Click here for a list of weather descriptions, seasonal festivals, and a real time:site time conversion.
Character of the Season
Frail in body but dangerously quick of mind, Nikandr is the sort of character who proves that curiosity can be just as perilous as any weapon. A necromancer, inventor, and problem-solver with more ambition than self-preservation, Niki approaches the world like a puzzle box begging to be opened, even when what’s inside has teeth. Blunt, dry-witted, fiercely independent, and carrying a history best left partially buried, he has a knack for making even failure feel fascinating. Whether he’s raising the dead, moving across Caido to King's End, or experiencing a hangover for the first time, Nikandr brings a wonderfully strange spark to Caido, and we can’t wait to see what trouble his brilliant mind wanders into next.
Congratulations, Niki!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
OG Skinning provided by Kaons, with functionality and many custom plugins made by Neowulf!
10-20-2025, 05:38 PM (This post was last modified: 11-05-2025, 01:06 PM by Blu.)
Let's make some spines shiver this year with a spooky story contest! Your story can be funny, mysterious, or downright haunting, just bring your best chills and thrills for some seasonal fun.
RULES Anon Submissions: To keep voting unbiased, use the NPC account to submit your entries here! Word Limit: I'm not setting one and I hope this doesn't bite me in the ass. Still a 100 word minimum. Theme: Anything spooky, supernatural, or suspenseful. Deadline: October 27, 2025 at 8:00pm Pacific time. Voting: Will commence once it closes and go through the end of the month, everyone may vote.
PRIZES First Place Entrant 2 - ENTRY ONE
500 MP
Discord 3/3 bundle
Second Place Entrant 4 - Our new house’s closet always scared me.
250 MP
Discord 2/3 bundle
Third Place Entrant 3 - I laugh as the others explore ahead...
100 MP
Discord 1/3 bundle
Wtf is a Discord bundle?
I'll gift you a Discord profile background, avatar decoration, and nameplate decoration. Whatever theme you want, can mix and match. If you win a 2/3 or 1/3 bundle, it means you get 2 or 1 of those 3 things, which ever 2 or 1 you prefer.
She crouched in the shadow of a great tree, her muscles coiled tight. She had to see, had to understand what was happening before her.
The red-robed women were chanting, voices rising and falling in eerie harmony. She didn't understand any of the words, but felt the language in the marrow of her bones. Suddenly, a tall, imposing woman with black trimmed robes stepped forward, raising a single hand. At once, the guards hesitated, their grips tightening on the man they had dragged forward. The girl hadn't noticed them at first, being enraptured by the crimson women and their chanting.
The guards held a man, who until the tall woman stepped towards him seemed to be limp. “No,” the man whimpered, his voice cracked with terror as his eyes flicked to her black-trimmed robes. “Please, no, no, no—”
The leader made a slow, deliberate gesture, fingers twisting in the air. The space around the slave shimmered, the air itself bending. His pleas turned to shrieks as his body lifted from the ground, his limbs flailing as if he were drowning in invisible waters. The chanting began again, and drowned out his screams.
The girl dug her fingers into the bark beneath her, her nails biting deep. She had lived through cruelty and suffering. But this—this was something else.
The slave floated, his toes stretching toward the jagged wound another great tree. It's swollen, pale trunk stood as thick as a fortress wall. The bark was smooth and ghostly white, with an eerie glow that even the girl could make out in the darkness. No branches grew low, only a tangled canopy of sickly green leaves streaked with red. The roots pushed up through the lumpy, uneven earth like the bones of the dead. It had a split in the trunk, where something dark and putrid wept from it.
His screams reached an unnatural pitch as he thrashed against the unseen force pulling him forward. The leader’s fingers clenched, and the pull grew stronger. His body jerked violently as his feet met the oozing bark.
A shriek tore from his throat, raw and desperate. The red women did not falter. They did not flinch. Their chanting wove through the agony with unshaken waves of determination.
The man writhed, his legs sinking into the tree as if the wood were no more than thickened mud. His hands scrabbled at the air, fingers clawing for purchase, as if the air could save him.
