Fantasy

The Diary I Never Meant to Write
I never set out to write a diary. I wasn’t the “dear diary” kind of person. I never had a glittery journal with a lock, or a special pen just for secrets. I used to laugh at the idea of writing feelings down, like that would somehow make them easier to carry.
By Hamidabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Days. AI-Generated.
The library had no name, and it didn’t need one. It lay hidden deep beneath the cobbled streets of a city that had long since stopped being remembered itself. No map marked its entrance, and no sign beckoned from above. You found it only if it wanted you to.
By Muhammad Nasirabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Library
. The Last Library In a world where books are forbidden, one girl discovers the power of forbidden words. In the gray, concrete city of Ferros, books were ancient myths, and reading was a crime punishable by forgetting.
By Bilal Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Victorian Spirit
There’s no rebellion in my heart; my creativity is fucked. Ruby Flores here, nice to meet you. I’m a 54-year-old short story writer. Well, you know that, you’re the one holding a copy of my latest collection. I’ve written many books, so the likelihood is, you’ve already heard of me. I’m somewhat of a heavyweight in this writing game; I’m the writing equivalent of Muhammad Ali. So, you know what that means – like all other greats, I get a free pass. I can write terrible stories and still get published.
By Adz Robinson about a year ago in Fiction
“The Cloud Painter”
In the sky, high above the tallest mountains, floated a village made of clouds. The houses were soft and puffy, the streets were made of mist, and the sun shone like honey through the vapor.
By Ayan khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Empty Chair
She never moved it. Every morning, Éloïse got up, made tea, cut two slices of bread, spread jam on one, honey on the other—just how he liked it—and set everything on the table. Opposite her: the chair turned toward the window. The one he always sat in.
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret
In the forgotten town of Marrow’s End, time moved a little differently. It wasn’t that the clocks were wrong—on the contrary, they were all precisely synchronized, from the towering grandfather clocks in dusty parlors to the delicate wristwatches passed down through generations. Every tick was uniform. Every tock echoed the same quiet rhythm. But for all its precision, Marrow’s End felt... still, as if time itself had been persuaded to slow down.
By Bilal Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Found a Stranger’s Diary in a Burned House — And I Think It Was Me
The house was long dead. Windows shattered. Roof collapsed. The walls still smelled faintly of ash. I wasn’t looking for anything—just silence. Just distance from the noise in my head.But something pulled me in.In the living room, buried beneath charred wood and broken glass, I found it—a small leather diary, scorched at the corners but mostly untouched inside. I flipped it open.
By MUHAMMAD ALIabout a year ago in Fiction
They Call It the Forest of Forgotten Things
Everyone in Merrow knows to stay away from the forest once the mist rolls in. It doesn’t creep like ordinary fog. It coils. Slithers. Breathes. My brother, Caleb, thought that was just local folklore. He thought he was smarter than stories.
By Jawad Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of room 313
It was supposed to be just another hotel stay. Adeel was a travel writer—his job was to observe, experience, and move on. He had stayed in over 80 cities, written about rainstorms in Kerala, food markets in Morocco, and forgotten railways in Eastern Europe. But this time, he found himself in a lesser-known Pakistani town, Mehrabad, where his editor asked him to cover a story on “the cultural soul of small places.” He checked into Hill View Lodge, a modest two-star hotel standing on the edge of an old colonial-era hill. The receptionist, a young boy who looked about seventeen, barely glanced up. "Room 313, third floor,” he mumbled, sliding the key. Adeel took the elevator—one of those clunky iron ones with a caged door—and made his way to the room. Room 313 was like any other: beige walls, a creaky ceiling fan, a cracked window overlooking the misty road, and a bed that groaned under its own weight. He tossed his bag onto the chair and collapsed on the mattress. The journey had been long, and his head pounded from the heat. But just as his eyes began to shut, he heard it—a knock. Soft. Repeating. Three times. He opened the door. Nobody. Only the dim corridor stretching into silence. He shook his head, blaming it on tiredness, and closed the door. That night, strange things started happening. At exactly 3:13 AM, the ceiling fan stopped. His laptop screen flickered. And the air turned icy cold. He wrapped himself in the thin blanket but felt a whisper near his ear: > "Find me." He jumped up, turned on all the lights, and searched the room. Empty. He laughed nervously. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was jetlag. But it wasn’t. The next morning, Adeel asked the receptionist, “Has anyone complained about Room 313?” The boy looked up sharply, then glanced around. “No sir,” he said quickly, “it’s just an old room.” Adeel paused. “Anyone ever… die there?” The boy hesitated. “Sir, all rooms have stories. But we don’t speak about that one.” Now curious—and slightly obsessed—Adeel began to dig. He visited the local archives. The town library. He interviewed old shopkeepers and chai walas. And then he found it. A small newspaper clipping from April 13, 2013: > “Girl Found Dead in Hill View Lodge Room 313. Seventeen-year-old Sana Rehman was found hanging from the ceiling fan of Room 313 under mysterious circumstances. No signs of forced entry. Her diary was never recovered. Police ruled it suicide.” Adeel’s blood ran cold. The date? 13th April 2013. The time of events? 3:13 AM. The room? 313. Too many patterns. That night, he sat at the room desk, staring at the fan, waiting. At 3:13 AM, it happened again. The fan stopped. The air turned ice. And the whisper came, louder. > "I'm here. Find the pages." His instincts as a writer kicked in. He began searching the room. Behind the cupboard. Under the mattress. In the bathroom tiles. And finally—behind a loose wall panel—he found it. A torn, dusty diary. The first page read: > "My name is Sana. And if you're reading this, I did not kill myself." The diary revealed everything. Sana had been a brilliant student who came to Mehrabad for a scholarship exam. She stayed in Room 313. But on her second night, she noticed someone following her. A man in the hotel. She wrote how she complained but was ignored. Then one day, the diary stopped mid-sentence. The last line read: > “If something happens to me, it was never my choice.” Adeel sat frozen. This wasn’t a haunting. It was a cry for justice. He scanned the diary, added it to his story, and titled it: “The Girl in Room 313: A Voice That Was Never Heard.” He published it. Not just in his magazine—but on every blog, platform, and forum he had access to. The story went viral. One Week Later... The hotel was sealed. A retired staff member confessed anonymously that the manager at that time was dismissed quietly after the incident. No police action. No real investigation. But now, with public outrage, the case reopened. Adeel returned to Mehrabad to attend a town memorial for Sana Rehman. Her family wept as they saw the diary pages printed in full, finally heard after 12 years. And Room 313? It was locked forever. One Year Later... Adeel stood on a TEDx stage, invited to speak on “The Power of Stories.” He said: > “Sometimes stories don’t just entertain. They reveal. They shout when others whisper. Sana’s story wasn’t just words—it was justice delayed. But not denied.”
By Muhammad Abbas about a year ago in Fiction
The One Who Warned Them
I told them not to go. The wind was already wrong that night—too warm for autumn, too quiet for the ridge. I could feel it, in my bones and behind my eyes, that strange kind of pressure before something happens. But when I told them, they laughed. Like always. Like I was the joke.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Fiction
THE LANTERN IN THE FERNS
The Lantern in the Ferns (a forest tale where silence costs more than gold) There is a forest beyond the edge of all proper maps — not the kind drawn by ink and logic, but the kind old women whisper about when the fire burns low. They don’t name it out loud anymore, not since the miller’s son came back with stars in his eyes and moss growing from his wrists.
By swayeagle🥀🦅about a year ago in Fiction