The Diary's SecretsShaina TranquilinoOctober 6, 2024

The Diary's Secrets Shaina Tranquilino October 6, 2024

Sophie had always adored her grandmother, a woman of grace and charm who filled every room with warmth. But when her grandmother passed away, Sophie was left with an overwhelming sense of loss. After the funeral, she returned to her grandmother’s quaint, creaky old house to sort through her belongings. Among the porcelain figurines, embroidered pillows, and stacks of faded photographs, Sophie found something unexpected — an old, weathered diary, its leather cover cracked with age.

Her grandmother had never mentioned a diary. The clasp was rusted, but it popped open easily under her fingertips. As she flipped through the yellowing pages, she noticed something strange. The ink appeared faded, yet readable, and as her eyes skimmed the words, she could have sworn she heard something — faint, almost imperceptible whispers.

Sophie frowned and closed the book quickly. The whispers ceased immediately, leaving an unnerving silence in their wake.

"Must be my imagination," she murmured, trying to shake off the chill that crept up her spine.

That night, Sophie took the diary home with her. Curiosity gnawed at her, and she couldn't resist opening it again. The moment she turned the first page, the whispers returned, low and unintelligible, as though the very paper itself was breathing secrets into the air. This time, the whispers were louder, more distinct, like fragmented pieces of conversations just beyond her grasp.

The words on the page were written in her grandmother’s delicate hand. January 5, 1956. The entry was brief, recounting a typical day. But as Sophie read further, the entries became darker, more cryptic.

February 12, 1956: “The shadow came again last night. It watches me. I hear it whispering from the corners of the room.”

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. She looked around her small apartment, suddenly aware of the shadows pooling in the corners, the way the lamplight flickered just slightly. She swallowed, pushing the growing unease aside, and continued reading.

March 3, 1956: “I tried to speak with it. It knows my name. It knows things about me I never shared with anyone. The whispers grow louder every night.”

The whispers in Sophie’s own ears seemed to swell in response to the words on the page, almost as if the diary itself was reacting to the memories being uncovered. She slammed the book shut, panting, her breath shallow and fast. But the whispers didn’t stop. They lingered in the room, filling the space around her with unseen presences. She could feel something watching her.

Desperate, Sophie shoved the diary into a drawer and stumbled to bed, hoping that sleep would bring her peace. But the dreams came — vivid, terrifying dreams of her grandmother, her face twisted in fear, standing at the edge of Sophie’s bed, mouthing words she couldn’t hear over the cacophony of whispers filling the room.

The next morning, exhausted and shaken, Sophie yanked the diary from the drawer. She had to know what was happening. As soon as she opened it, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent.

April 15, 1956: “I’m not alone. It’s in the house with me. I feel its cold breath on my neck when I sleep. It wants something. I don’t know what, but it won’t leave me in peace.”

Her grandmother had been haunted, tormented by something unseen. The realization sent a cold shiver through Sophie. But there was more, a final entry. It was written in frantic, uneven script, unlike her grandmother’s usual elegant handwriting.

May 2, 1956: “I tried to lock it away. Tried to bind it to these pages. But it’s not enough. I can hear it still, scratching, whispering. It wants out. I fear it will find someone else, someone to continue what I could not finish. God help whoever opens this book after me.”

Sophie’s hands trembled as she dropped the diary. The whispers grew louder, no longer faint but echoing through the apartment, a cacophony of voices overlapping, seething with malevolence.

Suddenly, a gust of wind slammed the windows shut, plunging the room into darkness. The whispers were everywhere now, suffocating, as if invisible hands were reaching out from the shadows to close around her throat. Sophie staggered back, her breath hitching in her chest, eyes darting to the diary lying on the floor.

The pages fluttered on their own, turning violently, as though something trapped inside was desperate to be freed.

"No," Sophie gasped, her voice barely a whisper over the maddening chorus. "Please, no."

