Title: Cooking with Stacy – An Official Brand of Justishalz Media

Jos, Nigeria – Justishalz Media proudly confirms that Cooking with Stacy is an official brand operated and owned by Justishalz Media. This Facebook page and all associated content are created, managed, and supervised under the authority of Justishalz Media.

This announcement serves to formally establish the connection between Cooking with Stacy and Justishalz Media for verification purposes and public record.

About Justishalz Media:

Justishalz Media is a registered media and entertainment company based in Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria. We manage multiple content brands, producing high-quality, engaging content for our audiences.

For further information and verification, visit our official website: Justishalz.com

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The House on Willow Drive

When the police knocked on Ethan Miller’s door at 6:42 a.m., he already knew somebody had died. It’s strange how the body senses these things before the mind does. The knocking wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t aggressive either. It was calm. Professional. The kind of knock that delivers news you can’t undo. He opened the door in yesterday’s T-shirt, coffee untouched on the table behind him. “Mr. Miller?” the older officer asked. “Yes.” “We’re sorry to inform you that your mother, Helen Miller, passed away early this morning.” The words didn’t land right away. They hovered in the doorway like smoke. “How?” Ethan asked. “Heart attack. Neighbors heard a fall around 4 a.m. Paramedics arrived within minutes, but she was already gone.” Ethan nodded slowly. No tears. No shock. Just a hollow pressure behind his ribs. She had died alone. After the paperwork, the condolences, the awkward silence, and the offer for someone to drive him to the station, Ethan stayed standing in the ...

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She Left Her Phone in My Car. I Found a Message Sent After She Died

The rain started five minutes after she slammed my car door. I remember the time because I stared at the dashboard like it could explain what had just happened—8:17 p.m. The streetlights flickered on one by one as if the city itself was waking up to witness the end of something. Maya walked away without looking back, shoulders stiff, hair already soaking through. The rain swallowed her shape as she turned the corner. We had just had the worst argument of our relationship. Not screaming. Not insults. Worse—quiet disappointment. The kind that makes you feel small. “Don’t follow me,” she said when she opened the door. So I didn’t. That was my first mistake. Maya was twenty-four. Nursing student. The kind of person who cried at animal shelter videos but argued like a lawyer when she believed she was right. She moved through the world softly but never weakly. We had been together almost two years. Long enough to build habits. Long enough to build resentment. Lately, everyth...

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The Man Who Sat in the Same Booth Every Friday

Every Friday at exactly 6:12 p.m., the man sat in the same booth at Rosie’s Diner on Highway 9, the one by the window with a direct view of the parking lot. The regulars noticed it long before they ever spoke about it, because consistency like that sticks out in a place where most people drift in and out without patterns. He always ordered the same thing: black coffee, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and a slice of apple pie he never touched. He wore the same gray jacket no matter the weather, winter or summer, rain or heat, and he always placed his phone face down beside his right hand as if he was waiting for it to betray him. People assumed the usual things at first, that he was lonely, or grieving, or simply stuck in his ways, but the truth was stranger and far heavier than anything the town had imagined. The waitress, a woman named Claire who had worked at Rosie’s for nearly thirteen years, tried to engage him in conversation during his first few visits, offering small talk about traf...

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The Last Light on Harbor Lane — (Part 2)

The lantern burned brighter in the days that followed—brighter than it ever had when Emma first moved to Willow Point. She didn’t know whether it was her imagination, or something more, but she felt it the moment she entered the tower: a warmth that settled into her chest, an unspoken welcome. Every night, Emma returned to the lighthouse. Sometimes she sat beside the lantern, listening to the quiet hum of its glow. Other times she wandered the house below, exploring rooms layered with dust and memories. She felt like she was walking through someone’s life—Elias’s, his father’s, generations of Lindens whose footsteps had shaped every floorboard. Yet she still hadn’t told anyone. How could she explain it? That a dead lighthouse keeper had spoken to her. That she’d found a lantern burning on something other than fuel. That she felt—deeply, instinctively—that she wasn’t just visiting the place. She was becoming part of it. On a cool Thursday evening, Emma was sitting at the...

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The Last Train Home

The Station Was Empty The station was nearly empty, the cold wind cutting through the benches. Emma clutched her coat tighter, staring at the digital board as the seconds ticked away. She wasn’t usually late. She wasn’t usually reckless. But tonight, everything felt off. A Shadow in the Dark A flicker of movement caught her eye. A man, leaning against a pillar, watched her intently. She shook her head, telling herself she was imagining things. The train’s rumble grew louder, vibrating beneath her feet. The Moment of Decision As she stepped onto the platform, the man followed. Her heart raced, but she couldn’t move fast enough—not without looking like a fool. Then the train arrived, doors sliding open with a mechanical sigh. She hesitated for just a second. That second felt like an eternity. The Note When she finally boarded, she glanced back. The platform was empty. The man was gone. For a moment, she thought she had imagined it all. Then, tucked under her coat on the se...

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The Last Light on Harbor Lane (Part 1)

Harbor Lane wasn’t the kind of street anyone paid attention to unless they had a reason to be there. It sat on the far end of Willow Point, the kind of sleepy coastal town most people passed through on their way to somewhere more interesting. A few weathered homes lined the narrow road, their porches permanently holding the scent of sea salt and old wood. But the one house everyone knew—whether they admitted it or not—was the old Linden House at the very end. If Harbor Lane was unremarkable, Linden House was unforgettable. For as long as anyone could remember, its lighthouse tower—long decommissioned—had a single lantern burning inside. It didn’t rotate, didn’t flash, didn’t guide ships anymore. It simply glowed: warm, unwavering, and impossibly persistent. Even storms that knocked out the whole town’s grid never dimmed it. People had stories, of course. Some said the lighthouse keeper, Old Man Linden, had wired it to some kind of generator that never ran out. Others whispere...

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Whispers in the Oakwood

The town of Oakwood was the kind of place people left before they even turned twenty-five. Narrow streets, red brick houses, and the smell of pine that never left your clothes. Everyone knew everyone else, and yet, secrets thrived beneath the calm, tree-lined roads. Evan Carter had returned after ten years. He had left Oakwood right after high school, chasing college dreams in Chicago, then a career that promised everything but gave little. Life had a way of wearing him down. That’s why he came back—old house, old memories, and perhaps, a chance to figure out what he had been running from all this time. The Carter house stood at the edge of town, partially hidden by an ancient oak tree whose branches stretched like skeletal fingers. The place had not changed much—its wooden siding still peeling, the front porch sagging, and the garden overrun with weeds. Evan ran his hand across the doorframe and felt a twinge of nostalgia mixed with unease. He was unpacking boxes in the attic when...

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My Best Friend Vanished After Our Last Phone Call

My Best Friend Vanished After Our Last Phone Call The last time I heard Mark’s voice, he was laughing. Not his usual careless laugh. This one was tight. Forced. The sound someone makes when they’re scared but trying not to show it. “Hey… if anything happens to me, promise me you’ll go to my apartment,” he said. I laughed. “What are you talking about? You watch too much crime TV.” There was a long pause. “Just promise.” I did. That was the last thing I ever said to my best friend. 1. The Friend Who Never Went Silent Mark wasn’t the type to disappear. We met in college. Same dorm. Same late-night pizza runs. Same dreams of getting rich before 30. No matter how busy he got, Mark always called. If he went quiet for one day, that meant something was wrong. After that strange phone call, he vanished. No texts. No calls. No social media activity. Three days passed. On the fourth day, I drove to his apartment. 2. His Apartment Looked Erased The door was locked. Tha...

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