💰[$1,000] Tell us your spooky story 📚

[Dustpan]

stake id : dustpandan
 

Title: “Stake Lake”

Every Halloween, the lights of Stake Lake Casino flicker over black water, and the slot machines laugh like they know who’s next.

That night, a lone fisherman cast his line where others had vanished. The reels inside the casino spun wild—$7$, 🔥, 🎣—as thunder rolled overhead.

The lake began to glow. Something pulled back hard.

From the storm rose Zeus, blazing with lightning. From below, Hades dragged him down with hands of fire and bone. Their screams shook the water, and the slot machines poured out blood instead of coins.

When morning came, the boat drifted empty.
A single bass floated inside—its eyes burning like gold.

On Halloween night, the lake still whispers:

“Stake your soul… and spin.”

[philippe1992]

A little girl comes to her mother one morning and tells her that she is very afraid. Indeed, it is written on the newspaper that the madman, a very dangerous murderer, escaped from prison. To reassure her, her mother offers to come and sleep in her parents' bed that night. She also advises him to put his hand under the pillow so that the dog will lick his hand in the night. The same evening, the little girl falls asleep between her parents, but she is still very afraid and therefore slips her hand under the pillow, feeling the dog's tongue on her hand, she falls asleep more confidently. To calm down, she will repeat this gesture several times during the night. The next morning, when she opens her eyes, she sees her parents' eyes hanging on the ceiling. And looking down... she sees the fool licking her hand! 

stake: philippe1992

[Khaly]

It’s well nothing much

  stake id: Khalyblaq 

[bgauna76]

"Golpes en la pared"

 

Julián pasaba las noches encerrado en su departamento, jugando y apostando en Stake.
Al principio lo hacía por diversión, pero las horas empezaron a mezclarse. Perdía la noción del tiempo, con los auriculares puestos, las luces apagadas y la pantalla iluminando su cara como un faro en la oscuridad.

Una madrugada, mientras esperaba el resultado de una apuesta grande, escuchó tres golpes secos en la pared.
Toc… toc… toc.
Miró el reloj: 3:07 a. m.
Pensó que sería el vecino.
Pero recordó que esa pared daba al pasillo, no a otro departamento.

La siguiente noche, volvió a apostar. Y justo cuando el contador del sitio marcó los últimos segundos, los golpes regresaron.
Más fuertes. Más cerca.
Creyó escuchar algo detrás del zumbido de los auriculares… un murmullo.
Quitó uno, contuvo la respiración y escuchó:

“Seguí apostando…”

El corazón le dio un vuelco. Cerró la página, pero la pantalla del monitor se encendió sola, mostrando la interfaz de Stake otra vez, con un saldo que no recordaba tener.
Una apuesta automática se colocó.
El chat del sitio se llenó de mensajes extraños:

“Tu suerte está del otro lado.”
“Ya casi ganás.”

Los golpes en la pared se transformaron en arañazos, como si algo quisiera salir. Julián intentó desenchufar todo, pero la computadora seguía encendida.
El reloj volvió a marcar las 3:07.
La pared tembló.
De repente, el ruido cesó.
Solo la pantalla brillaba, mostrando el mensaje:

“Has ganado. Retirá tu premio.”

Se acercó lentamente… y en ese instante, la pared detrás del monitor se abrió como carne rasgada, dejando ver una mano grisácea, delgada, que salió temblando.
El celular cayó, grabando el sonido húmedo de los dedos arrastrándose por el piso.
La grabación termina con una voz ronca, la misma del chat, susurrando:

“Gracias por apostar conmigo.”

A la mañana siguiente, el departamento estaba vacío.
Pero los vecinos dicen que, si pasás por el pasillo a las 3:07, todavía se escucha el clic de un mouse…
y tres golpes suaves desde adentro.

 

 

-Username: BrunitoPa

[v1rtu0s]

I Found My Suicide Note This Morning

I found my suicide note this morning. Dated tomorrow. My handwriting.

