Fan Fiction

No One Won the War. AI-Generated.
Once, nestled between the shimmering rivers and towering mountains, lay two powerful kingdoms—Elaris, proud and radiant in the west, and Dravorn, vast and resolute in the east. For generations, they coexisted in a fragile peace, their borders thick with tension, but their hands tied by trade, tradition, and an old, uneasy respect.
By Intresting Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
THE SUBWAY SMILE
Emma hated the subway. Every morning, she squeezed into the crowded cars, headphones on, eyes down, just another face in a sea of commuters. New York City was supposed to be exciting, but after a year, all she felt was invisible.
By ZS Teachabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
In a quiet town where fog clung to cobblestone streets and church bells tolled like old whispers, there lived a girl named Elara. She grew up in her father’s clock shop, a place soaked in the scent of cedarwood, oil, and time itself. The tick-tick-tick of a hundred clocks was her lullaby, and the hum of her father’s voice as he repaired delicate gears was the only music she knew. Her father was a quiet man, tender but distant. He never spoke of Elara’s mother, nor of the days before her birth. “Some clocks,” he would say, “are better left unwound.” When Elara asked about the locked door at the back of the shop, his eyes would cloud, and he’d simply say, “That room doesn’t tick anymore.” But on the eve of her seventeenth birthday, something changed. Her father left before sunrise for a delivery, forgetting to take his key ring — an oversight he had never once made in her memory. Elara stared at the keys, her heart thudding like the heavy pendulum clock above the fireplace. The forbidden door called to her. She unlocked it. The air inside was colder, heavier, almost reluctant to be disturbed. Dust shimmered in golden beams that sliced through cracked blinds. Along the walls stood clocks of every kind — ornate grandfathers, pocket watches, cuckoos — but none ticked. Curious, she wound the nearest clock. Tick. The room trembled. Shadows danced. The air thickened, like syrup. Then—she was no longer in the room. She was five years old, hiding behind the velvet curtain of the shop, peeking as her parents argued. Her mother’s voice was raw, her father’s shaking. The words were muffled, but the pain etched itself deep into her young chest. The memory ended with the sound of shattering glass, and the image of her mother walking out the door, never to return. With a gasp, Elara staggered back into the present. Her fingers trembled. She stepped away, but her eyes couldn’t leave the clocks. She wound another. Tick. A new memory engulfed her — ten years old, sitting on the kitchen floor, cradling her bleeding knee, tears streaming down her face. Her father knelt, eyes wild with frustration and fear. “Why can’t you be more careful?” he shouted, voice cracking. Elara flinched, even though the moment had passed. Each clock held a memory. Painful ones. Forgotten ones. Hidden beneath time like cracks behind painted walls. But they weren’t only hers. One clock revealed her father alone, face in his hands, crying into a baby blanket. Another showed her mother, years later, placing flowers on a grave — Elara’s grave. Or what she thought was her grave. Confused and overwhelmed, Elara turned to flee — but a small, wooden pocket watch stopped her. It was unlike the others. Simple. Familiar. She wound it. This time, the memory didn’t sting. It was warm. She saw herself at six, curled on her father’s lap, watching the snow fall outside. He was humming, absentmindedly stroking her hair. They weren’t speaking, but there was peace in the silence. She clutched the watch to her chest, tears slipping down her cheeks. Time didn’t just carry sorrow. It carried love, too. And regret. And the chance to remember with kindness. When her father returned that evening, he found her waiting in the workshop. “You opened the room,” he said quietly. “I needed to,” she whispered. “You kept your pain there, like broken gears in a box.” He nodded, eyes glassy. “I was trying to protect you from the past.” Elara took his hand and placed the pocket watch in his palm. “Maybe the past doesn’t need to hurt if we face it together.” And for the first time in years, the clocks in the hidden room began to tick — not backwards, but forward — one heartbeat at a time.