But it was too late. From the corners of the room, the shadows began to coalesce, forming a shape, a figure that seemed to crawl out of the very air itself, twisted and hunched, its eyes burning like embers in a sunken face. It moved toward her, slow, deliberate, its presence suffocating the light.

Sophie couldn’t move. The whispers were in her ears, her head, her mind, filling every thought with dread.

"You shouldn't have opened it," the voices hissed in unison.

The last thing Sophie saw was the figure looming over her, its cold breath on her neck, just as her grandmother had described. The diary lay open at her feet, the final page blank — waiting for the next entry.

The Old Phone Booth Shaina Tranquilino October 12, 2024

The phone booth stood in the middle of nowhere, an ancient relic from a forgotten time. Its glass panes were cracked, the once-bright red paint now faded to a dull rust. A lonely road stretched in both directions, endless and desolate. No one came here. There was no reason to. Yet the phone booth remained, untouched by time or vandalism, waiting for something—or someone.

It was late one autumn evening when Xander found himself lost along that very road. His phone had died hours ago, and there hadn’t been another car in sight since he left the small town behind. The cold, bitter wind gnawed at him as he walked, and just when hope seemed to dwindle, he saw the phone booth up ahead.

Relief washed over him. It was bizarre—who kept a phone booth running these days? But he didn’t care. He just needed to call for help. As he approached, something about the booth unsettled him. It didn’t belong here, in the vast emptiness of the fields around it. But desperation overpowered any lingering doubt.

Xander pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside. The air within felt colder than it should, a damp chill clinging to him. The phone hung crookedly from its cradle, an old rotary model that hadn’t been in use for decades. The grime and cobwebs hinted it hadn’t been touched in years. But before he could reach for it, the phone rang.

The sharp, metallic ring echoed in the booth, startling him. Xander froze. His mind raced—who would call a phone like this? There was no one around for miles. Perhaps it was a coincidence, some automated system. But as the phone continued to ring, a strange compulsion overcame him. He reached out, hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

"Hello?" His voice was shaky.

At first, there was silence. Then, faintly, from the other end of the line, he heard it—whispering. It was low, indistinct, like a distant conversation just out of earshot. Xander strained to listen, but the words remained elusive. He should’ve hung up then, but something in those whispers tugged at him, drawing him closer.

“Hello? Who is this?” he repeated, but the whispers only grew louder, surrounding him, filling his ears with their unintelligible murmur. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the tone felt wrong—off, like voices that weren’t meant to be heard. A cold dread began to creep up his spine, but his hand wouldn’t let go of the receiver.

The whispering continued, insistent, crawling into his mind like insects burrowing deep. Xander tried to pull away, but he found himself rooted to the spot, paralyzed by some unseen force. His heart pounded as he realized the whispers weren’t just words—they were inside him now, writhing in his thoughts, unravelling them. The voices were no longer on the line; they were in his head, echoing from the corners of his mind, relentless and invasive.

The wind outside had picked up, rattling the booth, but Xander didn’t notice. The whispers were all he could hear, growing louder, drowning out everything else. They spoke in a language he couldn’t understand, yet somehow he knew what they wanted. They were telling him things—dark, terrible things—about himself, about the world, about everything that waited beyond.

He tried to scream, but his throat tightened, suffocated by their presence. His vision blurred as the world around him seemed to warp, bending and twisting in unnatural ways. The booth felt smaller, closing in on him, the glass distorting like a funhouse mirror. The whispers consumed him, tearing through his thoughts, leaving nothing but a hollow echo where his sanity had once been.

With a final gasp, Xander dropped the receiver. The phone swung limply, the dial tone buzzing faintly beneath the rising wind. He staggered out of the booth, his mind shattered, eyes wide with terror but unseeing. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, mumbling incoherently to himself, the whispers still echoing in the dark recesses of his mind.

