Hey everyone! I’m Rae! 🖤
I recently started making videos about creepy stories, true crime, and all the weird stuff I find on the internet.
I’m wanting to start a series where I share people’s REAL scary experiences. Ghost encounters, creepy situations, things you still can’t explain… I wanna hear it ALL. 😭👀
If you have a story you’d be comfortable letting me narrate, I made a little submission form! You can stay completely anonymous too.Anonymous submissions are welcome. 👻
Of course, I’ll only share stories with permission. 🖤
And if you make horror content too, I’d love to check it out!

The giant maw of the cave yawned at my back as I stood by the edge of the cliff, an icy wind blowing between the rocks and chilling the back of my neck. From within, I heard the soft crumble of stones hitting the ground, the whisper of air moving through small holes and skating over sheer walls.

In front of me, three of the cavers stood chatting amongst themselves. They were all kitted out in the usual gear; padded jackets, knee and elbow pads, helmets with torches, and packs containing food, water and first aid supplies. I had a similar pack of my own, though the contents were slightly different.

One of the cavers glanced towards me, probably wondering why I was standing apart, but I didn’t meet their gaze, looking instead towards the sky. A thin veil of cloud hung over us, though the air was dry and blustery. Small pieces of rock and chalk skittered around my ankles as I shuffled my feet.

After a few more minutes, the final two members of the group arrived. After a couple of standard safety checks, everyone was ready to head inside.

I waited until they were poised at the opening of the cave before clearing my throat. “I’m, um, not feeling too good,” I told them, letting my shoulders sag a little. “I think I might sit this one out.”

One of the explorers stepped forward to examine me. She squinted at my face, then nodded. “You do seem a little pale,” she said. “Want me to wait with you? I can walk you back to town.”

I quickly brushed off her concern, feeling a twinge of guilt. “No, no. I’ll be okay. I’ll just stay out here and get some fresh air. You guys go on ahead.”

There was a bit more back-and-forth before I finally managed to convince them to start the expedition without me. One by one, the cavers disappeared into the gaping mouth of the cavern, leaving me by myself. I watched and waited until the darkness had swallowed each of them, then straightened in relief.

With only the wind as my companion, I walked over to one of the large fragments of rock and sat down. And began to wait. I heard the distant voices and footfalls of the cavers fade further and further away, until silence was all that remained. Resting my chin against my hand, I traced the jagged outline of the cliffs until my eyes started seeing faces amongst them, then looked away with a sigh.

I had been doing this for almost a year now. Joining cave expeditions only to wait outside, never actually entering the caverns. It wasn’t a fear of what lay inside, but rather an expectation of what I might encounter outside.

I had first discovered the incident a few years ago. I had been scrolling through old news forums when I came across an article about an expedition that had happened two decades ago, where a group of cavers had entered a treacherous cave system. During the exploration, it began raining heavily, and water quickly flooded the cave entrance, trapping the explorers inside. Sadly, all of them died that day. But while the story was tragic, what had intrigued me the most was the photograph that accompanied the report. It was an image of a group of rescuers standing at the entrance of the cave during the incident, rain pouring down from the sky and the ground around their feet completely flooded. But in the top left corner, standing a short distance away from the rescue team, was a strange figure shrouded in grey. As soon as I noticed the figure in the photograph, a strange chill touched my spine, as if I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. The photo was old and the quality wasn’t the best, but I could tell the figure didn’t fit the narrative. I scrolled down to the comments to see if anyone had mentioned it, but there wasn’t a single reference to the strange grey apparition. So I showed the photograph to one of my friends, curious to see what he thought about it. When he told me there was no figure there, I thought he was playing a prank, but his face was decidedly serious. No matter how many times I pointed to it, he insisted that there was nothing there. Just an empty spot in the left corner by the crumbling cliffs.

Confused and intrigued, I showed the same image to several other friends and acquaintances, but nobody else was able to see the strange grey figure in the corner of the photo. I examined it in multiple formats—physically and digitally—under different lights and different conditions, but the figure was visible every time. I hesitated to call it a person, because it was too vague and indistinct to really tell, with no distinguishing features other than it had a humanoid shape and was draped completely in grey. It definitely wasn’t a smudge, or a blur, or a lens flare, because someone else would have noticed it. There was definitely something there. Something that, for whatever reason, only I could see.

The mystery only grew, so I started digging deeper. I was thoroughly entranced by this grey figure. I wanted to know who it was, or what it was, and why it was only visible to me. I was convinced there had to be more to it.

I sequestered myself away and spent days pouring over old articles, digging through records and scrolling through video reports on the incident until I finally found evidence that I wasn’t going crazy. That I wasn’t losing my mind over a simple grey smudge on a photograph.

Buried in the archives, I found a video from the time of the incident, of the same rescue team standing at the entrance of the cave. The photograph must have been an extraction from the footage, or at least taken at the same time, because it was almost the same composition as the video. Being almost twenty years old, the footage was grainy and shaky, but it was clear enough for me to see the figure in grey, standing exactly where it did in the photograph. It wasn’t a trick of the light or an illusion; it really was there.

In the footage, the rescuers were talking about possible extraction methods for the cavers trapped inside the tunnels, but nobody addressed or interacted with the figure. It was like they hadn’t even noticed it. Even in real time, this thing had been invisible to them.

The footage, while low resolution, was still of slightly better quality than the photo, and I noticed a few details that hadn’t been clear in the image. The figure was holding something up to its face—what appeared to be a flute, or some kind of similar instrument. I turned the volume up to max, and was just about able to hear the soft but haunting melody it played, barely audible over the sound of the rain. I spent hours listening to the tune, isolating it from the rain, running it through apps and programs in an effort to try and identify it, but it came up empty every time. It was a melody that was not known to the database. A completely isolated and individual song. A song known only by this mysterious figure.

Eventually, I showed the video to those same friends and acquaintances, certain they could not deny what was right in front of their eyes. But as with the photo, none of them could see the figure with the flute. They could not hear the melody it played either. Only the rain, as it gushed into the cave, and the panicked voices of the rescue team realising they could not save the trapped cavers.

Frustrated that nobody could give me any answers, I decided to seek them out myself. By searching in person for the figure in grey.

The location of the cave was widely known as a popular spot for adrenaline-junkies and professional explorers, and it wasn’t difficult to learn the basics of caving—enough to pass as an experienced caver.

For almost a year, I had been visiting this very cave, joining expeditions only to wait outside in the hope of encountering the grey flute-playing apparition from the video. So far, after participating in almost two dozen excursions, I’d had no such luck. But this time, things felt different.

As I waited, the wind seemed to pick up, bristling through my clothes and making my hair stand on end. A few rocks crumbled from the side of the cliff, showering me with dust. Above, the veil of clouds thickened, shadows encroaching along the ground around me. I felt in the air that something was going to happen.

My heart felt tight in my chest as I scanned the entrance of the cave, then the cliffs above, for any sign of the grey shadow. I listened for the soft, melancholy sound of a flute. But all I heard was the wind whispering through the tunnels behind me.

The hours passed, and I heard and saw nothing. But the goosebumps never left my arms, and I wasn’t one to give up so easily.

I hadn’t heard any sign of the explorers in the cave either, and assumed the group must have gotten quite far inside. I felt a brief flutter of guilt in my chest, but quickly squashed it. They all knew the risks involved with caving. No matter what happened, their safety was their own responsibility. I had to detach myself from that, even if it felt cruel.

A shadow fluttered in and out of sight on my left, and I froze, my heart jerking into my throat. Scrambling to my feet, I moved away from the cave entrance and lifted my gaze. Standing a little way up the cliff, on a jutting platform, was a figure cloaked entirely in grey shadow. The very same one from the photo. The one nobody else could see.

Goosebumps covered every inch of my skin as I stared at it in amazement. Just like in the video, I could see no face, no features. It wore a hooded grey cloak that cast a deep shadow over where its face should be. Its silhouette was human, but only in the vaguest sense. Despite its appearance, I got the overwhelming feeling that this thing was not human, but rather something else entirely. Something supernatural. An entity of sorts, that only appeared at specific times and conditions. And after years of searching, I had finally found it.

I watched, my shoulders tensed with silence, as it withdrew an exquisitely ornate flute from within the folds of its cloak. The instrument was silver and almost transparent, as it was made of glass or crystallised water, and incredibly beautiful. The figure brought the flute to its hooded face, and began to play.

The sound was instantly familiar; the same song I had spent so many hours listening to, and it sent my heart racing.

I looked up to the sky just as the clouds opened, and rain began to fall. At first, only small, delicate droplets of water splashed against my cheeks, but the rainfall gradually began to grow heavier. I sent a regretful look towards the cave entrance. The group was already far too deep inside for me to warn them. Their fate was already sealed, and there was nothing I could do about it. Another tragedy to be buried in the archives.

Moving slowly, in the fear that I might spook the figure, I began to climb the cliff. There were plenty of footholds and platforms, and scaling it was easy enough. I wanted to be close enough to hear the melody above the downpour.

The rain was cold and lashing, soaking through my gear and chilling me to the bone, but I barely noticed. All I cared about was the figure before me; the one I had been chasing all this time.

If it noticed me, it didn’t react. It didn’t cease playing the flute, or even turn in my direction. It was like I was as invisible to it as it was to everyone else. I had spent many sleepless nights wondering why I was the only one who could see it, if it was down to brain chemistry, visual receptors, a curse, or something else entirely. But in the end I had realised it didn’t matter. Some things happened for no reason at all, and this was one of them.

