The Omniscrolls

As a child, I always had the feeling that someone was watching me. Whenever I was travelling, I could sense that someone or something was following me, even though I found nothing whenever I looked around. My parents didn’t think much of it at first, but seeing how scared I was, they made it a habit to never allow me out of their sight. These feelings lingered as I grew older, although they weren’t as strong as before. I would sometimes sense a presence around me whenever I did my homework—and I could have sworn I heard whispers echoing in the air sometimes in the dead silence of the school library. This weird experience led me to write short stories in my spare time, and I even got the idea to write a novel one day. Writing helped me pour out my experiences in a way that nothing else did, and I often found it soothing. Following my parents’ advice, I also saw a therapist as a teenager, but while the sessions helped me to some degree, the sense of brewing danger never truly faded. In t...

My sister, Rana, always struggled with strange experiences. She would often drift off mid-conversation and begin to wander off as if our discussions never even happened; on other occasions, we’d find her sleepwalking past locked doors. While these were not frequent at first, they became a common occurrence as she grew older. Grandma insisted that it was possession and said she needed to call her witch friend, Mina, but she was alone in her belief. My parents made an appointment for Rana with a specialist, but the treatment only seemed to work for a couple of days before she returned to her routine. Mom and Dad spent weeks checking with different doctors, but it was to no avail. Rana’s sleepwalking only escalated as time passed. One night, Mom put the door keys in a new safe she bought, but the next morning, she woke up to find the safe broken into and the front door fully open. Rana was thankfully not missing, and without harm; however, that same morning, we heard alarming news that ma...

I lost my mom in a car crash last year when I was just twelve, and I’ve been living with my grandma ever since. The last thing I remembered was laughing at one of Mom’s jokes before our car veered off the road; that was before I woke up at Grandma’s house a week later. She said I was briefly conscious before being discharged from the hospital, but I couldn’t remember anything in between. I wished I could’ve said Grandma’s house had seen better days, but even when I was six, I remember the place needing more care. She was in her late seventies and barely had the energy to move around, let alone clean. I never knew why Mom and I never lived with Grandma, given that we were all she had. It was a topic that was avoided a couple of times when I brought it up. I didn’t even feel a year pass after the accident. Grandma made sure I had everything I needed, and for some reason, I always felt like Mom was also with us, as if she never really left. Meanwhile, school was always tough. I found it d...

For as long as we’ve lived here on top of this hill, only one other house stood nearby; and it stood still in time, abandoned and alone for the thirteen years I’ve been alive. Whenever I’d ask Mom and Dad about it, they would simply say it had been that way for as long as they could remember. Their responses were often rushed, and dismissive of further inquiry. My experience questioning neighbours about the strange house was similarly strange, although they seemed more afraid than reluctant. “Stay away from that place… Especially you. That house is bewitched.” That is the most I got from Anna, the oldest lady in our neighbourhood. Her statement made me wonder just what had happened there. “Why me especially?” I wished Mom and Dad would open up to me about it, but they dodged my questions each time. One night, I stared away into the distance, looking at that abandoned house for perhaps an hour, when, suddenly, I noticed a light illuminate a room on the upper floor. It wasn’t something I...

Collecting antiques was my passion. From a young age, I was enthralled by the furniture and trinkets my grandparents showed me. These priceless items were much older than them, passed down from their grandparents and so on. My grandparents were the ones who took care of me after my parents were murdered one night when I was six. The suspect was never found, but it was believed that they were witnesses to a murder that occurred that same night, not far from where they were found—which was later revealed to be the work of a serial killer who had claimed the lives of seven others in five months. That case ran cold, and none of the victims received the justice they deserved in death. And their families, we all suffered an emptiness that would never truly heal. An even deeper void lingered within me when the last two members of my family passed away within the same week, but I was at least glad to find out that I’d have their antiques with me to remember them by. A year later, I quit my job...

I had been babysitting my nieces and nephews since I was seven years old, and now, almost a decade later, it was a part-time job I enjoyed. My favourite kid to babysit was Misha, a six-year-old girl about two hours from our house. Misha was the sweetest and most well-behaved child I had ever looked after, and it was especially amusing to see her reassure me every night that all the monsters around us were being taken care of by her parents. “They’re getting rid of all the bad ones,” she said. “So, does that mean there are good monsters out there, too?” “Yes, Mommy and Daddy say there are some that are just mischievous,” Misha said. “Just, promise me you won’t go into the basement.” “The basement?” My brows furrowed. “Yes, that’s where they locked up one that they couldn’t take care of last week. She’s awful, they say—the kind that controls your mind.” Curiosity was gnawing away at the back of my mind. Misha always seemed to have a wild imagination, but these details were too specific. ...

