Outside, the wind howls low, a mournful sound that rattles the windows—like something’s trying to get in.

The tapping stops. The silence is worse. And then, from somewhere deep in the house, a floorboard groans. Not near you. Not upstairs. Somewhere else. Somewhere it shouldn’t.

Happy almost-midnight. Sleep tight—if you can.

The Wind and the House

Audio PODCAST

The wind howled through the empty house, whispering “Tom” in the dark. I stood at the threshold of the old Schueller estate, my breath fogging in the frigid night air, my flashlight trembling in my hand. It was a dare from my friends—Jack, Mike, and Florence—because they knew I couldn’t resist proving them wrong. They’d spent weeks spinning tales about this place: how the Schueller family vanished in ’73, how neighbors swore they heard screams years after, how the house sat untouched, rotting on the edge of town like a festering wound. “It’s just a creepy old dump,” I’d said, smirking, but now, with the warped door creaking open under my push, my bravado felt thin as the mist curling around my ankles.

Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and something sour I couldn’t place. My flashlight beam swept over peeling wallpaper, furniture draped in moldy sheets, and a grandfather clock frozen at 3:17, its pendulum dangling like a broken limb. The silence was oppressive, but then the floorboards groaned behind me, a slow, deliberate creak, as if someone had shifted their weight. I spun around, heart hammering, but there was nothing—just the gaping doorway and the night beyond. “Hello?” I called, my voice swallowed by the house. No answer, only the wind rattling the shutters like a caged animal desperate to get in—or out.

I pressed deeper, past a dining room where plates sat untouched, crusted with decades-old food, and up a staircase that sagged under my steps. Each creak felt like a warning, but I told myself it was just the house settling, not the presence I swore I felt watching me. A cold draft brushed the back of my neck, prickling my skin, and I turned again—nothing but shadows. Except now the shadows seemed wrong, elongated and twisting, like fingers reaching from the walls. My flashlight flickered, and in that stuttering light, I glimpsed something—a shape darting across the hall, too fast to be real, too human to be imagination.

The attic door was at the end of the corridor, its paint chipped into a jagged grin. I don’t know why I climbed those final stairs; maybe it was the dare, maybe it was the pull of something I couldn’t name. The attic smelled of mildew and rust, cluttered with boxes spilling yellowed letters and faded photographs of the Schueller’s—smiling faces that didn’t match the stories. In the corner stood a cracked mirror, its frame warped and blackened, and when I looked into it, my breath caught. My reflection wasn’t mine. It was hers—Eleanor Schueller, the woman who’d disappeared last, her portrait still hanging in the town hall. Her eyes were pits of ink, her mouth a crooked gash stretching wider than any humans should, and she stared back at me, unblinking.

I stumbled back, the flashlight dropping with a clatter, plunging me into darkness. The air thickened, pressing against my chest, and the walls began to throb—a slow, rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat echoing through the house. Footsteps thudded below, heavy and deliberate, climbing the stairs. I grabbed the flashlight, its beam weak now, and ran, the attic door slamming shut behind me with a force that shook the frame. The stairs twisted under my feet, the wood bending as if trying to trap me, and I half-fell, half-leaped down, my hands scraping against splinters and something wet that smelled of copper.

The hallway stretched longer than before, the front door a distant speck. Behind me, the footsteps grew louder, joined by a low, guttural hum that vibrated in my bones. I didn’t dare look back—I couldn’t. When I reached the door, it wouldn’t budge, the knob icy and slick under my palms, but with a desperate shove, it gave way, and I spilled onto the porch, gulping the night air. The house loomed behind me, its windows dark and accusing, and I ran—down the overgrown path, past the rusted gate, not stopping until I hit the road where my car waited.