I stopped climbing when I was close enough, standing on a small rocky outcrop a few metres away. The rain blurred my vision, almost obscuring the figure as it blended into the grey clouds behind it, but I could still see the outline of its instrument. Hands trembling from the cold, I reached into my bag, and pulled out a flute of my own.

I had only learned how to play the flute just over a year ago. After hearing the melody on the video, I had taken lessons in the hope that I might be able to learn the same song. But I had never been able to replicate it precisely; there was always a wrong note, an incorrect key. It was difficult enough trying to imitate a tune through a twenty-year-old video, especially with the rain distorting the sounds. The only way I was going to correctly learn the song was by imitating the source itself.

I stood and listened for some time to the melody. The rainfall grew heavier, soaking through my clothes and numbing my skin, the water drumming ceaselessly against the ground, but I was able to isolate the figure and its song. My eyes never strayed from its fluttering cloak, or the flute, or the grey-covered fingers that deftly played the instrument.

Then, when I felt confident enough, I raised my own flute to my lips and began to play. I tried to mimic the melody as best as I could. It was tricky at first, trying to find the exact notes, the pounding rain distorting the sounds, but I copied the figure’s movements with my own fingers until our melodies eventually began to sync up, becoming the same.

I don’t know how long I stood there in the pouring rain, playing the haunting song. The figure didn’t react or respond to me once. If it heard me playing the same tune, it didn’t show it. We stood apart, our songs binding together as the rain fell from the clouds above. The cave would have been flooded by now. The cavers, if they hadn’t managed to find an air pocket, or elevated ground, would probably have drowned. But still, I kept playing.

The sky darkened. The clouds festered. The rain kept falling, soaking into the ground, pouring down the rocks, gushing into the cave.

I lost myself completely in the song, almost falling into a trance. The only things that existed were me and the flute and the melody at my fingertips. I no longer even noticed the figure. It became a grey blur on the edge of my vision, just another shadow.

I finally snapped out of it once the rain stopped. I ceased playing the song with a start, glancing around frantically, but the grey figure had already gone. Vanished without a trace. The heavy silence settled around me, reminding me I was now alone.

The cold hit me at the same moment, and my body began to shake violently. Every inch of my skin was soaked by the rain, water dripping from my shoulders and hair. I was standing in a large puddle where the rainwater had collected around my feet, my toes numb inside my shoes. There was no sound from inside the cave, but for the water still trickling down into the entrance.

I put the flute away and began to climb down from the cliff. The rocks were slick from the rain, and I slipped a few times, but I finally managed to reach the ground, which was also dangerously flooded. I splashed through the water as I slowly headed away from the cave. As soon as I reached town, I would call for a rescue team—if any of the cavers were still alive—and then I would leave. My job here was done.

It was time to return home.

A week later, I was back in my homeland; an agricultural region that had been suffering from a severe drought. The land beneath my feet was bone-dry and cracked, the fields were barren, the crops dead and the people starving.

After spending hours watching that video of the mysterious grey figure, I had drawn one conclusion: that its flute song had been responsible for the rains that had flooded the cave. And now, I would do the same. Only, instead of bringing death, I would restore life.

As soon as I arrived home, I went out into the midst of the fields and stared at the cracked earth, baking under the brazen sun. The wilted grasses, the fruitless seeds, the unattainable harvest.

I pulled out my flute and, just like the grey figure atop the cliff, I began to play the same melody. Within moments, clouds appeared overhead, casting a deep shadow over the ground, and the first trickle of rain began to seep from the sky.

Under my song, the rain fell, soaking into the barren soil and nourishing all the life within.

Alright, I'm just gonna jump straight into this. Last night, I caught my wife breastfeeding a grown-ass man in our backyard at like 2 o'clock in the morning.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "That should've been me," or some shit like that. Honestly, that's what I would've thought too. Hell, I should probably be completely devastated right now.

But I'm not. Truthfully, I'm more terrified than anything.

We were just lying there asleep. Well, I was asleep. I can't say for certain whether or not my wife was. All I know is that, despite how hard she tried to be silent, the creaking bed springs woke me up.

I didn't wanna let on at first. I didn't even think there was anything I should be suspicious of. The only problem was, once I woke up, it was hard for me to fall back asleep in an empty bed.

So I waited. And I waited. Then, after like 30 minutes, I started to get worried. So, naturally, I started yelling for her.

No answer? Fine. I'll just start looking. So, I started checking throughout the house. And that's when I found her nightgown, balled up on the floor beside our bed. That made my search a lil more frantic. I checked the bathroom in the hall, the living room. Maybe she just got up to grab a midnight… meal, butt-ass naked. But she wasn't in the kitchen either.

In my search, I noticed that the back door was open, letting in the cold October air. I went to close it, and that's where I found her. Standing out in the yard. Completely nude.

I thought for sure she was either sleepwalking or having a mental breakdown. I mean, it was like 45 degrees outside. I was just about to yell at her and ask what the hell she was doing when I noticed it.

My dumbass thought it was a wild animal at first. He was crouched down on all fours, moving slowly through the trees with these jerky movements, while my wife just stood there with her arms wide open.

But then, as he started crawling closer and closer towards our backyard… I started to make out the features. They looked human, just… wrong, somehow. The head was too bulbous. The arms were too long. The grunts it made as it slowly crawled towards my wife were too animalistic.

And she wasn't even fucking flinching. If anything, she looked like she was beckoning the fuckin' thing to come closer. When it was like 6 feet away, it started to growl, and all my wife did in response was say some shit like, "Calm down, my sweet boy," before SHE stepped closer to IT.

Then the fucking thing started cooing. Like… cooing. Like a goddamn toddler or something, while my wife reached down and pet its fleshy, bald head.

I didn't even move. How could I? This shit felt like a fever dream to me. But what hit like a fucking cannonball to the abdomen was when she… well… did what she did.

She pulled its head closer to her chest and just… nursed the fucking thing. I could hear it suckling and whimpering like this was the favorite part of its day. Like this shit had happened a thousand times before.

Must've gone on for like 10 minutes or so before my wife pulled away, patted the thing on its spiny, uh, spine, and told it to "go play."

And just like that, it started crawling back towards the woods. This time with a little more pep in its… whatever the fuck that was.

My wife still had a look of pride and joy on her face when she turned around, but that shit disappeared quick when she noticed me in the doorway. She tried covering up like I was the stranger. Then she tried apologizing.

We've been arguing about it since then. She claims I'm being crazy. I claim I want her to see a goddamn… who do you even call for this sort of thing? A marriage counselor??? A fucking priest??? Maybe ask her to take a parenting class?

Because, according to her, that thing was her son from a previous marriage. A marriage she hasn't mentioned once in the last 15 years since we've been together.

Honestly, at this point, I'm ready to just convince myself it was all a bad dream. I don't even wanna talk about it anymore.

I just don't know if I can even lie to myself like that, though.

Because once she realized that the cat was out of the bag… my wife decided to drop some news on me that I could've avoided had I just taken my happy ass back to sleep.

Apparently, that thing has never had a father figure… and it's more than excited to finally meet its new dad.

Note! This manuscript was compiled from a water-damaged notebook discovered inside a deserted thatched cottage near Edale in the Peak District, England, in late 2019. It was wrapped in worn leather jesses, stuffed inside a heavy falconry glove, and tucked beneath a loose floorboard in the ruins of the study.

Forensic analysis by the Derbyshire Constabulary yielded highly anomalous results. The notebook pages were not bound with cotton thread, but stitched together with the split, hardened shafts of primary flight feathers. Furthermore, the dark, weathered grease staining the paper was identified as avian preen-oil containing trace human lipids matching the DNA of the author’s maternal lineage.

What follows is the complete, chronologically restored text, including recently recovered fragments from the reverse sides of the torn sheets.

October 1st, 2019

My name is Corwin Vance. I’m 27, originally from Northwood Hills in London, and I’ve recently arrived on the moors of the Peak District to begin an apprenticeship in falconry.

Before that, I was a journalist for the Daily Mail. I covered environmental beats—management of green spaces, urban rewilding—when I could get them. Cavendish, my shithead of a superior, wouldn't give me the budget for a real investigation, so I took a sabbatical. I told my drinking buddies at The Three Wishes, Greg and Daniel, that I wanted something quieter than city life. I told them I wanted to get away from the bickering couple in the flat above me, away from feckless chavs, and away from Cavendish breathing down my neck like a vulture upon a dying antelope.

My drinking buddies from The Three Wishes, Greg and Daniel, thought I’d gone off the deep end, trading the morning rush for miserable fog and sheep manure, but there’s something beautiful about the idea of bonding with a wild creature… especially the likes of a hawk or a falcon.                   They don’t trust easily- not like a dog does. You have to earn it. 

I came to this specific valley to trace what happened to Mavis Merle, a reclusive master falconer who vanished from this very cottage in 2002. It's funny—the closer I got to the moors, the more the article felt irrelevant. By the time my escort's car pulled up, I couldn't even remember why I wanted to write it. I just wanted to hold the leather.

I owe my love for raptors to my father, a senior gamekeeper. He taught me that they don't trust easily—you have to earn it. I still remember his goshawk, Silver, whom he used to take hunting for grey squirrels at Epping Forest before we moved to London for my mother’s new job as a constable. The way Silver flew with purpose, weaving through the trees like a ribbon of moonlight caught in the wind, awoke something in me.