By M Mehran about a year ago in Fiction
Finding Peace Under Ancient Branches
In the heart of a quiet village, nestled among rolling green hills and winding cobblestone paths, stood an ancient oak tree. Its trunk was thick and weathered, its bark etched with deep grooves like the wrinkles of an old, wise face. Towering above the rooftops, its branches stretched towards the heavens like the arms of an elder offering stories to the sky, and its emerald leaves rustled with secrets of the past, whispering to all who paused to listen.
By Mr Sami Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lie That Cost Everything
Boredom is a dangerous thing—especially when you’re young and craving attention. A young boy in a quiet village spent each day watching sheep on a grassy hill. It was peaceful work, but dull. No one to talk to, nothing exciting ever happened. The sheep just ate, wandered, and occasionally made noise. Every day looked the same. One afternoon, the boy had an idea. With a grin on his face, he ran to the edge of the hill and shouted toward the village below, “Wolf! A wolf is attacking the flock!” Panic echoed through the streets. Villagers grabbed tools and ran uphill to protect the animals. When they arrived, out of breath and alert—they found nothing. Just the boy, laughing. Some shook their heads. Others scolded him. “Don’t lie like that,” one elder warned. “If you ever tell the truth, no one will believe you.” The boy apologized half-heartedly and returned to the flock. But a few days later, he did it again. “Wolf! Help!” he cried. The villagers, although hesitant, still came—only to find no wolf. The boy was laughing again, thinking it was all harmless fun. But it wasn’t. That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, a real wolf emerged from the forest. It was slow, careful, and hungry. The boy froze, then screamed, “Wolf! Help! Someone, please help me!” He yelled again and again. No one came. The villagers had heard it all before. They assumed it was just another lie. The wolf attacked. Sheep scattered in every direction. The boy tried to stop it, but he was powerless. By nightfall, the field was empty—and so was his heart. When he returned to the village, tearful and broken, he told them everything. “There was a real wolf,” he said. “It took them all.” No one laughed. No one scolded him. An old man put a hand on his shoulder and said, “When someone lies often, even the truth becomes worthless.” Moral: A single lie can destroy years of trust—and trust, once broken, may never return.
By Noor about a year ago in Fiction
That Summer, We Almost Lost Each Other
The summer before college felt like it would last forever. Endless days by the lake, sleepy towns that never changed, and the kind of laughter that echoed long after dark. My best friend Emma and I had always been two halves of one story, but that summer, everything shifted. We’d grown up next door to each other, spending most of our childhood tangled up in scraped knees, whispered secrets, and impromptu dance parties to whatever song was playing. Even when high school got messy — the kind of messy that splits you into cliques and changes the way you look at yourself — Emma and I held on to what we had.But that summer, something felt different.It started when a group of travelers parked their rusty campervan near the lake. They were older, with sun-bleached hair and stories about places we’d only seen in movies. They invited us to sit around their fire one night, passing around roasted marshmallows and playing old indie tunes that made the dark feel softer. Emma was enchanted — especially by one guy named Leo, who smiled like someone who hadn’t thought about tomorrow in years.
By Gift Wesley Sageabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Silence After Screaming”
The Silence After Screaming By Shaheer Journal Entry – March 3rd They say trauma steals your voice. They’re wrong. Trauma doesn’t steal. It swallows.
By Shaheerabout a year ago in Fiction
Ethical Dilemmas in the 21st Century
The Choice By Hassan It was a cold Monday morning in the bustling city of Mumbai. The roads were clogged with impatient honks, and the crowd at the local railway station moved like a river—swift, unstoppable, indifferent. Among the sea of people stood Arjun Mehta, a 42-year-old clerk at a government office. He was a man of routine—always early, always organized, and above all, always honest.
