Jzt Stories

Everyone in Milan knows the Metro stops running at midnight. But sometimes, if you’re the last passenger on the last train, the doors reopen at a station that doesn’t exist. Marco dozed off on the M3 line after a long night out. When he jerked awake, the train was empty with lights flickering. The doors open at an unfamiliar stop "Lacrime" glowed in broken red letters on the platform. No one got on. The air smelled like damp concrete and copper. Down the tunnel, something scraped against the tracks—slow, heavy. The intercom crackled: “This station is not for the living." The doors didn’t close. Marco sprinted out as the train pulled away, leaving him alone in the flickering dark. His phone showed no signal, no trace of "Lacrime" on any map. Then he heard it—wet footsteps dragging closer from the tunnel.   The next morning, transit workers found his backpack on the tracks at Rogoredo. Inside, his phone played a 17-second voice memo—just ragged breathing and a wh...

Michael was the third child to vanish that year. His disappearance was no isolated tragedy. It followed an eerily precise pattern. Just like the other two before him, the last place he’d been seen was near the abandoned community swimming pool. The pool itself sat like a scar in the middle of town, surrounded by cracked concrete and weeds that reached out like fingers. It was impossible to miss, yet most people avoided even glancing at it. Nobody could quite remember when or why it had been closed. It had always been there, a deep hollow filled with shadows instead of water, its silence heavier than the summer air. The elders claimed the pool had once been the heart of the town during the blistering heat of July, a place where children’s laughter echoed across the rooftops. But over time, it became something else entirely. Four years earlier, a boy had drowned under strange circumstances—though “drowned” was an insufficient word, for when they found his body, his lungs had been dry. Af...

For the past two months, it had been the same awkward conversation almost every week. Sometimes twice. The old woman in the house directly across the street from hers would call out whenever she saw her, leaning against her fence with that thin, bird-like frame and curious eyes. Her hair was white and wiry, curling out from under a knitted cap no matter the weather. And every time, her question was the same. “How come your roommate’s so rude?” The first time she’d heard it, she’d laughed. “I don’t have a roommate,” She had said, adjusting the strap of her work bag. “It’s just me.” But the old lady didn’t laugh back. She frowned, folding her arms across her chest. “Oh, you do,” She said matter-of-factly. “I’ve seen her. She never waves. Never says hello. Walks in and out like she owns the place. Always at odd hours.” She brushed it off as some strange misunderstanding. Maybe the woman was mistaking her for someone else. Or maybe she was just lonely, making conversation out of nothing. B...

The town of Lin was an old, modest settlement, resting in the cradle of green hills and surrounded by a web of dirt paths that carried traders, travelers, and wanderers through its market square. It was a place where the seasons passed quietly, where gossip was more often about harvests than about people, and where strangers rarely stayed long. The townsfolk were used to predictable rhythms. The blacksmith hammering metal at dawn, the baker’s aroma drifting through the cobblestone streets, children chasing one another near the wells, and elders sitting under the shade of the old fig tree telling half-forgotten tales. But one day, a stranger appeared, and with him, the rhythm of Lin began to falter. He came with no cart, no pack animal, and no luggage that anyone could see. He was tall and thin, with skin pale as wax and eyes that seemed to take in more than what was in front of him. His hair, dark and streaked with silver, fell to his shoulders. He carried only a weathered leather-boun...