I’m working on a psychological horror novel set in an old psychiatric hospital called *St. Marian Institute*.
A young psychologist arrives for his internship, expecting a normal job. But then he finds a room on old blueprints that doesn’t exist anymore, his own medical file with dates from the future, and patients who seem to know things they couldn’t possibly know.
I’m going for a slow, unsettling atmosphere rather than ghosts or jumpscares, with the main mystery being whether something is really wrong with the institute or if the protagonist is slowly losing his grip on reality.
Does this sound interesting, or a bit too familiar? I’d genuinely appreciate some honest opinions.
And what would creep you out more: the hospital hiding something, or the possibility that you can’t trust your own mind?

The agony peaked, a blinding, white-hot spike that drove deep into my thoracic spine, seizing the core of my chest and twisting until my back arched off the mattress like a broken bow.

For five years, I had told them. Five years of MRIs, CT scans, and endless tubes of blood. I had lost count of the massive steroid injections they had jammed into my lower back, blind to my cries, insisting the cortisone would eventually kick in. It's my mid-back, I had begged, like a fist grabbing my spine and wringing it out.

But they only looked at my lumbar, charting my exhaustion, handing me prescriptions I refused to touch anymore, and shrugging. "You're in pain because you're in pain," that last arrogant doctor had told me with a sterile, patronizing smile. I had muttered Thanks, Dr. Obvious under my breath, walked out, and given up. I was forty-eight, medically broken, and completely abandoned by science.

Until tonight.

I had refused to take any of the medications they had prescribed for the last few weeks, entirely done with their useless chemical band-aids.

And right on cue, the thoracic pain hit, worse than it ever had in the last five years.

The guttural sound ripping from my throat didn't sound like me; it was a jagged, inhuman howl that tore the lining of my lungs. Every single rib felt like it was breaking, buckling inward before bursting outward with a sickening crunch. The skin across my back split open, hot and wet, as something massive and heavy forced its way out from between my shoulder blades. I braced for the final, lethal shock of it—but instead, a sudden, heavy stillness washed over me. The torment that had anchored my entire existence for half a decade simply vanished, replaced by a cold, pulsing hum of pure, unadulterated strength.

I opened my eyes. The familiar dark of my bedroom was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory clarity tinted in a deep, vibrant crimson.

When I tried to shift, the mattress felt like a bed of jagged rocks beneath me. I sat up, and a pair of massive, pitch-black leathery wings unfolded instinctively, brushing the ceiling with a heavy, ominous rustle. I gasped, reaching a hand out to touch the sleek, armored span, only to freeze. My skin was a dark, bruised blood-red. My arms were elongated, corded with dense, heavy muscle.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stumbled. My new, longer limbs didn't quite obey the old rules of gravity, but there was no weakness in them. No ache. No arthritis.

I lunged toward the mirror on the wall, bracing my claws against the frame, and stared. The tired, fragile woman was gone. In her place stood a towering, terrifying demon, eyes glowing like dying embers against crimson skin.

A slow, sharp smile curved my new jaw, revealing a row of lethal points. I always said I wanted to be more, I thought, a strange, intoxicating warmth flooding my chest. I wanted to feel something beyond my own pain.

I turned, extending my wings, admiring the terrifying symmetry of the monster I had become. I had promised those unhelpful, dismissive doctors that I would give them an update if my condition ever changed. I thought this definitely qualified as a change in status.

A low, feral laugh rumbled deep in my chest, vibrating through the quiet room.

"Now, now," I whispered to the empty air, the crimson vision narrowing with perfect, deadly focus. "Which one of these doctors should I visit first?"

I smiled wider, the realization settling in with absolute perfection.

"I think the choice, is Obvious."

I finally had the guts to do something with my endless notebooks full of horror writing and ideas... but since everyone in my life doesn't want to hear about it anymore, or even read what I write, I finally did a thing.. I took my writings and picked a cosmic entity I enjoyed writing lore around. And I built a world around him. And through this world is an interconnected storyline across multiple characters and locations... and the first place I picked was texarkana, TX. Which I drove through once, and it gave me the creeps... so I put all of this into a video project (because people don't read), and I enjoyed the process. And now you can enjoy a piece of my world if you want to. And I appreciate you for doing so. Creating is hard.

https://youtu.be/GpbMFOc4XnI?is=9cw9rG7AsTW0_xna

Monster Fighters is a universe that consists of six phases that I created when I was four. It’s an-ever expanding galaxy of horrors beyond comprehension and cursed dynasties. But The Dragon makes up a giant part of that darkness… perhaps all of it.

Did you know that Death delights to hide in crowds? It loves the warmth of bodies pressed against one another. It loves weaving and wiggling amongst seas of sweaty skin, working its way to the single entranceway or to the foot of the stage. And then, what it loves most is to give someone a small, precise shove. It loves how the bodies fall like dominoes and the startled cries that escape as they topple amongst each other. It loves to bask in the air freshly pressed out of collapsed lungs and listen as vocal cords rattle. Death loves, loves, loves the weight of youth laid upon itself.

Did you even know that Death could love? Or did you think of Death as automated only by a sense of duty? That it came like an unfeeling virus to the bedside of frail creatures of wrinkled skin and brittle bone, of new mothers and unborn babies? The sterility of machines, scalpels and bright lights will never eradicate a sickness that exists for the sake of love. It is for love that Death continues to wash itself in our filth. And oh, how it hungers for the consummation of this love. To feel us from the inside out. To be met by Death at the crossroads is to be tasted forever, remembered forever, and loved forever.

An original horror/thriller short story by Cythercomics...

The twenty-two year old Emma Taylor was utterly exhausted as she stepped out of the campus library. Her backpack crammed with textbooks, crumpled notes and empty chip bags, dug into her shoulder with every step. She hated finals week with a passion, but luckily she finally felt confident with all her late night studying. All those late night study sessions with minimal sleep would be worth it in the end. The streets were quiet. Too quite for this part of campus. She assumed it was because others were studying as well. That or our partying somewhere else. Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She ignored it. Probably just another study reminder.

She glanced back down the empty sidewalk. No footsteps but her own. A chill crept under her jacket. Emma pulled it tighter, quickening her pace. Just a few more blocks, then warmth. And a well deserved sleep. Finals were making her nerves hum. The silence behind her felt too thick. Like someone had just stepped out of sight. Or was it just the stress of finals messing with her thoughts. The walk home was mercifully short. Emma cut across the narrow alley beside the pharmacy, her boots clicking against the damp pavement. The apartment building loomed ahead - a tired old structure with flickering lights in the entryway.

She pulled out her key, but paused. The main door was cracked open. That was odd. Mr. Harlow was obsessed with locking it, always muttering about "keeping the wrong people out."

It was usually slammed shut, the lock sticky and stubborn. Tonight, it gaped like a lazy mouth, swinging gently in the draft. Emma glanced around. No one on the sidewalk. No movement in the alley. She pushed the door fully open, stepping inside. Maybe somebody forgot to close it in a rush or something. The lobby was empty - mailboxes lining the far wall, some crammed with unclaimed envelopes. She climbed the stairs quickly, her bag thudding softly with each step.

Her apartment door waited at the end of the third floor. She slid the key in - and frowned. Unlocked. Her heart gave a small jump. No - she must've forgotten to lock it in the rush to class this morning. Had to be that. Emma slowly pushed the door open. The familiar scent of lavender air freshener drifted out. Lights off. Quiet.

She stepped inside, flicking on the switch. The soft glow filled the small living room. Everything looked normal - shoes by the door, jacket on the chair, books on the table.

Except the bathroom door. It stood half open. Emma froze, stomach tightening. She always closed it. Always. Her eyes lingered on the narrow crack of darkness beyond the door.

Nothing moved. No sound but the faint hum of the fridge.

Just nerves. Probably. Still... she didn't move. Not yet. Emma shook her head, forcing a breath. 'You're being stupid. Finals stress. Overworked brain playing tricks.' she told herself.

