Jzt Stories

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...