There was only one rule: don’t open the door.
From across the room, the creature inside of the cage appeared to resemble a bulky middle-aged man. It was only until you approached the bars that you could truly see that there was no humanity residing within the beast's DNA.
The bars were cold to the touch but the entire room, which was consumed by an array of large monitors, surveillance cameras, a luxurious cache of surgical tools and shelves of glass jars filled with toxic liquids, was being kept ominously warm from the cryptid’s heavy breathing.
My job was to monitor vitals and observe, record and document all movements, mannerisms, and facial expressions. A small army of armed security guards were stationed around the facility, but no other human personnel were allowed inside of the lab while I was working.
It was my third time working with the cryptid. The previous four technicians all did one thing they weren't supposed to do. Days after their termination, each one suffered a mysterious death.
It was never made clear to me why my four predecessors opened the cell door in the first place, nor were the details of the deaths ever revealed. The facility ran on efficiency, and apparently secrets.
One of the heart rate machines began beeping. The beats per minute were off the charts, making the thin green peaks on the EKG monitor blend together as one. Then as quickly as it rose, the beeping morphed into an uninterrupted high-pitched drone, and the monster behind the bars fell limp.
I rushed to the cage to examine the creature closer. The bars were no longer cold and the room was no longer warm. My mind went blank and my fingers unlocked the door.
Claws grasped my skull and I was gone.
About the Creator
Kale Sinclair
Author | Poet | Husband | Dog Dad | Nerd
Find my published poetry, and short story books here!
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More stories from Kale Sinclair and writers in Horror and other communities.
The Saint George
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The building was old and in dire need of countless repairs, but the rent was cheap and I desperately needed to find a new place to live. The priest who recommended moving promised me that the paranormal activity would end. It didn’t. It made it worse.
By Kale Sinclairabout a year ago in Horror
The Voice That Waited
Seen (1) At the edge of a quiet town stood an abandoned radio station, forgotten by time and avoided by locals. The building had been shut down for over twenty years, yet people claimed that at exactly 2:17 a.m., a faint broadcast could still be heard on an old frequency. No music. No news. Just a voice. Daniel was a small content creator who specialized in audio storytelling. He didn’t believe in rumors, but he believed in stories. When he heard about the mysterious broadcast, he decided to investigate—not for views, but for curiosity. One cold night, Daniel entered the radio station with his recorder and headphones. Dust covered the equipment, and spider webs hung from the ceiling. Everything looked dead. Silent. At exactly 2:17 a.m., the old transmitter crackled. A voice broke through the static. “Hello… is anyone listening?” Daniel froze. The voice was calm but tired, like someone who had been waiting for a long time. “My name is Arthur,” the voice continued. “I used to work here. If you can hear me, please don’t turn this off.” Daniel whispered into his microphone, “I’m listening.” The voice seemed relieved. “For years, I spoke into this microphone, hoping someone would hear me. When the station shut down, everyone left. Everyone except me.” Daniel’s heart raced. “Are you… alive?” There was a pause. Then a soft laugh. “That depends on what you mean by alive,” Arthur said. “I passed away in this building many years ago. But my voice stayed. This place remembers me.” Arthur explained that he had been a late-night radio host, speaking to lonely people, travelers, and insomniacs. The night the station closed, he stayed behind to record one final message—something meaningful. But no one ever aired it. He died alone, with his words unheard. “So I kept talking,” Arthur said. “Night after night. Waiting for someone to listen.” Daniel felt a heavy silence fill the room. “What do you want from me?” Daniel asked. Arthur answered gently, “I don’t need fear. I don’t need fame. I just want my message to reach someone. Anyone.” Daniel nodded, even though Arthur couldn’t see him. “I’ll share your story.” For the first time, the static disappeared. Arthur’s voice became clear. “Tell them this,” he said. “You are not invisible. Someone, somewhere, needs your voice—even if you don’t know it yet.” The broadcast ended. The room fell silent. Daniel left the station before sunrise and spent the next day editing the audio. He uploaded the recording as a simple podcast episode titled *The Voice That Waited*. He didn’t add music. He didn’t add effects. Just the truth. Within days, thousands of messages poured in. People said the voice helped them through loneliness, grief, and dark nights. Some cried. Some found comfort. Some found hope. Daniel returned to the radio station one last time. At 2:17 a.m., there was no broadcast. The transmitter stayed silent. But Daniel smiled. Because he understood something important: Some voices don’t fade because they are loud. They survive because someone finally listens.
By Do bol ho jaaye 4 days ago in Horror
FPS: The Last Flame Challenge Winners
Welcome to our first Winners Announcement of the year and to the final challenge in the Fall Poetry Series. The Last Flame invited writers to sit with endings, using fire as a central image to consider what remains when something burns out: ash, warmth, memory, silence, or the faint promise of what comes next. The strongest pieces treated endings as gradual rather than sudden, allowing them to flicker, dim, and linger.
By Vocal Curation Team6 days ago in Resources
Comments (2)
Terrifying!!
Wow, what a build up!!!