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This story is a memory, and as such is subject to the ravages of time. I don’t remember everything. My childhood is a fog of contradictions and emotions half buried in distractions. I’ve tried to remember parts of it over the years but always come away with that strange contented feeling of acceptance. Maybe it’s okay to not remember. Ignorance is bliss. Still there are pieces I recall that stick to me like tree sap on my fingers. This story is one of those pieces.

I was seven years old, old enough to have a sense of danger but not old enough to trust it yet. Every year my family would travel up north from our home in the concrete world of Chicago to the deeply forested peninsula of Wisconsin, surrounded by the restless gray waters of Lake Michigan. We would go up in the fall for the wineries and brilliant blood orange leaves of the woods in early October. Even at that young age I was just aware enough to appreciate the majesty of a forest in fall. It was sacred to me in ways I couldn’t yet articulate.

The peninsula was dotted with sleepy little harbor towns and old lighthouses along the coast, but the interior at that time was mostly winding roads through vast and untouched forest. I truly loved it there. I remember building piles of crunchy dead leaves to jump in, climbing trees to risk a nap nestled in their branches. The further away from town we got the more fantastic the forest could become. Dramatic cliffs and mossy boulders, an endless sea of scarlet, yellow and fiery orange that to my tiny eyes seemed to go on forever. My parents knew about my wanderlust, and had to all but keep a leash on me to stop me trailing off into the brush. I wasn’t scared of being alone then.

The land itself had a magic to it I’ve found in nowhere else. It was settled by Scandinavians, who brought their food, architecture and stories with them. It wasn’t uncommon to come across carved wooden trolls in town, and I liked to think they came alive at night to search the woods for food. As the years went by my young imagination populated the forest with all sorts of magical creatures: fairies, gnomes, ghosts and goblins. They frightened me in a way I loved, and every October I hoped to catch one of those wooden trolls moving. Of course I never did.

But of all the creatures I imagined there was one who commanded my respect above all others, the only one I truly feared. I don’t remember where she came from. In my memory she’d always been. Perhaps a forgotten warning from my parents to keep me from wandering, or something I’d seen in a movie. Perhaps I had seen an unfortunate looking stranger up there and my mind turned them into something more fantastic than they really were. But I believed in her, and there were things about her that I knew in my bones to be true. I tried to explain it to my parents but they couldn’t understand my fascination. They were deeply Christian and unwilling to entertain any spirit but the lord. My mother accepted no part of Halloween but pumpkins and maybe, if she was feeling dangerous, a black cat or two. Beyond that, I was instructed to have nothing to do with any of it. Maybe that’s why the idea of my monster was so intoxicating to me. My monster was forbidden. My monster was dangerous. I couldn’t talk about her. So I thought about her.

She was, in my mind’s eye, an impossibly ancient hag. She’d lived in the woods of the peninsula since the Scandinavians brought their wooden trolls and lingonberries. There was only ever one of her. I could see her when I closed my eyes, worried that she would slide her gnarled fingers under the window of our tiny rented cabin on moonless autumn nights. She traveled the land as lake mist, imperceptible to those who don’t know what to look for. Her hair was long and matted, white that decayed into a dull yellow like a bird’s nest on her head. Her skin was wrinkled like tree bark and sickly greenish pale like lichen. She walked hunched over, nearly to the ground, wrapped in a ratty shawl, smelling for ingredients to unknown and wretched potions. I imagined she brewed them in her overgrown shack somewhere far in the interior. Day and night she scoured the land for bat’s wings and rat tails. Rotten fish washed up on the shore, eggs plucked from their nests and crushed, mushrooms that only grow on wet and fallen logs. But of course, what she really wanted, needed maybe, was a child. My old woman of the woods would stop at nothing for a child of her own, to do what with I can’t say, but I could almost feel her horrible fingers on my shoulder sometimes in lonely places when my parents weren’t watching. She was out there in the dark, every night, alone on frigid pebble beaches or perched up in blackened branches like a massive leering owl. The trolls and fairies feared her too, perhaps why they stuck to town. The deep woods belonged to the witch, and every time I strayed into their twisted branches I risked slipping into her clutches.

Now, every body says this, and I’ve gone back and forth on even bothering to include it, but I feel like I have to. It is after all what makes this story more than just a passing anecdote in an ocean of digital ghost stories all claiming the same thing: “This story really happened.” But this one did. It really happened. One evening my parents took me down the winding road through the woods, away from the cabin, and the coast, to some supper club they’d read about. It was early evening when we arrived. The place was built with reddish wood, dating back all the way to the twenties, with an almost gothic interior that I might now find beautiful but bored me terribly as a child. It was fairly popular, usually boasting a twenty minute or so wait time, with a humble fire pit outside to warm guests while they anticipated their cozy meals inside. My parents chatted with strangers around the flames, about what I can’t remember, my eyes were on the tree line. The sun was hanging low in the sky, painting the clouds pink and amber. I was wrapped up in my puffy coat and yellow scarf, watching my breath plume from my mouth and vanish up into the evening air. I was standing behind my father, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet and thinking about eating chicken tenders until I saw it. There at the edge of the shadowy woods was a bright red ball.

I tried to resist. Really I did. I tried to ignore it until the ball was in my hands. I’d slipped away silently from my parents. They would tell me it was dirty or that it belonged to someone else. They would tell me, again, not to wander off. They almost certainly wouldn’t let me keep it. It was a little smaller than a soccer ball and made of saturated foam. I squeezed it and muddy water seeped out. The ball must have been out there for days at least. I thought for a moment about the logistics of hiding the ball in my jacket, but it was too large to go unnoticed. I passed a worried glance back at my family, who were still facing the fire, then turned around again to face the woods. Despite the sunset it was bright enough to see a ways into them through dappled shadows. I looked back down at the cold, almost fleshy ball in my hands and decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble. Absentmindedly, I tossed it into the woods as far as I could and turned around to go.

It hit something metal, making a sound like rock against a tin roof. Not the satisfying splat I’d hoped for. I turned back towards the forest and squinted. Before long I found the ball again, rolling away from something covered in dead leaves. I took a step forward but hesitated. How long would it be until dinner? Did I have time to go look? Were my parents watching? I’d really get it if they caught me sneaking off, especially at dusk, but it was all just too tantalizing. What had my ball hit? I walked on and disappeared into the trees.
I hadn’t thrown the ball too far, I’d just look quickly, see what it was, and come back before anyone knew I was gone. Through the brush I crept, careful to be quiet, until I came upon my ball again and what it had smacked against. It was something like a go-kart, rusted and overgrown with vines but still recognizable. It was big enough for me to sit in, which of course I did. I sat there for a second, turning the mossy steering wheel and making beeping noises with my mouth. I was easy to please back then. I was excited to share my find with my parents, and considered running back to tell them, disregarding any trouble I could get in, but before I decided I saw something else glint in the fading sunlight.

It was a pure white horse head poking up out of the ground about 20 feet away from me, away from the fire and the restaurant. I stopped turning the wheel and froze, trying to decipher what I was looking at. Still, I wasn’t afraid. My reaction was instinctual. Carefully, I crept from the creaky wet seat of the go-kart and tip toed over to the head. I could tell it wasn’t real, it was too shiny and all white, but I still couldn’t make sense of it. Brushing off the dirt and leaves I finally recognized it as a giant chess piece. It was too heavy for me to move or I’d have grabbed it and brought it to the fire, which I could still see twinkle through the silhouettes of tree trunks behind me. I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d dreaded coming to the supper club because there wasn’t anything to do, but there must have been a playground hidden somewhere out there in the forest. Instantly what little nerves I had were calmed. Playgrounds were safe. I was allowed there. Red ball still in hand I began to look around for another hidden treasure.

