Noman Afridi
Bio
I’m Noman Afridi — welcome, all friends! I write horror & thought-provoking stories: mysteries of the unseen, real reflections, and emotional truths. With sincerity in every word. InshaAllah.
Stories (202)
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The Unwavering Spirit of Shibuya
In the bustling, vibrant heart of Tokyo, where the rhythm of life was dictated by the ceaseless arrival and departure of trains, a remarkable tale of loyalty unfolded. This was the story of Hachiko, an Akita dog whose devotion transcended the boundaries of life and death, etching his name into the annals of history and into the very soul of the city.
By Noman Afridi6 months ago in Motivation
The Well's Whisper
The Well's Whisper The silence shattered the moment frantic screams pierced the humid Texas air. It was October 14, 1987 — a day that dawned like any other, filled with the lazy hum of summer’s lingering warmth and the innocent laughter of an 18-month-old child. Jessica McClure, a tiny whirlwind of curiosity, played joyfully in her aunt’s backyard in Midland, Texas, when the unthinkable occurred. One moment she was there — a bright spark of life — and the next, it was as if the earth had swallowed her whole. She had vanished into an abandoned, eight-inch wide, 22-foot deep well — a dark, narrow maw in the unsuspecting ground.
By Noman Afridi6 months ago in Confessions
The Borrowed Sorrow
borrowed grief to survive—but the sympathy I stole became my prison. The Borrowed Sorrow I pretended to be someone else – a grieving widow, a shattered orphan – to gain sympathy and financial aid, and now I'm trapped in a web of borrowed sorrow. Every kind word, every compassionate glance, every dollar received, feels like another thread tightening around me, pulling me deeper into a lie that has become my terrifying reality. The fear of exposure is a cold, constant companion, far more real than any of the fabricated tragedies I peddle.
By Noman Afridi6 months ago in Confessions
The Voice at the Door
The rain was a steady, mournful rhythm against the windows, a soundtrack to the oppressive silence inside our small cottage. Three days. It had been three days since we’d buried my mother, Clara. Three days since her vibrant laughter, her comforting presence, had been reduced to a cold, sterile memory. The grief was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making every breath an effort.
By Noman Afridi6 months ago in Horror
The Blind Mother's Embrace
The little girl, Elara, knew her mother by touch, by scent, by the gentle lull of her whispered lullabies. Every night, without fail, her mother would visit her in her dreams. Not a vivid, bustling dream, but a soft, warm cocoon where she would be cradled in her mother’s lap, her tiny head resting against a familiar, comforting chest. Her mother’s hands, impossibly soft, would stroke her hair, trace patterns on her back. And even though Elara never saw her face in these dreams – it was always shrouded in a gentle, hazy darkness – she knew, with an innocent certainty, that these were her mother's hands, her mother's scent of lavender and old books, her mother's soothing voice.
By Noman Afridi6 months ago in Motivation
The Grave That Waited
The dreams began subtly, a faint whisper in the dark, then grew into a suffocating presence. It was always the same: a patch of untamed earth, overgrown with thorny weeds and gnarled roots, under a sky the color of bruised plums. And in the center, a freshly dug grave. The earth around it was dark, clumpy, as if disturbed only moments before. But the truly chilling detail was the simple, unadorned headstone. No ornate carvings, no flowery epitaphs. Just one word, starkly etched into the grey stone:
By Noman Afridi6 months ago in Horror
