Jzt Stories

  In Lin, power doesn’t only come from votes. Sometimes it comes from things older than ballots. Senator Clarke was desperate. Poll numbers dropping. Scandals surfacing. Enemies closing in. So one night, he drove alone into the countryside beyond Spanish Town. No security. No phone. Just directions whispered to him by a party insider: “If you want win, go see him.” The hut stood alone in a clearing. No lights. No road sign. Just smoke drifting from a small fire. An old man sat outside, grinding something in a bowl. “You late,” The Obeahman said without looking up. Clarke froze. “I didn’t say my name.” The old man smiled. “You don’t need to.” Clarke explained what he wanted. Victory. Protection. Removal of obstacles. The Obeahman nodded slowly. “Balance must keep,” He said. “What’s the cost?” The old man stared into the fire. “Not today. Later.” The ritual was simple. Rum poured into the dirt. A black candle lit. Clarke pricked his finger and let blood drip into the bowl. “Done,” Th...

Kingston doesn’t sleep. It just gets quieter. That’s what Alana told herself when she and Marlon moved into 6B off Half-Way-Tree Road. The rent was too cheap for a building that clean. Fresh paint, polished tiles, cameras in every hallway. When they asked why the apartment had been vacant so long, the manager only said,  “Previous tenant relocate suddenly,” And refused to meet their eyes. The first night was fine. The second night, at exactly 2:17 a.m., three soft knocks tapped on their door. Alana sat up. “Marlon… you hear that?” “Somebody drunk press wrong door,” He muttered, already annoyed. Then a voice drifted through the wood. Soft. Familiar. “Mi deh yah…” Marlon checked the peephole. Empty hallway. He opened the door. Nothing. The security camera footage showed no one standing there. They laughed it off. The next night at 2:17 a.m., the knocks came again. Louder. “Mi deh yah…” This time it didn’t sound outside the door. It sounded pressed against it. On the third night, the ...

It started with a viral post. Nothing flashy, just a short video on one of those local community pages. A man, shirt torn, bag ripped off, yelling at his attackers while the crowd did nothing. The caption read: “Resist! Don’t be another victim! Fight back!” For most, it was just another online spectacle. But for Daniel, a twenty seven year old mechanic living in a crowded neighborhood of  Lagos , it was a call to action. Every day, he saw it: the same streets, the same alleys, the same reckless youths snatching phones, wallets, handbags. People were scared. People were silent. And Daniel, tired of being invisible in a world where fear ruled, decided he would do something different. It was a Wednesday evening when it happened. Daniel had just closed his small workshop and was walking toward the main road. The sun had barely disappeared behind the rooftops, leaving a reddish haze over the dusty streets. A group of three teenagers, wearing hoodies and cheap sneakers, blocked his path ...

A young boy grows up in a small, dim house with his quiet, exhausted mother and a monster that lives mostly at night. He never sees the monster clearly. Only heavy footsteps shaking the hallway, angry shouting that turns walls thin, the sound of glass bottles smashing against cabinets, and his mother whispering, “Stay in your room… don’t come out.” Sometimes he sees its shadow. Tall, wide, swaying like it can barely stand. Sometimes he hears it crying after it hurts her. His mother never calls it by name. Only ‘it.’ She hides bruises under long sleeves. She teaches him games to stay quiet, counting ceiling cracks, memorizing cartoon dialogue, pretending the house is underwater so no one can hear screams. The boy draws pictures of the monster. A faceless giant, hands like broken branches and a mouth that leaks black smoke One night the monster becomes worse than ever. The shouting turns into crashing furniture. His mother drags him out of bed and whispers, “We’re leaving now.” They run ...

Nobody knew Sister Pilar’s real name. She appeared in the neighborhood years ago wearing a faded gray habit, her mouth always covered with a thin cloth. A reminder of the vow of silence she never broke. She walked the same cracked streets every night: past liquor stores with barred windows, abandoned flats, corners where teenagers watched for rival crews. At first people thought she was just another charity worker. Then things started going missing. Cheap pistols disappeared from gang stash spots. Knives vanished from waistbands. Drugs went missing from lockers. Even a rusted shotgun hidden in a ceiling panel simply evaporated overnight. Everyone knew it was her. Kids saw her slipping into alleys, climbing stairwells, unlocking doors she shouldn’t have access to. But no one stopped her. Because wherever Sister Pilar walked, violence stopped. Deals that should have turned into shootings ended with arguments instead. Planned robberies fell apart when weapons went missing. Even rival crew...

Nurse María Gutierrez worked night shifts in Mexico City’s Hospital Juárez. Patients kept asking about a perfectly dressed nurse who checked their IVs after midnight. Security cameras never showed anyone entering the rooms. One elderly patient credited the mysterious nurse with saving his life by fixing a medication error. Another patient died hours after claiming she stood silently at his bedside. María searched old hospital archives and found photos of a nurse known as La Planchada, famous for her perfectly ironed uniform. She had died decades earlier after being blamed for a fatal mistake. One night María felt someone adjust her collar. A voice whispered, “Keep your uniform neat.” In the reflection of a stainless steel cabinet, she saw a nurse standing behind her perfectly dressed, perfectly still. The cameras that night showed María working alone.

In a quiet border town, teenagers earn quick cash sitting on rooftops with cheap radios and orange vests. They’re told to watch for police cars and unfamiliar vehicles. Most of them think they’re just helping the neighborhood stay safe. Mateo takes the job after school to help his mother with bills. The work is boring. Long hours, dusty streets, and nothing but stray dogs and passing traffic. But after a nearby shooting makes the news, he notices something strange. Security footage shows a blurry figure in an orange vest sitting on a rooftop close to the crime scene. The vest looks exactly like his. Another crime happens days later. Again, a rooftop watcher appears in the background footage even though Mateo knows the assigned rooftops are miles from where the violence occurs. Curious, he begins writing down dates, locations, and shifts. Soon he realizes the rooftops are placed directly in view of public cameras. They aren’t lookouts. They’re visual suspects. When Diego, a quiet kid wh...