The Collector of Nightmares
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Warning: what I discovered in my grandmother's attic still makes my blood run cold.
After she passed, I found a locked wooden box hidden beneath floorboards. Inside were dozens
of journals spanning fifty years. But they weren't hers. Each entry was written
by a different person, all describing the same nightmare. A figure standing at the foot of their
bed. Watching. Waiting. The entries always stopped after exactly
seven nights. I counted the journals. Twenty-three people. Twenty-three stories that ended abruptly.
That night, I woke up at three AM. My room was freezing. And there,
at the foot of my bed, stood a shadow darker than the darkness itself.
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