It knew about the rope in the basement. The beam above the washing machine. Said I'd do it at 3:47 AM, kick the chair, that it wouldn't hurt long.

I tore it up and flushed it down the toilet.

Found another one in my coat pocket an hour later. Different this time, the bridge on Route 9, 4:22 AM. Still my handwriting. Still tomorrow.

By dinner I'd found six more. Gun in the desk. Pills from the medicine cabinet. Razor in the tub. Each one a different method, different time, all within the same night. All apologizing to my sister Karen. All mentioning that Buster the cat needs wet food twice a day.

Nobody knows that about Buster except me.

The one I found in the cereal box, Christ, in the cereal box, that one said: "Stop reading these. You can't stop what's already done."

What the hell does that mean? I haven't done anything. I'm not suicidal. I've never been suicidal.

It's almost midnight now. I locked myself in the upstairs bathroom with my cellphone. Took out anything sharp, flushed the Advil, even removed the shower curtain rod. If I can make it to dawn, none of this matters. Tomorrow becomes today and the notes are just—what? A sick prank? A breakdown?

I felt something under the bathmat when I sat down.

Another envelope. Thicker this time.

My hands shook opening it. The note inside was longer than the others:

"The bathroom won't save you. Tomorrow isn't when you die, tomorrow is when you figure out what happened three days ago. Check your wrists. Check the tub. Stop pretending you don't remember."

My wrists.

There are scars there. Faint, but there. When did...?

The bathtub has an inch of water in it. I didn't turn on the faucet. The water is pink.

I honestly can't remember Monday. Or Tuesday. I thought I went to work but did I? Did I really?

My phone battery is dead even though I charged it. The door, Jesus, the door won't open. It's locked but I locked it from the inside, I have the lock right here, I can see it turned but the door won't...

There's writing on the mirror. Fog writing, like someone traced it with their finger. But the shower's been off for hours.

It says: TOO LATE.

My reflection is doing something strange. Smiling when I'm not smiling. Its lips are moving.

I can read what it's saying.

"You've been dead since Monday. This is just the long way of realizing it."

The water in the tub is rising. I'm not touching the faucet. It's rising.

It's red now. Completely red.

My wrists are bleeding. Not a lot. Just enough. Just slow.

I don't remember cutting them but I must have because

because

The bathroom is getting smaller or I'm getting farther away and my reflection won't stop smiling and I can't feel my fingers anymore and there's a note floating in the red water, the last one, and it just says

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I already made the choice and you can't unmake it and this was always how it ended and I'm sorry you had to find out this way but you've been reading these notes for three days now, finding them over and over, and you keep forgetting, keep resetting, keep trying to save yourself from something that already happened and

The water is up to my chest.

I'm sitting on the floor but the water is up to my chest.

The door is locked from the outside.

I don't remember locking it.

I can't remember the last three days.

My reflection smiles though I'm not smiling.

It mouths: "Goodbye."

[GoodShiiit]

The grandfather clock chimed midnight on Halloween. Young Finn watched his jack-o'-lantern, "Grin." It wasn't just carved; it felt alive. A soft, wet thump-thump echoed from inside, a sound like a tiny, insistent heart. Finn touched the damp rind. It was warm.

The carved grin seemed wider now, and the candlelight flickered less, somehow absorbed by the pulp. He leaned closer. A whisper, dry as old leaves, scraped against his ear: "Let me out."

Finn grabbed his coat and fled the room, leaving Grin thumping softly in the dark behind him.

 

GoodShiiit

[Mandalorian13]

I had spooky experience recently, i deposit into stake and suddenly i got lose streak for 1 month without any win nor any withdrawal

 

Stake : Mandalorian13

[QuadroAlass]

 

The Uncarved

Leo hated the house at the end of Hemlock Lane. Not because it was haunted, but because they never participated. Tonight, every porch glowed with grinning jack-o'-lanterns�except for theirs.

But as Leo passed, he stopped. On the cracked stone steps sat a single pumpkin. It was perfectly round, flawless, and, unnervingly, uncarved. The flesh looked too smooth, almost damp, like it was freshly peeled.