Hours later, a passing truck driver found Xander wandering along the road, his clothes soaked from the evening rain. His eyes were glazed, and his lips moved, forming words that made no sense. He was taken to a nearby hospital, but no one could reach him. He spoke of voices, of the whispers that wouldn’t stop, of things that had no name. Days later, he vanished from his hospital room without a trace.

The phone booth remains there, silent and waiting.

Sometimes, on lonely nights, it rings. And if you answer, you’ll hear the whispers too.

But be warned: once they find you, they never let go.

The Mirror of Truth Shaina Tranquilino September 29, 2024

In the quiet town of Regina Ridge, nothing ever changed. It was a place of routines, polite greetings, and secrets buried under layers of civility. Life was predictable, a clockwork of day-to-day activities. That was, until the mirror arrived.

It appeared one foggy morning in the window of Old Morton's Antiques, an unremarkable shop tucked between the grocer and the post office. The mirror was elegant, standing six feet tall with an intricately carved frame of dark mahogany. Its surface shimmered in an oddly captivating way, as though the glass held more than reflections.

Mrs. Jessica Fields, the postmaster’s wife, was the first to notice it. As she passed the shop on her way to the market, her eyes were drawn to the mirror. Something about it unsettled her, but she couldn't quite place what. She stepped inside the store, the bell above the door chiming softly.

Old Morton shuffled out from behind the counter. His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Morning, Mrs. Fields. Something catch your eye?" he asked, his voice raspy with age.

Jessica pointed to the mirror. "Where did you get that?"

Morton shrugged. "Came with a batch of old furniture from an estate sale. Strange thing though... couldn't find a price on it. Figure it's one of those one-of-a-kind pieces. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Beautiful wasn't the word Jessica would use. The mirror had an eerie quality to it, as though it were watching her. But curiosity got the better of her. She approached it, drawn to its strange allure, and stood before the gleaming surface.

For a moment, her reflection was ordinary—gray hair pinned up in a neat bun, lines of age creasing her face. But then the image flickered. The reflection shifted. Her face remained the same, but her eyes—her eyes were sharp and cruel, burning with malice. The smile that curled on the lips of the woman in the mirror wasn’t hers at all.

Jessica gasped, stumbling back. The image reverted to normal, her own startled expression staring back at her. Morton didn’t seem to notice anything unusual.

"You alright, Mrs. Fields?"

"I... I’m fine," she stammered, backing away from the mirror. "I’ll be going now."

She hurried out of the shop, her heart racing. As she walked down the street, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had looked out at her from the other side of the glass. Something that wasn’t her at all.

Over the next few days, word spread about the mirror. Curious townsfolk stopped by the antique shop to gaze at it. Some saw nothing unusual, just their own reflections staring back at them. But others—those with deeper secrets—witnessed something far more unsettling.

Harold Thompson, the local banker, was next. As he stood before the mirror, he saw not his own stout, dignified figure, but a man hunched with greed, counting money with trembling, possessive hands. His reflection grinned maniacally as gold coins spilled from its pockets. Harold blinked, and the vision was gone, but he left the shop in a cold sweat.

Then came young Claire Turner, sweet and kind, adored by everyone in town. But when she stood before the mirror, she saw a twisted version of herself—eyes wild with envy, her hands clutching at jewels and gowns, her reflection sneering with bitterness. Claire fled from the shop, her heart heavy with a truth she never wanted to admit.

One by one, the townsfolk came, and the mirror showed them not who they were, but who they truly were. Desires long hidden, fears buried deep, and the dark corners of their hearts that they’d kept secret even from themselves.

It wasn’t long before the mirror became infamous, whispered about in hushed tones. People avoided Old Morton’s shop, crossing the street to avoid even a glimpse of the cursed thing. Regina Ridge, once peaceful and predictable, had become a town of suspicion and unease. People started looking at each other differently—after all, who could trust someone when they didn’t even trust themselves?