Horror held the girl fixed in place as the tree changed. The bark turned from a haunting white to a deep, sickly green. His screams faltered, choked into silence, but his mouth remained open—too open. And then, the voices came.
Not his.
A cacophony, hundreds layered over one another, some whispering, others wailing, a symphony of torment. His eyes were lanterns now, burning with that same green fire, his face stretched into a grotesque mask of agony. His fingers twitched, curling in unnatural spasms as the tree devoured him inch by inch.
The tree sealed shut with an audible snap, as though it had merely taken a deep breath.
The silence that followed was worse than the screaming.
The leader exhaled softly, lowering her hand. The chanting ceased as one. The forest remained still, the only sound the distant rustle of leaves stirred by the wind.
I’ve been here twelve days, and it’s only now starting to feel like my place instead of someone else’s.
The apartment came mostly empty, but not empty-empty. The manager told me the last tenant "left in a hurry." When I asked why, he said, "Didn’t sleep well here."
I haven’t been sleeping much either.
There’s a sound at night, not loud, just a faint scraping somewhere in the walls. I thought it might be pipes, but when I recorded it, the playback was only static.
When I put away the last of my clothes, I found a folded note on the closet shelf. The handwriting was small and careful:
Don’t follow the sound.
I laughed when I read it, but I didn’t throw it away. It felt like the kind of superstition people cling to when they’re alone too long.
That night, the sound came again. Fainter. Closer. Entry Two
The noise hasn’t stopped.
It’s quieter now, but more precise. There’s no scraping anymore, just this soft, deliberate tck, tck, pause ,tck, tck. I started leaving the fan on to drown it out, but last night it matched the rhythm of the fan blades. Like it was keeping time.
I didn’t sleep much.
This morning, I decided to clear out that closet. I figured maybe there’s a loose vent or something back there. But when I opened the door, the air coming out was cold; not drafty cold, but basement cold, even though there’s no vent in there.
There was another note on the shelf.
Folded the same way as the first, but on fresh paper.
He likes when you listen.
I actually laughed out loud when I read it, probably out of nerves. It’s weird how easily you can talk yourself into believing someone’s messing with you when the alternative is...whatever this would be.
I checked the locks. The chain was still on. Windows sealed. No signs of a break-in. The building manager swears nobody else has a key. He looked uncomfortable when I asked, though, like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
Around midnight, I heard the knocking again. Same two taps, then two more, soft and polite.
I stayed in bed this time. I didn’t move. After a few seconds, it stopped.
But in the silence afterward, I realized something that made my stomach go cold: the sound wasn’t coming from the door.
It was coming from inside the closet. Entry Three
I haven’t told anyone.
What would I even say? "Something in my closet knocks politely and leaves notes?"
There’s no version of that that doesn’t make you sound like you need a sleep study or a priest, so I’ve been pretending it’s fine. Keeping the lights on. Keeping busy.
I pushed a chair against the closet door last night, not because I thought it would help, just because it felt like doing something. Around 3 a.m., the apartment settled the way it always does: pipes ticking, faint hum from the fridge, that tiny metal rattle from the window frame. Normal sounds.
Then the chair moved.
Not violently. It just shifted once, like someone inside had leaned against the door from the other side. There was this soft bump and the tiniest squeak of wood against tile. I waited for it to happen again, but it didn’t.
In the morning, I almost convinced myself I’d dreamed it. The kind of half-memory that unravels when you try to prove it, but when I picked the chair up, one of the legs was damp. Not wet, just a faint cold moisture like condensation.
There’s no plumbing on that wall.
When I came home from work, there was a folded scrap of paper under my front door. I didn’t open it right away. I told myself I wouldn’t, but of course I did. Same paper. Same careful handwriting.
You shouldn’t block the door. He gets impatient.
I threw it away immediately.
Tonight, I’m writing this from the hallway. I don’t want to be in there.
