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.

The baby monitor crackled to life at 3 a.m., waking me with soft static. I squinted at the screen—my toddler was standing in her crib, staring directly into the camera. "Mama," she whispered, her voice oddly deep. I stumbled to her room, heart pounding, but she was fast asleep when I got there, curled up under her blanket. Relieved, I chalked it up to a dream and went back to bed. The next night, it happened again. Same time, same eerie stare, same chilling "Mama." But this time, the monitor showed her room empty when I checked—her crib untouched, her blanket flat. I searched the house, frantic, calling her name. Then I heard it: a giggle from the monitor, still clutched in my hand. I looked at the screen. She was back in her crib, smiling wide, her eyes black as pitch. "Come find me" she said, and the screen went dark. I haven’t slept since. --- This one plays on the primal terror of the uncanny and the violation of something innocent turning sinister.

The old oak tree in Hollowbrook Cemetery had always whispered—or so the locals claimed. Teenagers dared each other to touch its gnarled trunk at midnight, but none ever stayed long enough to hear the truth. One fog-drenched evening, 17-year-old Mara accepted the challenge. Her fingers brushed the bark, and the world fell silent—no crickets, no wind. Then, a child’s lullaby seeped from the roots, soft and sourceless. Mara froze as the melody twisted into a chorus of weeping. Shadows pooled around the tree, solidifying into small, skeletal hands that clawed at her ankles.   She stumbled back, but the hands clung, dragging her toward a hollow at the base of the oak. Inside, faces pressed against the rotting wood—dozens of them, mouths stretched in silent screams. They were the missing, the ones the town called runaways. Mara ripped free, sprinting home with bloody scratches etching her skin. The next morning, she returned with a shovel, determined to end the curse. But the h...

The old man lived alone in a house too large for one, a decaying Victorian at the end of a forgotten street. No one knew his name, but they called him The Collector. His windows were always shuttered, yet at night, a dim glow seeped through the cracks, casting long, restless shadows. Children dared each other to peek through the slats, but those who did swore they saw strange shapes—figures standing still, lined up like dolls in the flickering candlelight. One evening, a boy named Simon crept up to the house, emboldened by a dare. As he pressed his eye against the wooden slats, he saw a room filled with mannequins—or at least, that’s what he thought. Their eyes looked too real, their mouths slightly parted as if caught mid-scream. Then he noticed one of them—a girl from his school who had gone missing weeks ago. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her eyes darting to meet his. Before he could react, a cold hand clamped over his mouth, and the world went dark. The next morning, ...

Ever since he got back from his hike three days ago, he swears he can hear the faint ticking of a clock. At first, he brushed it off as a trick of the mind, but days later, the ticking grew louder and closer. His friends told him he was just tired and stressed out about work. Things got stranger when he began to catch glimpses of a figure that’s always afar. By day five, the ticking was unbearable, a sharp rhythm pulsing in his skull. The figure was closer now—standing in his yard, tall and bent, its face a blank clock with spinning hands. He found scratches on his arm, Roman numerals counting up: I, II, III. Each night, a new mark. Each night, the figure crept nearer. He remembered the cave from the hike, the old pocket watch he’d taken. It sat silent on his counter, but the ticking came from everywhere else. On the seventh night, he woke to it standing over him, metal limbs creaking, clock face screaming midnight. The last scratch—VII—bled as its cold hand gripped him. “You took time...

The old lighthouse keeper, Silas, swore the fog had a mind of its own. Not just any mind, but a mischievous one. He’d seen it weave strange shapes, heard it whisper forgotten sea shanties, and once, he was certain, it had rearranged his meticulously organized collection of seashells. One particularly dense night, the fog rolled in thick as cotton, muffling the rhythmic churn of the waves. Silas, perched in the lantern room, felt a prickle of unease. Suddenly, the lamp sputtered and died, plunging the tower into darkness. "Not again," He muttered, reaching for the spare oil. But as he fumbled in the dark, he heard a distinct giggle, a high, airy sound that seemed to come from all around him. Then, a faint, ethereal glow began to emanate from the fog outside the window. It wasn’t the harsh beam of his lamp, but a soft, pulsating light, like a thousand fireflies trapped in mist. The fog, illuminated from within, began to swirl and coalesce, forming a luminous, vaguely humanoid s...

Emma scrolled her favorite art app, posting sketches of her cat. Few hours after her latest post, a new follower, "ArtFan88," messaged her. "Love your drawings! I’m 13, wanna chat about cats?" She grinned—finally, a friend who got her. They swapped pet pics, his tabby looking scruffy but cute. Days later, he asked, "Where does your cat sleep? Near your room?" Emma typed, "By my bed," without thinking much about it. That night, her phone buzzed: "Look out your window." Heart racing, she peeked—nothing but darkness. Then ArtFan88 sent a photo: her cat, snapped through her window glass, with a man’s shadow behind it. She screamed for her mom, realizing "13" was a lie, and her small, real-world details had painted a map to her door.

Late at night, Tom woke up parched, his throat scratchy and dry. Groggy, he shuffled out of bed, rubbing his eyes as he made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the fridge. As he reached for a glass, he froze. There, in the dim glow of the moonlight spilling through the window, stood his dog, Max—a scruffy little terrier—upright on its hind legs. Its front paws dangled awkwardly, and its head tilted at an odd angle, staring right at him. Tom blinked hard, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. “I’m dreaming,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Too much late-night TV.” He filled his glass, took a sip, and glanced back. Max was still there, motionless, eyes glinting unnaturally in the dark. Uneasy, Tom turned away, convincing himself it was just his tired mind playing tricks. He trudged back to bed, water in hand, and slipped under the covers. The next morning, he found Max curled up on the living room rug, wagging his tail as usual. ...