It was Pastor James who finally decided to confront the mirror. A man of faith and conviction, he refused to believe that a simple object could hold such power over the town. One evening, after sunset, he entered Old Morton's shop. The bell rang softly as he stepped inside, the dim light casting long shadows across the floor.

Morton looked up from his chair, his face drawn and tired. The mirror had taken its toll on him too. He nodded at the pastor but said nothing.

James approached the mirror, standing tall before it. For a moment, all he saw was his own reflection—calm, composed, and righteous. But then, just like with the others, the image shifted.

His reflection sneered back at him, eyes burning with hypocrisy. Behind the mask of piety, Pastor James saw his darkest desires—the pride he took in his power over the townsfolk, the secret disdain he held for their weakness. The reflection laughed, mocking him.

"No," James whispered, shaking his head. "This isn’t me."

But the mirror showed no mercy. His reflection’s hands reached out, as if to pull him into the glass, to merge the man he pretended to be with the man he truly was.

In a panic, James grabbed the nearest object—a heavy candlestick—and smashed the mirror with all his strength. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the reflection disappearing with a final, mocking grin.

Breathing heavily, he stepped back, staring at the broken shards scattered across the floor. It was over. The mirror was destroyed.

But as the townspeople gathered outside, drawn by the sound of breaking glass, they saw something strange. Each shard of the broken mirror still reflected their faces—distorted, twisted, revealing those same hidden truths.

The mirror was gone, but its curse lingered.

Regina Ridge would never be the same again.

The Phantom Operator Shaina Tranquilino October 10, 2024

Macy sat alone in her dimly lit apartment, the glow from her TV flickering across the walls as an autumn storm rattled the windows. The wind howled through the trees outside, and rain pattered against the glass like skeletal fingers tapping to get in. She had always loved October’s eeriness, but tonight, an unfamiliar dread settled over her. It started with a ring—sharp and shrill, cutting through the white noise of the storm. Macy glanced at her phone, confused. The screen displayed “Unknown Caller,” a designation she hadn't seen in years. She hesitated but eventually swiped to answer.

“Hello?” she said, her voice tentative.

There was silence on the other end, only the faint hiss of static. Macy was about to hang up when she heard it: a whisper, faint and distant, but unmistakable.

"Macy…"

She froze. The voice was achingly familiar, one she had buried in the deepest recesses of her memory. Her throat tightened as chills crept up her spine.

"Maverick?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

The static crackled again, louder this time. The whisper came through once more, clearer now, unmistakably his voice. "Macy... I miss you."

Her heart pounded in her chest. It had been five years since Maverick died in a car accident. The grief had been suffocating, but she had moved on—or so she thought. The sudden resurgence of his voice felt like a knife turning in a half-healed wound.

“This isn’t funny,” she said, her voice rising. “Who is this?”

But the voice on the other end didn’t respond. The static grew louder, filling her ears, drowning out the storm outside.

“I miss you,” the voice repeated, echoing like it was coming from far away, from somewhere it shouldn’t be able to reach.

With a gasp, Macy dropped the phone onto the couch, staring at it in horror. Her hands were shaking. This had to be a prank—some cruel, heartless prank. But how? Maverick was dead. She had attended his funeral, seen his body lowered into the ground.

The phone went silent. For a long minute, she just stared at it, hoping the nightmare was over. But then, it rang again.

Macy nearly jumped out of her skin. “Unknown Caller” flashed on the screen once more. She didn’t want to answer, but her hand moved involuntarily, as though compelled by some unseen force.

She pressed the green icon and brought the phone to her ear, her pulse hammering in her throat.

This time, the voice came through immediately, but it was different. It wasn’t just a whisper. It was distorted, warped, as though Maverick’s voice had been dragged through layers of static and something darker—something inhuman.

"Why did you leave me?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. "You... you died, Maverick. You’re gone. This isn’t real."

