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The Painted Door Shaina Tranquilino September 13, 2024

Nestled deep within the fog-shrouded moors of the English countryside stood Bellingham Manor, a grand yet melancholic estate that had seen better days. The once-majestic home now wore its age like a heavy cloak, its stone walls weathered and cracked, its windows grimy with years of neglect. Yet, it was not the crumbling facade that whispered of the manor’s dark past, but a single door hidden deep within its bowels—a door that had been painted over countless times but always returned.

No one in the family spoke of the door openly, though everyone knew of its existence. The tradition was passed down through generations: paint it over, and do not question why. Each year, without fail, one of the household staff was instructed to repaint the door, burying it beneath layers of thick, white paint. And each year, without fail, the door would reappear, its once-buried mahogany surface emerging like a ghost from the wall.

This eerie ritual had persisted for over a century, ever since the manor's original owner, Lord William Bellingham, first ordered the door sealed. His instructions were clear and unyielding: the door must never be opened, no matter what. He had scrawled the command in his will, sealing the fate of all who would come after him.

But tragedy followed the Bellingham family like a shadow. Each generation was marked by untimely deaths, all mysterious, all unexplained. The manor’s inhabitants died young, often found cold and lifeless in their beds, with no signs of foul play. Whispers of a curse filled the corridors, but no one dared suggest the obvious—the door was the key.

In the autumn of 1923, the last of the Bellingham's, Jonathan, returned to the manor after years abroad. A somber man in his mid-thirties, he had inherited the estate after the sudden death of his uncle, the latest victim of the family's tragic legacy. Jonathan was a man of reason, a scholar, and he had little patience for the superstitions that plagued the manor. Determined to uncover the truth, he resolved to break the cycle of fear that had bound his family for generations.

The door was his first target.

Jonathan descended into the manor’s basement, where the door was hidden behind rows of dusty crates and cobweb-covered furniture. It looked ordinary enough—solid, dark wood, the kind of door that belonged in a stately home. But as he ran his fingers over the smooth surface, a shiver ran down his spine. There was something unsettling about its presence, something that defied logic.

He retrieved a can of white paint from the storage room, just as his ancestors had done before him, and began the task of painting over the door. With each brushstroke, he felt the weight of his family’s history pressing down on him. When he finished, the door was once again concealed, nothing more than a blank space on the wall.

But the unease lingered.

That night, Jonathan dreamt of the door. In his dream, it stood before him, its surface unmarred by paint, gleaming as if freshly polished. A whisper called to him from the other side, a voice that was both familiar and foreign. It spoke of secrets, of truths hidden for too long. The door, the voice insisted, held the key to ending the family’s curse.

Jonathan awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to know what lay behind the door. Perhaps it was madness, but he could not ignore the voice.

The next day, Jonathan returned to the basement, armed with a crowbar and a lantern. The door was no longer hidden—somehow, overnight, the paint had peeled away, revealing the door in its original state. Taking a deep breath, he pried the door open, the wood groaning as if it had not been moved in centuries.

Beyond the door was a narrow staircase, leading down into the darkness. The air was cold and damp, and a faint, musty odor wafted up from below. Lantern in hand, Jonathan descended, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The stairs seemed to go on forever, spiraling downward into the earth.

Finally, he reached the bottom, where a small, stone chamber awaited him. In the centre of the room was a wooden coffin, its surface covered in strange, intricate carvings. The sight of it sent a chill through Jonathan, but he forced himself to approach.

As he drew nearer, the carvings became clearer—symbols of protection, of binding, and of something darker. Hesitating only for a moment, Jonathan reached out and touched the coffin’s lid. It was ice-cold to the touch.

He pushed the lid open.

Inside lay the skeletal remains of a man, dressed in the tattered remains of a once-fine suit. But it was not the sight of the bones that made Jonathan recoil in horror—it was the face. The skull, still mostly intact, bore a striking resemblance to his own.

A journal lay atop the bones, its leather cover cracked with age. Jonathan picked it up with trembling hands and began to read.

The journal belonged to Lord William Bellingham, the manor’s original owner. In its pages, William confessed to a terrible crime—murder. He had killed his own brother in a fit of jealous rage, sealing his body in the coffin and binding it with dark magic to prevent the spirit from seeking revenge. The door was painted over each year to keep the spell intact, to keep the restless spirit contained.

But the spell was weakening.

Jonathan’s breath caught in his throat as the truth dawned on him. The curse that plagued his family, the mysterious deaths—they were the work of the vengeful spirit, slowly breaking free from its prison.

And now, Jonathan had set it free.

A cold wind swept through the chamber, extinguishing the lantern. In the darkness, Jonathan felt a presence, something ancient and full of rage. The door slammed shut above him, sealing him in the tomb with his ancestor’s ghost.

