E. hasan

Joined April 2025

171 stories

Bio

An aspiring engineer who once wanted to be a writer .

Stories (171)

Filter by community

Sort by (Optional)

The Kennedy Curse: A Dynasty Haunted by Tragedy. Content Warning.
The Rise of America’s Royal Family When Joseph P. Kennedy Sr. began building his fortune in the early 20th century, he envisioned a legacy that would outlast him. His ambition, combined with his children’s charm and charisma, propelled the family into politics and the national spotlight.
By E. hasan5 months ago in Confessions
The Lost Floor of St. Damien’s Hospital. Content Warning.
St. Damien’s Hospital had been dying long before the city decided to put it out of its misery. Whole wings were abandoned. Wallpaper peeled like sunburned dead skin. The air reeked of bleach and mold. A hospital that once saved lives now hoarded silence like a secret. The emergency ward had shut down over fifteen years ago. No one came here anymore. No one stayed.
By E. hasan5 months ago in Horror
Am I an Empath or the Opposite? A Brain Dissection in Real Time. Content Warning.
Intellect is something that I indeed lack. And so I feel utterly ashamed. It's like a destructive nature that binds me tightly with my idiocy. It is shameful and I find it exhausting. Not like in a subtle way but from deep within. From the very depths of my core . It is shameful, uncouth, and it, without any doubt completely showcases my involuntary degeneration. I sometimes feel desperate, in need of attention, of attachment, of touch, of guilt, of binding, of love, of torture, of whatever I feel like right now.
By E. hasan5 months ago in Psyche
547 days of silence . Content Warning.
No one expected Adeline to wake up. For 547 days, she had slept—body crushed, spine shattered, dreams stolen. Once the brightest presence in any room, a third-year medical student with laughter like sunlight, Adeline was now a husk. Her body was held together by machines. The doctors had gently encouraged the family to let her go. Even her organs had been discussed—donations in her name. A noble end, they had said.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Fiction
The Petals Came With A Card This Time. Content Warning.
They arrived on the fourth Thursday of March. White roses. Twelve of them. Fresh. Unmarked. Wrapped in brown paper. No note or name in sight.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Horror
The Call Lasted for Thirteen Seconds. Content Warning.
I wasn’t supposed to answer the phone. It was 2:13 a.m. I was alone in the apartment, lights off, laptop closed, and every part of me convinced the ringing was a dream.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Horror
Flesh Tunnels and Honey Roads . Content Warning.
They say the roads under the city used to be for mail runners, then smugglers, then something else. Not trains. Not cars. Not even footsteps. Just... something else. The first time I saw one, I thought it was an animal burrow — a hole in the alley wall, just wide enough for a child to crawl through. It glistened in the moonlight, slick and warm-looking, like the inside of a throat. It pulsed. That’s when I knew it wasn’t made of stone.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Horror
I Found My Brother’s Diary — It Ends with My Name. Content Warning.
My brother died on a Thursday. At least, that’s what they told me. Sixteen years old. Suicide, they said. Slit wrists in the bathtub. No note.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Fiction
I Found a Photo of Myself at a Crime Scene From 20 Years Ago . Content Warning.
The envelope had no return address. No stamp. Just my name, scrawled in block letters. Elvin Warren. Inside was a photograph — aged, its corners yellowed, the gloss frayed. The scene was unmistakably that of a crime: blood on white tile, overturned furniture, the telltale chalk outline of a body that had once been warm.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Fiction
The Enchanted Boy
I was seventeen the summer I met him — the summer of sky lanterns, of music in the sand, of endless salt in the air and wildflowers in my hair.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Fiction
The Postman Who Delivered to Heaven
In the little town of Windmere, nestled between golden hills and roads no GPS could find, lived a postman named Eliot Finch.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Fiction
I Found My Own Diary in a Dead Man’s Pocket . Content Warning.
It was supposed to be just another John Doe. Middle-aged, no ID, found slumped against the dumpster behind 8th and Larch. A bullet in the gut, no witnesses, no cameras. Routine — if you could ever call a corpse routine.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Horror