TRAPPED IN THE NIGHT

TRAPPED IN THE NIGHT

Sophia was sitting alone in our biology class, struggling with her notes on photosynthesis. The lecture had ended, and the classroom was nearly empty when she waved at me from her seat near the window.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, walking in from the hallway and sitting beside her.

“I just got a text,” she said, frowning. “My mom has to leave town in two hours for an urgent meeting. She won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”

I looked at her, confused. “So?”

“So… I’ll be alone at home tonight,” she said softly. A visible shiver ran through her. “And I’m really scared.”

I remembered then—her dad had left for Seattle last week and wouldn’t be back until next month. Her house, a big modern bungalow, was located on the edge of town, surrounded by trees and open land. The closest neighbor was more than a mile away.

“Shouldn’t your mom have thought this through?” I asked, slightly annoyed.

Her mother never seemed to realize how isolated that house was. With recent break-ins around the area, I didn’t like the idea of Sophia staying there alone. Sure, they had a guard at the gate—but was that really enough?

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Sophia seemed lost in thought. I could tell she didn’t want to be alone.

“I could come over tonight if you want,” I said gently. “We’ll finish the notes together.”

Relief washed over her face. “That would be amazing, Ethan. Come around 7:30. We’ll have dinner and finish our study notes.”

---

At exactly 7:15 PM, I parked my motorcycle in front of Sophia’s bungalow. The sky was dark. Thick clouds covered the stars, and lightning cracked across the sky. A storm was brewing. I didn’t want my bike to get soaked, so I pushed it along the side path toward the old garage area.

The garages were locked, but a small tool shed next to them was open. It looked dry enough, so I parked the bike inside. As I turned to leave, I noticed the drainpipe overhead was broken, but not enough to flood the shed. Satisfied, I headed back to the front door.

The rain started pouring as I rang the bell. Thunder echoed in the distance.

Sophia opened the door, her eyes lighting up when she saw me. She reached out and led me through the elegant living room filled with antique furniture and chandeliers, down a short hallway, and into her bedroom.

Her room was large and beautifully done up, with soft lights, velvet curtains, a single bed, and a cozy study corner. She sat down at her desk and motioned for me to take the bean bag nearby. As we got to work on our notes, she switched on the coffee machine.

Time flew by. Between pages and sips of coffee, we forgot about the storm outside—until we heard it.

A knock.

At first, it was faint. Then louder.

Sophia looked up. “Who could that be? The staff left hours ago.”

Before she could get up, the door burst open.

A short man wearing all black and a ski mask walked in, followed by a taller man holding a pistol with a silencer. My breath caught in my throat. Was this real?

Sophia stood up sharply. “Who are you?! What do you want?!”

The short man moved quickly, grabbing her by the hair and pressing a cloth over her nose. She struggled at first, but soon went limp in his arms.

I didn’t have time to move before something slammed into my head.

---

I don’t know how long I was out. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a cold floor. My head throbbed like it had been hit with a hammer. I tried to sit up but fell back, dizzy and weak.

A dim light was seeping through a gap in the door.

I looked around.

I was in the tool shed. The same one where I had parked my bike. I checked my watch—it was almost midnight. I had been unconscious for more than two hours.

My throat was dry, and my lips cracked. I tried to open the shed door—it was locked from outside. I shouted, banged the door, but no one came. Had the guard been attacked too?

Terrified and trembling, I stumbled around, hoping to find a way out. I fell near my bike and slumped to the floor again. Everything went black once more.

---

When I woke up again, the storm was still raging outside. I listened to the rain pounding on the tin roof. My mouth was desert-dry. My stomach growled. I was trapped. But then, I had a thought—my phone!

I searched my pockets—nothing. My heart sank. Did the robbers take it?

Wait… before entering the house, I had left it in the glove box of my bike.

I crawled over to the bike, my body shaking. I reached the glove box, opened it with trembling hands—and there it was. My phone!