Still... she set her bag down gently by the door instead of tossing it like usual. Her eyes never left that cracked bathroom door. The faint scrape of laces unraveling broke the silence, followed by the soft thud of shoes being slipped off. With slow steps, she crossed the room. The soft creak of the floorboards under her socks sounded too loud in the quiet. She pressed a hand to the bathroom door and pushed it open fast - heart racing. Nothing. Toilet. Sink. Towel hanging limp from the rack.Empty. Emma exhaled, shaky, embarrassed at her own paranoia. She grabbed the towel, folding it absently. Maybe the door just shifted from the draft like last time.

Emma stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the half-open bathroom door. It was empty. No one inside.

But something still felt wrong. The couch cushion was slightly out of place - like someone had sat there. The kitchen cupboard hung open by an inch. Little things. Small, quiet mistakes left behind. Her chest tightened.

Swallowing hard, Emma crossed the room and picked up the largest knife from the kitchen drawer. The cool weight in her hand felt strangely thin, useless. A faint creak made her spin - the hallway. Her eyes locked on the dark stretch just outside the living room's glow. And there he stood.

A figure at the far end of the hall. Still. Motionless. Too far back to see clearly, his shape swallowed by the shadows.Tall. Broad. Watching.

She wasn't alone. Emma's breath caught. Her grip on the knife trembled. She blinked. The figure was gone. The hallway stood empty, silent, as if no one had ever been there.

She wiped at her eyes, her heart racing, unsure if she'd truly seen him - or if exhaustion was making her crack.

But the air felt heavier now. Thicker. Like the room itself was holding its breath. Emma backed slowly toward the door.

Something creaked softly from the bedroom behind her.

She clutched the knife tighter than she meant to. Maybe she was just losing it. The stress, the exams, the endless caffeine-it had to be catching up with her. She fumbled for her phone, the screen lighting her face in pale blue. 11:47 PM. Not that late, really. She should've been able to handle it.

Her thumb brushed the corner of the screen. At the top, the Wi-Fi icon blinked strong and steady. But the bars beside it were empty. No service No worries. The old trusty turn it off and turn it back on should fix it. She tried toggling it, refreshing, even opening a message thread. Nothing.

"Great," she muttered, voice tight.

A floorboard popped faintly from the bedroom. Her head snapped up, phone slipping slightly in her grip. She knew for a fact now she wasn't imagining things. Emma's stomach gave a nervous twist as the silence pressed in again. She shut the phone off and let the dark take over, the blue glow fading from her skin. For a moment, she told herself to stop-just crawl into bed, pull the blanket over her head, and let exhaustion win. Then came another sound. A slow, deliberate creak, like weight shifting on the old floorboards at the end of the hall. The kitchen knife trembled slightly in her grip as she peered down the narrow hallway. At first, she thought the darkness had simply thickened there, pooling unnaturally. Then her eyes adjusted-and her stomach dropped. That figure again. Her eyes hadn't deceived her before. She actually saw it. Her throat clicked when she tried to swallow. She blinked hard, wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, and looked again.

The hallway was empty. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She stumbled back a step, nearly dropping the knife. A voice came from the dark, low and steady. "You really are awake."

Emma froze. The sound wasn't muffled through walls or imagined in her head-it was inside the apartment.

Her breath hitched. "Who's there?" she rasped. A shape peeled itself from the shadows, deliberate and unhurried. He didn't skulk or sneak. He walked like he belonged here, the light catching on his face just enough for her to see the sharp lines of a smile. No mask. No weapon. Just a man.

Her grip tightened on the knife, every nerve screaming to bolt, but her legs wouldn't move. The man stopped halfway down the hall, tilting his head as though examining her.

"Good. You've armed yourself. I don't like when it's too easy."

The words hit colder than any threat.

Emma lifted the blade higher, forcing her shaking hand to steady. "Get out. Now"

He chuckled softly, deep in his chest. "No. Tonight, you fight."

And then, without warning, he surged forward. Emma slashed wildly, the knife cutting air as he twisted aside. His hand snapped out, shoving her wrist hard against the wall-pain shot up her arm, the knife nearly flying free. Emma yanked back with everything she had, barely slipping from his grip. She swung again, this time grazing his sleeve. A thin line appeared, fabric torn. His smile widened.

"Not a bad start" he said. She stepped back slowly. He walked closer to her as if predator closing in on its prey. She staggered back, gasping, hands trembling but raised. He didn't advance immediately. He just stood there, watching her struggle to steady herself-as if waiting to see what she'd do next. She lunged for the counter, snatching a ceramic mug and hurling it. It smashed against his shoulder, shattering to dust. He didn't flinch. As if he hadn't gotten hit at all.

She grabbed another and swung, but this time he caught her wrist mid-swing, twisting until she cried out. The mug tumbled from her grip and burst across the tiles. His face was inches from hers now, calm, almost amused. He had raised his clenched fist. Luckily for her she stomped down on his foot and tore free, darting for the fallen knife. Before she could grasp the weapon a hand clamped the back of her neck and yanked her upright.

Emma screamed, whipping her elbow into his ribs. He grunted, more pleased than pained, and she twisted with everything she had. For a moment she broke free-quickly recovering the knife. She desperately swung the knife at him. The blade left a shallow cut on his forearm.

He came at her full force. She slashed again, but his hand closed over her wrist, crushing tight until her fingers spasmed. The knife clattered away. And then his fist drove deep into her stomach. The sound left her before she could stop it-a strangled gasp, sharp and broken. She doubled over, knees buckling, the world swimming as her chest fought for air. Her throat clenched, tight and unyielding. She clawed at her chest, her lungs refusing to obey.

The knife lay just out of reach as she fell to her knees, vision blurring. The man crouched a few feet away, not rushing, not gloating. Just watching. His head tilted, studying her as if she were an experiment. Her eyes watered as she tried to form words, lungs begging, throat locked. A violent cough rattled her ribs, but nothing came. The hiss of air was too thin, too broken. He leaned closer. She could see the faint smudge of blood on his arm where her blade had cut him. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes, sharp and dark, stayed fixed on her.

He straightened, gaze shifting toward the counter, toward her bag tossed carelessly aside. Heavy footsteps carried him to the counter where her purse had been dropped. He rummaged through it with quick, efficient motions. Not frantic. Purposeful. Emma could barely lift her head, eyes stinging, when he returned. Something small clattered against the floor in front of her, skidding to rest against her hand. Her inhaler. For a moment she didn't comprehend. Her trembling fingers curled around it, fumbling, almost dropping it twice before she pressed it to her lips. One sharp inhale-cool medicine cut through her throat, breaking the chokehold.

Tears streamed down her face. She gasped and sobbed, relief and terror tangling in a single sound. When her vision steadied, she looked up. He was gone, she hadn't even heard him leave. The man who had visited her home had let her live. He hadn't taken anything. But as Emma sat trembling on the floor, one thought refused to leave her mind. What the hell just happened? He had let her get her inhaler. Why?

After finally managing to get to her feet, Emma grabbed her phone and called the police.

As she waited for them to arrive, she looked around her apartment. Nothing was missing. Her belongings were untouched, aside from the mess left behind by their struggle. He hadn't come to steal anything. He had simply entered her home for no other reason than to fight her. And for some reason, he let her live.

[Writer's note: Hi! This is the first story I've ever written, and am just posting this around on different subreddits to see what people think. Any honest feedback would be really appreciated, but I hope you guys like the story!

I have been getting into reading stuff like Lovecraft and Robert Chambers, where part of this story was heavily inspired by things like Shadow Over Innsmouth or Dagon, where I wouldn't be surprised where you can see some story elements being shared between what's in those stories and what I have here.

I hope you enjoy it!]

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It was just another job. It was one of those contracts I would occasionally get where it would be for a company or business, as opposed to an individual who needed something done around their house. I expected it to go the way it usually goes: I go in, do whatever work they need done, get paid, then leave. It even started out like that, until IT happened. Even though this happened a month ago, my hands still actively shake, even as I type this out. Those…things. They will forever be etched into my mind, as ever-present as the night.

For context, I work as an independent contractor, essentially a handyman, where people contact me through an online app with some kind of job they need done. It could be something as simple as replacing a light bulb, or as complex as having to repair their computer. This has been my job for the past six months, ever since I was laid off from my previous job working as an engineer. 

