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You Write It!
This page is for you—the reader, the writer, the lover of stories. It’s a space to share your voice and bring your stories to life. Whether you're new to writing or have been crafting tales your whole life, I want to hear what you have to say and read the stories you have to tell.
Be inspired to create, whether it’s a chilling horror story, a heartfelt romance, a gripping drama, or a reflective poem. From moments of introspection to journeys of exploration, every story has a place here.
Please note, we do not post content that outwardly disrespects The Lord or defames real-life individuals. Beyond that, the stage is yours, let’s get your stories out into the world!
Not a writer but have some cool or fun ideas? Write in with a concept and we’ll work on creating a unique story for you. Depending on quantity sent in, we’ll pick one or two a month.
The Wailing In The Toll
Our March Submission has arrived! This month’s pick comes from an Andrew Kensington.
Andrew has written in to stuartlethe.com with a request for a short story about a monster that lives underneath a church.
I was six years old when I first heard the bells cry.
They rang every night, long after the chapel’s final prayers, echoing down from the church perched above our city. They rang for our sins, the elders said. A call to repent before it was too late. But those who truly listened, those who had ears willing to hear, knew better. The bells did not only toll.
They wept.
Low and quivering beneath the chime, was a sound that no one could quite place. A wet, shuddering cry, muffled like someone screaming through stone and barbed wire.
Everyone swore it was the wind. But we all live in fear under the church’s guidance, and… Everyone lies. Because in Saint Ephrath’s Hollow, you were given one chance to repent. The priests would come to your door after mass, with hands folded in prayer, every single day. They would kneel in your parlor and whisper to you, softly and with such gentleness.
"Confess, child,” they say, “before the bells toll again." If you repented, if you begged forgiveness, and were honest about your day, you were seen at mass the next morning. If you faltered, if you denied, or if they so much as suspected deceit, your home stood eerily vacant by sunrise. Your belongings and all that you held dear, were removed and it was as if you had never existed. We weren’t allowed to talk about the ones that went missing.
But the town knew better. They always knew better. People would just simply vanish. And the next time the bells rang, the crying beneath them was louder.
“Come, Brother Alric," the Abbot says, leading me down the spiraling stone steps. I have served the abbey now for twenty years. I have heard the bells every night since I was a child. I have felt the weight of them, pressing down on me, calling me to prayer. But I have never seen this, my status within the church never allowed me for this kind of access. We descend beneath the monastery, past the holy crypts where saints and bishops sleep in their stone tombs. Past the reliquary, past the candlelit shrines. And in the deepest hollow of the abbey’s gut, I see it.
The cage.
It looms in the dark, a swollen iron dome, rusted and leaking filth. I can hear breathing inside it. A chorus of whispers, layered and overlapping, voices too weak to scream but too wretched to stay silent. I step forward and I gag. Hands and legs stretch through the bars, too many limbs, too many mouths. Some grasping, some twitching, others hanging limp. I see teeth, broken and blackened, gnashing softly behind shivering lips. I see eyes, too many to count, some sewn shut, some rolling aimlessly. And dear heavens, I see faces I know.
"Do you understand now?" the Abbot whispers. I cannot speak. I cannot move.
"They were all given a choice," he says, stepping beside me, putting his hand on my shoulder. "They could’ve cleansed their sins before the Lord. But our God is just and kind and has given us the ability to make our own decisions. Well…” he says, “they chose to rot in their wickedness. Their evil transforms them, you know? Into this hideous amalgamation of wretchedness.” He looks around with open palms, “It’s not all bad though, if they have the strength to move, the bell can go anywhere it chooses down here." He gestures to the small openings along the ceiling, chutes that reverberate the bell’s cry. "And so, we take their bodies." I shake my head. "We take their voices," he says. The cage shudders. A moan rises from its depths, thick, wet and pleading. "And when the bells toll, the whole congregation hears them wailing for their sins." A hand brushes my ankle. I jerk back. I see something shift inside the cage. Something twitching and new, like it had just recently been born in there.
"You will learn, Brother Alric,” he looks at me, and I shift my eyes to him as sweat forms on my forehead. He gives me a smile, but it was one filled with sorrow, “You will learn that obedience is what the church demands.” The bells begin to toll above us. The cage shudders again. And the wailing begins. I was six years old when I first heard the cries within the toll. I did not know then what I was hearing. But I know now. And tonight, the bells sound louder than ever. Because tonight, we cry for my atonement.
Theme - Andrew Kensington
Written by - stuartlethe.com
It Never Leaves
We’ve got our February write in here! K has written in to request a horror story about the tables turning on a scam caller.
