Fan Fiction
She Woke Up Someone Else
She Woke Up Someone Else The first time it happened, Alina thought it was a dream. by Yahya Asim She awoke in silk sheets she didn’t recognize, sunlight pouring through tall windows she had never seen before. A strange man was humming in the shower. Her phone, face down on a marble nightstand, lit up with notifications addressed to Dr. Alina Razak, Head of Neurological Research, something she had never studied a day in her life.
By Yahya Asimabout a year ago in Fiction
The Treasure of Faith: A True Story from Peshawar
Ubaid ur Rehman was a simple, kind-hearted man living in Peshawar, a beautiful city in the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan. Unlike most people who measure success in money or status, Ubaid believed that a meaningful life was built on kindness, gratitude, and trust in something greater than oneself. Ubaid was known throughout his neighborhood for his calm nature and selfless ways. He had a principle that guided every part of his life: > “Whatever is meant for me will reach me at the right time. I do not need to chase it, because life already knows what I need better than I do.” He focused on living honestly and helping others, never stressing about how much money he made or what he owned. His friends and family often questioned this approach, thinking he was too naive for the real world. But Ubaid remained steady, holding firmly to his values. One afternoon, after finishing his midday prayer, Ubaid went for a quiet walk along a dusty, peaceful path near his home. While strolling, he noticed something unusual under a thorny bush: a clay pot wrapped in red cloth. Curious, he bent down and gently unwrapped it. To his surprise, the pot was filled with sparkling jewels—diamonds, rubies, and other precious stones that shone brightly even in the soft sunlight. Rather than feeling tempted or greedy, Ubaid simply smiled and whispered to himself: > “If these jewels are truly meant for me, they will come to me in the right way. I do not need to take them now.” Calmly, he rewrapped the pot and left it exactly where he had found it. Later that evening, he mentioned the incident to his younger brother Amir, who was much more practical and materialistic. Amir couldn’t believe his ears. He thought Ubaid was foolish for leaving behind such a treasure. Without wasting a moment, Amir ran to the spot Ubaid described. Excited and full of dreams of becoming rich overnight, he unwrapped the pot eagerly. But when he looked inside, he was horrified. Instead of jewels, he saw only dust, insects, and a foul smell. Angry and convinced that Ubaid had played a cruel trick on him, Amir grabbed the pot and stormed back home. In a burst of rage, he threw the pot through Ubaid’s window. The pot crashed inside the room and shattered loudly. Startled, Ubaid and his wife rushed in. To their amazement, the broken pieces of the pot lay scattered on the floor, and among them were sparkling diamonds and precious stones just as Ubaid had seen earlier. At that moment, Ubaid felt an overwhelming wave of emotion and gratitude. He fell to his knees and whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks, feeling that this was a sign that true blessings come when we have patience and live with a pure heart. This event became a turning point in Ubaid’s life and a powerful story that spread throughout the neighborhood. People began to see him not just as a humble man, but as someone who carried a deep, unshakable faith in life’s natural flow. The story of Ubaid reminds us that sometimes, when we chase after something desperately, it slips away or turns out to be an illusion. But when we let go, stay patient, and live sincerely, the right opportunities and blessings find their way to us—often in unexpected and beautiful ways. Ubaid’s experience is more than just a tale; it is a lesson for anyone feeling restless or discouraged. It teaches us that trust, gratitude, and patience can transform our lives far more deeply than any material possession ever could. --- ✨ Faith is a treasure that transforms destiny;
By Ubaid Ur Rehmanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sepia Timekeeper
The attic had always been off-limits. Clara had grown up hearing that command from her grandmother every time she visited the towering Victorian home. “Old things up there,” Grandma would say, eyes glassy, her voice fading off like a radio losing signal. “Things that don’t need remembering.”
