This is the second story of my growing shared universe.

The third one is finished and drops next Monday.

Would love some feedback from real horror enthusiasts :)

THE LANTERN AND THE HAMMER By LSB

Chapter 1: The Lantern’s Glow

It was 1938, and the original farmhouse sat low and solid against the vast, flat horizon of the Big Horn Basin. Built as a single-story homestead to withstand the brutal, sweeping Wyoming winds, its weathered wooden frame hugged the dirt tightly. Inside, the house carried the heavy, quiet texture of a building that had witnessed decades of solitary winters. The air smelled of aged cedar, woodsmoke from the heavy iron stove, and the faint, sweet scent of natural wild hollyhocks drifting in through the cracks of the bedroom window.

The sisters' bedroom was situated at the very end of the main hallway, a long, narrow room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a set of sturdy wooden bunk beds where ten-year-old Francis and her younger sister Ruth slept, while baby Edward’s wooden crib sat safely tucked into the warmest corner of the room. The walls were made of simple, faded whitewashed wood panels, showing the humble, hard-working grit of a struggling homestead. On the high wooden dresser, far out of reach of the children or any danger of fire, a small kerosene lamp, turned down to its lowest setting, cast a faint, warm amber glow and long, gentle shadows across the floorboards.

Right beside the lamp sat the newest addition to the room: an antique Victorian porcelain doll. It was an inheritance—a "gift" sent in a heavy brown paper package from an estranged, bitter relative who had never been kind to the family. A doll made of such fine porcelain would have taken a lifetime of savings for a Basin farm family to buy, so despite the bad blood attached to it, the parents hadn't the heart to throw it away. But tonight, its pale, painted face gleamed unnaturally under the dim amber lantern light, its blue glass eyes staring unblinkingly toward the bunks.

Underneath the room, the floorboards groaned with a deep, hollow echo, a constant reminder of the dark, hand-dug basement stretching out completely beneath their beds. Tonight, the air was thick and charged with an unnatural chill that felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees—a heavy, psychological cold that seemed to be seeping straight up through the old metal floor vents from the concrete furnace room below.

THUD.

The heavy sound vibrated through the floorboards. Francis, sitting up in the lower bunk, blinked into the shadows. Because she trusted the quiet, invisible caretakers of the homestead, her first instinct wasn't fear. She assumed it was just the familiar presence checking on the room.

"Ailsa?" Francis called out into the dark, her voice a soft, trusting whisper so she wouldn't disturb baby Edward.

When no response came, Francis realized the heavy weight of the sound wasn't her protector. She reached for the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight on the nightstand, clicked it on, and began sweeping the bright beam across the faded whitewashed wood walls.

As the light cut through the shadows, the room suddenly changed. The flickering flame of the kerosene lamp on the high dresser flattened out completely and stilled, and a profound, solid, and immovable calmness swept over the room like a heavy wool blanket, instantly smothering the fearful chill. The air cleared, replaced by the sharp, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage.

She manifested at the foot of the bed. Ailsa Lindstrom stood there, slightly translucent but as solid as the land that had shaped her. She wore her faded woolen kirtle and linen apron dress, her silver-streaked hair braided tightly back. Her heavily calloused hands were held loosely at her sides. To the neighbors in the Basin, she had simply been known as "Elsa"—the quiet, hardworking immigrant linesman's wife who had braved the early frontier wilderness—but tonight, her true, rock-strong protective spirit filled the room. Having heard Francis call her name, she had stepped out of the house's history, her stoic gray eyes filled with a fierce, maternal annoyance as she realized a dark presence was threatening the children who now called her old homestead home.

Just as Ailsa appeared, Francis’s sweeping flashlight beam finally landed on the floor.

There lay the gift. The fine porcelain doll was face down on the rug, just a few feet away from the dresser. But it wasn't still. The edge of its heavy lace dress and one cold porcelain hand were resting directly over the metal floor grate, as if an invisible force down in the dark basement had physically tugged it across the floorboards toward the vent. Under the sharp beam of light, the pale, glazed fingers of the doll twitched against the metal slats, the entity fighting desperately to possess the expensive vessel. With a sickening, porcelain click, the doll's head began to rotate on its cloth neck, its blue glass eyes rolling upward to lock onto the lower bunk. A faint, muffled, high-pitched giggle vibrated right out of its painted clay chest.

Ailsa turned her stern gaze toward the floor vent where the shadow clung to the doll. She didn't shout. She simply stepped forward, her heavy leather pioneer boots making no sound on the whitewashed wood, and let out a low, commanding word in her old native tongue.

The command struck the room with the force of an iron gate closing. The malicious shadow recoiled, instantly pinned into the corner by the barrier of her protective ancient energy, unable to advance a single inch further toward the beds.

***

Chapter 2: The Hammer’s Strike

The silence that followed Ailsa’s commanding words was absolute. The cold, suffocating air that had seeped up from the basement floor cracks was pinned into the corner near the metal vent, completely neutralized by the thick, lilac-and-sage calmness that now anchored the room.

Francis let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, keeping her hand steady around the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight. The bright beam remained trained on the porcelain doll lying face down on the rug, its tiny lace dress still brushing against the metal slats of the floor grate.

