Short Story
Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 17). AI-Generated.
Silence filled the sheriff’s office like a living thing. Evelyn stared at the photo on the desk— the woman who’d haunted her for days holding her like a daughter. The child standing beside her. A family portrait that should not exist.
By Ahmed aldeabellaabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 16). AI-Generated.
The sheriff’s office felt smaller than ever. Evelyn sat alone in the interview room, elbows on the cold metal table, head buried in her hands. Everything was spinning— the woman, the child, the photos, the impossible familiarity.
By Ahmed aldeabellaabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 14). AI-Generated.
Rowan didn’t sleep. Neither did Evelyn. The inn felt less like shelter and more like a thin shell keeping out something ancient, persistent, and patient. Snow hammered the roof with steady force, and the storm wrapped the building in an eerie cocoon of white noise.
By Ahmed aldeabellaabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 13). AI-Generated.
Even after leaving the cabin, Evelyn could still hear the voice. Soft. Feminine. Unmistakably intentional. It replayed in her mind over and over again as Rowan drove away from the Vermont woods, faster this time, the wheels cutting through slush and fresh snow like a warning siren. The tension inside the car was thick enough to crush the air itself.
By Ahmed aldeabellaabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 12). AI-Generated.
The drive toward the abandoned cabin felt like a descent into another world. The Vermont landscape grew wilder with every mile—dense evergreens weighed down with snow, frozen streams glinting under the afternoon light, and a silence that felt too deliberate to be natural.
By Ahmed aldeabellaabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 11) . AI-Generated.
The morning after the package arrived felt unreal—too quiet, too still, too watchful. Snow had stopped falling, leaving behind a white sheet across the Brooklyn streets, reflecting the pale sun like a cold mirror. Evelyn stood by the window of her apartment, staring down at the street with a numbness that felt heavier than fear itself.
By Ahmed aldeabellaabout a month ago in Fiction
The Final Entry: Arthur St. Clair’s Sacrifice
Arthur St Clair had always believed in maps. As a former Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and, secretly, a senior cartographer, he had spent his life charting the world’s anomalies, ensuring the line between fact and folklore remained taut and unbroken. But the map he stared at now was failing him. It was a fragment of parchment tucked into his pocket, showing a single, faint, circular clearing near Oxford labelled only: The Rabbit Hole.
By DARK TALE CO. about a month ago in Fiction
Ash
At first it was only a nuisance. A fine gray dust that gathered on windowsills, on the backs of chairs, in the creases of her thoughts. It followed her indoors, clung to her hair, rested on her tongue with the faint bitterness of something already finished.
By Aarsh Malikabout a month ago in Fiction