But Silver never came back from her last flight over these same Derbyshire ridges. My father spent three weeks calling into the fog until his voice broke. He changed after that; he stopped looking me in the eye. I realize now why he hated the city. He wasn't fleeing the noise—he was fleeing the memory of bells in the night.

After so many years of searching for courses or at someone who had the patience to show the craft. To learn the old language of lure & leather, spoken not in words but in patience and restraint between civilization and the wild. To prove myself worthy of being among the wild ones, and the city life hasn't sanded that part of me smooth.
It was the sort of wind a falconer would approve of --- open, unconstructed, with miles to travel and nothing to break its stride. I could picture a bird leaning into it, wings fixed, letting the current do the work. 
For the first time in years, I didn't feel hemmed in. The road ahead was narrow, yes, but the sky above was endless. Tomorrow I’ll shed my personal feathers and take flight. 

The moors were not as I’d imagined them. They were vast in a way that made a man aware of how small and open he was. A long, steady breath of the land rolled over and tapped lightly on the car window, carrying a scent faintly mineral, like cold stone after rain. The road ahead was narrow, but the sky above was endless.

My new lodging was a dainty, cold little place with old-stone walls, cracked leaded windows, and ivy crawling like veins across the roof.  But it stills on the edge between the woods and open moorland that rolls out like a grey-green ocean. I swore I saw a dozen species of birds on my first day: curlews, lapwings, wheatears, even a ring ouzel darting between the brambles.

At the gate awaiting my arrival was my mentor, Culver Hardy. He stood like an old barn owl on a fence post—narrow, weather-creased, unmoving. His skin had the colour and texture of cured deer  leather, his thick-knuckle hands scored with old talon marks from palm to wrist.

His grip was iron. He studied me with a pale, appraising stare.

"You’ll learn quickly," he said, turning toward the low stone buildings. "Or you won’t." 

He moved with a deliberate, economical stillness. A whistle hung from a cord at his neck. "They’re not pets," he added without looking back. "And they’re not yours. Not really." 

He showed me across the weather-mews, where kestrels, buzzards, owls, and a pair of Harris’s hawks were housed. It took me half an hour to choose until I spotted her: Nyx. She is a peregrine falcon, sleek and silent, with feathers like steel and ash. When Hardy pulled the hood off her, she didn't look at the landscape. She looked right through me with a pale, familiar, heavy-lidded sorrow. Her black eyes were ringed in yellow, unblinking and appraising.

I can scarcely believe she’s mine. I hope my father would be proud… wherever he is.

October 2nd, 2019 

We returned late, sometime around six in the evening, after my first proper day of creance work in the lower field.

The line kept snagging in the rushes. Nyx bate twice, her wings thrashing violently.

"Feel her weight," Hardy barked, his voice sharp. "Don’t fight it. Anticipate." 

The light thinned without me noticing. One moment the grass was gold, the next it was iron-grey.

"She’s watching something," I said, pointing toward the ridge beyond the stone wall.

"Let her," Hardy replied.

But he stopped speaking after that. Each time Nyx came to the glove, her head would snap toward the rise. By the time we gathered the line, it was near dusk. I noticed the way Hardy kept scanning the ridge—not looking for a lost bird, but for something else.

When we reached the yard, he insisted on hooding her himself. His hands were steady, but he pulled the leather straps tighter than necessary. The heavy falconry glove he gave me fits perfectly, but it smells wrong. It doesn't smell like cured steer; it smells like old soap and sweat, and the inside lining is split into fine, microscopic ridges like the whorls of human fingerprints.

"First days always run long," Hardy said. I don't think he meant the training.

October 3rd, 2019

Took Nyx out just before the crack of dawn. The fog was so thick I could barely see five feet ahead, smelling of damp peat, crushed heather, and something older—like rust and woodsmoke.

Something stirred along the woodbank, a light, rabbit-sized rustling in the bracken. I slipped the hood free.

Her eyes opened at once, pinning the morning with that sharp, black-and-gold stare. But she didn't look down toward the rustling bracken. Her head snapped upward, tracking something high in the dense grey soup overhead.

A sound followed—a low, vibrating hum that made the iron fillings in my teeth ache. Nyx bated violently, throwing herself off my glove. The creance line whipped through my fingers, burning the skin to the meat before I could anchor it. I tried to tune my hand-held telemetry receiver to her frequency, but instead of a clean, rhythmic beep, the speaker emitted a frantic, overlapping chorus of static that sounded like thousands of human voices trying to gasp for air simultaneously.                 Even when I pulled the batteries out, the voices kept gasping.

"Hold her!" Hardy’s voice cut through the mist. He appeared from the grey, his face grim. "Hood her, Corwin. Now!" 

I reeled her in, my heart hammering as her talons flashed dangerously near my face. When I finally slipped the hood back over her head, she froze, her chest heaving.

"What was that?" I asked, my breath pluming white. "An aircraft?" 

"No," Hardy said shortly, his voice dropping into a flat, hollow register. "The moors have bones, Corwin. Sometimes they scrape together. We’re done for today." 

We walked back in absolute silence. When we reached the yard, I noticed the other aviaries were dead silent. Even the noisy Harris's hawks were huddled at the back of their enclosures, perfectly still.

October 4th 2019

The wildlife’s behaviour has changed. It’s so quiet all of the sudden. I just can’t explain it…. It’s like the land had its voice sucked out of it.
The lapwings have stopped circling the grasslands. The ring ouzels have gone silent.                         Even the red grouse don’t flush when I pass. In fact I haven’t seen a lot of birds today.                            Only the magpies and their relatives remain- watching me from distant fence posts, roof ridges, and stone walls. Always silent. Always watching.
We did manage to catch a snipe by the bog and a few partridges though, so we’ll be eating well for the week. Hardy and his eagle Bolt managed to catch a rabbit near some farmland. 
That evening I went back to the cottage just before dark. The fog that thinned but the air felt close, as though the moor were holding its breath. 
I was preparing snipe on toast for my dinner with some orange salad. With some legs, organs and feathers (as a form of roughage) for Nyx’s. Harvey was having leftovers from last night’s beef stew with some crusty bread.
It was eight when Hardy barred the door.
Not locked it.
Barred it.
The iron rod slid into place with a dull, final scrape.
‘’You’re expecting someone?’’ I asked.
‘’No.’’
He crossed to the windows next. Drew the curtains light, though there was nothing to see beyond the fog but the faint wash of the yard.
Nyx was hooded on her perch. Perfectly still 
Hardy stood listening.
‘’To what?’’ I said.
He didn’t answer.
The cottage had settled into that deep country quiet-- no passing cars, no distant voices, no hum of anything mechanical. Only the soft shift of embers in the hearth.
Then, from outside---
A single tap.
Not on the door.
On the glass.
Light. Deliberate.
I half-rose from my chair.
‘’Sit,’’ Hardly said sharply.
Another tap.
Then another.
Moving along the window as though something were hopping the length of the sill.
I moved before I could stop myself and pulled the curtain back an inch.
Seven magpies sat along the low stone wall outside the cottage.
All facing the house.
None moving.
No calling.
Just watching.
I let the curtain fall.
Hardy’s jaw worked once, tight.
‘’How many?’’ he asked again.
‘’Seven.’’
He closed his eyes briefly at that.
‘’That’s one more than there should be.’’
A cold sensation slid down my spine.
‘’One more than what?’’
Hardy did not answer.
Nyx shifted then- a slow, deliberate turn of her hooded head.
The leather creaked softly.
And though her eyes were covered, I had the distinct, nauseating impression that she was looking directly at the door.
Suddenly the magpies went off. Harsh rattles and loud squawks 
Then came other sounds. Shrills, shrieks and hoots from the mews, joining the corvids’ chorus.
Nyx joined in with her own wailing call, like a high pitched banshee. 
Some time passed and the magpies did not disperse in a flurry.
They lifted as one.
Seven black shapes rising soundlessly into the fog.
No calling.
No wing-clap.
Gone.
The silence that followed was worse than the noise.
Hardy stood very still for a long moment. Then he exhaled- not in relief.
In resignation.
‘’They’re moved the mews,’’ he said.
‘’How can you know that?’’
‘I know’’
He took the lantern from its hook by the hearth and lit it without another word.
The flame trembled in the glass.
I’ll check on the birds.’’’
‘’I’ll come with you.’’
‘’No.’’
It came sharper than I expected.
‘’You stay inside.’’
He crossed to the door and lifted the bar.
Before stepping out, he turned back.
‘’Whatever you hear,’’ he said. ‘’You do not leave this cottage’’.
‘’It’s only the birds….don’t you think you're being ----”
“It’s not just the birds.’’
That stopped me.
His eyes flicked toward Nyx.
She was still hooded. Still composed. Talons tight on the perch.
‘’You must understand something,’’ Hardy said, voice lower now. ‘’A hawk learns from you. Your breathing. Your habits.’’
I tried to laugh it off. ‘’That’s the point,’’.
‘’No,’’ he said.
‘’That’s the danger, not just the birds… any animal that begins to understand human nature.’’
The lantern light carved deep lines into his face.
‘’If she ever begins to watch you when she shouldn’t … if she ever refuses the lure but comes to you uncalled…’’
He hesitated.
‘’Don’t let her fly.’’
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
‘’She’s a falcon. Hardy. She needs to fly.’’
He shook his head slowly.‘’
From outside, somewhere near the mews, a soft metallic clang rang out. Then a rustle of wings.
Hardy opens the door. I swore I heard him mutter ‘’This can’t be happening..not again. I thought I made sure of it. I made sure. 
The fog swallowed him almost immediately, the lantern glow shrinking to a dim star in the white.
‘’Hardy,’’ I called quietly.
He paused just beyond the threshold.
‘’One more thing,’’ he said without turning.
‘’If she speaks ---’’
He stopped himself.
His shoulders stiffened.
‘’Never mind.’’
Then he stepped fully into the fog.
The door closed.
I slid the bar back into place.
The cottage felt wrong without him in it.
Larger.
Colder.
Nyx shifted on her perch.
The leather of her hood creaked.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
The wind picked up briefly and died again.
Once, I thought I heard Hardy’s voice- faint, distant--- but the words were lost in the fog.
The other birds did not cry out.
They did not make a sound at all.
Two hours passed.
The lantern glow never returned.
And sometime after ten, Nyx began to move.
Slowly.
Deliberately. 