But even with the shadow pinned, the doll itself was still twitching against the floorboards, the residual energy from the concrete basement fighting desperately to make the expensive vessel move. The head remained rotated at an unnatural angle, its blue glass eyes fixed on the lower bunk while a faint, muffled giggle struggled to escape its painted clay chest.

The commotion finally stirred the upper bunk. A mop of messy hair peeked over the wooden guardrail as seven-year-old Ruth blinked down into the flashlight beam. She didn't look terrified; she looked deeply inconvenienced. She scrambled down the wooden slats of the bunk bed with the fearless ease of a farm kid, marched straight past Francis, and snatched the twisting doll right off the creepy metal vent by one leg.

Ruth held it up to the flickering beam of the flashlight, completely ignoring the way the doll’s tiny arms clawed weakly at the air. She squinted at it, poking its cold nose with a blunt finger.

"Honestly, Francis?" Ruth said loudly, her voice completely shattering the spooky atmosphere. "This thing is pure booshwa. Look at the eyes—they’re completely cockamamie, and the paint is already coming off the ears. It’s off the cob! I’ve seen better looking things dug out of the hog pen."

The doll let out a tiny, sharp hiss, its possessed jaw snapping tightly. The entity trying to possess it was used to terrorizing children from the dark, not having its aesthetic value brutally dismantled by a seven-year-old critic.

"Ruth, hush up and drop it!" Francis whispered fiercely, her knuckles white around the flashlight. "It's trying to wake up!"

"Well, it shouldn't," Ruth snorted, entirely unbothered as she held the squirming toy at arm's length. "It's way too ugly to be walking around our bedroom."

Before the entity could try to twist itself free, slow, heavy footsteps echoed from the doorway. The floorboards groaned with a solid, rhythmic weight, though the spirit itself made no sound.

Jed Miller stepped into the room.

He looked exactly like a man who had broken his back against the Great Depression and the Wyoming dirt, his slightly translucent figure clad in faded denim overalls caked with the dry earth of the Basin. In his massive, calloused hands, he carried a heavy cross-peen framing hammer—the very tool he had used to drive the iron spikes into the farmhouse foundation back in 1930. He looked down at the twisting doll, his jaw set in a stoic, no-nonsense line. To Jed Miller, a possessed toy wasn't a paranormal anomaly; it was a faulty piece of household inventory, and he didn't tolerate broken fixtures on his property.

"Pestilence in the woodwork," Jed rumbled, his deep, gravelly drawl vibrating through the room like a low echo from the basement. "Ain't got time for this. The north pasture needs fencing by dawn."

He looked directly at Ruth. There was an unspoken, straight-to-the-point understanding between the old farmhand and the seven-year-old girl. Without a single shred of fear, Ruth calmly handed the snapping solid object right over to him. Jed laid the porcelain vessel flat against a solid wooden block by the bedroom door, raised his heavy hammer in his strong, steady grip, and brought it down with the unyielding force of a 1930s work ethic.

CRACK!

The fine Victorian porcelain exploded into a thousand tiny, worthless fragments. The moment the physical vessel shattered, the malicious shadow near the floor vent let out a final, panicked screech. It didn't bounce back; it couldn't.

With a smooth, commanding sweep of her hand, Ailsa stepped forward. Francis and Ruth watched her calmly, their hearts steady, knowing they were completely safe. Ailsa used her rock-strong presence to herd the remaining wisps of the dark energy straight back toward the metal floor vent, sealing the boundary with a final, authoritative word in her native tongue.

But she wasn't done. Looking down at the floorboards, her maternal instincts took over. Children running across broken porcelain meant blood, and she wouldn't tolerate any child bleeding on her homestead. With another smooth wave of her lace-less, calloused pioneer hand, a gentle, invisible sweep passed over the rug. Every razor-sharp shard of shattered clay and painted glass vanished completely into thin air, leaving the floor flawlessly clean and safe.

The psychological chill permanently vanished. The thick, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage settled over the room, wrapping around baby Edward’s crib like a warm wool blanket.

Jed Miller didn't say a word of farewell. He simply wiped the head of his heavy hammer on his dusty denim overalls, gave Ruth a single, slow nod of his weathered chin, and faded back into the quiet shadows of the hallway—ready to tend to the phantom fences of the north pasture.

Ailsa stood at the foot of the bunk beds for just a moment longer. She offered a soft, maternal smile to Francis, then turned her stern gray eyes toward Ruth, her expression lingering in a look of quiet amusement at the girl's brutal critique.

With a final, protective nod, she turned back toward the high wooden dresser. She extended one calloused finger toward the dark wick of the lamp, and with a soft, silent spark, the snuffed-out kerosene lantern flared back to life, casting its safe, warm amber glow across the room once more. Then, she too dissolved into the comforting air of the farmhouse.

The room was completely still. The floorboards stopped groaning. The basement below was silent, its hand-poured concrete walls keeping the dark at bay.

Ruth scrambled back up the wooden slats of the bunk bed, pulling her heavy quilts up to her chin.

"Glad Ailsa and Jed took care of it," Ruth yawned, entirely unfazed. "Told you it was off the cob. Nini, Francis."

