An aspiring engineer who once wanted to be a writer .
The thing about Christmas Eve is that it always smells the same. No matter where you are—apartment, house, shelter, hospital—the air carries that faint mixture of pine, sugar, and old heat. Even places that haven’t seen a tree in years seem to remember the scent. Like muscle memory. Like guilt.
By E. hasan27 days ago in Fiction
I inherited the lighthouse the day my father vanished. No note, no explanation—just an empty house perched on jagged cliffs where the sea screamed endlessly into the night. People in town said the place was cursed, said the last keeper went mad. I didn’t care. I wanted solitude, a place to escape the chaos of my life. I got more than I bargained for.
By E. hasanabout a month ago in Fiction
It was nearly midnight when Evelyn heard the knock. At first, she thought she imagined it. The city was never quiet at night—trams hummed, bicycles clicked, drunks laughed as they stumbled across the cobblestones—but this sound was different. A sharp, deliberate knock against her apartment door.
By E. hasan4 months ago in Humans
The ocean is never truly silent. Even in its deepest trenches, there is the groan of shifting tectonic plates, the distant rumble of volcanoes, and the strange choruses of unseen creatures. But when the Calypso II descended into the uncharted stretch beyond the Mariana Trench, all sound vanished.
By E. hasan4 months ago in Fiction
The warning carved above the entrance to the Paris Catacombs is not a metaphor—it’s a promise. Thirty meters beneath the boulevards of the City of Light stretches a labyrinth of bones and silence. A subterranean empire built from cruelty, disease, and fear. Six million dead arranged into art. Six million stories silenced.
By E. hasan4 months ago in Horror
Whatever Will Be. When I was just a little boy, I believed my father knew everything. He could hoist me onto his shoulders and make the world seem smaller, safer. He could mend a broken toy with his rough, work-worn hands. And when I asked him the questions that burned inside me, he answered with a gentleness that carried more weight than certainty ever could.
Seren had always known she was the last. The Observatory’s glass dome groaned beneath the winds that scoured the dead Earth, but she barely noticed anymore. The hum of the machines was her lullaby, the stars her only companions.
Deline Lowell first saw the flower on a Tuesday morning. It jutted from a crack in the pavement outside her apartment—a black bloom, petals curled like burned velvet. She nearly stepped on it before stopping short.
The rain started just as Emma Lowell pulled into the school parking lot. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for the stream of children to spill out the doors. Bright backpacks, laughter, the high-pitched clamor of release. But her daughter, Lila, did not appear.
By E. hasan5 months ago in Fiction
Devonne Kincaid had never known thirst like this. Water slid down his throat by the gallon, yet his mouth stayed dry, his tongue raw. Coffee, wine, juice—nothing quenched it. At night he lay awake, jaw aching, grinding against a hunger that felt older than he was.
Devonne woke to silence. Not the ordinary silence of dawn, but a silence so heavy it pressed against his ribs. He rose from bed and stepped into the hallway of his apartment—only to stop short.
The rain came in sheets, blurring the world into streaks of gray and silver. Noah gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, eyes fixed on the thin line of headlights cutting through the mist. Beside him, Anna’s hand pressed to her belly, her breath uneven, panicked.
