Southerngothic Stories

A man went missing on November 10th, 1977. His friends sensed that something was wrong with his disappearance, so they decided to search for him. One of his friends, Dylan, began hearing a strange voice. However, the voice was helping him? This my first story so it's a bit all over the place but I tried to make things make sense

Etta Brossard has always known the soil beneath her feet holds secrets-ones her family refuse to name and her hometown insists on burying. Raised to mind her manners, mind the land, and never ask too many questions. Etta dreams of a life beyond the cane fields and moss-draped oaks that seem to watch her breathe. When she spends time away in New Orleans, she meets Isaiah, a smooth-talking city boy who sees her hunger for more and urges her to leave before the won claims her for good. But back home waits Caleb, steady and quiet, loving her the way the land does. deep, patient, possessive and expecting her roots to hold. As strange sounds rise from the earth, and old oak becomes forbidden ground, and when Etta's family starts having illnesses unexplained for, the truth begins to surface. Caught between love and escape, duty and desire, Etta must decide whether to stay and inherit a legacy soaked in silence. Or leave and risk awakening something that will not let her go. Because some roots don't loosen quietly. And some towns don't forgive women who try to leave.

A short story inspired by the fear of being alone, centered around a young witch-doll and the beast who devoured her coven.

In the supernatural world nothing is as it seems. Everything is best to be questioned. Nothing is to be taken for granted nor assumed. When hunting demons, immortals, fallen angels you need to know exactly 'who' you are hunting. In the spiritual world a name means everything. Without it. One can go on a wild goose chase for years. In their quest to find Old Yellow Eyes, Dean and Sam encounters an unknown type of hunters and curiosity caused them to want to know how these ancient hunters survived for eons. Since the dawn of human history. 1 #Southerngothic 2 #Azazel

Growing up in the suburbs There's nowhere for you to scream I am not afraid of hell I am from Connecticut --Cat Crash

Fresh out of college, a man named Sean joins a band of free lance cryptid hunters traveling around America in a van and RV. *CHAPTER 2 OUT NOW* Work in Progress

Seven years ago, Christopher "Kit" Black and his friends helped put his father behind bars for murder. Entangled in the harrowing cold case when they were just teenagers, it now feels like an old nightmare. When his therapist suggests he write a book about his trauma, Kit begins to notice some inconsistencies. The last one left in the dead farmland town of Grimm, Missouri - he begins to doubt. Was his father really responsible for the unsolved crime they thought was cracked? In this psychological drama, a coming-of-age story gone dark explores characters challenged by impossible choices, and a past which is better left undisturbed.

A midnight encounter in the gravel parking lot of a bayou honky tonk.

Some houses do not forget. Even when emptied, even when renamed, they remember the shape of voices, the way footsteps once paused near certain doors, the specific weight of longing in the air. This house was never mine, and yet I returned to it. They told me I had been ill. That I needed silence. That I should not be left alone, but neither watched too closely. I believed them. Or I pretended to. Which is, often, the same thing. There are stories that do not begin. They emerge, like stains, or heat, or hunger. They unfold backwards, sideways, beneath the skin. They wait for the right hour. Or the wrong person. I cannot say where this one began. Perhaps with the arrival of Liraz. Or with the discovery of a key that opened no lock. Or with the dream of a voice counting down from thirty. Or with a photograph that should not have existed, and yet did. But even those are only echoes. What I can say is this: if you enter a room and feel watched, do not assume it is by the living. If you read a letter and recognize your own voice, though you never wrote it, do not stop reading. And if someone knocks from inside the walls do not answer. ORIGINAL CONTENTENT 𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓽 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮 2022, 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓘 𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓽 "Memory is a house with no windows, we wander its halls searching for a door that might lead us home, only to find ourselves forever lost between the echoes."