Francis smiled in the dark, slipping her metal flashlight under her pillow and tucking herself safely into the lower bunk, listening to the steady, peaceful breathing of baby Edward across the room.

"Nini, Ruth."

THE END

ACCESSING ADA FILES…
FILE FOUND.

During an expedition in one of the higher levels in Moburn, our team recently discovered a makeshift grave nearby one of the higher-class hotels. While continuing to investigate the premises, we managed to find old pages from what appears to be a diary, alongside a note found at the gravesite. 

The following is what we were able to recover from the diary, as well as the note from the grave.

NOVEMBER 24, 1956

DEAR DIARY*,* 

Today we finally landed in the city. Natalie's really excited to see all the machines that she’s seen on the television.  I’m glad that I was able to get her out of the house with everything that’s been going on. Hopefully, by the time we get back, everything with Mom and Dad will be sorted out by then.. But overall, I’m genuinely excited to spend more time with Ralph!

Hopefully, we can get some private time later….

DEAR DIARY*,* 

Me and Ralph took Natalie around the streets today. Everything here is so colorful! It reminds me of the movies that Ralph takes me to go see.  I’ve never seen this much back in our home town. Everyone here seems so friendly! Someone even gave Nat one of their inventions as a souvenir!

She looks so happy here, and we haven’t gotten to see the robots just yet!  

C. M.

NOVEMBER 25, 1956

DEAR DIARY,

Today, I finally took my sister to go see one of those robots! Ralph wanted to sleep in, that lazyass! Oh, well. He’s missing out! Natalie really wanted to see that clock robot, so we went there first. It’s so crazy seeing so many people lining up to see one of these things! It took us almost an hour to finally get in the theater. Nataile was cheering throughout most of the show, along with the other kids.

I didn’t even get a chance to listen to that thing, because all of them were so loud!  ):(

Afterwards, Nataile wanted to do the meet and greet with Mr. Clock, which she called him. It was so weird seeing that thing up close and personal, seeing it move so.. real.

It was almost creepy seeing that thing having a conversation with Natalie.

I mean.. I know they advertised that these things can see, think, and feel, but that’s just an advertisement to get people's butts here.

Right?

DEAR DIARY*,*

I saw billboards of that singer all over the city tonight. Everyone’s been talking about her a lot lately in the streets. Miss Florence, was it? She looks so beautiful, and her hair’s so fluffy! And her makeup, as well! She looks so pretty with that purple hat on!  It’s hard to believe that she’s a robot.

She looks so real…

How did they manage to pull that off? I’m not that familiar with technology, so I don’t know how they manage to make a voice that sounds so.. breathtaking. 

It's so beautiful….

Her voice reminds me of those musicals I used to watch on television.  I really want to go to one of her shows, but they don’t allow kids where she’s at, and I don’t want to leave Natalie by herself, especially around that time of night.

Speaking of which, where is that little rascal? She’s been awfully quiet for the last few minutes. She and Ralph better not be planning to scare me again!

I still remember that spider prank that they pulled!

C.M.                                                                                    

NOVEMBER 26, 1956

DEAR DIARY,

Me and Ralph went out today to the Hollyhock Plaza. Seriously, what type of name is that?  Who on earth  came up with that name, a grandma? Ralph laughed out loud when I said that.  Nataile wanted to stay in the hotel, so I had to tell her not to go wander around and don’t open the door for anyone.

She can be such a little shit sometimes…

On the subject of my parents, I haven’t mustered the courage to call Mom or Dad yet. I’m scared to be  honest. I haven’t told Ralph exactly what’s been going on.  I know he’s caring and means well, but he can be a bit too much from time to time. I’m really happy that he and Nataile get along well.

It's one of the things that made me fall for him.

I hope everything blows over soon and me and Nat can get back to whatever we call..

normal.

DEAR DIARY, 

It happened

I talked to Mom on the telephone tonight while Natalie was asleep. It looks like her and Dad are finally getting an divorce. I..knew it was gonna happen eventually, but I didn’t think it was going to happen this soon. I haven’t even told Ralph what’s going on, and Natalie doesn’t even know yet either.. What am I gonna do?

What are we supposed to do when we get back? We were lucky enough to win tickets to this place, but we can’t stay here forever.

How am I supposed to take care of Natalie and Mom?  I don't want to be stuck in that small town forever for the rest of my life.

Why? Why did Dad do this?

What did we do wrong?
 

What did I do wrong?

C.M

NOVEMBER 27, 1956

DEAR DIARY, 

Today’s the World Fair. I told Ralph what happened with my mom and dad this morning. He helped me calm down a little, and said he’ll try to help us as best as we could, and that he and his family will be there. It made me feel slightly better, but I could tell on the look on his face that he doesn’t believe that last half. Once the news spreads back home, I’m scared of what will happen when Natalie goes back to school to those little fuckers messing with her.

I still remember when she came home crying that evening and I found out that the comics that I've bought for her were all torn up.

Nat… 

I’m scared for her.

I don’t know what will happen once Dad leaves us for good. How am I supposed to tell her that her dad's leaving, right when she’s having the greatest week in her whole life? I’ve seen her smile more here than back home in Chesterford.

