family
The Midnight Bargain: When My Brother's Voice Cracked a Decade of Silence. AI-Generated.
3:17 AM The phone’s vibration drilled into the silence like a bone saw. I fumbled blindly, squinting at the screen. The name flashing there—*Jake*—felt like a ghost punching me in the throat. Ten years. Three thousand six hundred fifty days of radio silence. And now this. 3 AM. The hour of emergencies and drunks. I almost silenced it. *Almost.* That old bitterness—thick as scar tissue—rose in my chest. The last time I’d heard his voice, he’d called me a "self-righteous parasite" before slamming the door so hard our dead mother’s photo rattled on the wall. Grief over her loss had twisted us into strangers, then enemies. We’d built walls with the bricks of her absence. But something in the *way* it rang… frantic. Relentless. A sound that bypassed my anger and hooked straight into my lizard brain. *Danger.* I swiped answer. Held my breath. *The Static and the Gasp* "E-Ellie?" His voice was shredded glass and static. Not drunk. *Terrified.* "Jake? What—" "They’re… inside the walls." A wet, ragged cough. "The bugs. Can you… *hear* them?" My blood froze. This wasn’t an apology. Wasn’t a reunion. This was a Code Red from a collapsing mind. The Unspoken War Our estrangement wasn’t simple. After Mom’s cancer won, Jake dove headfirst into conspiracy forums and cheap whiskey. I buried myself in spreadsheets and sterile relationships. We became caricatures: *The Crazy Brother. The Ice Sister.* The last fight was nuclear—him screaming about government trackers in his fillings, me hissing that he’d dishonored her memory. Truth? We were both drowning. Just in different oceans. Now, listening to him wheeze about "bioluminescent mites" chewing through his drywall, I faced the gut-punch truth: *He wasn’t calling for forgiveness.* **He was calling because I was still his emergency contact.** *Driving into the Storm* I broke every speed limit driving to his rust-belt apartment. Key still fit the lock (why did I keep it?). The smell hit first—sour milk, stale smoke, and something acrid. Ammonia? He was crouched behind a toppled bookshelf, face gaunt in the blue light of a dead laptop screen. A makeshift "weapon"—a fireplace poker wrapped in duct tape—clattered from his hand when he saw me. "Ellie?" He blinked, childlike. "The… the ventilation shafts. They’re laying eggs in—" "Shut up, Jake." My voice surprised me. Cold. Steady. *Nurse-mode activated.* "Where are your meds?" *The Diagnosis in the Debris* His lithium bottles were empty. Anti-psychotics, untouched since November. Piles of printed forum rants about "nano-parasites" covered the moldy carpet. This wasn’t just addiction. This was schizophrenia’s cruel masterpiece, painted over a decade of neglect. As I forced water into him, wiped grime from his forehead, the old rage flickered. *Why me? Why now?* Then I saw it. Taped to the fridge beneath a takeout menu: A faded Polaroid. Mom, laughing, arms around us at Coney Island. Age 12 and 14. Before the wars. *"My Keepers,"* she’d scribbled on the border. *The Bargain* Getting him committed wasn’t gentle. He fought, sobbing about "extraction teams." I signed papers with hands that didn’t feel like mine. In the sterile hospital hallway, a social worker asked, "Relationship to patient?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. The word *sister* felt foreign. Heavy. "Emergency contact," I finally said. *The Silence After the Storm
By Wondermindabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cedar Box Directive: How a Whisper in the Dust Rewrote My Family’s Story. AI-Generated.
The air in Grandma’s attic tasted like forgotten time.** Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of late-afternoon sun cutting through the cobwebbed window. I’d come up here to sort, to donate, to *let go*. But the cedar box stopped me cold.
By Wondermindabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sound that Came from Silence. AI-Generated.
Sofia always had a voice, a universe of melodies and harmonies bubbling within her. But the problem was the precarious bridge connecting her inner world to the outside: her vocal cords, fragile as cracked glass, seemed ready to shatter at the slightest effort. Since she was little, her voice was a shadow, a timid whisper that got lost in the world's cacophony. At family dinners, while her cousins' laughter filled the room, her attempt to tell a joke would turn into a knot in her throat. In moments of great emotion, her voice would lock up, a subtle tremor that hoarseness disguised like a rough blanket. In the classroom, she was the girl with the scribbled notebooks and silent answers, a universe of ideas trapped behind hesitant lips. At birthday parties, Sofia would just mouth the words, her own version of "Happy Birthday" echoing only in her mind.
