Jzt Stories

   The man had been following James since the train station. They both dropped at the bus shelter, cornered, James waited for the man to attack and do his worst to him. Instead, cold rushed in like floodwater. A figure appeared at the far end of the shelter. It had no neck, no shoulders beginning, just a void where a head should be, and it was moving toward both of them with terrible purpose. The attacker screamed first, a sound that didn’t sound human. He ran to the approaching bus without looking back, but he could hear the thing following at a slow pace. The bus pulled up and both James and would be attacker fell inside gasping. The driver didn’t seem to notice his shaking hands or the way he kept glancing at the window. No one had gotten on after him

    The current had her past the buoys and going under for the third time when someone got an arm around her chest and hauled her sideways out of the pull, shouting instructions the whole way in a steady lifeguard cadence. “Kick, don’t fight it, kick.” She didn’t have air left to obey, only survival, and the arm around her held firm, unyielding as a rope, dragging her out of that blue black corridor where her arms had stopped listening. The voice was calm in a way that made no sense in the chaos, not panicked the way she would have been or the way she would have expected anyone to be, just steady and certain. “You’re going to make it, stop fighting the water, kick toward me.” She kicked. Her lungs were closing. The arm didn’t let go. When she washed up on the sand ten yards down the beach, she was still coughing, still alive, already turning to thank whoever had held her together in the water. The actual lifeguard was sprinting toward her from his stand a hundred yards up the ...

   The hitchhiker asked to be let out early, then leaned back through the window and said, quiet and certain. “Don't take the county bridge tonight." He almost didn't listen. He took the long way instead, some instinct he couldn't name, and heard on the radio the next morning that the bridge had collapsed at 11:40 p.m. the exact time he would have crossed it. He pulled over to text his wife that he was safe, but then he jotted awake and realized it was a dream. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Heed my words and live“ The hitchhiker said while sitting on the front passenger seat. Only then realized he'd realized he just saw what was going to happen.

    He wasn’t speeding but suddenly the car flipped over twice before it stopped. He remembers the windshield swinging back and forth, the world going sideways, and hands. Too many hands pulling him free before the tank caught fire. Firefighters told him he'd crawled out alone; no one else had been on that stretch of highway for six miles. He believed them until the bruises came up: four distinct sets of fingerprints on each arm, matching no one who'd touched him. He drives past mile marker forty every day now. For one second, every day, the guardrail looks bent in a way it wasn't the day before and then it isn't, again.

    The villagers had one unbreakable rule: if you heard someone calling your name from the plateau after sunset, you were never to answer. They claimed something, known to their ancestors as anix lived in the cliffs. Something that listened carefully, learned every voice, and waited patiently for the perfect opportunity. Outsiders laughed at the warning, dismissing it as another local superstition. During a weekend camping trip, four friends heard Emma's younger brother calling for help from somewhere beyond the trees. Emma panicked, insisting she recognized his voice, even though he was hundreds of miles away. The others tried to stop her, reminding her that it couldn't possibly be him, but the desperate cries became louder and more convincing. Moments later, another familiar voice joined in. Her mother's, begging her to hurry before it was too late. Ignoring every warning, Emma ran toward the voices, disappearing into the darkness surrounding the plateau. Her friends cha...

   Marcus, a wealthy businessman, faked his death to see how his family would react. Hidden on a balcony overlooking the chapel, he listened as relatives gathered around his empty coffin. What began as fake tears quickly turned into laughter. His daughter bragged about slipping poison into his drinks. His brother admitted helping cover it up. Even his wife joked that they should have used a stronger dose. They were already arguing over who deserved the largest share of his fortune. Filled with rage, Marcus quietly left the balcony and returned to his mansion ahead of the family. When they arrived later that evening, he was waiting. One by one, he hunted them through the house, killing every person involved in the plot. Only his son, Daniel, survived. Marcus knocked him unconscious, smeared blood on his clothes, planted the murder weapon beside him, and scattered evidence throughout the house pointing directly to him. Before leaving, Marcus made an anonymous call to the police....

   The annual pie eating contest was the biggest event in town. For fifteen years, nobody had managed to beat the reigning champion, Old Mr. Hargrove, until a young mechanic named Ryan shocked everyone by finishing an entire pie ahead of him. The crowd erupted into cheers as the town's beloved baker, Walter Finch, handed Ryan a gold trophy, the prize money and a special prize. A freshly baked pie reserved exclusively for the winner. Ryan accepted it proudly and took it home. The next morning, Ryan never showed up for work. His friends assumed he was celebrating, but days passed without a word from him. Police searched his house and found the trophy sitting on the kitchen table beside an empty pie tin. There were no signs of struggle, no footprints, and no clues. The town mourned his disappearance, but the baker simply shook his head and said that some people were never meant to handle success. A year later, another winner disappeared after receiving the same special pie. Then ...