Fantasy

The Room With No Window – Part 6
The town of Hallowmere had learned to forget. They boarded the house long ago, paved the street, and renamed the block so that no one would remember where it stood. But stories have a way of surviving, even when walls crumble and people disappear.
By Wellova 4 months ago in Fiction
Etha and May. Top Story - October 2025.
Etha and May are as different as night is to day. If we are to be particular, we would say one wore red and the other, shades of mild yellow. Both are strong willed, set in their ways, motherly Black women. Etha lives upstairs in the quaint three story house in the Brookdale neighborhood of East 55th street of Brooklyn, NY. May occupied the apartment somewhere between the ground floor and the middle of the house.
By Antoni De'Leon4 months ago in Fiction
The Door That Shouldn’t Exist. AI-Generated.
It was 2:17 a.m. when Noah woke up to that sound again — a low creak, like a whispering hinge somewhere down the hallway. He sat up, heart pounding, his room dimly lit by the silver light leaking through the blinds. The old house had its noises, yes, but this one… this one was different.
By Nusuki4 months ago in Fiction
The Room With No Window – Part 5
For years, the boarding house remained untouched—a silent shell of wood and dust, sealed behind caution tape. Locals whispered that no one should go near it after dark. But eventually, the city council ordered it torn down. To them, it was just another forgotten ruin.
By Wellova 4 months ago in Fiction
The Last Prayer of Rahim
There’s a small village at the edge of nowhere — the kind of place where time moves slowly, and people remember everything. That’s where Rahim lived.
By Vocal Member 4 months ago in Fiction
The Interdimensional Report
The view through the keyhole was limited, but it allowed Prince Dafydd to see the glowing orbs dancing above the center of the table where all the nobility of the fae kingdom had gathered. He watched as the orbs transformed into different creatures from across all the dimensions, from Gigantopithecus to Shadow People to vampires. Finally, the orbs solidified into an image of human ships sailing across the ocean. King Emyr appeared beside the image, and Prince Dafydd’s wings fluttered with excitement.
By Stephanie Hoogstad4 months ago in Fiction
Ratatatat. Content Warning.
Satan knocked on my hearts door. I Remember it as though it were yesterday, the year 1973 the month of August, it was coming a monsoon as my 37 Packard gave up the ghost on a deserted back road. I had to be smack dab in the middle of nowhere USA. Not a business, not a house, not a street light in sight. I vaguely recall passing a brightly lit neon sign about 3 kilometers and a conniption ago.
By Jim Moon4 months ago in Fiction
The Grove Eats Missionaries. AI-Generated.
They dispatched me from Mediolanum to look into a miraculum, which is to say some poor soul bled out where the bishop thought holy ground ought to be.
By Jesse Shelley4 months ago in Fiction
Someone Knocking
It all started with a knock on the door. A simple, everyday occurrence... except that it was the middle of the night during a howling gale, and the nearest house or road was over a mile away. (A deliberate choice; some neighbours are better at a distance) There should be no reason for someone to be knocking.
By Natasja Rose4 months ago in Fiction
Remember Your Childhood Bedroom!. Content Warning.
Imagination in childhood is powerful. For a short time, it shapes our lives but how we loose it.. I remember waking up in my bedroom, colours bursting all around me, toys of every shape and size waiting to be played with. Big smiles, bold eyes, and bright creatures greeted me each morning. Back then, even the smallest things seemed huge and magical.
By Cryptic Edwards4 months ago in Fiction
The Door That Brought Her Ancestors’ Memory
There was a knock. Not a polite, neighborly tap, but a slow, deliberate thud that echoed through the empty gallery.
By Lin. J4 months ago in Fiction
Why My Body Remembers. Content Warning.
The night bus to Bangalore smells of diesel and longing. I press my forehead against the cool, vibrating window, watching the neon signs of Chennai blur into streaks of fuchsia and gold. My phone is dead. My backpack, stuffed under the seat, holds a single change of clothes and a dog-eared copy of a Rumi translation I pretend to understand. This is not a pilgrimage. It’s a flight. A crack in the surface of my well-ordered life, and I have slipped through.
By Chahat Kaur4 months ago in Fiction