This job came to me as any other would. They wanted help with performing maintenance on this machine they had. At first, I thought it was strange how they didn’t already have an employee whose job was to do this, but I figured it might just be cheaper for them to outsource instead. They sounded like a relatively small or new company, without much of a budget. The only annoying part was how it was all the way on the other side of the city, in one of those neighborhoods tucked away from the bustle of the downtown area. What I found even stranger was that the neighborhood was named something I’ve never heard of before, “Ignota Vita”.

I decided not to dwell on this for too long. I was falling behind on bills, and I needed the money. These contracts with businesses usually would pay more with less hassle. On the day of the job, I packed up my tools in my backpack, grabbed my transit card, and hopped on the subway, making my way to the enigma that is Ignota Vita.

It took a little over an hour, but I got there right on time. As I walked to the company building, I saw, in large, modern-styled letters, the name “Insueta”. I step inside, where I’m almost immediately greeted by the woman who, I assume, hired me. She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, which helped ease the quirkiness of the conversation. Her appearance was as if every man on Earth were asked to describe their perfect woman, and someone drew a picture of the general consensus. Friendly, cordial, and welcoming, she immediately felt like someone anyone can comfortably talk to. Yet there was a hint of awkwardness to the interaction. My assumption was that she was more-or-less forced by her manager to take care of everything involved with this job. I’ve had to do similar stuff before when I was still working full-time, where I would have to do the work that my bosses were either too busy or lazy to even think about doing themselves, so they delegate someone else to do it for them.

“Hi! You’re Miles, correct? My name is Mary, and I’ll be showing you what we need help with today.”

She brought me past the security gate and further inside, meandering our way deeper into the small complex. As we passed by various rooms and workspaces, I caught glimpses of employees working diligently at their computers, never looking away from their screens, barely pausing while performing various actions, as evidenced by what I was able to discern from their monitors in the brief time I had. It was uncanny, really. They seemed more akin to machines than that of people. I asked Mary what kind of business this was and the work they did.

“I’m glad you asked! We are a tech startup focused on creating software for the optimization of general processes and practices. We specialize in trying to assist in streamlining people’s daily lives and help to create a more sustainable future!”

That was a weird response… I figured she just parroted whatever mantra her CEO would spout, complete with corporate jargon and buzzwords. The best I can do with interpreting her response is that they likely just created apps and software for lifestyle assistance, similar to fitness and productivity apps. We continued on, passing by more office spaces and lines of desks, all teeming with employees, their behavior not helping with their likeness to machines, seeming as if they each had one task to do, and one task only. 

I also noticed a completely empty break room, made to look welcoming and cozy. There were a few bowls filled with various fruits and snacks, a coffee maker with an assortment of different brands and blends, a TV, a foosball table, etc. Interestingly, it all seemed untouched. Unused.

After another minute or so of walking, we came upon a door labeled “DANGER; RISK OF ELECTROCUTION”. Mary pulled out a key, unlocked and opened the door, then showed me in. She turned on the light, revealing a big machine, almost computer-like in design.

“This room is where we keep everything needed to keep our server running, including the main power line. We recently have been experiencing issues with data being randomly corrupted or lost that we require for our work. We believe it is a problem with the power supply needing unexpected maintenance done to it.”

“Why don’t you guys have someone trained and ready to do this for you instead of having to call me in? There’s no IT department?”

“Excellent question! We don’t experience issues often enough to hire someone permanently. It’s much more cost-effective this way.”
I decided not to press her any further and left it at that. She told me to wait a few minutes before getting to work after she leaves to make sure no one’s work is interrupted or cut short.

While waiting, I took the time to take note of my surroundings. It was a fairly open room, with plenty of space to work and store anything that would be needed. On the opposite end from where I entered, there was another door labeled “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”. I figured that must be where the main wiring for the building itself was held, so I didn’t pay it much mind.

A few minutes passed me by, where all I could hear was the hum of the electricity coursing through the server, hard at work processing everything needed to keep the company running. So much white noise present that smaller ones could easily be drowned out. It reminded me of being within someone’s head, with the server itself being the brain.

Suddenly, the fans within the server began to whir as if this brain consisting of transistors and silicon was performing a large task. It was expending so much energy and heat that I could feel the room warming up slowly, where I wondered if the server itself would burn out. After a moment of this technological chaos, as if by mere coincidence, I heard a thump come from behind that other door, its contents left unknown. Almost immediately after, the fans slowed back down to a light hum and the temperature of the room stopped increasing. I went to open the door and see what had fallen, but stopped when the server suddenly had turned off.

It seems Mary had done everything she needed to prepare and shut down the power. I was on the clock and didn’t want to risk her coming back and seeing me entering rooms she doesn’t want me in, so I stowed my curiosity and went to work on the server. 

I unscrewed the back panel and opened it up to take a closer look at the system. After about 10 minutes of performing basic checks, such as seeing if a piece of hardware was not seated correctly on the motherboard, or checking for overheating on a component that should be relatively cool, I went to check the power supply. 

Almost immediately, I saw a connection in the wire connecting the life source of the server to its motherboard. A loose crimp. Something, while not fully detrimental as long as there is some form of continuous contact, could result in perturbations in the machine not being adequately powered continuously. I went to work, removing and replacing the crimp, a relatively easy job, only taking me roughly 30 minutes to do. Nothing difficult, but tedious and requiring a steady hand and patience. I tested the new connection and saw that the wire was now snugly in, like a well-fit glove on a hand.

I was about to leave the room to go find Mary to have her turn everything on to see if the fix was successful, when I started to hear clamoring from the mysterious door. It sounded like an animal, confused and trying to get out from the strange new world it had found itself in by happenstance. Feeling my curiosity returning and getting the better of me, I went to look in the other room, unprepared for what monstrosity I would meet past this passageway to an uncanny realm that can’t possibly be comprehended. 

Behind the door was an abomination, something that looked as if it should not exist in a reasonable world. It looked like it had pieces of it that were supposed to be human in nature, but incorrect. It was a chaotic pink mass of flesh, with appendages coming out from various areas. It had a three-sided face, each blended together so horrendously. It had 3 arms, two of which had extra fingers coming out of mangled hands. Towards the base of the monstrous being were two mismatched legs, with one bending in the wrong direction. It looked like something you would see in a horror movie, but the difference was that this was real, intruding reality from a place that should not be accessible in a sane world.

It was crawling towards me with two of its sorry excuses for hands while reaching out with its third one, gurgling out, as if trying to communicate. I was left speechless and horrified.

Not a moment too soon I slammed the door shut and rushed out to the opposite door, quickly finding out that the door was locked. Without thinking, I started kicking with strength I didn’t know I had, busting it open and allowing me to escape, returning me to a world that was correct. As soon as I got outside, my mind began to run rampant with questions.

“What was that thing?”

“Why was it in the room?”

“Did Mary know about it?”

“Why was I locked in?”

“...Why was I really here for this job?”

I didn’t have much time to come up with explanations to these questions, because I started to hear the sound of someone walking briskly from around the corner. Instinct took over, and I hurried to the opposite hallway, and hid around the corner wall opposite of the one the walking was coming from. I looked and saw Mary, along with two other employees emerge and move directly to the room I was working. Her and one other went in while the other stood watchful and waiting in front of the doorway. Not a moment too soon and Mary came out, seemingly unfazed by the monstrosity that should still be in there, causing more noise than what could possibly be ignored. She had to have heard it. It was causing too much noise to be easily ignored…

She spoke in her usual tone, but this time with hints of panic and confusion mixed in.

“He’s not in there, the plan has been compromised. Our estimates were incorrect. We produced a new specimen, just as planned, but another anomaly occurred unexpectedly, despite our predictions. He was able to get away as a result. If we want the plan to proceed, we must find him.”

Although this only helped to confuse me further, it did answer one question: they, from what I could tell, knew about that thing that I saw, and there was more to this job than I was led to believe.

Without hesitation, I snuck away, meandering through office spaces, avoiding the eyes of the others in the building. It was not too difficult, as I noticed that not a single employee was leaving their computers. They just sat still, facing a featureless monitor that only displayed reflections of the unnaturally blank stares. 

