The town of Greymount revolved — literally — around its clock tower. The gears powered the mills, the bells marked the workday, and its ticking was the heartbeat of the town.
By GoldenSpeech3 months ago in Chapters
In an antique shop hidden behind a church in Prague, there’s a woman who deals in reflections. Not mirrors — reflections.
When the sea receded from the coast of Darnmouth, it left the old lighthouse standing alone on dry, cracked earth. No one visited it anymore, except for Elias, the last keeper. He refused to leave.
On a quiet stretch of Maine coastline, the Watterson House stood empty for decades. Locals said it was cursed — any attempt to renovate it ended in disaster.
In the village of Brackenwood, the cemetery sits on a hill known for its mist. Locals swear that if you mark a grave’s position at dusk, it won’t be the same by dawn.
In a Parisian flea market, art student Claire found a cracked mirror framed in gilt and paint flakes. When she looked in it, she didn’t see her reflection — she saw a painted version of herself, faint and unfinished.
In a forgotten corner of Vienna, there’s a small watch shop with no name. Locals call the owner “Herr Zeit” — Mr. Time. He looks ancient, yet ageless, his fingers moving like clockwork as he repairs gears finer than dust.
They say the lake outside Eldenbrook used to be a quarry — deep, silent, and cursed. But divers who explored it told of something stranger than rock: a stone staircase winding downward into darkness.
Henry Vale’s novels always ended the same way — with one character erased from memory entirely. Readers adored the eerie realism. Until people noticed something strange: the names he used matched real, living people.
In 2012, art blogger Lin Mei received a plain black envelope in the mail. Inside: a ticket to something called The Museum of Forgotten Faces. There was no return address — only a date and time.
A hobbyist radio operator named Martin Graves loved old frequencies — the ones abandoned since the Cold War. One night, while scanning static, he caught a broadcast labeled “Station Tomorrow.”
When Nadia moved to Prague, she found a perfect apartment — central, affordable, and newly renovated. Except it wasn’t listed anywhere else. No neighbors. No records. No mail.
