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Cole moved to Las Vegas with nothing but a failed plan and a one-bedroom apartment off Boulder Highway. When a woman named Dahlia matched with him on a Thursday night and disappeared by morning, she left behind a mark on his skin — small, warm, spreading. The doctors have a name for what Cole believes is happening to his body. They're wrong. What began as an itch beneath the surface has grown into something deliberate, something architectural, something that knows exactly where it's going. Cole is writing this from a hospital bed. He's running out of time to be believed.

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I bought the house because it was cheap and I needed to disappear for a while. Five acres of Ozark hill country, a gravel road, and neighbors just close enough to wave at. For three weeks, it was everything I needed. Then the kids next door found a sinkhole behind the property line, and something about them started to change. The angle of their heads. The timing of their movements. A smell on the evening wind like chalk and old pennies. I left before I understood what I'd seen. I'm two hundred miles away now. It isn't far enough.

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I've run the I-40 corridor sixty times. Oklahoma City to Albuquerque, straight shot, nothing to it. But something followed me out of El Reno on a November night and it stayed in my mirrors for three hundred miles. It tried a broken-down car. It tried a voice on the CB — a woman, a child, freezing in the dark. It tried a rolled eighteen-wheeler with a driver crawling through the grass. Every time I didn't stop, it got a little closer. And every attempt was a little more convincing than the last. I made it through. I don't know if she did.

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I've been driving a garbage truck for fifteen years. I know what trash is supposed to feel like — and the bags at the last house on Pell Road don't feel like trash. They feel like something breathing. Every week, three bags. Every week, a little heavier. A little warmer. When the previous driver disappeared and left his thermos still warm on the dashboard, nobody called it what it was. They just reassigned the route. Then I found his notes in the logbook. Four words on the last entry, dated the Thursday before he vanished: She came outside today. Last week I found something on my arm. It's small. It's warm. It's getting bigger.

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Evan took the backcountry posting at Boone Creek because nobody else wanted it. Sixteen miles from the nearest paved road, no cell service, and a laminated sheet of twenty-two rules thumb-tacked above the radio. Most of them made sense. Some of them didn't. By the time he understood what Rule 16 was really for, it didn't matter anymore.

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Welcome to Skully’s Ominous Stories.A long-form horror story compilation featuring atmospheric, unsettling stories meant for late-night listening. These narrations focus on tension, isolation, and dread.

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Buddy's Fun Palace closed in 2003. The building has been sitting empty off Route 9 for over twenty years — boarded windows, cracked parking lot, and a faded sign with a mascot nobody wanted to remember.When a Craigslist ad offered $18/hr for overnight security, I took the job without asking questions. The owner said the building was being prepped for demolition. All I had to do was sit in a closet-sized office, watch six monitors, and make sure nobody broke in.Nobody told me what was already inside.

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Author - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/user/gamalfrank/⁠

Original story - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/r/stories/comments/1ksw8kc/i_work_on_cargo_ships_a_scarred_whale_began/

Original story title - I work on cargo ships. A scarred whale began acting erratically around us. We thought it was the danger. We were wrong. So, so wrong

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In 1994, a rancher in Utah shot a wolf six times at point-blank range. It didn't bleed. It didn't fall. It looked at him and walked away.That ranch would go on to become one of the most studied and feared locations in the world. But the thing that lives there — the thing the Navajo have known about for centuries — is far older than any ranch.Tonight, we talk about the one thing you're not supposed to talk about.

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Prisoner 1471 was sent into the blood ocean to take photographs. What he found in the dark wasn't supposed to be documented. It was supposed to consume him. It didn't. That was the problem. (This story takes place in the Iron Lung universe.)

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