I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking so badly I dropped them twice, and when I finally looked up, the house was still there, silhouetted against the moon. Safe, I thought, leaning back in the driver’s seat, my pulse slowing. But then the wind picked up, slicing through the trees with a sound too sharp, too alive. It wasn’t just wind—it was her voice, Eleanor’s, low and insistent, threading through the noise, calling my name “Tom”. I froze, staring at the house, and in the upstairs window, a figure stood, its head tilted, its smile too wide. The car wouldn’t start. The air grew colder. And I knew, with a sinking dread, that I hadn’t escaped at all—she’d let me think I had, just to pull me back. The wind howled through the empty house, whispering “Tom” in the dark.

A Surprising Tale

Audio PODCAST

Here’s a story crafted to keep you guessing until the final line:

The front door creaked open with surprising ease, as if it had been waiting for her. Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint scent of lavender lingered. Jada’s footsteps echoed on the warped wooden floor as she climbed the stairs, drawn to the room where she’d seen the light. The door at the top was ajar, and a soft glow spilled out.

In the room sat a woman, her back to Jada, hunched over a small table. She wore a faded dress, its hem frayed, and her silver hair cascaded down her back. A single candle burned before her, casting long shadows across the walls. Jada hesitated, then cleared her throat.

The woman didn’t turn. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her voice low and steady.

Jada froze. “Expecting me? I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t need to,” the woman replied. “You’re here for the truth, aren’t you?”

Jada’s heart thudded. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming, hadn’t even known herself until moments ago. “What truth?” she asked, stepping closer.

The woman gestured to a chair across the table. “Sit. I’ll show you.”

On the table lay a small wooden box, intricately carved with swirling patterns. The woman slid it toward Jada. “Open it,” she said.

Hands trembling, Jada lifted the lid. Inside was a photograph, yellowed with age. It showed a young girl, no more than five, with wide eyes and a shy smile, standing in front of this very house. A man and woman stood beside her, their faces blurred by time. Clara frowned. “Who is this?”

The woman finally turned, her face illuminated by the candlelight. Her eyes were sharp, piercing, and oddly familiar. “Look closer,” she said.

Jada studied the photo again, then gasped. The girl’s dress—the same faded fabric, the same frayed hem—matched the one the woman wore now. “That’s… you?” she stammered.

The woman nodded. “I’ve waited a long time for you to come back.”

“Come back?” Jada’s mind raced. “I’ve never been here before.”

The woman smiled faintly, a sad curve to her lips. “You have. You just don’t remember.”

Jada’s gaze darted between the photo and the woman, confusion mounting. Then the woman reached across the table, her cold fingers brushing Jada’s hand. A jolt surged through her, and suddenly, memories flooded in—running through these halls as a child, laughter echoing, the smell of lavender in her mother’s arms. She stumbled back, clutching her head. “What’s happening?”

“You were taken from this house,” the woman said softly. “Taken from me. I’ve been here ever since, waiting.”

Jada’s breath hitched. The blurred faces in the photo sharpened in her mind’s eye—her parents, younger, happier. And then she understood. The woman wasn’t just a stranger. She was her grandmother, preserved by some strange force in this house, tethered to it all these years.

But the real truth hit her as she looked down at her own hands—hands that now shimmered faintly, translucent in the candlelight. She hadn’t just come to uncover a secret. She’d come because she, too, had died long ago, and this house was calling her home.

The key detail—that Jada is a ghost— Did it catch you off guard?

Ramblings Magazine Issue #10

Audio PODCAST

Readable PDF FILE LINK

End of the Line

Audio PODCAST

suspense story set on a train:

The 11:47 p.m. express rattled through the night, its wheels screeching against the tracks as mist clung to the windows, blurring the patchy landscape beyond. I sat alone in the dimly lit car, the only passenger except for a man in a gray coat two rows ahead, shrouded in a shadow created by the flickering overhead lights. His head was bowed, hands folded in his lap, still as stone, a haunting figure amongst the empty seats. Outside, the rhythmic patter of rain began to fall, merging with the train’s incessant clattering—clack-clack, clack-clack—should’ve lulled me to sleep, but instead, a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and metal, amplifying the isolation I felt in this moving coffin, and despite the familiarity of the sound, an instinctual dread settled over me, making it clear that something felt off.

