Jzt Stories

In the quiet town of Tilt, there was a small shop with a faded sign that read: “Harlan’s Clocks—Repaired and Restored” The old clockmaker, Gideon Harlan, was a man of few words, known only for his skill with gears and pendulums. But his greatest secret sat in the back room—a pocket watch that didn’t just tell time, but also steals it. One rainy evening, a desperate woman named Lira stumbled into the shop. Her brother, a soldier, had been dead for five years, yet she refused to believe it. She had heard rumors of Gideon’s strange timepieces. “I can pay,” she said, placing a bag of coins on the counter. Gideon studied her, then sighed. “Payment isn’t in gold.” He slid the watch toward her. “Turn the dial backward, and you’ll have one hour with him. But when the hour ends, you will lose the same time from your life.” Lira didn’t hesitate. She twisted the dial—and suddenly, she stood in a sunlit field. Her brother grinned at her, alive, whole. They laughed, cried, and spoke of everyth...

The elevator jolted to a stop between floors, lights flickering as John pounded the emergency button. Silence answered—except for a low, wet gurgle behind him. He turned, heart hammering, to see a stranger in the corner, face obscured by a hood, clutching a dripping knife. Blood pooled at their feet, though John swore they’d been alone when the doors closed. “You’re next” the figure croaked, lunging as the lights died. A scream echoed, cut short by a sickening crunch, and when the elevator dinged open minutes later, it was empty—save for a smeared red streak on the wall.

Late at night, the Thompsons’ cozy suburban home hummed with the soft glow of a single lamp in the living room. Mark and Lisa had just settled into bed when a faint creak echoed from the back door—a sound too deliberate to be the house settling. Mark grabbed the baseball bat by his nightstand, whispering to Lisa to stay put, but as he crept downstairs, the air grew heavy, tinged with the metallic scent of wet soil. A shadow darted across the kitchen, too tall and jagged to be human, and then the lights flickered out, plunging the house into a suffocating dark. Lisa’s scream shattered the silence as Mark bolted back upstairs, finding her staring at the bedroom window-outside, a figure pressed its warped face against the glass, its eyes hollow pits, its mouth stretched into a lipless grin. The bat slipped from Mark’s hands as the thing tapped the window with bony fingers, each knock syncing with the thud of something heavy moving through the walls. The front door slammed open downstairs,...

In the heart of a bustling city, a street musician named Leo played his violin with such passion that passersby couldn’t help but stop and listen. One rainy afternoon, a young girl dropped a crumpled note into his case instead of coins. It read, “Your music makes the gray days brighter—thank you.” Leo smiled, tucking the note into his pocket, unaware that this small gesture would soon change his life. The next day, a well-dressed man approached Leo, introducing himself as a talent scout who’d been captivated by his performance. He’d seen the girl’s note fluttering in the wind and tracked Leo down, offering him a chance to audition for a prestigious orchestra. Skeptical but intrigued, Leo agreed, spending sleepless nights practicing under the dim glow of a streetlamp. His fingers trembled with hope as he polished every note, dreaming of a stage far grander than the cobblestone corner he called home. At the audition, Leo poured his soul into the music, the same way he always had for the ...

The ice cream truck was a fixture of the neighborhood, its cheerful jingle echoing through the streets every afternoon. Children would come running, clutching coins and laughter, drawn by the promise of sweet treats. But it wasn’t just the ice cream that made the truck unforgettable—it was the clown. Big Top Benny, as he called himself, was a towering figure with a painted smile that stretched too wide, his eyes glinting behind the greasepaint. He handed out free cones to the kids, his voice a lilting sing-song that sent shivers down the spines of the adults who watched from their porches. Still, the children adored him, and the mothers, though uneasy, tolerated his presence. After all, it was just ice cream. Martha had always been one of those mothers. Every day, she would take her son, Tommy, by the hand and walk him to the truck, standing close as Benny leaned out the window, his grin never wavering. But today was different. Tommy, now seven, had begged to go alone. “I’m a big kid n...

My nephew’s a quiet kid, always scribbling with crayons. At our family picnic, he handed me his latest masterpiece: Mom, Dad, me, him—all smiling in a sunny field. But behind me stood a tall, faceless figure in black, jaggedly drawn. “Who’s that?” I asked, forcing a laugh. He giggled, eyes wide, and said, “The man who lives in your shadow. He said he’s your dad” I brushed it off—kids say weird things and my dad passed years ago. That night, I woke to a silhouette at my bedside, towering and still. I screamed, and it vanished. The next day, my nephew drew it again, closer to me. Last night, I felt a weight on my back as I walked home, like something clinging. I don’t cast a shadow anymore—not in sunlight, not under lamps. He’s not behind me now. He’s inside.