I almost cried.

I dialed my dad.

No answer.

I tried again. And again. No luck. I tried my mom. Her phone was off. I began calling friends—still no signal. Or maybe they were asleep?

Suddenly, I heard the door creaking open.

I panicked. I shoved the phone behind a pile of garden tools and lay back on the floor, pretending to still be unconscious.

Through half-closed eyes, I saw the short man walk in…

Whispers from the Lake

​

---

Whispers from the Lake

Hey everyone, it's Emily! Today marks the first day of my songwriting retreat. I've just arrived at the cabin nestled by Lake Serenity, and it's absolutely beautiful! I'm thrilled to share this summer journey with you all.

​

This cabin is just what I needed—a peaceful place to write new songs and finish the ones I started during our tour.

​

Look at this place! Surrounded by forest, a serene lake, and no neighbors for miles. Well, maybe a few hundred meters, but still. And here's the cabin! It looks cozy, though a bit worn-down on the outside. The landlord mentioned he recently inherited it and hasn't had time to fix it up. But the real charm is inside!​Reedsy

Inside, I love the rustic wood paneling and the large windows that let in so much light. I didn't expect such big windows in a cabin this far north, but perhaps the original owners used it mainly in the summer. There's also a lovely fireplace, though I'm not sure if it still works.

​

And here's the highlight—a vintage upright piano! I'm so glad I found a cabin with a piano. There's something special about writing music on a real acoustic instrument. It feels more authentic than any electronic keyboard. Though I did bring my portable MIDI keyboard, just in case. This piano might be out of tune, but I'll try to fix it.

​

I'm planning to set up my laptop on the coffee table so I can place some mics near the piano and record my songwriting sessions.

​

Here's the small kitchen area. It has running water, and I've already stocked the fridge. These windows offer a beautiful view of the lake. I can imagine enjoying my morning coffee here.

Now, there's a door painted in a unique teal color. I'm guessing it's a storage room or shed. It's locked, and the landlord said he doesn't have a key. So, a little mystery for us!

​

Here's the bedroom. It's small, and I can barely stand straight in one corner, but it's cozy, like a hobbit-hole. I've started unpacking, so excuse the mess!

​

Now, let's check out the lake!

​

The air smells amazing—pine trees, fresh grass, and a cool breeze from the lake. I wish you could smell it through the screen! Can you hear the birds? Not sure if the camera mic picks it up, but I hope so.

​

I know I'll spend a lot of time here, drawing inspiration from nature.

​

I'm going to settle in now, play some

 piano—well, maybe try tuning it first—and I'll check in with you all soon! The reception here is a bit spotty, but I'll do my best to post regularly. See you soon! Bye!​

---

Summer Vlog – Part 2

Hey, guys! It's my second day at the cabin. Last night, I stayed up late working on a new song. I think I dreamed a melody. Isn't it funny how our minds work?

​

Sometimes, I hear a song in my sleep, and in the dream, it's the most incredible thing I've ever heard. But when I wake up, it's not as impressive. Or worse—it’s a song I've heard before. But occasionally, I get a real song idea from my dreams.

​

Even when I'm awake, it feels like songs already exist somewhere, and I just have to write them down before they slip away. Other times, it's like solving a puzzle: I have all these pieces and need to figure out where they fit. When I find the right spot, it just falls into place.

​

Maybe there's a place where all the songs and stories live, and we're here to write them down. Who knows?

Anyway, I tuned the piano as best I could. A couple of keys are still slightly off, but I didn't want to push it and risk breaking something. It's good enough for now!

​

Alright, I'm going to write some new songs. You all have a good one, and I'll check in with you soon! Bye

---

Summer Vlog – Part 3

Okay, guys, this is strange.

Remember how I said I dreamed of a melody? Well, now I'm not sure it was just a dream. I've been hearing this melody in my sleep every night, and last night, I woke up—but the song didn't stop. I could still hear someone—or something—humming it. It was very soft, but definitely there. I tried recording it, but my mic didn't pick up anything, just background noise.