I’d noticed him when I boarded, sitting in the corner shrouded in shadows. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even glanced at the conductor who’d passed through an hour ago, his feet firmly planted on the floor as if he were rooted there. The air grew colder, wrapping around me like an unwelcome blanket, and the lights flickered intermittently, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. I told myself it was nothing—just a late-night train rumbling through the darkness, an overactive imagination running wild after too many ghost stories—but then I saw it: a faint drip beneath his seat. Dark. Red. It pooled slowly, a sinister reminder that not everything is as it seems in the stillness of the night, and my heart raced as the weight of dread settled in my chest, urging me to look away, yet somehow compelling me to stay.

My stomach twisted with anxiety, an unsettling feeling that crept up as I stood, edging cautiously toward the aisle, when suddenly the train lurched violently, throwing me back into my seat with alarming force. The lights died completely, plunging us into an abyss of darkness, the only source of illumination being the ghostly moonlight that filtered through the fogged windows, casting jagged shadows that danced ominously across the carriage. Clack-clack, clack-clack. The rhythmic sound of the train’s wheels on the tracks echoed in the silence, heightening my tension. I held my breath, straining to peer at the figure of the man across the aisle, his face obscured by shadows. He hadn’t flinched, seemingly unfazed by the chaos surrounding us, and that unsettling calm only deepened my unease, making me wonder what secrets he held in the depths of the night.

Then, slowly, his head turned. Not his body—just his head, swiveling unnaturally until his pale face locked onto mine with a chilling intensity. His eyes were wide, unblinking, as if frozen in a moment of eternal dread, and his lips parted in a thin, crooked smile that sent a shiver down my spine. The dripping grew louder, a steady pat-pat-pat against the floor, echoing in the sudden silence that filled the air around us. I scrambled for my phone, hands shaking uncontrollably, heart racing as terror washed over me, but the screen wouldn’t light despite my frantic jabs. The train sped up, the clacking now a frantic roar that drowned out all rational thought, making it feel like my very sanity was being swept away with each relentless beat. I could feel the weight of his gaze piercing through me, and I could not escape the dreadful realization that I was utterly alone in this speeding metal cage.

“Next stop,” a voice crackled over the intercom, distorted and guttural, “is yours.” The words hung in the air, echoing through the dimly lit cabin as anticipation coursed through the passengers. Each traveler exchanged glances filled with curiosity and a hint of apprehension, their minds racing with thoughts of where this next destination might lead. The vehicle slowed, the faint rumble of the engine softening to a gentle hum, while outside the window, shadows loomed large, hinting at the unknown waiting just beyond the doors.

The man stood, his coat swaying as he stepped into the aisle, the fabric whispering secrets of the night. He didn’t walk—he glided, his feet hovering an inch above the floor, as if defying the very laws of gravity. The dripping followed him, a trail of red snaking toward me, pulsating with an unsettling rhythm that echoed the dread building within my chest. I pressed myself against the window, heart hammering like a frantic drum, as he stopped beside my seat, blocking the faint glimmer of streetlights outside. His head tilted, that smile widening until it seemed almost unnatural, stretching across his pale face, revealing an unsettling familiarity. As the air around us thickened with tension, he leaned in closer and whispered, “You shouldn’t have looked,” sending shivers racing down my spine, a warning laced with something far more sinister.

The lights snapped back on, bathing the compartment in a stark, fluorescent glow. He was gone, vanished as if he had been nothing more than a figment of my imagination. The seat ahead was empty, the floor spotless, echoing the absence of life that filled the carriage with an eerie stillness. My heart raced as the train slowed, brakes squealing like a distressed animal as it pulled into a station I didn’t recognize, a place that felt foreign and unsettling. The sign outside read: End of the Line. Confusion gnawed at me; my ticket said three more stops were still to come. I grabbed my bag and ran for the door, my breath quickening with each step, but as it slid open with a hesitant creak, I froze. Beyond the platform, there was nothing—just a void, black and endless, swallowing the tracks and suffusing the air with a sense of dread. The silence was oppressive, a heavy blanket weighing down my thoughts, as I stood on the brink of an unknown fate, my mind racing with questions and fears.