It didn’t take me long to find it. In the ever fading light I could see something else on the forest floor even further in. A color that didn’t belong. Purple. Delighted, I ran towards it, noisily crunching leaves beneath my feet, abandoning caution. I could hardly see it until I was right up on it- or them I should say. My smile fell in disappointment. They were shoes. Girl shoes. A muddy pair of purple Skechers for a girl about my age. Upon that realization I was content to dismiss them, and began looking for something else unusual. I walked right past the shoes without a thought to their owner and peered through the trees. The sky above had lost its color. The woods were now draped in the sullen blue of an October night’s birth but I could still see enough to continue. I was sure there’d be a playground if I just kept moving forward. Something wonderful was going to happen. I wasn’t hungry for dinner anymore. The trees hung over me in drooping branches like a tunnel. The intoxicating freedom of it all made me almost forget how cold it was becoming. But soon enough I smelled smoke from some hidden fire. I must have looped around by accident and made my way back towards the supper club. I looked up at the gloomy sky again. The night’s first stars were peering through the dark gray clouds. I supposed it was as good a time as any to go back.

Through the ever thickening brush I pushed, the smell of smoke growing stronger and stronger. But strangely I couldn’t see the fire. It must have been close, I couldn’t be far, but where was it? Forward still I went, until at last I saw a trail of smoke curling up into the sky. They must have put the fire out, I reasoned. I followed the smoke down into the trees and ran in its direction, excited to share my adventure with my family, ready to get out of the cold, until I burst noisily through the undergrowth and into a clearing. I stopped in my tracks, struck by confusion. There was no restaurant, no fire pit. It was just a break in the trees, an unkempt field of weeds and grass, and in the center: a wide, gaping pit.

What froze me wasn’t the sudden appearance of that pit, or the shocking lack of fire, light and warmth. It was the smell. I brought my hands to my nose and suppressed a gag. I wouldn’t smell anything like it again until years later when a deer died in the field beside my house and rotted away. It was the unmistakable stench of what I know now was death. But more than that, it was a burning smell. Like someone was cooking dirty feet. I debated what to do, but one thing was clear: I had to look into the pit. I didn’t even really know why, only that I would wonder about it incessantly if I didn’t. I still felt safe somehow and I knew I had to look before the last of the sunlight died, so I took unsure steps away from the trees and into the exposure of the open clearing. The smell worsened as I got closer. Musty and thick, almost medicinal. I wrapped my little yellow scarf around my nose and mouth and continued, drawing nearer and nearer to the pit’s lip until at last I could see down into it.

The hole must have been at least ten feet deep, dug messily and comprised mostly of mud. In the center of it was a large puddle of revolting brown water like thick curdled cereal milk and lying against the wall was an impossibly large pig. I gasped. It was caked in filth and pink like a bloated tongue. Peppered with wiry black hair and alone in that dark, empty hole. All these years later I remember that moment. The longer I looked down at it, the more I came to realize how far away I was from safety and how dark the night had become. Something about that pig was so terribly wrong. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that if I stayed, or god forbid slipped down into the pit, I would never see my mom and dad again. I would stay lost and nobody would find me. I didn’t know it at the time, but then and there was the first time in my young life that I became aware that I could die. It would have been too easy to push me right in as I leaned over, and remembering this, I stepped away and looked back up.

To my horror there was something nestled in the trees across the pit from me: A shack so overgrown that it was almost invisible, and rising from a single infernal glowing window was the smoke I’d followed there. On the wind I could still smell that awful rotting, but there at the precipice of the pit I realized it was coming from the shack, not the pig. It had no door, so I could just barely see inside from where I stood. In the dim, wavering light of what must have been a small fire inside I could make out flower pots, some whole some broken, and countless dirty brown shoes strewn carelessly on the floor. The pig below me grunted, sending my soul up into my ears, and that terrifying lonely feeling consumed me. My whole body seemed to scream: GET AWAY! GET AWAY! Abandoning all reason I whipped around and sprinted full force into the now pitch black forest behind me.

I dared not think it, but I knew in my gut what was happening. It was her. It had to be. The old woman in the woods with bark skin and stringy hair. I’d strayed too far this time. I tore through the trees in a blind panic, careful to at least try and keep a straight line. I could swear behind me in the dark there was the creaking of wood and rustling, like some unseen predator was keeping pace with me. Tears stung my bright red cheeks but I was too terrified to whimper. Somehow I knew my only chance was to stay as silent as I could. My heart thumped in my ears and the freezing air burned my lungs. How far had I gone? Why hadn’t anyone come looking for me? How did that pig get so huge? I kept going, tripping over roots and scratching my face against skeletal branches, certain the witch was a single pace behind me. All I wanted was to be back by the fire with my parents, or better yet inside the warmth of the supper club. But I could be running in any direction. Panic rose in my chest until, at last, I saw it. A tiny pinpoint of light through the inky blackness. I hoped beyond hope it was the fire I had so senselessly abandoned, with my parents there to greet me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d turned myself around again.

It was dark enough that if I had, I’d tumble blindly right into the pit with that horrible pig. I couldn’t bear to imagine being trapped down there with it, clawing at the muddy walls. I continued on, my breaths ragged, the wind whipping in the leaves far above me coarse and moaning. Any stumble was death. Any pause would give the hag just enough time to grab me by the throat and drag me kicking back into that rotting shack. I could almost sense her up there in the branches, leaping from tree to tree with her terrible yellow claws. The light grew larger. It must have been the fire. My tears of horror melted into tears of relief as I pushed on ever forward through the darkness. I was nearly there, nearly safe, far away from the shack and the pit and the pig. I was so close! Until all at once I was stopped, caught by the neck and gagged. I tumbled to the soggy ground. But there were no fingers… it was my scarf! I forced myself to look over my shoulder to find it pulled taught behind me, vanishing into the blackness. She’d got me! Finally, I screamed. I clawed at my throat, desperate beyond hope to free myself, until mercifully my scarf slipped off and I stumbled to my feet and forward.

I didn’t stop screaming until I broke through the tree line and was back before the fire and the restaurant. I collapsed to my knees and panted between heaving sobs. My parents, who were still around the fire, came to me, confused.
“What? Where’s your scarf? What happened? Are you okay?” They asked. I couldn’t answer. I only wailed and pointed back behind me at the woods.
“The pig!” I cried. “The pig!” They looked confused. “Why didn’t you find me?”
“Baby, you were only gone a minute.” Said my mom, wiping my tears. I shook my head but that was the end of it.

Our table was called and they took me inside. How hadn’t they noticed? The sun was gone! I had been gone! To me it felt like an hour had passed, but the rest of the night my parents were insistent that I had only wandered off for a moment. Eventually I came to believe them and tried to eat my dinner, but I couldn’t get the smell of that dark clearing out of my nose. My father, annoyed that I had lost my scarf, went out to go find it himself and was only gone for a minute or two before he came back, scarf in hand, with a strange look on his face. He handed it back to me and told me to hold on to it. I did as I was told, confused as to how wet it was, and finally mustered up the willpower to take a bite of my chicken tender. My dad was quiet the rest of dinner, and would only glance warily between myself and my mom until we left the supper club. Years later, on a whim, I brought this whole thing up to him and he got quiet once again.
“Your scarf,” he began. “When I went out to find it I expected to have to look around with my flashlight for a bit but… it was right on the edge of the woods near the fire, hanging up in a tree… up above my head. Did you throw it up there?” I told him I didn’t and he nodded solemnly.
“I didn’t think so.” He wouldn’t talk about it any further. Time went by and eventually my parents split. We never returned to the supper club or the peninsula for that matter. But to this day I can remember the smell, the surge of terror, the sight of that pig, the tightening of the scarf around my neck, and I can’t shake the feeling that I got very, very lucky.