"I’m still here," the voice rasped. The words were drenched in agony, in longing. "I’ve been waiting for you."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She tried to reason with herself—this was impossible, a trick of the mind. Maybe it was the storm, maybe it was grief resurfacing after all these years. But the voice… it was too real. Too familiar.

The call cut out, plunging the room into silence once more. Macy stared at the phone in her hand, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her fingers hovered over the call log. She needed to know where the calls were coming from.

With trembling hands, she tapped the number.

Nothing.

No record. The call didn’t exist.

A chill swept over her as the storm outside raged on, the wind howling like a mourning soul. She stood, pacing the living room, her mind racing. It couldn’t have been Maverick. He was gone. He had to be.

Suddenly, the phone rang again.

This time, Macy didn’t answer immediately. She let it ring, her stomach twisting into knots as the shrill sound echoed in her small apartment. Finally, with a deep breath, she answered.

“Maverick, please stop this,” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “Please… just let me go.”

There was a long pause, the kind of silence that felt like the dead themselves were listening.

"Come back to me," the voice said. It was louder now, more insistent. "You promised."

Her mind raced back to the night of his accident. They had fought—bitterly. She had told him she was leaving him, that she couldn’t take the jealousy, the paranoia anymore. He had driven off in a storm not unlike tonight, his last words to her echoing in her mind: “If you leave, I’ll never let you go.”

The static rose again, and beneath it, Macy could hear something else—a distant noise, growing louder. It was the unmistakable screech of tires on wet pavement, the crunch of metal twisting and shattering.

Then, the voice. His voice. Crying out her name in terror.

The memory slammed into her like a freight train, and she dropped the phone, stumbling backward, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She covered her ears, but she couldn’t block it out—the sound of his death was all around her, suffocating her.

The lights flickered and then went out, plunging the room into darkness. Only the faint glow from her phone illuminated the room. The call was still active, the static crackling like fire.

And then she heard it. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, moving toward her.

Macy backed into a corner, her heart pounding, tears streaming down her face. “Maverick... I’m sorry…”

The footsteps stopped just behind her. She could feel the air grow cold, could sense something—someone—standing there, unseen but present.

A whisper brushed her ear, so close it felt like icy breath on her skin.

“You can’t leave me. Not again.”

And then, the lights flickered back on. The room was empty, but Macy knew—she wasn’t alone.

The phone went dead in her hand, the call finally over. But the fear remained, gnawing at her, whispering in the back of her mind.

She knew it wasn’t the last time he would call.

Maverick was waiting.

And he always would be.

The Secrets of the Abandoned Theatre Shaina Tranquilino September 30, 2024

The wind howled as Mia, Lucas, Sarah, and Ben stood before the crumbling façade of the abandoned Crestwood Theatre. The moon cast long, eerie shadows across the street, and the decaying building loomed over them, as if daring them to step inside. Crestwood had been closed for nearly fifty years, ever since the tragic fire that had burned it down during a performance. Rumour had it that the final show, The Phantom’s Masquerade, had never reached its conclusion. The fire had erupted without warning, claiming the lives of several cast members and the director. Ever since, people in town whispered that strange things happened inside the old theatre. Shadows moved on their own, strange melodies drifted out into the night, and lights flickered through the boarded-up windows—despite there being no electricity.

"Are we really doing this?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

Lucas grinned, shaking a flashlight in his hand. "Come on, it'll be fun. What’s a little ghost hunt between friends?"

Ben, always the practical one, folded his arms. "I don’t know. People say this place is cursed for a reason."

Mia, the quietest of the group, felt an odd pull toward the building. She didn’t know why, but something about the Crestwood had always fascinated her, even frightened her. It wasn’t just the tragic fire; it was something more, something… unfinished. Without a word, she walked toward the heavy, broken doors.

Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the remnants of a once-grand theatre lay in ruins. Red velvet seats, now torn and decaying, lined the sloping floor leading to a stage draped in thick cobwebs. A broken chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly in the cold draft.