Thank you K for your write in. It was a challenging one but it was so much fun to write. Hope you enjoy it.
I dial the number. Same as always. Another desperate fool to milk dry. This one’s an old woman, I hear it in the way she answers; a shaky, hesitant hello. Perfect. I slip into the lie, smooth as silk, honed over years of practice.
"Good afternoon Ma’am, this is Agent Reynolds,” I tell her, “from Fraud Prevention. We’ve detected some suspicious activity on your account. I’m sure you may have noticed the same thing? Luckily we’ve caught it in time.” I cross my fingers, shouldn’t be too hard. “I know it sounds stressful but that’s why I’m here, all I’ll need from you is some banking details to stop the charges from going through." She hesitates. A beat too long. There’s something in her breath, not just her age, but something…deeper. Something raw.
It’s fear, but it wasn’t because of this, it was something else. I can almost hear something beside her, a wetness.
"Oh dear," she exhales with a voice as thin as paper, "that sounds awful." Hooked. Easy. I can hear her fingers fumble for her wallet, and she reads the numbers aloud, each one slipping from her lips like a prayer. I type them in, already thinking of how I’ll spend the money. Then she says something that makes my stomach drop. Soft. Almost too gentle to hear.
"Will this make it leave me alone now?" My fingers freeze over the keyboard. "Excuse me, Ma’am?" I ask. She doesn’t respond, but I hear it. A sharp breath on the other end. The silence shifts and warps, it thickens. The crackle of the old phone line distorts into something moist. Something wrong. "Ma’am?" I say, but my own voice echoes in my headset. A sound rises through the static. A low, ragged moan. Not pain. Not fear. But longing. Then, from the other side, someone says my name.
"Alan." I lurch away from my screen, as my blood turns to ice. My breath stutters. My name? I never told her my name.
The call warps again, as static shreds through my headset like skin dragged across jagged glass. And beneath it, a voice slithers through. A man’s voice. Deep and starving. It’s almost sweet as it talks to me. It has a hard time getting its words out through the choking of the gunk in its throat. I know the voice all too well. "I've missed you." My hands tremble. A tear slips, and falls down my cheek. No, it can’t be back.
The thing I thought I buried. The thing I ran from. I thought I left it behind. I thought it was over. Does it truly never leave? It moans into my ear, slow and savoring, as if tasting the moment.
I go home that night, but I don’t sleep, praying it was just my paranoia catching up to me. I sit in the dark, clutching my phone in my hands, waiting. My whole life has been just that. Waiting. Praying and hoping I was truly free.
At 3:14 a.m., it rings. I don’t want to answer. Every nerve in my body screams don’t pick up, don’t let it in. But I do. I don’t have a choice. It’s silent on the other line. But then, soft as a lullaby I can hear that woman’s voice.
"Alan," she breathes. "My sweet boy."
She says things only my mother would know, except it wasn’t my mother, not only has she been dead for decades, it sounded nothing like her. This woman was sweet, and she whispered things to me that no one else could know. My throat tightens and tears pour down my face and I am too afraid to move. There’s nowhere to go anyways, it always comes back. And then, on the other end of the line, that shifting sound. Something smiling. Something filled with such a perverse kind of joy.
"Alan,” it giggles. “I'm so happy to be home."
Theme by - K
Written by - Stuartlethe.com
Have I Wasted the Lifetime Given to Me?
This month has been filled with incredible submissions, thank you all for sharing your words with us! We've chosen a special third write-in to feature:
An anonymous, introspective reflection on life and time.
To the writer. I thank you for your story. Your words hold weight, offering us something truly worth contemplating. We hope our readers, including myself, take the time to absorb and reflect on its meaning.
Sitting in my chair I keep repeating the lyrics to the song " Cat's in the Cradle".
Looking back in time I think to myself.
School, I just made it out on time.
Did I give my wife the love and time she needed?
Did the time I gave my Children show them that I loved them?
I spent too much time doing work.
My dreams, not given the time needed and now have become nightmares and I cannot sleep.
Did I give the Lord the time he was looking for?
Did I open the door every time my Lord knocked?
As I struggle in my memories I say to myself, what a waste of time, you've done nothing
It's too late! you're out of time.
But if just one can take heed and learn from me, maybe my life will not have been a total waste of time.
Forgive me Lord one more time.
Written By - An Old Man
Where The Forest Weeps And The Worlds Are Devoured By Such A Hunger As This Foul Foal
We had quite a few write ins this month. A great start to the year! Thank you everyone. However, we at stuartlethe.com have decided to go with a submission from Kaylee D.
