Fan Fiction

Nothing But Voices. AI-Generated.
“Are you sure this is the right day?” “You’ve asked that three times already.” “I know, but the letter didn’t sound certain.”
By Mehwish Jabeen28 days ago in Fiction
Chased by the cop on s back country road in kentucky my girlfriend attacked. Y a werewolf.
the was November night wround84:40 pm me and my girl friend was going to our friend Trish cabin up the holler when I notice a cop car on the side of the road it was old and beat up car my nova pretty cool I was happy we want a good twenty minutes alone i notice a car be hind me driving irraatic
By Walter evans29 days ago in Fiction
DECODING THE MAN FROM A NON-EXISTENT COUNTRY
On a summer day in Oia in 1954, at Haneda International Airport in Tokyo, Japan, passengers streamed through passport control. Everything seemed normal until a middle-aged, well-dressed man approached the immigration counter. Customs officers examined his thick passport, and suddenly, an eerie silence fell. The passport appeared valid, containing visa stamps from numerous countries, but there was one inconsistency. It was issued by a country called Taured, a nation that didn't exist on Earth.
By HieuDinh29 days ago in Fiction
The Candle That Burned Past Midnight 🕯
🕯 The Candle That Burned Past Midnight The candle sat on the windowsill of a narrow apartment, its wax pooled thick and uneven at the base. It was plain — no scent, no decoration — just a thin white candle in a chipped glass holder.
By Zidane29 days ago in Fiction
Milk and cookies . Content Warning.
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. hasan29 days ago in Fiction
Red Heels in the Quiet
Dan noticed it before Arturo said anything—the way his voice hesitated, the way his hands fidgeted like he was deciding whether or not to open a door he’d kept locked for years.
By Taslim Ullah29 days ago in Fiction
The Cinder’s Weight
The hearth has stopped its singing.white-ribbed and glowing with a soft, pulsing ache. I am watching the last flame— a tiny, blue-tongued ghost licking the underside of a charred knot. It is fragile, a translucent ribbon fraying against the weight of the coming dark. There is a specific silence that lives here For hours, it was a roar of gold and defiance, consuming the dry cedar of our history, the splinters of every word we ever threw into the heat to keep the room alive. But the wood is spent now. The logs have collapsed into a skeletal geography,
By Awa Nyassi30 days ago in Fiction
How Pennywise Keeps Losing
Why calling an ancient shape shifting terror “just a clown” or worse Bob Gray is the most disrespectful and effective weapon in the entire It universe.
By Louise Noel 30 days ago in Fiction
The Piano With Three Missing Keys 🎹
The piano stood against the far wall of the living room, its dark wood dulled by time and sunlight. Three keys were missing from the middle — not broken, not stuck, simply gone. In their place were narrow gaps, like teeth lost to years of careful use.
By Zidane30 days ago in Fiction
🗺️ The Salt of the World
When the wells turned bitter, the elders argued for three days before admitting the truth. Water still flowed, but it no longer nourished. Crops withered despite rain. Animals drank and wandered away confused. Children complained that soup tasted like dust. The land was thirsty for something deeper than moisture.
By Karl Jacksonabout a month ago in Fiction
THE ARCHITECTURE OF DARK: RITUAL WINTER
The world doe not die in winter, simply holds its breath. Where I live, the transition isn't a gradual slide, but a sharp snap. One morning, you wake up and the air has changed. It no longer smells of damp earth and rotting leaves; it smells of nothing at all. It is a clean, sterile cold that reaches into your lungs and reminds you that you are made of water and warmth—two things the frost wants to take back.
By Awa Nyassiabout a month ago in Fiction
The Watch That Stopped at 3:17 🕰
The watch lay in the back of a kitchen drawer for nearly twenty years. Not because it was forgotten, but because it had been placed there carefully, wrapped in a soft handkerchief that still smelled faintly of soap and tobacco. The drawer was opened often — for spare batteries, for scissors, for rubber bands — and every time it opened, the watch was seen.
By Zidaneabout a month ago in Fiction