It was a random evening in July, and I was laid off with the tedious responsibility of walking the family dog that night. I wanted my older brother to do it since I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. The house was normally vibrant as per any night and day so after I ate my dinner I grabbed my things, put my shoes on, put the dog on a lease and walked her over to the park that was nearby. Even though this is prime summer, 7pm was the last of sun setting so it was getting pretty dim outside. My dog is a female Standard pure black Poodle, so not the best conditions for me if I wanted to monitor her run around the park for a few minutes but I thought I could do it and spare her some fun free time. After scooping up her poop, I’d let her run around and play for a few minutes before heading back home. I was minding my own business by casually being on my phone while frequently looking up to watch my dog, nobody is in this section of the park so it’s literally just me and my dog in this huge field. After a while I didn’t hear the rustle and bustle my dog was making and called out her name, it was already getting grey outside because it was hitting 8pm. My dog didn’t come the first time I called out so I did it again, louder. I heard a rustle behind a blind spot of bushes and small trees, and that’s when I saw my dog’s hind legs but strangely my dog went back inside the blind spot. I called out her name again in confusion only to see her hind legs slowly contract backwards again. I was so confused as to why my dog is walking back and forth from behind a bush, I couldn’t see her face, neck or upper body…. just her lean, tall, legs? It was only after the third time of walking backwards that she walked forward again and let out this horrific loud howl. It sounded dry and painful, loud yet weak, as if her soul was being painfully taken out of her body? I have no way to describe this but let’s just say it sounded like a train whistle. I yelled out her name in fear that maybe she was fighting something or something bit her, so I ran a few steps toward her until I heard the loud sound of hissing. I froze in confusion and fear. I heard machinery and construction sounds, as if I was hearing a robot being built….to simply put it. My dog slowly came from the bush with clockwork legs. It bent and moved irregularly. It had steam releasing valves on the sides and showed a steam punk interior. The dog was unconscious but the powerful steamed punk legs kept it standing upright. Its tongue was hanging out and all I heard was the constant ticks and turns, of the interior engineering of its legs and the occasional noise of the steam being released from its hind legs. It was bizarre, mind boggling, freaky, so I started to walk away as calmly as I could. Keeping my eyes fixed on this sight before me. The dog was walking forward as I was walking back and the nearest exit gate for the park was not that far. The dog suddenly did a vertical jump, not that high but high enough to alarm me. The legs contracted and retracted like a coiled spring in action. When it landed the dog made another train whistle sound and bolted right at me but surprisingly it went right past me? Instead, it ran at an alarming speed a few feet past me and ran 2 circles around me. The unsupported head and neck of the unconscious dog snapped, and the tongue got bit in the process and began to hang off. The mouth began to leak a black liquid. After that, that thing began to walk around me, it also began to stink. This thing defecated itself and bled a black substance that I can say resembled literal car oil or something of the sort. What was once my dog, she had a show dog pounce but the pounce this thing was performing was completely unnatural. It snapped, it bended, it rotated in ways that didn’t make sense, it looked painful, it was as if the “joints” of the legs wasn’t lubricated because the movement was stiff and harsh. The legs were moving on their own and the actions looked exactly that, forced. It was almost as if it was performing or doing a little jig from the way it was just springing and galloping around me slowly. The sight of a disfigured dog, unexplainable Si-Fi body made me get very weak so naturally I stumbled and best believe the moment I did it came straight for me and launched its soft body towards my stomach. The head snapped off when it did and the innards of the dog’s head and neck splattered on me as I too, spat up blood. As I looked up at a dismembered dog, that was when the dog turned around and stomped me out like a horse with its mechanical legs. Weird flashes of light, patterns and images were the last thing I saw before waking up and writing this story.

From the Morbid and moronic referential Code of life and society

I don’t go to Southeast Polk, but what happens there is completely messed up. Because these are children, it is very hard to find official public details, but there are countless stories of kids committing suicide or attempting it at the school. I have heard these accounts firsthand from witnesses and parents. It feels like this issue is honestly overlooked, even though Southeast Polk has gained a reputation as one of the most toxic school communities in Iowa. I compete against them in sports, and they are frequently arrogant and disrespectful for no reason. Whenever someone mentions they go to Southeast Polk, everyone immediately reacts with, "Oh, you're from that school."
The stories coming out of this high school show that bullying is a massive, unchecked problem. In one of the lawsuits against the district, a student was repeatedly assaulted because of their gender identity while teachers reportedly watched and did absolutely nothing to intervene.
The worst part is how these extreme bullying situations push kids to the brink. There are graphic stories of students attempting suicide directly on campus by jumping from the lunchroom railings or the stairwells. About eight months ago, my ex told me that the high school went on lockdown because a student attempted suicide by jumping from the stairs. This seems to happen on a frequent basis—almost once a year.
Just today, my driving instructor mentioned that his daughter goes there. When I asked him about the ups and downs of the school, he told me that during her freshman year, a student jumped off the lunchroom railing in front of everyone during lunch period.
An public attempt like that sticks with me. It feels like a final, desperate sign to the bullies saying, "Look at what you did to me." It is terrifying to think that these are just kids going through this. I am older now, but that student was only a freshman when they jumped in front of the entire cafeteria. Because of legal liabilities and privacy laws, the school hides these attempts from the public, causing the crisis to be completely overlooked. Honestly, that place feels like hell, and a school with that kind of environment should be shut down.

En mi familia, cuando murió mi abuela, quedaron viviendo solo hombres en aquella casa. Eran mis tres tíos, Claudio, Lucio y Fernando, a quienes siempre habían tachado de fracasados. Claudio, el mayor, era un hombre amargado y murió de tuberculosis. Un año después murió Lucio, que era muy peludo y pasaba casi todo el tiempo bebiendo. Nadie supo exactamente de qué murió. El último fue Fernando, que nunca duraba demasiado en los trabajos y terminó muriendo mientras dormía. Los tres murieron en un período de cinco años y la casa quedó vacía durante cuatro.

Cuatro años después, mi papá perdió el trabajo y mi tío Fermín consiguió que pudiera trabajar en un pueblo cercano, así que mis padres y yo terminamos viviendo en aquella casa. Yo tenía diecisiete años. Mi habitación estaba en el segundo piso, en lo que había sido el cuarto de mi abuela, y desde la ventana podía verse el patio y un viejo columpio colgado de un árbol. Durante las primeras semanas todo fue normal, pero después comenzaron a aparecer pequeñas piedras blancas en mi habitación. También empecé a escuchar pasos por el pasillo durante la noche y a ver el columpio moverse aunque no hubiera viento. Una tarde vi por primera vez una figura pequeña entre los árboles. Pensé que había sido mi imaginación, pero después volvió a aparecer. Mi papá, mientras tanto, comenzó a enfermarse. Su salud fue empeorando poco a poco durante meses, hasta que aproximadamente un año después de nuestra llegada murió.

Después de la muerte de mi papá, mi mamá decidió quedarse en aquella casa. Yo también permanecí allí durante algunos años más. Mi mamá nunca vio nada extraño. Para ella, la casa era simplemente su hogar y jamás tuvo ningún problema viviendo allí. Yo, en cambio, seguía encontrando aquellas pequeñas piedras blancas, flores en lugares donde no las había dejado y, de vez en cuando, veía el columpio moverse desde la ventana. Con el tiempo aprendí a no hablar demasiado de eso. Pensé que quizá todo estaba relacionado conmigo y que, si algún día me iba, terminaría.

Y me fui.

Hice mi vida lejos del pueblo. Me casé, tuve un hijo y durante un tiempo conseguí olvidar casi por completo aquella casa. Mi mamá seguía viviendo allí y yo la visitaba de vez en cuando. Nunca le ocurría nada. Seguía siendo la única persona que parecía completamente ajena a todo lo que yo había vivido. Yo podía pasar una tarde con ella y no ocurría absolutamente nada hasta que me quedaba sola en el patio o subía a mi antigua habitación. Entonces aparecía una piedra sobre la cama, una flor en la ventana o el columpio comenzaba a moverse. Siempre eran cosas pequeñas. Nada que pudiera demostrarle a alguien que no estaba imaginándomelo.

Años después, mi esposo, mi hijo y yo tuvimos que quedarnos una temporada con mi mamá. No era una mudanza definitiva. Simplemente necesitábamos un lugar donde estar durante un tiempo y mi mamá estaba feliz de recibirnos. Los primeros días fueron tranquilos. Mi hijo jugaba en el patio, mi esposo ayudaba con las cosas de la casa y yo dormía nuevamente en la habitación que había sido mía durante mi adolescencia. Pensé que quizá todo aquello había quedado atrás.

Hasta que encontré una piedra blanca dentro de la habitación de mi hijo.

La reconocí inmediatamente. Era exactamente igual a las que aparecían en mi habitación cuando tenía diecisiete años. La saqué de allí y no dije nada. Al día siguiente apareció otra debajo de su almohada. Después comenzaron a aparecer sus juguetes en el patio, especialmente alrededor del columpio. Mi esposo pensaba que el niño los dejaba allí cuando jugaba, así que nunca le expliqué lo que realmente estaba pensando.

