Jzt Stories

Within a span of six months the fiddlers have successfully victimized 21 people in their twisted sexual conquest. The group of two, supposedly husband and wife, spent their time abducting and forcing people to engage in their sexual fantasies. Most of the victims said the couple took turns putting them in weird positions to please themselves. One of the victims claimed that before the couple had their way with him, they tied him up and injected him with aphrodisiacs, which stimulated his body and left him highly aroused. He narrated how the couple smiled at the sight of him in the aforementioned state before undressing themselves and going down on him for hours nonstop. Some of the female victims got pregnant while most tested positive for STDs. An accurate description of the fiddlers was never made because they were wearing masks the entire time. They were never caught and all information about their whereabouts proved incorrect.

I’d always loved the quiet of the old cabin in the woods. It was the kind of place where time seemed to stand still, where the smell of pine and woodsmoke lingered in the air like a memory you didn’t want to let go of. It was my retreat, my escape from the chaos and constant hum of city life. Out here, no car horns, no shouting neighbors, no glowing billboards—just stillness. Each visit was a ritual. I’d unpack my bag, stack a few logs by the fireplace, and make tea. I’d spend hours curled up in the old armchair, a blanket over my legs, losing myself in books while the fire cracked and popped. Nights were even quieter—only the faint rustle of leaves outside or the low, mournful hoot of an owl in the distance. But this time was different. It was subtle at first—nothing I could point to directly, just a feeling. The air was colder than usual, the shadows longer, the silence heavier. I told myself it was just the season changing, autumn announcing itself. But the unease clung to me like a...

The man had lived in the same apartment for nearly three years, tucked away in a quiet part of the city where the buildings leaned into one another like old friends sharing secrets. His third floor unit was modest but comfortable. One bedroom, a small living space, a kitchen barely large enough to hold a table, and a single window in the bedroom that overlooked the street below. From that height, he could see only the tops of the nearest trees and the distant glimmer of headlights passing in the night. It was unremarkable and an ordinary place where nothing unusual had ever happened. Until two weeks ago.  The first time he saw the man in the window, it had been late long past midnight. He’d awoken without knowing why, the air in the room cold and still. His eyes had drifted toward the glass, and there, standing against the dark city backdrop, was a figure. A man. Unmoving. Staring directly at him. The sight had frozen him in place. There was no balcony, no ledge wide enough for any...

In the late 1800s in Tibet, the Hangman was a figure of dread. He ambushed travelers, branding them with a scorching cattle brander, marking them for death. His victims lived in fear, knowing he'd return. No one knows who he truly was or how he came to be but he never spared anyone he marked. After gruesomely killing his victims, he always cut off their heads as trophies and take them with him. One victim, Alfred, a young traveler , was making his way to his village when was attacked and marked by the hangman. Afraid for his life, he sought refuge in a monastery, but days later, the Hangman found him. Under the starlit night the monks begged the hangman to spare the young man, but with no remorse, he brutally killed the man and cut of his hands and the hands of several monks who tried to stop him. The Hangman vanished, leaving only the legend of his terror to echo through Tibet's valleys.

Less than 30 minutes after he placed an order at a local eatery, he heard a faint knock on the door. He assumed the delivery guy was at the door, so he rushed to open it. Inches away from the door, he felt unease as if something else was outside. Through the peeping hole, he saw two men doing a handstand while being completely still. He went to the window to have a full view of what was happening outside, and the two men were right on his front yard. For a moment, he thought it's a couple of drunk people having a time of their lives, but that suddenly changed when they both started moving around perfectly fine. They were somehow walking with their hands like a normal activity. He wanted to go out and confront them, but they outnumbered him, so he went to get his phone and call the police. On his way back, he called the police and was narrating the situation. Before he could get to the window to see what more was happening, he froze in shock as one of the men had his face pressed up...

They claim to have the unbeatable price on the market, and quite frankly, they do. Their store is always packed with fresh meat and they’ve never complained of shortage. They serve varieties of dishes from both local to intercontinental cuisines, plus their free special Tai meat added to every purchase. For a while, everything was going smoothly until people started noticing the sudden disappearance of homeless people on the streets. Just a couple of months after the opening of the Tai Restaurant, the city’s homelessness rate, which was skyrocketing, began to drop drastically. At first, no one thought anything of it until the restaurant started offering free meals, which most people found unconventional for a restaurant that opened less than a year ago. After numerous complaints by some of the residents, it turns out the disappearance of the homeless was due to specialized programs aimed at relocating homeless people to a better place and getting them honest jobs. But the mystery of th...

The warm, sweet scent of fresh bread and pastries drifted through the little village every morning, curling into every home and coaxing people toward the small bakery at the center of town. The sign above the shop, painted in cheerful reds and golds, read simply: Red’s Oven .  It was a name that carried decades of trust and comfort, though most villagers knew it as the place where the girl with the bright red scarf worked. That girl was Red, real name Clarissa, but almost no one called her that anymore. The scarf had been her grandmother’s, a gift from before she could even remember, and she wore it every day, no matter the weather. She wasn’t the baker—that was her parents’ craft. Her role was deliveries and errands, a job she had taken on at the age of ten. Now, six years later, she could navigate every winding path, hidden alley, and shaded woodland trail within miles of the village without a second thought. Everyone liked Red. She was polite but not timid, diligent but never ar...