​

I'm not making this up.

​

This song is beautiful, full of longing, but it gives me

The Girl by the Creek

 .

---

The Girl by the Creek

Date of Incident: April 2 2025

You don’t see this kind of thing every day. Or maybe… some do.

I’ve lived in this neighborhood for almost 18 years now. And not once—not once—have I heard anyone mention something like this happening.

Anyway, let me start from the beginning.

I’m Nathan. Just your average 20-year-old guy. College student. I like to relax after class, usually by walking around the neighborhood. Sometimes I go for long walks—no real

 destination, just wherever the path takes me. I live alone. My family moved to another state a couple years ago, to one of our other properties, but I chose to stay behind to focus on school.

Our house—my current home—is the first one my parents ever bought, so yeah, there’s a lot of nostalgia. And peace. Lots of peace. Maybe too much sometimes.

The neighborhood is quiet. Like… eerily quiet. There are rows of big fancy houses here, most of them empty. A few people live around, but everyone keeps to themselves. No street parties, no kids on bikes, no backyard barbecues. Just… silence.

On the edge of the neighborhood, there’s a trail that leads to a small forest. I walk there often. It’s peaceful, and I know it like the back of my hand. The trail goes past a river and ends at a small creek about two kilometers in. That creek is usually where I stop and turn back. I've never had a reason to go beyond it.

March 3rd, 2025. It was a Tuesday. I had late classes and some club meetings, so I didn’t leave campus until around 6 p.m. But even though it was getting dark, I still wanted to go for a walk. A little fresh air before heading home.

The path felt normal at first—just birds chirping, the rustle of squirrels in the trees, maybe the occasional hoot of an owl. But as I got closer to the creek, I noticed how quiet it was. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses on your eardrums.

Then I saw her.

She was sitting under the old oak tree near the creek. A girl. Dressed in a white robe that looked like it hadn’t seen dirt or dust. Her hair was pitch black and straight, falling over her shoulders. From about 50 feet away, I could see she was staring deep into the forest, unmoving.

My first thought was maybe she was lost. Or upset. Or maybe just meditating? Either way, something felt… off.

I stood there, frozen for a minute. Should I go back? Should I say something?

I finally decided to approach her. As I got closer, a chill ran down my spine. I don’t mean a light breeze kind of chill—I mean every hair on my body stood up.

 Goosebumps. Tight chest. That weird sense that something was wrong but you can't quite explain it.

Still, I kept walking.

When I was about two feet behind her, I said softly, “Excuse me, miss… it’s getting dark. Are you okay? Do you need help?”

No reply.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

I tried again, this time louder. “Hey, it’s late. Maybe you should head back?”

Still nothing.

That’s when I realized—something wasn’t right. There was no sense of life coming from her. No movement. No sound. Not even the faint rise and fall of her shoulders.

I stepped in front of her to speak directly.

And then… I saw her face.

Her eyes. They were glassy and pale—almost transparent. Her face was covered in deep, raw slashes. Bloodied, as if something—or someone—had torn at her skin. Her lips were cracked and torn at the corners. She wasn’t just hurt. She looked like she had died a long time ago.

I froze. My legs wouldn’t move. My heart was pounding so loud I thought she might hear it. And then…

She moved.

Her eyes slowly turned toward me. No blinking. Just those lifeless eyes locked onto mine.

I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even breathe.

Then—an owl hooted nearby.

That sound—so normal, so real—snapped me back. I could feel my legs again, and I ran. I didn’t look back. I just ran. Through the trees, over the roots, nearly tripping more than once.

After what felt like forever, I made it out.

I collapsed near the edge of the forest, gasping for air. My hands were shaking. My legs felt like jelly. But I was alive.

