I'm 21 female. My boyfriend is 30 male.

He insists that there is nothing wrong with him hanging out with his female friends.

I normally would agree because I don't consider myself the jealous or controlling type.

The problem is that the hangouts look like dates. Going out to dinner with candles and flowers, staying the night at their houses, and even constantly talking about their good qualities.

We've argued about it several different times and he treats me like I'm crazy.

The weirdest part is that the girls disappear after a couple of dates. Sometimes after the first one.

I've had a sneaking suspicion that it's one night stands and casual fun.

I've tried everything I can to keep his attention. I wear sexy clothes, lace undergarments, being extra flirtatious, cooking his favorite meals, doing literally every single thing he likes.

I've even tried spicing things up in the bedroom. Nothing works.

He thanks me and then continues doing whatever he was doing before.

It hurts my feelings because we're never intimate and I feel like his desire for me went out the drain.

It all changed last night when I found his journal. He wrote about each girl in great detail.

He wrote about how he befriends them and acts charming. He then kills them after gaining trust.

They aren't innocent, though. They've all been in prision for various crimes.

I initially thought it was sickening until I started fantasizing. Vigilantes are hot. The fact that he isn't cheating on me and even wrote about how I'm the only one for him is so romantic.

He only acted strange because he didn't want his secret to be revealed.

I'll keep that dirty secret.

"I am breaking up with you.".

These words stood alone amidst the many messages she sent me after this.

"I am breaking up with you.".

These 6 words held more power, gave me more power than i ever had in those last few months which preceded this message.

"I am breaking up with you.".

This one line gave me more peace than i ever could've gotten in that relationship.

TUESDAY

It was the morning of an important exam. Not life changing, but important nonetheless. I woke up with a congested nose and a scratchy, clogged up throat. My chest felt as if there was an elephant sitting on it. The vicks from last night was still sticky on my back and chest. I got up, somehow got ready on time and boarded the bus. Till now, even i didn't know the events which were about to happen that very evening. Everything was fine. Everything.. felt fine. At least that's what i kept telling myself. Everyday. For the past 2 months.

I reach college, make it barely in time for the exam. I sit, and start writing. "That cold and cough couldn't have picked a worse night to happen.", I thought. I bomb the exam. Oh well.

I meet up with my friend. Actually, scratch that. I consider him somewhere between a best friend and a good friend. Soo maybe a great friend? Yea that's probably it. I discuss with him the exam, how it went, life, business, studies, exam again, personal life, relationship..

Turns out, all i needed to realize i needed to break up wasn't a reality check, but my great friend lending his ear to my constant yapping and somehow keeping it still attached to his face. I was supposed to meet her after the exam. I don't feel like going. I feel like a bad boyfriend. Am i bad boyfriend? Probably. She is unhappy. Oh- not because of me not being able to meet due to it being like a 100 degrees out there and it is a nightmare to walk outside in the sun in this godforsaken Mumbai heat. But something else. Something constant. Something.. Me.

She texts me. Asks me if we are meeting. I tell her that i will most likely head home since i am too sick and need to rest. She says okay. "Great!", I think. She is being understanding. That's great! I talk for a bit with my friend and he comes to drop me till the college gate. He has classes after this and will stay back. Somehow, we end up at the cigarette shop. I buy one, light it, take a puff and hack my lungs out with the wheezing. I forgot that i was sick. At this point i had already burned through an hour of me ranting about her. Her insecurities. Her nitpicking. Her indecisiveness. Her attachment issues. Her ability to make a fight about the smallest most illogical thing possible. Her constant checking up on me, asking why haven't i texted her in half an hour. Our sex life. How it has been negatively affecting me. And before whoever is reading me comes at me, she was orgasming just fine. Multiple times at once too. It was me who never orgasmed once in our 7 month relationship.

We spend another 45 minutes, smoking the cigarette. Once i finish that, i pull out my vape and hit that. Eshaan tells me that from everything i have told him, i should pull the trigger. It should've been pulled 2 months ago, but as they say better late then never, innit? He says to send the text right then and there. I realize that if i do send the message then, my entire ride home will be bombed with constant calls and messages. I say,"If i send the message right now, it means i am not getting a moment's rest at home. Not only do i need to sleep to get rid of this fuckass cold and cough, but i also need to complete my project due this evening. So i'll just send the message and get to work on the project and see after that whatever happens.

EVENING

I reached home, had lunch, and promptly fell asleep. I wake up and see a text from her asking where am I and why haven't I responded. I close the chat and go make myself coffee. She's at Zumba class probably. I send her the message. "I am breaking up with you." It's 8:30. She doesn't get off class till 9. On the clock it struck 9:06 p.m. and the texts and calls started pouring in. I keep working on the project, and a draft of the final message i will send after i go no contact. At 10:27, i send that message.

------------------------------------------------------

This will be my only message, and my only explanation.

I spent the past two months trying to force this to work, to convince myself that this will pass, but I am done wasting my time now. To keep this relationship alive, I've had to suppress my goals, who i am and I'm not willing to do this anymore. I am done.

My studies, my career, the business, and my own personal time are my priorities. I need a life where i can go to the gym, be busy in work or studies whole day and not feel obligated to check my phone or to reply every half hour. You want a version of that i can no longer sustain to provide, and i need a level of autonomy and independence that you or this relationship clearly can't provide.

I was being held back all this time, and i am deciding to stop. There is no room for discussion, no middle ground to be found, or anything to be bargained or compromises made. I am done choosing this relationship over my life, my career.

I don't want an apology or a promise to change or be understanding. After this you won't hear from me. Do not attempt to reach out.

-------------------------------------------------------

Cold. Corporate. Exactly what i needed to send to avoid the in-person meeting. The final push to prevent getting manipulated. After that, the next two messages i sent her were screen recordings of me deleting our pictures and videos, both normal and intimate from every place i had stored them. At that moment i might've been a villain in her eyes, but I wasn't about to be a monster. After that, the chat went into archive, and so with it did half of my mental burden.

WEDNESDAY

I wake up to no good morning text, nor the obligation to send one. Ironically, today is a good morning because of that. I go through my day as usual, only sick-edition, since clearly vicks isn't working anymore as hard as it used to. Nothing special today, just like every other day, just with a lot more coughing.

THURSDAY

Same as yesterday. Cold is better, able to work more. Cough still persists but improving along with my mental peace.

I open my archived chats on a whim at 11 in the night. Cuz why not. What i do see aside from a bunch of important yet useless groups is 40 unread messages from her. FOURTY. FOUR. ZERO. FOURTY. In the span of two days. I turn off my read receipts, since curiosity got the better of me. I open and see the text ranging from 'bitch hating' to 'emotional blackmail' to 'threats' to 'melodrama'. Every single thing in the book, and she played it. But not amidst all of those stacked up messages did i read a 'sorry'. not once. I close the chat, turn back on read receipts and continue on with my plan to sleep.

FRIDAY

I get more calls. More messages. But, breaking the no contact rule is forbidden. Because i know if i start replying to her vile messages in the same manner, then i will definitely get an FIR registered against me for indecent behavior and attacking the modesty of a woman. I tell about all of this to Eshaan. We both spend the night till 3:30 in the morning talking about it, and i will say that i am ashamed to admit i did partake in bitching about her. But now my mind is clear. I choose to forge a new path ahead of me, one where i'll focus on my studies, my career, and my health and well-being. No more dating spoiled papa ki pari. If i need autonomy, i need a woman who is independent. Only then a relationship would work for me. I am prepared to die single as the cool uncle than marry the wrong woman and regret it for the rest of my life.

fin.

every single time i have had tech issues when he comes over to help i swear that the computer is afraid of him! because whatever problem i had is just fucking gone! like huh?! he came over to help me with my laptop when he turned it on... no beeps! it was just the way i left it with no errors! WHAT?! HOW?!

Salut Jim, ça va ?

Oui, et toi ?

Bof… J’en ai marre de galérer pour de l’argent. Mais je crois avoir trouvé une combine qui peut rapporter gros. J’aimerais ton avis et savoir si tu veux te joindre à moi.

Je t’écoute, Jules.

L’idée est simple et vieille comme le monde : on approche des gens aisés qui ont perdu un être cher, on leur apporte la preuve que leur défunt est toujours "vivant", et on leur promet de tout faire pour les aider à le retrouver… en échange d’une belle somme, bien sûr.

Ouhlala, Jules… J’ai du mal à voir comment tu vas me convaincre sur ce coup-là.

Laisse-moi t’expliquer.

Jules se pencha vers Jim, baissa la voix et poursuivit :

"D’abord, on va dans les maisons de retraite et on enregistre les anciens sous prétexte de créer des archives précieuses pour les générations futures. En parallèle, on monte une association officielle, 'Les Mémoires du Passé'. Ça nous donnera une crédibilité et nous ouvrira la porte aux subventions et aux dons privés. Franchement, qui pourrait refuser un projet aussi noble ?"

Jim hocha la tête.

Je dois avouer que, pour l’instant, ça me semble plutôt honnête. Je signe des deux mains. Mais… où est l’arnaque ?

Attends la suite.

Jules vida son deuxième Ricard avant de continuer, un sourire en coin.

"Mon plan demande du temps… Il faut que nos interviewés meurent et que leurs familles soient en deuil."

Jim fronça les sourcils.

Toujours pas plus clair pour moi.

C’est là que l’intelligence artificielle entre en jeu. Grâce aux enregistrements et aux avancées en clonage vocal, on pourra faire parler les défunts avec leur propre voix… sur des événements survenus après leur mort. Voilà notre preuve : ils ne sont pas réellement partis.

Il planta son regard dans celui de Jim.

Alors, tu en dis quoi ?

Heu… Jim hésita. Je suis d’accord pour la première partie du plan, celle des maisons de retraite et de l’association. Mais pour la suite… Je ne suis pas chaud.

Pourquoi ?

Parce que la mort, ça m’effraie.

Jules prit acte de la réserve de Jim, mais lança tout de même son projet avec enthousiasme.

L'ascension

La municipalité et la population accueillirent l’idée avec enthousiasme. Le projet semblait avoir tout pour plaire : il apportait de la vie aux maisons de retraite, valorisait la mémoire des anciens et impliquait les résidents dans une activité enrichissante.

Les réunions devinrent des moments chaleureux et pleins d’émotion. Jules et Jim, pris au jeu, en venaient presque à oublier la finalité de leur entreprise. L’argent affluait sous forme de dons d’entreprises et de commerçants, remplissant la caisse de l’association comme l’avait prévu Jules.

Le duo vivait confortablement, partageant leur temps entre la gestion du projet et la belle vie : fêtes, bons repas entre amis… Comme au bon vieux temps.

Et, pendant ce temps-là, quelques anciens s’éteignaient.

Le grand saut

Deux ans plus tard, Jules estima qu’il était temps de passer à la phase 2 : mettre en route son escroquerie.

