The Dollmaker's Wake

Welcome to The ParaZone—transforming today’s headlines into eerie, esoteric micro-fiction, blurring the line between reality and the surreal. Today, we will dive into a story that sees a skeptic racing to return a haunted doll before unleashed chaos consumes the living.

The following is based on a claim of a missing doll...

May 25, 2025.

Rain struck the van windshield in rhythmic sheets as Teej stared out at the empty highway, fingers clenched white on the steering wheel. “I told them this was a mistake,” she muttered, steam fogging the glass. In the back, swaddled in thick velvet and latched in a crate marked DO NOT OPEN, the doll gave off a hum—not a sound, but a pressure throbbing behind her eyes.

A week ago, she’d laughed when asked to escort Annabelle. “You don’t believe in this crap, do you?” she asked the tour director. He handed her a check and a manifest and told her not to open the case. Under any circumstances.

Louisiana smoked behind her—the plantation reduced to ash, the prison break still dominating every news cycle. “Coincidence,” she told herself for the fifth time. But she’d seen the whispers in every town, seen how animals refused to go near the doll. And she hadn’t missed the sigils—etched, scorched—into the crate’s underside when it jostled open in Shreveport.

“You were locked up for a reason,” she said, glancing in the rearview. The doll sat as always—unblinking, red yarn hair askew. But the glass was fogged. From the inside.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Dan Rivera, all caps: “WHERE IS SHE? VIDEO WAS PRE-RECORDED. ANNABELLE NEVER CAME BACK.”

Teej’s heart dropped. “What do you mean never came back?”

The doll moved its head. Slightly.

She slammed the brakes. Tires screamed.

In the silence, Teej stepped into the storm with the crate in her arms and whispered to the dark, “If you're listening... I'm bringing her home.”

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Exciting news! My book, "Cumberland Chronicles" is now available at Books2Read! If you enjoy the supernatural, horror, and the weird, I’d love for you to check it out. Even if it’s not your thing, a quick share would help me reach the right readers. Thank you for the support!

The Thirteenth Vision

Welcome to The ParaZone—transforming today’s headlines into eerie, esoteric micro-fiction, blurring the line between reality and the surreal. Today, we will dive into the story of a skeptic journalist, who must stop an ancient evil foretold in a mystic's apocalyptic prophecy.

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The following is based on predictions for 2025, with names changed to protect the innocent...

Before 1996.

The wind bit at Elena Markov’s coat as she climbed the cracked steps of the ruined house, the scent of burnt wood and rain-soaked earth lingering in the air. “No one’s lived here since ’96,” the taxi driver had muttered before peeling off, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror as if the ruin might follow him.

Inside, the air thickened with dust and something older—damp pages, mold, time. Her boots creaked over warped floorboards while her flashlight jittered over faded portraits and a toppled rocking chair. Then she saw it: a loose stone in the fireplace. Her fingers trembled, but she pried it loose anyway. Behind it lay a thin, cloth-wrapped bundle, brittle with age. She unwrapped it.

A diary.

Its pages, written in Cyrillic script, seemed to breathe under her touch. The ink hadn’t faded—it pulsed, veins on parchment. Baba Vanga’s name sprawled across the inside cover.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Elena whispered, thumbing to a date: April 14, 2025. Tomorrow.

A low hum rose from the walls, subtle at first. Then, the air shifted. Her flashlight flickered. Through the window, lightning flashed—illuminating a figure in the field, arms outstretched, unmoving.

Later, in her cramped Sofia apartment, she translated the next passage aloud, voice shaking. “When the Earth splits and fire takes the sky, Volkran shall walk once more, born of man’s war and his greed.”

She blinked. Volkran? That word didn’t appear in any Slavic myth she knew. Her fingers darted over the keyboard, searching forums, archives, even blacklisted cryptology servers. But the anonymous message in her inbox froze her.

“He wakes. Burn the diary. Or you’ll be the door.”

At first, she laughed it off. Until the power cut. Until she saw the man from the field—reflected in the hallway mirror, expressionless, pupils pitch black.

The days that followed spun like a reel unraveling. Earthquakes ravaged Southeast Asia. Markets crashed. A NATO convoy vanished in the Carpathians without a trace.

Then came the visit.

An older woman in a wool cloak appeared at her threshold. “You’re blood-tied,” she said in perfect Bulgarian. “You think you found the book. But it found you.”

“Who are you?” Elena asked.

The woman didn’t blink. “Custodian. Your grandmother before you was one. We sealed Volkran. You… opened it.”

Reality cracked, a hairline fracture—enough for Elena to see through. Her family’s strange silences, her childhood dreams of fire and stone—all warnings.

As war drums echoed across Europe and lightning carved symbols into the sky, Elena stood atop the ruins of Rila Monastery, chanting a rite older than empire. Pages from the diary burned in her hands. The air shimmered. Shadows screamed. When the storm died and silence returned, Elena stepped down alone.

Her world had changed. So had its fate.

She had turned the key. Then, in time, locked the door.

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I’m excited to announce that Cumberland Chronicles is now live on Books2Read! If supernatural, horror, and weird tales are your thing, this one's for you. If not, sharing it with others who might enjoy it would be a huge help. Thanks for all the support!