The building manager came up earlier because the tenant below me complained about dripping through their ceiling. He said it’s coming from my unit, right where the closet is. He’s going to open the wall tomorrow to check for leaks.
If this is what the last tenant meant by not sleeping well, I get it now. Entry Four
The building manager came by this morning with a plumber. Both of them wore that polite half-bored expression people put on when they expect something simple to fix.
They knocked on the wall beside the closet, listened, nodded. The plumber said, "There’s probably a cracked pipe. Might’ve leaked into the drywall."
They cut a small square near the baseboard.
No water. No mould. Just dry plaster dust and this faint smell, like old pennies. Then the plumber said something that made my skin crawl. He said, "Huh. Looks like someone’s patched this before." There was a second layer of drywall behind the first. Newer paint, same colour, just…off by a shade.
The manager just cleared his throat. He didn’t look at me when he said, "We’ll send someone to finish this tomorrow." They packed up and left, leaving the hole open.
It’s maybe the size of my hand, just above the baseboard. When I crouch down, I can see darkness beyond it; empty space, not insulation.
I told myself I wouldn’t, but I shone my phone light inside. The space goes back farther than the wall should allow. Maybe three or four feet deep. The beam caught something white tucked near the far end.
Paper.
I couldn’t reach it.
But when I went to bed that night, the sound came again: tck, tck, tck, tck—from inside the wall this time, not the closet. And underneath it, just for a second, a voice that could have been my own saying, "Don't follow the sound". Entry Five
I haven’t left the apartment in two days.
I keep telling myself I’ll pack up and go, but I can’t seem to make it past the door. It feels wrong to leave it open, even for a second.
The hole’s bigger now. I don’t remember widening it, but the edges are rough, like someone clawed through. There’s dust on the floor and my fingernails are filthy.
I’ve started hearing knocking again, always the same pattern: two knocks, pause, two knocks. I set my phone to record last night. When I played it back this morning, there was nothing. Just static, and under it, breathing that synced perfectly with mine until it didn’t.
I keep finding tiny slips of paper around the apartment, tucked between pages of my notebook, under the kettle, inside my shoes. All blank. Entry Six
I was scrolling listings tonight and stopped on one that looked familiar. Same layout. Same warped floorboard by the window.
It took me a minute to realise it’s this apartment. The ad says vacant now.
A month-to-month lease. Immediate availability.
But I’m still here.
I’ve been keeping the lights on, hoping someone would notice.
From inside, the room glows soft and yellow, but people on the street don’t even glance up. I’ve called out. Knocked on the glass. They just walk past.
There’s a new coat of paint on the walls. The hole by the closet is gone, smooth and clean. I didn’t hear anyone come in to fix it, but the carpets have been cleaned too.
I don’t want to leave, but there’s nowhere else to go. I found some paper in a drawer with a bit of drywall dust on it and wrote a few words, folded it once and slid it onto the closet shelf, where someone will see it when they unpack.
I laugh as the others explore ahead, having left the rest of the guided group oblivious of their new thrilling (and illegal) detour. After an hour of walking through stalagmites and stagnant puddles, the tunnel's jagged edges are cast in the warm glow of flashlights, Tim and Diana's silhouettes bumping shoulders in the tight space that leads down towards a supposedly haunted cavern. It's said to be inhabited by the souls of a couple who had chosen to commit suicide rather than be torn apart by their warring tribes. Tourists have romanticized the story over the last 300 years, dressing as the ghostly couple for Halloween, getting engaged in front of the lichen covered cavern, and even naming their children after the Nestic Cave, but no one remembers who the couple was or how they'd chosen to end their lives.
"You think this place is actually haunted?"
Jolting, I turn to smack Luke, his deep, teasing voice echoing like a gong to break my thoughts. "Don't do that! Of course it's not haunted! Ghosts aren't real!" My words are a harsh whisper, even as I glance at the shadowed recesses to search for ethereal glows or flickers of movement. But Luke steps in front of me, snagging my hand as he leans smugly against the uneven stone. "Then they won't mind if I do this." He pulls just enough to get me off-balance, my boots scuffing the floor as I'm falling into his arms and the mischievous embrace of his lips. Rolling my eyes, I don't fight it, enjoying the distant light that frames his handsome face, the quiet trickle of water, the racing of my heart. It's enough to have me leaning in, enticed by the scandal and high of the adventure.