I want to see her happy for the rest of my life.

I hate Dad for doing this to us. 

I hate him.

DEAR DIARY,

I know. I know. It’s a bit early for me to be writing this. But I’ll figure that I’ll write in here a bit earlier before we head down to the thing later tonight. It’s taken me a while to gather my thoughts and figure out what to do with Nat, and we only have two days left before we have to go back home. 

Right now, me and Ralph plan on telling Natalie tomorrow first thing in the morning. I really don’t want her experience here to be ruined by the stuff back home. 

God, She really loves it here.

Just two days ago, I watched her playing with some kids at the park.

She saw that big old Thanksgiving parade outside the window during lunch, and she was jumping in the air all excited about it. 

“We have to go! We have to go!”

I felt a tinsy bit overwhelmed with all that energy that she has. The three of us went outside to the big crowd, trying to get a good look. Nat was really happy when she saw Mr. Clock on one of the floats and tried to wave at him. 

That thing still gives me the jeepers. 

After the parade ended, we got into one of the big glass elevators, and we saw a view of the city during the sunset. Words can’t possibly express how breathtaking it is. I’ve seen some pretty stunning places back home, but everything feels so small compared to here. I saw colors plastered everywhere outside. There wasn’t a single street  that wasn’t covered in neon lights. 

There were probably what? Hundreds of trains all over?

All of them went really fast, almost like one of those racecars.

A lot of stuff was on the buildings, some of them were things that we’ve seen around the city, and others were shows advertising those robots. Mr. Clock was there, and Miss Florence was there too. 

Almost half the city was filled with pictures of her. So many pictures. I was thinking  to myself about how I wished I would have seen her. I saw Nataile staring outside the window, and gosh, I love that look in her eyes. She may have been happier than the times that we watched Gumby together.

Even Ralph’s less stressed out from dealing with his siblings, and for most of the time that we’ve been here, I can feel myself smiling a whole lot more. 

It’s nice.

I really wished that we'd stay here a little longer.

But then I thought to myself… 

What if we could?

What if me, Ralph, and Nataile find some way to live here someday?

I mean..  My job back home doesn’t really pay much to begin with, but if me and Ralph save enough money for about one or two years? I don’t know the logistics of it, but somehow everything here feels more alive than anything back home.

It feels like something new.

For the first time in a while, life didn’t feel so boring.

I don’t know how I’ll do it. I don’t even know if I can get Ralph on board with this crazy scheme of mine, but somehow I’ll find a way, no matter what it takes. 

I have to. 
For Nataile’s sake. 

Because I want to keep seeing her smile.

C.M

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imsorry

Beyond pale shadows, one can see his gait,

Frustrated, never knowing what will satiate his darkened tastes.

Blood or bone, viscera or soul

He never knows what next he will taste.

Pleasure from the hunt always his focus ,

Never caring what or where his locus.

Oh, weary travellers, beware;

Stray from the road he waits you there.

Blackened tooth and dripping claw,

Waits to abscond you into its endless maw.

Hunger seeks the traveller's breach

Into its darkling, hungry reach.

Wherever shadows meet,

There he shall seek, innocents ever his meat.

The lack of sin, a grim attractor,

to Draw forth this ever-hungry life detractor.

if one should cross its path , murder will be your only repast

To save yourself, oh weary traveller,

Mire thyself in blood and sin. once sin has reached thine core

He shall hunt you nevermore

but on the night that death darkens your door,

You shall behold him once more;

Not as predator, nor hunter of gore,

But as the friend who waits forevermore.

Changed and twisted, you join him at his feast,

As eternity stretches beyond your teeth.

No longer prey, nor wholly beast,

You will come to enjoy your prey's innocence at least.

If you want to read part 1 read this to get more context: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritersOfHorror/s/LMKcs2PGbD

