PSYCHOLOGICAL STORIES

Someone has been living in your house. The evidence is subtle: food moved, a smell you can't place, a drawer not quite closed. Then you find the room behind the bookshelf.

He sits in the rocking chair at the end of my bed. His head is dented on one side. He is dead, and he knows I can see him.

I grew up in Drisking, Missouri — a small mountain town with three rules every child learned before they learned to read: don't go past the Prescott farm, stay off Solidarity Hill, and if you hear the Borrasca, run.

When I was a child, I had a pen pal. The pen pal program was through school. I later discovered that the letters I received were not from who I was told they were from.

My friend told me about a haunted house attraction that supposedly paid $500 to anyone who could make it through all nine rooms. He said no one had ever collected.

I haven't slept in six days. This isn't insomnia. I'm choosing not to sleep because I've figured out what happens when I do — what comes in while I'm under.

A forum thread where adults reminisce about a strange children's TV show from the 1970s called Candle Cove. Their memories don't quite match up.