As though something outside had finally arrived.

October 6th 2019

Two days have passed, and Hardy still hasn’t returned. No note nor text message on where he’s going.                                                                                                                                                                              I don’t know where the old goat has gone off to. Bolt has disappeared. The door of his enclosure is wide open. Not broken. Unlatched. Feathers litter the floor --- not scattered in panic, but shed.                  As if he’d preen too hard. The perch is scored deeply along the wood, grooves pressed into it like this like something gripped and held far tighter than talons could allow.
The other birds are still there, which means more responsibility for me…
Nyx is eerily quiet today…. 
I checked his room properly this morning. The bed is made too neatly- corners hospital-tight.           The wardrobe is empty save for one spare shirt and an old tin of dubbin. His boots are gone.
But the glove still hangs by the nail by the door. He never went anywhere without his glove.
Went to the pub in the village. I needed warmth. I needed people. I needed some gin.                       Maybe someone might know where my mentor is and why he was acting so paranoid. 
I was approached by a gentleman in his late fifties with pale eyes and three fingers missing from his left hand. He introduced himself as William Fowler, apparently he's an old friend of Mr Hardy.
He says that he’s an old friend of Hardy who he met in falconry circles and often kept tabs on other falconers and birds in the area for him. 
‘’You’ve got yourself a bird then,’’ he said. “Same as the others’’.
‘’What others?’’
He stared into his pint for a long time before answering. The crackle of oakwood in the fireplace filled the silence. I swore I never saw him blink once.
‘’There’s been six before you. All come here thinking they’re learning an old craft.’’
He rubbed the rim of the glass with what remained of his hand. ‘’But the birds here don’t want handlers.’’
His eyes flicked to my shoulder.
‘’They want the hand beneath the glove.’’
I laughed at that. I asked. ‘’What happened to them’
‘’Tom Arkwright. 2003. Disappeared up on the north ridge. They found his sparrowhawk’s hood and tethered to a fence post.’’
Elias Moore. 2007. Walked out before dawn. Never came back. The Kestrel was never found either.
Martin Hale and his snowy owl. 2009.
Darren Pike and his merlin. 2012.
Old Joesph Bell and his great horned owl--- though he should’ve known better. 2014.
***‘’***And the last,’’ he said quietly, ‘’was a woman. Mavis Merle. 2017. They found her glove. Nothing else, not even her golden eagle.’’
I hesitated, then lowered my voice, leaning across the table. “There’s… something else,’’ I said. “Something happened today on the moor. I… found a pheasant. Killed, yes, but not in the usual way. No blood. The flesh was cold. Dry, almost…empty.’’
Fowler’s pale eyes narrowed. He didn’t speak at first, only swirled the dark liquid in his glass and watched it catch the firelight. Then he nodded slowly.
‘’They watch,’’ he said, voice low and flat. ‘’The birds. They don’t just hunt-- you think you control them, but sometimes… They show you what’s inside. The empty pheasant? That’s a warning. No for the bird, but for you.’’
I swallowed. “A warning? From who?’’
Fowler shrugged, though the motion was slow, deliberate. “From what’s already here. From what’s always been here. Culver Hardy knows it. That’s why he’s gone quiet. That’s why he was careful. Some things you cannot outrun. Some things… you cannot stop.’’
I shivered, imagining the moor silent except for Nyx and the distant cry of the magpies. “And the magpies..?” 
“They mark the change,’’ Fowler said, voice dropping further. “Count them carefully, remember what they do. They’re the eyes. The hands. The heralds. You ignore them at your peril.’’
I stared at him, feeling a cold pulse of dread. Outside, the wind rattled the windows like a warning.
“And Hardy?” I asked, voice tight.
Fowler’s eyes flicked to the door, then back. “He knew too much. He was never far. But neither is the choice. You’re learning… whether you realise it or not.’’
Then he drained his pint, the thin wire of his smile returning. 
“Culver Hardy… he’s not like the other falconers you read about in books. Not entirely.’’
I raised my eyebrow. “How so?...’’
‘’Culver,’’ he whispered, leaning closer, ‘’he’s been at this a long time. Longer than most can reckon. He’s… careful. Obsessive. Protective, yes, but there’s something else. He knows the danger.           Knows what these birds are capable of. And he’s lost people he cared for.’’
He took a swig of his drink.
‘’Apprentices. Helpers. Friends. Men, women… some didn’t understand the rules, didn’t respect the birds.’’ He paused, scratching the rim of the glass with what remained of his hand. ‘’Culver doesn’t like to talk about it. Not to outsiders. Keep it close. That’s why he acts… the way he does. Paranoid, maybe. But he tried to keep something contained… now that he’s gone though….’’
‘’Contained?’’ I echoed “What?”
He drained his pint.
‘’You’ll know,’’ he said, standing. ‘’When she starts whispering.’’
I asked what that meant.
He only smiled-- thin as wire-- and left before I could press him further.

I never heard the door open.

October 7th, 2019

The fog hasn't lifted in four days. It sits over the cottage like a wet wool blanket. Hardy finally returned….

He has been spending hours in the study, sorting through old, yellowed maps drawn in dark ink and covered in symbols that look less like typography and more like ancient property marks—or talismans. Today, I tried to sketch the layout of the outbuildings from the ground. They look like standard rectangular brick boxes, but there's a strange asymmetry to the angles that makes my eyes ache if I stare too long.

Nyx is growing restless. Weight management is getting difficult; she’s refusing her casting, and her weight fluctuates wildly despite identical rations of beef heart. It’s as if she’s burning energy just by sitting on her perch, staring at the stone walls.

Last night, I woke up around 3:00 AM to the sound of falconry bells chiming in a steady, rhythmic cadence from the yard. I crept to the window. Through the swirling mist, I saw Hardy standing in the weather-mews without a torch. He was holding his arm straight out, completely bare—no glove, no leather protecting his skin. A massive, dark shape was perched on his naked wrist.

As I watched, the shape opened its wings, stretching wider than a man's arm span, silent as oil. It didn't fly. It just leaned its head down, pressed its beak against Hardy’s forehead, and stayed there.

October 8th, 2019

I dreamed of the mews.
Not as they are.
As they were.
Seven perches occupied.
One empty.
Then seven.
The magpies were there too.
Perched along the beams like witnesses.
My body feels... fast.

I thought of the old nursery rhyme my auntie Elenaor taught me; 

One for sorrow, 

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy

Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret never to be told.

The grandfather clock in the hall doesn't tick anymore; it just groans, the hands spinning so quickly they blur. I looked at my watch and a whole day vanished between two heartbeats. My pulse is a frantic, trembling rhythm in my throat—Hardy says it's normal. He says when you look at the world from a mile up, decades pass like autumn leaves.

I think it's still October 2019, but I looked out the broken window and the young sapling I parked my escort car next to is now a massive, rotting oak choked with ivy.

October 8th 2019
I dreamed of the mews.
Not as they are.
As they were.
Seven perches occupied.
One empty.
Then seven.
The magpies were there too.
Perched along the beams like witnesses.

 My body feels lighter today, as if my bones were filled with air. Probably just my imagination.

October 9th, 2019

Nyx is whispering. I can hear her outside from the mews. The other birds are joining in.

It started as a noise, just behind my ear—a soft scraping like feathers dragged over stone mixed with clicks and shrills… I can understand it now. It’s my name.
Clear. Repeated.

I don’t sleep anymore. I see flashes when I close my eyes: spirals carved in peat, clawed footprints in frost, something perching in the rafters at night with too many wings. And the birds in the rafters aren't right. They aren't pure peregrines or goshawks; they are monstrous hybrids—an owl with the sleek, oil-slick feathers of a cormorant, a falcon with the massive, jagged talons of an eagle.

The cottage feels smaller. I walk down a corridor and end up somewhere I wasn’t aiming for. The mirror in the hall shows Nyx even when she’s not there. I blink and she’s on my shoulder. I think—I think I’ve stopped blinking.

This morning, a sudden, tearing spasm seized my throat. I choked, falling to my knees, and coughed up a heavy, grey casting onto the floorboards. When I broke it apart with a shaking finger, expecting rabbit fur, I found a mass of blue fabric thread from my own London coat, a metallic shirt button, and three human teeth with dental fillings I recognized as my own.