Growing up, I was told by my parents to never reveal the secret of my blood. I always had to fake prolonged injuries and ailments when I was perfectly fine, since my body was able to mend itself in a matter of minutes. I had to keep my guard up, especially in my teens, avoiding arguments and fights at all costs. I kept just a handful of friends; we were a close-knit group. However, one day, I had no option but to put my secret at risk, because one of those friends was run over by a drunk driver and was in critical condition—and my blood was the only match. Not only did my friend recover, but all his injuries healed in a matter of minutes, just as my body worked. The news spread throughout the town like a wildfire, and I was soon to be held under a microscope. Fearing what was on the horizon, my parents sent me off to live with one of my mother’s friends, cities away and deep into the suburbs, where I could live under the radar at a farm. My mother’s friend got me a new phone to use so ...

Being an avid reader as a child, it was no surprise that I naturally gravitated towards writing. It was my childhood dream to become an author when I grew up, but I had to push those dreams aside to take care of my Mom, who was terminally ill. After her passing, I packed up everything and left my hometown behind; with no house of our own, nor with any other family or friends in the area, I had no regrets about the departure. Two towns over, I found a nice annex connected to the house of an old lady named Ethel. She was a gentle soul that reminded me a lot of my mom. When we first talked on the phone, she was thrilled to hear that I once wanted to be an author. Ethel herself was a published author, but she had not written anything in years and had several unfinished projects that she no longer had the energy to focus on. Ethel asked if I’d mind helping her with her forgotten projects while I stayed in the annex. She said she’d include me as a co-author, and even reduce my rent by half. ...

The ground broke beneath me, pulling me in as I clung to the ledge. “Help! Someone help!” I screamed as something grabbed my feet and started to pull me in. “Take my hand,” said a voice from above. I looked up to find a stranger in ragged clothes crouched before me with his arm stretched out. I grabbed his hand and he pulled me out as the ground closed beneath me. “Thank you for saving my life, sir,” I said. “You’re welcome, miss. But you must keep away from this place,” he replied.  “Why…? Who are you exactly?” “Ramzdon is no place for the living. As its gatekeeper, it’s my duty to make sure mortals keep away.” “ You are the gatekeeper?” “Yes, although I’m relatively new.” “Then you must know how a soul can be freed from it.” The man’s eyes widened as he realised who I was. “You’re the survivor… I’m sorry, but there’s no way to bring your parents back. Just leave this place, please.” “I'm sorry, but I can’t accept that.” The man’s gaze was suddenly as piercing as the warning he t...

I had just moved into a new house by the sea after switching jobs. The rustling of the leaves and the lapping of the waves surrounding me were comforting beyond words, and the serene scenery beyond my doorstep brought time to a halt each moment it drew my gaze. However, although I enjoyed this tranquility at first, I soon came to witness the disquietude that lingered in the heart of an old homeless man nearby. I first saw him while walking home from work. He was clutching his sunglasses with one hand and wailing his other arm into the air, cursing at someone or something that was seemingly out to get him. “No, stay back, you demons!” he’d say. “Go away! Begone! Haven’t you taken enough from me?” he’d continue. The man repeated those words every day for three days in a row. Many onlookers avoided him without a word, while a few others often recorded him with amusement in their eyes. I felt my stomach curl seeing his struggles. He looked like he needed professional help. When I attempted...

My twin sister Alesia was the epitome of kindness in my town and was considered a saint by the congregation. Priests and nuns labelled her an “angel” and encouraged her to be more selfless, regardless of the situation. It was as if their definition of an angel was the same as that of a doormat. However, at the same time, there were those envious of her who often called her “too good to be true”. They often mocked her as being fake. I hated both these sides; they only projected their own ideals at her and never took into account how she truly felt. But Alesia wasn’t the only one whom the town had divided views on: while she was the “angel”, I was the “demon”, the “witch”. Unlike Alesia, I would not allow people to walk all over me, and I certainly did not keep quiet about the indifferences many of us faced by the self-righteous zealots in the congregation. It was one of the many reasons why I stopped attending mass in my early teens. The clergy tried to have me return to church, but I r...