Jim refusa de le suivre sur cette voie, mais accepta de continuer à gérer l’association et les enregistrements. Jules n’insista pas. Il savait que cette partie du plan ne pouvait se mener qu’en solo.

Il se lança donc seul, se rêvant pionnier d’une toute nouvelle profession. Il aborda les veuves comme un représentant de commerce, leur présentant avec soin son "miracle".

Et les réactions furent… inattendues.

Toutes, ou presque, eurent la même réponse. Elles étaient émerveillées, troublées, parfois émues aux larmes en entendant la voix de leur défunt mari. Elles remerciaient Jules et la science pour ce prodige. Mais quand il leur proposait d’aller plus loin, de "retrouver" leur bien-aimé ou de communiquer avec lui… Elles refusaient, d’un ton sans appel.

"Les morts avec les morts."

Jules n’avait pas prévu ça.

Épilogue

Dépité, il comprit rapidement que son business ne décollerait pas. Il réduisit ses interventions et retourna auprès de Jim, reprenant la gestion des enregistrements et de l’association.

Là où il espérait une arnaque juteuse, il trouva finalement une activité honnête, saluée par tous.

Et, au fond, il se surprit à s’y plaire.

Morale

"On peut exploiter la technologie pour manipuler les émotions, mais on ne peut pas contrôler les réactions humaines. Certaines vérités doivent rester du domaine du mystère."

Every day, I looked in the mirror. And what did I see? An ugly, and let's be honest fat kid. I was done, but just kept saying one more day! One more day! I went up to my bed and opened up TikTok. I scrolled on this sad video, and it had this song. By XXXTentacion, or whatever his name is. It was called Everybody Dies In Their Nightmares. For most, this was just a normal song. But for me, this changed something in me. I felt more powerful, driven, and with every "Don't go to sleep" I felt more anger and rage building up for staying the same this long. Right then, I laced up an old pair of Ons, and ran outside. The miles burnt like hell opened up. But that song kept playing over and over in my head. I couldn't stop. It became like that every day, morning after morning, running and running until I finally became what I wanted to be. Every small amount of growth in the mirror pushed me even more, and I pushed harder. Healthy meals, new gym membership, new haircut, new cologne, more work ethic, etc.
But after all this. I got the invite. The family reunion. I thought for a moment. Then accepted. Little did I know this would be the worst reunion of my life.
I walk in, and let's say everyone stopped talking. Extremely surprised. They said, "Wow! You look way different!" And I did. Fast forward, they make comments about how I am "not all that" and "to be off my high horse" as I sit there silentelu.
Whatever, I thought.
We all go on a pontoon over the Maumee River. The city lights look heavenly. My brother orders a local pizza from The Stubborn Brother Pizza Bar in Toledo, picks it up, and gets on the boat with it. We ride for a while, chat, and then he opens it and says, "Pizza! Come get it!"
Everyone flocks over to get it. I feel a pang of temptation, but I think of all my progress. I say no. I can't.
Everyone gives me a weird look and goes back to eating. I sit on the side of that boat and just watch the city. As I stare, the family one by one stops eating the heavily greasy pizza out of pure guilt.
We drive back. But as I think of those city lights, I think of the progress. And as X would say, Everyone Dies In Their Nightmares, but for me, it was the old version of me who did.

This is incredibly difficult for me to talk about. I feel, I don’t know, ashamed, I guess. Like I’ve somehow failed as a parent. When I was growing up, I thought my parents hated me.

I never wanted that for my daughter. I wanted her to know how much I loved her. That my love was unconditional.

I’ve never felt as proud as I did the day she came into this world. It was almost like looking into a mirror. She had my eyes. My ears. Our noses were practically identical. And her smile, God, it was like nothing else mattered in the entire world.

I wanted her to have that same pride in herself. I never wanted her to ever feel any self-hatred. That’s another thing my parents made me feel. I didn’t get their pride. I didn’t get their love. I got cold stares. I got nights where I couldn’t sleep because Mom’s cries were so loud.

I didn’t ask for my family. I didn’t ask to be assigned to them. They were supposed to accept me, and they failed, miserably.

I guess the universe has a strange sense of humor because now, it’s like my daughter can’t accept herself.

She doesn’t hunt with me anymore. She tries to suppress her urge. She doesn’t do the cute little growl she used to do as a baby. I bet it’s 10 times as impactful now, but I wouldn’t know because she just refuses to practice.

She won’t even climb trees anymore. She’d rather hide out at home. Curled up in the dark, pouting to herself.

Of course, I try and comfort her, try and make her realize she should be proud of who she is, but she just rejects me. It seems like that’s all life is for me. Rejection from the people who are supposed to love me.

She tells me I “wouldn’t get it,” whatever the hell that means.

She hates her skin, so she tries to cover it up. She hates her teeth, so she refuses to smile. She even wears beanies that she stole from humans to cover her pointy ears.

That’s something I guess I can respect. At least she’s causing harm to them, even if it’s just with something as simple as stealing. I just wish she’d steal something useful like meat rather than clothes and makeup.

That’s something I never quite understood. Makeup clearly makes shedding more difficult. Why would you want life to be harder than it already is? I mean, we already have to hide out in the woods.

I guess that’s not my place, though.

It’s starting to get more concerning, however. It was already hard to watch her cry because she felt different. Now I have to watch her quite literally alter herself to fit into “social norms,” as she calls it.

She’s already filed down her fangs. When she does hunt, all she has now are her claws, and those are much easier to get rid of than teeth.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not with the times. All I know is that I want her to be happy in the body she was given.

There are no female specimens left for her to look up to, and I’m just an old, out-of-touch Dad, apparently.

I hope this matter resolves itself. I’ll keep doing my best to get her to see that they’re the monsters, not us.

Until then, I’ll just keep reminiscing on the simpler times. I kept her shell, and these days, that seems to be the only thing that brings me peace.

Well, that and hunting humans.

So when a few weeks ago my dumb ass friend was playing on my computer because I let him.Well things went wrong quickly,I had my Openseas log open AND I THINK this dude was spying on my nft wallet because 3 minutes later he started screaming I MESSED UP SOMETHING and when I go to check HE HAD BURNT AN 1000$ NFT I HAD this mf thought burn was some cool shit to increase it's fucking value or something.

(I don't speak native English sorry if bad English)

​

Its a 100 prevent true story. About my crush

​Chapter 1: The New Girl

​Back in 6th grade when I was 13, I found myself in a room surrounded entirely by girls. Being the only boy, I became an easy target for endless teasing and poking. Then one day, a new girl joined the class. Unlike the others, she never poked or bothered me.

​Five days after our teacher's introductory class, I realized I had completely missed his name because I wasn't paying attention. I turned to her and asked a pretty dumb question: "What's the teacher's name again?" She burst out laughing, showing the cutest smile. At the time, I didn't have a crush on her—my heart was set on someone else. But that moment stayed with me.

​Chapter 2: The Unspoken Regret

​When the course ended and I moved on to the next grade at age 14, something shifted. I suddenly realized that I actually loved her. But it felt too late—she was gone, and I was left with nothing but regret, wishing I had realized my feelings sooner.

​Chapter 3: An Unexpected Reunion

​Midway through the year, I joined a new math coaching class. I had been attending coaching since the start of the year without any sign of her, so I never imagined our paths would cross again. But luck was on my side.

​When I walked in, she was just as surprised to see me as I was to see her. Best of all, the class was tiny—just her, me, and one loud, disturbing guy. That year ended up being pure fun and easygoing, filled with non-stop laughter and great conversations between us. And she used to tell me that a girl in our previous coaching was my best friend (almost 3 times).i said no.(maybe she was jealous🫠)

​Chapter 4: The Heroic Rescue & Chaos

​Toward the end of the year, rumors spread that our teacher had landed a government job, meaning this might be our last batch together. The annoying guy in our class kept pushing me: "You have to propose to her today!" I kept saying no. Desperate to make something happen, he brought in a few seniors on our exam day.

​Before I knew it, the seniors walked right up to her and confessed everything on my behalf. My heart instantly dropped—I was terrified because her parents were strict, like most wealthy families. In a panic, I started using chaotic sign language across the room, trying to convince her they were crazy and lying. She signed right back at me, though I had zero clue what she was trying to say. It was absolute comedy in the middle of a tense moment.

​Earlier that same exam morning, I had arrived first. When she walked in smiling, she spotted a cat in the room. Knowing she had a huge cat phobia, I immediately stepped in, chased the cat out, and pulled off a total heroic moment.

​When the exam finally ended and everyone left, it was just the two of us. I nervously asked her, "Did you mind what they said?" She looked at me, smiled, and softly replied, "No."

​Chapter 5: Eyes Only for You

​By the time I turned 15 the following year, I was convinced she wouldn't return to the same coaching center. But to my complete shock, she did.

​This time, my school friends were in the same class, and the teasing was relentless both at school and during coaching. But my friends also played detective for me. They noticed things I was too nervous to see:

​The Look: They told me she looked at me differently than anyone else, often catching her stealing glances at me when I wasn't looking.

​The Last Glance: One afternoon, while she was riding away in a vehicle, my friends caught her staring back at me for as long as she possibly could until she was out of sight.

​The Pens: Whenever I needed a spare pen, she was the very first to offer. She’d hand over her absolute best pen without a single second of hesitation.

​And through all the sweet moments and lingering looks, I still couldn't resist playfully scaring her with pretend cat warnings every now and then.

One day, Peter came running toward our house, out of breath, knocking urgently on the door.

I opened it, and he sat down on the ground, trying to catch his breath. Then he said in a broken voice:

"The Sam family... has returned."

I froze in place and turned toward my grandparents.

Mark the annoying boy had returned.

Truthfully... I felt happy. At least something would happen to break the monotony of my days. The memories of our childhood were still deeply planted in my mind, even after all those years.

My grandmother said:

"We should go visit them. I will bake them a cherry cake. Mark loves it so much."

I went upstairs to my room, put on my orange dress, and fixed my hair. Then we set off in the carriage my grandfather was driving, while memories of my childhood crowded my mind throughout the journey.

Before we arrived, my grandmother turned to me and said in a firm voice:

"Please... you are no longer a child. You are now a twenty-year-old young woman, so try to be calm."

I smiled and replied:

"Yes, ma'am."

The moment the door opened, I stood there amazed.

The house was no longer the same one I remembered. Everything inside was shining—the polished wooden floors, the crystal chandeliers, the elegant wallpaper... I felt as though I had stepped into another world.

Mr. Sam and his wife welcomed us warmly.

After a few moments, a tall young man entered, broad-shouldered and elegantly dressed.

I jumped from my seat without realizing it.

I began walking around him, staring at him in disbelief.

"Oh my God... Mark! How did you change like this?! You became handsome! Look at your muscles! Your hair... even your eyes look different! And where are your glasses?"

My questions poured out endlessly, while he simply looked at me in silence.

Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me say:

"Hello... Orange."

I turned around quickly.