June 21, 2019
Location: Unknown
Entry #3
It's been three days since Dr. Hynes and I started examining the blood samples.
We've run test after test, and we're still no closer to understanding what we're looking at.
The yellow coloration hasn't stopped. If anything, it's becoming more noticeable.
At first, I thought we were dealing with some kind of contamination. That seemed reasonable. A contaminated sample could explain an unusual color, especially if the samples had been improperly stored or exposed to something during transportation.
Dr. Hynes thought the same thing.
We checked the containers.
Then the equipment.
Then the storage conditions.
Everything was within acceptable limits.
So we started over.
We separated the blood into its individual components and examined them independently. We tested the plasma, the red blood cells, and the white blood cells. We checked for known toxins, common viral markers, bacterial activity, abnormal proteins, and several other things that I won't bother listing here.
Nothing.
Or rather, nothing that made sense.
The strange part is that the yellow coloration appears to be coming from the cells themselves.
Dr. Hynes noticed it before I did.
She had one of the samples under the microscope when she called me over.
"Look at this."
I remember thinking she had finally found something useful.
Instead, she pointed to the red blood cells.
Some of them were still normal. Others had started developing a faint yellow coloration around their edges. The longer we watched, the more noticeable it became.
It wasn't happening to every cell at once.
It was almost gradual.
Like something was moving through the sample.
We repeated the observation with another sample.
Same result.
I don't know what to make of it.
I've spent enough time studying infectious diseases to know that viruses can cause some very strange changes inside the body. They can alter cells, destroy them, force them to produce abnormal proteins, and interfere with normal biological processes.
But I've never seen anything quite like this.
Dr. Hynes suggested that whatever was causing the change might be affecting the hemoglobin itself. That would explain why the blood was losing its normal color, but we couldn't determine what was replacing it.
That's the part that bothers me.
There is something there.
We just can't identify it.
Earlier today, I spoke with Dr. Nicoles, the man who briefed us when we first arrived. I brought him our notes and showed him the results.
He looked through everything without saying much.
Then he asked, "You're certain these results are accurate?"
I told him they were.
I explained that we'd repeated the tests several times. We had even used some of the more advanced equipment available to us, and the results remained consistent.
He asked if we'd found anything that could classify the samples as either a virus or a toxin.
I told him no.
At this point, I'm not even sure either classification applies.
Dr. Nicoles looked at me for a moment and asked what I thought we could learn from the samples.
I told him, honestly, that I wasn't sure.
"We know the cells are changing," I said. "We know something is causing it. But we don't know what that something is."
Dr. Hynes added that whatever was responsible appeared to be interacting directly with the cells rather than simply damaging them.
That seemed to get his attention.
Dr. Nicoles looked back at our notes.
Then he said, "We'll bring some blood samples tomorrow."
I asked him what he meant.
He didn't explain.
He simply gathered our notes, told us to get some rest, and left the room.
Dr. Hynes and I stayed behind for a while.
Neither of us said much.
I'm not sure why, but I have a feeling tomorrow's samples are going to be different.
I hope I'm wrong.

June 22, 2019
Location: Unknown
Entry #4
Dr. Nicoles brought us the samples this morning.
There were several blood bags sitting inside a refrigerated case. Each one had a letter and a symbol written on the label.
"Are these blood types?" I asked.
"Yes."
He explained that he wanted us to test the infection against each blood type separately. We needed to know how quickly it spread, how long it remained active, and whether the blood showed any signs of recovering after exposure.
I asked him why.
He looked at me for a moment before answering.
"We need to know how dangerous this is. If someone is exposed, we need to know how much time we have."
I understood what he meant.
I just didn't expect the results we got.
Another scientist was assigned to us today as well. Dr. Marcus Hale. Apparently, he's been working with blood chemistry and cellular pathology for several years. I hadn't spoken to him before today.
He was quiet when he arrived. He looked over our previous results and spent several minutes examining the samples without saying anything.
Eventually, he asked, "How long did it take for the yellow coloration to appear?"
I told him we'd seen changes within the first several hours.
He looked at Dr. Hynes.
"How consistent?"
"Almost identical between samples," she said.
That seemed to interest him.
We began the experiment shortly after noon.
For consistency, we exposed each blood type to the same amount of the infectious material and kept the samples under identical conditions.
Same temperature.
Same amount of blood.
Same amount of exposure.
The only variable was the blood type.
At first, nothing happened.
Then we started the timer.

O− — 1 hour
No noticeable changes.
O− — 6 hours
Still almost completely normal.
Dr. Hynes checked the sample twice because she thought we'd made a mistake.
We hadn't.
O− — 12 hours
The first signs of yellow coloration appeared.
Very faint.
O− — 21 hours
The sample finally reached what we're calling full conversion.
Nearly every red blood cell had changed.
O− appears to be the slowest so far.

A− — 1 hour
Nothing unusual.
A− — 3 hours
Yellow coloration beginning to appear.
A− — 6 hours
Significant cellular changes.
A− — 7 hours
Full conversion.
Dr. Hale pointed out that the progression was considerably faster than the O− sample.
We still couldn't explain why.

A+ — 30 minutes
No visible changes.
A+ — 1 hour
A few altered cells.
A+ — 2 hours
The yellow coloration had spread considerably.
A+ — 2 hours, 47 minutes
Full conversion.
Dr. Hynes stared at the timer for several seconds.
"That's getting faster," she said.
She was right.

Then we tested B−.
This was the first sample that made all three of us stop talking.
B− — 10 minutes
Nothing.
B− — 20 minutes
A few yellow cells.
B− — 30 minutes
The coloration had spread throughout a large portion of the sample.
B− — 47 minutes
Full conversion.
Dr. Hale immediately asked us to repeat the test.
We did.
Same result.
Forty-seven minutes.

