Mati Henry
Bio
Storyteller. Dream weaver. Truth seeker. I write to explore worlds both real and imagined—capturing emotion, sparking thought, and inspiring change. Follow me for stories that stay with you long after the last word.
Stories (108)
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Rooms We Never Entered
It started as a local curiosity, the sort of whispered story that drifts through small towns late at night: an old boarding house, abandoned decades ago, standing stubbornly at the end of Ashford Lane. The house had once been grand, its wooden balustrades carved with roses and angels. Now, rot claimed the walls and ivy strangled the stone, but something darker, locals said, had always haunted it.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Horror
The Bird Who Sang in Silence
In the hush before dawn, when the sky holds its breath and even the trees seem hesitant to rustle, there lived a small, feathered creature who carried an entire forest of songs within her. No one quite noticed when she arrived. No one marked the day her tiny feet first touched the mossy branch by the old pond. She wasn’t brightly colored, nor did she soar with flamboyant sweeps across the sky. But she had a voice woven of silver threads—soft, fragile, and true.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Poets
Reflection at 3 a.m.
At precisely 3 a.m., the air in Mara’s small attic room felt colder than usual. A damp, heavy silence pressed against her chest, making each breath feel like an effort. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpane, but it wasn’t the wind that had woken her.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Horror
Constellation on Her Skin
Mara had always known there was something different about her. Not in the obvious ways — she looked, spoke, and laughed like anyone else. But late at night, when the world slipped into quiet darkness, she would stand before her mirror and trace the pattern on her skin.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Fiction
The Things We Leave at Stations. Content Warning.
They say every station keeps a little of what we leave behind: scarves forgotten on benches, umbrellas propped beside vending machines, suitcases with broken handles. But some say stations keep something far darker—fragments of us that we never meant to leave.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Horror
Two Men, One Plane, and 64 Days of Sky
On the chilly morning of December 4, 1958, the sun climbed slowly over the Nevada desert, painting the tarmac at McCarran Airport gold and rose. Two men — Robert Timm and John Cook — stood beside a modest Cessna 172 named Hacienda. To a casual onlooker, it looked like just another plane, but what they were about to attempt was anything but ordinary.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in History
Puzzle Pieces from the Future
It all began on an otherwise forgettable Thursday morning, when the first piece arrived. A small, glossy fragment of something larger — not quite cardboard, not quite plastic — slipped through the mail slot of Mina’s studio apartment. On its face, a swirling pattern of metallic blue and silver lines coiled around a single letter: "R."
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Futurism
The Oracle of Broken Things
In a forgotten quarter of the city, tucked behind alleys too narrow for cars and lit only by flickering lamps, there stood a peculiar little shop with a sign so faded it could barely be read. Those who did read it found three words painted in cracked, flaking gold: The Oracle of Broken Things.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Fiction
Labubu Doll
It began with a box at the back of an antique shop so old the sign above the door had peeled into unreadable curls. The shopkeeper, a gaunt man whose eyes seemed to live elsewhere, claimed it had arrived anonymously, packed in straw, wrapped in a silk cloth faded with age.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Horror
The Algorithm’s Apprentice
They say you shouldn’t stare too long into the abyss because it might stare back. What they don’t tell you is that, in 2025, the abyss also wants to optimize your engagement, track your scroll rate, and gently nudge you toward buying another bamboo toothbrush.
By Mati Henry 6 months ago in Futurism