And there stood the real Mark... with his glasses, his thin frame, and the same annoying smile that had never changed.

I looked between the two of them and whispered:

"Mark... then who is this?"

Mr. Sam laughed, placed his hand on the shoulder of the handsome young man, and said:

"This is James... my nephew."

I wished the ground would open and swallow me from embarrassment.

James smiled calmly and said:

"It's alright."

As for Mark, he walked toward me, pulled my braid just like he used to do in our childhood, and said with a laugh:

"See you later... Orange."

Everyone burst into laughter.

But I looked at my grandmother, and from the look in her eyes, I felt as if a fire was burning inside them from the intensity of her anger..🥀S

Sarah ✏️

Chapter 13 — Blood

Sunday.

The shop opened at eight.

I was there at seven fifty, glasses on, keys in hand, the shutter going up with its usual reluctant noise. The morning was cool and specific — the kind of Sunday morning that knew what it was and wasn't pretending to be anything else. Empty street. Distant traffic. The tea stall across the road not yet open.

I went in and started the opening routine.

The medicine was in my bag.

I knew it was in my bag. The tablet strip and the two small bottles of drops were tucked into the front pocket where I had put them so I wouldn't forget. Sunday morning dose — one tablet, one drop each eye.

A customer knocked on the shutter before I had finished the opening check.

I let them in. Prescription, straightforward, two minutes. Then another customer behind them, and then the newbies arrived in a cluster at eight fifteen with their usual morning energy, and then Boss called with a supplier question that took ten minutes to resolve, and then the morning was simply happening the way mornings happened and the bag was on the shelf behind the counter and the medicine was in it and I had not taken it.

By the time I remembered it was eleven.

I looked at the bag.

Looked at the customer approaching the counter.

Later, I thought.

---

The newbies noticed the glasses at around nine.

"Boss," said the one nearest the door, whose name was Arjun and who had the specific quality of someone who noticed everything and felt compelled to comment on most of it. "Are those glasses."

"Yes," I said.

"Since when."

"Recently."

"Do you have bad eyes."

"Temporarily."

"How temporary."

"Arjun," I said. "The cold medicine display needs restocking."

Arjun looked at the cold medicine display, which did not obviously need restocking, then back at me with the expression of someone who understood he was being redirected and had decided to accept it for now.

He went to restock the cold medicine display.

The other newbie, Priya — quieter, sharper — waited until Arjun was gone and then said, without looking up from the inventory sheet, "Eye strain?"

"Yes," I said.

"From studying?"

"Among other things."

She nodded and went back to the inventory sheet. No further questions. I had always appreciated that about her.

---

The group chat was active through the afternoon.

Takashi: ran through the mountain section four times. pretty solid now.

Hana: I've reviewed the document again. everything is in order.

Reo: — an audio message, forty seconds long.

I played it between customers, one earbud in, the shop noise around me.

It was Reo running the presentation. Not the mutter, not the corridor rehearsal — properly, the volume and pacing of someone addressing a room. He got one transition slightly fast but caught the rhythm before it became a problem. The plains section, which had started as a YouTube documentary and a wall of words, came out of his mouth as something coherent and even interesting.

I typed into the group.

Mikey: Reo that was genuinely good.

Reo: I know

Reo: I've been telling you

Takashi: he's been practicing since yesterday

Reo: I practice when it matters

Hana: it matters tomorrow

Reo: exactly

Emma's message came through at four.

Emma: everyone ready?

Takashi: ready

Hana: ready

Reo: born ready

I was mid-prescription when the message arrived. I finished the prescription, handed it across, waited for the customer to leave.

Mikey: ready. get some rest tonight everyone. tomorrow will be fine.

Emma: okay. good luck everyone.

Reo: we don't need luck we have mikey

Mikey: you need both

Reo: fair

---

The shop closed at eight.

I did the closing routine — floor check, register, locks, shutter. The street outside had gone from Sunday afternoon to Sunday evening in the way streets did, the light lower, the tea stall doing its last business of the day.

I picked up my bag.

The medicine was still in the front pocket.

I stood there for a moment in the closed shop, the shutter half down, the evening coming in from the street.

Tomorrow, I thought. I'll do both doses tomorrow morning and it'll be fine.

I went home.

My mother had food on the stove. I ate. She asked about school and I told her the presentation was tomorrow and she said good, you've been working hard. I said yes. She said sleep early tonight. I said yes.

I went to the study room. Opened the project folder. Went through the structure once in my head — Emma and Hana opening, me and Takashi on the details, Reo closing. Clean. Logical. We had practiced enough that the shape of it was automatic.

I closed the folder.

Looked at the bag.

Tomorrow, I thought again.

I set an alarm for six and went to sleep.

For the first time in two weeks, I was asleep before midnight.

---

Monday.

The alarm went off at six.

I got up, showered, ate the breakfast my mother had left covered on the counter. Put on the school clothes. Checked the project folder one more time — not because anything had changed overnight but because checking was its own kind of preparation.

Picked up the bag.

The medicine was in the front pocket.

I was halfway to the door when my mother called from the other room asking if I wanted her to pack something extra for lunch since it was a big day. I said yes. She said give me two minutes. I waited at the door with my bag over one shoulder, checking the time, thinking about the presentation order, thinking about whether Reo had slept properly, thinking about whether the sketches had survived being in the folder or whether I should have used a harder backing.

My mother came out with the extra lunch.

I took it. Said thank you. Left.

The medicine was in the front pocket of the bag that was now on my back as I walked to school.

I didn't think about it once.

---

The morning had the specific quality of a day that knew it was going to be significant.

Or maybe that was just me.

The group was already assembled when I reached the classroom — all four of them, which never happened, which meant they had all left home earlier than usual without coordinating it. Takashi was reviewing his notes with the focused expression of a man who had taken the mountain section personally. Hana had the document out, reading it one final time with the calm of someone who had prepared thoroughly and knew it. Reo was standing near the window, lips moving slightly, the presentation running its quiet internal loop.

Emma was sitting at the desk with her bag in her lap, not reviewing anything, just present. She looked up when I came in.

"You're late," she said.

"I'm exactly on time," I said.

"We were all early," she said. "So you're late."

I sat down. Reo came over, dropped into his seat, and said, "Ready?"

"Ready."

That was the whole conversation because there was nothing else that needed saying.

---

Mr. Kenji took attendance. Classes happened. I was present for them in the technical sense — I wrote things down, I answered when asked, I kept my eyes open. The presentation ran its loop in the background, the shape of it automatic by now, not something I had to think about so much as something that was simply there, available.

My eyes were fine.

Slightly dry, maybe. The kind of dry that came from classroom air and not enough water and being on the edge of concentration for several hours. Manageable. I blinked. Filed it away.

---

Lunch.

The group gathered with the particular energy of people who had been waiting all day for a specific thing and were now an hour away from it. Lunch boxes open, the conversation moving the way it did when everyone was comfortable — Takashi making a comment about someone else's presentation in the morning session, Reo providing commentary, Hana saying something that made Emma cover a laugh with her hand.

I was eating and listening and feeling, for the first time in several weeks, that the specific weight of the project was almost gone. One hour. One presentation. And then it was done and we had done it well and that would be that.

Reo said something about Takashi. Takashi responded. The response escalated. Reo escalated back. I was laughing — actually laughing, the kind that arrives without permission, the kind that had been less frequent lately than it should have been.

Reo turned to me. "You, settle this. Who do you think—"

He stopped.

I was still laughing. I registered that he had stopped mid-sentence and I registered the expression on his face and I registered that Emma's expression had changed and Hana's and Takashi's and I thought — stop messing with me, what's behind me, why is everyone—

I wiped my eyes.

One hand came away wet.

The other came away red.

I looked at both hands.

The laughing stopped.

---

The washroom.

Reo had me up and moving before I had fully processed what was happening — hand on my arm, pulling, the classroom door, the corridor, the washroom at the end of the hall. Takashi somewhere behind us. The door swinging open, the tap, cold water, the handkerchief.

I pressed it against the eye and looked at the mirror.

Reo was standing beside me. Not speaking. The not-speaking was worse than the speaking would have been.

"It'll stop," I said. "Ten minutes."

"Mikey." His voice was quiet. Controlled in the way of someone who had decided to be controlled because the alternative was not useful. "When did you last take the medicine."

I looked at the mirror.

"Mikey."

"Friday," I said.

The silence that followed had a specific quality.

"Friday," Reo said.

"I forgot Saturday. And Sunday. And this morning."

Another silence.

"You forgot," he said.

"I was busy," I said. "The shift on Sunday and then the presentation and I just—"

"You forgot," he said again. Not a question. Not accusation. Just the word, sitting there, doing its work.

"Yes," I said.

Reo put both hands on the edge of the sink. Looked at the mirror. In it I could see his jaw working slightly, the specific movement of someone choosing words carefully because the first available words were not the right ones.

"You do this," he said finally. "You carry everything. You manage everything. You make sure everyone else is fine and then you forget to be fine yourself." He looked at the mirror. "I'm not angry. I need you to know that. I'm not angry."

"You seem angry," I said.

"I'm worried," he said. "There's a difference. And you would know that if you ever let anyone worry about you properly instead of hiding things in your bag."

I looked at the handkerchief.

The bleeding was slowing. Eight minutes, maybe. It would stop.

"There are five minutes until lunch ends," I said.

"I know."

"The presentation—"

"I know," he said. "We'll go. We'll do it." He straightened up. "But you're going to stand here for five minutes and you're going to let this stop properly and you're not going to walk back in there smiling like nothing happened. Not to me. You don't have to do that with me."

I looked at the mirror.

He was right.

I had been about to do exactly that.

"Okay," I said.

---

We stood there in the quiet washroom, the tap still running, the sounds of the school outside the door, and I let five minutes be five minutes without trying to manage them into something else.

"Go," I said after a moment. "Tell them to start setting up. I'll be there."

Reo looked at me.

"I'll be there," I said again. "I just need to clean up. Five minutes. Go."

He went.

I rinsed my face. Folded the handkerchief. Looked at myself in the mirror for a moment — red eye, tired face, the glasses slightly crooked from where I had pulled them off at the sink.

I straightened the glasses.

Took a breath.

And walked out.

Emma and Hana were in the corridor. Emma looked at me and I gave her the thumbs up and she looked at me with the expression that said she was going to have things to say about this later and she turned and went toward the classroom. Hana followed.

I stood in the corridor for a moment....

Goodbye, My Dream

The train was rushing through the night.

Suddenly, a tiny cat's face appeared from a young woman's travel bag. The kitten looked around at the passengers with curiosity.

An elderly man smiled.

— May I tell you a story? — he asked.

The carriage became quiet.

— When I was a boy, there was a young milkmaid in our village. She was tall, strong, and beautiful. To me, she was the most wonderful person in the world.

I had a childlike love for her.

But my dream was a very unusual one.

I wanted to become a little kitten.