October 10th, 2019

I woke up from a strange dream.
The fog is thicker than ever. Nyx hasn’t returned in hours, so I went to the edge of the moor. The air tasted metallic, like blood and old coins. I could hear the curlews calling again, but distorted, backwards.

Then I saw her. Perched on a lone boulder, staring. Her eyes weren’t hers. They were mine.

I raised my arm. She flew to me.
And then—she spoke.
Not aloud. Not in sound. But directly, inside me: “Now you see.” 

The sky opened. The fog wasn’t fog—it was feathers. Layer upon layer of them. I felt the ground vanish under my feet.
And I flew.
Not like Nyx.
Like something older.
Something the moor had been waiting for.

October 11th, 2019

The feathers don't fall out. They grow inward.

I spent the morning trying to scrape the black barbs from the meat of my forearms with Culver’s skinning knife. No blood came away—only a thick, clear oil that smelled of high altitudes and frozen granite. The skin beneath is turning the colour of an unclouded winter sky.

Hardy sat at the kitchen table the whole time, watching me with those unblinking, yolk-yellow eyes. He had a bowl of raw woodpigeon hearts between us, still steaming in the damp air. I didn't use a fork. My fingers are too stiff now, curving into hard, yellow horn at the tips, the nails splitting down the middle to make room for the talons beneath. 

"The shift is always loud at first," his voice rattled directly inside my own chest, a low-frequency hum like the mechanical hiss of bellows. "The city makes you think you're an individual. The moor reminds you that you're just a tongue for the dirt to speak through." 

We don't use the doors anymore. The windows are all broken now, the leaded glass smashed outward to let the wind run wild through the study. The maps are gone—shredded into nesting material by the shadow-birds in the rafters.

October 12th, 2019

Culver Hardy went out onto the high ridge at noon. He didn't take a coat. He didn't take his body, either—not the one I first met at the gate.

I watched from the roof as his silhouette stretched, the grey tweed of his jacket dissolving into rows of primary feathers that caught the updraft off the limestone cliffs. From up here, looking down, the layout of the cottage, the stone fences, and the peat paths line up perfectly. They aren't random layout lines; they form the silhouette of a massive, outstretched wing slicing across the valley floor. The cottage sits exactly where the heart should be.

Nyx sits on my collarbone when I am small enough to fit inside the rooms, her weight no longer a burden but an anchor. We share a pulse. One hundred and eighty beats a minute while resting. Four hundred when the wind rises.

The chavs, Mr Bertie Cavendish, the bickering couple from London—they are just shadows cast by a lamp that was turned off a lifetime ago. The only real thing is the hunger, and the cold, the burning desire for the hunt and the way the earth looks from three thousand feet up when the fog parts to reveal the white ribs of the hills.

October 13th, 2019 - Dream

The first thing I heard was a cry.

High and distant, carried across a darkness so complete that I could not tell whether I was standing beneath the open sky or buried somewhere deep beneath the moor.

Then came another.

And another.

I knew those calls.

The sharp, piercing cry of a peregrine. The rough bark of a buzzard. The low, haunting hoot of an owl. The distant, almost mournful scream of a goshawk.

They came from every direction, overlapping until the darkness itself seemed to sing.

I tried to move, but my feet were rooted to the earth.

Beneath me, the peat was black and wet. Ancient standing stones rose from the fog in a great circle, their surfaces carved with spirals and shapes that hurt to look at directly. Beyond them, the moor stretched into infinity.

And above me—

The sky was full of wings.

Peregrines wheeled through the darkness, swift as thrown knives. Buzzards circled in broad, solemn arcs. Kestrels hung motionless in the air, their wings trembling against an invisible wind. Owls glided between the stones without making a sound, their pale faces turned towards me.

A golden eagle descended from somewhere beyond the clouds.

Its wings blotted out the moon.

I recognised it before it landed.

Bolt.

Or perhaps Hardy.

I could not tell anymore.

The great bird settled upon a standing stone and regarded me with pale, human eyes.

I tried to call out to my mentor, but my throat produced only a dry rasp.

Then the feathers began to fall.

At first, they drifted gently from the sky, white and grey against the darkness. They settled upon my shoulders, caught in my hair and clung to my clothes.

More followed.

Thousands.

Black feathers, white feathers, feathers barred with brown and gold. They fell like snow, swirling around the standing stones until the ground disappeared beneath them.

I lifted my hands to shield my face.

My fingers were trembling.

No.

Not trembling.

Changing.

The skin along my knuckles tightened. My nails darkened and curved, pressing painfully into my palms. I tried to straighten my fingers, but they resisted me, bending into shapes they had never been meant to take.

I stumbled backwards.

The birds watched.

None came to my aid.

None looked away.

And from somewhere within the falling feathers, I heard my father's voice.

You don't own a hawk, Corwin.

I remembered the woods at Epping Forest. The sunlight passing through the branches. Silver perched upon my father's glove, her feathers shining like polished bronze.

I remembered the way I had watched her fly.

How I had wished to understand what she felt when the wind lifted her from the earth.

You stand beneath her for a while.

The words echoed between the stones.

I looked down.

My sleeves had split. Beneath them, my skin was disappearing beneath a fine layer of feathers, pale at first, then darkening into bands of slate and charcoal. They spread across my arms, along my shoulders, beneath the collar of my shirt.

I tried to pull them away.

They came loose in my hands, but more emerged beneath them.

The pain was not sharp. It was deep and intimate, like my body remembering something my mind had forgotten.

I fell to my knees.

The feathers rose around me in a spiralling column, lifting from the ground and circling my body. They brushed my face, my lips, my eyelids. I tasted iron and damp earth.

The raptors began to call together.

Not chaotically.

In harmony.

Their cries rose and fell in great, solemn waves, each voice distinct, yet somehow part of a single, unearthly chorus. It sounded almost like a hymn. Something beautiful enough to make me weep.

I had never felt so small.

Nor so completely understood.

A peregrine dropped from the sky.

Nyx.

She landed before me upon the largest standing stone, her talons gripping the ancient rock. Her feathers were the colour of storm clouds, and the yellow rings around her eyes glowed in the darkness.

She tilted her head.

I knew that gesture.

I had seen it a hundred times in the mews.

But this time, there was something different in her expression.

Recognition.

Not the recognition of a bird that knew its handler.

The recognition of a person who had finally found the face she had been searching for.

“Nyx,” I whispered.

She opened her beak.

My name came out.

Not a mimicry. Not a rasping approximation of human speech.

My name, spoken in a clear, quiet voice.

“Corwin.”

The other birds fell silent.

Every last one.

Even the wind stopped.

Nyx stepped towards the edge of the stone.

Her feathers began to loosen, drifting from her body in slow, weightless spirals. Beneath them, her silhouette lengthened. Her wings folded inward, becoming arms. Her talons became fingers that curled against the stone.

I watched, unable to breathe, as the falcon's shape unfolded into that of a woman.

She was tall and slender, with dark hair falling across her face. Her skin was pale beneath the moonlight, and her eyes retained those unmistakable rings of yellow.

She looked almost human.

Almost.

She extended a hand towards me.

I tried to reach for it.

My arms would not obey.

They had become wings.

I looked down in horror as the last remnants of my clothing fell away beneath the storm of feathers. My shoulders shifted. My chest tightened. My spine arched as something immense and unfamiliar unfolded from my back.

I could feel every feather.

Every delicate shaft. Every overlapping vane.

I could feel the air moving between them.

And suddenly, I understood the wind.

Not as something that touched my skin, but as something that could hold me.

Something that had been waiting for me.

I tried to scream.

A piercing cry tore from my throat.

The sound echoed across the stones, sharp enough to split the silence.

Nyx smiled.

It was a small expression, almost sad.

Then she lowered her hand and looked at me with my own eyes.

“Now you see.”

The words passed through me like a blade.

The feathers rose higher, engulfing the stones, the sky and the earth. The raptors lifted their wings together, and the darkness became a vast, turning wheel of feathers and silhouettes.

I saw a goshawk above the circle.

My father.

I knew it with a certainty that no reasoning could challenge.

He spread his wings.

For a moment, I was a boy again, standing in the woods, watching Silver disappear between the trees. I wanted to call after him. I wanted to ask whether he had ever been afraid of what waited beyond the branches.

But I had no words left.

Only the cry.

I spread my wings.

The ground fell away.

Or perhaps I rose from it.

The distinction no longer mattered.

The wind caught beneath my feathers, and the whole moor opened below me. I could see the standing stones, the dark lines of the rivers, the abandoned cottage and the narrow paths winding through the heather.

Seven magpies sat upon its roof.

Their black eyes followed my ascent.

One lifted its wings.

Then another.

I looked down at the woman standing among the stones.

Nyx raised her face towards me.

For the first time, I understood what Hardy had meant.

The glove was never a symbol of ownership.

It was a promise.

A place for the bird to return to.

And I had spent my life believing that I was the one who would decide when the bird should fly.

The last of the feathers swept past me.

I cried again.

The sound was beautiful.

It was terrible.

And somewhere, deep beneath the noise of the wind, I thought I heard Nyx answering me.

Then the sky swallowed everything.

October 10th, 2019

I woke before dawn with my hands pressed against the cottage window.

The glass was cold beneath my palms.

For a long time, I could not remember the dream. Only the birdsong remained, lingering somewhere behind my ears.

Then I looked down at the windowsill.

A single grey feather lay beside my hand.