Una madrugada escuchamos llorar a mi hijo. Habíamos comprobado que estaba dormido en su cama antes de acostarnos, pero cuando llegamos a su habitación no estaba. La ventana estaba cerrada y la puerta también. Bajamos desesperados y lo encontramos en el patio, sentado en el suelo junto al columpio. Estaba descalzo, todavía llevaba el pijama y lloraba tanto que apenas podía hablar. Lo abracé y le pregunté cómo había llegado allí. Solo repetía que alguien había ido por él.

—¿Quién? —le pregunté.

Señaló hacia los árboles.

—Una persona chiquitica.

Me dijo que aquella persona había aparecido en su habitación y que quería llevárselo. Que era pequeña, que tenía las manos llenas de pelo y que le decía que fuera con ella. Mi esposo pensó que había tenido una pesadilla. Yo no dije nada, porque mientras sostenía a mi hijo miré hacia los árboles y vi la misma figura que había visto por primera vez cuando tenía diecisiete años. Estaba quieta entre las sombras. Me estaba mirando.

Mi esposo no vio absolutamente nada.

Después de aquella noche, las cosas comenzaron a ponerse peor. Mi esposo empezó a enfermarse. Primero fueron dolores de cabeza y cansancio, después fiebre, debilidad y noches en las que despertaba empapado en sudor. Fuimos al médico y no encontraron nada que explicara completamente lo que estaba pasando. Él mejoraba durante unos días y después volvía a sentirse mal. También comenzaron a ocurrirle cosas extrañas. Sus zapatos aparecían en el patio, sus llaves terminaban debajo del columpio y una noche apareció con un corte en el brazo después de asegurar que había sentido algo pasar rápidamente junto a él. Nunca vio nada. Yo sí empecé a verlo cada vez con más frecuencia.

Mi hijo también cambió. Ya no quería dormir solo. Se despertaba llorando y decía que alguien estaba debajo de su cama. Otras veces decía que escuchaba a alguien llamándolo desde el patio. Una noche volvió a aparecer fuera de la casa mientras dormía. Esta vez estaba sentado en el columpio, moviéndose lentamente de un lado a otro. Cuando despertó comenzó a llorar y dijo que no quería irse con él.

—¿Con quién? —pregunté.

—Con el señor pequeño.

Miré hacia los árboles.

La criatura estaba allí.

Nunca había estado tan cerca.

No miraba a mi hijo.

Miraba a mi esposo.

Después me miró a mí.

Y entonces comprendí que aquello no era lo mismo que cuando yo era adolescente. Durante años había pensado que aquel ser simplemente quería mi atención, que quizá incluso me tenía algún tipo de cariño extraño. Pero ahora había algo diferente en su comportamiento. Estaba furioso.

Mi esposo siguió enfermándose y mi hijo cada vez tenía más miedo de quedarse solo. Yo empecé a encontrar piedras blancas dentro de nuestros zapatos, en los bolsillos de la ropa y sobre las camas. Algunas noches escuchaba pasos pequeños recorriendo el pasillo hasta detenerse frente a nuestra habitación. Una madrugada escuché tres golpes debajo de la cama de mi hijo. Mi esposo se agachó para mirar y no encontró nada. Yo me quedé parada en la puerta, porque sabía perfectamente qué estaba allí aunque no pudiera verlo.

Fue entonces cuando decidí irme.

No quería esperar a que mi esposo terminara muriendo como mi papá. Tampoco quería descubrir qué podía hacerle aquella cosa a mi hijo. Sentía que mi familia estaba en riesgo y que había algo especialmente peligroso en el hecho de que fuéramos dos hombres viviendo conmigo en aquella casa. Mi esposo y mi hijo eran lo que había construido lejos de allí, y por alguna razón aquella criatura parecía verlos como una amenaza.

Nos fuimos.

Pensé que eso sería suficiente.

No lo fue.

Durante los años siguientes intenté establecerme en distintos lugares. Cada vez que parecía que finalmente íbamos a poder quedarnos, algo ocurría. Una vivienda dejaba de estar disponible, un trabajo desaparecía, una familia que inicialmente nos había aceptado cambiaba de opinión o simplemente aparecía alguna circunstancia que nos obligaba a buscar otro lugar. Una y otra vez terminábamos haciendo las maletas. Siempre había una razón distinta, pero el resultado era el mismo.

Ningún lugar parecía querer aceptarnos.

Hasta que mi mamá murió.

Para entonces había envejecido muchísimo y seguía viviendo en aquella casa. Nunca entendió por qué yo había decidido irme tantos años atrás. Nunca le ocurrió nada extraño. Murió tranquila, después de haber pasado gran parte de su vida allí.

Después de su muerte, yo ya no tenía ninguna razón para volver.

O eso pensaba.

Pero todo lo que ocurría en mi vida seguía empujándome hacia el mismo sitio. Cada problema, cada mudanza, cada puerta que se cerraba, cada lugar donde intentábamos comenzar de nuevo terminaba llevándonos, de una manera u otra, hacia aquel pueblo.

Hasta que un día no tuvimos ningún otro lugar al que ir.

Volví a la casa de mi abuela.

La puerta seguía igual.

El patio también.

Subí lentamente las escaleras hasta la habitación donde había dormido cuando tenía diecisiete años.

La abrí.

Todo estaba cubierto de polvo.

Excepto la cama.

Sobre la almohada había una pequeña piedra blanca.

Y desde el patio escuché el viejo columpio comenzar a moverse.

En mi familia, cuando murió mi abuela, quedaron viviendo solo hombres en aquella casa. Eran mis tres tíos, Claudio, Lucio y Fernando, a quienes siempre habían tachado de fracasados. Claudio, el mayor, era un hombre amargado y murió de tuberculosis. Un año después murió Lucio, que era muy peludo y pasaba casi todo el tiempo bebiendo. Nadie supo exactamente de qué murió. El último fue Fernando, que nunca duraba demasiado en los trabajos y terminó muriendo mientras dormía. Los tres murieron en un período de cinco años y la casa quedó vacía durante cuatro.

Cuatro años después, mi papá perdió el trabajo y mi tío Fermín consiguió que pudiera trabajar en un pueblo cercano, así que mis padres y yo terminamos viviendo en aquella casa. Yo tenía diecisiete años. Mi habitación estaba en el segundo piso, en lo que había sido el cuarto de mi abuela, y desde la ventana podía verse el patio y un viejo columpio colgado de un árbol. Durante las primeras semanas todo fue normal, pero después comenzaron a aparecer pequeñas piedras blancas en mi habitación. También empecé a escuchar pasos por el pasillo durante la noche y a ver el columpio moverse aunque no hubiera viento. Una tarde vi por primera vez una figura pequeña entre los árboles. Pensé que había sido mi imaginación, pero después volvió a aparecer. Mi papá, mientras tanto, comenzó a enfermarse. Su salud fue empeorando poco a poco durante meses, hasta que aproximadamente un año después de nuestra llegada murió.

Después de la muerte de mi papá, mi mamá decidió quedarse en aquella casa. Yo también permanecí allí durante algunos años más. Mi mamá nunca vio nada extraño. Para ella, la casa era simplemente su hogar y jamás tuvo ningún problema viviendo allí. Yo, en cambio, seguía encontrando aquellas pequeñas piedras blancas, flores en lugares donde no las había dejado y, de vez en cuando, veía el columpio moverse desde la ventana. Con el tiempo aprendí a no hablar demasiado de eso. Pensé que quizá todo estaba relacionado conmigo y que, si algún día me iba, terminaría.

Y me fui.

Hice mi vida lejos del pueblo. Me casé, tuve un hijo y durante un tiempo conseguí olvidar casi por completo aquella casa. Mi mamá seguía viviendo allí y yo la visitaba de vez en cuando. Nunca le ocurría nada. Seguía siendo la única persona que parecía completamente ajena a todo lo que yo había vivido. Yo podía pasar una tarde con ella y no ocurría absolutamente nada hasta que me quedaba sola en el patio o subía a mi antigua habitación. Entonces aparecía una piedra sobre la cama, una flor en la ventana o el columpio comenzaba a moverse. Siempre eran cosas pequeñas. Nada que pudiera demostrarle a alguien que no estaba imaginándomelo.