I imagined that one day she would find me, pick me up, hold me close, stroke me, feed me milk, and never let me go.

I felt that beside her there was no fear and no loneliness. There was only warmth, kindness, and happiness.

One day, our milkmaid finished secondary school. The collective farm sent her to study at an agricultural institute in Dushanbe.

I heard this news from my mother, who worked with her on the farm.

That whole evening I wandered around as if I had lost something precious.

At night I could not fall asleep.

It seemed to me that together with her, everything bright and beautiful from my childhood was leaving our village.

Hiding my face under the blanket, I cried silently.

Only before dawn did I finally fall asleep.

And I had a wonderful dream.

I dreamed that I had turned into a little kitten, and she decided to take me with her to Dushanbe.

We arrived at the airport.

During the baggage check, an airport employee suddenly noticed me.

— A kitten cannot travel without a special health certificate, — she said.

My milkmaid looked first at me, then at the employee.

— He is very gentle. Look how small he is...

The woman smiled.

Then she bent down, gently stroked my head, and whispered:

— All right. But keep him hidden under your coat collar so nobody gets frightened.

She carefully held me close.

I could hear her heartbeat.

And so we walked up the airplane stairs together.

When the plane took off, it seemed to me that my happiest childhood dream had taken flight with it.

...

Decades passed.

I lived a long life.

I saw many people, cities, and countries.

But sometimes I think that the happiest dreams are born only in childhood. Later, a person grows up, becomes serious, begins counting money, positions, and years... And childhood dreams quietly disappear.

The storyteller fell silent.

The train continued to rumble along the rails.

The kitten poked its head out of the bag again and looked carefully at the old man.

The old man smiled.

He slowly raised his hand and quietly said:

— Goodbye, my dream...

No one in the carriage said a word.

Everyone was thinking about their own childhood.

And the train continued rushing through the night, carrying passengers toward new roads and old memories.

I’m collecting real-life stories for a book about strange, creepy, and unexplained experiences.
If you’re comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear your story.
By posting your story here, you’re giving me permission to feature it in my book and future content. I’ll keep it anonymous unless you specifically ask to be credited.
Please share only true experiences, and include as much detail as you can. Any kind of strange, creepy, paranormal, or unexplained event is welcome.

​

I loved a man... whose very presence was enough to make my heart restless.

I loved a man... every time I saw him walking toward me, I hid my scattered glances among the faces around us, afraid my eyes would betray what my heart could not.

I loved a man... after a long, exhausting day at work, he would cross my mind as I lay in bed, and somehow, he would make me smile.

I loved a man... whose sky-blue shirt could brighten my entire day.

I loved a man... his eyes, his hair, even the veins on his hands.

I loved a man... who called me "my lady." Though I belonged to no one, those words never angered me. Instead, they quietly found a place in my heart.

I loved a man... every time he came to collect his order, I served him with every kindness and every silent piece of love I had, though he never knew.

I loved a man... and I wish I never see him again.

I loved a man... and I wish he had never walked through that door.

I loved a man... and I wish that the very moment my eyes met his, the moment my heart trembled for the first time, had been erased from my life.

I loved a man... who has a wife and a beautiful child.

I loved a man... who never saw me as anything more than a restaurant employee.

I loved a man... and in my eyes, he was the finest man on earth.

I loved a man... and I fell into the trap of a trembling heart.

I loved a man... who made me leave everything behind—my future, my life—and return to my mother's home, because I knew that if I stayed, I would destroy whatever remained of me.

And here I am, in a new city, beginning again... with a heart wrapped in barbed wire, so it will never rush toward someone it can never have.

I loved a man... who destroyed my life without ever meaning to.

The fault was mine... and the heart was mine.

For no one has power over where the heart chooses to belong.s🥀

Sarah ✏️

A turneqet and such maternal care
The chair and a neat little trashcan
Taken from a clean powder room
I had a view of the green backyard

She must have been 55 or so
Diana with a cancer bleeding her
I can remember pink
Maybe the pills she sold to B to make the universal poverty easier

Or maybe her energy of womanhood tells me that in my memory

She fed my needle crackle and to be honest
It didn’t do much
And maybe she knew that
Loving and lying to protect me and give my fist of bills to herself as profit

B next to me with dark face tattoos and scarification
Such a stark contrast to the woman
Weathered arms and veins and stiff fingers
A dishonest boy who tried to be fine

He wasn’t
He called for help so I didn’t have to see him swinging in the back forest once
But cruel because he could
And sometimes because he had to

Ernest Tubb’s son idling a house away

He was drinking and probably thinking of nothing

It's been awhile since I've even thought about this at all but I needed to get on here to share my story as hopefully some precautionary tale and entertainment. In the spring I was hanging out at my "friends" neighbors whom she was close to and one of these roomates; we'll call her "Allison" started hooking up with "Zack" (a junior in uni whose sadly also in a frat). After this "Allison" talked about how 'obsessed' she was with but she was hooking up with several different guys while being "head over heels" for Zach.

Soon Allison was left on delivered too long and freaked the fuck out talking out how she was gonna beat the fuck out of Zach and everyone need to come with her to beat him up. Me not close with any but one instantly says hell no I don't even attempt to fight 6"0 men (i'm on the shorter side or I would) while the one "friend" I'm close with we'll call her Sammy nods her head and goes along with Allison's impulsive notion, in the end they ended up not going whichI found out later bc I left back to my dorm shortly after, trying to avoid that charade.

The next day I found outher SUITE-MATE began talking to Zach that night, and very soon after fucking. Amongst this MY "FRIEND" Sammy also adds Zach and begins talking to him (during this the suitemate and Zach fizzle out and stop hooking up) and obviously hooking up with him. The first time she's invited over to yk she ends up staying for 3 days straight because she liked the alone time in his apartment while he was gone to classes (no she wasn't attending any of her classes except the first week of both semester). He would text me and my girl (her roomate) Clare during these first few days to please come visit and try and get her back to her own dorm. After the first time Zach told me to come over anytime and I was cool, getting the feeling he liked me I said he's like a brother trying to reinforce myself not to like this f*ckboy.

After visiting several times she insisted on staying and she'll just stay till he kicks her out. He finally kicks her out in three days time and tries going back there whenever she can, mind you during Zach and Sammy's fling she was fucking other guys including her ex bf who she would constantly talk about how much she was still in love. Her and Zach continue the routine of her staying there till he kicks her out (he was out most the time with school, frat events, and going out) still non-exclusive.

I see Zack at the bars one day and go up to him asking him how he's was ( Sammy told me the first time Zach met me he said he liked me and she's invited over any time) the foolish girl I was 18 & naive saw a guy giving her attention and figure out what's going on between them like the idiot she was. I soon after add him on social media to test if he's into (news flash he's sadly was) a couple days late on a fun Friday night with my friends and some of there hometown folks we went out and got.. pretty smashed as the last thing I remember was leaving the establishment texting Zach what bar he was at and blank.

I woke up in someone's bed quite unfamiliar to myself being eaten out by Zach. Obviously having a liking towards him I didn't want to think the worst as I'm a victim of csa and cocsa. Soon my MA calls me asking where I'm at (she's visiting me for the day), while Zach is still below my belt; and I try to rush home while he continues to try and fuck me for the next 15 minutes while I insist on leaving. A day later I text back Zach embarrassed about blacking out the night before and "falling?"; I woke up completely bruised on my arms and legs. We meet up the next day and Zach tells me embarrassing details of the night two days before, one being I fell and bruised my body (I'm clumsy so I believed it). During this my location was on and Sammy begins blowing up my phone talking the most criminal shit about my ptsd, family, and how I was always out to get her?

Oh and that the dorm is off limits (meaning I can't see my girl Clare her roomie) feeling sick to my stomach after she brought up all my triggers then twisting the knife I felt extremly nauseas and sick about to have a panic attack and tell Zach I need to leave. He repeatedly convinces me to stay saying he can get me a drink and we'll smoke + hangout. I drank, smoked, and asked him if he wanted to take the addy that was meant for the night out.

He said no but I could take it and so I did, wanting to feel anything but the pain and sickness in my stomach, heart, and head I shortly did after. After this i go manic... ranting about the whole entire bs situation with Sammy and how she just now told me she "loved Zach" after she saw my location at his (as best friends I told her everything and obv she didn't share that same courtesy. Amidst this Zach asks me to be his girlfriend in my un-medicated bird freaking brain I say yes bc I crave love which comes from relationships even if I know they aren't worthy of me.

it's hard to admit 2 hours I ranted and talked with Zach in his bed when he finally just got up and insisted we take the shrooms, however I want to get a new pen while checking my guy Zach sees guys story about shrooms and he says we should get more, I saw yes and he talks me into asking guy for 14 g of mushrooms to the order.

We walk over there me obv f*cked up as hell from the night I had and he makes me pay for the entirety of the mushrooms... Every-time we kiss it feels weird and my stomach is filled with ache and bile rising In my throat where I have to stop kissing him every few seconds so I don't vomit. He continues trying to fuck me but I just can't and I feel sick to my stomach seconds from vomiting just from being near him.

He gives me more alcohol to help and eventually gets me to f*ck while I hold my breath and try to just breathe and as I'm about to puke the entire time (so I just swallow the bile) I don't remember the next few days much other than hangout out with my girls and going out while Zach would proclaim he needed to see me out and once I was he was either unreachable or back home/or the frat. days later I notice that my nether region are swollen, red, and have bumps. However I just chalked it down to ugh I can't believe I'm saying this Zach's size. Finally one night my friend sees him out with another girl.. and once we come up to him he says he's just wing manning for his friend/frat boy (I'm not that dull however off the meds isn't my best look and I lead with my emotions).

Obv I'm not that slow and knew he was trying to hook up with that girl or he has before but I wasn't sweating it because he's a frat boy. My friends are pissed even though I told them not to be bc I don't expect that much from him. He catches there attitude and one of them leaves; so remains my girly Gina and I with Zach out at night.

Zach is getting absolutely smashed and I keep saying to not buy any drink after he bought me and Gina one but he just keeps on going. Soon he's nearing blacked out and I'm holding onto him while he starts making out with me in different places INFRONT of everybody grabbing my hair extremely tight as if he wants to rip my hair out. Eventually Gina finds a guy and I tell Zach we should go home now that Gina will be with her guy tonight (so he can't make anymore excuses to stay out). He starts going on about how he wants me to meet his friends and there we go onto the next place with a f*ck ton more drinks as I'm trying to tell him to cool on the cup without him getting loud in public, infront of his friends and peers.

Eventually completely blacked out I a 18 yr 5"1 girl help support and carry the 20 yr 6"2 man out the bar back home. When he wasn't to get some food. Still worried for his wellbeing I think maybe food will help him so we go there and that's when he becomes complete deadweight, we ordered the food and he passed out. I got the food out tried taking us home but I couldn't support his weight and we were .9 miles from my own dorm and 1.1 miles from his place. I tell him to come to the alley so I can get him to puke and sober up. He just falls asleep on me and I try getting him forward to puke, as I've done with friends I put two fingers down his throat to activate that reflex and upchuck.

