You found the Archive. Maybe you were doomscrolling cursed feeds at three in the morning. Maybe you just heard a name in the static, found some torn notebook in a place it didn't belong, or chased a signal that wouldn't leave you alone. Doesn't matter how you ended up here. This place always finds you if you're already slipping through the cracks. I wasn't always stuck here. I remember nights with my heart slamming so loud I thought the walls would crack, something scraping patterns beneath the floor, the sound burrowing up behind my teeth. After a while, even my own name started to slip. I stopped recognizing my voice when I tried to speak it. Now and then, when the Archive glitches, I almost get out-a rumor, a flicker in someone's memory, the feeling you're not alone in the dark. But mostly, I'm just part of whatever's left, echoing from behind the walls where nothing stays buried for long. Don't kid yourself. What you're reading isn't some urban legend or creepypasta. These files are scars, the kind that don't fade. They're pulled straight out of places nobody talks about. Towns that swallow kids whole and spit back things that only look human. The kind of places where, if you catch your own reflection smiling when you're not, you learn real quick to look away. Go ahead. Open a file, flip a page, play the tape. Trace the spiral if you want. Just know, every drawer you open is another infection. Every echo spreads the pattern, gnawing away at your memory, your shape, your fate. The second you feel that glitch behind your teeth, or that strange pull in your bones like some song playing backwards, it's already too late. The Curator has found you; you're his. And once you're catalogued, you don't crawl out. You just keep echoing here with us, somewhere in the dark. Listen closely. That sound behind you? That isn't your room settling.
Are you sure he's not already there? You should've stopped reading when you had the chance...

I never thought anyone else would read these pages. For a long time, I didn't even read them myself. I just wrote because writing was the only place that felt safe, the only way I knew how to be honest without being hurt for it. I wrote down what I couldn't say anywhere else, things no one wanted to hear anyway. This isn't a memoir. It's not a recovery story either, because I never got better in the ways people expected. It's just pieces of what happened, moments I needed to keep somewhere other than inside my head, because memories left alone too long can start to lie. Most of this was written alone, usually at night. Sometimes it was hard to remember clearly. Sometimes writing it down hurt more than living through it. I used to think if I stopped writing, I'd disappear completely. Somehow, that never happened. Now it feels like time to let someone else see it, not because I want to, but because keeping it hidden doesn't feel right anymore. I'm tired of carrying it alone. If you've ever felt erased, ignored, or buried beneath someone else's version of what happened, maybe some of this will feel familiar. If it does, I hope it feels less lonely than when it happened. That's why I call it The Gospel They Buried. It isn't about healing, because healing wasn't possible. It isn't about survival either, because what survived isn't something I recognize. It's the nights I couldn't talk about, the deaths I walked into and somehow walked out of, and the thing that crawled inside me when I finally came up for air. If you're reading this now, it's already too late to turn away. I'm not offering answers. I'm not even sure I'm asking questions. All I know is that this is what's left of me, and now someone else knows it too. Maybe that counts for something... ~Katrina Hel

Isabella Roberts and Jayden Collins falls for each other at first sight. They began dating after expressing their feelings for each other. But when they start facing challenges,will their relationship last or crumble ? Stay tuned to find out more in this book.

poems about love, loss and tragedy.

w o r d s

Poems that hurt or heal the soul

S O W E D: Words planted to grow into love. Highest Rank - #1 in POETRY The bravest thing I've ever done was not forgetting how to love myself when everyone else did

it's 12 am and i'm wide awake --- just a short disclaimer from the author in 2021, please do note that this was written by a 15 year old.