Rin Sangar (they/them) grew up in Bicester, England, raised on a steady diet of fantasy stories, Meat Loaf ballads, and horror films watched far too young. They studied psychology in a red-bricked, swamp-heavy Florida town before relocating to Edinburgh for colder pavements and better shadows. They enjoy horror in any form, whisky-based cocktails, and spending time with their cat—a silent, watchful companion who always seems to know when something’s about to go wrong.

There are worse things than ghosts.

Like filling out forms,

or being perceived on a Monday.

This is a space for people who keep their lives together with expired paracetamol, superstition, and a rotating cast of socially acceptable breakdowns.

The kind of pain that doesn’t scream.

It offers tea.

Maybe you know this feeling:

you’ve alphabetised your trauma.

You’ve therapised yourself out of every real thought.

You’ve labelled the grief. Still, it leaks.

So you clean the kitchen again.

There’s comfort in distraction.

Some people knit.

Some people sharpen knives.

Some people write.

Here, Rin curates small things that scare you just enough to keep the bigger things at bay.

Coping mechanisms dressed as horror stories.

Fear you choose, because the uninvited kind doesn’t knock.

They don’t promise catharsis.

They don’t even promise closure.

Just company.

And the occasional scream, politely framed

Read slowly.

Keep the lights on if you must.

But know this:

not every coping mechanism wants to be cured.

Some of them are waiting.

Some of them have teeth.