By Creative Readingabout a year ago in Fiction
When One Door Closes. Honorable Mention in The Second First Time Challenge. Top Story - July 2025.
“Shannon, say something,” Derek prompted. He was only standing a few feet away but his voice seemed so distant. The living room seemed to be tilting, she was going to fall. She grabbed the back of the armchair to steady herself. There was popcorn and an overturned bowl on the green rug. Had she dropped it? She’d need to clean it up before they left. And they’d need the bag. A course of action was formulating and bringing her back down to earth.
By D.K. Shepardabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night My World Turned Upside Down
I was curled up in my favorite armchair, half‑asleep with a mug of lukewarm coffee in hand, when my phone buzzed at 2:47 a.m. The screen lit up with a name I hadn’t thought about in months, and my heart skipped. Four simple words stared back at me: “We need to talk.”
By Hamayoun Tareen about a year ago in Fiction
The Book That Changed Her World
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon when Mia found herself hiding from gym class in the back corner of the school library. She wasn’t particularly fond of dodgeballs or team sports. Her comfort zone was silence and solitude, far away from the chaos of bouncing balls and shouting kids. That day, though, she stumbled upon something unexpected — a book with a cracked spine and faded cover titled “The Girl Who Saw the Wind.”
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
From Graves to Garden Hearts
In the quiet town of Elderhollow, where mist hung low and time seemed to stroll instead of run, there lay an old cemetery on the hill. It was not frightening, nor desolate. Moss curled over the stones like green lace, and birds often sang from the trees that bowed over the resting souls. But still, people stayed away — all but one.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Snowball and the Whispering Moon
Snowball was not quite a rabbit, nor exactly a fox. He had fur as white as freshly fallen dreams and eyes like polished sapphires. In the village, they called him the quiet wanderer, for he never made a sound. Not even his paws left prints in the snow.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Never Existed
Previously... Hira has uncovered impossible truths — medical records stating she imagined a daughter who never existed, yet photographs, voicemails, drawings, and mirror messages point to a child trapped beneath her apartment floor. In a final act of desperation, she returns to the trapdoor in the basement, determined to face the truth — whether it ends in madness or redemption. The Descent The wood groaned under her feet as Hira stepped onto the old staircase beneath the trapdoor. The flashlight’s beam trembled in her hand, reflecting dust and age from the stone walls. As she descended deeper into the darkness, the air grew colder, heavier — like it hadn’t been touched by time… or life. This time, the rusted door at the back of the stone room was slightly ajar. She swallowed hard and stepped forward. “Hira…” A child’s voice whispered again. “Are you… finally coming back?” The Room Beyond the Door She pushed the door open. It creaked like a scream. Inside was a small stone cell. Bare. Damp. Silent. But in the center sat a wooden chair… and on that chair — a doll. Faded. Ripped. Missing an eye. Next to it, a name written on the wall in crayon: “Leena” That name hit her like lightning. She fell to her knees, sobbing. Leena. The name she had whispered in dreams. The one that sometimes echoed in her mind like a lullaby. The name she once screamed as doctors pulled her away. The Truth Unfolds On the far wall, a large mirror hung crookedly. Hira approached it slowly. Her reflection flickered. Then — it changed. Now she stood not in a stone room… but in a sunny bedroom. A child sat on the floor, drawing. The girl looked up. “Mama?” Tears welled in Hira’s eyes. “Leena?” The child smiled, but the light around her dimmed. “You forgot me.” “No, no I didn’t,” Hira whispered. “I didn’t know… I couldn’t remember.” The girl stood, walked to the mirror, and pressed her hand to the glass. “You said you’d never leave. But when they took you… you never came back.” Hira pressed her hand to the same spot. “I came back now,” she whispered. The Collapse Suddenly, the room began to shake. The mirror cracked. Voices screamed — hundreds of them — all saying her name. “Hira.” “Hira.” “HIRA.” She staggered back, clutching her head. Flashes of memory exploded in her mind. A hospital bed. A child screaming. Her wrists strapped down. A doctor’s voice: “We erased the false memories to help her heal.” False? Was Leena just a creation? Or had they removed her? Had they taken Leena from her mind? She crawled toward the mirror again as shards began to fall. Each piece reflected a different version of her — angry, crying, laughing, empty. And one… smiling. With blood on her hands. The Final Message From the wall beside the mirror, a line appeared in glowing red: “If you forget her again… she will become you.” The mirror shattered. Awakening Hira woke up in her bed. Sweating. Gasping. Sunlight streamed through the window. Was it a dream? Was any of it real? She rushed to the bathroom mirror. Her reflection stared back. Calm. Empty. She looked around her apartment. Everything was normal. No trapdoor. No stone room. But when she turned to the desk, a drawing lay there. Crayon. A child and a woman. Above their heads: “Me and Mama.” She blinked. On the back of the page, written in a child’s hand: “Thank you for coming back.” One Month Later Hira moved away from Ridge Town. Started therapy. Got a new job. Sometimes, she wakes up at 3:00 AM and hears a lullaby. Sometimes the mirror fogs up even when there’s no steam. But she never forgot again. She keeps the drawing by her bedside. And in her new apartment, there’s a room no one else sees — filled with toys, crayons, and a single doll named Leena. But One Last Thing... On her birthday, a letter arrived. No return address. Inside, a photograph. Hira. And Leena. Sitting on the floor of the stone room. Both smiling. On the back: "The girl who never existed… finally came home." End of Series: The Shadow Behind Her Eyes
