Some tales are still being written. A peek into the case files, the pact, and the pages still taking shape across Undine Grimoires' fiction — before they're ready to be read in full.

The Delta breathes at night. Most people don't know that. You have to be born here — broke here, owned here, or come from people who were — to understand what the soil is actually made of. I was not a good guitar player. That is the honest truth I have to start with, because none of the rest of it makes sense without that admission. I wanted it more than anything I had ever wanted. And that's the thing about wanting — it doesn't guarantee anything. It just eats you. So I went to the crossroads. And I brought my guitar.

A classified investigator’s report from Romania’s infamous Hoia Baciu Forest reveals a field operation that unraveled within minutes. What began as a routine inquiry into folklore, tourist claims, and environmental anomalies became something far harder to explain: synchronized footsteps with no visible source, equipment failures, missing time, and an agent who vanished from an illuminated clearing before returning barefoot, bleeding, and terrified by a voice that should not have been possible.

A century ago, someone bricked the chapel shut and hoped whatever lived inside would stay there.

They nailed the confessional closed first.

By the seventh day, the parish priest entered alone to bless the chapel. Forty minutes later, he vanished without a trace, leaving only neatly folded vestments behind.

And somewhere behind the sealed wall, something was still listening.

The mirror trend was supposed to make people look prettier on camera. That was the pitch. Vintage silver backing. Softer lighting. Better symmetry.

Then creators started noticing their reflections moving a second too late.

Or too early.

By the time I realized mine was smiling without me, forty thousand people were already watching live.

When a sinkhole swallowed our excavator, we found what was beneath it: a pristine 1920s luxury hotel, sealed underground, dinner still hot on the tables, jazz still playing in the salon — and a guest registry with names of people who hadn't been born yet. One of them was mine.

On the night of February 1st, 1959, nine Soviet hikers cut their way out of their tent on the slopes of Kholat Syakhl and walked barefoot into a blizzard. No one survived. No official explanation was ever given. This is the journal they didn't find.

A tenant reports an incessant humming from apartment walls. It begins at 9pm, lasts until 3am, and previous tenants heard it too. When the investigator arrives, they discover the sound is not mechanical—it's not alone. And it remembers.