“I once heard a story wrapped in police tape, where the empty house on Hollow Street kept swallowing its secrets, and only the reflection ever knew what truly vanished.”
The Perfume at the Edge of the Black Sea
I don’t believe this, but… they said no one should go there after dark. My notes are all that remain of what happened to Thomas, though sometimes I wonder if the story ever truly left those cliffs.
Pattern of Ash, Pattern of Return
I don’t believe any of this—except that night after night, the same vacant lot refused to stay vacant, and someone always came back wrong. These are the letters that convinced me: I wish I could forget them.
The Lantern’s Pattern: An Obituary for the Lost
I saw her in the window again last night, staring out with my eyes but nothing behind them – which is how I knew I’d be seeing all of you here tonight.
The Attic Where Shadows Multiply
“I thought it was a prank at first. But in that attic, the shadows grew thicker every time I tried to remember what happened—and now, newcomer, I must warn you: some secrets want to be forgotten, but they will not let you go.”
The Redacted Lullaby
I once heard about a place where every clock and every heartbeat halted at the same impossible instant, and the whispers of children seeped through the cracks left behind. If you listen, sometimes the echoes still find a way in.
The Breathing Map of Greystone Light
“I once heard a tale from a dream that left sea-salt on my tongue and footsteps behind my eyes. It starts with a diary that had only one entry, and it ends with a name you should never speak when the tide is high.”
The Recurrence in Glass
I don’t believe this, but someone I knew swore it happened just like this – and when they told me, their eyes were wild, as if they were afraid I’d finish the story for them.
Names That Drift Beyond the Lantern Sea
I shouldn’t be telling you this, not with night so near and the lantern flame trembling. But if you listen, maybe you’ll understand why some names are better left to the tide.
Unscheduled Signal: The Night Car Testimony
I once saw her in the window again last night: the silent child, the one who waits on the unscheduled train. I survived that journey, but the scars linger—if survival is even the word.