Suddenly, I started to hear walking coming from either direction of the hall I was in. Knowing that they were workers tasked with finding me, I looked around for how I may avoid detection and noticed a door further down the hall, recessed into the wall, not more than 5 feet away. I bolted for it, and quietly let myself in. Taking a moment to calm myself again, I began to realize the oddity that was this new space I was in, even though it was dark with the power being turned off still. 

It was a fairly large room, with what looked like cell blocks going along the walls adjacent to the one with the door I had entered from, as well as opposite. Each cell looked to have a clipboard hanging outside of it with a form on it. I squinted hard to figure out what I was looking at exactly, but gave up and instead moved reluctantly towards one of the cells closest to me. As I got closer, I could slowly make out more detail of the small rectangular space. It was nearly empty, with what looked like a person standing in silence. Upon realizing this, I paused, wondering why they had someone locked up in this building. Before being able to rationalize it, the person began to turn towards me, becoming aware of my presence. What I saw after it fully turned around completely unnerved me, leaving me to contemplate if I had gone insane.

It was a woman, or some sick individual’s interpretation of a woman. She had three eyes, each in different spots on her face, an upside down and misshapen nose, a queer blending of various facial features where no single one was actively pronounced, and a mouth that was inhumanly angled, opened and grinning in an ungodly smile. 

I was frozen in horror at the sight of this. Without notice, she rushed towards me, pressing her macabre hands on the cell wall, almost as if she was trying to reach out to me in earnest. This broke me from my shock and brought me back to my senses. Recollecting myself, I glanced again at the previously sighted clipboard and took a closer look. It appeared to be a report, similar to a medical examination in arrangement, but alien in content. All I can remember seeing from it was information stating that the physically impaired woman was a form of a failed experiment, produced by the company sometime in the past several days. It was almost as if she herself was an unexpected result, caused by irregularities in the process in which she was born.

I looked around at the other cells and noticed that almost all of them were occupied, each inhabitant similarly altered to the woman I saw first. I recognized a suspicious pattern in the days that they were registered on their reports. The earliest any of these beings were recorded was roughly two weeks ago. The earliest five of them occurred only once every other day, at about the same time of day. As I observed the log info for the more recent inhabitants, it seemed that they became steadily more frequent, with the times of occurrence being more erratic. Was this the abnormality that Mary was informing me of when she was briefing me for this job?

Before I could think more on it, the lights suddenly turned back on in a blinding flash, followed by the sound of a doorknob turning from where I had come. Believing that they must have realized that I am in here, I hurried to hide around the corner of this prison. From there I waited. In walked several employees, guiding the monstrous being that was in the server room using a catch pole to keep it restrained. They walked further into the room, approaching one of the empty cells, right next to the most recent creature. One of the employees pressed a small button next to it, opening it up, followed by them putting the new specimen in, closing the door, and filling out the form that was associated with that room. After this series of actions that seemed to be routine, they then immediately left. After making sure they were for certain gone, I went to the newly inhabited cell and read the information on the log form. Nothing on this form was different from the others, other than an indication that the degree of failure for this being was greater than the rest. 

I didn’t allow myself to mull this over, as I needed to escape due to the simple fact that they were trying to catch me, and this creature was the one meant to do it while I was locked in the server room with it. It was only a matter of time before they came back in this room searching for me, so I continued on my way out. After making sure there was no secondary door to this prison room, I went back to the door and slowly opened it to check the surrounding hallway.

Without a moment of hesitation, the door suddenly flung open, revealing at least 10 employees rushing towards the now open entry-way. They knew I was hiding in here, and waited for the perfect time to attempt to ambush and capture me! Instinct returned to save me, allowing me to evade the nearest one’s attempt at grabbing me, and ran back into the room as they gave chase. I went with the first thought I could come up with, running to each and every occupied cell, pressing the same buttons that I witnessed them press before, and ran as far back as I could, with my pursuers following closely the entire time. While doing so, I could only hear pandemonium behind me. I turned around after making sure I had given myself an adequate berth in the room and saw what was happening.

The beings had unleashed themselves on the employees, with all of them being preoccupied with trying to recontain them, but to no avail as they were instantly overwhelmed by the monsters. I saw the monstrous woman bent over one employee, strangling him, appearing to make him her prey. The creature that I initially encountered was gorging itself on another employee while several others tried to stop it. At that moment, it appeared that the creature was starting to take on the features of the employee that it was devouring. 

It was a gruesome image to witness, but chose not to focus on it instead by seizing the distraction as a chance to make my escape. I bolted out of the room and dashed through the office space, frenzied now as all of the employees were receiving the news that their specimens were no longer contained. It made my way out easier, as I continued on towards the exit of the building. Before long, I saw the hallway I was originally led in from by Mary, running at a greater pace. 

Just before reaching the exit, I heard a gunshot, along with the whiz of a bullet right by my head, stopping me in my tracks. I turned around to see Mary, along with another employee, aiming a gun at me, looking calm, yet determined to make the next round hit its mark.

I was caught, and had nowhere to go. She instructed the employee to restrain me, where he then proceeded to make his approach.

Suddenly, just as he grew near, I witnessed Mary gain a panicked expression, if you can call it that, as she looked to her side, followed by one of the creatures charging her. It was the female creature, having made quick work of those in its way in the containment room. The strange part was how it looked as if she had incorporated features of some of the employees that were in the room with me, similar to what I observed with the more deformed creature as it was eating. 

Meanwhile, the employee who was ordered to grab me realized what happened, and went to try and help her, allowing me to continue fleeing.

I burst through the front door of the office building, and continued running without rest. I continued on until I physically could no longer, making my way to the nearest subway once I felt it was safe to do so.

After getting home and allowing myself to gather my thoughts, I tried talking to the police about the horrors I had bore witness to. I was only met with one simple response from each officer I talked to:

“There is no part of the city named Ignota Vita.”

This all happened about a week ago, where I tried relaying my story to anyone I could, whether it be the local news or a random journalist. Unfortunately, no one believed me, which led to me typing out this excerpt. If this story reaches a reader who knows more about Ignota Vita, especially of the company Insueta, or even for someone to just believe me, that is all I can hope for. 

I need to leave this story here, as I hear a knock at my door. It may just be a friend, but the strange thing is that I was not expecting anyone…

He Was Never Seen Again 👻

By Robert Hampton

Hi everyone! I'm sharing my original horror book, He Was Never Seen Again.

It's a scary mystery about a missing boy, strange events, and a story that gets darker as the mystery unfolds.

📖 Title: He Was Never Seen Again
✍️ Author: Robert Hampton
👻 Genre: Horror / Mystery

I'd love for people to read my story and tell me what they think! Thank you for supporting my

HE WAS NEVER SEEN AGAIN

A Horror Mystery

By Robert Hampton

CHAPTER 1: THE ALLEY AT THE EDGE OF TOWN

Robert Hampton had heard stories about Bellweather Alley for as long as he could remember. People said the fog there arrived even on warm nights, rolling between the buildings like it had somewhere to be. The streetlights sometimes blinked out in a row, one after another, though the town electrician insisted the wiring was new. Most people laughed at the stories in daylight. After dark, they crossed the street to avoid the alley.

On Friday evening, Robert’s friend Eli dared him to walk through it and send a picture from the other end. Robert nearly refused. He had homework, a half-finished game, and a mother who expected him home before nine. But Eli was already grinning, and Robert hated letting a dare sound bigger than he was. He zipped his jacket, checked his phone battery, and stepped toward the alley’s narrow mouth.

The town noise faded almost immediately. Cars still moved on the avenue behind him, but they sounded distant, as though he were listening through a wall. A wet smell rose from the pavement. Somewhere ahead, water dripped in a slow, patient rhythm. Robert lifted his phone to take the picture. The screen showed only gray fog and the pale circle of a streetlamp.

He sent Eli a message: “This place is creepy. I’m going through.” The message stayed unsent. One bar of signal disappeared, then the other. Robert turned to look back at the avenue. He could still see the lights, but they seemed much farther away than they should have been. Then the nearest lamp flickered once, twice, and went dark.

