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Professional Fiction Writing Services: Your Story, Masterfully Told
Have you ever dreamed of holding a book with your name on the cover? A story that captivates readers, makes them laugh, cry, or stay up all night turning pages? But maybe you’ve hit a wall—writer’s block, time constraints, or just the daunting task of polishing a raw idea into a masterpiece.
By Hennry James 6 months ago in Fiction
Beneath the Basement Floor
Previously... Hira has uncovered pieces of a disturbing truth: her name tied to a psychiatric record she doesn’t remember, voicemails from her own voice, and a child claiming to be forgotten. A mysterious mirror message begged for help. Photos show her with a girl she doesn’t know. And now, in the basement of her building, an ancient wooden box and a tape revealed chilling therapy sessions she supposedly had.
By Abid Ali Khan7 months ago in Fiction
Voicemails from the Past
The Story So Far… Hira's new life in Ridge Town has unraveled into something twisted. Strange voices. Photos of her taken in secret. A man — or a presence — living in apartment 7B. And now, her own image staring into the camera while she sleeps.
By Abid Ali Khan7 months ago in Fiction
The Man in Apartment 7B
The Story Continues... The hallway leading to apartment 7B always smelled of old carpet and damp paint. It was as if time stood still in that corner of the building. Hira had passed by it dozens of times, but she never dared to stop. There was something about that door — the rusted brass numbers, the uneven doormat, the faint sound of movement behind it — that made her uneasy.
By Abid Ali Khan7 months ago in Fiction
A New Home, A Hidden Past
The moment Hira stepped out of the taxi and onto the damp, cobbled street, she felt a chill crawl down her spine. Ridge Town was supposed to be a new beginning — a sleepy hilltop community far from the chaos of her past life in Karachi. She had rented an old Victorian-style apartment at the edge of the town, nestled between pine trees and fog-draped hills.
By Abid Ali Khan7 months ago in Fiction
The House That Waits at the Edge of the Fog
1. The Arrival Elena had seen the house in her dreams long before she ever found it. It sat quietly at the edge of a fading forest, shrouded in fog that moved like breath across the hills. Windows like closed eyes. A door like a secret no one wanted to tell.
By Silas Blackwood7 months ago in Fiction
The Shape of Her Shadow
The first time I saw her, she wasn’t there. It was a Tuesday, the kind of gray afternoon that smudges the edges of everything—trees, houses, my own hands. I was walking the dirt path behind the old mill, where the river mutters to itself and the air smells like damp stone. I’d been coming here since I was a kid, when Mom would drag me along to sketch the willows. She’d sit for hours, pencil scratching, humming songs she never taught me, while I tossed pebbles into the current, counting ripples until the sun dipped low. That was before she got sick, before the hospital visits, before the house turned quiet and I learned to cook for one. Before I started seeing things that couldn’t be.
By Faiz Bashir7 months ago in Fiction
Last Night . AI-Generated.
It was just a regular Tuesday. Or at least, that’s how it looked. I had made dinner around 8:30 p.m. — just some roasted vegetables, a bit of garlic, oregano, and olive oil. Nothing fancy, just the kind of meal that feels like a quiet hug after a long day. I always find vegetables oddly comforting. Maybe it’s because growing up, my mom used to make this same dish when things felt heavy in the house. Simple food can feel like a memory you didn’t know you needed.
By Sherooz khan7 months ago in Fiction
The Rookie. Content Warning.
The lonesome wail of a distant siren cut through the cold night air, adding to the city's dismal atmosphere. Det. Marchetti blew the steam off his coffee with a sigh, taking a slurp before ducking under the plastic yellow tape stretched across the alley. It was thicker than mud and only half as tasty, but it was the best cup the 42nd precinct could brew. Besides, he wasn't in a position to complain. There were worse things in this life than bad coffee; a sentiment that the body at his feet would probably share, if it could talk.
By Natalie Gray7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter
*The Last Letter* The attic smelled of dust and forgotten memories. Emma wiped her hands on her jeans as she pulled open the old cedar chest, its hinges groaning in protest. Inside lay a patchwork of her grandmother’s life—yellowed photographs, a lace wedding veil, a stack of letters tied with a frayed blue ribbon.
By Ziafat Ullah7 months ago in Fiction
Episode 8: Paper Dog Tags
So everyone was already gone when Unit Twelve reached the supermarket. The roof had caved in. The shelves were burned. The cold cases hummed with nothing. The only sound was the clink of broken jars rolling gently under Marla’s boots. Once upon a time this place sold ice cream and aspirin and checkout-line horoscopes. Now it sold death in six aisles and a parking lot full of empty shoes.
By Paper Lantern7 months ago in Fiction