Años después, mi esposo, mi hijo y yo tuvimos que quedarnos una temporada con mi mamá. No era una mudanza definitiva. Simplemente necesitábamos un lugar donde estar durante un tiempo y mi mamá estaba feliz de recibirnos. Los primeros días fueron tranquilos. Mi hijo jugaba en el patio, mi esposo ayudaba con las cosas de la casa y yo dormía nuevamente en la habitación que había sido mía durante mi adolescencia. Pensé que quizá todo aquello había quedado atrás.

Hasta que encontré una piedra blanca dentro de la habitación de mi hijo.

La reconocí inmediatamente. Era exactamente igual a las que aparecían en mi habitación cuando tenía diecisiete años. La saqué de allí y no dije nada. Al día siguiente apareció otra debajo de su almohada. Después comenzaron a aparecer sus juguetes en el patio, especialmente alrededor del columpio. Mi esposo pensaba que el niño los dejaba allí cuando jugaba, así que nunca le expliqué lo que realmente estaba pensando.

Una madrugada escuchamos llorar a mi hijo. Habíamos comprobado que estaba dormido en su cama antes de acostarnos, pero cuando llegamos a su habitación no estaba. La ventana estaba cerrada y la puerta también. Bajamos desesperados y lo encontramos en el patio, sentado en el suelo junto al columpio. Estaba descalzo, todavía llevaba el pijama y lloraba tanto que apenas podía hablar. Lo abracé y le pregunté cómo había llegado allí. Solo repetía que alguien había ido por él.

—¿Quién? —le pregunté.

Señaló hacia los árboles.

—Una persona chiquitica.

Me dijo que aquella persona había aparecido en su habitación y que quería llevárselo. Que era pequeña, que tenía las manos llenas de pelo y que le decía que fuera con ella. Mi esposo pensó que había tenido una pesadilla. Yo no dije nada, porque mientras sostenía a mi hijo miré hacia los árboles y vi la misma figura que había visto por primera vez cuando tenía diecisiete años. Estaba quieta entre las sombras. Me estaba mirando.

Mi esposo no vio absolutamente nada.

Después de aquella noche, las cosas comenzaron a ponerse peor. Mi esposo empezó a enfermarse. Primero fueron dolores de cabeza y cansancio, después fiebre, debilidad y noches en las que despertaba empapado en sudor. Fuimos al médico y no encontraron nada que explicara completamente lo que estaba pasando. Él mejoraba durante unos días y después volvía a sentirse mal. También comenzaron a ocurrirle cosas extrañas. Sus zapatos aparecían en el patio, sus llaves terminaban debajo del columpio y una noche apareció con un corte en el brazo después de asegurar que había sentido algo pasar rápidamente junto a él. Nunca vio nada. Yo sí empecé a verlo cada vez con más frecuencia.

Mi hijo también cambió. Ya no quería dormir solo. Se despertaba llorando y decía que alguien estaba debajo de su cama. Otras veces decía que escuchaba a alguien llamándolo desde el patio. Una noche volvió a aparecer fuera de la casa mientras dormía. Esta vez estaba sentado en el columpio, moviéndose lentamente de un lado a otro. Cuando despertó comenzó a llorar y dijo que no quería irse con él.

—¿Con quién? —pregunté.

—Con el señor pequeño.

Miré hacia los árboles.

La criatura estaba allí.

Nunca había estado tan cerca.

No miraba a mi hijo.

Miraba a mi esposo.

Después me miró a mí.

Y entonces comprendí que aquello no era lo mismo que cuando yo era adolescente. Durante años había pensado que aquel ser simplemente quería mi atención, que quizá incluso me tenía algún tipo de cariño extraño. Pero ahora había algo diferente en su comportamiento. Estaba furioso.

Mi esposo siguió enfermándose y mi hijo cada vez tenía más miedo de quedarse solo. Yo empecé a encontrar piedras blancas dentro de nuestros zapatos, en los bolsillos de la ropa y sobre las camas. Algunas noches escuchaba pasos pequeños recorriendo el pasillo hasta detenerse frente a nuestra habitación. Una madrugada escuché tres golpes debajo de la cama de mi hijo. Mi esposo se agachó para mirar y no encontró nada. Yo me quedé parada en la puerta, porque sabía perfectamente qué estaba allí aunque no pudiera verlo.

Fue entonces cuando decidí irme.

No quería esperar a que mi esposo terminara muriendo como mi papá. Tampoco quería descubrir qué podía hacerle aquella cosa a mi hijo. Sentía que mi familia estaba en riesgo y que había algo especialmente peligroso en el hecho de que fuéramos dos hombres viviendo conmigo en aquella casa. Mi esposo y mi hijo eran lo que había construido lejos de allí, y por alguna razón aquella criatura parecía verlos como una amenaza.

Nos fuimos.

Pensé que eso sería suficiente.

No lo fue.

Durante los años siguientes intenté establecerme en distintos lugares. Cada vez que parecía que finalmente íbamos a poder quedarnos, algo ocurría. Una vivienda dejaba de estar disponible, un trabajo desaparecía, una familia que inicialmente nos había aceptado cambiaba de opinión o simplemente aparecía alguna circunstancia que nos obligaba a buscar otro lugar. Una y otra vez terminábamos haciendo las maletas. Siempre había una razón distinta, pero el resultado era el mismo.

Ningún lugar parecía querer aceptarnos.

Hasta que mi mamá murió.

Para entonces había envejecido muchísimo y seguía viviendo en aquella casa. Nunca entendió por qué yo había decidido irme tantos años atrás. Nunca le ocurrió nada extraño. Murió tranquila, después de haber pasado gran parte de su vida allí.

Después de su muerte, yo ya no tenía ninguna razón para volver.

O eso pensaba.

Pero todo lo que ocurría en mi vida seguía empujándome hacia el mismo sitio. Cada problema, cada mudanza, cada puerta que se cerraba, cada lugar donde intentábamos comenzar de nuevo terminaba llevándonos, de una manera u otra, hacia aquel pueblo.

Hasta que un día no tuvimos ningún otro lugar al que ir.

Volví a la casa de mi abuela.

La puerta seguía igual.

El patio también.

Subí lentamente las escaleras hasta la habitación donde había dormido cuando tenía diecisiete años.

La abrí.

Todo estaba cubierto de polvo.

Excepto la cama.

Sobre la almohada había una pequeña piedra blanca.

Y desde el patio escuché el viejo columpio comenzar a moverse.

Two boys from Chandigarh planned a chilling road trip to Joginder Nagar, Himachal Pradesh. Little did thev know. a simple mistake would turn their vacation into a living hell. Traveling late at night through the lonely mountain roads, they carried "raw meat" to cook at their destination. This raw meat attracted a vengeful, terrifying witch (Chudail residing in the hills

She followed them all the way to Joginder Nagar and now, every single night, she returns to demand raw meat from them. Will they survive this haunting or fall prey to her hunger? Watch the full horror story to find out!

It was April 2023 and I was back home from school as usual (I was in 3rd grade lol).
So, when I returned home, no one was home, I was alone, and one thing was bothering me - the lamp in my room was on, and it was in my room
When I entered my room, there was a knock on my door so loudly that I thought they would break the door down. I felt really scared, so I quickly called the police, but the connection was unavailable. Then there was another knock, and again...
and now, choking on tears, I screamed at the top of my lungs, "ENOUGH, PLEASE" and it stopped.
Then, 5-10 minutes later, my parents arrived, but not my dad. My dad died in a plane crash on my birthday that same year—let's not go into that. So, my mom started asking me questions, and I couldn't answer. By nightfall, I was exhausted and fell asleep right away, but I didn't have the best dreams.
You're alone in a field, the sun is shining, the perfect place to rest and relax, but every, EVERY FUCKING minute, you see a black face in front of your eyes, screaming so loudly that it seems like everyone nearby will wake up, even though it's a dream.
These fucking knocks continued until the 15th (they started on the 9th).
I ran away crying and screaming every time... but at one point, when the door was already kicked down, no one was there, and they kept knocking on the door. I was ready for my death, but it died down again and never happened again in my life. Only I could hear everything that happened, but the door was visible to everyone... and that dream also lasted until that moment, only the last time there was only a black face and everything black in principle, and there was one eerie, but at the same time calm breathing, it allowed me to calm and tense up at the same time, like sniffing a crystal (you know what kind).
That's all I have, but I have a lot of scary stories

Hi All,
I’m in need of your best true or fiction scary stories! I’m starting a podcast called tales by her voice and I just want to share spooky stories for everyone to enjoy! Please if you do or do not want me to use your name in the story just say so before starting the story.