But I soon find out the bitch doesn't have a gag reflex. So he bites hard on my hand causing it to go numb for three months👍 my reminder to never help someone like when they're blacked out. I wait an hour and deadass bro won't move he's barely breathing with a thready pulse, by this time I've yelled at him saying his name, pinching him, tapping his cheeks. ( I'm still also very drunk at this point ).

I began to worry as more time passes and more people ask if I need help and I run out of luck. Soon another couple walks down the alley seeing me and the deadweight resting at my feet. Just my luck the guy of the couple is an icu nurse at Cleveland clinic and begins administered the same test I did with the addition of plugging him nose so his mouth will open breath (it didn't.) after 15 minutes he calls 911 and the police come.

Not thinking about his fake ids and only on his health I didn't think to check his wallet and hide them in my bag. The police come with a ambulance and finally manage to wake him with a bright light and in distress they asked me who he was and where his wallet was and I said idk maybe his pockets, and there is where they find TWO fake ids and a real id asking me who the name is on the cards and me having no idea he even had someone else I said I don't know this person and said I only know home by Zack blank.

They then take him in the bus telling me they're going to the hospital. I uber to the hospital they told me he'd be at and waited realizing he wasn't coming after asking the receptionist for incoming patients with this name. I see his location the local police department and try to uber back knowing 12 lied to me.

No Ubers were to be found and I had to walk 2.7 miles to the police department to pick him and idek figure it out. I make it literally just in time to his other friend alongside his girlfriend walking him out the department with a slip of paper detailing his charges. I run up to them and say I've been looking for you everyone and explain how the cops lied about where he'd be transferred to. Instead he got extremely pissed at me, the cops, blaming me every step of the way of the night saying I made him go out.

WHEN he was the one asking me to go out with him then bailing on me again, when I randomly saw him at the clurb with MY friends trying to get him out the whole night and back home even if it's without me. We get close to his place (no he hasn't shut his mouth about how I'm to blame and to get tf away from him and blah blah blah my fault my fault my fault) when he realizes he doesn't have his keys, (they're back at his friends place 2 miles away) so me feeling guilty when I now realize i had no reason to be want to help and and say he can sleep at mine.

His big ass takes up my extra long twin so I sleep on my floor not before making sure he's alive and snoozing. I wake up and he asks what happens last night and I tell him a shitty tale of what happened last night missing most the details.

From there he tells me this shit is all my fault. That I put him in a f*cked up position and I should've woken him up and taken him home sooner and now he'll face charges and that basically he doesn't want to see me and we need time apart.

The rest of the day I talk with my roomie + her bf about this fucking shitty man and the events of last night (everything I remembered at the time). My roomie tells me I need to get checked for stds bc that man is obv fucking on me and is communal d*ck. The next morning I get checked and receive a text from Zach asking if I have herpes because a girl he fucked says he gave it to her, stupid me I tell him I get cold sores on my mouth but I've never tested postive for hsv 1.

The results come in and I'm negative except herpes which doesn't show anything except "see doctor" I get a call from the md and she informs me I have a slight detection of hsv1 and it could be the cold sores I've gotten around my mouth since I was a little kid. Again Zach is texting asking me if I got checked and I tell him that I'm positive but it doesn't mean I gave it to him because I have used condoms with every guy except my boyfriends which the most recent beside Zach was 2 years ago and he was a virgin when we dated; plus I got treated before freshman and I was clean as a whistle.

He obviously goes off on me for pages worth of iPhone messages calling me a effing b*tch, wh*re, sl*t, evil, cu*t that ruined his life, he's gonna make me pay, he wishes he never met me, he's gonna sue the living daylights out of me for this. OMMMMMMGGGG
I forgot to say the reason he thinks I gave him hsv1 is bc when I was blacked out that fateful friday night apparently we tried doing it in the car and Zach said I offered to give him head and I bit his dick.

BUT COME ON what person in there right mind thinks a barely coherent blacked out girl will give AMAZing head like what the actual f*ck that's just playing with fire. And offerently I tore skin and bc he's effing girls while he has a gf it's gonna get infected not to mention I later found out he never wears protection🤡. In tears I stop texting and just cry bc know I didn't give him this and yet there's no way to convince him I'm not the person to blame.

He keeps calling me and I eventually pick up letting him yell at me and get his feelings out so he can feel better and also so he won't confront me in person. However it gets too much and he begins talking about how I ruined his life and I ruined this girls life when they are 2-3 years older and regularly hookup with a bunch of people, something I don't do or practice. I eventually tell him I need to go sobbing my eyes out from the despicably false things he tried to reenforce into my mind. He later texts after he wasn't gonna sue me. Just threatening me and putting down to lift himself up instead. Anyways my name is

here is my story. I know it sounds unbelievable but this sadly is my life and only a minor part of it. I'm hoping I'll find love even with hsv 1, bc Zach was right my life is ruined and I'll never be the same and while he knows deep inside that the truth is he gave it to me and all these women.We still have blame for getting involved with scumbags who lovebomb and more.. and now I'll continue to use condoms just as I have but now for the rest of my life and with my future husband if my disease doesn't prevent me from it.

Which Way the Neck Turned

There was a time when I thought the old proverb sounded rather crude:

"The husband is the head, and the wife is the neck. Wherever the neck turns, the head follows."

As the years passed, I came to realize that while the wording may be blunt, its meaning is remarkably true.

Layla's father-in-law became seriously ill. The doctors gave him a terrifying diagnosis—cancer.

Night after night, Layla could not sleep. She was deeply worried. Yet it seemed that what frightened her most was not the disease itself, but the cost of treatment in America, which could amount to hundreds of thousands of dollars.

And then the neck turned.

Her husband, Qodir, the head of the family, said,

"We'll have my father operated on back home."

And that is exactly what they did.

The old man was admitted to an oncology hospital in his homeland. The operation failed to save him. A few days later, he died and was buried there.

Several years passed.

Then Layla's own brother was diagnosed with the same terrible disease. Doctors in his homeland had little hope of saving him.

Once again, the neck turned.

Qodir arranged the invitation papers, brought his brother-in-law to California, and admitted him to a good hospital. He underwent surgery, and contrary to all medical expectations, he not only survived but lived for another ten years.

But the story did not end there.

Year after year, almost all of Layla's relatives immigrated to America. For each of them, there was an invitation, assistance, and support.

Yet not a single one of Qodir's relatives ever came.

Not because he had no brothers, sisters, or nephews.

Not because they did not need help.

But because the neck never turned in the opposite direction.

And the head never looked where no one directed it.

Since then, whenever I hear that old proverb, I no longer smile.

Instead, I think that the happiest family is the one in which the neck is able to turn in both directions—and the head never forgets that justice begins with loving all of one's relatives equally.

It does. Injustice erodes away at communities. It erodes quality of live for entire regions.

It drags every person down. It will keep every good thing in life suppressed and unavailable for anyone to access.

it doesn't just impact one person.

it robs communities of every good thing that person could have done if they were not crushed under the weight of corruption.

Why are things getting worse and worse and worse for everyone?

There are no good people left to stand up for injustice. None.

Cops here ignore child trafficking. The fed looks the other way when it comes to medical fraud that encourages traffciking of children.

Abuse women, children, your role in authority? No one cares. What does that lead to?

The schools are underfunded, teachers lack any qualifications they legally should have to handle special needs kids, they have no resources they are legally required to have.

The mental health clinic? Well they will induce mental health episodes in clients so they have to call the emergency number and they can cash those extra after hours checks.

Whose going to correct them or stop them? Women are barely surviving trying to process abuse, kids are not getting any support for their trauma induced behavioral issues, and corrupt officals are indulging in the towns suffering.

Injustices pile up. The rot they bring festers. it spreads. it infects.

It's a disgusting place to be. In this town.

This town that condones, supports, and encourages people to abuse women and children. Anyone who reports child abuse, abuse against the vulnerable, or fraud is labeled "mentally unwell". While getting zero help for anything, don't even have a person at the house and they will file paperwork saying they were there for fraud schemes the police are helping to protect.

It's no wonder this town also has a growing list of unsolved homicides. Those they can't hide reports of.

The rest of the crime, like i said, if you never take a report, you never have to worry about closing a case.

The message is clear: if you try to get the people hurting you to be held accountable, YOU are the only one to get any consequences.

The agencies I have called outside of this town have also done nothing.

It floors me. how many HUNDREDS of government officials over the past few years actively CHOOSE to toss their oaths out the window and decide that women and children victims are irrelevant and do not deserve any help.

I honestly think the UN should set up locations in all major cities for legal support to sue the government over fraud, refusal to investigate crimes, abuse/discrimination of vulnerable populations - there is presently exactly NOTHING i can do as every institution has thus far utterly failed me.

yes the end all I can say the story has characters like: THE DIRECTOR AND THE WRITER AND THE STORY ok I'm joking but the plot and story is too big so thats it

In Sadiya's neighborhood, an old man was drawing his last breaths. His family members, who had gathered around him, decided to call Sadiya. Sadiya was already aware of these matters, and for many days, she had been keeping her hand pressed against her heart.

​This takes your writing into a much more mysterious and emotional direction. It feels like Sadiya possesses some kind of spiritual awareness or an intuitive gift regarding life and death, given how she already knew what was happening and has been holding her heart.

​"The old man in our neighborhood is about to pass away," Sadiya's mom said. Sadiya was sitting on her bed, looking as though she had just been waiting to hear those words.

​Sadiya arrived at the old man's house and was led to the room where his soul was lingering at the edge of life. "Please leave the room. If possible, go outside the house entirely," Sadiya told them.

​Once they were outside, one of the children asked his mother, "Mom, what is she going to do with Grandpa?"

​The mother couldn't find any words. She knew that in just a few moments, Grandpa would be departing from this world.

​"I know you cannot speak to me," Sadiya said, weeping as she stood by him. "But please forgive me. I don’t even know if this is what you want. But this is a curse that has been forced upon me."

​And then, she began to sing.

​As the melody fell upon the old man's ears, every single memory from his childhood to his old age began to play out clearly in his mind—memories that just moments ago had been clouded by thick fog. As the lyrics of the song flowed deep into him, his soul began to steadily detach from his body. Finally, his life slipped away completely.

​"I killed him," Sadiya muttered to herself as she walked out of the room.

​The family rushed inside. Everyone was drowned in grief, but they found a deep sense of solace knowing that his death had been entirely free of pain.

Like every other day, Sadiya came to her mother and burst into tears. "I took another life today, Mom..."

​Once she calmed down a few moments later, her mother tried to reason with her, explaining that God hadn't given a gift like hers to just anyone.

​"I wanted people to hear my songs, but not like this," Sadiya said.

​"You shouldn't stay sad like this. When you know that you are the only one who can do this, try not to let the grief get to you."