Pulling inspiration from Ethel Cain and Sylvia Plath, this chapbook explores a narrator's retelling of secrets that were never meant to be shared and an internal struggle that seems never ending.

mostly unfinished writing

This is a collection of short stories that I have written for school projects :) Enjoy

I used to think life ended the night Mama died. That was before I learned grief doesn't bury you-it breaks you open. Taraji Jenkins never asked to be a queen. She just wanted her family whole again. But after losing her mother to illness and her father to sorrow, Taraji and her little sister Zuri are torn from everything they knew and placed behind the worn brick walls of St. John's Orphanage. With nothing but Mama's cross and her sister's fragile hand to hold, Taraji vows to survive the unthinkable. But when Zuri is adopted without her, Taraji is left with nothing but silence-and a promise to keep going. With her soul bruised and hope worn thin, Taraji is sure her journey has come to its bitter end-until a stranger, radiant with warmth and mercy, leads her to the butterfly-laced town of Aponi, where something new begins to grow. In the arms of a new family and under the shadow of magnolia trees, Taraji discovers that some families are born, and some are built through fire. And sometimes, the most broken girls are the ones chosen to rise. Beneath the Magnolia Star is a soulful Southern tale of sisterhood, sorrow, second chances, and the quiet miracle of becoming.

The saxophone threads heat through the bar, and old stories lift with the smoke. Bubba Bojangles leans on the counter, knuckles scraped, breath warm with whiskey, shirt salted by sweat and spill. He says he's got a little to tell and a thirst to match. Gasper works the bar, the bottle, the room. Outside waits the freight yard; inside, rhythm keeps time while a life unfolds across the wood grain. Paychecks have gone to the glass, debts stack high, and the hard choices bite. Bubba lays them down one by one, and the jukebox answers. The first laugh lands easy; the next carries a bruise. By the time the rim rings the rail, the tale turns from joke to reckoning. Grit, memory, and a blue-note kind of mercy shape a night that changes the listener as much as the teller. Author's Note: This story hums on a melody my brother rewrote from the lullaby our mother sang to us for years. The tune carried us through long car rides and sleepy kitchens, and it still opens a door in my chest. The characters here stand in fiction, yet their bones remember my grandparents. I was small when my grandfather left this world, but love met me early. I keep his scent in memory-tobacco and soap, warm wool in winter. I see his easy gait, the tilt of his shoulders, the way he gifted everyone a ridiculous nickname until the whole room shook with laughter. I claim my own silliness from him with gratitude. If you hear a jukebox in these pages, or catch a river breeze, that's our family music working again. Thank you for reading. Music available on Sky Hollow Sounds https://youtu.be/1y4KSV5fO98?si=NifWHZZ0LwYW5TqT

All Gideon wanted was to become individual. Yet all his twin brother, Keane, wanted was to become infinite. It takes eight minutes for the police to arrive. Eight minutes for his world to change -- forever. Within 480 seconds, one stolen apartment, and three thunderstorms, there is an infraction. What happens when, in eight minutes, neither reaches infinity?

It is months after the Second World War has ended. It is the greatest of times for America, and the worst of times for those who have lost what they had. The Chambers family live in this wake, where they are to go to their only son's gravestone beneath the cold autumn sun.

THIS STORY IS COMPLETELY MADE UP I WROTE THE BEGINNING OF IT LAST SUMMER SORT-OF BUT I WANTED TO FINISH IT. IM NOT SURE HOW LONG IT WILL BE. Basicaly it's about angels and vampires and witches and ghosts and stuff because I find that fun to write about and to read about also :) :):):):) As of now it is completely unedited so there will be gaps and spelling mistakes. It takes place in a town in 1894 and then years after that. ENJOY!!!!!

Isa already has plenty of problems, like moving to a new town junior year, surviving the hellish southern heat, and the racist uncle living downstairs. But mysterious stones, unquiet graves, and antebellum vampires are about to make her life a lot more complicated. If she wants to have a future at all, she'll have to confront the phantoms of the past.