A chill wind kicked up, smelling of wet earth and nutmeg. Leo took a nervous step closer. The uncarved skin of the squash seemed to twitch. A faint, internal pulse of sickly green light flickered inside.

Then, a whisper, dry as dead leaves, skittered across the porch. "Open me..."

Leo bolted. He didn't stop until he was safe inside, dumping his candy.

The next morning, he couldn't resist. He crept back to Hemlock Lane. The house was normal. But on the cracked stone steps, the uncarved pumpkin was gone. In its place sat a jack-o'-lantern with a wide, cruel grin and hollow eyes that, for just a moment, seemed to follow Leo home. It had carved itself.

 

ID- QuadroAlass 

[xonskki]

 Stake username : xonskki777

A doctor was working at a hospital, a hospital where the patients were tagged with coloured bands. Green: alive. Red: deceased.

One night, the doctor was instructed to get a few supplies from the basement of the hospital, and so he headed to the lift. The lift doors opened and there was a patient inside, minding her own business. Patients were allowed to roam around the hospital to stretch, especially those who have stayed long. The rule was to be back in their rooms before ten.

The doctor smiled at the patient before pressing the number for the basement. He found it unusual that the woman didn’t have a button already pressed. He wondered if she was heading to the basement too.

The lift finally reached the floor where the doors opened. In the distance a man was limping towards the elevator, and in a panic the doctor slammed the elevator button to close. It finally did and the lift began to ascend back up, the doctor’s heart pounding.

“Why did you do that? He was trying to use the lift.” The woman stated, annoyed.

“Did you see his wrist?” The doctor asked, “It was red. He died last night. I would know because I did his surgery.”

The woman lifted her wrist. He saw red. She smiled

[99999x]

no money no money noooo money

[preb16]

on a chilled Halloween night. what did the warm pumpkin tell to a stranger walking by?  

hey there man. how's ur halloween going. 

the man replies: oh great. hows my costume? (Ghost rider costume with no helmet )

pumpkin: perhaps you shall put me on ur head big man. to "protek" ur head.

*man realises*

how the hell is a pumpkin talking to me ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh helppppppppp

 

 

Username: preb16

[XylitolHot]

I found my grandmother’s porcelain doll, perfectly preserved despite decades of dust.

When I wound its key, it began to hum the lullaby she used to sing to me.

Then it stopped and whispered, “You shouldn’t have left me alone up here.”

The attic door locked itself from the inside.

Stake: xylitolhot

[Thai2101]

Every Halloween, someone knocks on my door exactly at midnight.

They never speak — just leave a small box tied with a black ribbon.

Inside, there’s always a single item that belonged to someone I lost that year.

Tonight, there was nothing in the box… except a note that said, “Your turn.”

 

Stake: thai2101

[Xunave]

The demon in my house was scarier than Halloween.🎃

When I was little, I had English class on Halloween.📕👦

I was little, so I skipped English class and got my allowance to use for Halloween gifts, but I tried to keep it for myself.🤑

When I got home, my mom found out I'd skipped English class.

The angry look on her face at the time made it seem even scarier than Halloween. She looked like a real demon to me.

I was the one in the wrong, after all.

But now, I look back on it as a fond memory, knowing that it helped me raise a good child.🤣

 

 

Xunave STAKE ID

[Eskof]

The llorona is present on México streets

[Oneeechan]

The Last Treat of Hemlock Lane

Leo was thirteen�too old for the costume, too old for the plastic pumpkin, and definitely too old for the house at the dead end of Hemlock Lane. Yet, the old Victorian drew him in. It stood dark and silent, its skeletal trees scratching the slate roof like bony fingers.

On its porch sat a chipped ceramic bowl, overflowing with standard fun-sized bars, but tucked deep inside was a single piece that was unwrapped: a smooth, jet-black sphere. It felt like cool, polished stone, not sugar.

A sign taped above the bowl read: "The Last Treat is the Best Treat."