Kaylee has written in requesting a story be written about a mother unicorn dying during nursing because the danger the horn of their foal creates.
I’m not sure why or how but as this was being written it slowly turned into a poem.
Kaylee, this one is for you. Hope you enjoy it!
Beneath the shade of an ancient oak,
Where moonlight bathed the forest cloak,
A unicorn lay in her fragile grace,
Awaiting the life she’d soon embrace.
Her sides heaved with a mother’s strain,
The joy of birth, the pang of pain.
The stars above seemed to hold their breath,
As the forest bore witness to life and death.
At last, the child emerged from the mire,
Its coat like ash, its horn a spire.
But its legs bent wrong, its arms too long,
Its fingers clawed where hooves belonged.
Its face was pale, its mouth too wide,
Its hungry gaze a thing to hide.
No foal of grace, no child of light,
But something born to consume the night.
The mother wept, her joy mixed dread,
Yet drew it close, her instincts led.
It cried for milk, its voice a wail,
A sound like hunger turned to gale.
She bent her neck to let it feed,
Unknowing of its deeper greed.
The horn, so sharp, pierced flesh and bone,
And turned her cries to muffled groan.
Her life drained out with every beat,
Her strength grew faint, her end to meet.
Yet still, she let her baby feed,
Sacrifice born of mother’s creed.
But as she faded, the creature grew,
Its limbs extended, its hunger too.
It stood on two legs, its eyes alight,
And gazed upon the world with such spite.
Its hands reached out, its claws took hold,
It plucked the flowers, and devoured gold.
It climbed the trees, it drank the streams,
It shattered stars to fuel its dreams.
This was man, grotesque and wild,
A twisted thing, no innocent child.
Born not to live but to consume,
To stretch its arms, to make more room.
The forest wept, the oak bent low,
For what it raised, it could not know.
A creature born to have, to be,
To conquer earth, to live eternally.
So heed this tale beneath the moon,
Of life consumed, of death too soon.
The mother’s loss, the forest’s plea,
A warning writ in tragedy.
The horn we bear, the price we pay,
Will haunt the earth till our dying day.
The horn we bear, the price be paid,
but yet we turn, blinded, into the fade.
Theme - Kaylee D.
Written by - Stuartlethe.com
Play For Me Forever
We are thrilled to announce our first January selection!
A special thank you to J. Barlowe for submitting a fascinating request. Inspired by a recent visit to a restaurant where her husband invited a Mariachi band to their table, Mrs. Barlowe has requested a horror story centered around such a band. We are excited to bring her idea to life exclusively on StuartLethe.com.
It started as a simple dinner out. A quiet night, nothing special, a family meal at the little Mexican restaurant we’d passed a dozen times before. My husband, Mark, thought it would be fun for the kids. “Let’s get the full experience,” he’d said, gesturing for the mariachi band to come over to our table.
The moment they arrived, I felt the discomfort settle in. There were four of them, their suits were pristine but their faces seemed slightly hollow, their eyes had sunken in like they hadn’t slept in weeks. They started to play a lively tune. The sound was flawless, almost too perfect, but their expressions didn’t match. They weren’t smiling. Their faces looked tight, and pained, as if every note they played hurt them somehow.
We ate our dinner, trying to ignore the way they never left. They didn’t move on to other tables, they didn’t pause or take a breath. They just stood there, playing and staring at us while we ate. I tried to catch the waiter’s attention, but he wouldn’t look my way. My husband tried to pay them to move along but they didn’t accept the cash. The staff seemed oblivious, as though this was normal.
“Mom,” my youngest whispered, “why won’t they stop?” I didn’t have an answer. By the time we finished our meal, the tension was unbearable. The music wasn’t festive anymore; it was oppressive and heavy. Mark hurriedly paid the bill, and we left, practically running to the car. I thought it would end there.
But it didn’t.
As we drove home, I swore I could still hear the faint echo of their song, carried on the wind, we turned on the radio but it was there too. It was absurd, I told myself. Just my imagination. But when we got home, the sound didn’t fade. I put the kids to bed and stood by the kitchen sink, staring out the window into the backyard. That’s when I saw them.
They were standing in the grass, still playing. The tune was slower, mournful, dragging its way through the night.
They didn’t move closer, didn’t look at me. They just stood there, as their fingers worked the strings and valves like puppets.
I told Mark, but he waved it off. “You’re tired,” he said. “It’s been a long day.” He didn’t even look outside.