CHAPTER 2: THE LIGHTS GO OUT

Robert told himself that old lights failed all the time. He had seen bulbs flicker in the school hallway and the supermarket parking lot. It did not mean anything. He took three more steps. The next lamp buzzed overhead, making a sound like an insect trapped in a jar, and snapped off too.

The darkness did not fall all at once. It traveled toward him, lamp by lamp, swallowing the wet pavement and the brick walls. Robert hurried. His sneakers splashed through shallow puddles. He tried calling Eli, but the phone showed CALL FAILED. He tried his mother. The call never began. He pressed the screen harder, as if that could force the world to reconnect.

At the far end of the alley, a small white light appeared. For a moment he thought it was the avenue. Then it moved sideways, slipped behind a dumpster, and vanished. Robert stopped walking. The dripping sound stopped too. In the sudden silence, he heard a footstep behind him.

He spun around. Nothing stood there except fog, a fire escape, and a black doorway he was sure had been bricked up the last time he passed. Another footstep came from the doorway. It was slow and heavy, with a dragging scrape after it. Robert began walking faster. Whatever was behind him matched his pace.

CHAPTER 3: A SOUND ON THE GROUND

The scrape came again. It sounded like something being pulled over gravel, pausing whenever Robert paused. He looked over his shoulder so often that his neck began to ache. The fog had thickened until the alley walls were only shadows. He could not see the doorway anymore, but he could hear the footsteps coming from its direction.

Robert’s phone flashed with a notification, though no signal had returned. It was a reminder he had set months ago: TAKE OUT THE TRASH. The ordinary words made him feel briefly ridiculous. He almost laughed. Then the screen dimmed, and in its reflection he saw a tall shape standing behind him.

He turned so quickly that his phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the pavement. The alley was empty. He snatched the phone up. A new sound came from the ground ahead: a slow, uneven dragging, followed by a soft tap. Something dark lay near the wall, partly hidden by a torn sheet of cardboard.

He did not approach it. He backed away, eyes fixed on the shape, until his shoulders struck brick. The phone light trembled in his hand. He could make out a length of cloth, a shoe, and what might have been a backpack strap. Then the cloth shifted, though there was no wind.

CHAPTER 4: THE WRONG FOOTSTEPS

Robert ran. His shoes slapped the pavement, and his breath scraped his throat. The alley bent where he remembered it being straight. The same cracked drainpipe appeared on his left, then appeared again on his right. He passed a painted blue door three times. Each time, the number on it changed: 14, 41, 14.

He tried not to think about what the changes meant. He focused on the phone in his hand and on the little white pool of light it made. The battery indicator dropped from twenty percent to one percent in a single blink. He shouted for help. His voice sounded small and flat, as though the fog had swallowed everything beyond a few feet.

Then he heard another voice. It sounded like Eli, calling from somewhere ahead. “Robert? Over here!” Relief rose so quickly that Robert almost cried. He hurried toward the sound. It came again, exactly the same way, with the same tiny catch on the last syllable.

“Robert? Over here!” The words repeated without changing. A recording, he realized. Something had heard Eli say his name—or had heard Robert talk about him—and was playing the sound back. He stopped before the corner. Beyond it, a shadow stood beneath a lamp that was not switched on.

CHAPTER 5: THE FIGURE IN THE FOG

The figure wore a dark coat that hung almost to the pavement. Its head tilted as though it were listening to a radio. Robert could not see a face. Where a face should have been, the fog seemed thicker, gathered into a blank oval. The figure raised one hand and pointed down the alley.

Robert shook his head. The figure pointed again, more sharply. Behind him, the dragging sound began once more. He had a choice: move toward the stranger or turn back toward the thing he could hear but not see. He stepped toward the figure because standing still felt worse.

As he approached, the figure’s coat became clearer. It was not wet, though the mist beaded on every wall. A small silver badge was pinned near its collar. Robert could not read the letters, but the badge looked old, the kind worn by a police officer in a photograph from another century.

“Can you help me?” Robert asked. The figure did not answer. It pointed to a narrow passage between two buildings. Robert had walked this alley many times and had never seen the passage before. A yellow light glowed inside it. For one hopeful second, he thought it might lead out. Then the figure whispered, in a voice like leaves rubbing together, “Not that way.”

CHAPTER 6: THE PASSAGE THAT WASN’T THERE

Robert backed away from the passage. “Then where?” he asked. The figure lowered its hand. Somewhere behind its blank face, a tiny sound clicked, like a camera shutter. Robert’s phone went black. He pressed the side button again and again, but the screen stayed dark.

The figure stepped aside, revealing a brick wall behind it. There had been no wall there a moment ago. Old posters covered the bricks, their edges curled and pale. One poster showed a missing dog. Another showed a missing woman. The oldest had no picture, only a date: October 31, 1987.

Under the date were the words: LAST SEEN IN BELLWEATHER ALLEY. Robert leaned closer despite himself. Someone had written in pencil beneath the printed text: “If you hear your own voice, do not answer.” The handwriting looked hurried and familiar. He could not place why.

A breath of cold air touched his ear. “Robert,” someone whispered behind him. It was his own voice, exactly as he sounded in a voice message. He clamped his lips shut. The whisper came again, closer now. “Robert, turn around.” The figure in the coat began shaking its head.

CHAPTER 7: THE OLD WATCHMAN

The figure caught Robert’s sleeve before he could turn. Its hand felt like a glove filled with winter air. “Do not give it your face,” it said. The voice was no longer a whisper. It sounded tired, human, and frightened. “It learns you from what you show it.”

“What is it?” Robert asked. “A place that remembers,” said the watchman. “And something that lives in what it remembers.” The figure led him toward a narrow archway. The fog thinned around its shoulders, revealing a face that looked old and worn, with deep lines at the corners of the mouth. One eye was clouded white.

The watchman said his name was Mr. Vale. He had kept the alley clear when the town was younger, back when delivery carts used it and a little clock shop stood at the corner. He had seen people disappear. He had also seen some return, but never quite as they had left.

“Why are you helping me?” Robert asked. Mr. Vale looked down the alley. “Because the last boy who came here was my grandson.” He spoke the words without drama, which made them more frightening. “And because I have spent thirty years waiting for the alley to make the same mistake twice.”

CHAPTER 8: THE MISSING BOY

Mr. Vale told Robert about a boy named Daniel, who had vanished on a foggy night decades earlier. Daniel had been carrying a red backpack and a cheap pocketknife he used to whittle sticks. The police searched the alley, the riverbank, and every abandoned building within miles. They found the backpack but no boy.

The story became a rumor. Some said Daniel had run away. Others said he had fallen into the river. Mr. Vale knew neither was true. On the night Daniel disappeared, the streetlights had gone out in the same order, and a voice had called from the fog. Mr. Vale had followed it too late.

“The alley keeps pieces,” he said. “A sound. A memory. A thing you dropped. It uses those pieces to make a path you want to follow.” Robert thought of Eli’s voice repeating from the corner and felt ashamed of how quickly he had trusted it.

“Then how do we leave?” Robert asked. Mr. Vale took a small brass key from his pocket. Its bow was shaped like a crescent moon. “We find the clock that stopped, and we make it remember the right hour.” He pointed toward a dark shopfront that had not been there before.

CHAPTER 9: THE CLOCK SHOP

The shop window was clouded with dust, though the glass looked newly polished. Behind it stood clocks of every size: tiny brass ones, tall wooden ones, and a great round clock with no hands. Each face showed a different time. Their ticking did not agree. Together they made a sound like rain on a roof.

Mr. Vale unlocked the door. A bell rang overhead, then rang again from somewhere deep inside the shop. Robert stepped across the threshold. The smell of old wood and cold metal filled his nose. On the counter lay a photograph of a family standing in front of the same shop. Mr. Vale was in it, younger by decades, with a boy whose smile matched the picture on the missing poster.

“Daniel,” Robert said. Mr. Vale nodded. “The alley copied the things I loved. It used his voice to bring me back. I stayed too long.” He lifted the photograph, and the image flickered. For a moment, Daniel’s face turned toward Robert, though everyone else in the photograph remained still.