Leo hesitated. He pocketed a few normal chocolates, then, driven by morbid curiosity, he snatched the black sphere and dropped it into his mouth.

It didn't taste sweet. It tasted of cold, sharp iron and dry, ancient dust. He swallowed quickly, grimacing.

Back on his own street, he rushed home, his trick-or-treating haul forgotten. He pulled off his mask and caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. For a split second, the glass didn't show Leo. It showed a flicker of deep, unsettling orange where his eyes should be, like a candle flame deep inside a pumpkin.

The orange vanished instantly, replaced by his own wide, slightly unnerved gaze. But when the porch light hit him from behind, his shadow seemed to linger a moment too long after he moved.

He knew then that the sphere wasn't candy. He was no longer just Leo; he was the first shadow of the next Halloween, already waiting to be cast.

Oneeechan

[Sindikat]

Stake ID:
sindikat89

Title:
The 13th Seed

Story:
I only gamble on Halloween. The site feels different—quieter, like it’s listening. I set my client seed to PUMPKIN-13 and open Dice at 13.13x.

A gray name blinks in chat: Dealer_0x13 — “Don’t change the seed.” I haven’t typed a word.

I roll. Miss, miss, hit. In the verify tab, the server seed hash seems to hide a date—31-10-1925—just a pareidolia trick, I tell myself. Then the last four digits of my winning rolls match my system seconds three times in a row. I hop to Crash, cashout fixed at 1.313x; for a blink the graph shows 1.925x before snapping back.

“Don’t change the seed,” again.

I go back to Dice and run a dumb private ritual—bet sizes mapping wins/losses to letters. The line spells KEEP THE LAST HASH; a second pass reads MAKE ME WHOLE.

I search the name. There’s an old thread from Oct 31, 2018: a mega-hit screenshot that never verified—poster rotated their seed too early. The account went silent after. Not a rage quit. Just gone.

Fine. One big roll at 13.13x. Miss. Another. Miss. Third try—the mouse slips, the click lands—Hit. Chat erupts with pumpkins.

I click Reveal. The seed unspools into ordinary noise—except the checksum lines up with the hash from that 2018 post. It shouldn’t happen; hashes don’t do charity. My screen flickers like a candle anyway.

One last line from Dealer_0x13: “Thanks.” The profile link dies. The lobby sounds normal again. I rotate my seed like a sane person and close the tab.

I only gamble on Halloween.
Next year, same seed—if he needs me.

[Eblinks]

Title: The Pumpkin That Bet Its Soul

In the small, fog-drenched town of Hollow’s End, Halloween was more than a holiday, it was a ritual. Every year, townsfolk gathered in the square to display their carved pumpkins, each glowing with eerie artistry. But this year, a newcomer arrived: a sleek black carriage drawn by shadowy horses. Out stepped a man dressed in midnight velvet, his eyes sharp as a blade and his smile much too wide.

He called himself Mr. Stake.

He announced a contest: “Carve a pumpkin that burns brighter than fear itself, and I’ll grant you your heart’s desire.” No one knew where he came from, but the prize was too tempting to ignore. Wishes whispered through the mist that night, fortune, fame, lost love, second chances.

One by one, the townsfolk carved. Some made faces, others carved names. But none shone brighter than a young artist named Mara, who etched her pumpkin with trembling hands. She didn’t want gold or love, she wanted to bring back her brother, lost in last year’s storm.

When she finished, her pumpkin glowed like molten fire. Mr. Stake’s grin widened. “You’ve won,” he whispered, placing a coin-shaped shadow in her palm. “One soul for another. Fair bet, isn’t it?”

The next morning, Mara’s brother stood at her door alive but silent, his eyes empty, his smile carved too wide. And on the town square, Mara’s pumpkin still burned, its flame whispering, “The house always wins.”

And so, every Halloween since, a pumpkin with a fiery grin appears at Hollow’s End, a reminder that some bets are never worth making… even on Halloween night.

