The Doctor's Notebook
Look closely. You'll find my own thoughts woven among the stolen ones—the voices I've swallowed and regurgitated for public consumption…when the veil between here and there grows too thin, when the ordinary fractures; that's where we begin…tell me you favorite story in the comments.
The Whispering Ward
The hospital had been closed for twenty years, but the lights in Ward 9 still flickered every night. Locals said it was the wind, or faulty wiring, but no one ever checked. No one except Dr. Beth Voss.
She was a historian of medicine, fascinated by the hospital’s dark past. Her flashlight beam cut through the dust as she stepped into Ward 9. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and rot. Beds lined the walls, their sheets yellowed and stiff.
A faint whisper drifted through the corridor. “Doctor…”
Beth froze. The sound came from the far end of the ward, where a single bed stood upright, its restraints dangling. She raised her light—and saw a figure lying there. Pale. Motionless. Wearing a cracked surgical mask.
Her breath caught. The hospital had been abandoned for decades.
The figure’s head turned toward her. The mask split open in a grin. “You’re late for rounds.”
The flashlight flickered out.
-Regurgitated by: The Doctor
Bed Time
The nightlight cast a soft orange glow across the room as Beth tucked her son, Ben, beneath his blanket. He clutched his stuffed bear tightly, eyes wide and fixed on the closet door.
“Mom,” he whispered, “there’s a monster in my closet.”
Beth sighed. “We’ve talked about this, sweetheart. There’s no such thing as monsters.”
“But I heard it breathing,” he said, voice trembling.
She smiled, brushing his hair back. “You’re safe. I promise.”
When she turned to leave, Ben’s small hand shot out, gripping her wrist. “Please, check.”
Beth hesitated, then rolled her eyes with a tired laugh. “Fine. Let’s prove there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She crossed the room, each step creaking on the wooden floor. The closet door loomed in front of her, slightly ajar. She reached for the handle and pulled it open.
Inside, a small figure sat curled on the floor—Ben. His face was pale, eyes wide with terror.
“Mom,” he whispered, “there’s someone in my bed.”
-Regurgitated by: The Doctor
Three A.M.
The quiet darkness of 3:00 a.m. was shattered not by a sound, but by a cold hand shaking his shoulder. Mark blinked, heart hammering against his ribs, to see his wife, Clara, silhouetted against the pale window light.
“Mark, you have to wake up,” she whispered, her voice tight with panic. “There’s someone downstairs. I heard the floorboards.”
Adrenaline immediately replaced sleep. He didn't question her; he just moved. He grabbed the heavy Maglite from the bedside table, swung his legs out of bed, and crept toward the landing, his shadow long and menacing. Clara stayed behind the door, as he’d instructed, her breath catching softly.
Mark descended the stairs, pausing at the slightest creak, sweeping the powerful beam of the flashlight across the silent, empty rooms. The living room: clear. The kitchen: clear. The back door: locked. There was no one here. The feeling of absolute relief should have washed over him, but instead, an icy knot formed in his stomach.
He turned back toward the dark hallway. His gaze fell on the bottom step, where the wooden floor met the faded Persian rug. A faint, almost invisible dark stain remained there, no matter how many times he’d tried to scrub it clean.
Five years. Five years since the police tape, the glaring headlines, the endless interrogation. Five years since Mark had come home to find the front door ajar, the lights on, and his beautiful Clara gone—taken by the only thing he knew for certain had been in the house that night: an intruder.
He lowered the flashlight. The air pressure seemed to drop. The house was utterly silent, save for the frantic, shallow sound of his own breathing. Clara wasn't upstairs waiting. She couldn’t be.
-Written by: The Doctor
10 Years
Arthur Thorne was desperate. Three layoffs in five years had hollowed out his bank account and his soul. When he found the tarnished, oil-slicked cigarette case hidden beneath a floorboard in the derelict antique store he was liquidating, he didn't hesitate to open it.