By Muhammad Hamzaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Disappears in Every Photo
It started with a TikTok trend. “Zoom in on the corners of your old photos,” the trend said, “you might find someone who wasn’t there.” Most people found cats, photo glitches, or maybe their annoying cousin photobombing. But when Jamie tried it, she found a girl. Not just in one photo. In all of them. --- She noticed it first in a picture from her 12th birthday. Her friends were laughing, cake smeared on their faces. But just behind the fence—barely visible—was a girl in a white hoodie, head down, hair covering her face. Weird, but maybe a neighbor kid? Until she found the same girl in her prom photo. This time, on the edge of the gym bleachers. Same hoodie. Same posture. She zoomed in. The girl's face was smudged out. Not blurry—just gone. Jamie, a true crime junkie and amateur sleuth, dove into her files. She flipped through her parents' vacation albums. Her childhood Christmas photos. Even a baby picture taken at the hospital. In every single one, the girl was there. Watching. --- She showed her friends. Some said it was a prank. Others laughed nervously. One of them, Mia, grew pale. “I’ve seen her before,” Mia whispered. “She was in my graduation photo too.” Now they were panicking. They made a group chat. More people joined. Dozens found the girl in their photos too. No one remembered her. No one knew her name. Until someone on Reddit posted this: > “The girl is called Elise. She disappeared in 1997. They say she died during a field trip—drowned in a lake no one talks about anymore. Her body was never found. But after that, she started showing up in pictures. And the rules are simple: 1. Once you see her, she knows you. 2. If she gets closer in the next photo, you're next.” --- Jamie laughed at first. Until she checked a photo she took the night before. Elise wasn’t behind the fence this time. She was on the porch. Looking straight at the camera. --- Jamie didn’t sleep that night. She kept refreshing her phone, staring at the photos. Her bedroom lights flickered. The air grew thick. Her dog whined at the window. The next day, she received a notification: 📷 New shared album from unknown contact Inside were hundreds of photos. All of Jamie. Sleeping. Eating. Walking. Laughing. And in every one—Elise was getting closer. --- Desperate, Jamie reached out to a tech YouTuber who’d gone viral for debunking horror filters. They agreed to meet on livestream. Fifty thousand people watched as Jamie showed the photos. The girl. The pattern. The YouTuber scoffed. "It's an AI glitch," he said. Then the camera glitched. The livestream went black. When it came back on, the YouTuber was gone. Jamie sat alone. And Elise stood behind her. --- The stream was taken down within an hour. But not before it was downloaded, clipped, and shared across social media. Some say it was a hoax. Others call it the best horror ARG ever created. But then more people started seeing Elise. She showed up in their childhood photos. In their reflections. In their livestreams. --- Last week, Jamie’s account went dark. But today, she posted one final video. No caption. Just her whispering: > "I tried to delete the pictures. But she's in my mirror now. She’s standing behind you.” The video ends with a knock. From inside the room. --- They say the only way to stop her is to show someone else your photo. So… Check the last picture you took. Zoom in on the corners. If you see her— You’re already part of the story.
By Kausar Hayat about a year ago in Fiction
The Door Opened at 11:39 PM
to being on our own. My parents worked late shifts and rarely returned before midnight. The house, tucked at the edge of a dense forest, always felt too quiet, too still after the sun went down. Alex arrived just after sunset, carrying a bag with snacks and a dusty Monopoly board. We played a few rounds on the living room floor, half-listening to the old box television flickering in the background. Around 9:30, we lay in our sleeping bags, whispering about the abandoned subway station three miles from the house. It had been shut down in 1932, just after the market crash, and my parents always warned me never to go near it. “They used to send people down there,” I said. “Criminals, or those who got sick. They left them to rot.” Alex looked intrigued but nervous. “We should go tomorrow,” he whispered. I smiled. “If we’re brave enough.” We eventually drifted off to sleep, but something woke me later. A sharp, distant noise. I sat up, heart thumping. Alex stirred next to me. “What was that?” he asked groggily. I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like a gunshot. I checked the clock. 