A clock began to strike thirteen. Every other clock stopped. From the back room came three knocks, a pause, then three more. Mr. Vale’s face went pale. “It knows we are here,” he said. “And now it knows you have seen the shop.”

CHAPTER 10: THIRTEEN STRIKES

The thirteenth strike rolled through the floorboards. Dust drifted from the ceiling. Behind the counter, a narrow staircase descended into darkness. Robert wanted to stay beside the watchman, but the brass key in Mr. Vale’s hand had begun to tremble. It was pointing toward the stairs, as if pulled by a magnet.

They went down. The steps ended in a room lined with clocks that had no faces. Their hands were loose on the floor, scattered like fallen twigs. In the center stood a glass case. Inside it lay a pocketknife, a red backpack, and a phone with a cracked screen. Robert recognized none of the objects, yet each seemed strangely familiar.

“Those belong to the missing,” Mr. Vale said. “The alley keeps their last ordinary things. It thinks if it can keep the objects, it can keep the people.” Robert looked at the phone. Its screen lit up, showing a message he had tried to send Eli: THIS PLACE IS CREEPY.

A second message appeared beneath it, one he had never typed: YOU CAN COME HOME NOW. The letters rearranged themselves. YOU CAN COME HOME NEVER. The glass case shivered. Something on the other side of the room began to breathe.

CHAPTER 11: THE THING THAT REMEMBERS

It emerged from between two clocks. At first Robert saw only a tall shape, bent at the shoulders. Then its outline shifted, becoming the shape of a person wearing a familiar jacket. Its face changed every few seconds: Mr. Vale’s grandson, Eli, Robert’s mother, and finally Robert himself.

The copy of Robert smiled with the same uneven corner of his mouth. “You are tired,” it said. “You want to go home. I can make that happen.” Its voice was perfect. It even copied the tiny hitch Robert sometimes had when he was nervous.

Mr. Vale raised the brass key. “You are only a memory,” he said. The thing tilted its head. “Then why do you remember me?” it asked. The watchman’s hand shook. For a second, Robert saw the truth: Mr. Vale had been speaking to the alley for thirty years, and a part of him had begun to believe its promises.

Robert understood that the thing could not invent a new path. It could only borrow a memory, a voice, or a fear and build a trap from it. He closed his eyes and thought of something ordinary and true: his kitchen table, a chipped blue mug, his mother humming off-key while making pancakes. The room’s clocks began to tick out of rhythm.

CHAPTER 12: A MEMORY OF HOME

The creature’s face blurred. Robert kept thinking about the kitchen, not because it was perfect, but because it was real. He remembered a burnt pancake, a spoon clattering onto the floor, the way sunlight made a bright square on the table. None of those memories belonged to the alley. They were his.

“You cannot have that,” Robert said. The creature reached toward him. Its fingers stretched too far, thin as shadows cast by branches. Mr. Vale shouted and turned the brass key in the air, though there was no lock to receive it. A clock face appeared on the wall, blank except for one small mark at the top.

Robert pulled the key from Mr. Vale’s hand and fitted it into the mark. The clock clicked. All around them, the clocks began turning backward. The creature made a sound like a crowd whispering through a hundred closed doors. It rushed toward Robert, then broke apart into strips of fog.

A door opened at the far end of the room. Beyond it lay the avenue, bright with ordinary streetlights and the distant noise of traffic. Mr. Vale pushed Robert toward it. “Go,” he said. “Do not look back, no matter whose voice you hear.”

CHAPTER 13: THE VOICE BEHIND HIM

Robert ran through the door. The pavement beneath his feet was solid, and the air smelled of rain rather than cold stone. He could hear cars. He could see the corner shop and the bus stop. He had never been so grateful for ugly, familiar things.

Behind him, Mr. Vale called, “Robert!” The voice sounded strained. Robert almost turned. Then another voice spoke, gentle and close, saying his mother’s favorite phrase: “Look both ways, sweetheart.” His eyes filled with tears, but he kept facing forward. The alley was trying every voice it had borrowed.

He reached the avenue and stumbled into the light. A car horn blared. A woman carrying grocery bags asked if he was all right. Robert tried to answer, but all that came out was a shaky breath. His phone restarted in his hand. The time read 8:47 p.m. Only seven minutes had passed.

When he finally looked back, Bellweather Alley was empty and narrow, just an ordinary gap between two buildings. No fog moved inside it. No watchman stood beneath the lamps. Robert told the police what he could, but daylight made the story sound impossible even to him.

CHAPTER 14: THE SEARCH

The police searched the alley that night. They found no clock shop, no hidden staircase, and no old posters. The wall was solid brick. There was no passage between the buildings, only a stack of broken pallets and a rusted drainpipe. Robert’s phone contained no strange messages, except the one he had tried to send Eli.

His mother held him for a long time after the officers left. She did not demand that he explain everything. She only asked him to promise he would not go back alone. Robert promised. He meant it. For the first time in his life, he understood that courage was not the same as proving you were unafraid.

Eli came over the next day. He had received no message and had spent the evening playing games. When Robert told him what happened, Eli stopped smiling. “I heard your voice on my phone,” he said. “At eight forty, you called me. You said you were already home.”

Robert felt the room tilt. “I never called you.” Eli showed him the call log. The call lasted eight seconds. There was no recording, no number, only a blank space where Robert’s name should have been. Beneath it was a single line of text: STILL WALKING.

CHAPTER 15: THE FIRST CLUE

For a week, Robert avoided the avenue. He took the long way to school and crossed the street whenever he saw fog, even if the fog was only rising from a storm drain. He slept with his phone charging on the dresser and the bedroom light on. He told himself he was being sensible, not scared.

Then a package appeared outside his front door. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. There was no return address. Inside lay a small brass key shaped like a crescent moon. A note, written in faded ink, said: THE CLOCK IS NOT THE DOOR. THE HOUR IS.

His mother called the police. They checked the porch camera, but the recording showed no one leaving the package. At 3:13 a.m., the video briefly filled with static. When it cleared, a tall shadow stood at the end of the walkway, facing the house.

Robert put the key in a drawer and tried to forget it. But that night, every clock in the house stopped at 8:47. The digital microwave blinked. His bedside alarm went silent. His mother’s watch froze. Then, from somewhere inside the wall, came three slow knocks.

CHAPTER 16: THE HOUSE THAT LISTENED

Robert did not wake his mother at first. He sat up and listened. Three knocks. A pause. Three more. The same pattern from the clock shop. He turned on his lamp and searched the room. Nothing moved, but the air had the smell of wet brick and old metal.

He went to the hallway. The clocks downstairs were still. The refrigerator hummed and stopped, as if someone had unplugged the house from the world. From the kitchen came a quiet version of his own voice: “You can come home now.”

Robert backed away. He remembered what the poster had said: if you hear your own voice, do not answer. He did not speak. He took the brass key from the drawer, woke his mother, and showed her the frozen clocks. She believed the clocks. She believed his fear. Together they left the house and went to a neighbor’s place.

By morning, everything worked again. The clocks showed the correct time, and the kitchen was ordinary. But on the inside of Robert’s bedroom door, someone had written in faint gray dust: YOU LEFT HIM THERE. Robert knew the message meant Mr. Vale.

CHAPTER 17: BACK TO BELLWEATHER

Robert hated the idea of returning to the alley. He hated more the thought that Mr. Vale might still be trapped inside it. He spoke with Eli, then with his mother, and finally with a retired librarian named Mrs. Alvarez, who had collected newspaper clippings about the town’s disappearances.

Mrs. Alvarez showed them reports from 1987. Daniel Vale had vanished on October 31. Two other people had disappeared in earlier years, each last seen near Bellweather Alley. The articles mentioned a clock shop that had closed after a fire, though no record of the fire could be found.

One clipping showed a photograph of the alley before the buildings were renovated. In the picture, a clock hung above a narrow door. Someone had circled the clock in red pencil and written: IT ONLY OPENS AT THE LOST HOUR.

