Welcome back, night seekers. You're tuned in to Paranormal Prime-Timeâthe show where the strange isn't just possible⌠it's inevitable. I'm Al, your guide through the darkness that stretches just beyond the reach of the known.
If you're here, you're ready for the truthâor maybe, the truth is already waiting for you.
Let's dive in.
Daybreak in Arswyd didn't bring comfortâonly clarity.
The horror of the previous night's discovery lingered thick in the airâchoking, impossible to ignore. But as the sun clawed its way over the horizon, something even darker unfolded.
By midday, word had spread. Whispers turned into fear, and if the night had been terrifying, the day carved through the heart of Arswyd like a blade.
Tension in the town square was thick. Local Hero stepped forward, flask in hand, eyes locked on Antsâwho stood far too still for comfort.
The spray of holy water hit. At first, nothing.
Then the flesh began to blister and peel, revealing something inhuman beneath. His body convulsed violently, twisting unnaturally as voices fractured from his throatâuntil a smooth Southern drawl cut through the horror.
"I'm sorry⌠I thought you was corn."
In seconds, his form burned to ash, leaving behind brittle bones and silence. Local Hero took a sip from the flask and walked away.
But the fear didn't fade.
The crowd turned on Fool's Requiem next. A hastily built gallows stood ready. He was bound, rage burning in his eyes.
Before the lever could be pulled, his body twistedâelongated limbs, jagged teeth, the hollow stare of a Wendigo. He lunged forward, but the rope snapped tight with a brutal crack.
His body froze mid-lunge. Moments later, flames consumed him from within, leaving nothing but ash.
The horror wasn't over.
Jon collapsed first. Witnesses described a sickly green pallor overtaking him as he clutched his throat. He fell to his knees, vomiting a thick, black sludge that devoured him from the inside. A notebook spilled from his coat, swallowed by the gore.
Jon, the Paranormal Tracker, twitched onceâand was gone.
Quagmire followed silently. His body contorted, face elongating into a snout as thick black froth oozed from his mouth. His eyes burned an unnatural blueâuntil they melted, releasing a cascade of ichor.
The uncovered Michigan Dogman tried to howl, but his flesh dissolved into sludge, leaving only brittle bones behind.
Three monsters dead. One innocent lost.
The shaken crowd dispersed, haunted by a mixture of relief and regret. The dread remainedâunspoken but understood.
Night was coming.
And Arswyd was not yet safe.
This has been Paranormal Prime-Time. Stay sharp. Stay safe.
And remember:
Don't. Look. Outside.
