Jzt Stories

It was past midnight when Luka drove out of Belgrade, the hum of the old engine his only company. He had worked the late shift at the auto repair shop again, and all he wanted was to get home, shower, and sleep. The highway was nearly empty. A black ribbon twisting through the fog and forest. Then, in the beam of his headlights, he saw her. A woman. Standing in the middle of the road. Her hair was wild, hanging like wet ropes over her face. She wore a torn white dress, stained at the hem. Luka slammed the brakes, the car screeching to a stop just inches from her.  She didn’t move. Then, slowly, she began to dance. Not gracefully.  Not like a ballerina but jerky, unnatural, every movement too sharp, too quick. Her limbs bent in wrong directions, her feet twisting in impossible angles as she swayed to a rhythm Luka couldn’t hear. He blinked. For a moment, it looked like her head snapped to face him  though her body kept moving, still spinning, still twitching. “Are y...

Derrick worked the night shift driving the city bus. It was a lonely job—just him, the hum of the engine, and the scattered faces of people trying to get home after midnight.  That night, he noticed something strange. At every stop, people got on, rode for a while, and got off. The usual. But one woman never moved. She sat in the very back, pale under the dim lights, staring straight ahead. No phone, no bag, no expression.  Derrick glanced at her in the rearview mirror more than once. She didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just sat there. When the bus emptied out, she stayed. Derrick finally pulled over at the last stop and turned to call back to her. “End of the line, miss. Time to get off.” She didn’t move.  He stood, walking down the aisle, the rubber floor creaking beneath his boots. When he got closer, his throat went dry. The woman wasn’t sitting on the seat.  She was sitting in the narrow space between the seat and the wall folded unnaturally, as if her bones ben...

The booth was silent except for Father Raymond’s breath. The hour was late, yet someone had stepped in. He heard the door close and the slow exhale of whoever had entered. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Raymond adjusted his stole. “Go on, my child. Confession cleanses the soul.” The voice that came through was low, deliberate, and far too calm. “I confess… I am going to kill you.” Raymond froze. He tried to keep his composure.  “That’s not something to joke about.” The voice ignored him. “First, I’ll cut your tongue out. I don’t want your God hearing your last words. Then I’ll break your fingers. Each one so you can’t raise a cross to protect yourself.” Raymond’s heart pounded. “Who are you? If you need help…” The confessor continued, tone unshaken. “After that, I’ll open your stomach right here in this booth. I want you to bleed into the wood. I want your blood to soak the prayers trapped in these walls.” Raymond’s hand moved for the door. It didn’t budge. The lock held ...

The old playground at the edge of the town had been closed for years. The swings were rusted, the slide bent, and the roundabout half-buried in weeds. Parents warned their children never to go there, though no one could remember exactly why. One autumn afternoon, three children, Marco, Elena, and little Sofia were seen wandering near the fence. They weren’t laughing or chasing each other like children normally do. They were quiet. Too quiet. By evening, a man walking his dog heard something strange: the creak of a swing moving in the wind. When he looked through the fence, he saw the three children sitting side by side, staring at him. Their faces were expressionless, their eyes wide and unblinking. The next morning, news spread fast. A young couple had been found in their car near the playground, their throats cut with something sharp. No valuables were taken. No suspects. Just blood, smeared faintly on the rusted slide. Neighbours began whispering about “the pact.” Years ago, a group...

Mara Ashford was the kind of reporter who would do anything for a scoop. Late night chases, trespassing into abandoned buildings, bribing morgue attendants for crime scene photos none of it mattered. As long as her name made the headlines, she was satisfied. One evening, she got a tip about a string of disappearances in a forgotten neighborhood at the city’s edge. The locals whispered about people vanishing without a sound, leaving only empty apartments with televisions still flickering static. Mara smiled when she heard it. Perfect ghost-story fodder for the late news slot. When she arrived, the streets were empty. A thick, unnatural silence clung to the place. She carried her camera crew inside one of the deserted apartments. Everything was coated in dust except for the television, glowing faintly though the power to the building had long been cut. Her cameraman muttered, “This isn’t right. No feed, no cable, no electricity. That thing shouldn’t even be on.” Mara ignored him and bega...

It started showing up around midnight. On the cracked streets and under the broken lamps where the homeless huddled, a white van rolled by without sound. Its headlights were dim but steady, and its engine gave off no growl just a low hum, like something breathing. Those who were awake claimed it would stop beside them, the door sliding open with a smooth hiss. Inside were crates: steaming bowls of soup, loaves of bread, bottled water, blister packs of pills. Everything was neatly arranged, wrapped, and free for the taking. But there was never a driver. No silhouette in the front seat, no shadow moving within. When asked, the men and women who had taken food said the van simply “waited,” as if patient, until they had chosen what they wanted. Then, once the door closed, it drove off, gliding into the night. At first, the city was grateful. Outreach workers saw fewer corpses in the morning. Some who had been sick began to heal. Word spread among the shelters: Look for the van. Trust the v...

When I think about my childhood, it always comes back to four o’clock. Not school, not birthday parties, not vacations. Four o’clock. Every day, my sister and I would drop whatever we were doing. Being homework, toys, even fights and plant ourselves in front of the living room television. We’d sit side by side on the carpet, legs folded, eyes wide, waiting. The moment the clock struck four, the screen flickered, and our show began. We loved it. The host was strange, but as kids we didn’t think much of it. He had a pale, doughy face, with a smile too wide for his head and round, glistening eyes that never blinked. His clothes were always different: sometimes a red sweater, sometimes a suit that looked like it had been borrowed from an old man’s closet. His voice was sing-songy, lilting, always just on the edge of laughter. He told stories, nonsense little parables about lost keys or talking shadows. He sang songs in a rhythm that stuck in your head for days, rhymes about hiding, waiting...