The last of the Bellingham's was never seen again.

But the door remains, painted over each year, only to reappear, waiting for the next curious soul to set the spirit free once more.

The Shadow House Shaina Tranquilino September 18, 2024

Dr. Marie Landers had always been drawn to anomalies. As a researcher specializing in quantum phenomena, she was used to puzzling through the inexplicable. But nothing had prepared her for the enigma of the Shadow House.

It was a sprawling, decrepit mansion on the outskirts of town, standing alone on a barren hill. Built in the early 1900s, the house had long since fallen into disrepair. The locals whispered about it—how it had never been occupied for long, how strange noises echoed at night, and most of all, how its shadow didn’t match its shape.

That was why Marie had come. For weeks, she had pored over reports from townspeople who swore that the house cast a shadow too large for its size, with angles and shapes that didn’t belong to the physical structure. Some claimed to have seen movement within the shadow, a flicker of something otherworldly. And yet, no one had ever dared investigate.

Until now.

Marie parked her car at the bottom of the hill, clutching her bag of equipment. The air was unnaturally still, and the sun, hanging low on the horizon, cast the house in an eerie light. From a distance, she could already see the shadow—a looming, dark mass that stretched unnervingly far across the land, its contours sharper and more jagged than the house itself. It bent at strange angles, as though the sun were shining through a different structure altogether.

Marie approached, her breath shallow with anticipation. As she walked around the perimeter, the shadow didn’t shift as expected. It clung to the ground in defiance of the sun’s movement, frozen in place like a dark stain on the earth.

She reached the front door, old and weathered, and pushed it open with a groan. The air inside was thick with dust, and the wooden floors creaked beneath her boots. Sunlight streamed through cracked windows, but even inside, something felt wrong. The shadows in the house were too long, too deep, as if they were not merely the absence of light but something more tangible.

Marie set up her equipment, a mix of sensors and cameras designed to detect electromagnetic anomalies and disturbances in the fabric of reality. She moved through the house, her mind racing with possibilities. Was this a quirk of physics? A natural phenomenon? Or something else entirely?

She paused in front of the grand staircase. At the top was a long hallway leading to several rooms. The floor plan didn’t seem unusual, but the shadow outside suggested something different. She pulled up the blueprints she had found in the town’s archives and studied them.

Then she saw it—a subtle but significant discrepancy. The house’s shadow was casting an image of a structure that didn’t exist in the blueprints. There was a room, a hidden section of the house that shouldn’t be there.

Marie's pulse quickened. She raced up the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the empty halls. At the end of the hallway, there was a door she hadn’t noticed before, one not marked on any map. It was small, unassuming, with an old brass knob. Her hand trembled as she turned it.

The door creaked open to reveal a narrow room, bathed in a dim, unnatural light. At first glance, it was empty. But as Marie stepped inside, her skin prickled with an electric charge. The shadows in the room moved. They didn’t simply shift with her movements—they reacted to her, pulsing like a living thing.

She reached out a hand, and the shadows recoiled, then surged forward. With a flash of realization, she understood—these weren’t mere shadows. This was a gateway, a threshold to something beyond.

Marie pulled a small, handheld scanner from her bag and waved it through the air. The readings went wild. The air here was charged with energy she had never encountered before—an energy that bent the rules of reality.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped further into the room. The shadows thickened around her, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to tilt. Then, with a soft hiss, the wall in front of her shimmered and peeled away, revealing a tear in the fabric of space itself.

Beyond the tear, she glimpsed a world that was both familiar and alien. The landscape was an inverted mirror of her own—a dark, twisted version of the house and the hill, with strange structures rising in the distance, all bathed in a faint, otherworldly glow.

Figures moved within that shadowed world. Tall, elongated beings with hollow eyes and shimmering skin. They moved with an eerie grace, watching her silently from across the divide. Marie felt their gaze on her, cold and penetrating, but they made no move to cross over.

Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t just looking into another dimension—this place was alive, aware, watching her as much as she was observing it.

Suddenly, the shadows around her began to swirl faster, and the tear in the wall started to close. Panic surged in her chest. She needed to gather more data, to understand what she had discovered. But the portal was shrinking, and the pull of that other world grew stronger. It felt as if it was calling her, beckoning her to step through.

Marie hesitated for only a moment. With a final glance at the strange beings, she turned and fled back through the house. As she burst out the front door, the shadow outside flickered, and for a brief second, it snapped into place with the true outline of the house.

Then, just as quickly, it shifted back, once again casting its distorted, impossible shape across the land.

Breathing heavily, Marie looked back at the house, now silent and still, but forever changed in her mind. The Shadow House was more than just a mystery—it was a threshold between worlds. And though she had escaped, she knew that whatever lurked on the other side was still watching.

Waiting.

And she couldn’t shake the feeling that someday, she might not be able to resist its call.