It’s been over a week now. I haven’t told anyone. Not my friends. Not my professors. I just avoid that trail now. I take the long way around if I have to walk near the forest.

I know what people would say—“Oh, you imagined it,” or “Maybe it was just a homeless person or a prank.”

No. It wasn’t.

What I saw wasn’t human.

And deep down… I don’t think it ever was.

Don’t Tell Anyone

Don’t Tell Anyone

“You should go home now,” you said, barely above a whisper.

But she smiled, tilted the red plastic cup in your direction. “Have another drink,” she said like it was a dare.

So you did.

The liquor burned your throat, and you watched her lips curve as she swallowed hers in one clean gulp. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyes too bright.

“You’re so pretty,” she said.

You shifted. “I think you should stop.”

“Let me just say that one thing,” she begged, voice trembling like a broken violin string.

You wanted to scream—stop looking at me like that.

You wanted to cry—I want to crawl inside your head and stay there forever, live in your memories like a hidden ghost.

But instead, you said nothing.

You shoved the car door open, stumbled out onto the pavement. The night was cold and too quiet. The streetlight above buzzed like it was watching.

“I’m going home now,” you muttered.

---

Now she’s lying in your bed. Her back to you. Her hands tangled in your floral sheets like she doesn’t know where to place them. Her chestnut hair spills across her neck, across your pillow, soft and lifeless.

The radiator hums.

The curtains puff with the night breeze.

You think of coffins. Of how you dragged her back from something soft and glowing. Of how it all felt sacred—until it wasn’t.

She rolls to face you, her hands folded like broken puzzle pieces.

“You still can’t even look at me,” she says slowly, like her mouth doesn’t remember how to shape words anymore. “Why am I here, Bette? What’s the point?”

You can’t answer. You’re too busy staring at your palms. Little pink crescent moons where your nails dug too deep. Like you tried to hold something fragile and it fought to get away.

She curls up tight, bones cracking like dry twigs. Then something strange—a tooth—tumbles from her lips and lands on your comforter.

“You only love me when I’m not real,” she whispers. “You only love me when there’s nothing left to lose.”

You press your face to the cold sheet beside her, feeling the beat of your heart in your fingertips. A rhythm that's yours and only yours.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say.

She doesn’t move. Just watches you with those tired eyes, that half-finished face.

“Did you want it to die with me, Bette?” she asks. “Were you happy when it ended?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say again, softer this time.

She sighs and lays down fully, now face to face. Her nose bent, one eye glassy and slipping, her skin kissed by the green-grey bloom of something long buried. The smell of dirt and memory clings to her like perfume.

“Who would I tell?” she says gently. “I’m not even really here.

And for a moment, your mind flashes—a match being struck, fire crawling up wallpaper, beer cans torn by angry fists. You see yourself doing it all. Starting the blaze. Walking away.

You both know the house would still burn, even if you hadn’t lit the flame.

And you both know—you would’ve left her behind anyway.

You reach out and take her hand. Cold. Still.

You bury your face in her neck and whisper your apology.

Not to her.
To the ghost.
To the part of you that couldn’t save her.
To the truth that came too late.

Another Dead Girl Underwater

 

Another Dead Girl Underwater

My parents still talk about me. Even after all these years, they say not a single day passes without thinking about their little girl. The one who never came back.

Maybe one day, someone from my school will mention me in their college essay. They'll write how my story made them realize how fast life can end—just like that. A sudden moment. A wrong turn. And it's over.

Maybe my name will pop up in a true-crime podcast. A soft voice, eerie music, and a story that chills the listeners. Or maybe, just maybe, Netflix will pick it up. They’ll stretch it into a sharp, eight-episode mystery. My body will appear three minutes into the first episode—just enough time for viewers to decide whether they want to keep watching.

Or maybe... no one will care.

Maybe I’ll disappear like so many girls before me. Forgotten. Silenced. Buried in headlines that vanish overnight. It won’t matter if someone makes money from my story. It won’t matter if they ever find those two men I passed near the woods—two strangers I met on my way back to the campsite.