Mia shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. "We shouldn’t be here," she whispered.

Ben scoffed. "No kidding."

"Let’s just take a quick look around and get out of here," Lucas said, clicking on his flashlight and shining it across the rows of forgotten seats.

As the beam swept across the darkened theatre, something glinted from the stage. It was faint, barely noticeable, but enough to make Mia’s heart skip a beat. Without thinking, she moved toward the stage.

"Hey, Mia!" Lucas called after her. "Where are you going?"

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the spot where she had seen the glint. There was something there—something waiting.

The others followed, reluctantly climbing onto the stage behind her. Up close, the smell of old smoke still lingered in the air, as though the fire had never truly gone out. The curtains, now tattered and singed, fluttered slightly as if moved by an unseen hand.

"This is giving me the creeps," Sarah murmured.

As they reached the center of the stage, Mia suddenly froze. There, lying at her feet, was a charred mask—half burned, half pristine. It was a prop from the final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade. She bent down to pick it up, but the moment her fingers touched the mask, the theatre changed.

The air grew thick, and a deep chill swept through the building. A low hum of music began to play, distant but growing louder. The friends exchanged uneasy glances as the ghostly melody filled the room.

Suddenly, the dim emergency lights that lined the aisles flickered on, casting a sickly glow over the seats. Lucas swung his flashlight wildly, but it wasn’t his light that illuminated the room—it was something else. The theatre was coming alive.

Then, they heard it.

Soft whispers. Laughter. The distant applause of an invisible audience.

"Oh my God," Sarah whispered. "Do you hear that?"

Mia clutched the mask tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. "We need to leave. Now."

But before they could move, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the torn curtains. It was dressed in a tattered costume from the show, its face hidden beneath a mask identical to the one Mia held. The figure moved with a slow, deliberate grace, as if it were still performing the role it had been cast in all those years ago.

"It’s a ghost," Ben gasped, backing away.

The figure turned toward them, raising a hand as if beckoning them closer. Its mask glinted in the dim light, and behind it, Mia could swear she saw hollow, empty eyes staring back at her.

Suddenly, the stage beneath their feet began to shake. The wood groaned as if under immense pressure, and the faint smell of smoke grew stronger. Flames—tiny at first—licked at the edges of the stage, curling around the old, decaying wood.

"We have to go!" Lucas shouted, grabbing Mia’s arm.

But she couldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the ghostly figure. The whispers grew louder, the laughter more intense. The ghost raised its other hand, and with a sudden, violent gust of wind, the flames surged higher, engulfing the stage.

"No!" Mia screamed, finally breaking free from her trance.

She threw the mask down onto the stage, and as it hit the floor, the flames vanished. The theatre fell silent. The whispers stopped, the music faded, and the figure disappeared into the shadows.

The friends stood frozen, staring at the charred mask, still lying on the floor where Mia had dropped it. The air was thick with tension, but the theatre was quiet again. Too quiet.

Without a word, they bolted for the exit, not daring to look back. Outside, the cold night air felt like a relief, though their hearts were still pounding with terror.

"What just happened?" Sarah gasped, clutching her chest.

"It was them," Mia said quietly, staring back at the dark theatre. "The cast. They never finished their final performance. They’re still trapped in there, reliving that night over and over again."

Lucas shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. "We have to tell someone—"

"No one would believe us," Ben interrupted, his face pale. "Besides, I think it’s better if we just… let them be."

Mia nodded, her thoughts still lingering on the mask and the shadowy figure that had haunted the stage. As they walked away from the theatre, the wind picked up again, carrying with it a faint, haunting melody.

The final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade was far from over.

And it never would be.