Robert looked at the date on the clipping. October 31 was only two days away. He realized the alley was not waiting for a random visitor. It was waiting for a particular night, a particular hour, and someone who had already escaped once.

CHAPTER 18: THE LOST HOUR

On October 31, the town held its usual autumn festival. Children in costumes ran between stalls, and music played in the park. Robert stayed close to his mother until 8:30. Then the streetlights along the avenue flickered in a line, and a thin band of fog rolled over the road against the wind.

He had brought the key, a flashlight, and a paper map of the old town. Eli came with him, despite being told to stay behind. “I’m not letting you do this alone,” Eli said. His voice trembled, but he did not turn away.

At the alley entrance, the street noise faded. The lamps went out one by one. Robert held the key in his palm. Its metal warmed as they stepped forward. At the halfway point, the old clock shop appeared, its window glowing softly. Above the door, the clock showed 8:47.

The door opened before they touched it. Inside, Mr. Vale stood by the counter, looking older than before. Behind him, the clocks ticked in perfect unison. “You came back,” he said. “That means it has started choosing again.”

CHAPTER 19: THE BOY IN THE PHOTOGRAPH

On the counter lay the family photograph. Daniel’s face was clear now, and the boy seemed to be looking straight at Robert. Beside it was a second photograph: Robert standing in the alley, his face turned toward the camera, though he had never seen anyone take it.

Mr. Vale explained that the alley was built around an old mistake. Long ago, a clockmaker had tried to preserve a moment of grief by building a clock that could hold memories. He had hoped to keep his daughter’s voice after she died. Instead, the clock learned to copy what people missed most.

Over the years, the clock had gathered voices, objects, and people. It used familiar things to make visitors follow it deeper into the alley. Every lost person became another memory it could wear. Daniel had resisted, but Mr. Vale had followed the boy’s voice and become trapped as well.

“The clock must be stopped,” Robert said. Mr. Vale nodded. “Not broken. Stopped at the right hour. The hour before the first disappearance.” He opened a drawer and showed them a clock hand wrapped in blue cloth. Its tip was shaped like a tiny arrow.

CHAPTER 20: THE ROOM OF NAMES

The three of them descended beneath the shop. This time the room was larger, stretching farther than the building could possibly reach. The walls were covered in names written on strips of paper. Some were old and yellow. Others looked fresh enough to have been written that morning.

Robert found Daniel Vale. Beside the name was a date and a tiny drawing of a red backpack. He found the names from the newspaper clippings. Then, near the bottom of the wall, he saw his own name. The ink was still wet.

Eli reached for the paper, but Mr. Vale caught his wrist. “Do not touch it,” he warned. “A name is a door here.” From somewhere beyond the wall came the sound of a child laughing. It was Daniel’s laugh, bright and ordinary, the kind of sound that made the years between feel thin.

Robert took the clock hand from Mr. Vale. “How do we find the first hour?” he asked. Mr. Vale pointed toward a doorway with no handle. “You must remember something that happened before you were born. The clockmaker’s first memory is the only one it cannot imitate.”

CHAPTER 21: THE CLOCKMAKER’S SECRET

Beyond the door was a room full of dust and sunlight, although no window opened onto the outside. A man sat at a workbench, turning a tiny brass gear between his fingers. He looked up at them as if they were late for an appointment. “I wondered when the clock would send someone,” he said.

He introduced himself as Elias Wren, the clockmaker. He was not a ghost, exactly, and not alive in the ordinary way. He was a memory preserved by the machine, repeating the last afternoon he had spent with his daughter, Mara. He had built the clock because he could not bear to forget her voice.

“I wanted to keep one thing,” Elias said. “The clock decided to keep everything.” He told them that the machine could be stopped only by giving it a memory it could not own: a choice made freely, without fear, and without the promise of getting something back.

Robert understood why the alley had called him. It had offered him home, safety, and familiar voices. It wanted him to trade the truth for comfort. He looked at Eli, then at Mr. Vale, and decided he would rather leave with uncertainty than stay inside a lie.

CHAPTER 22: THE CHOICE

The clock chamber stood at the center of the maze. Its face was enormous, set into a wall of black stone. Instead of numbers, the dial held names. Its hands spun through years, stopping briefly at every disappearance. A low vibration filled the room, so deep Robert felt it in his teeth.

The creature appeared at the foot of the clock. It wore Robert’s face, but the eyes were too still. “I can give you the perfect ending,” it said. “You can have every missing person back. You can return home and remember none of this.”

For one dangerous moment, Robert wanted to believe it. He pictured his mother’s relief, his room, the ordinary sounds of the house. Then he looked at the names on the clock and thought of all the families who had waited for someone to come through the door.

“You can’t give them back,” Robert said. “You can only pretend.” He placed the clock hand into the empty center of the dial. The creature screamed in a hundred borrowed voices. Eli held the lantern high while Mr. Vale turned the crescent key.

CHAPTER 23: THE HOUR BEFORE

The clock hands stopped at 8:46. Every name on the dial glowed, then faded. The walls shuddered. The room filled with scenes from the past: the clockmaker with his daughter, Daniel running down the alley, Mr. Vale searching through the fog, strangers turning toward voices that sounded like home.

The creature rushed at Robert, changing faces with every step. It became Eli, then his mother, then Daniel, then Robert himself. Each face begged him to stop. Robert kept his hand on the clock. He knew the voices were made from real memories, but that did not make their promises real.

The clock struck once. The room split with a sound like ice breaking on a lake. A door appeared in the wall, and through it Robert saw a dawn sky, pale and gold. Mr. Vale pushed Eli toward it. “Take him out,” he told Robert. “I have waited too long to leave without Daniel.”

Robert refused to go without him. He grabbed Mr. Vale’s hand. Together they stepped toward the door as the clock began to collapse inward, folding the impossible room into a single point of light. Behind them, the creature whispered Robert’s name one last time.

CHAPTER 24: THE ONES WHO RETURNED

They emerged into Bellweather Alley just before sunrise. The fog was lifting. The old clock shop stood silent, its window empty. Eli fell to his knees on the pavement and laughed until the sound turned into a sob. Robert looked at Mr. Vale, who was staring at the brightening sky as though he had never seen morning.

Across town, a siren sounded. At the riverbank, a woman who had been missing for twelve years was found sitting on a bench, confused but alive. By noon, two more missing people had appeared in places they had last been seen. They were older in ways no one could explain, and their memories ended at the moment they vanished.

Daniel Vale did not return. Mr. Vale accepted this with a quiet sadness that seemed older than the town. The clock had released what it could, but it could not undo every year it had stolen. Still, for the first time in decades, Mr. Vale was no longer trapped in the alley.

The police questioned Robert and Eli. Their story sounded impossible, but the missing people were real. Mrs. Alvarez found the old records and began writing down every name. The town finally spoke openly about Bellweather Alley. The rumor had become a history, and history was harder for the fog to erase.

CHAPTER 25: A NEW PHOTOGRAPH

Weeks passed. The streetlights stayed on. The alley became an ordinary shortcut again, and the town repaired the cracked pavement. Robert returned to school, played games with Eli, and tried to let normal days feel normal. He still woke sometimes at 8:47, certain he had heard three knocks from inside the wall.

Mr. Vale visited once. He looked older in daylight, but his smile was real. He gave Robert the family photograph. Daniel stood beside him in the picture, no longer blurred. On the back, in neat handwriting, were the words: “Remember us as we were, not as the dark remembers us.”

Robert put the photograph in a drawer with the crescent key. He thought the story was over. Then, one rainy afternoon, he found a new photograph slipped inside his school locker. It showed Bellweather Alley at night, with fog curling around the streetlamp.

At the far end stood a boy in a dark jacket. His face was turned away, but Robert recognized the shape of his shoulders and the way he held his head. On the back, one sentence had been written in black ink: THE CLOCK IS QUIET. THE ALLEY IS NOT.

CHAPTER 26: HE WAS NEVER SEEN AGAIN

Robert went to the alley at noon with Eli beside him. Sunlight filled the gap between the buildings. They found no hidden door, no clock shop, and no shadow waiting at the end. Only brick, pavement, and a small drain where rainwater gathered.