Stake ID: Eblinks

[Yoestina]

That night, on October 30th, I couldn’t sleep. I felt uneasy and scared. I tried closing my eyes, hoping I could fall asleep. At exactly 23:59, suddenly a new email notification popped up. My heart started pounding even more—I thought it was another bill I had to pay 🤦🏻‍♂️.

 

Slowly, I opened the email. I saw Eddie’s photo in it, and I thought, “What kind of promotion is this again? 🙃 Eddie showing up in my email at midnight?”

Turns out, I got a Halloween bonus from Stake 😃. I was so happy.

 

But strangely, after I claimed the bonus, Plinko started calling me: “Come… come inside…” My soul felt summoned. So I entered Plinko, and in less than 15 minutes, my entire Halloween bonus was swallowed whole.

 

In my heart: “Was that just a dream?”

 

Happy Halloween 🎃

Stake : Yoestina

[Azeezakamaa]

 

The Lantern on Thistle Hill

 

 

On the evening when the maples surrendered their last orange leaves, the town of Bramblewick smelled like cider and the faint, electric buzz of a thousand carved pumpkins. Children in stitched capes and cardboard armor darted between porches; lanterns bobbed in hands like tiny moons. But above the laughter, on the ridge called Thistle Hill, an old lantern burned alone.

 

Mara had come to Bramblewick that week to clear out her late aunt’s cottage. She moved through rooms heavy with dust and warm with memories — a teacup with lipstick at the rim, a sweater that still smelled faintly of lilac. On the mantel a small brass lantern sat, dull with age but intact, its glass faintly stained by something like old tea.

 

The townsfolk told stories about Thistle Hill: that it was where folks set out their lanterns on All Hallows’ Eve, not to ward off spirits, but to guide them home. “We help the ones who misplaced themselves,” Mrs. Thorne at the bakery said, flour on her sleeves. “Some of them are older than the hills,” Mr. Keene, the postman, added with a wink.

 

That night Mara climbed the hill with the brass lantern tucked under her arm. The moon was a coin sinking into the sky. Frost dusted the grass and the hedgerows hummed with crickets too full of evening to be quiet. At the summit, clusters of lanterns—applewood, tin cans with stars punched into the sides, jars wrapped in ribbon—burned in rows like a quiet, patient congregation.

 

She hesitated. The brass lantern was heavier than it looked, not from metal but from the weight of its history. Her aunt had never said why she kept it; she had only said, once, in a voice that smelled of peppermint and secret stories, “It remembers.”

 

Mara set the lantern beside a crooked fencepost. When she lifted the tiny snuffer to the flame, the lantern shivered. A breath, not hers, sighed through the wick, and for a second a whisper rode the smoke: “Mara.”

 

Her heart tripped. She hadn’t heard that name aloud for twenty-two years.

 

A man in a gray coat shuffled to the lantern beside hers. He carried a thermos and a smile that suggested he’d seen the world do stranger things than ghosts. “It will speak if it knows your name,” he said without looking at her. “You’ll recognize it when it does.”

 

Mara closed her eyes. The hill was alive with murmurs. Lantern-light kissed faces lined with laughter and regret. A little boy pointed at the sky and laughed because a bat had forgotten where it was going. Down in the town the church bell tolled seven, and with each chime the lanterns seemed to lean a little closer together, as if listening.

 

She had come to Bramblewick with a suitcase of unresolved goodbyes. Her aunt’s furniture felt too big for the house and too full of unsaid things. Mara had never forgiven herself for leaving — for going to the city and never writing back. The brass lantern warmed under her palm as the whisper came again, clearer, braided with the smell of peppermint and slippers: “Don’t be afraid to come home.”

 

Tears came so quietly she might have missed them. If the lantern remembered, then it remembered the small girl who used to dance in the kitchen while her aunt hummed old songs. It remembered the nights of stitches and stories. It remembered apologies hidden under teacups. The whisper was not accusation; it was a stitch in the ragged fabric of memory, a hand reaching out.