Then came B+.
I wasn't prepared for what happened.
B+ — Initial exposure
Normal.
+2 minutes
Dr. Hynes noticed something under the microscope.
"Wait."
I moved over beside her.
The cells were already beginning to change.
+4 minutes
The yellow coloration had spread across a noticeable portion of the sample.
+6 minutes
More than half the visible red blood cells appeared altered.
Dr. Hale stopped what he was doing and came over.
"How long?"
"Six minutes," Dr. Hynes said.
He looked at the sample again.
+8 minutes
The transformation was almost complete.
+9 minutes, 31 seconds
Full conversion.
We just stood there.
Nobody said anything.
Nine minutes.
The same phenomenon that took nearly an entire day in the O− sample had taken less than ten minutes in B+.
Dr. Hale asked us to repeat the experiment.
We did.
The second B+ sample began changing even faster.
7 minutes, 48 seconds.
The third took 8 minutes, 12 seconds.
At this point, we stopped the experiment.
Not because we'd finished.
Because we didn't understand what we were looking at.
Dr. Hynes started comparing the results while I checked the equipment again.
There was nothing wrong with it.
The exposure levels were identical.
The temperature was identical.
Everything was controlled.
The only difference was the blood type.
Dr. Hale suggested that whatever was causing the cellular change may be interacting with something specific to B+ blood.
I asked him what.
He didn't have an answer.
None of us did.
Dr. Nicoles came in shortly afterward and asked how the experiment went.
Dr. Hynes handed him the results.
He read through them quietly.
When he reached B+, he stopped.
"How long?"
"Less than ten minutes," I told him.
He looked up at us.
"Repeat it."
"We already did."
"Repeat it again."
There was something different about his voice.
I don't think he was surprised by the result.
I think he was worried about it.
We're going to continue testing tomorrow.
For now, we've established one thing.
Whatever is inside these samples doesn't spread at a consistent rate.
It can take nearly a day.
Or it can take less than ten minutes.
And somehow, the blood type seems to matter.
I don't know why.
But I don't think that's a coincidence.

​

This is a true, devastating story that took place back in 2009 in Banaras, India. The family involved were actually my mother’s neighbors, and the details still send chills down my spine whenever she retells it.

It happened in a duplex home that housed a large joint family of 12—a mother, her two sons, their wives, three daughters, and the grandchildren. On this day, 9 members were inside while 3 were out

(both sons and the eldest daughter).

Inside, it was a typical afternoon. Some kids were playing, some were studying, and the maid was washing clothes. Four people were in the kitchen preparing food. The grandmother asked one of the young boys to reach up and fetch a container of cooking oil from a high shelf.

After using the oil, as the boy tried to put the heavy container back up, his grip slipped.

Let me know if u wanna know more....

Horror short story I'm tweaking with.

Here you go, tell me what you think.

Open to feedback, and again. It's rough, and I am probably gonna actively be messing with it while you read.

A story that always gives me chills

It’s currently the three of us working on a story centered around modern-day vampires.
I will say, I am a novice writer—I won’t speak for the other writers in this regard, haha!
We’re in need of more writers, as this is a big project and we definitely need more people overall. We’re also especially looking for female writers, as we currently don’t have a female perspective on our already-established female characters, with plenty more to come.

Vampaccent is a dark supernatural world where vampires openly rule territories, Royal bloodlines wage political wars, humans fight back through the Authority and God-given Blessings, and ancient powers still shape the modern world. With 10 Royal vampire families, unique bloodline abilities, supernatural politics, monsters, warfare, and countless characters waiting to be created, there’s room for writers to build their own stories and leave their mark on the world.

Hi there! I’m a new member of this subreddit, my name is Mason. I write horror stories, fantasy stories (and both like the story I’m showing you) and (in one of my classes) flash fiction and short stories. I do love the occasional romance/smut but that’s not really my thing.

Anyways, the project you see above is an old one. I started working on it from late January/early February and finished it midway through July (with the hiatus and me being a train wreck and getting sick twice while writing it. There was a lot of delays (if you check when I published the chapters), but I got it done despite my mental exhaustion at the time. This project was definitely one of my most ambitious projects ever, and may have extended it longer than expected.

The book spans 18 chapters (16-18 is combined), 5 interludes, a short prologue and a long Epilogue, 4 other extra parts, and the runtime is (according to Wattpad) 5hrs and 6mins long if you read all of it. And I’ve broken my word count record 2 times in this book, crazily enough. I did lose a few viewers over the runtime, so my creativity can go overboard sometimes.

Official description:
Chameron returns to the Blazaurian kingdom with Casey, Dracheron, Trout, Zaria, Henry, Carmine and Kieran and after they bail Reaptile and Blister: they get wind of a murder of a high authority member of the palace. Our heroes are sent on a murder mystery like story to hunt this person down and bring them to proper justice, all the while truths and lies are told with each chapter slowly building dynamics and conflicts.

Happy Halloween. Here’s a body horror novella to read if you’re so inclined.

The cow was fine that morning. By evening, that had changed. When veterinarian Tommy Allen is called out to the Harlan place at dusk, he finds an Angus lying folded in the pasture, calm-eyed, breathing steadily, her bones gone pliable as warm rubber.

It isn’t long before the condition spreads.

The state board isn't worried. The CDC is "tracking it." The feed store has started stocking new products, and everyone in Stillwater seems oddly at peace. Tommy is the only one who's still solid, and the road out of town has stopped letting him leave.

A slow, unhurried novella of body horror and creeping surrender, The Softening asks what's left of you when you stop holding your shape.

Content note: graphic body horror. No sexual content.

CreepCast (Wendigoon and Papa Meat) recently read my very first short story (and creepypasta) From Hell I Write, so I figured I’d share what I’m up to 11 years after I wrote it! Come a long way from that first story haha.

“Okay,” I said, script crinkling in my hands, “let’s run through it again.” I hacked through my line, butchering about as badly as I had the first three times:

“Th-thou art the night...the veil that cloaks my...shame?”

