An anthology of dark,
twisted stories.

ᡣ𐭩 WELCOME to . . . .ᐟ
                                 KISS OF DEATH of HYACINTH HISTORIES
                                 and MARIGOLD MEMORIES

ᯓ available at AO3 & Wattpad @/mxtsuro ᡣ𐭩

𖦹₊﹒whoever is pregnant with evil conceives trouble and gives birth to disillusionment. ₊✶
psalms 7:14

ᡣ𐭩. MEET the . . . .ᐟ

୭ ˚. He, the man who was a prisoner of sorrow, condemned to repeat his suffering, a man she named '[REDACTED]'. ᵎᵎ

Our inner lives are often shadowed, a wilderness where the monsters are not external threats, but parts of ourselves. These monsters are not born from the outside world, but from within—lurking beneath the surface, hiding behind smiles and kindness. Their claws are forged from guilt, regret, and fear, sharpened by unspoken truths and suppressed desires. We and our monsters are inseparable, bound by the same flesh and bone. The monster is not a stranger; it is a mirror, reflecting our darkest selves. There is no escape; we are locked in an eternal struggle, both hunter and hunted. In the end, it is not some external beast that devours us, but the parts of ourselves we refuse to confront.

୭ ˚. She, the girl who unexpectedly entered his life, whom he called '[REDACTED]'. ᵎᵎ

Even in the deepest darkness, where hope feels distant and despair suffocates, love, faith, and hope remain. They are fragile, yes, but unwavering beacons, guiding us through life's storms. No matter how bleak things seem, these inner flames offer warmth and direction to those who seek them. It is in that seeking, that refusal to surrender, that their strength is revealed. As long as we reach for them, love, faith, and hope hold back the forces that threaten to consume us. They offer reprieve and salvation to those who persist, who refuse to let darkness win. There is always a path back to the light—a promise for those who never stopped believing.

ᡣ𐭩 IN WHICH a . . . .ᐟ

        Every choice, every path, was a thread in fate's roulette. But no matter what he did, his story always ended the same: He was both hero and villain in his own tragedy. His life was a mosaic of shattered possibilities, lives he could have lived but never truly grasped. He journeyed through time and dimensions, the walls pulsing with living flesh, eyes watching, their silent judgment a crushing weight. They saw his naked soul, stripped bare, revealing the raw truth of his being. He walked on a ground of flesh and bone—cracked ribs, shattered skulls, the remains of discarded selves, the ghosts of what-ifs. His feet were heavy, burdened by lost paths, choices stolen by a cruel cosmos.

         He tried to escape the nightmare, but the roads always led to despair. He glimpsed different endings—ones where pain did not consume him, where his sins did not drag him down. In those moments, hope flickered, like a dying ember. He had reached out, grasping for salvation, but the universe was cruel. The hand that could have saved him was always snatched away. The darkness was relentless, determined to extinguish that spark. He fell again, drowning in a crimson ocean, his screams muffled by his failures.

         The monsters of his soul waited. They were not demons, but twisted reflections of himself, his sins across countless lives. Their voices slithered into his ears, whispering his failures, a cacophony of regret and self-loathing. They did not just pull him down—they consumed him, covering his eyes, silencing his voice, deafening him with their venomous whispers. The more he struggled, the tighter their grip. He was suffocated by his inescapable suffering. Even if he fought, screamed, prayed, there was no mercy. The cosmos had decided his fate long ago.

         Even in new forms, across endless reincarnations, his agony remained. His name, ironically meaning peace, was a cruel joke. He had never known peace. His essence was a contradiction—a man named for tranquility, yet destined for suffering, war, and strife. Time and space shifted, but his story remained unchanged—a cruel repetition of failure and despair. No matter his face, no matter whom he tried to save, the universe twisted his kindness into weakness, his love into ruin. He was never free. His chains were forged in inevitability, a cosmic jest.

          In every telling of his tale, he was doomed. A lone, broken figure, drowning in the consequences of a story already written in the blood of a thousand failures. He was meant to suffer, to reach for the light but never touch it, to seek salvation only to have it ripped away. His tragedy was an immutable law, undeniable as time itself. Reborn again and again, he remained the failure, the lost one, cursed to seek peace but never found it.

ᡣ𐭩. WHERE a . . . .ᐟ

NECROPHOBIA | ONGOING
fear of corpses

"Show me warmth, the feeling of being truly alive, without the need to guess—even for a moment, let me taste freedom, let me rise from this grave."

An ordinary internship took a bizarre turn for Galateya, a mortuary assistant intern, as she found herself in an unexpected situation. During a graveyard shift, one of the corpses she handled days earlier mysteriously appeared in her apartment complex after its supposed cremation, wearing a lovestruck expression in its lifeless eyes.

SPELUNCAPHOBIA | ONGOING
fear of caves

"Fear the murmurs that slither from the chasm below—a presence stirs beneath the veil of darkness . It watches from the abyss, it lingers in the silence, it waits in the shadows. It walks among us, unseen, unholy, unyielding."

A team of expert spelunkers, researchers, and photographers, including the adventurous German college student Galateya, ventured into the depths of the Krubera-Voronja cave in Abkhazia, Georgia, to investigate a series of terrifying anomalies. Disappearances have plagued the region, accompanied by the growth of grotesque, meaty fungi that caused deadly infections, their putrid scent lingering in the air like a warning. Strange figures, shifting and unnatural, have been sighted at the edge of perception, while distorted footprints—neither fully human nor entirely beast—appeared mysteriously around the cave's entrance. As the team descended into the abyss, they soon realized they were not merely explorers but intruders in a place where something ancient and unseen watched, lingered, and waited. What lied beneath was more than a mystery—it was a hunger, an entity beyond understanding, and it has already begun to reach beyond the darkness.

SPORTALDISLEXICARTAPHOBIA | ONGOING
fear of paintings

"Faces carved in stone, monsters in my mind—save me from this drowning, these claws dragging me from myself."

A notorious serial killer was on the loose, evading capture for decades. This criminal, known for leaving disturbing paintings at crime scenes, remained unidentified despite extensive efforts to apprehend them. The enigmatic figure behind these heinous acts was surprisingly ordinary in appearance, contrasting with the brutality of their crimes. Galateya, a young woman battling a terminal illness, was constantly exposed to news of the killer through discussions among her medical team and the media coverage in her surroundings. This pervasive exposure fueled her paranoia, especially when a new doctor, seemingly harmless, was assigned to her care. Despite the doctor's friendly manner, her intuition raised alarm bells, intensifying her sense of unease.

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