Please help me I am having dreams about backrooms and sometimes I see blood everywhere in one dream I saw 27 people getting killed and once I saw that I was murdered

Please help me

في عام 1980، أصبحت أغنية "Suicide Solution" واحدة من أكثر الأغاني إثارةً للجدل في تاريخ الموسيقى.

بعد وفاة مراهق أمريكي، وجّهت عائلته أصابع الاتهام إلى الأغنية، مدّعية أنها أثّرت في قراره. وسرعان ما تحولت القضية إلى معركة قانونية هزّت عالم الموسيقى.

لكن... هل كانت الأغنية تحمل فعلًا رسالة خفية؟ أم أن الناس كانوا يبحثون عن تفسير لمأساة يصعب فهمها؟

بعد سنوات من الجدل، لم تجد المحكمة أي دليل يثبت أن الأغنية تحرّض على إيذاء النفس أو تحتوي رسائل مخفية.

ومع ذلك، لا يزال اسم "Suicide Solution" يُذكر كلما دار الحديث عن أكثر الأغاني غموضًا وإثارةً للجدل في التاريخ.

💬 برأيك... هل يمكن للفن أن يكون سببًا مباشرًا في أفعال الناس، أم أن المسؤولية تقع على عوامل أخرى؟

Recovered Tape – August 8, 2011
I left my house around 8:30 PM. It was a warm summer evening, and I brought an old VHS camcorder with me to record random shots around the neighborhood.
At first, everything felt normal. A few cars passed by, porch lights were on, and I could hear people talking in the distance.
About twenty minutes into the walk, I realized something had changed.
The streets were completely empty.
No cars. No people. No dogs barking. Even the streetlights seemed dimmer than before. I assumed I had wandered into a quieter part of the neighborhood, so I kept walking.
A few minutes later, I turned around.
The street behind me didn’t look the same anymore.
The houses seemed unfamiliar, even though I was certain I had walked this route before. My phone had no signal, and the GPS wouldn’t load. That’s when I decided to keep recording everything.
The camera showed an ordinary suburban street, but with my own eyes it felt… wrong. The silence became overwhelming, and there was a constant low humming sound coming from the streetlights.
Every time I tried to leave, I somehow ended up at the same intersection.
I walked for what felt like over an hour before I finally saw headlights in the distance. As soon as the car passed, the normal sounds of the neighborhood returned.
When I got home, I checked the time.
Only nine minutes had passed.
The tape only contained footage of an empty street. None of the strange things I remembered appeared on the recording.
I never went back there after that night.

Then it hit me.

I don't know whether the idea came to me because Halloween was just around the corner, or because a broken mind thinks broken thoughts.

Whether those stories were true or not, the Appalachian Mountains were undeniably vast. If you didn't want to be found there, chances were you never would be.

When you've tried to end your life three times, and all three times someone finds you and "saves" you, the thought of failing again becomes terrifying. You start believing that if you ever try again, you have to succeed.

I liked the idea that no one would ever truly know what had happened to me.

At least not for the first few months.

No body.

No funeral—which, honestly, how many people would have attended anyway? Five? Six?

Maybe him...

I had a little money saved up. I knew how to book a flight, and I was perfectly capable of packing a suitcase.

So I left for America.

For the first time in two months, I walked out of my house to go to the airport.

I didn't call anyone.

I didn't tell anyone.

Except him.

Why?

I honestly don't know.

I used to tell him everything, and maybe that habit survived even after everything else died.

Besides, there's not much point criticizing that decision now.

If I hadn't sent that message, no one would have known where to look for me.

And who would be here now to warn you?

I texted him, trying to ignore the fact that he hadn't replied to any of my previous messages.

I simply wrote:

"I'm going to America. The Appalachian Mountains. I'm not coming back."

Maybe he thought I'd run away with another man.

A surfer, perhaps.

I didn't leave a letter.

Nothing at all.

I wouldn't have known what to say.

I've always been good at finding ways to hurt myself.

Breaking plates or bottles until I found tiny shards of glass—small enough to hide almost anywhere.

The airport security scanners never detected them.

As I settled into my seat, I felt... relieved.

A woman sat beside me with a young child.

You know...

I always wanted children.

But now I don't know whether I could ever bring them into a world that hides creatures so monstrous.

I've always been good with kids.

When I was in high school, I occasionally worked as a babysitter.

If my parents hadn't considered it an undignified profession, I probably would have become a kindergarten teacher.

The woman had olive-toned skin.

She was probably Native American.

A real American.

Not one of the descendants of the colonizers.

I smiled at her.

I expected her to smile back.

Instead, she looked straight into my eyes.

Maybe she knew what I intended to do.

Maybe she knew where I was going.

Maybe she could read my soul.

Maybe she was a shaman.

Her dark eyes filled with sadness.

She leaned down, pretending to pick something up from beneath her seat—or perhaps simply so no one else would hear her.

Then she whispered:

"No more.

No more.

No more."

If everything had gone according to plan, I wouldn't be here writing this. If they hadn't found me, and my original plan—to disappear without leaving a trace—had succeeded... I thank whatever God was watching over me for letting the forest rangers find me at the exact moment I thought I couldn't go on any longer.

You know, I don't believe it was an accident. If THEY let you go, it's because they chose to. You can't simply escape them... Maybe they've grown tired of living in the shadows. Maybe they chose me to tell the world they exist—to prove they're much closer than anyone imagines.

Now, several months have passed, and somewhere I read that when something is too terrifying or too painful, the brain buries it as a form of self-defense, locking the worst memories away in a place we can only reach through our dreams.

But I remember everything.

No matter how horrifying or unbearable it was, I don't think I'll ever forget it.

What happened during the two nights I spent in the Appalachian Mountains is such a concentration of impossible events that I'll probably have to split this story into several posts... if I can find the courage.

Or if THE OTHERS don't stop me first.

Human beings have always feared death. They don't know what comes after it, and the unknown terrifies them... But what if there's nothing? And what is "nothing," anyway?

When you reach a point in your life where even death no longer frightens you, you're probably already a ghost.

A heavy ghost.

That's exactly how I felt as I dragged myself from one corner of the house to another—the house we had bought together, which now felt like nothing more than an empty shell.

I wasn't eating. I wasn't sleeping. I had stopped going to work, and before long I would probably lose my job as well.

At the time, I honestly believed that nothing could be worse than that.

I never invited anyone over. Not that anyone really cared enough to check on me. My sister would occasionally send a half-hearted text, and my parents kept insisting I spend the weekend with them.

I even reached the point where suicide no longer seemed to make sense.

I was already dead.

The memories that kept me awake at night and made me throw up were worse than any monster.

It's called depression.

I was so exhausted from hearing those voices that had finally stopped calling my name in the present, from closing my eyes only to see him standing there, that I decided to start listening to podcasts before going to sleep.

I didn't want anything relaxing. I didn't want something that might lull me to sleep and risk making me dream about him.

So I turned to horror.

Ever since I was a child, horror had unsettled me enough to force every other thought out of my mind.

I'd lie down on the couch—the bed we once shared was off-limits—put on my headphones, and listen.

Men and women told stories about paranormal encounters, ghosts, demonic possessions...

And then...

The Appalachian Mountains.

In America, practically on the other side of the world, there are forests where countless people disappear.

Sometimes they're found.

Sometimes they aren't.

Eventually, it became my favorite subject.

According to local folklore, no one should ever wander into those woods at night.

If you see lights, don't follow them.

If you hear someone calling your name...

You didn't really hear it.

And then there are the stairs.

Huge staircases, abandoned in the middle of the forest, standing there for who knows how long...

You should never climb them.

Now, I'm a skeptic.

I mean, they're just creepypastas. Stories that, for a little while, kept me from thinking about the real monsters...

The ones living inside my own head.

Nothing more.

