Fantasy
You were never really here
Early in the morning Gallopatrot might appear in a waking dream. Although never really here, Gallopatrot never really leaves. Gallopatrot is more than a ghost or a memory. Sometimes Gallopatrot disappears like sugar crystals in water, or the smell of perfume, or quarter-hourly chimes of a grandfather clock or the pain from wars that occur every day. Perhaps sensory fatigue or habituation caused by repeated exposure leads to a decrease in response to the stimulus of the dragon's presence. Yet Gallopatrot is the stuff of legends that lingers long after an era is gone.
By Katherine D. Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Unfinished Lullaby
Blythorn, a village wrapped in mystery...where every house bore a special and unique mark~~~etched above the doorway, silent as ash blown to the wind. Locals claimed they were for protection, remnants of old magic. But none remembered who drew them. Or why.
By Novel Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Lost Thought
In the year 2157, stories no longer began with “Once upon a time.” They began with code. Human creativity had been outsourced. Novels were now engineered by emotion-calibrated algorithms. Songs were composed by sound-synthesis models that guaranteed maximum listener satisfaction. Paintings were rendered in virtual museums by neural nets trained on centuries of “art.”
By Sana Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Town That Forgot It Was Real
Hey, wanna hear something really strange? It’s not scary like monsters in the closet or ghosts in the mirror. It’s more like… weird. Mysterious. Like one of those dreams that feels super real, but when you wake up, you’re not sure what was dream and what wasn’t. This story? It’s about a girl named Elara who lived in a town that—well—you’ll see. Just promise you’ll stick with me, okay? Because things get a little twisty…
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Fiction
The Dark Order 1.18: The Golem Market Pt.3
The moon has retreated beneath the horizon. The Garden District has been laid to ruin. The rain is heavy, yet it does not affect the multitude of fires around the city. The elves stand amongst the aftermath of a deadly battle against the SSA. Eldyn has the unconscious Maggie draped over his shoulder. "We should leave her." His sister spats.
By Donnie Barlowabout a year ago in Fiction
The Candle That Burned in Both Worlds
I never believed in ghosts. Not until I lit a candle for my grandmother and heard her whisper my name. The day she died, I was supposed to visit her. I had the flowers in hand, and a letter I wrote weeks ago but never posted. Guilt wrapped itself around my heart like ivy strangling brick. When I entered her home, it felt colder than it should’ve been. Her favorite candle, the one with the cinnamon-rose scent, stood untouched on the mantle. That night, I lit it. I didn’t expect anything. I just missed her. The room smelled like memory—sweet and warm—and for a few moments, I imagined she was there with me. But as the flame flickered to life, the room changed. The air thickened. And in the hush of silence, I heard her voice—soft, cracked, and loving. > “You came too late, child. But not all doors are closed.” I froze. Had I imagined it? Grief does strange things to the brain. But night after night, the voice returned with the candlelight. --- The First World: Mine In my world—the world of the living—everything is noise. Phones, deadlines, traffic, endless scrolling. People love fast and forget faster. I began returning to Grandma’s house every evening. Lit the candle. Spoke to her. And she replied. At first, our conversations were brief—faint whispers that faded with the wind. But over time, the connection grew stronger. I could feel her presence like a warm shawl around my shoulders. I even smelled the rosewater lotion she always wore. But she wasn’t the only one who came through. As nights passed, other whispers followed. Names I didn’t recognize. Languages I didn’t speak. One night, the candle flickered blue, and I saw a man near the window—tall, shadowed, eyes hollow. He didn’t speak. But I felt his pain. Deep, ancient, and unresolved. It was then I realized: the candle was not just a gateway to her—it was a beacon for all wandering souls. --- The Second World: Hers I asked Grandma what this meant. > “This candle wasn’t made for decoration,” she said one night. “It was carved during a blood moon, sealed with truth, and soaked in memory. It connects souls—not all of them kind.” She told me the candle had always been a family secret. Passed down from guardian to guardian. Not everyone could hear the voices, but those who could had a duty to listen—and to guide. I was now next in line. The more I used it, the deeper I slipped between the two worlds. I began dreaming in languages I didn’t know. Walking through unfamiliar streets lined with spirits. I saw children lost in the in-between, elderly souls clutching regrets, lovers waiting decades for closure. The weight grew heavy. Some nights, I cried.
