Jzt Stories

People in Ajegunle still whisper about Kunle, the little boy who always walked home from school alone. Nothing special just one quiet child with an oversized backpack and shoes that never seemed to stay tied. One Thursday evening, Kunle didn’t return home. His mother went to the school then from neighbor to neighbor, shouting his name. Nobody had seen him since dismissal. Panic spread. The whole street searched until midnight, calling, praying, knocking on gates. By morning, they found him. But not how they expected. Kunle was standing at Junction 17, the dusty intersection where three roads meet, staring at the ground. His uniform was clean. His backpack was neat. He looked exactly as he left school. Except for one thing. He was facing the wrong way. His back was turned toward the road to his house, but his feet were pointed toward home, like he had been  walking backwards  for hours. When his mother ran to him, he didn’t speak. He only whispered: “Mummy… someone followed me....

A group of five strangers meet at a quiet forest campsite, all traveling alone. As night falls, they decide to sit around a fire and tell scary stories. One hiker, a quiet man with a blank expression, begins describing a gruesome murder story that supposedly he heard just few days ago in a nearby town. He starts by narrating in detail how a stranger about his height entered the home of a family of four. He describes how the stranger attacked the family without any remorse. He describes the exact number of stab wounds, the way the victim begged, there the body was hidden before the police found it and what the victims said with their last breath. Everyone listens, thinking it’s just urban legend material until another camper, a police officer off duty, realizes the details match a real case that hasn’t been released to the public yet. The officer stands up, heart racing, and quietly texts his station. Meanwhile, the stranger keeps talking, slipping deeper into the story until he begins ...

Everyone in the city knew Dr. Nathaniel. His name carried weight in hospital corridors and family prayers alike. When a surgery was too delicate, too risky, or already failed elsewhere, it was Dr. Nathaniel who was called. He specialized in spinal and neurological procedures, the kind that required silence, patience, and hands that never trembled. People said he was gifted. What they didn’t know was that he never stopped studying his patients after they survived. The changes were subtle at first. A woman who had undergone spinal surgery returned home unable to feel joy. Her husband described her as present but distant. A young man who survived brain trauma stopped dreaming entirely. A retired teacher lost the ability to feel guilt, even when she should have. Doctors blamed recovery stress. Medication side effects. Trauma. Dr. Nathaniel signed every report. During surgery, when the operating room fell into its focused stillness, he performed his real work. While assistants managed instr...

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,...