A column of thick, cold smoke uncoiled from the box, solidifying into a figure that wasn't magnificent, but gaunt and reptilian. It was a creature of sharp angles and colder promises.
"Arthur Thorne," the creature hissed, its voice like sand grinding on glass. "You require wealth. I require a decade of your biological clock. Ten million dollars for ten years of your life, surrendered this instant. Do we have a bargain?"
Arthur barely heard the cost. Ten million. Enough to save the house, the savings, his marriage. "Yes," he rasped, shoving the word out before fear could catch it. "Done."
The genie smiled—a terrible, sharp widening of its mouth. Arthur felt a sudden, dizzying drop in his core, like the severance of a deep anchor. He blinked. Ten canvas bags, sealed and heavy, materialized at his feet. The genie was gone.
He was rich. He was saved.
Arthur didn't even lock the store. He ran the two blocks home, bags thumping against his legs, the rush of victory drowning out the lingering chill of the bargain. He burst through the front door, ready to shout the good news to his wife, Maria.
The sound that met him was a raw, primal wail.
Melissa was in the hallway, pressed against the wall, her face a mask of ruined tears. In her arms, limp and impossibly small, was their son, Mark. The boy, who just yesterday had been fighting over homework and asking for pizza, was now motionless. He looked, impossibly, wrong.
Melissa didn’t look up. She was screaming into the phone, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. “He just collapsed! It was so fast! Five minutes ago he was drawing on the kitchen floor! Please, he’s only ten! He’s only ten!”
-Written by: The Doctor
His Awful Discovery
My husband woke me from a nap with a gentle shake.
“Hmm,” I said, suppressing a yawn, “what was that?”
“I need to show you something,” Brad said, his voice trembling.
“Now?”
“It can’t wait.” Brad helped me off the couch and led me upstairs to the Guest Bedroom.
Inside, a collection of weapons were strewn across the bed: a butcher knife, an aluminum bat from Brad’s short stint playing rec ball, a handheld crossbow, and most notably a plate of snickerdoodles.
“Brad, what the hell is going on?” I gestured to the tiny arsenal.
“I have to show you. You won’t believe me otherwise.” Brad walked across the room and opened the curtains. It was a beautiful day, but too hot for October. Our neighbors across the street were outside. Mrs. Snyder was watering her flowers, even though they’d all be dead in a month. Mr. Snyder was sitting on the porch drinking a tall glass of pink lemonade.
“Stay right here until I get back.” Brad grabbed the knife and left.
A few moments later, he was walking briskly across the street to the Snyders.
Mrs. Snyder stopped watering her flowers to wave. Brad pulled out the knife and slashed her throat so ferociously that it looked like her head was about to come off.
“Oh god,” I uttered.
Mr. Snyder ran to defend his wife, but Brad stabbed him six times in the blink of an eye and was already halfway home by the time Mr. Snyder hit the ground.
I couldn’t believe how gruesome it was.
Brad burst back into the guest bedroom covered in blood.
“Forty-six, forty-seven…”
“Brad,” I whimpered, “why did you do that?”
Brad pushed me away from the window and shut the curtains.
“Fifty-two,” he muttered, “fifty-three.”
“Talk to me,” I cried.
“Fifty-seven!” Brad said, and flung the curtains open.
Outside, Mrs. Snyder was watering her flowers.
Mr. Snyder was drinking his lemonade.
All the blood had vanished.
Even the knife was back on the bed.
“There’s something wrong here,” Brad said, more to himself than to me. “It doesn’t matter how they die, after fifty-seven seconds they come back. They don’t remember dying.”
I realized what Brad was saying.
“You’ve killed them more than once?” I asked.
“I had to, I have to figure out what’s going on—”
“Brad,” I interrupted him, “have you killed me?”
“What? No! I would never!”
“Thank god,” I said, then grabbed the crossbow and shot Brad in the Adam’s apple.