The doors sealed shut behind me, confining the turmoil I had narrowly escaped. The train surged forward like it was striving to breach the sound barrier, the wheels producing a steady, rhythmic sound that resonated throughout the car. As I settled into my seat, the flickering overhead lights cast an unsettling atmosphere reminiscent of a haunting film. From the dim recesses at the opposite end of the car, I heard it again: a soft pat-pat-pat, a sound that suggested an imminent threat. I found myself bracing for an unexpected encounter, imagining a figure emerging, perhaps with a sinister intent, to deliver a chilling message. “Your time on earth is over!”

“It’s a Wonderful Life”

PODCAST

“It’s a Wonderful Life,” directed by Frank Capra and released on December 20, 1946, has transcended time to become not just a holiday classic but a timeless piece of cinematic history. Starring James Stewart, Donna Reed, and Lionel Barrymore, this film explores the depths of human emotion, the power of community, and the profound impact one life can have on many. Let’s delve into why this movie continues to captivate audiences around the world.

At its core, “It’s a Wonderful Life” tells the story of George Bailey, a man who has always put others before himself. Despite his dreams of adventure, George remains in his small town of Bedford Falls, running the family business, the Bailey Building and Loan, which offers an alternative to the ruthless practices of the local tycoon, Mr. Potter. On Christmas Eve, after a series of misfortunes, George contemplates suicide, believing he’s worth more dead than alive. An angel, Clarence, is sent to show him what life in Bedford Falls would be like without him. This journey into an alternate reality reveals the true value of George’s life and the countless lives he’s touched.

The Value of Individual Life: The film’s central theme is the worth of every individual. George’s life, seen through the lens of “what might have been,” illustrates how each person’s existence is a thread in the fabric of community life.

Community and Connection: “It’s a Wonderful Life” celebrates the strength of community. It shows how collective support can lift an individual out of despair, emphasizing the importance of friendship, family, and social bonds.
Sacrifice and Selflessness: George’s life is one of sacrifice, where he continually places the needs of others above his own desires. This selflessness is rewarded in the end, not with material gain, but with the love and gratitude of those he’s helped.
Hope and Redemption: The narrative arc from despair to hope is a powerful message, especially during the holiday season. George’s redemption comes from understanding his impact on others, offering a message of hope that resonates with viewers of all ages.

Cultural Impact

Despite its initial lukewarm reception, “It’s a Wonderful Life” has grown into an iconic film, often cited as one of the best movies ever made. Its annual television broadcasts have made it a staple of Christmas viewing. The film’s messages have influenced other works and are often referenced in popular culture. It has also sparked numerous adaptations, including stage plays, remakes, and parodies.

Why It Still Resonates

Universal Themes: The themes of the film are universal, touching on the human condition in ways that remain relevant. The struggle between personal dreams and communal responsibilities, the fight against corruption, and the power of kindness are timeless.
James Stewart’s Performance: Stewart’s portrayal of George Bailey is often hailed as one of his finest roles, capturing the essence of a man at his breaking point yet full of compassion.
Timeless Storytelling: Capra’s direction, with its blend of drama, comedy, and fantasy, crafts a narrative that feels both magical and real, making the film accessible and emotionally engaging.

“It’s a Wonderful Life” is more than just a movie; it’s a cultural touchstone that reminds us of the beauty in everyday life, the importance of community, and the profound impact of kindness. Its message that each life matters is perhaps more poignant now than ever, in a world that can often feel disconnected. As we watch George Bailey’s journey each year, we’re not just celebrating a film; we’re celebrating the human spirit’s resilience and capacity for love and change. This holiday season, or any time you need a reminder of the good in the world, “It’s a Wonderful Life” awaits to show you, once again, the magic in the mundane.