 

Mara spoke into the cold. “I’m sorry,” she told the hill, the town, the small woman whose sweater she still kept. The words felt thin. The lantern answered with a memory — a light as soft as a lullaby — of a kettle boiling, of a window left ajar for the moon, of two cups left cooling on the sill. The scene was simple, ordinary, and alive. It unmade the ache and remade it into something gentler.

 

Around her, neighbors set new lanterns down, their flames tossing tiny questions into the dark. A young woman in a captain’s hat who’d just returned from the sea laughed and clinked a thermos against the man in gray. The boy with the bat told a joke so bad everyone groaned and then burst into laughter. The hill hummed with the sound of people finding what they’d thought lost: names, promises, a remnant of a smile.

 

When Mara walked back down toward the lights of Bramblewick, the brass lantern nestled in her arms felt lighter. She had carried home more than an object; she carried a permission. On her kitchen table, beneath the quilt that smelled of lilacs, she set the lantern where she could see it. It did not glow all night, but sometimes, in the small hours, it would remember for her — and she would remember to remember.

 

On Thistle Hill, lanterns still lined the ridge every year: for the lost and the found, for late apologies and tentative returns. People came with paper cups and patched shoes, with answers and with questions. They placed their lights and listened. And sometimes, if you stood very still and breathed the cold in, you could hear the town itself say, with a voice made of sugar and smoke and small mercies, “You’re welcome back”

 

stake ID = Azeezakamaa

[paul5812]

The Haunted House on Hollow Hill

Every Halloween, the children of Milltown dared each other to venture near the old house on Hollow Hill. Legend had it that long ago, a wicked wizard named Malgrim had cursed the place, trapping restless spirits inside.

One chilly October night, a brave group of friends — Lily, Jake, Sarah, and Tom — decided to explore the house. As they approached, the wind howled through broken windows, and the door creaked open on its own.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and whispers. Shadows danced along the walls, and strange lights flickered in the darkness. Suddenly, a ghostly figure appeared — it was Malgrim himself, his eyes glowing like fire.

"Who dares enter my domain?" he boomed.

The friends froze, but Lily stepped forward. "We mean no harm. We just wanted to see if the stories were true."

Malgrim’s face softened, and he sighed. "You have courage. But beware — the spirits trapped here need your help to find peace."

With that, the ghostly figures emerged, reaching out in sorrow. Lily and her friends promised to free them. Using an ancient spell they found in an old book, they broke the curse, releasing the spirits into the night sky.

As dawn approached, the house grew silent and still. The curse was lifted, and Hollow Hill was never haunted again.

From that night on, the children of Milltown told a different story — one of bravery and kindness, and the magic of Halloween.

Username: paul5812

[AliceTaiwo]

**🎃 “Whispers in the Cornfield”**

Every October, the cornfields behind Miller’s Farm began to whisper. No one dared to walk through after dark — not since old man Miller vanished one Halloween night.

Lila didn’t believe the stories. She stepped into the rows, flashlight trembling. The stalks shifted, though there was no wind. Then she heard it — a voice, dry as husks: *“Help me harvest.”*

Hands of corn and bone reached from the soil, pulling her down among the roots. When dawn came, the field was taller, thicker… golden with new life.

This year’s harvest was said to be the best in decades. 🌽

 

Stake ID: AliceTaiwo

[Ajay8698]

  Susan and Ned were driving through a wooded empty section of highway. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, the sky went dark in the torrential downpour.

     “We’d better stop,” said Susan. 

      Ned nodded his head in agreement. He stepped on the brake, and suddenly the car started to slide on the slick pavement. They plunged off the road and slid to a halt at the bottom of an incline.

     Pale and shaking, Ned quickly turned to check if Susan was all right. When she nodded, Ned relaxed and looked through the rain soaked windows.

     “I’m going to see how bad it is,” he told Susan, and when out into the storm. She saw his blurry figure in the headlight, walking around the front of the car. A moment later, he jumped in beside her, soaking wet.

      “The car’s not badly damaged, but we’re wheel-deep in mud,” he said. “I’m going to have to go for help.”