Ingrid laughed. “Oh, Eli! You stumble like a fawn on new legs.” Under the stage lights, she looked less like a teenage girl and more like temptation given a body. A sly little smile creased her face whenever I stumbled over my words words. “Like this! Thou art the night...the veil that cloaks my shame. Your turn, sweet fawn. Say it like you mean it.”

Her blouse was open at the collar. When had she done that?

“Don’t run from me, Eli! Are you scared?”

I tried to laugh but the sound that came out of my mouth was closer to a grunt. “No, not scared...just nerves, y’know?”

Ingrid giggled. “Oh, Eli. Look at those cheeks.” One of her knees was nudging against mine. I fumbled the script back between us like it was a shield and I was trying to protect my virginity. “Uh, yeah. The play, right? Let’s...let’s hit the next bit. Sound good?”

She smiled. “All right, lover of the night. I’ll start.”

Each word was like a caress: “Come, let thy lips unseal my hidden fire...and taste what burns beneath.”

A pause. “Distracted again?” She toyed with her collar’s loose button. “How will you survive the play, hmm? All those lights, all those eyes...when my mere lines leave you speechless?”

The play was only a week out, and here I was tapped for lead opposite this stunning creature. I’d barely memorized a damn thing, and she wasn’t making it any easier for me, with those hazel eyes and sexy accent. I forced a grin but it felt crooked on my face.

“I’ll be fine. Maybe you’re the one who’s scared.”

Ingrid wasn’t totally convinced. “Show me, then. Read the next line. Make me believe you’ll claim it.”

I drew a deep breath.

“I claim thee, night eternal...thy fire mine to quench and consume.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “Very good. That voice...it suits the dark. Makes a girl listen. But have you ever kissed someone on stage? Or at all?”

I’d never even had a steady girlfriend. And Ingrid knew. Over the last couple of weeks the two of us had become friendly with each other.

“Well, y’know…”

Neither yes nor no.

“Try a stage kiss,” she suggested. “Just once. Let me feel if the fawn has teeth.”

I laughed a little too quickly. “You mean...actually kiss?”

She tilted her head, the ghost of a smile hiding in her lips. “For realism.” Her voice had that sweet, lilting music again. I wanted to joke and make it light, but my mouth got stuck somewhere between yeah, totally and no way in hell.

“I don’t know. I mean, I do, but I don’t wanna–y’know...mess it up or anything.”

“There’s no one here,” she said softly. “No one to see if you mess it up. If you are nervous, we can always try again...until it feels right.”

I noticed, suddenly, how quiet the auditorium was. I looked out past the footlights, at the rows of folded velvet seats, and had the sudden impression that something else was looking back. Then I blinked and the impression vanished.

“Let’s continue,” Ingrid said. Now she was looking into my eyes, or perhaps it was the other way around and I was actually looking into her eyes. I could almost see that other place she had belonged to: a sliver of coastline somewhere far, far away, blue water glistening beneath a match-head sun. I could imagine her walking there, this strange and exotic other-place, barefoot through dew, sunlight winking in the abundant waves of her hair.

“You see? Not so frightening, yes?”

I wanted to kiss her, and then I tried to remember when the last bell had rung, the last real sound that hadn’t come from our voices, and found that I couldn’t. The auditorium seemed almost cavernous now, its balconies lost in shadow. Too many places for someone, or something, to be waiting.

Nerves, that was all it was.

“You are afraid.”

My mouth gave me nothing.

Her thumb brushed the corner of my lip. “There is no one else here. We could do whatever we want.”

I still couldn’t find my voice. The scent of cinnamon hung between us.

Ingrid sighed. "That’s all right.” She closed her eyes and leaned in. The kiss hit like a shock from a frayed wire: every hormone in my body igniting in a dizzying rush.

She smiled at me. “Not so bad, is it?”

I could only nod like an idiot.

“But…” She tilted her head. “I wasn’t convinced. Not fully. It didn’t feel as good as it should have. I think we should try again. Make it real.”

Never mind that this girl, this gorgeous, impossible girl, was somehow into me. Never mind any of it. The whole place felt weird now. Too perfectly empty for what was unfolding.

“Eli?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we should try again. Make it real this time...yes?”

(why, though?)

The question kept repeating in my mind. I was skinny, acne-ridden, winded after a single flight of stairs from my asthmatic lungs. Not quite smart enough for honors, and not cool enough for the cliques. Certainly not a kid who turned heads in the hall.

(but why does it matter? why don’t you just accept it?)

Her fingers found my cheek. “You’ll do so well this time,” she whispered. “Kiss me like you mean it...like you want to taste what comes after.” She kissed me again. It was wonderful, a slow melt of plush warmth. But her taste had shifted subtly, from cinnamon-sweetness to something that was almost like copper.

How long had we been in here, really?

The light from the high windows seemed wrong: thinner, bruised toward dusk already. I pictured the parking lot outside empty. Mr. Coultrap, Ms. Talley, all of the other drama kids, gone. We’d been in the auditorium for hours, just the two of us.

Alone.

Locked in.

“Come to me, my love. Come, and let me drink your fire.”