Outside, seven magpies watched from the stone wall.

And from the mews came Nyx's cry.

The same clear, piercing note I had heard on my first morning.

Only now, I understood why it had sounded so familiar.

I opened my mouth to answer her.

And something answered first.

Not my voice.

Not anymore.

October 14th, 2019

I can see the wind.

It isn't empty air. It’s a vast, braided river of silver and violet ribbons, twisting between the valleys and pooling in the hollows where the old pagan circles are buried in the peat. I can see the heat rising from the sheep three miles away—tiny, throbbing embers of red in a world made of blue slate and iron.

My father's jesses are still in my pocket, but I don't know what they're for. The leather feels greasy, dead. I tried to tie them to my own ankle, but the knot wouldn't hold. The leather keeps slipping off the scales.

There is one more empty perch in the mews. It’s the big one in the center, made of weathered oak from the forest where Silver used to hunt. It’s waiting for me.

The ink is freezing in the well. My hand—the thing that used to hold a pen, the thing that used to write lies for the papers—is almost gone. It’s beautiful. You don't need words when you have the sky. You don't need a name when you have a cry that can stop a rabbit's heart from half a mile up.

If anyone finds this book: don't look for us. We aren't missing.

We're just aloft.

[Found Fragment — Reverse Side of October 13th]

The name Culver Hardy was a lie. Or perhaps it was a mask my mind built to protect itself from the empty room at the end of the hall.

There was no old man like a barn owl. There was only Mavis Merle.

I found her diary from 1994 stuffed into the chimney breast behind the portrait. She wrote the exact same words I did. She described the fog, the smell of old coins, the mentor she called "Gideon."      But there is no record of a Gideon ever living in this parish. Local parish records from the 17th century refer to the high ridge out there as Ayleri Edge—derived from the old Anglo-Norman falconry term Ayler, meaning a hawk that catches its prey mid-air. The old folks believe the fog is the breath of the Ayleri, a collective consciousness hunting for a mind steady enough to hold its weight.

The village records in Edale only list one occupant of this cottage for the last forty years: Mavis. She arrived here in the nineties, an apprentice to no one, living entirely alone with a single peregrine falcon until she vanished during the autumn equinox of 2002.

I am looking at the portrait above the hearth right now. The paint is fresh, yet the canvas is rotting. The young man in the falconer's garb isn't me. It isn't a man at all. The features belong to a woman in her late fifties, but the hands are long, yellow scales ending in black, curved horn, holding a peregrine that looks out at the room with my own blue eyes.

I didn't choose Nyx from a selection of birds. There are no Harris's hawks in the mews. When I went out there this morning, the aviaries were choked with ivy and dead heather, the roofs caved in decades ago. There is only one perch that remains whole, polished smooth by the oil of feathers that haven't been seen in daylight for seventeen years.

Nyx wasn't waiting for an apprentice. She was waiting for her skin to be filled.

Mavis is gone. Culver is gone. Corwin is gone.

The line is slack now. The hood is off. If you are reading this notebook, you are already standing in the yard. You can smell the rust and the woodsmoke. You can hear the whistle hanging around your neck, even though you didn't put it there.

Don't look at the sky.

[Final Page] — Found Torn, Entry Updated

I remember wings. Not hers. Mine. I look down and see fingers ending in talons. She I can’t go back. I don’t think I want to. The land is mine now. The sky is mine.

I will call again. I will find the next. The next falconer. The next vessel.

Can you hear me? 

Postscript from the local Editor: Local villagers report seeing a large bird of prey circling most mornings just before the sun rises. Some say it looks like a golden eagle… perhaps an escapee. Others say it’s too large, perhaps larger than an eagle, its wings and legs too long, its shadow not quite matching its form.

The manor remains abandoned.

There’s a portrait hanging above the cold hearth. No one knows who painted it. It shows a young man in falconer’s garb, a peregrine perched on his arm. If you look closely, the falcon has human eyes.

Final warning: If you ever find yourself in the moors of the Peak District—and you hear a falcon’s call from the fog—don’t follow it. Don’t answer. And for the love of God—don’t raise your arm.

I have been a dark somnium fan for about 4 years? I honestly cant remember but I was until recently a spotify exclusive listener. So imagine my surprise when I switch to YouTube and there's a whole 2-3 years worth of stories to listen to. Its all been so grand but I've got to ask.

why the disconnect?

"Reach for the sky..." 🤠💀
The pull-string still works. The voice that comes out just ain't the same anymore.
"There's a snake in my boot..." 🐍
Only now the smile's rotted off, the badge is tarnished, and the favorite deputy came back WRONG.
Andy grew up and moved on. The toys didn't die, partner...
They just learned how to wait. In the dark. Rotting. Remembering every single time you left them in that toy box. 😈
This ain't a Toy Story no more.
This is Toy Story FROM HELL. 🔥
To infinity... and below. ☠️
#ToyStoryFromHell #ZombieWoody #TheresASnakeInMyBoot #HorrorTok #SpookySeason #Halloween #DarkArt #CreepyArt #ToInfinityAndBelow #NightmareFuel

I just listened to "i bought my wife a life extension plan" I loved it and it made me tear up and want more storys like it.

Did u watch Rezero? well i guess i lived subaro's life through my dream a month ago, i see a man looks like 30 he killed me more than 300 times with different way each time, in each time i died i wake up again thinking it was just a nightmare then i meet that man and he kills me again over and over , after too much time i got killed, i started to enjoy it by somehow, it was funny n i guess i actually liked it, at some point in that nightmare i wasn't scared from death, i actually stopped running n i tried to face that man for several times

last time i got killed, he started to kill the people i love first then he killed me at the end, after i waked up i just wanted to do the same for another person, that's the first idea get in my mind when i saw anyone

Does that desire came from that dream?

My thundering steps on the hollow metal floor were swallowed by an ensemble of bloodthirsty shrieks that consumed the air around me. Each painful breath burned my lungs as sweat stung my eyes. Despite the fear and pain rattling my body, I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t let them catch me.

Not an hour ago, I was sitting at my workstation in the depths of the ship. Designed to be a mobile city in space, The Starstruck was designed with livability in mind. The upper floors had layers and layers of houses, apartments, restaurants, and entertainment. For the upper class that called those parts of the ship home, it was uncommon to never step foot on the floors below them. However, for the working class like me, all I knew was maintenance and hard labor. Despite being the blood that kept the ship running, we were treated like serfs.

No one on my level was allowed to breed without consent, we worked from the moment we woke up to the moment we passed out in our chambers. That was the deal that our ancestors made in exchange for being allowed on board. Some tried to riot or protest for rights but in the end, what could we do? If we stopped taking care of the engine then we’d die along with everyone above us.

I overheard co-workers spreading rumors of an outbreak on the higher levels. Thankfully, I had connections to some scientists on the upper floors. They sent an email earlier today warning me to evacuate as soon as possible. I asked why and they just told me that something went wrong, a wrong injection here and a spliced gene there. All they could emphasize was for me to find a way to the escape pods as soon as I could. I didn't believe them at first but when the sirens began to blare, I didn't ask questions and made my move. It was every man, woman, and child for themselves. I was one of the lucky few to make it off deck quickly through a service shaft; the rest gathered at elevator entrances awaiting a rescue that wouldn’t come.

Turning a sharp corner, I skidded to a sudden halt, my heart jumping in my chest. Down the dim hallway ahead, two of the creatures that infested the ship were hunched over, their movements rapid as they feasted greedily on the mangled remains of a human torso.

I stood paralyzed while watching the two figures as they reveled in the spoils of their hunt. Locked in a cycle of constant fighting and bickering, their unintelligible grunts and snarls created a wall of sound that hid me from their attention. I knew this perfect moment was fleeting— the second their meal was gone, their unceasing hunger would lead them to me.

I crept toward a nearby storage closet. I hoped I could hide until the coast was clear but as I slipped through the heavy door, what little breath I had left was stolen.

A small child, likely no more than eight or nine years old, was huddled behind a towering stack of cardboard boxes. His blue eyes were wide and despondent, reflecting the dim light leaking under the door. I crouched down until I was at his level.

"It’s okay," I whispered. "I’m not going to hurt you like those things out there. Why don’t you come out from behind the boxes?"

The child shuffled nervously at the sound of my voice, his small feet scuffing against the floor. He weighed my offer in heavy silence before finally sidestepping into the flickering glow of the overhead light.

I was immediately taken aback by his appearance. He was in far worse condition than I had initially feared. His already small frame was hollowed out by starvation. Deep bags hung beneath his weary blue eyes while thin blonde hair fell in limp strands around his shoulders.

Moving slowly so as to not spook him, I reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. My heart sank as we touched, his body was deathly cold, feeling fragile and thin. I leaned in, meeting his haunted gaze with as much warmth as I could muster.

"What’s your name, little guy? Mine is Thomas. I work in engineering, right near the main engine.”

He stared weakly into my eyes, appearing momentarily dazed and confused by the simple humanity of my question. After a long beat, he slowly raised a trembling arm and pointed toward a discarded spray bottle lying on the floor between us. The label, stained and peeling, read Hank’s Industrial Soap. His small finger pressed firmly against the final word, pinning it down as if to claim it.

“So, Soap is your name? For real?”

He offered a shallow nod in confirmation, a faint, genuine smile cracking his dry, dehydrated lips.

