Screams and Memories

The Storyteller Speaks: Some Gates Should Stay Shut I used to think the worst things were the ones you invited in —the slow temptations, the cursed objects, the things that whispered sweet promises in dusty corners of flea markets. But now I know better. Some evils don’t need an invitation. They just need a crack. A hole. A weakness. And sometimes… you are the gate. Last night I had another spell—blacking out after a surge of energy, waking up barefoot in the backyard with dirt under my nails and blood on my cuticles. I don’t remember digging. I don’t remember screaming. But my neighbor swears she heard something—me or something else—chanting in a language she couldn’t recognize around 3:33 a.m. I tell myself it was a dream. I hope it was a dream. But then I found this… A VHS copy of The Gate —still sealed, still warm. 🎥 THE GATE (1987) – Suburbia’s Demons, Childhood’s End Speaking of things that want out, let's talk about a classic that perfectly capture...

“Death is just the beginning... of something worse.” 🕯️ Monologue: Of Time, Teeth, and Torn Edges (And a Car I Don't Remember Driving) There are things I can't unsee—scratches on the inside of my eyelids, memories I don’t remember making. But worse than the visions are the interventions. My schedule rearranges itself. My days compress. My reflection bends back at me like it's mocking the very idea of control. It’s not paranoia if you’re right, right? Every time I think I’m steering this life, something jerks the wheel. Missed alarms I didn’t set. Phone calls I never placed. Then there was the car. My car. Found totaled outside an abandoned gas station I've never been to. They said it must've been stolen. But the keys? Still in my coat pocket. Now I’m stuck carpooling with Val, who insists it’s safer with the sun rising later and “monsters crawling in early.” Val’s joking. I think. But the way she watches me now—like she’s waiting for something to hatch—I’m not so s...