Continuing My New Year’s Resolution: Donating to Help The Cathedral Community Fridge for October 2024 Shaina Tranquilino October 1, 2024

As the year goes on, I’ve been grateful to stay true to my New Year’s resolution of donating to a different cause each month. This October, I’m excited to support an initiative that deeply resonates with me: Help The Cathedral Community Fridge in Regina, Saskatchewan. This organization is tackling food insecurity in a unique and powerful way—entirely community-funded, run by volunteers, and driven by the spirit of mutual aid.

Why I Chose Help The Cathedral Community Fridge

Food insecurity is a growing issue across Canada, and Regina is no exception. The Cathedral Community Fridge provides an immediate and essential solution—food, directly to those in need, every day. What makes this organization even more special is its pure reliance on community support. They don’t receive any government or charity funding. There’s no large-scale nonprofit organization backing them. Instead, they thrive solely on the contributions of neighbors, friends, and generous strangers who understand that community support is the backbone of food security.

This resonated with me because it’s a reminder that we don’t always need massive institutions or bureaucracies to create change. Sometimes, it’s the collective effort of individuals working together that makes the biggest difference. Knowing my donation will help them continue their mission made this month’s choice easy.

What the Donations Support

Help The Cathedral Community Fridge goes beyond just providing food. They’re offering an entire support system for the vulnerable and marginalized in Regina. Here’s a glimpse into the incredible impact they’re making with the funds they receive:

Feeding 100s of people daily: The Fridge ensures that people who might not have regular access to meals can grab something fresh and nutritious, no questions asked.

Delivering 700 food hampers annually: They’re not just relying on people to come to them—volunteers actively deliver food hampers to those most in need, especially the elderly, people who have disabilities, or those without transportation.

Driving 5,000 kilometers a year: Gas funding allows volunteers to cover a vast area, making sure food reaches remote or overlooked individuals who are often left out of food security networks.

Delivering 200,000 lbs of food annually: It’s hard to comprehend just how much food passes through the hands of these volunteers. Every pound represents a crucial meal for someone who might otherwise go hungry.

Providing shelter and resources: Beyond food, The Cathedral Community Fridge supports the houseless population by purchasing supplies such as sleeping bags, tents, and water, while offering basic essentials like medical supplies and gloves.

Funding Crisis Team supplies: Regina’s harsh winters mean that immediate crisis response can sometimes be the difference between life and death. Donations go toward bus passes, emergency supplies, and other resources to help people get out of dangerous situations.

Supporting other Mutual Aid Networks: It’s beautiful to see that they don’t just stop at helping their own community. They share resources with other mutual aid networks, creating a ripple effect that amplifies the power of every donation.

Why This Work Matters

Food insecurity isn’t just about lack of access to meals. It’s connected to housing instability, mental health, and a cycle of poverty that can feel impossible to break. What Help The Cathedral Community Fridge is doing matters because they’re not just providing food—they’re giving people the means to survive and, in many cases, thrive.

The fact that this initiative is entirely volunteer-driven is incredibly inspiring. No one is getting paid, but everyone’s work is deeply valued. It feels great to support a cause where every dollar donated goes straight to helping the community, rather than administrative costs or overhead.

How You Can Get Involved

If this cause resonates with you as much as it did with me, I encourage you to support Help The Cathedral Community Fridge. Whether it’s a financial donation, volunteering your time, or simply spreading the word, every little bit helps.

You can follow them on social media, share their posts, and, if you're in Regina, consider dropping off food or supplies at the fridge. The more we spread awareness, the more we can help strengthen the sense of community that is already thriving there.

As I continue this journey of giving each month, I’ve realized just how much of a difference small, consistent acts of kindness can make. Help The Cathedral Community Fridge is just one example of a local initiative making a huge impact, and I’m grateful to play even a small role in supporting their work this October.

If you're inspired, I hope you’ll consider joining me in supporting causes that speak to your heart and uplift your community. Together, we can create real, lasting change—one month, one donation, one act of kindness at a time.

Let’s keep the giving spirit alive this fall, and remember that community is the foundation of progress! https://gofund.me/439bf431