By Abid Ali Khanabout a year 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. One message keeps repeating in different ways: “You left her behind.” The Trapdoor It started with a sound — a faint, rhythmic tapping beneath the floorboards of the basement. A sound no one else could hear. She returned to the basement that evening, armed with gloves, a flashlight, and a crowbar. She moved aside old furniture, broken filing cabinets, and a dusty mattress. And then she saw it — a square outline on the ground that didn’t match the rest of the concrete floor. She pressed her ear to the center. Silence… then, a heartbeat? She pried the corner open. A gust of cold air rushed upward — damp, earthy, and metallic. A wooden staircase led downward into darkness. Beneath the basement… there was another room. The Underground Room Hira descended carefully. Each step creaked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. The flashlight flickered. When she reached the bottom, she found herself in a stone room with no windows. The walls were covered in scratched writing. Dozens of them. Repeating again and again: "Find her. Find her. FIND HER." In the corner, a single cot with old bedsheets. Next to it, a desk, a tape recorder, and a stack of photos — of her. And the girl. A girl no older than seven. Same long black hair. Same eyes. In some photos, they were laughing. In others, crying. In one, Hira was hugging her tightly — like a mother would. Her knees went weak. “What is this?” she whispered. The Hidden File Inside the desk drawer, she found a thick folder marked "Ridge Town Psychiatric – SUBJECT H13". She opened it. Patient: Hira Saeed Case Type: Dissociative Identity Disorder Report Date: July 2015 Subject believes she has a daughter who doesn’t exist. Subject repeatedly enters altered state where she assumes “Mother” personality. Severe trauma suspected, but cause unknown. Subject claims: “My daughter is real. She lives in the place beneath the floor.” Hira dropped the folder. She was reading about herself. And yet, she remembered none of it. The Voice Returns Suddenly, the old tape recorder clicked and began to play. Mommy?" a soft voice whispered. Hira spun around, her light darting across the stone walls. Nothing. I waited here. Like you told me to." Her heart pounded. But you never came back." She backed up toward the stairs. And that’s when she saw it. A child’s drawing on the far wall. Crayon lines. Stick figures. A girl and a woman standing side by side, holding hands. Above their heads: “Me and Mama” The Rusted Door In the back of the stone room, almost camouflaged by shadows, was a small rusted metal door. It was locked. She rattled the handle. Something moved behind it. She stepped back. Then — three slow knocks from the other side. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Followed by a muffled whisper. “Hira…” She ran. Back in the Apartment That night, she collapsed on her bed, covered in dirt and dust. Her mind spiraled. Could the reports be true? Had she suffered a breakdown years ago? Was this “child” just a mental projection — something she invented to survive? But if so… Why were there photographs? Why did she have voicemails she didn’t remember recording? Why did the camera show her standing up in her sleep and whispering things to herself? She looked in the mirror again. Her reflection blinked out of sync. Once again, words formed in the fogged glass. “She’s still down there.” The Letter from the Past Early the next morning, an envelope slid under her door. No stamp. No name. Inside: a single letter, handwritten on torn paper. > "Hira, If you’re reading this, it means the walls between you and her are collapsing. You weren’t supposed to forget. You weren’t supposed to leave. Go back before it’s too late. She still believes you’re her mother." Signed: “You.” The Flashback And then it hit her — a wave of memory so strong it knocked her to the floor. She was in a hospital room. A child was screaming. Doctors were holding her down. A voice — her own — yelling: “Give her back! She’s mine!” And then the injection. Blackness. And silence. The Final Decision Hira stood in front of the trapdoor again. If this was madness, so be it. If she was wrong — if the child never existed — she’d find out once and for all. But if she was right… Then that girl had been trapped beneath the earth, forgotten, alone, for years — waiting for someone who promised she’d return. And now… Hira was ready. She took a deep breath, opened the trapdoor again, and began her descent — flashlight in one hand, the drawing in the other. To Be Continued... Next in Part 5: "The Girl Who Never Existed" She searched for herself... and found a lie.