Wrong place. Wrong time.

In the end, none of it matters. Because I’m already gone. Just another dead girl underwater.

Would you like me to help you turn this into a full short story or script-style version too?

Another Dead Girl Underwater

They still think of me.

My parents say not a day goes by without my name slipping into their thoughts. It's been years, but I’m still their little girl—the one who didn’t come back from the camping trip. The one whose face haunts their memories like a song that never ends.

I wonder what people remember about me now. Maybe just the headlines. Maybe my school photo—the one where I had braces and hair that wouldn’t stay down. They probably used that picture on the news, the one with my awkward smile, taken months before everything changed.

Maybe someday, a former classmate will write a college essay about me. “She was quiet,” they’ll say. “We weren’t close, but her story made me realize how fragile life is.” Maybe my case will be part of a true-crime podcast. A calm voice will read my story like a bedtime horror tale, with music that builds in the background. Listeners will get goosebumps and leave comments like, “She deserved better.”

Or maybe Netflix will turn my life into a show. Eight episodes. Dark skies. Slow shots of the forest. In the first three minutes, a hiker will find my body near the river. Cold. Still. A mystery. Just enough time for viewers to decide whether they’ll keep watching or skip to something lighter.

But maybe none of that will happen. Maybe I’ll fade away like so many others do—girls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Girls who trusted too much. Girls who were simply born as women in a world that forgets them too easily.

You see, it started as a fun weekend. Just a small group of us camping in the woods. Laughter, marshmallows, cheap horror stories around the fire. No one expected real danger—not in a place so quiet, so hidden. But danger doesn’t always make noise. Sometimes it just watches. Waits.

I remember walking back alone from the nearby creek. I wanted a moment to myself. The sun was just starting to dip behind the trees. Orange light fell over the path like a warning. That’s when I saw them—two men. I didn’t know them. They didn’t speak. Just stood there, one a few steps ahead of the other.

I smiled out of habit. Kept walking. Told myself it was fine.

But I knew. Somewhere deep down, I knew.

What happened next doesn’t matter now. At least, not to the world. They can guess, create timelines, dig up half-truths. They’ll analyze phone records, talk to my friends, send drones into the woods, and maybe even arrest someone. But it won’t bring me back. It won’t make the fear in that moment disappear. It won’t change the fact that I’m gone.

People will wonder what I felt. Panic? Pain? Maybe both. But what I remember most... is the silence. The quiet, heavy kind that follows you even in your final breath. The kind that wraps around you like water.

That’s where I am now—underwater. Still. Forgotten by most. A ghost held down by weight no one can see. Some say spirits linger when justice hasn’t been served. Others say we move on. But me? I’m still here. Watching. Waiting.

Every so often, someone walks past where they think I disappeared. They leave flowers, notes, candles. Some cry. Some take selfies. And some just stare, pretending to care.

The truth is, it doesn’t matter who profits from my story. A writer. A director. A podcast host. Even a stranger posting about me for likes. None of it changes the ending. None of it brings light to the dark place I ended up in.

And maybe—just maybe—they’ll never catch the ones who did it. Maybe those two men vanished like I did. Blended into the world. Started new lives. Laughed at the news when my face flashed on-screen.

Or maybe they watch the documentaries. Maybe they listen to the podcasts, hearing my name over and over, waiting for the day someone gets too close to the truth.

But deep down, I know how this works.

Because I’m not the only one.

There are others like me—lost girls, silenced women. Some were braver than me. Some were louder. But it didn’t save them. Just like it didn’t save me.

And that’s the part no one wants to say out loud: sometimes, being careful isn’t enough. Sometimes the danger doesn’t give you time to scream.

So here I remain. A memory. A mystery. Another dead girl underwater.

But if you're listening—if you're reading this—I hope you remember something:

I had a Gigi

I had a Ana