Aamir Muhammad
Bio
Horror Writer:
Dark tales. Deeper chills. If you love the feeling of something watching you from the shadows, you’re in the right place.
Stories (5)
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The Thief and the God
The Thief and the God Kael was a good thief. He'd picked it up early. Learned that bread was sweeter when you hadn't earned it, and gold was warmer when it didn't belong to you. Learned that no one looked twice at a street rat, especially not one with quiet feet and quick hands.
By Aamir Muhammad 6 months ago in Fiction
she got away
She Got Away "Trust No Road Out" --- It began in a message. Four words: "Don't trust the driver." Mira's heart pounded as she read the message on the screen of her battered phone. The number was unlisted. The ride had been rough, and the van smelled of gasoline fumes and stale cigarettes. She let her eyes slip upward, above the driver in the scratched rearview mirror.
By Aamir Muhammad 6 months ago in Horror
"THE GIRL BENEATH THE BED"
The Girl Beneath the Bed by [Aamir muhammad] Genre: Psychological Horror/Supernatural Word Count Ray had always hated the sound of lullabies. Not the kind sung gently by loving parents, but the eerie kind; out of tune, whispered through walls, vibrated like teeth on glass. He remembered them from childhood, the same words, the same melody, seeping through the floorboards in the middle of the night, "Lay your head, no need to cry... soon you'll sleep beneath the sky..." He would scream, which would cause his parents to race into his room, only to find nothing beneath his bed. I'ts just your imagination Holy Cow, Ray's father would say, more annoyed than concerned, "No more stories." Ray knew what he heard. What he saw. The girl. She lived under his bed. He could never quite describe her, only that her hair was always wet, sticking to her pale face like wet moss and her eyes... they never blinked. Just stared. Ray was thirty when he returned, after both parents passed away. In their will they left the house to him, a shabby suburban two-story home with peeling yellow paint and a lawn that was already dying. The memories were stale but still somewhat manageable. He decided he would sell the house quickly and just move on. The first night back he didn't sleep. It wasn't so much the quiet that was keeping him up and nervous, it was the feeling; a kind of anxiety like someone was under the bed again, watching. He laughed it off. Too many memories. Too much dust. Until heheard the lullaby. Soft, like a breath blowing through years of tired pipes. He froze. No TV. No radio. No noise but the sound. “Lay your head, no need to cry…” said the sweet, soft lullaby. His therapist, Dr. Marsh, says it's unresolved trauma. "You were a sensitive child, Ray," she said in a Zoom session earlier that week. "Sometimes traumas come back up when we begin to experience an environment similar to the source. Your brain can start projecting the old days into today." He wished he could accept that as the explanation. But he also knew one other thing: the humming only started after the clock read midnight, and only after he had turned off all the lights. On the fourth night, things escalated. After drifting off, he woke up to fresh scratch marks on the wood floor, just under the bed. Not on the bed frame, on the wood. Four, relatively parallel lines. Fresh. Fingernail scratches, maybe. But there are no fingernails left unclipped in this house. By the next night, Ray did not sleep. He sat up in his bed, watching the wall across the room closely, his phone ready. At 3:17 AM, the humming came back. “Soon, you’ll sleep beneath the sky.” He flipped the lighting to bright. Nothing. He sunk down to the floor, full of adrenaline, slowly pulled the edge of the blanket up high, and looked under the bed. Nothing. And then— Drip. Drip. Drip. Wet. The floor boards were wet. Not saturated. Not water-logged, soaked to the rim. Just... wet. Like there was something breathing wet air through an opening in the wood, breathing moisture from some dark place that was softer than the ceiling above his head or the walls around the bed. Enough, he said to himself over and over. "You have had enough." The next day, Ray turned to the attic. I must find something, he thought. Dust attacked his lungs. He dug past dusty boxes full of old toys, old tax files filled with paper beyond paper, the boxes wedged between the rafters, away from the tan rubbery tape that always sealed the attic door.he scrambled across his bedroom floor and began even further away from the bed as possible. The door to his bedroom was open, he wanted to run to the hallway.
By Aamir Muhammad 6 months ago in Horror
The Signal Beneath the Lake
The Signal Beneath the Lake by [John Smith] Some signals aren't calls for help. They're traps. The lake was always quiet. Not just calm, but unnaturally silent—like the world held its breath around Black Hollow Lake. Locals whispered stories about the deep water and what might live beneath, but none dared go past the tree line after dusk.
By Aamir Muhammad 6 months ago in Horror
