Muhammad Shoaib
Bio
I write stories that feel real—even when they aren’t. Fiction, truth, and the grey in between. For those who feel too much and speak too little.
Stories (3)
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The Girl At No. 9 Part 3
We left the neighborhood when the circles began appearing in our yard—slowly at first, then faster. They weren’t just in the grass anymore; they showed up on the walls, in the dirt by the driveway, even pressed into the kitchen floorboards like some invisible weight had pushed through. My wife stopped sleeping. She stopped talking. Her eyes looked distant, hollowed out by sleepless nights and whispered prayers.
By Muhammad Shoaib6 months ago in Horror
The House At No. 9 part 2
After the fire, after the ashes cooled, the lot remained barren. But strange things started again—not loudly, not with drama—just… wrong. At night, lights flickered in windows that no longer existed, casting brief, shaky shadows that seemed to dance, as if the house was still trying to breathe. Mail still arrived, worn and creased, addressed simply to “Eira.” I picked up one of the envelopes once, curiosity getting the better of me, but the ink on the stamps looked faded, almost drifting away, and the return address was a water-stained blur. I placed it back on the stoop. The next day, it was gone.
By Muhammad Shoaib6 months ago in Horror
The Girl from No. 9 – Part I: Feeding It
Part I: The Girl from No. 9 We never really talked to the girl from No. 9. She moved in during winter, the kind of winter that didn’t feel clean—more gray than white, more silence than snow. The trees outside were bare, brittle things that clawed at the sky. Even the neighborhood dogs stopped barking. It was like the whole street held its breath the day that family arrived.
By Muhammad Shoaib6 months ago in Horror
