Psychological

Midnight Key
Rude hour. Key on the counter. Old brass—cold weight—crooked teeth. No tag, no ring, no note; just presence where absence lived five minutes ago.
By Milan Milic4 months ago in Fiction
The Whisper Code
The Whisper Code Every night, her radio speaks in her dead husband’s voice — giving her coordinates she shouldn’t follow.
By Alex Mario4 months ago in Fiction
Terminate.
The theatre smelled of antiseptic and silence. It was a Tuesday morning in late October, the sort of grey London day that makes the whole city seem to whisper. The nurse had spoken softly, as though afraid to wake something sleeping. “You’ll just lie here, love. It won’t take long.” Amira nodded. Her lips trembled though she tried to keep them still. Her palms were cold. Malik sat on the metal chair near the door, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He looked like a man waiting for a verdict. Neither spoke. The only sound was the hum of the lights above and the slow, rhythmic hiss of the heating vent. Two years ago, they had met in the university library, arguing over a constitutional law question neither of them understood. She had laughed first, because he had pronounced jurisprudence like a word made of pebbles. He had said she had the kind of smile that could make the law itself less terrifying. They had been careful, mostly. Careful about their studies, their parents’ expectations, their reputations. Malik’s mother called from Accra every Sunday, reminding him that he was the family’s hope. “You carry our name in your hands,” she would say. Amira’s mother sent long voice notes from Cairo filled with blessings and warnings, each sentence ending in a prayer.
By Test4 months ago in Fiction
The Eye Behind the Door
It begins with a blink. Not yours, the keyhole's. You lean toward the door and the brass narrows, then opens again, a pupil taking you in. The plate is warm, the way coins are warm after a stranger has held them. You tell yourself it’s the house breathing, wood adjusting to the evening. You tell yourself a lot of things that are almost true.
By Echoes By Juju4 months ago in Fiction
The People We Almost Loved
The People We Almost Loved By [Hasnain Shah] You never think much about the ones you almost loved. Not at first. They blur into the digital fog — faces you swiped left or right on, messages that fizzled into nothing, names that sounded perfect until silence took them.
By Hasnain Shah4 months ago in Fiction
Chaos Theory: Through the Keyhole of Politics and godless men.
🗝️ “The Keyhole” - Part political allegory, part terror of a woeful descent into chaos. In the Beginning: There was Good and there was Evil.
By Novel Allen4 months ago in Fiction
The Glimpse: Stories Through the Keyhole
She saw too much. 🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒 Marilyn had just moved into the remote, backwater town of Scaresdale-- not willingly.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin4 months ago in Fiction
The Cartographer’s Oath
When the old world was still folded between paper and belief, maps were considered sacred. Every line drawn was a promise—a shape of truth sworn to exist somewhere beyond the horizon. But in the winter of 1899, a single map was quietly removed from every archive of the Royal Geographic Society. Its name: The Atlas of Tartaria.
By Wellova 4 months ago in Fiction
The Hunter in the Mist. AI-Generated.
The forest road was golden that evening — washed in dying light, leaves whispering like old secrets. Jonas Vale, a solitary hunter, had walked these woods for twenty years. He knew every broken branch, every deer track, every breath of wind.
By Ghanni malik4 months ago in Fiction
Twinkle, Twinkle
Alone, deep asleep, Jolted by a vile cough, Someone’s in the room.
By Debbie Sipowicz4 months ago in Fiction
Moonlight Over the Broken Village
The war had ended, but the silence it left behind was a different kind of weapon. The village of Oakhaven was a skeleton of its former self. Houses were scorched shells, the old stone bridge lay in the river like a broken spine, and the hearts of the people were as shattered as the windows they once looked through.
By Habibullah4 months ago in Fiction
Blue Light — The Last Reflection
They told Dr. Evelyn Shore that the blue lamps were a success because numbers do not lie. In the presentations she watched through a grainy conference camera, graphs sloped down like a prayer: incidents before, incidents after. The lights had been contagious—first Tokyo, then parts of Seoul, a pilot in Berlin, a study in São Paulo. Municipalities called them “a humane intervention.” Neuroscientists called them “a modulatory stimulus.” The press called them a miracle.
By Wellova 4 months ago in Fiction