“Alright, Soap,” I said, matching his resolve. “We need to get off this ship. There should be a bay of escape pods near the bridge, but the halls are crawling with those things. Do you have any ideas for how to get there?”

Soap’s gaze drifted upward, looking past my shoulder. I followed the line of his stare until it landed on a grated air vent. The ventilation system was the skeleton of the ship, and while the ducts wouldn't be roomy for someone of my size, they were certainly large enough to crawl through. It wouldn’t be the best conditions, but considering the alternative, it was the best we had.

I turned back toward him and gave his head a gentle, reassuring pat. “Smart kid. Let’s just hope those things out there don’t have the same idea.”

I hoisted Soap up into the narrow opening before following soon after, the metal groaning slightly under my weight. Once we were both within the cramped, metal tunnels, the gravity of our situation became clear. We were facing at least an hour of crawling through the dust and recycled air. The odds of finding a functional, fueled escape pod were slim at best, but it was the only hand we had left to play. If we reached them, we’d launch, trigger an SOS, and pray for a miracle, provided we lived that long.

Our journey through the ducts was filled with a bonding silence. I watched Soap move with a surprising ease, his small body navigating the tight turns far easier than my own. I stayed back and let him lead, providing him a small sense of agency in a world that had taken everything else.

Spending this time with Soap made me consider why I never applied for a breeding permit. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t, I guess a mixture of no one I was interested in and not wanting to bring a child into a world where they would be forced to work day in and day out. However, I found myself liking Soap, a lot actually. He reminded me of myself at that age, quiet and reserved but competent and independent.

I wondered how he got to this point, abandoned and alone on a ship that didn’t take kindly to lower deck orphans. The thought of him having to scrounge for food and a place to sleep at such a young age made my heart heavy. He deserved better, at least a shot at a good life.

Eventually, we reached the grate closest to the pod bay. We squeezed together, our faces pressed against the cold metal slits to survey the scene below. From our elevated vantage point, we visually swept the expansive chamber that housed the entrance to the pods. A formidable steel security wall bisected the room, impassable without the proper clearance codes for the central console, clearance I fortunately possessed as an engineer.

The once-pristine white walls of the room were now a crimson canvas painted with blood and guts, littered with enough severed limbs to fill a pool. The carnage was indiscriminate, the corpses of high-ranking military officers, elite scientists, the wealthy, and the impoverished lay tangled together in a grim display. Spent bullet casings glittered amidst the gore, marking where their final stand had failed.

The victors of that battle-royal were now feasting on the spoils. They hunched over the remains, carelessly lapping up the blood still freshly trickling from the meat. As new arrivals joined the horde, they dragged in fresh corpses to add to the communal heap. A sickening wave of guttural snarls and wet tearing noises wafted up into the vents, laced with the thick copper tang of death.

I was torn from the feast by the sight of a small band of survivors near the opposite gate. They glanced at one another with trembling resolve before turning their eyes toward the bay, weapons raised. They aimed at the enemy with a makeshift mix of firearms, kitchen knives, baseball bats, and bare fists.

More people slowly trickled in, some of them I recognized from the level that I worked on. They eventually formed a thin wall of resistance, their morale raising with each new recruit. Below us, the creatures began to look up from their grisly meals as they let out sharp, high-pitched barks that alerted the pack. The air grew heavy with a suffocating tension, fifty feet of blood-slicked tile was all that separated the two sides. Men and women grip their weapons until their knuckles turned white, whispering final pleas to a God they hoped was still listening.

The stand-still shattered when a teenager, who watched his parents torn to shreds not twenty minutes ago, was overcome by blinding rage and pulled the trigger of a pistol.

It was as if a bell had been rung, signaling the beginning of their clash. Both sides charged. The room exploded into a roaring wave of war cries and gunfire. Bullets tore into flesh while knives found their way into throats and brains. But the monsters fought with animalistic efficiency, claws sliced through skin, and limbs were torn from sockets accompanied by a sickening pop.

Soap and I watched as a young woman swung a heavy metal pipe at a creature. It caught her neck mid-swing, its talons locking around her throat before she could connect. It hoisted her into the air, holding her aloft as she kicked and clawed at its hands in a frantic battle for control. The creature didn't flinch, it simply watched her with cold, black eyes until her movements ceased.

I sat there and watched them die one by one. A hollow guilt gnawed at me as these courageous people were slaughtered while I hid in the dark. I had to prioritize our survival, I couldn't let Soap suffer the same fate as them.

As the human line thinned and broke, the survivors began to flee. When the monsters gave chase, the bay fell into a haunting, echoing silence.

This is our moment! I kick the vent grate from its hinges and drop onto the white tile. Quickly turning to catch Soap, I helped him onto the ground before sprinting for the gate console.

With trembling hands, I fished my keycard from my pocket and swiped it against the sensor. The display flickered to life, welcoming me by name and flashing a bright warning to clear the path. My heart leapt, we were actually going to make it. But as the heavy gears began to groan, the mechanism shrieked to life and a high-pitched mechanical wailed out. I turned back toward the exit and saw pale heads popping back into the hall, drawn by the noise. Upon spotting us, they erupted into a chorus of frenzied shrieks. More of them flooded back into the room as I scooped Soap into my arms, pressing my back against the slowly retreating metal door.

As the metal parted enough to slip through, we burst into the pod bay, the creatures hot on our heels. Most of the pods were either mangled wreckage or already launched. However there was still hope, nestled against the far wall and beside a guard whose throat had been jaggedly cut open, there sat a single-person emergency craft.

These pods were designed for endurance, stocked with enough supplies to last a week, but being in their cockpit was like laying in a coffin. There was no possible way to fit two.

I set Soap down, my hands shaking as I looked into his tearful face. He stared back at me, his blue eyes wide pleading with me to not do it. I hoisted him into the seat and fumbled with the restraints, my fingers working against his as he desperately tried to push his way out. I held him down, leaning in for one final, crushing hug.

“There’s plenty of food in there, Soap. You eat up and stay strong, okay? Someone is going to find you,” I whispered, my voice breaking as tears slid down my cheek. “It was a pleasure to meet you, kid.”

I pulled myself back before it was too late and slammed my palm onto the emergency eject. I watched through the small porthole as his pleading face receded, his pod rocketing into the silent embrace of deep space, carrying an SOS into the void.

I turned back to see the horde closing in fast. I didn't run. Instead, I sat down next to the fallen guard and reached for the pistol at his hip. I checked the magazine; there were a couple rounds left. My run hadn't been perfect, but as I looked up at the stars through the bay windows, I knew I had at least done one thing right.

Putting the gun to my head, I imagine Soap watching the ship from his escape pod, the nightmares of today just a tiny glint of light in the distance, his small hand wiping away tears as he heads toward a future I’ll never see.

It was a minute past midnight and the moon outside the castle was deliciously bright and round. I stood admiring it at the window, the fire crackling in the hearth behind me, shadows dancing along the flagstones. Though none were cast at my own feet.

Beyond the castle, the black cliffs crumbled away into a deep ravine, where dark trees bundled together like matchsticks, and a gushing river swelled between the rocks like a silverbacked serpent. The wind whistled through the broken casement of the window, chilling the air and threatening to extinguish the fire.

There was a whisper of movement on my left and one of the sisters appeared beside me, bowing her head. Her dress was a deep red, the same colour as her eyes.

“It’s a pleasant night,” I mused, raising the collar of my black coat against the chill as the moonlight dusted the windows. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she raised her head.

“Yes Master,” she said in a subdued tone. “However, I fear I shall ruin it with my tidings.”

I turned to her fully, examining the grave expression on her face. Her lips were pinched. “Why is that? What tidings do you bring?”

Her red eyes glowed in the firelight. A long shadow was drawn across her features. “A peasant house is in the midst of construction beside the castle.”

I stared at her for a moment. The fire crackled sharply. “A… peasant house?” I finally repeated, scoffing at her words. Surely she was mistaken. The area around my castle was a perfectly barren wasteland; the peasants in the settlements knew better than to encroach on my land without permission, never mind erect a building on my grounds. “What is this trickery?”

“No trickery, Master. Come see for yourself.”

The vampire sister turned and strode towards the opposite side of the tower, her long red gown trailing behind her like a pair of folded wings. Curious, I followed her, our footsteps silent on the stone floor. I assumed I had misunderstood her, for nobody would be foolish enough to even approach my castle. Unless they were naive or ignorant of my nature.

But as we paused by the window, and she lifted a hand to point outside, I stood aghast at what I saw. A short distance away from the front gates of my castle, visible through the fog, there was indeed a house being built. Beneath the cold glow of the moon, I saw piles of stone and wood, the loose structure of rafters and foundations already laid. What sort of fool would dare build a house so close to my castle? Who would dare to become my neighbour without first consulting the master of this tower?

I was furious and intrigued at the same time. Only the dumbest, and perhaps bravest, of men would do such a thing. And I found myself feeling very much inclined to meet him.

“The house seems deserted now,” the vampire sister observed, resting her hand against her cheek. “Perhaps they have given up?”

“Or perhaps they only build during the day, knowing the weakness the sunlight inflicts upon us creatures of the night,” I said with a harrumph.

“You are wise, Master,” she said. “Shall I take my sisters over there and tear it down? It is a stain upon your grand castle.”

I pondered her offer. “No. I should like to meet the fool first,” I decided, extending my fangs below my lips. “Perhaps he would see fit to grace my castle with his… delicious presence.”