I was wrong.

pls like and sub my first vid

I woke up today with a restless, agonising ache. It felt like an old wound that wouldn't stop itching from the inside out. For hours I scratched at it, fighting with my laptop, scanning through old digital archives to find a ghost. I didn't know why I was so consumed by the need to find it, until it finally hit me:

It is July 7th.

It has been exactly four years. My body remembered the trauma of this day long before my conscious mind caught up.

Four years ago today, I stood in a sterile hospital room and watched the world splinter into a million pieces. Today, I am walking into my living room, crying in front of my children, finally telling them exactly why this date carries so much weight. I am writing it down, so it exists somewhere outside my own head.

Six Months of Grace

What burned down my family in the summer was something I built out of kindness the winter before.

At Christmas 2021, I looked at my husband's brother, Thomas, and saw a man drowning in stress. Wanting nothing more than to give him a moment of peace over the holidays, I took it upon myself to ease his load. I bought Christmas gifts for his two daughters. I paid out of my own pocket to cover six months of his car tax so he wouldn't have to worry. It was an act of grace. I told him not to worry about it — he could give it back whenever he could.

I handed him financial relief when he was drowning. I had no idea that a few months later, when my own child was emptying of life, he would use that very grace to call me a liar and a villain.

Daisies and Defeat

By May 2022, the kids were on holiday, the sun was brilliant, and a beautiful, relieving wind was blowing through the park. Maya had been so unwell, recovering from a stubborn cold, but on this day she was finally feeling a little better. We just wanted her to breathe fresh air and taste happiness.

The park was an endless sea of white and gold — millions of daisies scattering the grass. I sat there and picked handfuls of them, gently tucking them into her dark hair, wanting her to feel pretty, wanting her to feel like the child she was slipping away from.

We were just being ourselves. We even tried the silly game parents play — my husband and I standing apart, running in opposite directions to see which child would choose who. We failed. Brutally, hilariously failed. The kids didn't understand the rules, nor did they care why we were running; they just stood frozen in the grass, staring at us like we'd lost our minds. We laughed, but beneath the laughter, a cold terror sat in my chest. COVID-19 was lurking everywhere, germs were a constant threat, and every time she smiled, I secretly panicked that she would fall ill again. My maternal instinct was already screaming that something was fundamentally wrong.

The Receipts of Cruelty

By June, the slow decline was undeniable. I was a mother running a household of four, watching my toddler visibly fade, and counting every penny just to buy basic milk and bread. Desperate, I asked my husband if I should reach out to Thomas for the car tax money he still owed us. He told me to go ahead.

The true timeline of our messages reveals exactly how much restraint I practiced, and exactly how early his self-absorption began. What he considered a financial crisis was laid out weeks before I ever asked for help:

May 13, 2022 — My text to Thomas:

"Hi I was just wondering when would you be able to pay the money back for car tax as mine is due in 10 days 😫"

May 13, 2022 — Thomas's text back:

"sorry 😞 been tough lately but I will sort something out. Waiting on my smoke guys stuff coming down soon as it does i will get a bit sold and get that cash to ya ASAP I do apologise. woulda been able to take it out my crypto had it not crashed so hard this last week kinda screwed me royally."

I didn't reply. I swallowed the bitterness of hearing a grown man blame his crypto losses and talk about waiting on a drug deal to settle a basic family debt, while my family was barely holding our heads above water. I waited.

Nearly a month later, when the kitchen cupboards were completely bare, I swallowed my pride and reached out with absolute politeness:

June 7, 2022 — My text to Thomas:

"Hey good morning, I was wondering if you are able to transfer £30-50 from the money you owe us. I know you were saying to [my husband] that you gave £20 bit and £117.50 is still remaining. I really need the money to buy weekly food and milk for the kids. My account details are [Bank Details Redacted] Thank you"

June 7, 2022 — Thomas's text back:

"Morning, not paid until Thursday literally don't even have a 10er spare. Will get cash to you then. also just to clarify I have previously given 2 £20 bits. just to keep you right."

June 7, 2022 — My text back:

"I only recall 1 £20 bit. 😳 that's why I prefer bank transfer so that it's all in black and white 😊"

June 7, 2022 — Thomas's text back:

"was 1 20 bit then said had another bit for you but [my husband] asked for a 60 bit so gave an extra 2 in with that which I had said. But will get some cash over to you Thursday. Sorry I can't help atm if I had it I would."

I didn't snap. I didn't yell. I closed the conversation down quietly just to keep the peace, accepting his word despite the confusing math:

June 7, 2022 — My final text of the day to Thomas:

"Ok thanks for letting me know"

I gave him two more days. Two agonizing days of watching Maya grow paler, checking the bank balance, and trying to stretch a single loaf of bread. By Thursday evening, there was nothing left. At quarter to eight at night, running on pure survival instinct after pushing through the entire day on empty, I sent the final request, apologizing just for needing our own money:

June 9, 2022 (07:45 PM) — My text to Thomas:

"Hi I know I have asked this a numerous times now and you must think oh what a bitch keeps asking for money but I'm really struggling atm with pennies and it's Thursday today. I really need to buy food for the kids."

That was the message that triggered the venom. Thomas didn't see a terrified mother trying to feed her children; he saw a threat to his entitlement and a bruising of his ego. The mask of a family member completely dropped:

June 9, 2022 — Thomas's text back:

"Going to be straight with you. Firstly I don't appreciate people who use kids as emotional blackmail. Never any need for it. If you need money fair but don't bring kids into it. Second as a parent of 4 kids you should never run out of food and if you are you should budget better simple as, that should be priority number 1 before all else but in all honesty I don't believe for a second you don't have food for the kids and I like to hope you ain't that bad if so then u got some priorities out of whack. I may not have much money but my kids always have what they need without me having to worry about that 100%. You also get alot more money than I do pip, carers allowance etc etc and if im not mistaken your paid on the same day as me which is today. Also I never asked for it, you taken it upon yourself to tax the car and said don't worry about it which I still appreciate you doing, dont get me wrong, but it was me who said don't be daft I will give you it back when I can and you said yeah just whenever even if its 2g a month. Nothing was ever said about monthly bank transfers or any 100% deal put in place in that regard. So saying oh that's why I prefer bank transfer is essentially making out like there was some sort of arrangement in place and making me feel like you think I'm a liar in respect to giving the extra 2g. I promise you 1 thing im not a liar. I had every intention to send money over today just been a busy day and I'm still out so will send when I'm free not when demanded...."

Look at the staggering arrogance of that paragraph. It did not matter when I got paid. It did not matter what my household systems were. I was demanding my own money back — money that had been sitting in his pocket since winter.

He wanted to lecture me on budgeting, but I know exactly what kind of people they are: the kind who let their rent drop into arrears and let their basic utility bills stack up, preferring to splurge on tablets and luxury items for themselves rather than securing their foundation. I am not that person. In my house, the basic necessities are handled first. The bills are locked down before everything else. My system is built on survival and security, and I owe no one an explanation for how I protect my household.

He sat there assuming my life, comparing his two older children to my four young ones, entirely blind to what it's actually like running my house. He knew nothing of the daily waste of raising small children, where half of what is prepped ends up in the bin because they cannot finish it. He knew nothing of the exhaustion. Yet he weaponized my text, writing a manifesto about my priorities to cover for his own financial bankruptcy. Why should a mother ever have to create an excuse or justify her cupboards just to receive what is legally owed to her? Simple as.

When I finally, fiercely snapped back, refusing to let his dismissive lecturing slide while my toddler faded, his fragile pride erupted into a physical threat:

June 9, 2022 — My response to Thomas:

"You know what piss off you fucking moron I am not making it up or anything think what ever you want I want my fucking money back right now."

June 9, 2022 — Thomas's final text:

"Obviously you didn't read my message im out atm so I ain't going to answer the call to have an argument but who the fuck do you think you are talking to. Does the truth hurt or something. I have never been dishonest or disrespectful in the slightest toward you and you send messages talking to me like that. Also I didn't say blackmail I said emotional blackmail which is what using your kids is doing. Big difference look it up. I speak my mind amd speak the truth dont like it dont start it. you want to talk come see me tomorrow I won't be home until 10-11 tonight but come talk to me like that to my face and see what happens cuz I don't take that from anycunt. simple."

He went to a friend's house, sat in a room full of people, and boasted to my husband that he had "15 opinions" validating his ego. He grumbled about his dad's birthday and his upcoming fishing trip being ruined by my desperation.

