Jzt Stories

When the ministry first arrived, the town welcomed them. They came in a battered white bus painted with a fading cross and the words River of Living Fire Ministry. Their leader, Pastor Gideon, was a tall man with a booming voice and eyes that seemed to burn with certainty. They set up their tent near the old market square and preached every evening. At first, it was just sermons. Then the miracles started. A woman claimed her blind eye opened during prayer. A man threw away his crutches, walking the length of the square while people shouted and cried. Each night, more testimonies came. The crowds grew. Offerings overflowed. But the town noticed something strange. None of the healed were from the town. They all said the same thing. I’ve lived here for years. Yet no one recognized them. Not the shopkeepers. Not the elders. Not even the children who knew every face in the streets. Suspicion grew. A group of townsfolk followed one “healed” man after a service and saw him slip behind a clos...

The teddy bear dragged the hammer along the floor as it moved closer, the soft scrrrape of metal sending chills through the room. “I’ve been watching this house all week. Every shout. Every slap. Every night you locked your boy in his room just so you wouldn’t have to deal with him.” It said. The couple thrashed harder, muffled sobs filling the room. “You call that discipline?” The figure in the teddy bear disguise scoffed. “Where I come from, that’s how you raise cowards… or corpses.” It stopped at the foot of the bed. “You see, I speak for the ones who can’t. The neighbors who hear the crying through the walls. The teachers who see the misdeeds of your boy and look away out of fear of what you two will do. The community that’s tired of pretending not to notice the disrespectful behavior of your boy.” The bear leaned in close, its cracked eye inches from the father’s face. “So tonight, I corrected the problem.” The mother let out a broken, wail behind her gag. “He screamed for you,” T...

The cabin came with the smell of pine, a sagging porch, and a note taped to the mantle: Please don’t disturb the Easter Garden. No signature. Just that. Mara found it first, tucked into a sunlit corner of the living room. A shallow wooden box the size of a coffee table, filled with moss, twigs, tiny pebbled paths, and hand-painted figurines no taller than her thumb. A miniature world. At its center stood a chapel made of bark, surrounded by rabbits, lambs, and little people frozen in gentle poses—one reading, another kneeling, two holding hands beneath a twig arch. “It’s… sweet,” She said. Jonah crouched beside her. “Creepy sweet. Like a dollhouse for sickos.” They laughed, but left it alone. That first night, rain drummed on the tin roof while old beams groaned like tired bones. The cabin felt too quiet once the generator cut out. They lay in bed, backs turned, the argument from the drive up still hanging between them—about Jonah’s job offer in the city, about Mara’s refusal to leave,...

Snow pressed softly against the windows as the family gathered around the dining table, plates warming beneath the glow of candles. Christmas Eve had always been quiet in the Carter house. No carols, no laughter loud enough to bother the neighbours. Just tradition. Roast chicken. Bread. Silence broken politely. The knock came just as Margaret lifted the carving knife. Three sharp raps. Too deliberate. They froze. “Who would that be?” Daniel said. Charity came easy on Christmas Eve; suspicion did not. He pulled on his coat and opened the door. A man stood on the porch, snow clinging to his boots and beard. He wore a red suit, faded and grimy, the white trim yellowed with age. His hat hung crooked over eyes that smiled before his mouth did. “Evening,” The man said cheerfully. Car broke down a mile back. Thought I’d knock. Smells wonderful in there. Margaret hesitated. “Are you… Santa?” The man laughed, long and warm. “Something like that.” They should have said no. All of them would late...