Psychological
Drum of the Door. Honorable Mention in A Knock at the Door Challenge.
I thought I was alone, but the drum of the door is loud in the quiet. My ears must pardon as it is not the door's fault. What a wooden beauty. Deep red and polished it stands locked and latched to the frame. It almost allows a person to stare at it all day, get blissfully lost, and call themselves an art enthusiast. Almost. Oh how that door has saved me. So many times that pounding of the drum has come and gone, sticks of great force and human flesh. Yet I have remained safe inside. However, this instance has the little hairs on my back trying to flee. No three knocks separated by a short intermission, no knocking in a combination, no secret knock, no single confident knock, and no muffled screaming to get my attention. This time the order is horrendous, and the hits dramatically increase and decrease in intensity with no tell. Why are they not aborting this attempt? I tiptoe over to the wooden beauty. It is as if the door is unsteady and pushing itself farther from me, and my heart can't take the pace. What lurks beyond?
By Ashley Wrigley4 months ago in Fiction
Little School of Horrors
Knock, knock knock! No one had knocked on my door for eight years. Now, the rapping is loud, insistent. Its echo stirs my desolate corridors. I used to hear laughter. And shouting, and whispers too. I comforted occasional weeping in a quiet corner, and I sheltered little people from rain. I was their ship that sailed them to a future of letters, numbers, creativity; I was a conduit for friendships, connections, and finished projects.
By Teresa Renton4 months ago in Fiction
Echoes of Solace
The knock came just after midnight. Three sharp, deliberate ramps that echoed through the apartment like a warning. I froze, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, heart hammering. No one should be here. Not at this hour. Not in my building.
By Marlowe Solace4 months ago in Fiction
When the Stars Forgot to Shine
The night it happened, the world didn’t notice at first. The stars simply… didn’t come. No one could explain it. The moon hung lonely and pale in the dark sky, surrounded by emptiness. Astronomers called it a “temporary celestial blackout.” Poets called it “the night heaven turned its face.” But to Mira, it felt like a reflection of her own fading light.
By Muhammad zahoor4 months ago in Fiction
The Silence That Answers Back
The Silence That Answers Back By: Abdul Muhammad The knocking began the night after they scattered her grandfather’s ashes. It was a soft, rhythmic sound from within his old oak wardrobe, a patient tap-tap-tap like a heartbeat muffled by wood and time. It wasn’t a sound that frightened Elara; it was a sound that ached. It was the echo of his pocket watch being wound, the tap of his pipe against the ashtray, the sound of him puttering in his sanctuary.
By Abdul Muhammad 4 months ago in Fiction
The Weight of Unanswered Doors
The Debt of Regret By: Abdul Muhammad Silas was a collector of ghosts. Not the kind that rattled chains, but the kind that settled in the soul with the weight of lead and the chill of forgotten mornings. He was a Regret Eater, the best in the city. For a price, he would listen, absorb, and take. He would carry the burden so others wouldn't have to.
By Abdul Muhammad 4 months ago in Fiction
The Halloween Table 4
Starting to think better to get more place settings on the table. Didn't think anyone would come but maybe one. The doorbell bonged once again, and I went to check. Yes, it is Francine and Monty. One I was expecting, but not with a guest but the more the merrier scarier. Come on into this unexpected party of five, I believe. We gathered in the dining room, and we set the table for four more. The buffet offered several favorites that all enjoyed and with that we sat and ate and shared a Halloween meal of friends and ghouls galore.
By Mark Graham4 months ago in Fiction
My Bones Pick Up the Signal
My Bones Pick Up the Signal By: Abdul Muhammad The silence had teeth. It was a cold, gnawing thing that bit at the edges of Elara’s consciousness the moment she turned out the light. For three years, since the Great Unraveling of her life—a divorce, a funeral, a quiet shattering—sleep had become a foreign country she could no longer visa into. Pills left her groggy and haunted. Meditation was a cruel joke. The only thing that worked was the static.
By Abdul Muhammad 4 months ago in Fiction
