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The Director’s Cuts: Horror Tales

D_Setia
14
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 14 chs / week.
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Synopsis
Not every horror story gets released. Some are buried. Forgotten. Or never meant to be seen. These are the films that whisper in projection rooms, flicker through broken reels, and show up on tapes no one remembers recording. Each volume is a standalone nightmare—shot, cast, and directed by a man no one remembers hiring. The Director. No one has seen his face. No one has survived two of his films. You’re not reading a novel. You’re watching his cut. Just pray he never turns the camera on you. --- Book 1, My Husband is a Serial Killer (and He Doesn't Know It) When Mara Lockwood marries Daniel Kessler—a sweet, absentminded trauma therapist with a damaged past—she thinks she's finally escaped her own. But when a hidden diary shows up in a locked drawer, detailing gruesome murders that match the media reports to the hour, Daniel's handwriting on every page, she begins to question everything. Daniel claims no memory of the crimes. He's terrified. So is she. But Mara loves him. Needs him. And she's hiding things too. As bodies continue to surface and detectives close in, Mara must decide: Will she uncover the truth and lose him forever—or manipulate reality to keep the man she loves? Because if he's the killer… she might be the reason he became one. --- Disclaimer: All characters are original. Visual references are imagined and used for creative purposes only. No real person, actor, or public figure is involved or affiliated with this work. Poster concept and story by [D_Setia] Cover art generated using AI with original composition
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Chapter 1 - Prologue: The Man in Frame

The camera's already rolling when Mara opens her eyes.

No blinking red light. No beep. Just a faint click, like film threading through an old projector. The air hums behind the lens—electric, expectant. She doesn't remember falling asleep. Only the cold sheets against her skin, the whisper of her name floating through darkness.

Her name?

The room tilts as she stands. Too smooth walls. No windows. Familiar in the way dreams are familiar—wrong but inevitable.

The lens follows her movement. Not Daniel's lens—this one doesn't tremble with gentle hands. It breathes. Waits.

She looks directly into it.

"I'm not the killer," she says.

No one asked her.

A voice behind the camera—a man's voice, quiet and clear as glass breaking—says:

"Again. Less certainty. You're not innocent. You're rehearsed."

Her throat closes. Heat crawls up her neck. She swallows, frowns, opens her mouth to speak—

The lights die.

The tape spins backwards with a mechanical whir.

And a new scene begins:

Daniel asleep in bed, face soft with dreams. Morning light slants across his shoulder. Her camera waits on the nightstand, lens cap missing.

A drawer. A journal. Blood, already dry.

𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬.

CUT TO BLACK.

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𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘮.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘱 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦.