SPOILERS. A Mystery book that revolves around two girls going back to a childhood camp, and back to a secret they both promise to keep. This is my ramble on the book. I haven't read it in a while, but I have written down my thoughts. Please don't take this as criticism or anything. Just a short ramble.

I then came across another Oshun painting. As large if not larger than the one earlier. Behind a glass case to protect it from the humidity and chemicals. It looked just like the previous painting but the subjects were different. It had a gold plate attached with the inscription: Aphrodite Oshun: Second Ascension. I must have had it twisted. The older of the two was now African and the “niece” was not. Maybe South African? The previous artpiece must have been Oshun the younger and now here she is, the older of the two. I walked around and got the lay of the land. Nothing else stood out but that feeling of not being alone. I looked up at those swirling eyes and figured I had enough of being stared at.

Prelog What is real? What isn't? Harrahs Echos She can't silence them These dreams are going to get the best of her, She's gotta let Harrah know..

I froze in the middle of the undulating floor, staring at my double, the one beckoning from the flickering amber light. Every fiber of my being screamed to retreat, to run back toward the memory of my living room, the faint hum of the TV, the comforting beige walls and sun-faded carpet. But I couldn’t move. The faceless figures had formed a corridor behind me, a silent gauntlet urging me forward, pushing me with invisible hands. Then the train shifted. Not just forward—it bent. The rails, the walls, the floor all swirled together, warping space like molten metal. I stumbled but didn’t fall. My double smiled wider now, something knowing, almost cruel in the way it revealed my fear.

The moment my foot touched the wet platform, the world shifted entirely. Gravity felt thicker, like I was wading through syrup. The faceless figures kept moving with mechanical precision, their boots splashing in puddles that mirrored the amber light from the train windows. I wanted to step back, but the platform stretched behind me into fog, dissolving into nothing. The living room, my tiny TV, the couch—they were still there, ghostly outlines behind me, tethering me to some fragile sense of reality I could barely cling to. The train was closer now. Its hiss was deafening, steam curling around my face, hot and metallic. The smell of pizza clung to it, absurd and impossible in combination with the sharp, oily scent of the engine. My stomach twisted. I realized I could hear it—the faint, rhythmic echo of my own heartbeat, perfectly synced with the thrum of the rails.

The vibration under my feet persisted, subtle yet insistent, like the heartbeat of something enormous moving just beneath the floorboards. I sat frozen, my eyes locked on the tiny TV, watching my double—or whatever that was—reach forward as if it could step through the screen. My hands trembled. I wanted to grab the remote, yank the cord out of the wall, do anything that would stop it, but it felt like the room had grown heavier, every movement slowed by invisible weight.

The next morning, I woke with the faint taste of pizza grease in my mouth, like a dream I couldn’t fully remember. The tiny TV sat quietly on its rickety table, innocuous, almost apologetic, as if nothing had happened. I poured coffee, the steam rising in lazy curls, and kept glancing at the screen, half-expecting the words NEXT STOP to vanish or wink at me, some reassurance that it was just a weird dream. But the TV remained black, silent, patient. Waiting. I didn’t want to turn it on. I knew better. Something about it had changed. The scratches, the name, the smell—it wasn’t just a channel anymore. Something had shifted.

I have a tiny TV. That’s how I always think of it, not the tiny TV, just my tiny TV, like a pet with poor manners. It sits on a tiny table—particleboard, one leg shimmed with a folded receipt—in the middle of my adequately sized living room. The room is big enough that the TV looks embarrassed to be there, like it wandered in by mistake and decided to stay. Couch against the wall. Window that faces nothing important. Carpet that remembers better decades. Everything reasonable. Everything quiet. The TV gets one channel.

He was standing near the water as she watched from afar. They both knew what was going to happen, but neither wanted to speak about it.

What started as a typical fun day out ended with what felt like the climax of a thriller/horror movie. Sometimes the things we fear or dread the most are right under our noses and we ignore them due to the rational mind even though the twist in your stomach, intuition, and the little voices in our heads tell us differently. As humans, we all have a innate sense when something is wrong or off. It's when we choose not to listen to the one time where the head and the heart agree that things go awry. Sometimes, it's too late to avoid it and things take a wrong left turn for the worst.

The poetry of my mind that my mouth can't express. The reason of my well being. It is a story and autobiography.

A tightening psychological‑supernatural horror, The Third Floor follows Claire as she’s trapped in a looping, shifting building that feeds on guilt, memory, and unresolved grief. Each cycle drags her deeper—through haunted hallways, impossible mirrors, and echoes of her past—forcing her to confront the truth about her sister’s death while the house itself grows hungry for her.

Star sat in silence as money passed through her hands, calm where others would rush. Lives failed her. Fortunes shifted. It meant nothing. Orders were given. Blood was spilled. Empires expanded. When Jakari’s name surfaced, her attention sharpened—not with fear, but hunger. Arkansas was closing. Florida was next.

The nightmare followed me awake—no images, only darkness and red eyes watching. A roar shook my bones. Asia slept beside me, exhausted, unaware. I kissed her forehead and left before the fear could speak. Miles burned under my feet. Steel screamed in my hands. Discipline kept the abyss behind me. Later, the drone showed Little Rock alive and ignorant. Then the building appeared—too clean, too guarded. A woman sat calmly inside. “That’s her,” I said. On the rooftop, the city moved below. Then Jayla’s voice cut sharp: “Jakari—get down. Now.”

Steve and Alan hook something far offshore that was never meant to surface. What rises from the deep is ancient, intelligent, and aware—and it does not leave them unchanged. Though the line snaps and the sea goes calm, the encounter follows them home, seeping into their sleep, their sanity, and their lives. Years later, the ocean still stirs, and the thing they caught remembers them. Some encounters do not end when the water closes.

After forty years in prison, Albert is released into a world that has moved on without him. Technology, cities, and people feel unfamiliar, while his memories remain sharp and unforgiving. As he struggles to rebuild a life, the past intrudes quietly but relentlessly, reminding him of harm that cannot be undone. Treated with distant kindness and burdened by guilt, Albert comes to understand that freedom does not guarantee belonging. The Long Way Out is a stark meditation on time, remorse, and what it means to survive one’s own mistakes.

I write because some truths don’t survive silence. If I don’t put them down, they disappear—and I refuse to let that happen.

Daniel Crowe knows the woods, but one night they turn against him. When the forest falls into an unnatural silence, he realizes he is no longer the hunter but the observed. A massive, unknowable creature emerges—unhurried, curious, unstoppable. Gunshots fail, escape is an illusion, and survival is never the point. Days later, officials blame bears, but hunters whisper of places where the air reeks of iron and rot, where footsteps follow patiently. Some things don’t chase. They don’t need to.

Veronica Hale becomes obsessed with a missing-child poster at her local market—because the girl looks exactly like her. Same face. Same scar. Same name. As Veronica uncovers a decades-old cold case, her own past begins to fracture: unanswered questions about her adoption, a father who refuses to explain, and visions of the child following her through reflections and dreams. When the poster changes and Veronica herself is listed as missing, she realizes the truth is not trying to be found—it is trying to come back.

Twenty-five-year-old Lisa Huntington pushes too far into the winter woods of northern Maine when her snowmobile dies and the trail disappears beneath fresh snow. With no signal, failing strength, and daylight fading, she presses on as the forest grows tighter and the silence turns watchful. Tracks appear. Sounds follow. By nightfall, Lisa learns the wilderness is not empty, not forgiving—and once it claims something, it never gives it back.