By MIne Story Nestabout a year ago in Fiction
The Whispering House on Lengley Lane
Lengley Lane wasn’t on most maps. A narrow, tree-choked road at the edge of Bramble Hollow, it twisted like a forgotten thought, surrounded by fog and tales better left untold. The locals spoke of it only in hushed tones—especially after dark—and no one ever walked that path alone. At the very end of the lane stood a house, old and hunched like it bore the weight of time itself. The Whispering House, they called it. Pale-gray walls cracked like the skin of something once alive, windows clouded as if afraid to see what lay beyond. Some said the house spoke to itself. Others swore it listened. Only a handful ever lived there. Fewer returned sane. --- Chapter 1: The Arrival Elena Moore didn’t believe in ghost stories. At 29, a journalist known for dismantling urban legends, she thought nothing of renting the house for a few weeks. She’d even pitched the story—“Exposing the Whispering House: A Skeptic’s Stay in the Most Haunted Home in Bramble Hollow”—to her editor, who eagerly approved it. “Don’t worry,” she’d said, smiling into the camera as she filmed her arrival vlog. “I’m more afraid of bad coffee than haunted real estate.” But by the first night, that smile had faded. The whispers began at midnight. They weren’t loud, nor urgent—just soft threads of sound that slithered through the silence. She heard them first as she lay in bed: words just beyond understanding, like dozens of voices murmuring under their breath. Too many to be the wind. She got up, turned on every light. Nothing. No people. No radio. No draft. Just whispers, behind the walls. --- Chapter 2: The Journal On the third day, Elena found an old leather-bound journal beneath a floorboard in the attic. Its pages, yellowed and brittle, belonged to a girl named Clara Wicks, who had lived there in 1893. “Mother says the walls speak to her when she cries. Father says it’s in our heads. But I hear them too. They say my name.” Page after page, Clara descended into paranoia. By the final entry, she was no longer writing sentences—just repeated lines: “Let me out. Let me out. Let me out.” Elena’s hands trembled as she closed the book. That night, the whispers grew louder—and clearer. They were saying her name now. --- Chapter 3: Echoes of the Past Desperate for answers, Elena drove into town and found the oldest resident she could—a 92-year-old woman named Mabel Hanley, whose milky eyes widened at the mention of the house. “It don’t like strangers,” Mabel whispered, clutching a rosary. “It remembers everyone who ever stepped inside. And it never forgets.” She told Elena of the family that vanished in 1946, of the man who clawed at his ears until he bled in 1972, and of the priest who fled mid-exorcism. All had reported the same thing: voices in the walls. “But what do they want?” Elena asked. Mabel only said: “Not all memories stay silent. Some want to be heard.” --- Chapter 4: The Wall That Breathes Elena returned to the house and decided to confront it. She set up microphones, cameras, and voice recorders in every room. Then, she waited in silence. At 3:03 a.m., the kitchen recorder picked up something chilling. “Why won’t you listen?” a voice hissed. Then came another: “She hears us. She knows.” Dozens more followed, overlapping and relentless. Then—everything stopped. Elena stared at the recorder. Her breath caught. Because the final whisper wasn’t on tape. It was behind her. --- Chapter 5: The Hidden Room Guided by the whispers, Elena tore away a portion of the living room wall. Behind the plaster was a door, sealed shut with rusted chains. Every instinct screamed at her to stop—but curiosity was stronger than fear. Inside was a hidden room—small, suffocating, and lined with hundreds of pages glued to the walls. They were journal entries, drawings, and desperate notes. One caught her eye. It was Clara’s handwriting. “The house keeps them here. The memories. The voices. All who listen too long... become part of the whisper.” Elena stumbled back. Suddenly, the door slammed shut. --- Chapter 6: Whispered In No one heard from Elena again. The house is quiet now—at least on the outside. The cameras she left behind still blink red, recording nothing but silence. But if you listen closely—if you dare stand at the porch past midnight—you might hear the faint sound of a woman crying behind the walls. Or calling your name. Some say the house only whispers to those who are meant to stay. --- Epilogue Lengley Lane has no new residents. The mailbox out front still reads Moore. And some nights, neighbors report flickering lights in the attic or the shadow of someone pacing at the top floor. But no one calls the police. Because everyone knows— The house is whispering again. --- Genre: Supernatural Horror / Mystery Themes: Isolation, memory, madness, the unseen Perfect For: Fans of The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson, and Silent Hill
By Mati Henry about a year ago in Fiction
The Boy in the Ashes
The first time I saw the boy, he was covered in ash. His hands clutched a ragged teddy bear, burnt at the edges. One eye missing. Just like his brother, I’d later learn.
By Faizanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sound of Silence
It started with the ticking. At first, Eleanor thought it was the old clock in the hallway—a faint, rhythmic tick that punctuated the silence of her apartment. But the clock had been broken for months, ever since she knocked it off the wall during one of her cleaning frenzies. Still, the sound persisted, steady and maddening. Tick. She paused in the kitchen, hand hovering over the kettle. Her eyes darted to the walls, then the floor. Nothing. Just her imagination, surely. Maybe it was stress. Work had been brutal lately—tight deadlines, a boss who breathed down her neck like a predator. But even when she took time off, the ticking followed. It was inside her head. Between tasks she scoured late-night forums for others who heard phantom clocks, but every thread dissolved into arguments about tinnitus, metaphysics, and ghosts. None described a sound that felt intelligent, a sound that listened back. She felt profoundly alone. Tick. She started avoiding mirrors. Every time she looked, her reflection seemed just slightly off: a flicker too slow, a smile too strained. Once, she swore the reflection blinked when she hadn’t. She laughed it off—nervous, forced—but after that she began turning mirrors to face the walls. It didn’t help. The ticking grew louder. Desperate for answers, she booked extra sessions with her therapist, Dr. Klein. He called it “heightened awareness,” a benign-sounding phrase for a mind on the edge of rupture. “The brain seeks patterns, even in silence,” he explained. “What you’re hearing isn’t real. It’s your mind filling the void.” “But it feels real,” she whispered. He nodded, scribbling something in his notebook. She watched his pen move—too quickly, as though racing to record a secret before it vanished. Why had he never shown her what he wrote? Tick. At night, the sound transformed. It became a voice, soft and unfamiliar, repeating her name over and over like a lullaby from hell. “E-le-a-nor… E-le-a-nor…” It spoke in the spaces between heartbeats, in the hush between breaths. She left the television on, then the radio, even the hairdryer once, just to drown it out. But the voice grew clever. It waited. It knew when she was most vulnerable. By the second month, she stopped going out. The world was too bright, too loud, too fake. People looked at her too long, or not at all. She didn’t trust their eyes. They didn’t see her—they saw a shell, a well-dressed woman going through the motions. No one noticed the tremble in her hands, the tightness in her jaw. Except the voice. “You see it now, don’t you?” it hissed one night, coiling in her mind like smoke. “None of this is real.” She tried to silence it with pills, with sleep, with screams into pillows. But the more she fought it, the more it embedded itself. It spoke of forgotten things, childhood fears, people she hadn’t thought about in years. It remembered details she had never shared. Tick. She found herself standing in front of the bathroom mirror—the one she’d draped with a towel weeks ago. Her hand trembled as she pulled the fabric away. Her reflection was waiting. It smiled. Eleanor didn’t. She stared into its eyes—her eyes—and saw something looking back that wasn’t quite her. It wore her face like a mask, but beneath it… something ancient stirred. “Who are you?” she asked. The reflection tilted its head. “I’ve always been here,” it replied. “You’re just now listening.” The ticking stopped. Outside, the city hummed with ordinary life, oblivious. Inside the apartment, in the sudden hush, Eleanor smiled. But only in the mirro
By Wajid Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret
‎Prague, 1874 ‎ ‎In the mist-soaked alleys of the Old Town, where gas lamps flickered like forgotten stars, there lived an old man known only as Master Horak—the finest clockmaker in all of Bohemia. His shop sat tucked between a crumbling bookbindery and a bakery that always smelled of burnt rye. People came from as far as Vienna and Budapest just to touch his timepieces—delicate contraptions of brass and mahogany, etched with strange runes that whispered secrets in the silence.
By Salman Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction