For centuries, people have feared curses—often dismissing them as folklore or superstition. But what if there's more to them than just myth? From the strange power of belief to eerie historical coincidences, this article explores the possibility that curses might be more than psychological—they could be disturbingly real. Dive into the evidence and decide for yourself.

Macy arrives back home from picking up movie night snacks only to find her entire family dead and the streets flooded with police cars and sirens. Who could have done this and is the Killer still out there waiting to kill Macy too?

Sins of the Heir" is a slow-burning, dark romance about control, obsession, and love born in the most dangerous places. Ivy Laurent, a smart but guarded art forensics specialist, is blackmailed into working for the notorious Morello crime family to authenticate priceless paintings used to smuggle millions. There, she meets Cassian Morello the quiet, volatile heir to a bloody empire. Cold, unreadable, and terrifyingly magnetic, Cassian is a man shaped by violence and shadows. He doesn’t believe in love. She doesn’t believe in men like him. But desire doesn’t care about belief. And monsters don’t always hide in the dark sometimes, they wear suits and whisper your name like a promise.

In a quiet European village frozen in time, a young girl stumbles upon an abandoned clock shop that hides a time-bending secret. Inside, she meets a strange man who claims to be a “chronotailor” — someone who mends the timeline like a seamstress fixes torn cloth. As reality begins to unravel, she must decide whether to fix the past, face the future, or destroy the ticking heart of time itself.

She’s a young writer chasing clarity in chaos—documenting heartbreak, healing, late-night thoughts, and everything in between. In a world that rarely slows down, she turns stillness into art and silence into stories. Notes Over the Dark is her journey through the shadows, where every line is a confession and every word is a light

"Sister?" Harding asked, looking at the photos from the locket again. The little girl. "What happened to her?" "Car accident, five years ago. Hit and run. Never found the driver. The girl's name was Lily. Mr. Vance said Eleanor was devastated. Never quite got over it. Especially since Lily was the one who drew the little hummingbird on Eleanor's arm, a childish doodle that Eleanor later had tattooed."

the last chapter / chapter 1. of a cool thriller a story about an island found by Isabella . a white girl with a blue hair who was lost in her own world woke up and everything started changing for her she had to go to the deep sea so she can protect her island until one day she noticed someone was also in the island she made friends with the person and from there they wanted to know how the real world is so they have to start searching where and who is on the island from them to survive they needed everything to survive.

Loosing someone forever that drives you mad. Knowing you were more than friends but less than lovers.

We met each other when we were 12. Though, he was closer to 13 than I was. Instantly, we fell in love. Or say-what we thought was love.- Out story began at a young age; but ended when he died because no one cared about his feelings, not even me. Was it my fault? I began digging deep into what our relationship was and looked over all the missed signs of depression. He cared about me and I was selfish. But was I? Did I really not care about him at all?

Izzy never was the competitive type. Standing 5 feet 2 inches tall, with short mousy brown hair and chunky dark rimmed glasses.  A girl in her mid thirty's with multiple talents and multiple personalities and a huge case of imposter syndrome. She was frozen inside. The last thing she needed was a dead body being found at the local grocery market that day. Through all of her therapy sessions, her work to integrate her multiples, she couldn’t put a name to it but someone, something was always lurking around the corner to point a finger at her for something she didn't do. Her therapist called it paranoia. Izzy called it intuition. Thinking about it too much made her feel sweaty and anxious and her heart would race as the nausea set in. She heard Tae giggle in her ear. Not again she thought. Not again..

This is a fake game of bugsnax that starts from a package to a Journey to stop what he started. An apocalyptic world of bugsnax.

What is the river of emptyness? Why is it written as emptyness instead of emptiness? All answers are found here but all new questions flows from here too.

A lost child? A crazy person? Who keeps yelling "MOM"? This is a short story that can be taken in a few ways, is it about how long it will take before you just ignore what's bothering you? Or is it about with time the answer will reveal itself? Let me know what you got out of this story, I am open to tips with writing also this is my first story ever posted.

The crown lay in the dirt, its black thorns coiled like serpents, humming with memory. When his fingers brushed the metal, a vision tore through him— a throne of bone, a mirror screaming, and his own voice shouting, “Run.” And then the voice came, calm and cold: “If you wear the Hollow Crown… you don’t come back.”

Her phone rang with her own number flashing on the screen. When she answered, her voice whispered from the other end: “Don’t go near the mirror.”

In the quiet solitude of the late-night supermarket, the fluorescent lights hummed a steady rhythm, casting stark shadows across the gleaming floors. The aisles were mostly empty, the shelves towering like silent sentinels, holding their stock in neat, orderly rows. The candy-colored packaging and glossy labels were a stark contrast to the muted palette of the store's more mundane offerings. Only a few shoppers remained, their carts echoing through the Then she finds a peacock quill in a small box and She was let on a journey of “the trials of the deserted islands”

This is the first chapter of the story. It is literally just John and Andrea arriving at Frank and Annie's house and bickering.

Her daughter received a music box from a distant relative. It only played at night—and never the same tune twice. One night, it played her name.

The roots recoiled as he brushed them aside, revealing the stone slab buried beneath centuries of silence. A single word was carved there—etched deep, as if to wound the world itself: RHYNE. He whispered it before realizing. And the forest heard. The sigil on his palm flared crimson. The wind screamed through the trees. And from beneath the roots, something slithered forth—pale, eyeless, and bowing. “The forgotten prince returns…” it hissed. But he wasn’t ready to wear that name again.

She was only supposed to drive ten minutes. But the road wouldn’t end. And the longer she drove, the louder the breathing got—from the backseat.