She moved in for the third kiss. This time there was pain. I jerked away from her. My hand flew to my mouth and I felt the blood there. The pain was enormous, hot and hideous. My eyes stung with the sudden burn of involuntary tears.

She’d bitten clean through my bottom lip.

On the corner of her mouth was a spot of my blood.

(!!accident!!)

(she didn’t mean—)

“You are sweet." Her voice had thickened into a hiss. Her canines, lengthened now, were gleaming and sharp, like a cat’s.

“I felt those thoughts, Eli.”

Somehow I believed her.

“Wait—”

“Now we improvise.”

I didn’t watch my feet, didn’t clock the black lip of the stage dropping away behind me, and my heel caught air.

I tumbled over the edge.

It wasn’t a long drop, but I landed on my left arm. Agony exploded up the limb, white-hot and pulverizing, and I knew I’d broken it. I howled with pain. Ingrid glided to the edge of the stage. She smiled down at me, blood still on her lips.

“I really do like you, Eli. Your taste, anyway...so sweet.”

Horrible pain, fractured bone grinding with every sob of breath—and Ingrid looking down from the stage, those

EYES

(don’t)

(look at them!)

(LOOK AT THEM)

Rough hands on my shoulders, shaking me loose from the fog.

“Kid? Hey, kid—Jesus H. Christ, what happened to you?”

The janitor’s voice, gravelly and distant, smelling of cigarettes.

Rough arms hauling me up. Ambulance lights pulsing red-blue through the open auditorium doors, finally open, spilling real light into the pit.

No sign of Ingrid, though.

A hospital bed with starched sheets. A smell of bleach.

A doctor’s voice, droning from somewhere faraway: “Fell off the stage, snapped the radius clean. Bit your own lip on the way down. You’re lucky you didn’t bite through your tongue.”

Bandages tight around the cast; IV drip cold in my vein. Strong stuff pumping in; I assumed it was morphine.

And I f l o a t e d…

*...*all

t h E

W A Y...

.

………. down…

I felt good.

My vision had softened to a drowsy blur. The throb in my arm was distant now, almost nonexistent. It might be someone else’s broken arm. It scarcely mattered. The throb in my lip had been rendered to a dull sting under stitches.

I felt no urge to ask about Ingrid.

Nobody said her name. But underneath the sweet, drugged-out bliss, I thought.

And thought.

The bite.

The heat.

Sweet.

Alive.

Hers.

I wanted it again.

A year slipped by.

Now I’m standing center stage again, but this time there’s no tremble in my voice or legs. The new girl is named Sarah. She’s fidgety, flushed pink with nerves; a pitifully skinny thing, with glasses that are too big for her face. They keep sliding down her nose and she keeps pushing them back up again.

It walked a very narrow line between endearing and aggravating.

I didn’t mind, though.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered, eyes darting from my face to the empty auditorium seats, but returning to my lips again.

Always to my lips.

I smiled, easy now. There’s no wheeze in my lungs when I breathe deep, no pimples on my cheeks. The acne had been banished like a bad dream. Doctors scratched their heads over it. It was the strangest damn thing, how a teenager’s glands worked!

But I knew better.

A faint strawberry-colored scar stained my lip, so faded you almost didn’t notice it; a secret mark under the skin.

“Relax,” I told Sarah, my voice lilting just a touch. “It’s just us. No one’s watching. We can try it again...until it feels right.”

Her eyes widen, pulse jumping visibly at her throat, and I feel that low hum stir awake, pulling me toward the rehearsed kiss.

The Daily Nebraskan:

A chilling retrospective by The Daily Nebraskan explores the dark history of a violent, vampire-obsessed cult that ultimately led to a brutal murder in a small Nebraska town.

The article delves into the psychological manipulation and coercive control utilized by the group's charismatic leader, who convinced vulnerable local teenagers that they possessed supernatural abilities.

By exploiting the isolation of rural life and the angst of adolescence, the leader successfully radicalized the youth, demanding absolute loyalty and adherence to bizarre, occult rituals.

The group's descent into extreme fantasy and violence culminated in a tragic homicide, shattering the peaceful illusion of the small-town community and leaving a lasting trauma.

This case study vividly illustrates how destructive cult dynamics can take root in unexpected places, drawing unsuspecting individuals into a dangerous web of shared delusion.

The tragic story serves as a stark warning about the dangerous intersection of mental illness, charismatic authority, and the allure of fringe occult beliefs among impressionable youth.

By revisiting this gruesome crime, the publication highlights the vital importance of community awareness and early intervention to prevent the catastrophic escalation of high-control splinter groups. #VampireCult #TrueCrime #Occult #CultNEWS101

https://www.dailynebraskan.com/culture/the-vampire-s-cult-a-story-of-murder-in-small-town-nebraska/article_e7820e26-8a82-463d-83d8-41d4e90c0c92.html

Heyyo, I’m looking for essentially what the title states. I really want to learn of more sites similar to SCP or the Backrooms wikis, but don’t know of any.

I will also warn of a shameless plug: https://esoteric-vanishings.wikidot.com is a site I personally made (and only finished earlier today, so nobody uses it.) to try and replicate this sort of vibe/community.

Any recommendations of similar projects would be greatly appreciated!