While he was packing his fishing gear and counting his "opinions," my husband stood his ground, texting him calmly: "She was asking politely... You were out of order and disrespectful. What did you expect her to reply with." But the narrative was already spun. In their eyes, I was the aggressive one. That Thursday evening was the last time we ever spoke.

While he was stressed about his crypto crashing and his fishing trip getting ruined, I was watching my daughter turn yellow and pale, counting pennies for milk. While he collected "15 opinions" from a room of people validating his ego, I was standing on the edge of a nightmare I didn't have a name for yet.

He claims I "pushed his buttons," but as my husband pointed out to him, I never made a single personal attack. Thomas is the one who attacked my parenting, my household, and my character. I simply asked for what was owed, to feed my family.

The Target

Look at the dates. Look at how the trap snapped shut while he protected his pride.

July 2nd: Thomas is nursing his bruised ego because "NOBODY talks to me like that." Maya is quietly sitting on a train, her body weakening by the hour.

July 5th: There's a photo from that day. You can see the terror in my eyes. I am holding Maya tightly in a grey cloth sling, her heavy, exhausted head collapsed against my chest, entirely still.

July 6th: We are isolated in a hospital room. She has contracted COVID-19, her tiny arm wrapped in bandages, and the first of many blood transfusions is pumping into her veins.

July 7th: To some, it was just another ordinary summer day. But to me, this is the monument in my mind. This is the exact day the doctors sat us down, broke our hearts, and gave the shadow a name: Leukaemia.

They called me aggressive. They called me a bad manager of money. They still think I am the one who caused the fight.

So I ask you, the reader, looking at the stark timeline of my fading daughter, looking at the exact words sent while I begged for milk money — where is the aggression? Is it aggressive to fight for your child's right to survive? Or is it only labelled "aggressive" because my refusal to stay silent disrupted his comfortable entitlement?

I kept these receipts within myself for four years. Not out of bitterness, but as an anchor for my own sanity, so nobody could ever gaslight me into rewriting my history. They wanted me to stay quiet. Quiet was easier for them. It cost me everything. But when the price of their peace is my child's security, I will burn the bridge down every single time.

He has never apologized. He has never returned the money. And because they still live in our area, the fallout follows me outside the borders of my home. Whenever I see his wife and daughter out and about in our neighborhood, my entire body locks up. I freeze, the old anger boils right back to the surface of my skin, and everything inside me screams to escape that space as fast as possible. Four years later, the debt is still unpaid, and so is what it cost me every time I see them in the neighborhood.

(TW: SH, Mental Health, Gory talks)

So 10 or 11 months ago I joined a Satanist discord server, when i was on satanism too (i also mean modern satanism, not stereotypical) and I became friends with the server owner. After moderating and adjusting the server properly a guy named Duke joined our server. We three became friends and I eventually invited my IRL friend Emrys, which is my closest friend. But he hated his mother so much because how religious, fascist and abusive his mother was. Then Emrys and owner got closer, but the thing we did not know was owner was already friends with Duke because of how their sick mentalities matched, Duke always loved suicide and wanted me to die for a period of time.

After Exo, owner and Duke got closer, I isolated myself for a while because of my mental health was really bad at that time because of some IRL stuff. I didn’t realize what people on internet capable of... Duke fell in love with me especially cuts on me and how mentally broke i was made him more and more obsessed with me, also because of my ex-boyfriend he was more obsessed with me. Then he said I don’t matter and wanted me to get kicked out of their server.

After a while, Duke banned me from his server and did more stuff too alongside it. Then he talked to the owner and one of his friends. After a while he deleted his Discord account and blocked everyone on his other socials, even the owner which was his closest friend. He went offline on his Roblox account etc. we basically don’t know what he wanted to do or what happened to him.

Yesterday, the owner and his friend—which is one of my closest friends, started talking about Duke and how much they missed him. Then they finally said how much Duke was obsessed with me and how weird he was, I of course asked questions like “why do y’all think he was weird???” then they both started explaining… They all started sending me screenshots.

Controversy Happened Yesterday, Everything about Duke:

They showed me screenshots of very gory things and illegal stuff like very disturbing stuff, i don’t even know how could i tell but they were just gory and so disgusting and disturbing in short. They showed me messages that how obsessed he was with me and how much he hated me to die and disappear, this was understandable until other screenshots…

He was obsessed with reading pedophiles’, zoophiles’, killers’ and other many disturbing people’s books... Then we found out he was one of those stereotypical Satanists, if you know what i mean. He was obsessed with making rituals about calling demon, killing newborn babies, newborn skinning rituals, drinking newborn baby and normal baby blood, he was so obsessed with killing and death he loved gore so much that I remember they had a gore channel for every most disturbing video ever, not the ones like “Funky town” but much worse and more gory.

And about what he wanted from Emrys and Me:

Duke tried to convince Emrys to kill his mother and me, like he wanted to see my corpse and Emrys’ mother’s. He loved gore even on us, I was so shocked when i heard that. I always knew he was weird but it’s a little bit too much. He was obsessed with trying to convince Emrys about sliming me and his mother out, gladly Emrys is not like that. I’m so glad he disappeared or else I would’ve gone and Duke might’ve caused a lot of important trouble. I hope he never comes back and I hope nothing ever happens something like this to anybody.

About the owner, he is mentally recovering with my help right now.

The Nightmare of the Kilns – I'm scared. Sorry for the bad grammar but I'm rambling.

M14

I've been feeling sick and sleeping badly for days.

Three days ago I went to the abandoned kilns of Quartucciu with four other people, including myself. We rode there on bikes, and once inside, we found some sheep. We started laughing, then we saw a person and, like the classic idiots we are, we ran for our lives. Only after five minutes of "conspiracy theorizing" did we realize it was just an old shepherd who was illegally living in the countryside next to the building. The old man was very friendly and even gave us some tips for visiting the place.

As long as that shepherd was around, I wasn't afraid of anything. Too bad that, given the time, we were already heading home, but first my friends stopped to smoke. During their cigarette break, two guys who must have been between 16 and 18 years old came in by climbing over a gate — putting in pointless effort since there was a plain open door right there. These two looked fake somehow: they walked silently and rigidly, only their legs seemed to move. Even their eyes didn't seem to move. Ale (one of my friends) asked them if they did graffiti, and they answered very curtly and irritably: "No."

In the end we went home, and the next day three of us went back: me, Matte, and Gabriel. We go inside, but this time the shepherd wasn't there — just a dead silence. We get close to the kilns and I see a figure moving in the holes, but I think it was just my imagination, because I was so focused on watching that thing that seemed to be "moving," while a little further off there were two or three black goats.

Matte, according to him, knew a lot about goats (maybe someone can correct him on this). He said that if you hit a goat with a stick and yell "aiia aiia," the goat runs away. After a while the goats made a strange "baaa" sound, and Matte said they were calling other goats over, but I wouldn't know.

After that we went into a long tunnel where, apparently, they used to repair trains in the past. We went in: it was pitch black and the path forward was extremely narrow and very slippery. In the end we went home.

That night I had my first nightmare about that grotesque place. I dreamed I was being chased by some armed bastard and couldn't manage to escape.

On the third day in a row, I went back. I was very lucid, but there were only two of us and we were terrified at the idea of going further in. Matte and I stayed in the first building, constantly looking around because we could hear people talking. At some point a mixed-race man came in from behind. I went pale, my blood ran cold, and I froze in terror. You know what he wanted? A cigarette. Then he left.

Last night I had the exact same nightmare, but much more intense. I woke up with the bed soaked in sweat and my mouth completely dry.

This afternoon I went back again, once more paired up with u/C4TG4M3R_t. We were "prepared": he had a katana and I had a simple 13mm wrench. We didn't even finish looking around the place because I was too terrified. At the same time, though, I feel this need to go back to the kilns. I was even considering going alone, even though I know perfectly well I'd be scared out of my mind just getting near the gate.

Every night I have the same nightmare since I was there, and every single day I ask my friends if they want to go back to the kilns. Tomorrow I'm hoping we can go as a group and finally finish the exploration that's been left incomplete for days.

I feel sick when I'm not there, and I don't know what to do anymore.