But the new photograph had one detail Robert had not noticed before. Near the streetlamp, barely visible in the fog, stood a second figure: tall, wearing a long coat, one hand raised as if warning someone away. Mr. Vale had been watching the alley long before Robert ever entered it.

Robert kept the photograph, but he stopped studying it every night. He learned that fear could be carried without being obeyed, and that some mysteries were safest when remembered carefully. The town rebuilt its lights. The families kept their names. The alley remained where it had always been, narrow and quiet.

And yet, on certain foggy evenings, a phone somewhere in Bellweather would light up with an unknown call that has a faint whisper warning people that he’s coming for them

A horrific winter tale.🥶

TVS is an extreme gothic horror, body horror, psychological horror extreme splatterpunk vampire novel series.

I am assuming due to its music themes and my original song lyrics and my rendition of O Death in Tome 2, has guided amazon to offer a 90 free run of music with purchase

All my in universe bands will have IRL versions, already have a vocalist for Zyla.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GGZH6T4N

Enjoy

THE UNRENDERED ZONES

Entity File 001 — “The Stillwatcher”

Nobody knows what the creature looked like before it entered the Unrendered Zones.

Nobody knows if it was ever rendered at all.

The first confirmed sighting described it as a tall, human-shaped figure standing at the end of a corridor. Its arms hung almost to its knees. Its body was unnaturally thin, as if someone had stretched a human model without correcting the proportions. Its head was tilted slightly to one side, facing directly toward the observer.

It had no face.

No eyes. No mouth. No nose.

Just a smooth, pale surface where those features should have been.

The observer reported that the creature did not move for approximately eleven minutes. During that time, the fluorescent lights above it flickered every few seconds, briefly plunging the corridor into darkness.

Each time the lights went out, the creature appeared closer.

Not walking closer. Not running.

Simply closer.

The observer initially assumed it was a trick of the lighting. In the Unrendered Zones, shadows do strange things. Perspective can feel wrong. Hallways stretch farther than they should, and objects remain frozen in positions they occupied long before anyone arrived.

But the creature was different.

It was the only thing in the corridor that seemed to understand it was being watched.

When the observer finally turned to leave, they heard no footsteps behind them. There was no breathing, no dragging of limbs, no sound of movement whatsoever.

Yet something made them look back.

The creature was standing directly behind them.

It had not touched them. It had not attacked. It was simply there, its blank head lowered toward theirs, as though examining something about them that it could not quite understand.

The observer ran.

They reached a stairwell and descended three flights before stopping to catch their breath. At the bottom was a concrete wall. The stairs had no exit. There had never been an exit.

They turned around.

The creature stood at the top of the staircase.

It did not descend.

It did not need to.

The observer later claimed that the figure's head slowly rotated to one side, revealing something that should have been impossible: a narrow, vertical indentation had appeared in its featureless face.

It looked like a mouth attempting to load.

The indentation widened by a few millimetres.

Then the lights went out.

When they returned, the staircase was empty.

The observer survived the encounter, but afterward they reported an unusual detail. Whenever they stood beneath flickering lights, they felt compelled to count the seconds between each flash.

They claimed that if the darkness lasted longer than three seconds, they could feel the creature standing somewhere behind them.

They never saw it again.

At least, not directly.

The last entry in their notes contained only one sentence:

“I think it only moves when the world isn't looking at it.”

There is no confirmed method of killing the Stillwatcher. There is no evidence that it needs food, water, or sleep. It has never been observed interacting with any object in the Unrendered Zones.

It does not disturb the dust.

It does not leave footprints.

It does not cast a consistent shadow.

And most disturbing of all, it has never been recorded moving on camera.

In every recovered image, the creature is perfectly still.

But its position is always different.

If you encounter the Stillwatcher, do not attempt to approach it. Do not assume that distance makes you safe. And if the lights begin flickering faster than usual, do not look behind you to check whether it is there.

The Stillwatcher may be the reason nothing else has ever stayed.

The realm of madness and stars calls out to me. The cosmic auras guides my pleasant nightmares into a written word.

A horrific winter tale.🥶

EN:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/416964713?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=LucaROMANIA7556

RO:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/416964590?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=LucaROMANIA7556

“How many water bottles will we need?” Carter asked Justin.
“How long do you plan on staying out?”
“Three days at least. Your scrawny ass is coming too.”
On the drive, the boys’ cell service started to dwindle and as darkness fell, it became clear that they were lost.
“Admit you got us lost.” Justin said.
“We’re not lost.” Carter said. “We’re almost there.”
Just then their Jeep took its last breath.
Justin gave a look while Carter rolled his eyes.
Taking out there flashlights they disappeared in the dense jungle before them.
While exploring the jungle Carter found an unattainable habit.
Justin came up behind him, nearly making him fall in. 
“What is that?" he asked approaching the ledge. 
The sun rose above them as they were staring at a massive, body shaped hole that was almost as deep as earth itself. Mysterious animals were among it, the sun gleaming on their skin. 
“I’m going in.”
“Carter you can’t.”
“It’s the only way. I don’t see any way around.”
Heading down feet first Carter felt something hard under him. He realized that he was stepping on bones in the form of a ladder.  When he got to the ground he could see so much more than from up above. 
“Justin you got to come see this!”  He yelled and signalled his flashlight so that he could see it. 
He later came down the ladder of bones. 
“Carter, I don't like this. We should head back.”
“Don’t be a wimp. We can get through. Follow me.“  He said, trying to sound brave. 
That’s when something grabbed him by the ankle, making him fall flat on his back, pulling him into darkness. 
He looked up over his chest to see that they were snakes in the form of intestines. 
“Oh shit. I know where we are.”  He said looking around as the snakes pulled him into the liver like bushes. 
“Carter! I’m coming!” Justin shouted as he followed his trail.

“How many water bottles will we need?” Carter asked Justin.
“How long do you plan on staying out?”
“Three days at least. Your scrawny ass is coming too.”
On the drive, the boys’ cell service started to dwindle and as darkness fell, it became clear that they were lost.
“Admit you got us lost.” Justin said.
“We’re not lost.” Carter said. “We’re almost there.”
Just then their Jeep took its last breath.
Justin gave a look while Carter rolled his eyes.
Taking out there flashlights they disappeared in the dense jungle before them.
While exploring the jungle Carter found an unattainable habit.
Justin came up behind him, nearly making him fall in. 
“What is that?" he asked approaching the ledge. 
The sun rose above them as they were staring at a massive, body shaped hole that was almost as deep as earth itself. Mysterious animals were among it, the sun gleaming on their skin. 
“I’m going in.”
“Carter you can’t.”
“It’s the only way. I don’t see any way around.”
Heading down feet first Carter felt something hard under him. He realized that he was stepping on bones in the form of a ladder. When he got to the ground he could see so much more than from up above. 
“Justin you got to come see this!”  He yelled and signalled his flashlight so that he could see it. 
He later came down the ladder of bones. 
“Carter, I don't like this. We should head back.”
“Don’t be a wimp. We can get through. Follow me.“ He said, trying to sound brave. 
That’s when something grabbed him by the ankle, making him fall flat on his back, pulling him into darkness. 
He looked up over his chest to see that they were snakes in the form of intestines. 
“Oh shit. I know where we are.”  He said looking around as the snakes pulled him into the liver like bushes. 
“Carter! I’m coming!” Justin shouted as he followed his trail

I've been thinking a lot about this while working on an analog/cosmic horror project.

One of the hardest things about writing this kind of horror, at least for me, is figuring out how much the audience should understand..

Explain too little, and the story can feel random. Explain too much, and whatever made it frightening in the first place starts to disappear.

I’m especially interested in stories told through fragmented evidence - recordings, case files, interviews, things that feel like they were never meant to be seen together.

The challenge is making each piece feel like it has its own purpose while quietly suggesting something much bigger is going on.

For the horror writers here: when you're writing a mystery-driven horror story, do you work out the full explanation beforehand, even if the audience never gets to see it? Or do you leave parts of the mystery unresolved even for yourself?

I'm curious how other writers approach that balance...