But the music didn’t stop. The next morning, I went to a thrift store. I don’t know why. It felt like… like something was pulling me. It took me three days but I finally came home with clothes that looked exactly like theirs, black suits with silver embroidery, wide sombreros and red bow ties. I left them on the dining table, and no one questioned it. The instruments came next. A guitar. A violin. A trumpet. I don’t remember where I got them. It was as if they’d always been in the house. The kids started picking them up, plucking strings, blowing notes, even though they’d never played before. Mark stopped going into work, we stopped leaving the house. He put on the suit without a word. I couldn’t stop myself from joining in.
It wasn’t long before the changes began, subtle for Mark and I but the kids, their screaming upstairs was almost too much to bear. My husband and I played louder trying to drown out them calling for me. I couldn’t take it, but I couldn’t stop. Eventually my children came down from their rooms, but they weren’t kids anymore, I don’t know who they are but when I look in the mirror I don’t look like myself anymore either.
Last night, we returned to the restaurant. No one noticed we were different. The waiters smiled and nodded, ushering us to the corner where the mariachi band usually plays. The instruments came alive in our hands, the music pouring out of us without effort. It wasn’t just a song, it was a compulsion. We had to play, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.
As I look out at the diners now, I wonder who it will be. Which family will smile and wave us over, thinking it’s all in good fun. Which mother will stand where I am, with a body that is no longer her own, waiting for the next poor soul to take our place.
Until then, we play.
Concept - J. Barlowe
Written by - StuartLethe.com
I Don’t Remember Writing This
We have our December Write in!
Heath has written in asking that we express the horrors of suffering with sleepwalking.
Here at stuartlethe.com, we’ve thought a lot about this. There are so many stories of the person doing something awful but we wanted to explore the personal horror of it instead.
Well, Mr. Kinkade, we thank you for your write in and concept and we hope you like the story!
I never like going to sleep. Not because of my nightmares, those have almost become a comfort to me. At least I know where I am: at work, with family, or listening to my now ex-husband go on and on. At least I know what’s happening. But with sleepwalking, there’s nothing. No memories, no awareness. Just a gap where I should be. A blank space where my body moves without me.
It started when I was young, or so my mother tells me. I would wake up on the living room floor, curled up in front of the TV that I don’t remember turning on. She says I once walked into the backyard in the middle of the night, barefoot. I don’t remember the incident, but I know how scared she looks when she tells me about it. She says my eyes were empty, like I was nowhere to be found. Eventually, she began laughing about it, like it was funny, but she’s just trying to play off how awkward it makes her feel. But even then, like now, I hate the feeling. The idea that I’m not there while my body wanders terrifies me.
As I get older, it gets worse. Much worse. I wake up in places I don’t recognize. Sometimes I have scrapes or bruises with no explanation. I find objects out of place, books left open on the kitchen counter or stuffed into the dishwasher, chairs moved to strange angles, or clothes in the oven. I’ve started keeping my keys in a locked box at night after I had woken up in my car one morning, the engine was running and my foot was just barely on the brake.
People still tell me it’s not a big deal. “Lots of people sleepwalk,” they say. “You’re fine.” But they don’t understand. It’s not just embarrassing or inconvenient, it’s terrifying. The thought of not being here, of my body moving without me, is like a creeping shadow that never leaves my mind. What am I doing? Where am I going? And worse, what could I do without knowing? Without being able to stop myself?
I’ve tried everything to keep it under control. Alarms on the doors. Motion sensors by my bed. I’ve even tied myself to the frame one night, though I had woken up to find the knots undone. None of it works. And the fear only grows.
The nights are unbearable. I dread bedtime, staying awake as long as I can, drinking coffee until my hands shake and my head pounds. But eventually, exhaustion always wins. And then it’s just… nothing. A void. I close my eyes, and the next thing I know, it’s morning.
And every morning, the questions haunt me: What did I do? Where did I go? Am I still me?
The worst part isn’t the bruises, or the fear, or even the blank spaces in my memory. It’s the loss of control. The realization that my body isn’t always mine. That at any moment, I could fall asleep and wake up to find that I’ve done something, anything, and have no memory of it. It’s like living in someone else’s skin, and how do I know I’m not? Could I be? Could something be living in mine? What if this body that I’ve grown so used to is just one that I inhabit while someone else is asleep? I hope these are thoughts that just come because I’m so tired, but I know I’ll ‘wake up’ and read this and the person who does won’t remember having written it. Did they? Did I? I can’t be sure anymore.
I’ve stopped going out late. I stopped drinking anything that might make me drowsy. I’ve stopped living, really. The paranoia follows me everywhere. Friends joke that I’ve become a hermit, but how can I explain it to them? How can I make them understand what it feels like to wake up and not know what I’ve done?