He looked at me with terror in his eyes, then died, and I started counting.
“Seven, eight…”
I quickly dragged Brad downstairs to the couch.
“Thirty-three, thirty-four…”
When he reset, I wanted him to think he woke up from a nap.
“Forty-nine…”
I can’t have Brad learning the rules of this place.
“Fifty-seven...”
It’s too dangerous.
“Honey,” Brad said, opening his eyes, “I had a horrible dream, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what happened.”
“I’m sure it was nothing,” I smiled
-Regurgitated by: The Doctor
The Chair
"When my sister Betsy and I were kids, our family lived for a while in a charmingly run-down old farmhouse. We loved exploring its dusty, musty corners and climbing the sturdy old apple tree out back. But the very best thing about that house was the ghost.
We called her Mother, because she felt so reliably kind and gentle. She just wanted to take care of us.
Sometimes Betsy and I would wake up in the morning, and on each of our small nightstands, we’d find a cup—never quite clean, the porcelain slightly chipped—that hadn’t been there the night before. Mother had left them, we knew, worried we'd get thirsty in the dark.
Among the home’s original furnishings was an antique wooden chair, dark oak with a high, spindled back, which we kept tucked against the far wall of the living room. Whenever we were preoccupied—watching TV, huddled over a board game—Mother would slowly inch that chair forward, scraping it across the bare floorboards, toward us. Sometimes she’d manage to move it all the way to the exact center of the room. We always felt a little sad pushing it back against the wall later. She just wanted to be near us.
Years later, long after we’d moved on, I tracked down an old newspaper article about the farmhouse’s original occupant: a lonely widow. She’d murdered her two young children by giving them each a cup of poisoned milk before bed. Then she hung herself.
The article included a grainy photo of the farmhouse’s living room. A woman’s body was hanging from a ceiling beam. Beneath her, knocked over, was that old wooden chair—placed exactly, chillingly, in the center of the room."
- Regurgitated by: The Doctor
Salt and Sanctuary
The air in Megan’s attic hung thick with the scent of beeswax candles and something else—something metallic and sharp, like old pennies and ozone. Six of them sat around a rickety card table, hands clasped, eyes closed, barely breathing. Rain lashed against the eaves, a frantic drummer accompanying the low hum of their collective anticipation. Jaysten, their self-appointed leader, cleared his throat.
"We are here," he said, voice trembling slightly despite his practiced calm, "to open a door. To invite what lies beyond to touch our world, if only for a moment."
A sudden, sharp rap echoed from the antique wardrobe in the corner. Everyone flinched, eyes snapping open.
"Just the wind," Jaysten said, but his gaze darted to the wardrobe.
Then, a faint whisper snaked through the silence, not from any one person, but seemingly from the very air itself. “Welcome… home…”
A guttural growl rumbled beneath the floorboards, shaking the teacups on the table. The candles flickered wildly, casting dancing, distorted shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe. A cold so profound it felt like a physical weight pressed down on them, stealing the oxygen from their lungs.
Panic began to bubble. Sarah whimpered. Michael’s teeth chattered.
"It's here," Jaysten breathed, his face pale as the candle wax. "It's really here." He scrambled backwards, almost overturning his chair. "Everyone! Get in the circle! The salt circle! Now!"
They stumbled, tripping over each other, desperate to obey. Jaysten had meticulously poured a thick, unbroken ring of fine sea salt around the entire table before they began. He shoved his friends inside, urging them into the tight space.
"It’s the only thing," Jaysten gasped, his eyes wide with terror, scanning the darkening corners of the attic. "The only thing that will keep them out!"
The attic went completely still. The rain outside seemed to cease. Even their own panicked breaths caught in their throats.
From directly behind Jaysten, a voice, impossibly close, dry as rust and infinitely ancient, whispered into the sudden void of sound.
"Rock salt."
A beat of terrifying silence.
“Rock salt is what keeps us out.”
-Regurgitated by: The Doctor
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