​"How can I not, Mom? When I said I wanted to sing, I never imagined it would turn out like this... and that's why Dad also..." Saying this, Sadiya burst into tears all over again.

Night had fallen, and her mother had gone to sleep, but sleep eluded Sadiya. She remembered her dad—how he would always encourage her to sing, take her to school, and teach her music. And when he was drawing his last breaths on that very bed, he had said, "Call Sadiya."

​Sadiya had arrived by his side, her eyes welling with tears. "Sadiya, I want to hear your song," he whispered. But the moment Sadiya began to sing, the very eyes that were watching her with a smile closed forever.

​From that day on, Sadiya stopped singing. But people began to talk about how Sadiya's song had given her dad a peaceful, comfortable death. Hearing those words, Sadiya started cursing herself from that moment forward. Eventually, whenever someone was on the verge of death in the community, the people would call for Sadiya.

Suddenly, her room felt freezing cold, and with a gust of wind from the window, she sensed a presence. Standing straight before her in the darkness was a figure clad entirely in black clothes.

​She opened her mouth to call out to her mother. "Stay quiet," the man told her.

​"Who are you? Don't come near me!" Sadiya cried, backing away.

​"I won't come near. I just want to talk."

​"Talk about what?"

​"I have been listening to your songs for all these years. I like them very much."

​"That's impossible! Anyone who has ever heard my song didn't survive."

​"I know," the figure replied. "Whenever you sang, I was present right there. You were just unaware of it. The dying person wasn't the only one listening to your song."

​"What... how is that possible?"

​The figure took a step forward. "The two of us are not so different."

​"Who are you?"

​"Death."

​"Death?! Have you come to take me?"

​"No. But I have brought a solution."

​"What kind of solution?"

​"You want people to hear your songs, don't you?"

​"Yes."

​"I can send you to a place that lies between the earth and the sky," Death said. "There are people there who will listen to your music."

​"Is that really possible? But if I go with you, I won't be able to come back, will I?"

​"No, you will return. That is entirely up to you."

​Sadiya thought about her mother, and then she thought about all the deaths she had brought upon so many people. In a hushed, trembling voice, she said, "Take me away from this world."

Sadiya stepped forward toward Death.

​"No!" Death shouted loudly. "Hold onto this!"

​He extended his staff toward her. The moment she grabbed hold of it, Sadiya was pulled along, swept away into the unknown alongside Death.

She arrived all alone in a dark hall. Long, towering walls enclosed the back and sides of the room, while a set of curtains hung up ahead. Massive pillars stood scattered around the space, fitted with yellow lamps that were angled perfectly to focus all their light directly onto the center stage. There wasn't a single sound in the entire place, save for the echo of Sadiya's own breathing.

"Death? Death?!" Sadiya called out, turning around frantically, but Death was nowhere to be seen.

​She noticed a microphone set up on the stage. Perhaps this is for me, she thought. She stepped up onto the stage and began to sing.

​A melancholic sadness filled the air, and Sadiya could hear the faint sound of instruments playing along.

​Sadiya kept singing. The yellow lamps began to flicker violently. Sadiya's own voice echoed back into her ears, but she didn't lose her pitch. She paused right before the chorus, noticing that the music was still playing—it had just grown soft and quiet, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for her to sing again.

​She resumed her song. Suddenly, all the lights went out, and in the pitch darkness, a single beam from a torch illuminated the curtain. As her voice rose again, shadows slowly began to move across the fabric. Shadows of a child chasing butterflies appeared on the curtain. The child grew older with every verse—running became walking, walking became a cane, and finally the figure simply sat beneath a tree, smiling. When the chorus ended, the tree shed its last leaf, and the figure faded into light.

Her song came to an end, all the instruments fell silent, and the yellow lights flared back to life. Tears were streaming down her face, yet a smile graced her lips. Suddenly, applause began to echo through the hall. She saw several hands emerging from between the curtains, clapping for her.

​"And here I was, wondering where everyone was," Sadiya murmured.

​Faces emerged one by one from behind the curtain. Some were old. Some were young. Some leaned on walking sticks. Every face seemed strangely familiar... They were all the people whose final song had been hers. The moment she recognized them, Sadiya ran toward them without a second thought.

​"Please forgive me!" she wept. "You are all here because of me."

​"We have been waiting for you," they replied gently.

​Just then, a man stepped out from behind the group. It was Sadiya’s father.

"Papa!" Sadiya cried, throwing her arms around him. She buried her face against his shoulder. "Please forgive me, Papa... you left this world because of me."

​"That is not true, Sadiya," her father said gently.

"Our deaths were already destined for that exact moment. Because of you, we were able to leave the world in total peace."

​"Yes, that is why we lingered here—just to say thank you," another soul added.

​"We knew you must be carrying an immense weight of guilt," a third whispered.

​"Thank you, Sadiya," everyone said in unison. Slowly, their figures began to blur, dissolving gently into the air until they vanished completely.

​"Dad! Everyone! Where did you go?!" Sadiya cried out into the emptiness.

​"To Heaven," Death's voice echoed. "They refused to move on from this realm without thanking you first. That is why I brought you here."

"Just to thank me?" Sadiya whispered. She closed her eyes and drew a long, trembling breath for what felt like the first time in years. She looked around. "Where were you?" she asked.

​"I had to go and collect the souls of other people," Death replied. "That is my task."

​"Don't you do anything else?"

​"This is my only purpose."

​Sadiya looked closely at Death's face. Until now, it had remained hidden in shadow. Looking at him, she realized there was nothing terrifying about him. Death looked completely human. There was no cruelty in his face—only a beauty so calm that it made Sadiya question why people feared him at all.

​"I want to hold your hand," Sadiya said, taking a step closer to him.

​"No," Death commanded, immediately stepping back.

​"Why?"

​"Just as no living person can survive hearing your song, no one can touch me."

​"But surely I can touch you now?"

​"No. You are still among the living. Your mother is waiting for you."

​"But... will I never see you again?"

​"You will. When the time is right."

​"You told me earlier that we are exactly alike," Sadiya remembered. "Why?"

​"I do not remember when I was born. I exist solely for this duty," Death said softly. "Whomever I tried to extend friendship to, or whomever I drew close to, did not survive."

​"This is a curse," Sadiya said.

"This is my responsibility," Death said.

​Sadiya looked deep into Death’s eyes—eyes that were completely devoid of any emotion, yet carried a profound loneliness. "So, this is goodbye?"

​"Yes." Death extended his staff toward her once again.

​Sadiya looked at it, then smiled warmly. "When you come to take me for real... don't touch me. Because that time, I will be the one to touch you."

​With that, she grabbed the staff.

Sadiya’s mother, who had been holding her daughter's breathless body and weeping, was completely stunned when Sadiya suddenly sat up. "Sadiya!" she cried, pulling her into a tight embrace and sobbing with relief.

​"Everything is fine, Mom," Sadiya comforted her.

​Meanwhile, Death stood entirely alone, gazing out into the vast, empty darkness of the liminal hall. "They left, and now she is gone too," he whispered to himself. "Perhaps being entirely alone in this universe is a destiny reserved only for me."

​Many days passed. Now, when Sadiya sang for the dying, she no longer clutched her heart in painful guilt. Instead, whenever she began to sing, she would feel a familiar, subtle presence in the room. And every single time, she would smile, knowing that somewhere close by in the shadows, Death was listening to her.

Once upon a time, or however these stories are supposed to go, there was a dastardly spirit referred to as The Adversary, or Satan for short.

This mischievous spirit didn’t like humans very much. Having been a crowned prince of Heaven, an ancient guardian over all of creation, and his father's most beautiful prior invention, he felt a little… conflicted. He wasn’t happy seeing those he watched over being promised the kingdom he thought he would inherit.

But then, pride does go to people's heads.

Funnily enough, after being thrown into a hellish lake of fire (see what I did there?), he found himself worshipped more now than before, just with a few extra scorch marks on his sides.

Many foolish people see themselves going to hell, no matter what they do. So, they think, “Hey, if I'm going anyway, why not go with a little style?”

They assume that if they get all snug and cosy with our pretty little devil, then they might get some special treatment when they finally arrive. Except... It doesn’t end up quite as “special” when people have been doing exactly that for more than 100 thousand years.

So where does our protagonist finally show up?

-

One day- (well, days don’t quite exist in hell, but stay with me)- the Devil finally decided to partner up. With so many wives, husbands and everything in between, he chose to create an heir for himself and his kingdom.

Angels and demons cannot reproduce amongst themselves. But being that people can, it has been known for the two to mix. How convenient.

This is where we get Christine – our little “Anti-Christ.”

But as with all good stories, it can't be that easy.

Turns out, the Antichrist doesn’t really… exist. Or at least, not how we interpreted the scripture.

It's mostly just fake “messiahs” trying to turn people away from Christ and towards themselves, sometimes working for the Devil. The typical fake celebrities, controlling the media, and whatnot.

Those in heaven shake in their feathers, waiting for the end of the world and the day the heavenly father calls for Armageddon. They really don't like that she's here.

Hell, especially her father, lather themselves up waiting to see what dastardly deeds she will do… impatiently.

Those on earth dread her very sight, noticing the red glow behind her eyes, petrified they'll wake up with her sharp thangs in their necks. They expect something big.

But her?

Well, like most young adults, she has her own ideas.

-

She has set her sights on one thing: money.

Actually, she is working at a few small part-time jobs.

Firstly, a small chicken shop, a cinema and a bookstore.

So, you might be asking, why did she choose something so wickedly, so horrifically, so terribly… normal?

Well, bringing the “foretold” end of the world turns out to be quite a bit of effort, and she “ain't bout all dat”.

Surprisingly, it's way easier to just tick off everyone, heaven, hell and earth alike! How? By doing nothing and watching anime all day. Why not let them fight it out?

Maximum seething, minimal effort, and plenty of time to eat noodles. All a good day's work.

So how about we see what she's up to?

A small fried chicken shop on the outskirts of the city opens for the lunchtime rush.

“Have you seen the new girl?”

A young woman, on the smaller side, asks her cool “trendy” co-worker, whilst hiding behind the kitchen counter.

“Who, her?” He looks at our red-haired menace with a sly, playful smirk.

-

Christine fixes her little hat, standing at the main counter. She stands tall, now motionless, as stiff as an iron rod. Her eyes have a happy, cutesy expression.

Her face? A wide impish grin spreads ear to ear.

“She's just standing there…”

The man replies, “Well, duh, there's no customers yet.”

A quiet, mousy man hesitantly interrupts, “No… She's right. She is kind of stiff. Like, too stiff.”

“HEY!” He calls out, trying to get her attention.

No reply.

“New girl!” The daring man tries again.

“Max, leave her alone,” the woman says nervously.

Christine's mischievous smile remains still, shining wide in the freshly cleaned glass.

“Hot stuff!”

Christine's haunting face slowly turns towards the group, her body still fixed front and centre.