The Crimson River Shaina Tranquilino September 19, 2024

Dr. Kenton Laverdiere stood at the edge of the Crimson River, his breath misting in the cool evening air. A full moon hung heavy and bright in the sky, casting a silver glow over the water. It looked ordinary now, dark and still, as if waiting. But by midnight, it would run red like blood—just as it had every full moon for over two centuries.

Kenton had spent months studying the river, documenting its unusual behaviour. He was a man of science, a geologist by trade, and he had dismissed the local legends when he first arrived in the small, isolated village of Harrington. The villagers spoke of curses, of ancient tragedies that stained the water. But Kenton believed there was a natural explanation. There had to be.

He glanced at his watch—11:48 PM. Twelve more minutes. He adjusted the lenses of his binoculars, scanning the area. The trees lining the riverbank stood tall and silent, their shadows long and eerie. Everything seemed normal, but he could feel something—an oppressive weight in the air that tugged at his nerves.

Kenton had set up a series of instruments along the riverbank: water samplers, cameras, spectrometers. He was determined to capture every detail, hoping this would be the night he unraveled the mystery.

At precisely midnight, a soft breeze stirred the leaves. The river began to move. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the water darkened. Kenton leaned in, eyes wide, heart racing.

The river turned crimson.

He snapped a series of photos and bent down to collect a water sample. It was thick, viscous, like fresh blood. His mind raced. Could there be an underground vein of iron deposits, seeping into the water during the full moon? It was a possibility, though an improbable one.

Just as he straightened, a cold wind swept through the trees, howling like a distant scream. His breath caught in his throat. The air had changed, felt heavy and electric.

Then, he heard it—a faint whisper, a distant murmur that seemed to rise from the water itself. Kenton turned, scanning the riverbank, but saw nothing. Just the dark, rippling water.

The whispers grew louder, swirling around him. He took a step back, his pulse quickening. Logic told him it was the wind, the way it echoed through the forest. But deep down, he knew it was something else.

Then, the river began to move in ways it shouldn't. It churned violently, the crimson water bubbling and foaming. In the midst of the chaos, shadows began to rise from the depths—dark, indistinct forms that slowly took shape.

Figures.

Kenton froze, his blood turning to ice. One by one, the figures emerged from the water—men, women, and children, their eyes hollow and their faces twisted in pain. They floated just above the surface, their translucent bodies shimmering in the moonlight.

They were the dead.

The massacre.

Kenton had heard whispers of it from the locals, but no one spoke of it in detail. The village of Harrington had been founded over two hundred years ago, built by settlers looking for a new life. But one night, during the height of a bitter land dispute, a group of men had slaughtered an entire family by the river—men, women, children—all to claim their land. The river ran red with their blood that night, and it had never stopped.

Kenton stumbled back, his heart pounding. The ghostly figures hovered there, staring at him, their eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it chilled him to his core.

A woman stepped forward, her hair dripping wet, her dress torn and bloodstained. She raised a pale, trembling hand, pointing directly at Kenton.

"Why have you come here?" her voice echoed, cold and hollow.

"I-I’m here to understand," Kenton stammered. "To learn the truth."

The woman's face twisted in agony. "The truth was buried long ago. Forgotten. But the blood never fades. It remains, as we remain, bound to this river."

Kenton felt a sudden pressure in his chest, a suffocating weight. He realized now why the villagers feared this place, why no one dared come near the river at night. The spirits were trapped, tethered to the site of their slaughter, and the river ran red as a reminder of the atrocity that had condemned them.

"I can help," Kenton said, his voice shaky. "I can tell the world what happened here. I can—"

"You cannot help," the woman interrupted. "You cannot undo what was done. No one can."

The other spirits began to whisper again, their voices rising in a cacophony of despair. The river churned violently, as if the earth itself were weeping for the lost souls trapped within it.

"Go," the woman said, her voice softening. "Before it’s too late. Leave this place, and never return."

Kenton hesitated. He wanted to stay, to ask more, to learn. But the weight of their suffering, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness, pressed down on him like a vise.

Then, the river surged violently, the water rising to his ankles. The spirits’ whispers grew into a deafening roar. Panic surged through him.

He turned and ran, his heart pounding in his chest as he fled the riverbank. He didn’t stop running until he reached his car, gasping for breath, his clothes drenched with sweat and the river’s eerie mist.

As he drove away, he glanced in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the figures still standing there by the water’s edge, watching him. But there was nothing—just the dark, winding road leading back to Harrington.

Kenton never returned to the Crimson River. He wrote his report, cataloging the strange phenomenon in scientific terms, but he left out the ghosts, the whispers, the forgotten massacre.

Some truths, he realized, were better left buried with the dead.

And still, on every full moon, the Crimson River runs red.

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.