Fantasy

The German Gold Miner
In the shadowed years following the First World War, a man named Johann Richter boarded a rusting steamer bound for South Africa. He carried with him a single trunk, a weathered leather journal, and a dream that glittered like the gold he sought beneath the African soil.
By Muhammad Asad2 years ago in Chapters
Mary had a little lamb. Content Warning.
The chapel cracked apart. Not with noise, but with absence. The air folded in on itself, and the stone walls peeled away like brittle paper, revealing darkness—not blackness, but a depthless void that watched. Gravity shifted. Time unraveled.
By E. hasan2 years ago in Chapters
Mary had a little lamb . Content Warning.
Mary wandered for hours, the cold biting at her skin, but the world no longer followed rules she understood. The village looked the same from a distance—but up close, the houses were different. Windows boarded from the inside. Doors covered in old, brittle runes. No sounds. No voices.
By E. hasan2 years ago in Chapters
Ashes of the Drowned Part 3
The relic whispered in the dark. It hadn’t stopped since Elira touched it. The conch—once dormant, sealed in sea-crystal and warded runes—now pulsed with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat. A slow, wet thrum, felt more in the bones than heard in the air. When Elira closed her eyes, she could feel the sea breathing inside her skull. And sometimes, the whispers became words.
By Richard Bailey2 years ago in Chapters
Ashes of the Drowned Part 2
The water was ice-cold, and it didn’t feel natural. Vaelin and Elira trudged through the southern quarter of Nareth, where the map she recovered had marked something hidden beneath the streets. Mossy stonework arched over their heads in crumbling remnants of coastal architecture—half-drowned, half-forgotten.
By Richard Bailey2 years ago in Chapters
Mary had a little lamb . Content Warning.
Mary awoke to silence. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep—or if she had ever truly woken at all. Time felt warped, stretched thin like old wool. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar: rough wooden beams dark with age. A candle flickered somewhere nearby, casting shadows that danced like silent specters on the walls. Her limbs were heavy. Her mouth dry. But she was alive. Sebastian was the first thing she saw when she turned her head. Sitting at the edge of the room, motionless. Watching. As always. “Where… am I?” she whispered, throat raw. “You’re home,” he said gently. His voice, once a comfort, now sent a chill down her spine. “You were sick. But I’ve been taken care of you.” She nodded, too weak to question further. He nuzzled her hand with false affection, and for a fleeting moment, Mary felt the warmth of familiarity. But then, in the quiet, she heard something else. Whispers. Faint. From the floorboards below. She tried to sit up, but her body refused. Her mind, however, began to unravel the knots. There were flashes—fragments of a forest clearing, a red cloak, blood on snow. A woman screaming. A voice, too deep to belong to any lamb, whispering: “She doesn’t need to know.” Mary began to weep, quietly. And Sebastian pressed closer, as if comforting her. But she noticed something. The smell. Not of earth or hay. Not of farm life or woodsmoke. It was the coppery scent of blood. Mary’s gaze drifted across the room. In the corner, beneath a cloth, was something lumpy. A shape she couldn’t define. She blinked hard, and when she opened her eyes again, the cloth was gone. Empty space. No trace. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. That’s what Sebastian told her. “You’re remembering things that didn’t happen,” he said calmly, almost pitying. “Trauma creates shadows. I’m here to keep them away.” She nodded, trying to believe him. But every night, when the candle burned low and the shadows grew long, the whispers returned. And they weren’t in her head. They came from beneath the floor. Days passed—though time had no meaning. She regained enough strength to move, to sit, to explore the house under Sebastian’s watchful eye. Everything looked normal. But it wasn’t. There were scratches on the windowsills—symbols she didn’t recognize. Mirrors had been removed, replaced with panes of smoked glass. The clocks all ticked in unison, but never changed time. And in the kitchen drawer, beneath old cutlery, she found a torn piece of paper with two words scrawled in frantic ink: “DON’T TRUST HIM.” That night, Mary waited until Sebastian slept. Or pretended to. She crept to the cellar door. It was locked, but the key was under the rug—almost as if he wanted her to find it. She descended into the dark, heart pounding, breaths slowing .Each step creaked like a scream. At the bottom, she found the altar. Empty. The walls were covered in charcoal drawings. Spirals. Eyes. Images of her—hundreds of them. But in each one, her face was missing. Scratched out violently. Then she saw the newest drawing, still drying. Her. Standing in front of the chapel. But something… was behind her. Tall, horned. A shadow with eyes like burning coals. She dropped the drawing, heart racing. “Mary.” Sebastian’s voice. Behind her. She turned, but he wasn’t there. Just the candle beside the altar. Flickering. Then—movement. From the walls. They breathed. The wood, the dirt—it pulsed like something alive. A slow, rhythmic thumping. Like a heartbeat. Mary ran. Up the stairs, through the house, out into the snow-slicked field. The cold tore at her skin, but she didn’t care. She had to get away—just to see the world, the sky, something real. And she did. She looked up. And saw the stars. But they were wrong. Not constellations—but runes. Symbols. Watching her. Rearranging. She fell to her knees, clutching her head. And in the distance, somewhere deep within the woods… The chapel bell rang again. To be continued…
By E. hasan2 years ago in Chapters
Before It Ends. Content Warning.
"Wh... what??" My voice trembled as I stared in shock at my mother with the ring in my hands as my gaze moved to the deep red stone on it.
By Luna Verity2 years ago in Chapters
Chapter Three: The Healer
Twig peeked out of Aidan’s pocket as he crawled, dumbfounded, across the floor toward Kyden’s limp form. They patted Aidan's face with an inquisitive chirp, but he neither noticed nor felt it. He was far too busy scooping the old Elfkin gently into his arms, his dark eyes permanently fixed on the pasty, slack face staring up at him. Breaking from his shock a bit, Aidan gave Kyden’s shoulders the gentlest shake.
By Natalie Gray2 years ago in Chapters
The Hidden Staircase
It was the summer I turned fourteen when I discovered the hidden staircase in my grandmother’s house. I’d been staying with her for a few weeks while my parents traveled abroad. Her home was an old, creaky Victorian tucked into a quiet street at the edge of town — the kind of place where the floorboards groaned under your feet and every cabinet had its own story. I always had the feeling that the house was watching me.
By Mysterious/Cool Style2 years ago in Chapters
Advice From My Younger Self
Story for Vocal Media: If I could sit down with the younger version of myself — the wide-eyed dreamer full of fire, fear, and a little too much pride — I would tell him a few things. Not to scare him, not to change his path, but to offer the kind of perspective only time can teach.
By Mysterious/Cool Style2 years ago in Chapters
Lessons I’ve Learned From Rock Bottom
There was a time when I thought I had everything figured out. A decent job, a predictable routine, and a handful of people I thought I could rely on. But life has a funny way of teaching lessons — often in the most brutal, unexpected ways.
By Mysterious/Cool Style2 years ago in Chapters
Ashes of the Drowned Part 1
The mist never lifted in Nareth. It clung to rooftops and ruins, swallowed the streets, and settled into the bones of the village like a secret it refused to share. When Vaelin and Elira arrived, the fog parted only enough to allow them entry, curling around their cloaks and armor like curious fingers.
By Richard Bailey2 years ago in Chapters