For those who dare to listen, a strange paradox awaits—where a creeping dread wraps itself around an eerie sense of comfort, like a nightmare that somehow feels safe. The rain becomes your only companion, its steady drip-drip-drip forming a lullaby for the damned. Each story pulls you deeper, where reality frays at the edges and ancient terror takes root. Your eyelids grow heavy, but sleep won’t save you. It only opens new doors. The boundary between dream and waking begins to dissolve, blurred by the rain’s relentless rhythm. Somewhere beyond the window, hidden in the shadows, something stirs. Its presence is masked by the downpour—but it’s there. Watching. Waiting. The darkness breathes with the rain, pulsing in quiet synchrony. Faint whispers slither into your thoughts, soft and venomous, curling around the corners of your sanity. These aren’t just stories—they’re buried truths, dug from the soil of forgotten nightmares. Each one strips away the illusion of safety, peeling back layers of your mind until only raw fear remains. The voices are slow, deliberate. They speak of things long hidden—secrets meant to stay buried. And through it all, the rain never stops. It falls like a curtain, hiding the world outside… and whatever is now standing just on the other side of the glass.