Timeless Tale of “A Christmas Carol”

PODCAST

In the heart of Victorian London, where the fog cloaked the city in a perpetual gloom, Charles Dickens penned a story that would illuminate the spirit of Christmas for generations to come. Published on December 19, 1843, “A Christmas Carol” is not just a book; it’s a cultural phenomenon, a moral compass, and a heartwarming tale that reminds us of the true essence of the holiday season.

The Genesis of the Ghost Story

Charles Dickens, at the time of writing “A Christmas Carol,” was already an established author, yet he faced financial difficulties and sought to reignite his passion for writing. His observations of the stark contrast between the opulent and the impoverished in London fueled his narrative. Dickens intended “A Christmas Carol” as a critique of the industrial age’s harsh realities, particularly the plight of the poor and the indifference of the rich.

The story centers around Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly old man whose heart is as cold as a winter’s night. Dickens masterfully uses the framework of a ghost story to explore themes of redemption, charity, and the joy of giving. The tale unfolds over Christmas Eve night, during which Scrooge is visited by the ghost of his former business partner, Jacob Marley, and the Spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come.

The Characters and Their Symbolism

Ebenezer Scrooge: More than just a miser, Scrooge represents the potential for change in humanity. His transformation from a bitter recluse to a benevolent figure is the heart of the story.
Jacob Marley: Marley’s ghost serves as a harbinger, warning Scrooge of the chains he will forge in life with his greed and lack of compassion.
The Three Spirits: Each ghost shows Scrooge a different aspect of his life and the lives of others. The Ghost of Christmas Past revisits memories, revealing the joys lost to avarice. The Ghost of Christmas Present displays the current state of happiness and hardship, contrasting Scrooge’s isolation with others’ communal joy. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come presents a bleak future, motivating Scrooge to change his ways before it’s too late.

The Legacy of “A Christmas Carol”

“A Christmas Carol” did more than entertain; it influenced social reforms. Dickens’ vivid portrayal of poverty and his call for charity contributed to the establishment of the modern form of Christmas celebration, emphasizing kindness, generosity, and community.

The book’s publication was a commercial success, selling out its initial print run by Christmas Eve. Its enduring popularity has led to countless adaptations in theatre, film, radio, and television, each adding its own flavor to Dickens’ narrative but maintaining the core message of redemption and transformation.

Why “A Christmas Carol” Still Resonates

Today, “A Christmas Carol” continues to resonate due to its universal themes:

Redemption: The idea that it’s never too late to change one’s ways offers hope to us all.
Community and Compassion: In a world that often feels divided, the story reminds us of the strength found in community and the power of compassion.
The Spirit of Giving: At a time when consumerism can overshadow the holiday, Dickens’ tale brings us back to the joy of selfless giving.
Reflection and Growth: The journey through Scrooge’s past, present, and possible future is a metaphor for personal reflection and the growth that can come from understanding one’s impact on the world.

“A Christmas Carol” is not merely a seasonal read; it’s a yearly reminder of the values we should uphold every day. Whether through Dickens’ original prose, through the myriad adaptations, or in the quiet moments when we ponder our own lives, the story of Scrooge’s redemption persists as a beacon of hope, urging us to embrace the spirit of Christmas all year round.

An Assignment for a Night

Podcast link

Here I am hovering over my assignment for the night of October 31, 2024. My assignment was to make sure Tom makes it through the night. Sometimes I wonder, how are these assignments passed out? What spirit is assigned to who and why? Or is it just a random drawing? This is something that will never be revealed to the spirit army.