      Susan swallowed nervously. There would be no quick rescue here. He told her to turn off the headlights and lock the doors until he returned.

     Axe Murder Hollow. Although Ned hadn’t said the name aloud, they both knew what he had been thinking when he told her to lock the car. This was the place where a man had once taken an axe and hacked his wife to death in a jealous rage over an alleged affair. Supposedly, the axe-wielding spirit of the husband continued to haunt this section of the road.

      Outside the car, Susan heard a shriek, a loud thump, and a strange gurgling noise. But she couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

      Frightened, she shrank down into her seat. She sat in silence for a while, and then she noticed another sound. Bump. Bump. Bump. It was a soft sound, like something being blown by the wind.

      Suddenly, the car was illuminated by a bright light. An official sounding voice told her to get out of the car. Ned must have found a police officer. Susan unlocked the door and stepped out of the car. As her eyes adjusted to the bright light, she saw it.

      Hanging by his feet from the tree next to the car was the dead body of Ned. His bloody throat had been cut so deeply that he was nearly decapitated. The wind swung his corpse back and forth so that it thumped against the tree. Bump. Bump. Bump.

     Susan screamed and ran toward the voice and the light. As she drew close, she realized the light was not coming from a flashlight. Standing there was the glowing figure of a man with a smile on his face and a large, solid, and definitely real axe in his hands. She backed away from the glowing figure until she bumped into the car. 

      “Playing around when my back was turned,” the ghost whispered, stroking the sharp blade of the axe with his fingers. “You’ve been very naughty.”

      The last thing she saw was the glint of the axe blade in the eerie, incandescent light.

 

Stake:- Ajay8698

HAPPY Halloween 🎃 🎃 🎃 🎃 🎃 

[fastothitter]

The air in our sleepy village always felt thick with boredom, but when that traveling carnival rolled in under the cover of fog, I knew my chance for adventure had finally arrived. The villagers whispered about curses about how no one left the same but I, I being the craving, restless soul that I was, ignored their superstitions. Once my parents slept, I slipped out. The fog was a suffocating blanket, and the carnival music sounded thin and strange. The place was wrong; the lights were weak, the rides moved like dying things, and the workers’ smiles were just pale, empty stretches of skin. Still, I walked toward the central tent, the one that dared you: “Enter if you dare.”

Inside, the noise died. I stood before a circle of mirrors, and they showed me lives I hadn't lived: the successful businessman, the passionate artist, but also versions twisted by greed and despair. Then, the reflections moved. They stepped out, their eyes gleaming, and surrounded me.“Choose,” a worker hissed. “Choose one to replace you.”

My heart hammered. I scanned the sinister gallery of myself until I saw one—a reflection that looked just like me, no obvious flaw. I reached out, touching the cool glass. The moment our fingers met, that reflection’s face snapped into a grotesque grin. It grabbed my wrist with unnatural strength and pulled.

The world dissolved into a sickening swirl. I landed in a nightmare version of the carnival—dark, decaying, filled with wails. I pounded on the mirror, but it was stone. On the outside, my other self the one that looked normal stepped out into the real world. It stretched, gave me a final, mocking sneer through the glass, and walked away.

Now, I am here, watching the fog roll into the next town from behind this cold, unbreakable glass. The villagers will see someone familiar walking their streets, but the real Sam is lost forever in this eternal, groaning twilight.


stake;  fastothitter

[Ejst99]

Stake ID:  ejst99

Sarah’s phone buzzed at 3:47 AM.
A text from her sister: “Don’t come home.”
She sat up in bed, confused. Her sister lived three hours away. Another buzz: “It’s in the house.”
Sarah called immediately. No answer. She texted back: “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
The reply came instantly: “I’m fine. Why are you texting me at 4 AM?”
Sarah’s blood turned cold. She looked at her previous messages. The warnings were still there, but now they showed a different sender.
Her own number.
A creak echoed from the hallway outside her bedroom. Her phone buzzed one final time: “I told you not to come home.”
But Sarah was already home. She’d been home all night.
The doorknob began to turn.