By Abid Ali Khanabout a year 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. She no longer knows who to trust. Not even herself. The Missed Call It started at 3:00 AM. Her phone buzzed — a call from an unknown number. At first, she didn’t think much of it. She turned it over and went back to sleep. But it rang again. And again. When she finally answered, all she heard was static. Then a voice. Low. Raspy. Familiar. “Hira?” She bolted upright. “Who is this?” she whispered. The voice hesitated. “It’s me. You.” Then the call dropped. She stared at the screen. The number was strange — a format she hadn’t seen before. Curious, she dialed her old number. The one she had when she lived in Karachi. The one she canceled years ago. It rang. Someone answered. But no one spoke. The First Voicemail Later that morning, she noticed a new voicemail. She pressed play. It was a recording of her own voice. But the words she heard… she didn’t remember saying. > "They think I’m dead. But I’m not. I’m still here. He’s keeping me… inside the mirror." She dropped the phone. The Mirror That night, unable to sleep, she stood in front of the long mirror in her bedroom. She stared into it, half-expecting it to shatter. Or to see another version of herself looking back. Nothing happened. But when she turned to walk away, her reflection didn’t move. She froze. Slowly, the reflection lifted its hand… and pressed it against the glass. Hira turned back sharply. It was gone. Just her own reflection again. Her breath fogged up the glass. In the condensation, a sentence began to appear — letter by letter. “HELP ME.” The Man in the Recording The next morning, she called the phone company and asked about the number that had called her. The operator hesitated. “There’s no record of that number being active. It’s not in any database.” “But it’s my old number,” Hira said. “I used it for years.” The operator paused. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but that number was never issued to you — or to anyone else in the last decade. It doesn’t exist.” The Hospital File Determined to find answers, Hira visited the town records office. She requested files on the previous tenants of her building — especially apartment 7B. At first, they refused. But a sympathetic clerk finally handed her a dusty folder, marked “Unresolved — Ridge Complex.” Inside were faded photos, handwritten reports, and a patient record. Name: Hira Saeed Status: Declared mentally unstable. Admitted to: Ridge Town Psychiatric Facility Diagnosis: Delusional dissociation. Claims of multiple realities. Alleged sightings of “herself” inside mirrors and windows. Hira’s hands shook. “I’ve never been to a psychiatric facility,” she muttered. Or had she? The Second Voicemail Back home, another voicemail. This time, a child’s voice. A little girl. > "He told me you forgot. You promised you’d come back. But you’re not her anymore, are you?" Hira screamed and threw the phone across the room. The Note on the Window She tried to calm herself, made tea, sat by the window to think. Outside, across the street, in the fog — something caught her eye. A figure. Standing perfectly still, staring up at her window. Even from this distance, she recognized it. It was her. Again. She ran downstairs. But when she reached the street, the figure was gone. In its place, taped to the outside of her building, was a single piece of paper. Written in the same handwriting from the photo frame in Part 1: “You left her behind. Go back before she forgets you completely.” The Box Beneath the Floor Hira remembered the basement — the old storage area beneath her building. Something was calling her back there. She grabbed a flashlight and descended the narrow, creaking stairs. At the far end of the basement, hidden behind loose bricks, she found a small wooden box. Inside: An old SIM card. A photograph of her holding a child. A cassette tape labeled "Session 3 – Hira’s Therapy." She inserted the SIM into her phone. Immediately, a message popped up. New Voicemail – July 18, 2015 She played it. This time, there was no voice. Just breathing. Then, a scream. Then, silence. The Tape Back in her apartment, she played the cassette. The voice of a doctor came through, clear but cautious. > “Hira suffers from severe delusional breaks. She believes she has lived multiple lives — sometimes simultaneously. She believes one of her realities is trapped inside a phone. The other... in a mirror.” Then her own voice. > “But you don’t get it. I am both of them. And one of us… is going to die.” To Be Continued... Next in Part 4: "Beneath the Basement Floor" The truth was buried deep — literally.
By Abid Ali Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