I feel his fingers creep against my lower back and I arch into it, running my greedy hand down his chest. Luke chuckles a soft, wet huff of breath that makes me smirk, deepening the damp kiss for just a moment longer, knowing the others will make fun of us any minute, laughing about the couple who can't keep their hands or saliva to themselves. I know they're just jealous of our newer relationship and the rush that comes with falling in love.
A sharp pain shoots through my lip and I jerk back, shoving Luke in the chest. "Hey!" My eyes shoot open, ready to scold and reprimand for breaking the moment with his sharp teeth; but Luke's already looking at me. I can barely make out the dark brown of his eyes, wide with fear - and just beginning to glaze over.
"Luke, what - " The question is cut off by a scream, watching as a pair of massive, black mandibles snap out of his mouth. They're larger than my fingers, sharp at the ends and spined along the edges, glistening with something too dark to see. My hand goes to my mouth, muffling the scream that lodges when I see the blood trickling from Luke's nose, taste the copper on my tongue.
He's dead.
Oh God, he's dead.
The creature is clicking so softly that I almost miss it in the trickling of water. It creeps farther forward, reaching, hungry. I reel back, suddenly noticing that the walls aren't just uneven, they're covered in dark holes, hundreds, thousands, millions. They reach deep into the rock, too far to see except the shine of things moving. And now the walls are too close, the air running along my skin like an army of centipedes, every shadow shifting towards me. Muscles snap and convulse to rid the feeling, hoping it's just my mind playing tricks in my hysteria, but a soft thud sounds behind me as something falls from my back, another scream ripping from my chest.
I don't look at it.
No, my eyes scan, panicked, looking for my friends, for an exit, for an escape from the creatures beginning to stir. The light ahead has faded, hidden behind two mounds moving unnaturally along the floor - no - the entire tunnel is moving, rippling like oil set to devour me. It moves slowly closer, the clicking of mandibles snapping together, legs scraping across rocks, my ragged last breaths stuttering in response.
I let out a sob, stumbling back as the path before me constricts, suffocating it of light and hope.
Our new house’s closet always scared me. It was different from my other one. But I could never explain what was so bad. Maybe it was hard to put into words. And my parents didn’t get it. They weren’t kids anymore.
Nighttime had me begging and pleading, covers drawn up close to my head, tucked near my chin, like that would ward everything away. “Mom, can you please look in there?” She hadn’t before. But maybe begging and pleading this time would be enough. Then she’d tell me it was nothing, and I could believe it.
She must’ve seen the look of horror on my face. The fear, the fright. She sighed. “Just this once. And then we’re going to be done talking about it.” The resignation was clear. She wanted it over and done with. Didn’t want to hear about it anymore.
I watched as she drew open the large wooden doors, eyes widening as she stepped within, disappearing for only a second – probably to retrieve clothes for school tomorrow, or peering around the shirts dangling on hangers. Looking for the monsters or the scary, creeping things keeping me up at all hours.
When she turned back to me, my heart pounded. My fingers shook. Her stare was on me. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”
“Yes,” I nodded and lied, noticing her eyes had turned to red.
![[Image: gtwuOxi.png]](https://i.imgur.com/gtwuOxi.png)
Your story can be funny, mysterious, or downright haunting, just bring your best chills and thrills for some seasonal fun.
Anon Submissions: To keep voting unbiased, use the NPC account to submit your entries here!
Word Limit: I'm not setting one and I hope this doesn't bite me in the ass. Still a 100 word minimum.
Theme: Anything spooky, supernatural, or suspenseful.
Deadline: October 27, 2025 at 8:00pm Pacific time.
Voting: Will commence once it closes and go through the end of the month, everyone may vote.
