Accounts Vary
Our summer series, Accounts Vary, is three four-part stories where investigative tradecraft meets the uncanny. These stories are built around real investigative techniques, OSINT tools, public records, and sleuthing skills—twisted through the lens of psychological horror and campfire tales.
These aren’t true stories pulled from case files. But they could be. Because each begins where many real cases do: as fact loses its grip. A detail out of place, a version that doesn’t quite match, a record that shouldn’t exist.
Chapter One, written and narrated, is free to all subscribers. The rest? That’s for those curious enough to follow. Upgrade your subscription to our paid tier to gain access to all future chapters and monthly stories.
Account One - The Doorbell That Screams
Tess is content lurking in her local Neighbourly app, entertained by the familiar dramas of middle-class purgatory—missing recycling bins, suspicious dog poop, poor landscaping, the usual. But then something strange slips into the scroll. Ring cam videos, each one identical: a man standing on a porch, mouth frozen mid-scream, silent and motionless. Timestamped: 3:47 a.m. Then the videos vanish, along with the accounts that posted them. Tess can’t look away, but the deeper she digs, the more the screen starts to look back. And some doors, once knocked upon, can’t stay closed.
Account Two - 404: Exit Not Found
On his way to a cousin’s wedding, Caleb drives into a signal dead zone and finds a town that shouldn’t exist anymore. The prices are wrong. The technology is wrong. The people are too welcoming. When he tries to leave, the road quietly folds back on itself. Haven isn’t nostalgic—it’s recursive. And the longer Caleb stays, the more reality begins to update around him.
Account Three - Crooked Walls
Eva buys a century-old Victorian to escape the bleak greyness of modern life. But when she revisits the home’s real estate listings, assessor records, and historical maps, the house doesn’t match itself. The staircase shifts sides. The porch changes orientation. Old photos contradict what she can see with her own eyes. As Eva traces parcel histories, archived listings, and forgotten neighbourhood blogs, she uncovers a quieter, more disturbing possibility: the house isn’t changing, it’s remembering.