Psychological
Failsafe
Tim Solomon awoke to the first alarm, rising at the thirteenth. This was precisely thirty-nine minutes, during which time he engaged in a ritual of picking up the phone, checking the time, counting off the minutes, and closing his eyes. The count off, beginning at 6:22am and ending at 7:01, wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could do. Time was limited, and concessions had to be made. But it was hard to know which misses would cost too much—the worst ones that never got fixed. So hard to know.
By David Deane Haskell7 months ago in Fiction
Don’t Read My Story
Don’t Read My Story by Tariq Shah Don’t read this story. Seriously. Don’t. I know that’s a strange way to start a piece of writing, but I need to be honest with you from the beginning. This isn’t a story. It’s a warning. A plea. A desperate attempt to stop something I may have accidentally set loose.
By Tariq Shah7 months ago in Fiction
Messaging Death: A Letter to my Killer. Content Warning.
Being somewhere, anywhere alive was fine, but I didn’t feel fine. I had only met one man I would ever truly consider evil, and that person was you. According to the local paper, across town only fifteen people had died today, same as every other day. That year alone, over a thousand and unfortunately for me, not one of them was you. Then again, not one of them were me, either. I pondered the way that would feel, or what would happen the day time ultimately stopped for me. Who would know, who would care? These are perfectly acceptable thoughts when your life is being held but I guess I won’t have to worry about those answers just yet.
By K.H. Obergfoll7 months ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Room at the End of the Hall
I moved into my grandmother’s house after her death, mostly because I had nowhere else to go. A breakup, a dead-end job, and a city that forgot I existed—it all pushed me to that quiet countryside house I hadn’t visited since childhood. The place was old and creaky, filled with the scent of lavender, mothballs, and old secrets. I told myself I’d sell it after a while. Fix it up, let the memories settle.
By Musawir Shah7 months ago in Fiction
The House That Ate Sound
It began with the floorboards. They didn’t creak. Not under my boots when I first stepped inside. Not when I rolled the heavy suitcase behind me. Not even when I jumped, just to test. The silence was absolute. Thick. The kind that coats your skin and fills your ears like cotton.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmad7 months ago in Fiction
Beneath the Surface of Dreams
The world felt different when Elena woke up that morning. She couldn’t explain it, but something was wrong. Not in a way that was immediately terrifying—just… off. Like the edges of the world had softened overnight, as if the lines between reality and something else had blurred. But the strangest part? She couldn't remember the dream she'd had the night before. And that was rare. Elena had always been someone who could recall every vivid detail of her dreams, whether it was the people in them, the places, or even the emotions she’d felt.
By Ubaid Khan7 months ago in Fiction
The View Was Beautiful. But I Was Not in It
The view was perfect. From the top of Hill Nine, you could see the entire valley below — green fields stretching like a velvet cloth, a small lake shining like a silver mirror, and tiny houses scattered like children's toys. The sky was a soft blue, almost unreal, and the clouds looked like they had been painted with careful strokes.
By Muhammad Adil7 months ago in Fiction
The Stranger Who Knew My Name Before I Spoke It
The train was nearly empty. It always was on these late-night rides — just shadows stitched to tired seats and the soft, rhythmic clatter of steel slicing through the dark. I boarded from Platform 7B, as I always did after visiting my father’s grave. I didn't talk to people on these journeys. No one ever sat beside me. It was understood: this line wasn’t for conversations. It was for forgetting.
By Abuzar khan7 months ago in Fiction
Guardians and Angels | Chapter Five | Part 18
Brendan Bragg wasn’t alone the night he was murdered on Gravity Hill, and he wasn’t only with Laura DeAngelo either. No, there was another creature there with them on the hillside roadway that snaked upward like a gravel river running silently overtop Sonoma Mountain that October night—a deadly beast—and it wasn’t his murderer.
By Christopher Dubbs7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Message from My Future Self
It started with a simple email titled: "READ THIS—From Future You." At first, I laughed. Probably spam, or some over-the-top prank. But the sender's name froze me—my name. Same Gmail account I hadn’t used in five years. Curious, I opened it. The message was short but unsettling:
By Musawir Shah7 months ago in Fiction