Sometimes I think about all the things I could have done, all the things I might do one day when I’m not here. What if I hurt someone? What if I already have? The thought gnaws at me, it keeps me up at night, but not long enough. I half expect to see the cops roll up on my door one day. What would I tell them? I’m afraid of myself in ways I can’t explain to anyone else.
Every night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, fighting the pull of sleep until I can’t anymore. And every morning, I wake up wondering if this will be the day I finally lose myself for good.
Concept - Heath Kinkade
Written by - StuartLethe.com
We have our next submission! This one comes from a Steven J.
Steven has written in- expressing his hobby of pickling. He loves the art of it and creating different flavors. He has written in and asked us here at stuartlethe.com to create a short horror story about the hobby he loves so much.
Well, Steven - this one’s for you, thank you for your write in!
PICKLED
I always thought my husband’s pickling hobby was a bit peculiar but it wasn’t hurting anyone. Although the way it crunched between his teeth and soaked through the skin on his hands made me sick to my stomach, I still wanted to support him. When I asked why he did it, he said it relaxed him, a way to “preserve the little things that matter.” I mainly stayed out of his way and let him do his own thing. Although, before it became an obsession, he would ask me to taste test every now and again. He got pretty good at it too.
Things changed after I got sick though. It wasn’t the kind of illness you recover from either. At first, he really did care for me. He tended to my needs with as much love as he did to his jars downstairs. He even set the hobby aside for sometime, I almost had hope that things could get back to how they were.
But when Elmer, our dog, disappeared, I started to question what was happening in the basement. Strangely, I still heard his bark in every room I was in, his collar jingling wherever I went,
as if he was following me, but he was nowhere to be found.
I became too weak to leave the house, and when things got really bad, my husband stopped helping me altogether. At night, he’d come to bed smelling of vinegar and spices, barely acknowledging me. I cried myself to sleep, haunted by worry for Elmer and the growing dread of what my husband might have done.
One night, having been driven mad by being ignored, I dragged myself to the basement to destroy his precious jars. I hurled them to the floor, watching them shatter like the love we’d lost. At the back of the room, I found a tank, it was much larger than the others. Nearly large enough for an animal. A pit fell into my stomach and I almost gagged. Inside, something bloated and waterlogged floated among the eggs and cucumbers. I wanted to scream, but his footsteps echoed from above.
“Come on, Elmer,” he called as he descended the stairs. Terrified, I hid, watching him approach the tank. He kissed the glass and whispered, “I love you, Baby. I miss you so much and wish you were still here.”
It wasn’t Elmer in the tank. It was me.
Theme - Steven J
Written by - Stuartlethe.com
Our first submission comes from Anonymous. A chilling Thanksgiving tale in perfect time for the holiday! Thank you for your story and the words you have to share.
THE LAST THANKSGIVING
I’m furious at him for his impromptu hunting trip. Of course, the one Thanksgiving he isn’t going to be back until later, he’s invited our neighbors over and has asked me to make a turducken dinner. I didn’t even know what the heck that was until he told me. A deboned chicken inside a deboned duck and then placed inside a turkey.
Thank God he no longer field dresses the carcasses in the garage but brings home the meat wrapped instead. After years of my complaining he finally moved his “butcher shop” elsewhere, but only when the police stopped by and asked to see his gutting area. There had been a rash of obscene crimes in the city at that time. No one was killed but people were being drugged and parts of their bodies removed. Apparently a neighbor had seen my husband in a bloody apron (while gutting a deer inside the garage) and called the police.
Well, the house smells amazing and the candles are lit giving our home a warm, autumn, welcoming atmosphere. I am excited for our neighbors to enjoy a relaxing, peaceful dinner.
The seven of us sit around the table as my husband sets down the turkey platter, surrounded by potatoes, cranberries and herb sprigs. Although, maybe corny, we go around the table to share our thankfulness. I share that I will be thankful if the turducken is edible, which brought chuckles from the men and affirming comments from the women just in case I ruined it.
Curious about what the main meal looks like as it is cut open, has everyone out of their seats for a good view. My husband cuts through the turkey to reveal the duck layer, slowly, he cuts through the duck to reveal greyish meat. Everyone has either a look of consternation or makes a low groan. My husband is clearly embarrassed that I have ruined the meal but cuts through the grey meat to reveal something else. The women have raised their hands to their mouths and one of them chokes out, “That looks like a fetus.”
My husband looks at me and screams, “What freezer did you use?”
My candlelit autumn home is now punctuated with red and blue lights.
Written by-
Anonymous