#darkstory

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They have everything… except a clean conscience.

Poolside Flavor 🕊️ A modern luxury home with a dark story behind it.

🏡 30x20 💰 §145,100

Geraldine Richmond is rich, powerful… and hiding a dangerous secret.

She married wealth — and inherited everything. Now she works as a police officer…

But in reality? She’s playing both sides.

Her brother Ben lives with her. No money. No plan. No future.

Yet.

Play this as a story-driven challenge:

👉 Rise from nothing (Ben) 👉 Control the chaos (Geraldine) 👉 Decide who wins in the end

💣 For extra drama: Use the Basemental Mod (download online) for a deeper, darker storyline.

XOXO Lokelani

The sun was setting in the kingdom of CrownHelm. The year was 1433, two years before the great war.

Rumblings of the rebellion had begun in the streets. It started with whispers...

King Aurthius, Googi's father, had signed a peace treaty with the neighboring kingdom, Lorith. A peace treaty was what the royal officials had called it, but the townspeople knew better. Aurthius had not expected to inherit the crown and as a result was not educated in the ways of ruling. He had slowly trickled away the kingdoms treasury on a never-ending flow of lavish indulgences until Crownhelm had nothing left. The townspeople took the brunt of it, descending into poverty while the members of the royal family feasted in the palace, prancing around in their gaudy robes and jewels. When Aurthius realized there was no money left, he had no choice but to turn to Lorith -- a kingdom known for their wealth, although more notably their cruelty -- in a desperate attempt to save his kingdom. This was no peace treaty. Aurthius was selling Crownhelm into servitude, they would never be able to escape the shadowy fist of Lorith. And of course, the townspeople would be ones to suffer.

The whispers started quiet at first, there was a nervous tension in the air. The crown had a fierce group of loyal followers, and if you said the wrong thing to the wrong person, you would find yourself hung in the town square and left as a feast for the crows.

But as conditions worsened, the whispers grew louder, angrier. The townspeople were living in filth, it was as though dirt and dust covered everything in sight. As if to rub salt in the wound, on the mountain that overlooked the poorest of the kingdom's towns, sat the palace. Through the muck they lived in they could see the polished turrets of the ebony castle glistening in the sun, taunting them. Everyday the sight of that castle made them angrier. The word rebellion was now being whispered in the streets

Now and then, I write things that could serve as the start of a story, though I never actually use them. Here, I’m sharing a few that lean toward the darker side. Feel free to use them as prompts, and have fun with them.

The house had been empty for decades, or so they said. But when I stepped inside, the floor creaked underfoot as if it remembered every step ever taken, every secret ever buried.

There was a strange comfort in the darkness, a place where shadows whispered the truths the daylight refused to see.

The wind outside howled, but the sound inside was worse—soft footsteps echoing through the empty halls.

I thought it was just a nightmare, until I woke up with the dirt still under my fingernails.

They said I wouldn’t feel a thing, that I’d be free once it was over. But as the needle slid in, I realized I was still very much alive—and trapped.

(Do you want a part two?)

Bite-Sized Horror Story About A Shapeshifting Criminal.

He proudly pulled out his wallet.

I had asked to see his ID.

He didn't match his picture.

Not even slightly.

I told him that we couldn't help if he were unable to identify himself.

But still, he insisted that he was the person in the photo.

Not knowing what to say, I said nothing.

Before the guards could arrive, the man started aggressively grabbing at his face.

Scabby skin was torn off piece by piece.

Bystanders looked on, fearful.

Some even fled the building.

Skin was hitting the ground with several tiny plops.

When he was finally finished, he had a new face.

An entirely new face.

“Now can you see who I've been all along?” whispered the mysterious man in a raspy voice.

I felt an uneasiness trickling throughout my body.

I gave him a smile, then took the ID out of his hand.

I quickly studied the photo once more.

It matched perfectly.

He grinned.

I began giving him the service I had recently denied him.

Bite-Sized Horror Story About A Character’s Vivid Nightmare.

It was 3:45 am.

I had just arisen from a terrifying nightmare.

I decided to head to Dosh’s Diner to have some breakfast.

I thought that it would assist me in getting rid of the dreadful dream.

The diner was mostly empty.

The only people inside were me and another man.

He was dressed in all black.

He looked strangely familiar.

I decided to ask him if we had known each other.

I slowly reached for his shoulder and gave it a tap.

He turned around.

What I observed next only built upon his familiarity.

He had no face.

I felt static trotting through my torso.

I was incapable of moving.

“Where have I seen this man before?!” I marveled.

Suddenly, his glance brought back a flood of memories.

When this accident happened, I had only been there about six months.

One night the call came in for a head-on collision — a little car versus a hook-and-ladder fire truck. When I got there, they sent me walking up the freeway about a quarter mile with a biohazard bag. It was summertime, and the asphalt was hot. Picking up brain matter off that road was like trying to scrape up marshmallow cream — you could never get it all.

I came across a woman’s ID, turned it over to the investigator, and kept walking.

The first body we reached was a woman lying flat on her back in the middle of the freeway. From the neck down she looked completely normal. From the neck up, her head was only about two inches thick.

She hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt.

When the two vehicles hit, her car wrapped around the side of the fire truck and she was thrown headfirst into the driver’s side door. The impact blew every bone out the back of her head.

After we bagged her, we crossed the street to the burned-out car still attached to the fire engine. In what was left of the driver’s seat sat what used to be a man, still wearing his seatbelt. Only his head and one arm from the elbow down were recognizable as human. The rest of him looked like hamburger meat.

We slid a body bag underneath him and started scooping what was left into it. But when it was time to zip the bag closed, I discovered a wiring harness that was stuck inside of him. With quite a bit of difficulty, I finally managed to pull the wires free.

Later at the coroners, while attempting to search for property, we discovered that there was an entire alternator that had somehow gotten embedded in his body. We had no idea it was there.

That night taught me how fragile life really is. One second you're driving down the road, the next you're gone — just pieces on hot asphalt. Fifteen years later, I still can't drive past a bad wreck without thinking about that woman’s flattened head and that man molded some other form.