Max’s half-lit cigarette falls from his bottom lip.

She turns back to the glass.

“You shouldn’t smoke in here!”

Her eyes give an innocent, playful glint, talking through the reflection. Her expression remains just as horrifying.

-

Stacy looks in terror. Her chest tight, heart turning cold.

“The Fuc…”

“Shut up, Ben,” Max says sternly, deflecting his feelings.

Time ticks on. Still, the door remains closed.

Half asleep, head resting on his palms, Max notices someone walk past. “Damn, 3 PM already?”

A strange-looking goth man stands by the door, creepily looking through the window.

“Hey, Stacy! I think ur date is here?” Max jokes.

“Shut up, jerk,” she replies harshly, still hiding away.

The man stays still, staring at Christine from the side.

“Well? Is he going to come in or what?” Max waits impatiently.

The goth man walks in, his eyes fixed on Christine.

He struts to the counter and slams down a bloodied, dead chicken, with barbed wire and bones sticking out.

“Hello >:),” she says, emotionless with her unwavering grin.

“Your dad wants to talk to you,” he states sternly.

“You know we sell those cooked, right?” Christine says.

“HO hoh!” Max bellows a deep laugh. “No way! I have someone perfect for you!”  He smirks back at Stacy.

-

He teases, talking over the whining from behind.

Christine picks up the bloody mess, moving it to the side.

“Ring Ring…” Max jokes, struggling to hide his unease.

The goth man leaves. No orders, no explanation; he walks away as mysteriously as he arrived.

“Okay, WTF was that?” A voice emerges from behind.

Ben walks over, angry and annoyed. He checks the window to see he's actually gone.

He looks at Christine, who is totally unfazed; her expression has yet to change.

Stacy is horrified at the chicken laid on the counter she spends hours scrubbing to perfection every morning.

“Seems the new girl has made a friend,” Max jokes.

“And I thought I was the freak magnet,” he says with a teasing nudge. The others annoyingly huff, looking with a strop on their face, knowing he is talking about them.

Christine takes the chicken from the squealing mess and places it into her rucksack.

The group look on in shock. So much that even Max is brought to show some discomfort for once.

“Guess you're keeping that? Huh…”

“Wait, you know that guy?” Another screams.

-

A week or so later, Christine takes on a new role. The most demanding one yet.

Wails and screams wallow strong, and fill the halls.

Christine stands over with a hammer in hand, grimacing at the sight.

Her smile widens harder as her arm swings down.

The coffee machine gets a large thump on the side.

“Begone, fault!”

It gets more thumps.

“Thou shalt not hinder my sales quota!”

~ Tap tap tap ~

“I think you're making it worse,” Max states, grinning from the side.

He stands smug, not having needed to do any work.

“Silence,” she says cold and soulless. Her eyes lay cheery above her menacing grin.

Tap tap tap

Then suddenly, Whoooosh…

The dreaded matcha machine is back in order.

Stacy and Ben arrive, putting on their aprons.

-

“You guys ever think it’s weird we have all the same jobs?” Ben ponders to the group.

“I mean, we're not even teens anymore. We're like all 20 now…”

“Pffff,” Max dismisses. “It pays, doesn’t it?”

“This town is short on young staff,” Stacy notes, looking upon the empty cinema lobby.

“Yeah, but not of weeiirdos,” Max moves to playfully ruffle the top of Christine's hair.

She turns, giving him a stare as sharp as thorns from hell itself. “Maybe not,” he thinks to himself.

“What kind of weirdo wants a hot matcha coffee when watching a movie anyway?” He deflects.

An ominous presence haunts the lobby.

A strange, cloaked woman has entered the doorway.

“Never mind,” he adds.

She pulls out a dagger; the tip shines in the light.

“Uhhhh…”

“Oh, Bennnn? Think it’s your shift,” he says with a devious grin, trying to stick the job onto someone else.

Christine stands tall, unbothered; the reflection glints in her cheery eyes.

“Hello >:)”

-

The woman grows closer.

“Tickets at 5.99,” she tells the stranger.

“I wish to give an offering to you,” says the cold voice.

“Cash or card?” Christine responds unfazed.

“Wha… No! I want to prove I am worthy.” The woman teases her skin with the blade. The edge trails along her arm, close to drawing blood.

“Haloumi is 4.99 extra :)”

Her typical robotic tone offputs the cloaked stranger.

“I… Better come back.” She runs away, embarrassed.

Max, previously nonchalantly hiding in the corner, suddenly slams his palms on the counter.

“Okay, new girl… How the hell did you out weird that psycho?”

His finger pokes her face. Christine playfully tries to bite it back with her classic quiet growl.

“Yannnn >:)”

Stacy's soft voice squeaks from the kitchen window. “Why do I think this will be a regular occurrence?”

“How long until they date?” Ben says.

The two look at each other and laugh in the background until they wheeze. They have no idea who this new girl is, but know this is only the start of what’s to come.

For context, my aunt hasn't always been like this, but ever since she's had a baby, she never holds or takes care of him. She always gives him to my grandma or to two of my other aunts. Even her husband has told my other aunt that she shouldn't get married just to end up taking care of their son.

She also screams at my grandma whenever she doesn't do something exactly the way she wants. My grandma is sick, and she doesn't stand up for herself. In my country, it's inexpensive to hire a caretaker for a baby, but they still expect my grandma to do everything. On top of that, there's basically no one available to take my grandma to the hospital.

Any tips for revenge?

For months, Jane’s pregnancy had been deemed perfectly normal. But as her delivery day drew near, she just had a nagging, sinking feeling that something was deeply wrong. When labor began and she arrived at the hospital, she repeatedly begged her doctors for a C-section, pleading that she felt "something was off." Each time, the medical team refused, insisting her labor was progressing as expected.

Once in the delivery room, her premonition violently materialized. Jane began to hemorrhage uncontrollably, and her blood pressure plummeted. Her heart stopped not once, but twice on the delivery table as the medical staff scrambled to save her.

Amidst the life-saving chaos, the doctors finally discovered the hidden culprit: a dangerous, localized medical condition. Because the baby’s position had completely obscured this area, routine ultrasounds had been unable to detect the hidden threat. It was only through the emergency response that her true condition was exposed.

Jane survived and delivered a healthy baby, but the emotional and physical toll of her near-death experience left an indelible scar. She is now suing the hospital and her attending medical providers, arguing that their stubborn refusal to listen to her maternal intuition and her pleas for a C-section constituted medical negligence.

I am currently 14 years old. This story happened almost a year ago. It was August 2025. My girl best friend was about to transfer to my school, and one of her friends transferred there too. At first, everything was alright. We became friends, and we hung out every day at school. Slowly, I started to develop feelings for my girl best friend’s friend (my former girl best friend). By October, my feelings had become serious. I had never been in love that much in my entire life. I know I was young, but it still felt real. Everything between us was really good. We hung out alone at school because my former girl best friend turned out to be talking badly about us. We both hated the same people, liked the same people, and everything seemed to be perfect. We went trick-or-treating together on Halloween, and the night was amazing. I always walked her home from the bus, even though it meant I had to walk an extra hour to get home myself. I also got up early just so we could take the bus together in the morning. In December, I went to my home country with my dad. At night, we called for eight hours straight, and everything still seemed perfect. Then my birthday came (23.12.2011). I was having dinner with my dad when it turned midnight, and she texted me immediately. I really thought she liked me too. I thought there couldn’t be a better day to confess than January 1st, 2026. A few days before I confessed, we had one of the best hangouts ever. I truly believed she loved me too. Then I confessed. Big mistake. She ignored me for five days, only to tell me, “I like you too, but only as a friend.” I had struggled with my mental health even before I met her because my girlfriend had died by suicide in 2023. When she rejected me, everything got so much worse. I felt like I wanted to die and nothing else, but I’m still here. On her birthday (10.01.2013), she decided to completely ghost me, both in real life and online. I’m really not proud of what I did afterward. I don’t think it was okay. I was just really angry, angry that she had given me the feeling that she loved me and then suddenly didn’t want to talk to me anymore. Looking back now, I understand her. Sometimes people just don’t want to be friends anymore. Anyway, I asked a friend of mine to pretend that he was in love with her and then dump her. She asked me why I had done something like that, and after she asked me, I realized how wrong it was. I was genuinely sorry, and I kept asking for her forgiveness. Eventually, we became friends again for a few months. I never really lost my feelings for her. Then she told me that she had found a boyfriend. I was devastated, but I didn’t say anything. Now it’s summer break. Until six days ago, I still wanted her. Then I met my beautiful, perfect girlfriend. I never thought someone could be so sweet and kind. I have honestly never loved anyone the way I love her. Since then, my mental health has gotten a lot better. I stopped smoking, and all I want now is to be with my girlfriend. She is everything I could ever ask for. I don’t really know why I’m posting this. I think this is just my way of letting go of my past so I can finally stop thinking about it and focus on the most amazing girl I’ve ever met.

My wife has always had a fascination with the occult. To be honest, we both have—our love of all things eerie is one of the first things we really bonded over as a couple—but while I am more interested in such a thing from a distance, my wife is much more… hands-on. She likely would have become an archaeologist, had her interest skewed more toward the historical and less toward the disturbing. While I like to watch creepy documentaries and make the occasional trip to a haunted museum, my wife likes to come face-to-face with as many macabre and unsettling objects as she can find. She likes to touch them, inspect them, analyze them… and even collect them.

Her collection started out small, beginning with her deceased grandmother’s favorite necklace and continuing with a few ominous objects that have been in her possession since long before we ever met. She kept them in a little box that her “spiritualist” friend had blessed for her, claiming to have imbued the container with protective qualities. I wasn’t so sure that her friend actually possessed the otherworldly know-how to adequately ward off the forces of evil, but my wife had insisted that her collection had never caused her any problems, and I found her assortment more fascinating than I did unsettling, so I decided to give her friend the benefit of the doubt and I accepted that the items in question were about as safely sealed away as they could be.

My wife brought this collection with her when we moved in together, and it remained with us in each new apartment that we found ourselves in. It didn’t grow much during those first few years—she’d only add a new object to it once in a  blue moon, and even then she would only collect objects that could fit within the ever-shrinking space inside of the blessed container—but this selectiveness quickly went out the door as soon as we bought our own home.

Our new house came with a large, finished basement which was complete with more rooms than we had any use for (sometimes living in the boonies really pays off). My wife asked if I would be okay with her using one of these subterranean chambers as a new space for her collection. At first I was put off by such an idea, but I acquiesced when she said that her friend had already agreed to come by and bless the place so it would be ready to contain the ghastly assortment. I wasn’t particularly assured by this, but I figured her friend had done well enough with the first container, so I decided to put a little more faith in her this time around.

This would prove to be a huge mistake.

