Horror
The Train I Almost Missed. AI-Generated.
The 7:45 train was late again — just like it always was on Mondays. The platform was crowded with tired faces and the smell of burnt coffee. Everyone looked impatient, as if being late was the greatest tragedy of their day.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Paradox
In the fog-drenched town of Evershade, where cobblestone streets whispered secrets and lanterns flickered like fading memories, there lived an old man known simply as The Clockmaker. His name was Elias Thorn, a quiet soul who spent his days surrounded by ticking gears, brass pendulums, and the soft hum of time itself.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Fiction
Dangerous Liaisons.
Moira : I have always felt a presence which seemed like another part of myself...people thought me strange, so I never spoke of it. Lately though, I have felt the other's stronger pull on my soul...he keeps calling to me. I sleep and dream of Him.
By Novel Allen3 months ago in Fiction
The hotel laundry has been running itself after midnight
I work laundry for a mid-range chain hotel — the kind with fake marble floors, “continental breakfast,” and carpets that smell faintly like wet dog no matter how often they’re shampooed. My shift’s usually 4 p.m. to 1 a.m., but I’m often the last one here. Nobody wants to be the person closing down the laundry room at night.
By V-Ink Stories3 months ago in Fiction
The Mirror Draft. AI-Generated.
Ethan Ward was a literature professor at Hillcrest University — a quiet man who loved solitude more than social events. His students called him “The Ghost Teacher” because of how silently he moved through the halls. He wasn’t rude — just lost in thought, like someone living between two worlds.
By Ghanni malik3 months ago in Fiction
The Bench at Platform 4
By [Asghar ali awan] Every morning, the same whistle pierced the crisp air of dawn. The 7:45 train slid into Platform 4, a routine so familiar that even the pigeons seemed to know the schedule. Amidst the hum of engines and the murmurs of sleepy commuters, there was always one old wooden bench, worn smooth by years of waiting and two strangers who sat on it.
By Asghar ali awan3 months ago in Fiction
