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Every morning, Sarah checks her family photos on the wall. Today, something's different. The pictures show five people, but she only has three children. The extra child appears in every photo, always standing slightly behind the others, smiling too wide. She can't remember taking these.

Welcome to your shift at Darkwood Hospital's morgue. Rule one: never turn off the lights. Rule two: if you hear humming from drawer 13, don't open it. Rule three: at 2 AM, ignore the children's laughter. If the elevator opens empty, don't step inside. Good luck.

There's something unsettling about walking through my neighborhood at dusk. The familiar houses cast unfamiliar shadows, and the forest's edge seems to breathe with an ancient presence. I've lived here for years, but sometimes I wonder if I truly know this place.

They found an old record player in the basement nobody remembers buying it sits there collecting dust but sometimes at night it plays by itself whispers between the static voices calling your name if you listen close enough you'll hear them promising things but whatever you do don't answer back

The basement morgue was always cold, but tonight it felt different. Dr. Chen noticed the temperature display showing impossible readings. The body in drawer 13 had been there three days, yet the staff swore they could hear humming coming from inside, getting louder each night.

Before we begin, remember to subscribe to the Ghastly Journal and enable notifications. Tonight's story takes us to the quiet coastal town of Cedar Bay, where in 1992, the mysterious disappearance of three lighthouse keepers would spark decades of terrifying speculation and unexplained phenomena.

Deep in the attic of an old Victorian house, Sarah found a music box covered in strange symbols. When moonlight touched its silver surface, the melody it played wasn't just music - it was a whispered message from another world.

Let me tell you about the mirror in my grandmother's house. It's been there for decades, perfectly normal during the day. But sometimes, at exactly 3:17 AM, the reflection shows a room that doesn't exist. Small pause. I've checked. Every wall. Every corner. That room isn't there.