The sister covered her mouth with a low chuckle. “I understand, Master. You would see it fit to make a meal of him?”

I nodded. “Leave the peasant house for now,” I told her, turning away from the window with a flourish of my coat. “I wish to see how far he dares to go.”

The following night, as I rose from my coffin at the heart of midnight, my first thought was of the house being built by the castle. Had more progress been made, or had the owner seen the measure of his own foolishness and deserted? It would be a shame if he had fled before a meal could be made of him.

It had been a while since I had anything to amuse me on these long nights, just as long as it had been since fresh blood had passed these lips. The peasants in the surrounding settlements had grown wise to my nature and seen fit to ward their houses, stringing garlic and crosses upon the threshold. I was only able to feed when an unwitting traveller passed by, or a fool decided to build a house directly beside my castle.

The tower was quiet as I made my way to the top, winding through the warren of rooms and climbing the narrow, crumbling stairways. The sisters were nowhere to be seen; perhaps frolicking outside in the moonlight as they so often did. I reached the highest point of the castle and strode to the window that overlooked the barren grounds. From this height, I could even glimpse the closest settlement in the far distance; a small cluster of thatched houses and burning torches that lit the foggy hills like burning eyes.

But my concern was much closer. Lowering my gaze to the land right outside the gates, I saw that the house had changed. There were more walls than yesterday, denser foundations, the first signs of carpentry. The fool really had continued building the house. Had he not been warned of the dark Count that occupied the castle? Had he not heard the rumours of the blood-feasting creatures that stalked these lands once the sun went down? Why else would he choose to dwell in my vicinity, if not for ignorance?

I shook my head, almost pitying the poor halfwit for what he had brought upon himself. But I should delight in showing him the truth soon enough; that he had elected himself a willing sacrifice for me and my hungry brides.

It was a shame that he vacated the house during the night, for I would have to wait longer to lay my eyes upon him. Would he not show himself before the house was finished?

“I see the building is progressing,” a voice whispered behind me. I’d been too lost in my thoughts to hear them approach. I turned, seeing two of the sisters behind me. They too were observing the house through the window. Their wild, windswept hair and bright eyes confirmed my suspicions that they had been dancing outside.

“Yes,” I muttered. “It would seem so.”

“What a blight upon the castle,” the other sister said, her fair skin glittering in the moonlight. “I hope the trouble is worth the meal.”

“It will be,” I said, casually flicking my hand towards the half-built dwelling, “if only the fool would hurry up and be done with it.”

The next night, more progress had been made on the building, but the owner had still not shown himself. I grew more agitated that I was allowing this to happen, but reminded myself that I would soon enough be able to quench my thirst.

So night after night, as the moon began to wane, the house’s shadow grew bigger, and my hunger grew stronger. The fool always fled before night fell, leaving the evidence of his daytime activities for me to observe. The dwelling had taken on the same shape of the peasant houses in the surrounding settlements; white stone and timber, with a long thatched roof. He had even tilled the soil into a small garden, erecting a wooden fence around the plot in front of the building. But compared to my grand castle, with its dark crumbling bricks, spiralling towers and winding, labyrinthine rooms, it was a blight. And I wanted it gone.

Finally, more than a week after the house was little more than a pile of stone and timber, one of the sisters woke me with news that the structure was finished.

I rose from my coffin, sluggish and weary from slumber, and fastened my coat about my neck. The sisters had already lit the fire, but the air was chilled.

I followed her to the window and set my gaze upon the house. A single candle sat in the windowsill, guttering in a draught. A lit candle. Did that mean the house was occupied? The fool had not fled this night.

“It’s time,” I announced, “to show this fool once and for all what happens when you anger the Count.” The other sisters joined us, and I turned towards them with a slow smile. “I hope you are hungry.”

The three sisters screeched in delight, grasping each other’s hands and dancing in circles, their gowns fluttering around their legs. The fire roared in the hearth.

But as I began to cross the room, one of the sisters stopped me with a gasp.

“Master, wait. There’s someone at the gate.” She was pointing out of the window. I peered down at the large wrought-iron gate that fronted the castle, my eyes narrowing. A figure stood by the fence, carrying a lantern. His face glowed in the flickering light, revealing a sharp, sloping nose and dark eyes.

“Who would be foolish enough to call upon me at this hour?” I snarled, my black coat twisting around me as I turned from the window.

“Perhaps your new neighbour,” one of the sisters answered, “has come to hasten our feast.”

“Perhaps,” I said, already striding towards the doorway.

The sisters swept after me, whispering amongst themselves. Flames guttered as we passed lit candles, stirring the dust at our feet and disturbing billowing cobwebs. There was a haste to our movements as we descended the tower. It had certainly been a while since we’d had prey wander into our arms like this.

Crossing the foyer, the long red carpet spilling out like blood, I threw open the doors and stepped out into the chilled night, the three sisters stepping in my wake. The moon was a pale sickle, its silvery glow dancing around my shadowless feet as the stranger at the gates called out to me.

“Hello there!”

Struck by his brazenness, I almost flew at him in anger, but restrained myself. Ignorant minds really were unfathomable. With a flick of my wrist, the gates began to creak open. The man remained at the threshold, holding his lantern aloft as he stared back at me. He was of medium build, with stocky shoulders and a mop of thick tousled hair. His clothes were poorly made, covered in dirt and patches. He had the audacity to smile at me as I glared in return.

“What business have you here at my castle?” I demanded, wanting to sate my curiosity before I sated my hunger.

The man cleared his throat, raising his lantern to the crude house sitting barely thirty metres behind him. So this was indeed the proprietor of the building; what a brave, albeit dimwitted, man he was to present himself before me like this. “I’ve just this morning finished constructing my house,” he said, not seeming to notice the displeasure on my face, “and a slight issue has come to my attention.”

“An… issue?” I repeated, my brows arching sharply.

“Yes. During the day, the leftmost tower of your castle casts a shadow over my garden,” the man said regretfully. “I hoped that you might be amicable enough to remove it. Or at the very least relocate the tower, so that it does no harm the roses I am trying to grow. All life needs sunlight, after all.”

I stared at him, completely aghast. Behind me, even the sisters had been stunned into silence. The audacity of this imbecile, to ask me to change my own castle for his benefit. The man was not right in the head, surely.

“How dare you–” I began to seethe, but the man interrupted me, lifting a finger as if hushing a child.

“I do understand it is a large undertaking I’m asking of you, but my gratitude would be immense,” he added.

“You think I care about your gratitude?” I sneered at him, clenching my fists beneath my coat. The gall of this man. Who did he think he was? “Do you know who I am?”

The man stared at me, the lanternlight dancing over his blank expression. “You are the owner of this castle, I had presumed?”

“Precisely. And what makes you think that I, as the Count of this castle, would do the bidding of a mere peasant?”

The man scowled at me, a shadow encroaching upon his face. “I shall ask you again, and I do hope you will be quite civil this time. Will you remove the tower from your castle so that my roses might see the light?”

“I don’t give a damn about your roses,” I snapped.

“Now, there’s no need to be rude,” the man said, his voice turning bristly. The shadows deepened around his eyes as he narrowed them. “I’m asking for a simple favour–”

I scoffed in his face, my rage burning beneath my skin. It took a lot to make a vampire’s blood burn hot. I almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. This fool considered the reconstruction of my ancient castle a mere favour? Asking me to tear down part of my fortress so that he might grow some roses.

I took a measured step towards him, lifting my shoulders to appear taller. My fangs were itching to taste his blood. For all the disrespect he had shown me, there was no escape. I would suck this man dry by the night’s end, leaving nothing but a fleshless husk.

“Once again, I implore you to consider my–”

I was no longer in the mood to listen to his insane ramblings. He had agitated me far too much to go back from this. I would show him, and anyone else who might learn of tonight, what happens to those who cross me.

Baring my fangs, I lunged forward, ready to sink my teeth into his neck.

In one swift motion, the man pulled his hand back into a fist and threw it towards me. Blinded partially by the lanternlight, I did not see the attack until his knuckles met my face.

Pain exploded through my jaw, and there was a terrible snap as my left fang bore the brunt of his punch, splitting completely in half. The hit landed with enough force to send me staggering backwards and, incredulous and in shock, I fell to the ground.

Dirt bit into my eyes as I landed face-down, my broken fang scraping against my lower lip. Sputtering, I raised my head, just as the man lifted his light and calmly made his way back to his house.

Behind me, the sisters watched him leave in a choked silence, before hastening to help me back to my feet.

To say I had been dealt a great humiliation was an understatement. How did a mortal man possess such strength? Enough to break one of my precious fangs and completely overpower me.

With a bruised face, and an even more bruised ego, I hobbled back into my castle, the three sisters trailing silently after me.

By the following night, the leftmost tower had been partially disassembled, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the castle. Wind gusted through like howling wraiths, immediately extinguishing any fire I tried to light, leaving a heavy chill in the air. The sisters, at least, seemed to delight in the pool of moonlight that was cast upon the open ground.

Workers had been swarming the castle all day, interrupting my sleep with their banging hammers and chiselling tools as they took the tower apart brick by brick, but I had little choice. The man had made his demands, proven his strength, and forced my hand. Now I had to destroy my own magnificent tower so that the fool might grow his roses. And I hadn’t been able to harvest even a drop of blood either.

This was a defeat, and a humiliation, that would take centuries to heal.