Once her “containment chamber”, as we started calling it, was good and ready, my wife christened the place by moving all of the objects from her box onto one of the room’s shelves. Her original collection served as the chamber’s only occupants for our first few months in the new house. It took us a while to fully unpack and adjust to our new place, during which time she had little opportunity to even consider her macabre assemblage. Her friend came by to bless the place every now and again, but the containment chamber stood largely untouched for a decently long while.

But then one day she brought home the first new object, and the expanded version of her collection began to take shape.

She had just returned from a trip to the supermarket, but she came inside with more than just a few bags of groceries in her hands. After putting her groceries away, she pulled a disk-shaped object out of her backpack. The object was wrapped in several layers of parchment paper sealed by a string tied around a bundle of sage. She untied the string and unwrapped the item to reveal an old, faded mask with a pale complexion and a blank, expressionless face.

The mere sight of the mask was immediately unsettling. When I asked where she had gotten such a thing, she explained that she had stopped by a thrift store down the street from our house that she had been meaning to check out since we’d moved in. At first she didn’t find much inside, and she was preparing to leave when she came upon something that had caught her eye. Tucked away in one corner of the store, hidden behind several twisting layers of shelves, was a wall labeled “Cursed and Haunted Items”. All of the objects on this wall were locked behind a glass barrier, and she had to request the assistance of the shopkeeper in order to open the case. She asked the shopkeeper if the sign was legitimate or just a strange marketing strategy, and he assured her that each object locked behind that window was “verified” to have been plagued by some sort of curse, hex, spirit or entity—malevalent or otherwise. Not many folks bought anything from that shelf, for obvious reasons, but anybody who did needed to be informed of the potential danger that those objects posed.

My wife was one of those unique few who was drawn to the unsettling objects on that equally unsettling shelf. She took an immediate interest in that mask, and she bought it without hesitation. I was less than thrilled to see such a thing casually sitting on our kitchen table as if she had bought it at Target, but she assured me that the lasting effects from the sage that had been used when wrapping the mask would keep any evil at bay until she could safely secure the object inside of her containment chamber. Again I acquiesced despite my reservations, and again I have come to regret this decision.

The mask’s presence didn’t seem to change anything at first, and for a while I assumed that her friend’s blessing had done its job. I largely forgot about the thing, and I wound up resigning it to the same place in my long-term memory where I keep all of my wife’s spooky objects: out of sight, out of mind. I wouldn’t need to think about it again for another month or so, until my wife made another visit to that thrift store, and returned with a new item to add to the dreaded collection.

The object in question was a ceremonial dagger that was either Mongolian or Mesopotamian in origin (my wife couldn’t say for sure, since the shopkeeper kept going back and forth between the two when talking about it). She didn’t and still doesn’t know much of anything about antique blades, but she liked the look of the thing anyway, and so into the containment chamber it went. I’ve never come in direct contact with it, but my wife insists that the weapon’s hilt is especially cold to the touch, even when held while wearing thick winter gloves. To this day I’ve been perfectly fine with taking her word for it, as I have no interest in verifying this fact for myself.

The next object she brought home was the diary of a Revolutionary War soldier. The shopkeeper was able to give her some information about its origins while he rang her up. He had turned it to its last marked page as he told her about it, and had directed her to the final paragraph, which was interrupted mid-sentence by a dark-brown splotch on the paper. Apparently the soldier in question had been midway through an entry when an unexpected cannonball removed his head from his shoulders. Luckily his diary had managed to survive the incident with minimal spatter over its pages, which is how it eventually ended up in my wife’s collection. She displays it opened to that final page—an act that is especially macabre, even for her—and she insists that sometimes, when she walks by it, she can hear the sound of a scribbling pen echoing through the air. I’ve passed by the book a handful of times on the odd occasion that I find myself in the containment chamber, and I have never heard such a sound.

Resting next to the journal, sandwiched between two bookends, is a 16th century Icelandic grimoire said to contain powerful necromantic spells and secrets, although this cannot be confirmed because the book has been intentionally sealed shut with wax and it cannot be opened without running the risk of destroying its contents. I’m not so sure I believe in any of those necromancy rumors, but looking at it for too long does tend to fill me with an odd sense of dread that I’m unable to properly explain. I can’t help thinking about death and dying whenever I’m near it, but I’m sure that’s just because I’m aware of its allegedly sordid origins, and my imagination is merely filling in the gaps that its presence creates.

Among the more disheartening items in the collection is a century-old photograph of a random mother, father and daughter sitting on a stone bench in what appears to be their backyard. It didn’t come from the thrift store’s Cursed and Haunted Items section, but my wife felt bad that such a memory had been abandoned by the descendants of its former owners, and so she opted to bring it home. While not officially labeled as haunted, I must admit that since she brought it into our house, I’ve started hearing the sound of a giggling child playing in the park across the street at all hours of the night. All glances out the window have revealed the park to be just as dead as the people in the picture are, and yet the sound of childlike merriment persists. I try not to think about it too much.

The next object is actually one that I brought home after my own trip to the thrift store. It’s an Edo-period wakizashi said to have belonged to a samurai of much renown—and also of much infamy. He was a particularly violent man, and the blade now in our collection had supposedly been used to take the lives of dozens if not hundreds of his opponents, before a single dishonorable act resulted in him turning the weapon on himself in a final display of ruthless savagery. It rests next to my wife’s Mongolian or Mesopotamian dagger, and I swear that I can sometimes hear the sound of metal scraping against metal when I walk by the containment chamber door.

Money became a little tight after I bought the wakizashi, which resulted in the collection remaining stagnant for close to a year. Our dry spell was finally broken when my wife came home with a steering wheel once belonging to a certain mid-century automobile that had met a rather unfortunate and infamous end. It is by far the most high-profile item in our collection. For some reason the shopkeeper decided to give it to her for dirt cheap, and we’ve determined that we’ll be able to turn a rather large profit on the thing in the future, should we choose to sell it. It remains in our collection for the time being, and ever since buying it I’m now occasionally awoken from my sleep by the violent, harsh sound of screeching tires that may or may not be the work of our obnoxious neighbor a few houses down.

I don’t remember when my wife bought it, but at some point a German gramophone found its way into the collection. I asked her about it a few months ago, and she seemed to be under the impression that I had been the one to buy it—but seeing as I have no memory of this, and also because it’s not really the kind of purchase that I would make, I think she must have been mistaken. The thing doesn’t work either way, but that hasn’t stopped me from hearing crackly, old-timey music drifting from our home’s air vents from time to time. The music always comes while I’m in the shower, when the sound of rushing water is just loud enough for me to wonder if the music I’m hearing is real, or if it’s  just a figment of my imagination.

This is hardly an exhaustive list of the items in our strange, little collection. I have yet to mention my wife’s late-19th-century desk that was the only surviving object in a schoolhouse fire, or my set of vintage leather jackets that were present at the scene of a brutal double-homicide in a clothing store in the early 1950s. The point of me bringing up all of these examples is to illustrate just how vast the collection is. We have objects from all over the globe and from all different eras, all of which share a single thing in common: they all now rest in our containment chamber, which is precariously sealed behind a thin wooden door in our basement. And recent events have led me to believe that bringing all of these potentially bedeviled objects together under one roof and placing them all into the same room may have been the biggest, dumbest mistake of our lives.

As the collection has grown, I’ve noticed a certain presence in our house that has grown with it. It used to be much easier to overlook—to pass off as some vague feeling with no discernible origin—but each new addition to our grim repertoire has only made it that much more powerful, as well as that much more difficult to ignore.

At this point I will say that I firmly believe we have placed too much trust in my wife’s “spiritualist” friend. Her rites and incantations may have been enough to keep our collection in check back when it was a small assemblage of vaguely spooky objects, but the collection has clearly grown to a point where it has become too formidable for her blessings to properly contain it. Each new object adds to a collective surge of dark energy that has been whittling away at whatever mediocre shell that woman placed around the containment chamber, and that dwindling barrier is clearly set to shatter at any moment. I don’t think any of us—my wife, her friend, or I—are ready for what is bound to happen once the thin veil between those objects and our home is finally destroyed.

I’ve already started noticing strange things; ghastly manifestations that continue to seep through the ever-crumbling wall that stands between us and that amalgamation of wickedness. Things around the house will disappear, only to recorporealize in a completely different part of the building days or even weeks later. Voices will call out to me from rooms that are not occupied by a single living soul. I see figures out of the corner of my eye; sinister shadows that stand down the hall or in doorways and which disappear the moment I turn to look at them. Phantom smells and sounds and thoughts will assault my mind at all hours of the day; they transport me back to memories that I’ve never lived, and which I never should have had access to. Our home has never felt so inhabited, despite us hosting fewer guests these days than we ever have before.

Most of these experiences are less than what I would consider pleasant. Many of them are fairly innocuous, but some of them—a number that is on the rise—are actually quite concerning, to say the least. Loud noises, much like the screeching tires, will cause both of us to shoot out of bed in the middle of the night. The smell of death and decay and rot will waft so strongly through our home that we will be forced to go outside just to enjoy some breathable air; upon returning, we will be left with a residual scent that will linger for hours or even days. We are plagued by visions of horrific actions and tragic destinies that we cannot prevent or overcome—all we can do is hopelessly watch as they transpire right before our very eyes, again and again and again and again.

Things came to a head the other night when I was awoken by my wife, who was caught in a storm of heavy, inconsolable tears. After taking some time to calm her down, I managed to get her to tell me the source of her distress. She’d had a nightmare—or maybe she had already been awake—of her grandmother whispering horrible things in her ear about how she was in the midst of being tortured in the deepest depths of hell for sins that she had not confessed to or atoned for in life. The sound of the old woman’s agonized wails had forced my wife into the fit of hysterics that had ripped me from my sleep. Neither of us got any further rest that night.

Which is what brings me to my reason for telling this tale. After a long, emotional conversation, we have come to the difficult decision to get rid of our entire collection of cursed and haunted objects. But we don’t want to simply return all of these items to the thrift store where they will sit festering for an unknowable number of years (this option will soon no longer be available to us anyway, as the shopkeeper recently informed us of his unexpected intention to shut the place down and move out of state). We also don’t want to risk throwing them all away, thus potentially invoking the wrath of whatever entities are attached to them. For this reason, I would like to send out a plea for help from anybody who reads this. If either you or somebody you know has the means to properly contain this collection, and would also be willing to take it off our hands, please let me know. We want to be rid of all of this stuff as quickly as we possibly can. We wish to wash our hands of the collection that we have spent so much time and money gathering. I fear that if we wait for much longer, it will wind up becoming far too late for us to see this plan of ours through. In fact, it might already be too late. These objects seem to have a tendency to lay down roots and attach themselves to anybody foolish enough to take them in. It’s entirely possible that my wife and I are already far too involved with this collection, as well as whatever malevolent force has glommed onto it. Getting rid of all of these terrible objects might not end up benefiting us at all, but we have to try to free ourselves from this ever-deepening nightmare before it swallows us completely.

At this point I don’t know what else we can possibly do.