11:39 PM. That didn’t sit right with me. Hunters came into the forest sometimes, but never this late. They knew the dangers of wandering these woods after dark. Trying not to panic, I walked quietly to the bedroom window and peered into the black wall of trees. Fog drifted between the trunks, thick and unmoving. I couldn’t see anything. I turned to Alex. “We should go back to sleep. Probably just... hunters.” Before I could finish, a long creaking sound echoed from downstairs. The front door had opened. Chills raced down my spine. Alex’s eyes widened. We didn’t speak. We just moved, quietly, swiftly. We ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned off the light. The silence was suffocating. My breath came in quick, shaky pulls. Then came the footsteps. Slow, deliberate. The weight of each step thudded against the wooden floor. They stopped just outside the bathroom door. We froze. Then came a knock. Not hard. Not fast. Just... rhythmic. Like someone was waiting. Neither of us moved. Then the knocking stopped. We exhaled. But then came a splintering crack. Wood snapped. Metal screeched. The door was being hacked apart. We screamed. A piece of the door broke away, revealing an eye behind a bird-like mask. A Plague Doctor mask. The beak jutted forward, and the single glass eye glowed with a deep red light. The man wore black leather from head to toe, his gloved hands pulling at the jagged wood. I searched the darkness for something, anything. The vent. It was high on the wall, too high to reach. Alex whispered, “I’ll lift you.” He crouched down, hands clasped together. I stepped into them and pushed upward, straining to reach the screws. They were rusted, but I managed to pry the grate loose. I looked down just as the man’s arm forced its way through the hole in the door, reaching blindly for the lock. I grabbed Alex’s wrist. “Come on!” He jumped, and I pulled, my fingers aching with effort. He was almost through when the lock clicked. The door flew open. A flash of movement. A hand grabbed Alex’s ankle. I screamed and held on, but he was yanked down, vanishing into the dark. “Alex!” I shouted. I crawled through the vent, heart pounding, mind blank. I landed in the hallway on the other side and ran out the back door, into the freezing fog. I followed the forest trail, feet slapping against the wet earth. I didn’t think. I just ran. I knew where he was going. The abandoned subway station. The entrance yawned like a mouth in the hillside, surrounded by vines and broken concrete. I stepped inside, guided only by Alex’s fading screams. The air was damp and foul. My shoes splashed into ankle-deep water as I descended. My breath clouded in the cold. The screams had stopped. Only silence now. I moved forward, deeper into the station. The tunnel was endless. Fog clung to the ceiling, thick and choking. The only sound was water dripping and the echo of my own steps. My flashlight flickered. Then died. I stood still, listening. “Alex?” I whispered. Nothing. I walked forward, arms out, hoping to feel a wall or a turn. Then I stepped into deeper water. Waist high. Freezing. My teeth chattered. The darkness felt alive. Like it moved when I blinked. I could swear I saw shapes. I heard breathing behind me. I turned. Nothing. Then I saw it. A figure. Not just the Plague Doctor. Taller. Thinner. Its face was stretched and pale, its arms too long, its fingers dragging in the water. It was watching me. I turned to run, but the subway had changed. The path twisted, shifted. Doors had appeared on either side of the tunnel. Dozens of them, all rotted and old. I tried one. Locked. Another. Stuck. My breathing grew shallow. I opened a door and found a stairway. At the top, another hallway, tiled like a hospital. Lights buzzed overhead. And Alex was there. Standing in the middle of the corridor, back turned. “Alex?” I stepped forward. He didn’t move. “Are you hurt?” He slowly turned around. His eyes were black. Hollow. His mouth stretched into a smile that didn’t belong to him. “You left me,” he said. “I tried to pull you up. I didn’t let go!” “You let him take me.” “No!” He reached out, and the corridor warped. The tiles melted into flesh. The lights flickered and popped. The hallway dissolved into screaming. Then I was falling. I woke in my bed. The sunlight poured through the window. The TV was on. Monopoly pieces lay scattered across the carpet. Alex was gone. I called his name. Nothing. I searched the house. I screamed for him in the forest. No one answered. When my parents got home, I told them everything. They called the police. No signs of forced entry. No blood. No axe. No Plague Doctor mask. No Alex. Just me. They said I imagined it. That Alex never came over. That maybe I had a nightmare. But Monopoly was still there. The vent was still open. And in the bathroom, just beneath the sink, I found something the police missed. A single black leather glove. Still wet. The End
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
Voyage to Isla de Muertos
Captain Jack Sparrow never thought he’d lay eyes on Isla de Muertos again. The black silhouette of the island rose from the sea like a nightmare made of stone, unchanged by time or tempest. The jagged cliffs caught the dawn light, throwing long, uncanny shadows across the waves, as if the island itself were a living thing, waiting patiently for him to come crawling back. Which, admittedly, was rather rude of it.
By Diane Fosterabout a year ago in Fiction
I Sold My Reflection for a Wish
The Shop That Wasn’t There Yesterday It wasn’t there the day before. On Thursday morning, as I walked to work past the old textile mill on Gable Street—a route I’d taken every morning for the past six years—I noticed a small shop tucked between two boarded-up buildings. A crooked sign above the door read:
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