By Umar Farooqabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Changed Its Doors
The house on Ash Fern Road had been empty for 47 years. Ivyith no history on record? That’s not a bargain, it’s a warning.” Meredith laughed it off. Ghost stories didn’t pay the bills. This house, however, had four bedrooms, a library, a garden, and space for her son, Noah, to play. It was perfect. At least in the daylight. The first door moved on the third night. Meredith awoke at 2:43 a.m. to get a glass of water. She turned left from her bedroom, as always, toward the kitchen. Instead, she stepped into a narrow hallway filled with shelves. Books. Floor to ceiling. She blinked, confused. It was the library. But that should’ve been two rooms over. Shrugging it off, she figured she had turned the wrong way in her groggy state. She didn’t mention it. The next night, the bathroom wasn’t behind the blue door anymore. It was a brick wall. Noah woke her at 3:12 a.m., tugging at her sleeve. “Mommy, my door changed.” “Go back to sleep,” she whispered. “I saw a new one. It was red. I think it was watching me.” By the end of the first week, Meredith wasn’t sure where anything was anymore. The house seemed to breathe in its sleep, shifting its bones when no one was looking. The kitchen swapped with the study. The front door disappeared one night and returned in the attic the next morning. Some doors vanished entirely, replaced by smooth walls or empty archways. She tried to draw a floor plan. It changed every night. The only constant was Noah’s room—it never moved. The door was always green. Always at the top of the stairs. Always open, as if the house respected the boy more than the mother. Or feared him. Desperate, Meredith installed cameras. But each morning the footage was static between midnight and dawn. Her phone showed nothing. The electrical readings blinked and crackled like Morse code from another world. Still, she stayed. Because nowhere else would take them. And because, deep down, some part of her was fascinated. One night, she left sticky notes on every door. “This was the kitchen.” “This leads to laundry.” “DO NOT OPEN AFTER MIDNIGHT.” In the morning, the notes were rearranged, but one had something written beneath it. Scrawled in tiny, perfect cursive: “You are the stranger here. Not us.” Noah became quieter. He began talking to the house. “Goodnight, East Wing,” he would say, placing a toy car by a new door. “You did good today.” Once, Meredith found him whispering into the keyhole of a door with no knob. “What are you doing?” “I’m telling it my dream so it knows where not to take us.” “Who told you that?” He looked up, eyes wide. “The house.” On the 23rd day, the mirror in the hallway showed a door that didn’t exist behind her. When she turned around, it was there. A tall, narrow wooden door with iron hinges and a black handle shaped like an open eye. Something about it felt… final. She didn’t open it. That night, Noah disappeared. She searched the whole house—every room, every door, even the attic with its damp beams and dusty rafters. She screamed until her voice cracked. The house stayed silent. Then, around 4 a.m., she opened what used to be the coat closet. Noah was inside. Asleep. Wrapped in blankets that weren’t theirs. “They were kind,” he said. “They just wanted to meet me.” “Who?” “The doors.” Meredith decided to leave the next day. But there was no front door anymore. Only 13 others. All different colors. All closed. She tried them all. Some opened into old rooms. Some opened into nothing—just black space, like falling without end. One opened into a copy of her childhood bedroom. Another showed her standing on the other side, older, crying. She closed that one quickly. By the 40th day, she gave up. They had food. The house made sure of that. It grew things in the garden overnight—fruits she couldn’t name, vegetables shaped like spirals. The water was always clean. The air smelled of books and earth. She started to wonder: Was it really a house? Or a being? A creature of doors and choices and passageways? Noah began drawing the doors. Pages and pages of them. Each had a name. “The Listening Door.” “The Door of Sighs.” “The Door That Remembers.” Meredith asked if he was afraid. He said no. “They’re just lonely,” he explained. “They used to go everywhere. But then the world forgot about them.” She didn’t understand. “Mom,” he said gently, “this isn’t a haunted house. It’s a house that got lost.” On the 61st night, the iron-hinged door returned. The one shaped like an eye. It was in her bedroom now. This time, it was open. A note lay on her bed. “You may leave. But not unchanged.” She stepped forward. Noah beside her. The house didn’t creak or groan. It just... waited. She held her son’s hand and stepped through. The sunlight on the other side was warmer than she remembered. They stood in front of the house. But it was older now. Crumbling. As if decades had passed. The road was overgrown. The world was… quieter. She pulled Noah into her arms, heart pounding. “Are we home?” she whispered. He looked around. “No,” he said. “But maybe they are.” Author's Note: Some houses are built to be lived in. Others are built to remember, to hide, or to wait. This one… waited for someone who would understand its doors.
By Atta Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Illicit Affairs
There once was a woman who met a man who was no good for her. They both knew it, but he pursued it. It started subtly, with an excuse to send an email here and a text about something work-related there. She was easy to talk to and refreshingly outgoing. He lived in a world walled in by religion and grossly lacking four-letter words. The dangerous thing- the real problem, if you will- was that they each made the other feel existence. Seen and heard. The banter was perfectly timed. The things they found they had in common seemed otherworldly. She knew it was doomed, but couldn't stop herself from looking at her phone and hoping he'd be in there somewhere. It was harmless.
By Christa Leighabout a year ago in Fiction
The Garden Beyond the Jars. Content Warning.
Elora stepped through the threshold of her new home, the one Sorrel had helped her build after her old one crumbled. A single lantern lit up the space, the only thing she had managed to salvage from the wreckage. Its glow was a familiar comfort in the overwhelming newness of her life. The shattered jars, once so precious to her, now lay discarded. She no longer needed them.
By Elora ThornWoodabout a year ago in Fiction
Building Beyond the Jars. Content Warning.
She quickly scurried around, juggling jars of various things. One full of yellow and bright leaves, flowers, and rocks. Another full of the same items but in blue, pink, green, and red. Each one was a representation of a moment in her life. She had a place for each one on the shelves she had meticulously built and arranged. Suddenly, a thud outside her home shook the walls. The jars shook from their place on the shelf and inched toward the edge. She, the one they call Elora, quickly threw open her windows and searched for what was causing the shaking of her home and the thing that was threatening the comfort of her routine. She noticed a tall man dressed in a black t shirt and blue jeans standing outside her home, his back facing her as he motioned for another load of lumber to be dropped. The lumber clattered to the ground, and Elora’s home shook once again. One of the jars, the one decorated with red, crashed to the ground.
By Elora ThornWoodabout a year ago in Fiction