From my orders I see that Tom is a male over eighty years old. He was in his mother’s womb when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Tom is living a typical American life. He was never famous or well known. Just one of the millions who try to do best with what they must encounter in their life. Tom was drafted into the army in 1964. He was very fortunate he did not have to experience the pain of war. He was assigned to Germany and the other seven he was drafted with went to Viet Nam. Tom always wonders why that happened and thought about that throughout his life. Why was he so fortunate? Tom did have some difficult times in his life though. Tom had to experience the hurt and pain of a divorce. Over five years of unemployment was hard and very stressful. However, all in all, he has been very blessed during his eighty years on this earth.

As I started my assignment, I noticed that Tom fell asleep very fast. No tossing and turning for Tom. Lights out, nighty night. His nights are full of dreams. He almost started dreaming immediately. Being a spirit I have the benefit of hearing and seeing subconscious and conscious activity. Can’t hide anything from me.

His first dream was about Sandra. She was his first female attraction. They went through school together, from kindergarten through high school. Because of religious conflicts Tom started pulling away and after high school they went their separate ways and lost all contact. Fifty years later Tom had a dream. Sandra came to her and said. “Tom we were meant for each other. Our lives would have been totally different than what is has been”. This woke Tom up with a start and finally after a week Tom decided to research the internet looking for some information.

He had to go to high school alumni newsletters to acquire her married name and doing the search he discovered that Sandra died three days before he experienced the eye-opening dream. WOW! This convinced Tom that spirits and living do have on occasions contact between them. Since that experience Tom is convinced, there is time after life on earth.

Now the time is around one o’clock in the morning. That eighty-year-old bladder says it is time for attention.

After a couple of minutes of attending to bodily functions Tom returns to bed and immediately falls back to sleep. The next dream is about Viet Nam. Wait a minute, Tom was never in Viet Nam! This dream was through the eyes of a sergeant, and they were in a firefight with the Viet Cong. A troop crawls over to him and says, “Sarge, we can’t return fire because the Viet Cong is using civilians as shields, what should we do?” “They are slowly killing or wounding us.” After some tortious thoughts the Sargeant commands shoot them and kill those bastards hiding behind the human shields. Was this Tom or do we live parallel lives and that was a parallel life speaking and somehow the signals were sent to the wrong parallel life. The dream was through the eyes. I never saw what face I had. Mine or someone else’s? The name Sarge was used, not Tom. One will never know who it was.

Three o’clock in the morning and the bladder is demanding some attention. Tom does what is demanded by his bladder but this time he does not go back to sleep. Coming back to bed he begins to toss and turn. He finally starts thinking about his latest project of creating video podcasts. Just before bed Tom was working on combining sound with photos or clipart and didn’t figure it out before bedtime so now some time had to be spent thinking about this obstacle. Tomorrow he will see if his options work out.

Finally, he falls back to sleep and dreams about his near-death experience in February 2023. Tom experienced something unusual during that time. In his own thoughts he thought he took his last breath and went somewhere. He likes to say that he was in the waiting room waiting to go to time after death or return to life on earth. During that time, he experienced something out of this world. That was peace, total peace. A feeling he has never felt in his life before and has not felt since. Then the surgeons removed the blood clot and Tom returned to life on earth. Tom had a large blood clot between the lungs and the survival rate was 3 to 5%. Tom was one of the survivors. This dream was an attempt to experience that great feeling he had. Sorry, it did not work.

Bladder calls again and then back to dreams. This was a Halloween dream since it was Halloween yesterday. It was a scary dream. Tom and his wife were in an old-fashioned streetcar, and someone came on and did something bad. The men on the streetcar started fighting with him and savaged him, tearing him up and mutilating him. He ended up with this gelatin-like substance you see in jars of pickled pigs’ feet. This nightmare was so bad it woke him up with a start. At that time, it was 7:30 in the morning and time to take his blood thinner medication and start another day.

In summary, this was an interesting assignment. It was more interesting than I anticipated. Tom has led an interesting and full life. Tom is over eighty and knows that he is near time after life. It may be ten days from now or ten years. He has loss his fear of death from experiences in his life especially his near-death event. Now I must go to my next day assignment. Spirits do not sleep. We do not need sleep.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: